I’d been hibernating in my Écija apartment since arriving yesterday afternoon and the need for coffee finally forced me outside . There was one breakfast place purported to serve waffles, but I arrived to find that toast was the only option; however, I rebelled on the tomato sauce and got strawberry jam instead. Two coffees and two toasts later, I took a very brief look around town, too brief to give Ècija her proper due. I was still not feeling 100% and was facing a day with fairly strong winds and relatively high miles to Cordoba. It was probably going to be a long day.
Once again, I had considered various route options to Cordoba. I had Iain’s route along the Via Verde, but accounts of “cobbles” in other CB journals dissuaded me from that option. I originally had planned a route that went north all the way to Almodóvar del Río before heading east to Cordoba. It was a bit longer than more typical routes that pass through Guadalcázar, but with winds predicted from the ENE I figured I would have less exposure by heading north for as long as possible. As so to Almodóvar it was!
The first miles on A-3302 rolled and climbed through a similar stunning springtime landscape that I’d experienced yesterday. Though it was a bit reminiscent of the American Heartland, there were striking differences, which I attribute to the variety of crops/pastureland on display, each in their own stage of emergence. By contrast, the US heartland, especially Iowa, is primarily a monoculture system with vast fields of either corn or soybeans. While you might get some variation in color, rarely have I seen the different geometric patterns, shapes, textures and hues that I’ve cycled through the past two days. Thus, while I was struggling with wind – both in my face and in my congested lungs – I was soaring to find myself in this landscape, and I kept stopping for “one more photo.” But after just six miles, I pulled into the Repsol in need of a short break, consoling myself that I’d reached the high elevation mark of the day.
I was keeping a good pace as the route slowly descended toward Río Guadalquivir and the crops changed from fields of grain to groves of olive trees. Though the wind did not seem too bad, I took note of the flag atop a farmhouse indicating my upcoming right turn would take me into a steady headwind. I realized I’d completely missed the turn when the RWGPS dinged me - seems I’d unknowingly routed myself down a dirt road and I'd flown by it without a second glance. Still stinging from my recent gravel misadventures, I opted for a short detour on pavement. You might imagine my dismay when I rejoined my route and found that it also was gravel. I pulled off the road to contemplate my choices: 1) bite the bullet and head up the gravel road, which did not look too formidable; or 2) continue to detour on pavement and rack up additional miles on an already long day. As I was weighing my options, a handsome man on a handsome horse rode up. When asked, he assured me that the gravel road was “ok por bici.” How could I not choose option 1?
The gravel road was indeed fine for bicycles, taking me past fields of wildflowers, along train tracks and through groves of olive trees. It just wasn’t always clear to me where I was going, or when I might join a paved road. However, in less than two miles I was on A-445 heading toward Posadas.
After cresting the high point on the route, the terrain flattened and the road stretched to the horizon
No, the handsome man and the handsome horse were not a figment of my imagination. I would have taken a closer shot, but the horse was spirited and I didn't want to spook him.
My lingering respiratory issue was starting to take its toll by the time I turned off A-445 and onto CO-3310 towards Cordoba. It was a quiet road, a popular cycling route, and would take me all the way to Cordoba, by-passing Almodóvar del Río. It was a tempting pivot. I stopped for a quick break and realized that what I real needed was a long break with some food. It was almost twenty miles to Cordoba and I wouldn’t make it without a real meal, and that would only happen if I continued to Almodóvar del Río as planned. I also thought there might be commuter train service between Almodóvar del Río and Cordoba. I was feeling that weak. So I turned north across the Río Guadalquivir and stopped at the first roadside restaurant I passed. I downed two Fanta lemons, and a hearty bowl of an Ajoblanca-like soup, a cold soup made of almonds and bread. It was so filling that I barely picked at my grilled eggplant – still getting used to Andalusian portion sizes.
I never made it into the city of Almodóvar del Río – there was no train service and thus no real reason to detour into the city. I had Cordoba in my viewfinder. By the time I left the restaurant I was full and rested, but my head was not too clear – I started riding off with my helmet sitting on my rack and not my head. I still had fifteen miles to go, but I put myself on autopilot and took the easy, less scenic industrial route into Cordoba, the last four of which were on the N4 highway. But was Saturday during Holy Week, and traffic was minimal.
I’d booked two nights in Cordoba, and my hotel was located right in the thick of everything, between the Roman Bridge and the Mezquita-Catedral de Córdoba. But they would be there tomorrow, and so I retreated to my room until dinner, a nice cold orange and cod salad at a bodega recommended by the hotel. It was a nice evening and though I was in the main tourist area of Cordoba, the place had a relaxed and easy vibe. Folks were lounging on the steps of the Mezquita-Catedral and strolling along the Roman Bridge. I took a short walk on the bridge and looked forward to getting some rest and doing a bit of exploring - tomorrow.
