September 22, 2011
Big Country.
I rode south in a new country, an extremely different country from the one I'd been in for the last four weeks. Dry and arid with plots of irrigated crops. The road passed through a valley all morning with bare rocky tabular hills on either side; brown vegetation scorched by the sun though with much of the countryside on the way south from the Pyrenees still clad in pine plantation. I passed a reservoir, a flooded valley mirroring the clear blue sky. The road above the shore with vertical rock and pine-trees on the inside, passed through a succession of short tunnels in which Is able to continue on through safely on the amble shoulder.
Come noon when I had reached a small town, feeling hungry, there wasn't any supermercado that I could see, so I entered a bar with a sandwich board outside, advertising, "Platos Distintos". Taking a seat by the window, the waitress that came over spoke in a sharp unfriendly tone, snapping, "hablas espanol o frances" and slapped the card on the table in front of me, pointed at the list of fare and settling her finger on hamburguesa, made clear that hamburguesa was all that was available. Later when it came out and I got stuck in, one of a group of locals stood at the bar turned and said "buen provecho!" and because he spat out his words rapidly, I remained stum when he asked, frances? and then, Espanol? And then when I hadn't answered turned quickly back to his friend, nodded and said, Tampoco!
Riding away in the bone dry early afternoon, back out to the parched countryside, it was a relief after a few kilometres to come to a rest-place; picnic tables in a grove of trees. I wheeled the bike in and sat in the shade, drinking water and eating biscuits from half a packet I'd leftover from yesterday. I stretched out and rested. Moments later, there came two cyclists; a couple on mountain bikes; he had a Bob-trailer with a spotless new yellow Bob bag; so unlike mine, which is ground-in dirty yellow. She on the other hand had next to no luggage apart from a little seat-post rack with a small stuff sack. They lay out a blanket on the ground a little way from me and in general kept to themselves until I straightened up and got up to leave when she spoke, and so began a usual cyclist meets cyclist conversation. They were from eastern France and like me were cycling to the south of Spain. She was full of life and enthusiam, while he seemed tired and uninterested and instead of engaging rolled over on his side to sleep. "He always like this in afternoon" she said nodding down at her spouse on the blanket and then said something in French which seemed to irritate him more; he seemed to reply, let me rest. Then between saying something, I heard calling out from the roadside, "Ireland!"; and turning to look, saw Maurizio (the Swiss cyclist I'd seen in Carcassonne); he stood there astride his bike with a broad grin on his face. He then pushed his bike into the shade. He'd met the couple earlier and they spoke French, before speaking English so I could follow. Maurizio talked more about his tour; and I learned that, not only is he cycling to Cape Town, but he intends to cycle back via East Africa.
We set off together: all riding at their own pace, which meant the French couple soon dropped behind out of sight not to be seen again. I rode on ahead on a hill where on glancing back, Maurizio seemed to be going backwards too; but whenever a descend came, he on his big heavy bike flew pass on the straight road down to the start of another uphill. It was like a rollercoaster across the rugged countryside.
We rode into the next village together. It had gone half past four and we were anxious to find a supermercado. There was one but the shutters were still down. While Maurizio rode on, I asked an old man stood outside would it soon be opening: "Si. Pero mas tarde" he replied, and when I asked is there another which may be open, he said "si, en el centro de puelo"; and continued "es complicado" when I asked directions. I rode on along the street and came to Maurizio sheltering in the shade of a sign by a roundabout. He suggested we ride on to the next village: another nineteen kilometres.
We remained riding together for the remainer of the day: beyond the next village where we did find an open shop, an Auto Servicio, and stocked up for the evening. It had gone half past six and long shadows were cast by the bikes as we rode slowly, stopping often to contemplate a copse hillock or other among the yellow wheat stubble land with a view to camp. It didn't look promising after we'd walked up across the stubble to a scrub covered hilltop and found no level place to pitch a tent. Then we rode down a farm track to a raised ridge, a fair distance from the road in the valley's middle, but it too was rough and bumpy on top. Walking back down from the ridge, Maurizio stopped and pointed back the way we'd came, towards small terraced fields on the slope down from the road and said, we could hide behind the hedgerow. When we had pushed the bikes up the stubble field through a gap to the field above and turned along the hedgerow to our proposed campsite, we discovered that our tents would perhaps be in view of a farmyard now peeping out of a copse of trees below, so we crouched down low behind the hedge.
Dogs began barking in the farmyard below. "Do you think they can smell us" said Maurizio. "I don't think so; they're too far away" I replied.
Maurizio set about lifting stones which had been flattened into the hard ground, clearing a place to pitch his tent. "I have to lift these stones in case there are scorpions underneath" he joked. He also plucked out the wheat stubble and spread the straw providing a smooth bed for the tent, and soon Is doing the same, lifting the stones and pulling out the stubble straw.
I had limited gas, so I settled on opening a can of tuna salad and began eating it with bread for supper. Maurizio asked "do you eat fruits". "No, not as much as I should" I replied. He then gave me two pears and I gave him bread which I'd an abundance of whereas he'd none.
The dogs began barking again and kept barking. "I think it's because dogs are badly treated in Spain that they bark so much" Maurizio said. "Could be" I replied.
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