WARNING:  the following is far too long, of little or no literary
merit, and probably very boring.  Continue at your own risk.

Copyright Robin Morris, 1997.  All rights reserved.



Where to start?  The idea of cycling somewhere after finishing the
post-doc had been around for a good while.  But where?  Back to
England?  No, getting too cold.  Ok, south, which means either Italy
or Spain.  Well, I've not been to Spain, so...

Paul from Cambridge was interested, but dropped out just a week before
departure when his PhD supervisor wanted more work done on his
thesis.  So I emailed the touring mailing list, and together with the
'love to, but no time' replies, I got a 'let me know what you're
planning, I'm interested' -- at a weeks notice!  But that fell through
too, as Kay found that he needed to be in England on November 1st.  So
I was on my own.

[Looking back now, if I had been with someone else, the trip would
have been very different, or at least the set of people I met on the
trip would have been very different.]

Packing up the flat was a real pain that I don't want to have to do
again in a hurry.  Sunday night I put out about 8 bin bags at 2am.  At
3am I hear noise in the street, and look down the three floors to see
someone opening the bags one by one and having a good rummage.  Then
at 6.30 the bin men do exactly the same!  Backing up a bit, Saturday,
Gaby made a farewell lunch for the AVF people, which was really nice,
and I was quite touched.  And they gave me another t-shirt (with
instructions not to cycle in it), all drawn on by those present.  I
also went for a last, nostalgic walk round the market in Antibes.


Monday 21st October.  I wanted to set off around noon, but hold ups in
the post office (because the box I was sending was too heavy) and
clearing out the flat held me up until 3pm.  But then I was on the
road.  With way too much stuff, including a 6ft wingspan kite which
I'd forgotten to give to Karene and which wouldn't fit in the box.
Just outside the old town I stopped to take the picture postcard view
-- the sea, the towers of the old town and the snow-covered peaks of
the Mercantour.  Stunning.  A quick stop in Juan-les-Pins to say
goodbye to Mme Belaiche at l'Alhambra and then onto the coast road,
all familiar from club runs.  I past two young women cycle tourists --
going the other way -- and plenty of French cyclists, almost all of
whom waived or gave thumbs up.  Through Cannes, with the sun on the
old town over the harbour, and then along the long beach with the
mountains of the Esterel coming out of the haze.  Bright red rock in
the sunshine.

Because of the late start, I stopped in Agay, in a very expensive
campsite, which wasn't designed for campers; it was all gravel and
hard packed earth (this is a fairly common feature of campsites in the
south of France, in my experience).  But I wanted to try out the new
tent.  It went up (after a fashion), and I found out just how small a
one person tent is.


Tuesday 22nd October.  What I did find out is how cold a small tent
is.  I slept very badly, and got up around 8am.  It was still cold,
but warming up rapidly -- when I set off at 10am I was too warm in a
thermal top and short sleeved jersey.  And what a gorgeous hot sunny
day it was.  I headed along the coast (How do you get from Antibes to
Gibraltar?  Keep the sea to your left, and you'll get there!) through
St Raphael, and got slightly lost in the redeveloped port in Frejus.
All the way along were coves and rocky beaches, and I finally stopped
for lunch on a rock just short of St Maxime.  Quietly eating my lunch,
when a bloke comes up, starts stroking my arm and propositions me.  I
was shocked, and told him where to go, which fortunately he did.
Through Beaudlan and Port Grimauld.  I started to get annoyed with the
headwind and the main road.  Turned off towards Grimaud and instantly
it improved.  A fraction of the traffic, and instead off wall to wall
villas and high fences, open expanses of vines in golden autumn
colours.  Then Grimaud appeared, perched on a hill, ruined castle on
high.  A steep climb up to the village, then a scramble up to the
castle for views over the Gulf of St Tropez.  Back down to Cogolin,
another non-tourist town and then back into the headwind and traffic
on the coast road.  Srprisingly, St Tropez was extremely pleasant --
helped of course by the soft autumn sunshine on the painted houses and
the deep blue water.  The old town is completely intact, and, because
of where it is, extremely well maintained.  Even if the shops aren't
the normal type.  What it is like in high summer, mind, I hate to
imagine, but late October it really was delightful.

The tourist info. directed me to the only nearby campsite to still be
open.  And that where I am now, writing by torchlight.  This trip
looks like it might be daylight limited, especially when the hour
changes.  I don't know why the French call them 'camping' though, as
this one too is all gravel and no grass, and full of camper vans.  I
would have liked to have made a bit more progress, to make it to
Cassis tomorrow, but now we'll have to wait and see where I get to.


Wednesday 23rd October.  Well, actually, not too far.  To Hyeres, with
its beautiful old town, climbing steeply up the hill towards the
ruined castle, with its views in all directions -- down to the sea, to
the Isles d'Hyeres and the presque-ile de Giens, with its etang and
causeway; and north to the Massif des Maures, where the rash of villas
reaches only to the top of the first ridge, leaving those behind
covered in green forest.  And to the west, with the sun setting
behind the hill, the sky glowing orange with the dust from the autumn
clippings fires.

But getting here was much harder work than anticipated.  I think that
I was dehydrated from the sunshine and humidity.  The route from
Ramatuelle (actually nearby, Ramatuelle is a perched, old village)
winds its way through the forest, refreshingly free of 'privee' and
'access interdit' signs, instead forest and vines and hillsides.  The
road drops down to Cavalaire, and rejoins the coast -- traffic and
villas.  At Cavaliere I had the beach to myself for lunch.  After
Bormes-les-Mimosas I took the tiny road, through  the vineyards and
forests, and it too me a while to work out that all the parked cars on
this country lane were due to people mushroom hunting in the forest.
And finally to Hyeres to the first camp site that's been  nearly
what I've been looking for -- close enough to town to make it easy to
go into the town.  With grass and not gravel.  Only the man said that
it was closed.  The booklet from the tourist information centre said
that it was open.  Well, if I was a group and staying a while, then
it was open, ie he didn't want to put on the hot water for just me for
just one night.  The tired Robin won over the I-need-a-hot-shower
Robin, and a cold shower it was, before a wander round town, and a
meal in the square outside a restaurant, watching the kids play ball
and fly paper aeroplanes in front of the Templar tower.  Wonder if I'll
sleep any better tonight?


Thursday 24th October.   I'm in the Youth Hostel in Cassis where I've
spent the last half hour reading the visitors book -- everyone from
wherever in the world has enjoyed their stay.   I'm not sure that I
enjoyed getting here from the town of Cassis -- that final 400m climb
was one too many -- but the route through the limestone, desolate,
until a clutch of orange buildings appear, like something out of the
wild west.  The wardens shows me round --  use water sparingly, they
collect rainwater in a tank.  The electricity is all solar powered.
And there's no shower, jugs of hot water in the kitchen and stand in
the trough!  But the place has enormous amounts of character,
stunning views down to the sea and a population of serious climbers.

Again, I found the going during the day hard.  I'll have to ditch some
of the excess junk soon.  I managed to get out of Hyeres on small
roads -- there's also a cycle path, but after a quick discussion with
a local, whilst it's direct, it's not very scenic, so I followed the
coast into Toulon.  I managed to get a bit lost, and only catch a
glimpse of bits of the French navy in the harbour -- to see them
properly you have to take one of any number of boat trips.

I stopped in La Ciotat, with its closed-down shipbuilding yard in front
of a massive sandstone rock.  Civil defense aircraft circled in,
picking up water from the sea before flying off.  I asked a Gendarme
for the minor road to Cassis.  He sent me on the scenic route -- the
Route des Cretes, which climbs up the heights of the peninsular, with
recently planted trees, down the steep green valleys on the landward
side.  The seaward side was 400m straight down to the turquoise
water.

Dropped down into the town of Cassis, built around steep slopes,
with the port area and the old town nestled within.  And then the drag
out to the youth hostel, where something I've eaten has violently
disagreed with me.

Hopefully I'll be ok to go to the Calanques tomorrow.


Friday 25th October.   Well, this was supposed to be a rest day, and
indeed, I didn't ride the bike.  I did walk and scramble though.
Lots.  The Calanques.  Limestone inlets from the sea.  The path down
from the Youth Hostel follows a valley down through the plateau.
Inside it there are three sounds -- birdsong, bumble bees humming, and
the crunch of limestone gravel underfoot.  Wonderfully peaceful and
tranquil.  As the valley leveled out the limestone formed pillars each
side of the path.  I met up with a group of Germans from the YH,
carrying climbing kit.  The Calanque d'En Vau.  On the right the rock
is an almost sheer face, a couple of hundred metres high; to the left
it is more cut into and slightly less steep; and in the middle, the
crystal clear water turned turquoise by the sunshine creeping over
the cliffs.  A small boat anchored, its occupants picknicking.  A couple of
women swam whilst I skimmed stones.  I went for a scramble along the
left side, trying to see if I could make my way round to the next
calanque, but at the seaward end it became sheer rock, the route of
the GR98 being the only way up and over, with great views across to
the climbers, roped in groups on the far side, and down to the water.

The Calanque du Port-Pin is much softer; lower, shallower hills to the
sides, and the third, the Calanque de Port Miou, after the 90 degree
bend at the entrance, was filled with moored pleasure craft.  And the
paths were all eroded by the summer tourists.  So, tired, I arrived
back in the town to find that the last bus left in half an hour and
that all the calanque boats had finished for the day.  So I sat by the
port for a while to recover, then walked the hour back, through the
limestone and scrub, with the charred remains of previous forest fires
being slowly regrown.  The colours of the setting sun were only
outdone by the moon, glowing light orange through the thin veil of
cloud, with blue fading to black in the west.

I did think of staying tomorrow, and having a really lazy day,
but will probably press on.


Saturday 26th October.   I went out onto the balcony of the YH just in
time to see the orange disk of the sun rise through the haze over the
hills above Cassis opposite.  Ten minutes later it vanished behind the
low clouds, before, later on, playing on the sea's surface down
below.  On the road up to the Col de la Ginestre I got a few waves of
encouragement, and a 'vous etes courageux' from a passing cyclist --
maybe they're too polite to say the truth -- 'vous etes fou'.  The
road into Marseille is a long, straight, wide avenue, with wide
pavements and trees.  A market was in full swing along one side.  I
think I passed a shul.  I did think about seeing if they'd not yet
finished the kiddush.  The avenue narrows, and jumping onto the
pavement, I wheeled the bike into the post office just before it
closed, to send the rest of the excess back to England -- I'd already
left the excess crockery and books back at the YH.

Along the quay of the old port the fishermen sell their catch.  From
an old, weathered, Mediterranean looking man I bought a fish, headed
and tailed and cut into chunks, which went straight into the pot on
the primus stove, there on the quay, with onion and seasoning, and
fresh French bread.  Delicious.  Attracted a fair few 'bon appetit's
from passers by as well.

Now, in other people's trip reports that I've read, they not
infrequently mention other people buying them food or meals (ok,
they're usually women traveling on their own).  Well, today was the
first time that this sort-of happened to me.  I went back to the stall
for some more fish, and had to explain that I only wanted what I could
eat there and then, to stop the fisherman giving me half of what was
left on his stall.  As it was, when I was cooking the fish that he did
give me, he came across and gave me a red skinned fish, 'because it
tastes good'.  

So, completely stuffed, I tried to find my way out of Marseilles.  I'm
sure I didn't do a complete loop at any point, but I'm certain that I
didn't follow the shortest path either.  And the route from l'Estaque
to Martigues was all edge-of-city type, and not too scenic.  The hot
sunshine had given way to another headwind.  The waters of the Etang
de Berre loomed a muddy brown, in stark contrast to the clear waters
of the calanques.  At Martigues I stopped on the bridge over the
canal, to look at the high level road and rail bridges at the
Mediterranean end of the canal, by the port.  By the time I reached
Istres I was tired, and then started my hunt for the 'Mas des quatre
vents', part of the Maison Familiale des Vaccanes.  Istres reminds me
very much of an English new town,  all wide roads and roundabouts,
with the houses set back, making finding anyone to ask directions
difficult.  Finally I arrived at an equestrian centre nearby, where
they directed me to the Centre Educatif et Culturelle, to get the
key.  The office was closed, and had an 'advance booking required'
notice.  Just as I was about to give up and find a hotel in town I
decided to phone.  Expecting an answering machine, I got the guardian,
who sorted me out a key and a room.  So now I'm on my own in a six
person dorm, from which I've moved only as far as the shower.
Hopefully I've reset my watch the right way -- summer time has ended,
and from tomorrow it will get dark an hour earlier in the evening.

Tomorrow, to Arles, if the northerly wind's abated (unfortunately,
missing the Camargue, just that bit too far out of the way to fit in.)


Sunday 27th October.   Managed to get lost leaving Istres -- turned
left too soon, and ended up outside the Dassault Aerospace factory,
where the gendarme redirected me.  Further along, the D5 passes the
BMW testing area, hidden behind high concrete walls.  The Entressen
cycle club went past, and urged me on.  I turned off the main road
onto a minor route, and was rewarded by a pair of birds of prey,
circling above a ploughed field, with a third flying low.  Today was a
real autumn day -- hazy sunshine and falling leaves from the plane
trees lining the straight roads.  The area was also full of lowland
meadows, bursting with grasses, clovers and flowers; with a blue
flower, which to me looked like a type of orchid.  And off the side of
the road, down tree lined drives, the bulky 'mas' farmhouses.

And then Arles, where I wandered aimlessly as the tourist info was
closed and I couldn't get a map!  The centre of Arles has a very old
feel to it, and not just from the Roman bits.  Much of the rest is
old, weathered stone, reminiscent, to me at least, of central Oxford.
Whichever way I went I seemed to end up back at the Theatre Antique,
which I put off visiting until after I'd sat in the ampitheatre and
eaten lunch.  The ampitheatre has been fitted out with seats and
floodlighting, and now hosts regular bullfights -- the women in the
theatre told me that there was a bullfight on yesterday (the main
season has long finished), but that it was only kids, and so it was
better that I hadn't been to see it, as it would only have given me a
bad impression!  

From the stage of the theatre the setting is very open and distant,
none of the intimacy of an enclosed theatre, but from the top of the
seating, the view down to the stage lets you take in the whole scene.
After much searching I found the baths (closed) and eventually the
Musee Reattu, with its collection of modern (and often strange)
paintings and sculptures, in what reminded me of a college building --
it was originally built for the Cavalliers.  In each place there was
no problem leaving the bike inside, but pushing it around in between
had become a bit of a pain.  So I rode out to les Alyscamps, a path
lined with Roman sarcophagi and immortalised by van Gough (although
when I was there the trees were their usual green, rather than the
blue shades that van Gough found.)  

The reception at the YH was so unfriendly that I'm going to move on
tomorrow rather than having a day in Arles.  But there is another
cycle tourist in the hostel, a Japanese guy (Hiro) who set off from
Paris a month ago, and who's planning on being on the road for 6
months through Africa.

The pizzeria by the ampetheatre is rated by the guide book for the
food, but not the service, and they're not wrong!



Monday 28th October.   Turns out that Hiro has biked in Nepal and the
Karakoram highway, so he's somewhat more experienced than I am.  After
a quick photo in front of the Arenes we crossed the Rhone and went our
separate ways; he towards Montpellier and Andorra, me, north along the
river, through the fruit orchards and occasional vineyard.  I made
good progress to the Pont du Gard, the Roman aqueduct that crosses the
river Gardon, its three tiers of yellow stone arches filling the
gorge.  Unfortunately, due to restoration work, you couldn't cross it,
so I ate my sandwiches by the river instead of on the top.  Retracing
to Remoulins, I turned off down the wrong minor road, and ended up on
the GR63 footpath, clambering with the bike down rocky slopes.

The road through Collias and Sanhlhac was glorious.  The hazy autumn
sunshine, the autumn colours of the vine leaves in reds and oranges,
the ploughed fields, the trees.  It just needed van Gough to be
sitting by the side of the road painting it.

I followed the road into Nimes, down a limestone gorge.  The YH had an
interesting set of people -- a New Zealander, who's been at it for
about 7 months, currently cycling as his means of transport (but just
as a means of transport, he's not interested in the cycling for its
own sake), and interested only in the history and culture -- 'New
Zealand has enough scenery'!  (He was also carrying a laptop and
typing up his diary as he went; he had 500 pages when I met him!).  A
Londoner, now a full-time busker around Nimes and Avignon, who's
singing his own folk songs here in the dining room, and an American
girl with the most southern of southern drawls.  And the staff are
extremely friendly and helpful -- letting me use the microwave that's
there to prepare breakfasts, to cook dinner, and heaping out advice.

Tomorrow is a proper rest day, being a regular tourist!



Tuesday 29th October.   And it has been a very relaxed, if long, day,
which has left me with a very good impression of Nimes.  I spent the
morning with Ben from Alabama, currently studying in London, not at
all used to being in a big city.  We started in the Jardin de la
Fontaine, France's first formal garden, on the site where the spring
that supplied Nimes' water was found.  At the top of the hill is a
tower, the remains of part of the city wall.  The inside is completely
hollow, and in the 19th century they built a stone pillar and
staircase inside, giving access to the top.  The area around the
fountain in the park is full of horse chestnut trees, so I explained
the game of conkers to Ben.  Unfortunately we didn't have any string
to actually play.  At a cafe I took Ben's empty mineral water bottle
and asked the waitress to fill it -- he couldn't bring himself to do
that sort of thing.

The roads into the city almost all arrive at the Maison Carree, the
Roman temple, dedicated to the worship of the grandchildren of Caesar
Augustus.  How do they know this?  Because in the facia are a set of
small holes where the letters of the inscription were fixed.  And by
knowing (or guessing) where the pins were on the backs of the letters,
and with a lot of prior knowledge, the letters can be matched to the
holes.   How exact a science it is I wouldn't like to guess, but the
exhibition explaining it inside the Maison Carree was very
interesting.  On one side of the square with the Maison Carree in the
middle is the Carree d'Art, an ultra-modern Norman Foster creation in
white steel and glass, clearly inspired by the Roman temple -- strong
verticals; columns supporting a roof over a terrase; and inside the
floors are all set back from the exterior wall, giving the impression
of height and space.  It houses the library, archive and a museum, and
fits very well into the space, actually complementing the old
buildings around it.

The other place to see in Nimes is les Arenes, the best preserved
Roman ampetheatre anywhere.  It was closed for lunch.

I left Ben at the tourist information, trying to change his flight,
and went on the guided tour -- me, three middle aged women, all with
prior Nimes connections, and an older couple with their
granddaughter.  And a guide who enthused -- about the Maison Carree,
the 'hotel' now used by the Nimes cultural affairs office ('hotel' in
the sense of a large house set round a courtyard, with a well at one
side of the courtyard so as not to break up the space, an ornate
staircase, and, a later addition, a wooden covered balcony so that you
could get from one side to the other without having to descend to the
court), another hotel, in a distinctly classical style which was
gorgeous, with the creepers a golden red; about Levi Strauss and his
cloth with came 'de Nimes';  and finally, les Arenes, so
well preserved because for centuries they were used for housing, the
scars where large chunks of the stonework were removed together with
the houses still being visible.  From the very top the views are
great, and, a snip at 60,000 francs per day, you can rent it for
weddings, barmitzvas or whatever -- including the tent-like cover they
put over it in the winter.   The Arenes have a few interesting bits of
stonework.  On the outside a couple of bas-reliefs remain, one being
the only example of a carving of Romulus and Remus where the wolf has
her head turned to look at the boys.  Inside, the exits are marked
'vomitoires' -- apparently this is the origin of the term, from the way
the audience spewed out after the spectacle, rather than from being
disgusted at what went on inside!

More wandering round and a few postcards later, I went to see 'Secrets
and Lies' at the Semaphore cinema, a great little art-house, and a
brilliant film.  But what were the long-term effects of re-uniting the
family?



Wednesday 30th October.   I woke up to strong winds, and a weather
report saying 60km/h winds from the north west.  Which meant that I
spent the entire day in a howling cross-head wind, which made going
very slow.  And the scenery wasn't up to much either, mostly scruffy
fields and the occasion vine, livened up only at the end, by the
sudden appearance of a traditional French ostrich farm, doing a brisk
trade in guided tours!   And very near the end, I was finally tempted
into a 'cave', and sampled some very sweet Muscat, with a slightly
sharp edge.  A full bottle was too heavy, and more than I could drink,
and unfortunately I didn't have a container to fill up from the
barrel.

The final run in to Sete was alternately scruffy, closed seaside
resorts along the Etang, or major highway through industrial areas.  I
was beginning to fear that it might be a dull industrial town, but
along the canal in the centre it does have a seaside atmosphere to
complement the working port.

The YH was at the top of the big hill.  Why are french YH's always at
the top of hills?  As I was checking in, so was Holly, from LA, who's
spent a month or so generally following the route in a book by another
woman cyclist, who describes in detail the route and the sights.  We
cooked pasta together before going for a wander round town and a
drink.  Holly's a freelance grant writer for environmental development
agencies, who's cycling because she has knee problems and couldn't
support carrying a backpack around.



Thursday 31st October.   Another day of strong headwinds, but the
clear blue skies, warm sunshine and varied scenery made the cycling
much more enjoyable than yesterday.  The road out of Sete was along a
narrow strip of land between the Bassin de Thou and the sea, with
about 8 miles of sandy beach, and deep blue water.  In Agde there was
an enourmous clothes market, lining the street at the edge of the town
centre.  After Vias I hit the minor roads, single width, no signposts
at all, and only about half of them marked on the map.  My favourite
kind of cycle route.  By keeping the sun vaguely off to my left, and
avoiding the tractors, I made it to Portiragnes, where the road
crosses  the canal du midi, where I sat by the lock and ate lunch,
watching the canal boaters and hikers pass.  And then on through the
minor roads, with a view across the vineyards to Beziers, with its
cathedral perched over the river -- or that's what it looked like --
I'm off the edge of one guide book, and not yet onto the next!  As
well as what was in the fields being more interesting to look at, the
topography also improved -- very small rises appeared, livening up the
route, and finally, around Lespignan, the outline of the Pyrenees
loomed on the horizon.

For about 3 miles on the final run  in to Narbonne I managed to follow
a coupe of local cyclists, who made an excellent windbreak, and
following standard practise, I made straight for the tourist
information office, which turned out to be one of the least friendly
and helpful I've come across.  They gave me a list of possible
accommodation, but didn't point out the MJC (Maison des Jeunes et de la
Culture) right next door, which is where I'm staying (as are two guys
from Halifax, England, who are students, doing a year in Grenoble, and
who are skiving off for a week, hitch-hiking to Barcelona.  I've met
quite a few foreign students skiving off for a week or two on this
trip.) but they don't let you in until 7pm, and out by 9am!

I didn't know before I arrived, but Narbonne has a huge
cathedral, with flying buttresses all over the place, and an old castle
type building that's now the town hall.  Tomorrow, though, is All
Saints Day, so if they're not all closed, I may have a quick visit in
the morning.



Friday 1st November.   In the centre of Narbonne, just after I'd
visited the cathedral (there was a service in progress in one of the
side chapels with the sound of Gregorian chants through the building 
-- very atmospheric) I hear a voice
behind me.  A French cycle tourist looking for a newspaper office.
He's on a two year trip around the world, photographing UNESCO world
heritage sites, and writing a book.  His destination for today was
also Perpignan, and I toyed with the idea of suggesting we ride
together.  But decided no -- after nearly 2 weeks of going at my own
pace, on my choice of route, stopping where I want to, seeing what I
want to see, I figured that I didn't want to have to fit in with
anyone else.  So we arranged to meet at the YH in Perpignan.  And it
turns out that I was right to go on alone,  Mattheu went straight down
the main road from Narbonne to Perpignan (and complained about the
traffic and that he ran out of water and couldn't find anywhere to
refill his bottles!).  Me, as is my want, I followed the little
roads.  The wind today made that of the last two days appear like a
gentle breeze.  It was hilarious.  For some reason I found it
genuinely amusing that this gale force, gusting, cross wind could be
behind you one instant, bowling you along, and the next minute, you
turn a slight corner, and it's in front of you and you come to an
almost complete standstill.  And gravity always won -- the steady wind
wasn't quite enough on its own to push me up the hills, a little pedal
assistance was also needed.  On one of the downhills I had a really
strange sensation.  Normally you get some idea of the speed you're
going from the wind rushing past.  But with a 40mph tailwind, doing
40mph down a hill was totally silent.  Spooky.  Getting almost blown
off the road by the crosswind on the corners was fairly amusing too.

On some of the hills in the middle distance were sets of large wind
turbines.  So at least the wind wasn't out to get me personally!

So I meandered along the minor roads, trying to avoid riding over the
road kill reptiles, the frogs, toads and occasional flattened snake
decorating the tarmac.  The first hour after turning off the N9 was
head/cross wind, but the scenery of vineyards laid out on the small
hills was superb.  As I climbed, the vineyards faded into scrub and
forest, all straining in the wind.  The route was well used by
cyclists -- on the tarmac were painted messages of encouragement --
'bon courage', 'dur, dur, les vacances' and 'ne craquez pas!'.

Just before Opoul-Perillos a castle appeared on a hill, and around the
same time, I came round a slight bend, and there in the distance was
the grey shape of the Pyrenees, rising to over 2,500 metres, with
whisps of cloud below the summits.

I arrived in Perpignan around 3.30, meaning that I'd made good time.
At the outskirts of the city, every available wire or aerial was
covered in small black birds, with huge swarms of them flying by.
Presumably Perpignan is on a major migration path.

Surprisingly, the tourist information was open (today's a public
holiday), for the map and information.  The YH was still closed (as
were all the things worth visiting), so I had a bit of a ride round,
and was about to find a cafe when I met Hiro, who'd decided not to go
to Andorra after all.

Since it was Friday, and I'd arrived early in the day, I decided to go
to Shul.  It's in what looks like a very old quarter, all narrow
streets in a tight grid pattern, now full of tiny north African food
shops, and is very small, about 80 seats.  I really enjoyed the
service and the singing.  A lot of the items in the shul were
dedicated to people deported during the war, and near the entrance
remembrance candles were burning continuously.

Back at the YH, Mattheu, the Frenchman, was there -- I bumped into him
as he was about to walk into town to find something to eat.  He was
dressed in full Moslem garb, long white shirt, trousers and sandals.
Why?  Just because he finds it comfortable (and I suspect he likes the
interest it arouses). I invited him to share my pasta, and over dinner
he explained his project -- 2 years, 100,000 francs in sponsorship and
moral backing from UNESCO, and also his philosophy of life, combining
mind and body -- the mental stimulation from the places visited and
people encountered is enhanced by the physical effort of reaching the
sites.  I just think it's the endorphins!  

Later on, the two guys from Halifax turned up -- they'd totally failed
to hitch anywhere, and had arrived by train.

Tomorrow -- culture shock, Spain.  Where I don't speak a word of the
language.   It will be odd after France, where even though I've been
living here for a year and now speak French, it's still a foreign
country.



Saturday 2nd November.   The hottest weather so far -- scorching
sunshine during the day, and little wind.  The nearest food shop to
the YH in Perpignan was in the basement of a large department store.
The security guard was a bit miffed when I wheeled the bike in, but
was soon won over.  Then I decided to be a tourist for a bit, and went
to the castle; huge red brick ramparts, an a stone court surrounded by
large rooms which were clearly impressive once, but are now almost
completely empty and devoid of decoration.  

Out of Perpignan, along the plane, with the Pyrenees looming in the
distance, already with some snow in sheltered high areas.  I stopped
at Argeles-Plage for lunch, on the wide, rough sand beach, watching
the Mediterranean being incredibly blue, with kites flying above it.

A little further on I see another cyclist stopped eating lunch.  It's
Hiro, so we continue together.  The road starts winding up and down
the mountains here, and I find that I much prefer riding uphill than
on the flat against the wind.  We miss one turning and end up on the
motorway, through a tunnel, but it reverts back to route national,
with rocky coves and yellow grasses on the rocky hillside.

The Spanish border was a bit of a disappointment -- there was one
customs officer on the Spain to France side, looking decidedly bored,
and nothing at all in the direction we were going.  EU in practise.

Just before the border we met Jessie and Michelle, two Americans (from
Jackson, Wyoming), finishing fixing a puncture.  We set off as a
foursome, up and down the hairpins that make up the coast road.  In
Portbou (which has the mirror-image railway marshalling yard to
Cerbere, at the French end of the tunnel) neither of the banks had
cash dispensers.  So none of us had any Spanish money.  We stopped at
the top of the climb out of Portbou, and started to think about
camping.  The other 3 had all done quite a bit of wild camping, and
that's what we're doing now, tucked behind the TV transmitter on the
top of a hill.  The others are better prepared for this -- Hiro in his
GoreTex tent, J+M in down bags under the stars, and I'm in their tent,
as mine isn't free standing, and the ground is solid.

But the views are superb -- of the stars in the clear sky above, and
of the lights of the town down the hill further in to Spain, with the
lighthouse twinkling in the distance.



Sunday 3rd November.   So today we were four, with all that that
entails, but it seemed to work.  I ended up navigating -- everyone
else was using 'one-map-covers-Spain', and I'm finding the 1:400,000
maps not detailed enough.  They don't show all the roads, and even
miss off some of the villages!

The sunrise over the sea was wonderful -- pinkish light through the
low clouds, then orange as it worked its way above them, and then a
diffuse glow as it hit the higher clouds.  All the time, 300 metres
below us, the villages on the coast were in darkness.  We freewheeled
down to Colera (yes, that's really its name) and breakfasted in the
sunshine on the beach.  From Llanca the round climbs up the peninsular.
Again I found that I much prefer up and down to flat and boring.  At
the top one road goes down to Cadaques, another back inland to Roses.
We went down.  One of the few things that changed with the change of
country is the colour of the towns.  The ocres and yellows have given
way to brilliant white.  Cadaques on its bay, all white against the
blue sea was beautiful.

The road around the peninsular is marked on the map as 'of uncertain
quality'.  In fact, it's appalling; loose gravel and rocks.  So we
climbed back up and out, the same way as we came in.  From the top,
the mountains drop down to the plane that stretches away towards the
sea, patchworked with fields.  On the top of the mountain to our left
was a huge castle, and in a field to the right were six horses.  Each
one had a single large white bird riding on its back. After Castello we
started looking for a campsite, but ended up on the beach near Sant
Pere Pescadore.  A long, wide sand beach, with the lights of fishing
boats out at sea, and the stars above even clearer than yesterday.

Hiro, it turns out, was a house-painter in Japan, and a dedicated
traveler, who, for the last few years, has worked just to finance his
travels -- Nepal and Tibet; the Trans-Siberian; and now Europe and
Africa.

It's 8.10pm, and so damp that I can see the mist blowing past Hiro's
headlamp that I've borrowed to write this by.  Hopefully tomorrow
we'll be near enough to a town to try some Spanish food and hospitality.




Monday 4th November.   And then there were two.  (Just which
children's story does that come from?)  Hiro and I left Jessie and
Michelle in L'Escala.  They were having trouble deciding what food to
buy for the next 3 days.  They're also planning on skirting round
Barcelona rather than going to it. (How can you come to Spain and go
round Barcelona?)  Did I mention that they never intended bike
touring, but in Amsterdam saw all the cyclists, bought a couple of
second hand hybrids and panniers and headed off.  I always said that
cycle touring (at least in western countries) is much easier than most
people would imagine.

And this evening, something that I find amusing.  That in western
Europe we can, when the campsite is closed, just nip off the main road
into the grassy area near the slip road, screened by rough banks and
tall grasses, and camp, literally on the outskirts of a major tourist
resort (La Platja D'Aro).  So we miss the resort (and I still haven't
really interacted with any Spanish people, or eaten Spanish food), but
tomorrow we want to be up early to try to make Barcelona, where we will
stay in a hostel and eat real food!

So what did we do today?   The humidity meant that there wasn't much
of a sunrise over the Med, and we had to wait until much later before
it became scorchingly hot again!  To l'Escala we took a minor road,
not on my map, past fields full of fruit trees and a huge
campsite, it must have been nearly a mile long.  In l'Escale we
faffed, and then Hiro and I left J+M looking for somewhere to fill
their water bottles.  In the morning we made good progress, through
Toroella de Montgril, which looked a bit ropey except for the market,
but then afterwards we took a small road (most of the roads in Spain
so far have been much larger than I would like, but I think that in
this region they're all like that) towards the sea.  It dead-ended in
a summer resort -- camping, flats and villas.  All closed.  So we
backtracked.

Pals is a beautiful little town, on a hill with a church at the top,
all in light brown stone, with flowers and plants growing up the
houses.  And devoid of tourists.  We ate lunch in the square, wearing
just shorts (no shoes or socks either) in the warm sunshine, with
tents spread out drying in the breeze.

Unfortunately after lunch this breeze became a howling headwind, and
after battling through Palfrugell,  we came to the sea at Palamos,
where at least the windsurfers were enjoying the breeze and choppy
waters.  We battled on to La Platja d'Aro, with its closed campsite
and grass verge, which is where we came in.



Tuesday 5th November (Guy Fawkes Day).   Henry Higgins only claimed
that the rain stays mainly on the plane, and this morning was
the exception, rain from just after 6am, which stopped around 8.  But
by 7.30 I was bored with waiting, so we packed up and moved to the
shelter of an unfinished petrol station for breakfast.  At 9am we had
to move from in front of the door, as the painter arrived and wanted to
get in and start working.  The road from Sant Feliu de Guixols,
through Tossa de Mar wound its way along the rugged coastline, up and
down through the oak and pine forest, with the sea below, grey beneath
the clouds.

And why is it that when you have a long day planned, it's then that
the mechanical problems start?  I noticed a regular noise from the
back wheel.  It had gone out of true and was hitting the brakes.  When
I tried to true it I found a spoke with no tension.  And it wouldn't
tighten.  Because the head wasn't there any more.  Out with the spare
spokes, and another roadside repair job.

Tossa de Mar appeared, with its sandy cove and old stone castle on the
end of the peninsular.  Much better than a cove later on, with a rash
of identical little brown concrete boxes, and a funicular down to the
beach.

Lloret de Mar was a lot of concrete, but didn't prepare us for Blanes
-- if Blanes has a nice area to sit and eat lunch, then we didn't find
it -- in fact we found a couple of seats by the side of the main road
further on.  Unfortunately, the main road is the only road, and along
it the resorts merged together where the coastline wasn't so steep as
to force the road right on to the edge of the beach.  But the beaches
were wide and sandy and looked like they could be quite pleasant at the
right time of year.

So after lunch we just pressed on, and on, with the sea to the left,
the sun in our eyes, and finally, finally, we arrived.  Almost.  The
sign said ``El Barcelonas'' and was right on the outskirts.  I had
absolutely  no idea of the way to the centre, or even, really, where
the centre was.  Maybe I should have read the guide book more.
Finallly we ended up on a long straight road, with people everywhere
-- after all the closed resorts it made such a change to see so many
people on the streets.  

I was convinced c' Arago would lead to the centre, but no, eventually
I found it on the map -- running parallel to the sea.  Backtrack, and
finally an area that looks like the centre of town.  The YH is just
off the Ramblas, but is full, so we're in the pension next door.  The
room's been turned into a laundry and for the first time in days
someone else (ie a restaurant) has cooked dinner for me and Hiro.  And
it did taste good for it!  

And now I'm back in the pension, talking to a group of Dutch, Germans
and a French woman.  Time to practise the French again!



Wednesday 6th November.   Barcelona!  On foot.   After sitting up far
too late talking, I made a late start down la Rambla towards the
port.  Columbus, on his tower pointing out to sea.  America that way.
Some of the old quays have been completely redeveloped -- there's a
very modern walkway (with a swing bridge) across, where there's a
commercial centre with a garden in the middle; the front is a curving
mirror, reflecting the pavement and the passers by.  Very effective.
Also on this quay is an IMAX cinema, and aquarium, and hordes of
schoolkids.  All this time I could see the two towers of the Olympic
village.  One, the Hotel des Arts is great -- a white steel lattice
frame, with the building, in satin titanium and blue glass, suspended
within it.  The other is plain in comparison.  From there the beaches
spread back towards the centre, past the district of Barceloneta, with
its narrow streets and run-down air.

In the port is the cable car terminal.  The tower is old steel and
looks very rickety.  Two guys from Jersey got on
and one was extremely nervous.  But the views from on high over the
harbour -- both the pleasure port and the container port an over the
city were stunning, reminiscent of the TV coverage of the Olympic
high-diving events.

The terminal is on Montjuic, where the old Jewish area was, and now
is where the olympic stadium stands -- a new interior in the 1930's
shell, together with stacks of museums.  I stopped at the Foundation
Joan Miro, not for the permanent collection, but for the Warhol
exhibit.  For the first time, I think, I appreciated conceptual art;
the idea more than the realisation.  The cow wallpaper (bright pink
cows heads on a bright yellow background) and silver clouds (maylar
helium balloons, in a room with a pair of fans blowing them about,
reflecting the pink cows) were so simple, but so effective.

The walk down to Pl. Espagna was livened up by the outdoor escalators,
left over from the Olympics, and the views of the museums and
exhibition halls.  Back at la Ramblas I stopped in a cafe for
chocolate con churros, incredibly thick hot chocolate with donut like
objects to dip.  And a very drunk Spanish man singing opera at the top
of his voice.  The staff tried to shut him up and ask him to leave,
but eventually gave up and let him be.  Then a woman came to the door
and started singing back!

Finally, I headed exhausted back to the pension, but recovered enough
to go out for paella with Hiro later.


Thurs 7th November.

Today I worked out why I haven't woken up early the last 2 days -- it's because 
of the shutters.  I'm used to the light in the tent telling me that it's time to surface.

If and when he finally settles down, Hiro will make someone a great husband -- 
yesterday I'd mentioned (we were discussing food) that it's difficult to eat eggs 
when touring, because you have to buy 6, meaning you eat them 3 days on the 
trot, if they don't break.  So this morning he brought me a boiled egg, soft boiled, 
because he'd met an Englishman in India who'd been trying to find a soft boiled 
egg in a land where hygiene dictates that they're hard boiled.

Then back to pounding the pavement.  First stop, the Palau de la Musica, all 
bricks and mosaics, tucked away down a side street.  Casa Batllo was the first 
Gaudi we came to.  The man was either a genius or a total nutter, and probably 
the former.  There wasn't a square inch of the building that hadn't been designed; 
the balconies, the ironwork, the skyline, the mosaics.  And for an apartment 
block, just one on a city street.

The next stop was La Pedrea, which on the top floor houses a wonderful 
exhibition - in the attic, which is all narrow brick arches, reminiscent of the 
vaulting in a cathedral.  The exhibition was extremely well done, documenting 
Gaudi's works in multimedia and models, pointing out the development of his 
style.  What struck me most was that he designed the whole building, 
inside and out -- the interior design being as intricate and all encompassing as 
the detail lavished on the outside.  From the museum you access the roof terrace, 
with its mosaic domes and chimney stacks with stylised faces on them, for views 
across the city, including the next stop, Barcelona's largest, longest running 
building site -- Sagrada Familia, Gaudi's cathedral, with its contrast of 
weathered brown stone, and new white stone where they're still building.

Later in the afternoon Hiro went to find the post office, and I wandered round 
the Barri Gotic, the narrow streets and squares.  Through the cathedral, with its 
wonderful cloisters with their flock of geese, finally ending up in Placa Pi, where 
a jazz band was just setting up.  So I sat outside the cafe, wrote postcards and 
just relaxed.  I was joined by Emma, the young French woman from the pension, 
who'd also wound up there after a day in the museums.

Back at the pension I threw together a 3 course meal, which went down well, 
and will hopefully make the miles go by easily tomorrow.

Forgotten -- the 'viu Barcelona en Bici' flags with their stylised cyclists -- not a 
bad idea if there was less traffic.  Also, the posters 'Homenatge Nacional als 
Lluitadors por la Llibertat', with a woman, rifle and anarchist and communist 
flags.  There will be a remembrance parade on Sunday for the International 
Brigade.

Later on Emanuelle and I went to the cafe de l'Opera for a drink and a 
discussion of the Spanish civil war, of why I choose to travel by bicycle, and why 
she couldn't live anywhere other than Paris.  I should also add a few words about 
the pension, c' Palau 4, right in the centre, and even in November, full of young 
people --  and a mix of long stay (2+ weeks) and short stay -- people passed 
through in the 3 nights I was there.  And very friendly, even with almost no 
communal space, nevertheless, people did sit on the 3 chairs in the corridor and 
talk.


Friday 8th November.

Time to move on.  Hiro was better organised than me, and while I was eating 
breakfast he said, "I go down first", and then he didn't reappear.  I thought that 
maybe he didn't like goodbyes or something, but it bothered me that after a 
week together, he'd just gone.  So I got all my junk together and carted it down 
the four flights of stairs, to find him in the courtyard, cleaning and tinkering.

Leaving Barcelona, I thought I was doing so well with the navigation, making 
steady progress parallel to the coast, with the odd N-S detour.  Then it all went 
horribly wrong.  Whoever designed urban motorways had obviously never 
ridden a bike.  And because they want all the traffic on the motorways, the 
minor routes aren't signposted.  Finally we ended up going north, parallel to a 
river, with no bridge for miles except for th motorway.  We stopped to ask 
directions from two old men, who waved their walking sticks and had a heated 
discussion, which they clearly assumed we could understand.  They pointed us 
on to the motorway, following the signs to the airport.  So down the hard 
shoulder we went, the only slightly dodgy bit being when we had to exit on a 
left hand slip road....  But we'd escaped Barcelona!

But most of the route today was pretty uninspiring.  At times I convinced myself 
that there must be a road along the edge of the beach, instead of the main 
highway running parallel to the motorway, only to have the main road come to 
the edge of a cliff, or to end up on a dead end beachfront road.  Only the stretch 
between Castelldefels and Sitges, where the road wound up along the cliff, was 
scenic with bits of sunlight playing on the water below.  Did I mention that 
today was grey and windy?  But a tailwind for a change.

At Coma-ruga we went our separate ways -- Hiro heading vaguely north, 
destination Madrid (to arrange visas to continue on to Africa.  I got a postcard 
from him recently (May 97), he got through Morrocco, but turned back before Mauritania 
because of a minefield.)  I continued south along the coast to Tarragona, where 
the youth hostel is a university hall of residence during the winter.  I get the 
feeling that from now on through Spain it's going to be increasingly difficult to 
meet people (unless I rapidly learn Spanish!)  Taragonna seems a lively enough 
place, judging by the number of young people around.  I reckon there's a 
university somewhere amongst the Roman remains.  The restaurant does 'bread 
with things on it', and I'd just got started on the 127 items when the guy spotted 
the guide book and brought me an English menu -- shame, as I was hoping to 
find "ember roasted sweet pepper" in the vegetable section... (very good it was 
too, as was the cod in Romesco sauce, the local speciality.)  And it's raining -- I 
hope Hiro found the youth hostel and isn't camping in a field somewhere.


Saturday 9th November.

Not the most  wonderful of days -- woke up with a sharp pain in my back from 
the pension bed, and felt fairly lousy most of the day -- had almost no energy at 
all after lunch.  And while it was fairly bright this morning when I had a quick 
ride round Taragonna to visit the Forum, most of the day's been gray and 
breezy.  And apart from riding along the prom at Salou the scenery's been fairly 
monotonous, scrub, olive groves and the occasional nuclear power station to 
liven things up (with beaches signposted next to them).  And, even at the 
weekend, articulated lorries thundering down the only road (bar the motorway) 
along the coast.  The only respite was the minor road through Pons.

So I got to l'Aldea, where the hostel is closed.  So after talking with a Czech guy 
(who thought I was Spanish) who's looking for work picking oranges, I decided 
that Tortosa was too far to make in daylight.  So I'm in an olive grove, where the 
setting sun's just emerged beneath the clouds, bathing the trees in an orange 
light.


Sunday 10th November.

Well, I misjudged how much daylight there was left, but the night camping was 
OK, apart from the barking of some dogs at one point, ant he fairly constant 
traffic noise.  Just after dawn the thump of shotguns started, as the local Sunday 
hunters came to shoot the wildlife, and so by 8am I was moving, to Tortosa 
where I sat outside the luxury Parador eating breakfast and watching the mist 
slowly clear over the town and river.  Stopped to look at the memorial to the 
civil war, a stark steel sculpture in the middle of the river.

And then, finally, I was on minor roads, through interminable olive groves 
(some being harvested, by pushing along a contraption which picked the olives 
up off the ground and threw them into a tray), with the odd orange orchard 
thrown in.  The olives were mostly incredibly well tended, but occasionally there 
was a 'wild' field, where the trees had grown like trees, rather than the gnarled 
bushes olive trees are usually like.

And small towns, often with churches out of all proportion to the size of the 
town.  In Santa Barbera the women were leaving the church in their Sunday best 
(and only the very oldest were dressed in black).  El  Castell is dwarfed by San 
Rafael del Rio, where, in the square, I  unwrapped the tent to dry it, and 
attracted the interest of four small boys who appeared from nowhere.  I couldn't 
work out if they were asking if I'd spent the night in the country, or saying that 
tents are for the country, not the town square.  But they were soon attracted to 
the sweetshop (but only after calling me Robin Hood), leaving me to eat in the 
sunshine.  The water fountain in San Rafael was rebuilt in 1977, to commemorate 
50 years of something, and the water comes out of a chicken's beak;  the pigs 
head next to it is purely decorative.

And then on to Traiguera, La Jana and Sant Mateu, still on minor roads, down a 
wide valley, rolling hills to the left, a high plateau to the right, with Morella 
perched on the edge of the cliff.  The olives gave way to ploughed fields, and the 
layers of hills faded to shades of blue and gray.  In Cuevas de Vinroma I 
understood enough of the reply to find the fonda -- perfectly clean and 
functional; a good job, too, as it's the only place to stay.  It's central too.  
Nowhere's more than two minutes walk away!  And the comedor didn't open 
until 8.30pm, not good for a hungry cycle tourist, so I'm now out of bread, and 
have also tried to eat the bar out of tapas.

I think there was a bit more language confusion today too --  have I been 
learning the Catalan dialect, or is it that they speak Valencian round here.  That 
I'm fairly dark and could pass as Spanish (in Antibes I was often accused of 
being Italian) probably doesn't help.


Monday 11th November.

Helping me get the bike out of the cellar, the barman commented "mucho peso", 
which I think is about right!  Today the headwind really started to piss me off, 
and when it was joined by rain, sporadically through the day, that didn't help 
either.  The scenery wasn't bad, more olive and fruit groves, with hills at either 
edge of the plain.  And the unmistakable smell of chicken  farms.  The road, 
marked as a secondary road, had been widened recently (the old, narrow, 
carridgeway was in evidence at some of the corners) and, being an agricultural 
area, carried agricultural traffic -- lorries loaded to the rafters with pigs and 
other livestock, which you could smell long after they'd passed.

Vilafames lies on the side of a hill, with the ruins of a sandstone castle at the top, 
with views back down over the plain with its ploughed fields and orchards.  The 
wind almost blew my lunch off the top, and was blowing in the clouds from the 
hills behind.

After a brief respite from the traffic, once on the road to Onda it started again, 
lorries carrying the red powder that's the raw material for Onda's ceramics 
industry.  Fortunately the light rain had dampened down the dust.  It may have 
an enormous ceramics industry (as did San Juan de Moro), but the town itself is 
a complete dump.  I cycled right round it looking for a reasonable area, found 
one fonda I didn't like the look of, so carried on.

This was the best bit of the day -- the road started climbing, through wooded 
hills, with only the school bus for traffic.  The next 'habitaciones' was at Alcudia 
de Veo, and about half a mile before the rain started properly.  I think they saw 
me coming and have put me in the best room in the place, but sitting in a hot 
bath listening to the rain lash down and the wind howl, I'm not complaining.  
And while I'm the only resident, judging by the number of tables set and coffee 
cups prepared, it could get busy when the comedor opens at 9.  I could starve to 
death by then.

There's 3 generations of the family that run the place here at the minute.  The old 
woman who checked me in, who gabbled away at me in Spanish (I really ought 
to try to learn some more, especially if I'm going to stay away from the coast) 
and her daughter and 2 little kids running around.  And 3 older men stood at the 
bar discussing I know not what.  I wonder what the women do in the evenings 
in a small town like this?


Tuesday 12th November.

 Well, I misjudged a few things about the hotel -- I was the only one eating, the 
room price was very reasonable 1500pts and not the 2500 posted, and yesterday, 
the old lady had been telling me that I could put the bike downstairs in the 
cellar, not that I had to leave it outside.

This morning was really good cycling, as I went from village to village 
searching first for a bakery, and then a shop that sold museli!  On the map the 
road to Algimia de Almonacid is marked as under construction, but it's been 
finished and climbs its way slowly out of Alcudia de Veo, the fruit trees slowly 
fading to pine and oak -- a very strange sight the oak, the bark all missing from 
the lower part of the trunk, which was bright red underneath.

In Algimia I attracted quite a lot of attention in the town square, and was 
directed to the 'paneria' (bakery), hidden behind a chain curtain, with only a 
small name plate to identify it.  In the bakery were two old ladies, and I stood 
head and shoulders and half an arm taller than them.  They were tiny.

On the top of every  third hill or so was the remains of a castle, from a simple 
square tower, to  much more elaborate keeps and walls.  This bit of road down 
to Segorbe was great.

The main road from Segorbe to Torres-Torres wasn't so great.  It's being 
widened (to 4 lanes), financed in part by the EC, on the sign it had the 
total amount -- three hundred and something thousand million ... 977 ptas!  
Can they _really_ account for the last 7 pesetas?

The road then climbed up towards Serra, with the odd cyclists name painted on 
the road, and a memorial set into the rock at the side three quarters of the way 
up.  Signs said that the forest had been replanted after the 1993 fires.  In Serra the 
fishmonger commented on the bike - 'I must be strong' (or slow).  From Serra I 
got the payback for the last few hard days.  It was almost all downhill to 
Valencia.  Which didn't stop me getting lost on the way in -- more urban 
motorways, but I did get to see the velodrome.

The first two habitaciones that I tried were both closed, but I'm in one near the 
market -- it's a bit of a rabbit warren, and my room's right in the deep.  In the 
fading light I had a bit of a wander around, past the cathedral with its huge 
magen david above the door, and the entrance gates to the old city walls --  huge 
stone turrets and arches, and the old university, where the library was full of 
dilligent students.

I'm now in the veggy restaurant, so I could happily choose at random from the 
menu, not understanding most of it, and even using the  old 'point at the next 
table' method to get the pate, four dollops of different coloured goo on an artist's 
pallette.  It's a 'foodie' veggie rather than a huge quantities of wholefood, but the 
carrot cheesecake was superb.  And the Spanish guitar.  Also, figuring that I'm 
more or less on my own from here on, I bought 'round the world in 80 days' to 
keep me company.  I did see evidence of other cycletourists (bikes locked in the 
entrance of a pension), but with no youth hostel as a focus, it's hard to make 
contact.


Wednesday 13th November.

Today it rained.  A persistent, fine, Manchester type of rain.  But a rain that 
started past the point of no return -- I'd have got just as wet going back to 
Valencia (to spend the day pottering round the museums) as I would by 
continuing.  So on I went.  Once out of the centre of Valencia, onto the road to 
the port, it was easy to leave the city, which made a change.  But the coast road in 
the gray rain was fairly miserable, even the birds on the wetlands at Albutera 
looked unhappy.

So I pressed on all morning to Cullera.  What the old men playing cards (using 
an odd deck, completely different to the one I'm used to) smoking oddly shaped 
cigars made of me I don't know -- green floppy hat, blue waterproof jacket, black 
waterproof trousers and white polythene bags taped over my shoes.  I must have 
been a right sight.

Took the wrong road out of town and ended up on the National as far as Torre 
de la Vall, where the seafront road dead ended on me, but also on an English 
couple in a mobile home (with a great pair of northern accents).  The road 
parallel to the sea was a tiny thing through the orange groves, or rather between 
the high fences around the orange groves.  Torre de la Vall was closed.  All of it.  
Deserted summer holiday resorts are a bit depressing.

With the help of directions from a couple walking their dogs I made it to Platja 
de Gandia, where I did ride along the seafront, and thence to Oliva.

Oliva has the best tourist office you could imagine -- friendly, helpful (the 
woman even explained how the ONCE lottery works) and they give out the best map 
I've  seen from a tourist office -- it has all the roads on it, and all named.  A map 
like that of Valencia would have been wonderful.  I wandered round the old 
town with its blue tile domed churches in the fading light.  Outside the town 
hall at the moment they're filming a Spanish TV program (some form of karaoke 
show) and it looks like the entire town, and then some, are there.  In the 
restaurant it sounds like half the people are English.  The presence of an English 
supermarket suggests a large expat population.

The tourist information promised me better weather tomorrow...

Songs for rainy days -- 'don't know what I'm doing here, I'll carry on 
regardless...'

(some of the church clocks in the small villages had computer generated chimes!)


Thursday 14th November

The promised better weather just meant no rain, but I spent the day through 
gorgeous mountain scenery, winding from village to village through the hills 
and gorges.  The road to Pego was again through orchards, but from there it 
went over a range between two valleys, giving views across the fields.  The main 
climb was up to the Coll des Rates, long and steady, and in parts, wind assisted.  
As I climbed, the low cloud seemed to be climbing too.  But just as I arrived at 
the  viewpoint, everything disappeared into the white mist.  Somewhere around 
this point I clocked up 1000 miles for the trip so far.

The view into the next valley was superb, terraced almost up to the sheer rock at 
the top, in deep greens in contrast to the limestone and scrub of the other side.

At Torbena I wandered into Casa Pinet for a coffee, to find the place stuffed full 
of Civil War memorabilia, including letters from English comrades framed on 
the wall.  The owner was there, in his beret, balancing the tray on the stump of 
his arm -- he lost the hand clearing mines.  But the bar's very firmly on the 
Benidorm tour bus route.  A coachload of English and French was followed by 
one of Germans.  As they arrived the barman put 'the Internationale' on the 
record player, and I left humming the tune.  This was the first real evidence of 
the civil war that I've  seen (apart from a small memorial on a church, daubed in 
paint.  Maybe it  only recorded one side.)  Also, on the side of the road were 
slogans painted.  Free Catalonia.  Some names on the street signs had been 
changed as well.  

In the afternoon I took a detour to Guadalest.  On the way there, I was thinking, 
at what point does the cycling itself become the point of the trip rather than the 
places visited?

Guadalest is a castle built into the rock.  The entrance is through a cleft in the 
cliff.  Inside it is mostly tourist shops, but the local school is still in the castle 
grounds.

On the road back down (long way down...) to Benidorm the bottom bracket 
started making horrible crunchy noises.  The tourismo told me where the bike 
shops are, and at 'Bicci Club' the guy took it apart to find that one of the ball 
bearings was only three quarters of a ball bearing.  In with a new axle and 
bearings.  Total cost: 12 pounds including labour.  The guy speaks nothing but 
Spanish, but his wife speaks French and translated.

By which time it was dark, so I was spared the concrete excesses of Benidorm.  I 
figured that I should try to be the Brit Abroad, but failed --  I ended up in a 
restaurant with menus only in Spanish.  After wandering fairly randomly for a 
while I bumped into the three people I'd seen in the pizzeria in Oliva, and then 
again at the tourismo.  Steve (English), a Belgian and a Polish woman, camper 
vanning around.  So I joined them in a disco-pub for a while; wall to wall 
English package holidaymakers, but very entertaining.


Friday 15th November.

So I was a bit of a snob about staying in Benidorm, but stay I did, and off season 
the old part of town is pleasant, and a seaside resort with people in it made a 
pleasant change after all the closed resorts I've  passed through.  I met up with 
the 3 camper vanners briefly in the morning, but once the sun came out the 
police reappeared and made them move the vans from the seafront.  I spent the 
rest of the day (with, for this trip, an incredibly late start, still in bed at 10am!) 
strolling around, sitting in cafes writing postcards and reading yesterday's 
'Liberation' to try to slow the rate at which I'm forgetting my French.  Page 14 has 
the story of the two Robert Barons, father and son.  The son had worked in the 
father's bike shop for 46 years, without pay or holidays, living above the shop, 
being treated like a slave.  And Robert pere had used the confusion with the 
names to avoid paying social security for Robert fils, who found himself without 
pension or an other income, and is now suing Robert pere for 1.5MF (plus 5 
years back pay, to guarantee a minimum pension).

Around 6pm I headed for the shul, hidden at the back of the car park of an 
apartment block and totally unmarked.  The shul itself is a smallish room, wood 
paneled and pews, and M. Cohen (N African, Benidorm for 25 years) explained 
that it was hard to get a minyan - roughly  20 families, most work late in the 
summer, and go on holiday in the winter, and the overwintering English hadn't 
arrived yet.  He couldn't believe that I'd cycled from Antibes -- a BMW is more 
the mode of transport for a Jewish boy -- and told  everyone who came in.  One 
old man was less impressed; he'd been forced to walk for weeks to Dachau.  The 
service, timetabled for 6.15 finally started (with 9 men, 1 woman and 2 kids) at 
7.15, but was heartfelt.

And it's raining again, so I'm back on pasta at the pension for dinner.


Saturday 16th November.

Today it rained.  Lots.  I left Benidorm in a fine drizzle, which lasted until the 
early afternoon, making going along the main road to Alicante a bit unpleasant.  
In Alicante I managed to fall off -- the bit in front of some of the hotels is paved 
in marble tiles, incredibly slippery when wet.  I was making a slow wide turn, 
but still the bike slipped away.  Feeling it go, I tried to walk forwards off it as it 
went sideways, but caught my foot on the bar bag, and managed to land on my 
left knee (the dodgy one) which has begun to stiffen up nicely this evening.

I passed by Elche, with its palm forest, and then on a little country road between 
Matela and Sant Felip Neri the large, heavy, drops of rain started.  In the middle 
of nowhere, the hills disappeared from view, the roads became flooded, and 
then to liven it up a bit more, a flash of lightning and a clap of thunder.  But it 
passed, and slowly the brown and red rock rising out of the plane became 
visible behind Callosa, and finally I arrived in Orihuela, just as it was going 
dark.  A very helpful man helped me find the tourist information.  A splendid 
building, but closed.  Then the rain started again.  A bit more wandering and 
asking, and I was pointed to the Pension, though if they'd have pointed me to 
the local 5 star hotel, I'd have stayed there at that point.

Having no map, and no sense of direction, I didn't wander too far.  I still don't 
know if I found the town centre.  But I did find a nice fish restaurant.  At the end 
of the meal they served some form of liqueur with cream floating on it, and what 
appeared to be a pinch of nutmeg.  Shoot it down, and hopefully it'll help me 
sleep.


Sunday 17th November.

Woke up to bright sunshine, but the gale force winds that had blown the rain 
clouds away were still blowing.  Hard.  So all day I've ridden into a headwind.  
Slow and unpleasant -- in fact it took me 2 hours to do the 15 miles to Murcia, 
where I spent a long while wandering aimlessly.  The casino's a fine building, 
more of a club (as in gentelman's) than a casino, with a Moorish entrance hall, a 
paneled library and an impressively decorated ladies' room.  I also spent a 
while in a cake shop cum cafe, warming up over a coffee and cake.  The wind 
was keeping the temperature down to about 10C, and the sun had disappeared 
behind a layer of high cloud.

Then onto the small roads, with some shelter from the houses along the side.  On 
the map there's nothing between Sangonerra la Verde and Casa Nuevas.  On the 
ground there's a couple of little villages -- 6 houses and a church.  At Ganuelas I 
stopped  for another coffee in a tiny, smoky bar, with a shop attached.  A small, 
dirty room, with hams and sausages hanging from the low ceiling, and dusty 
packets on the shelves.

The road across the valley went past the local tip, but did have the mountains at 
the end.  On the way to Totana the sun appeared, low and near the horizon, and 
the wind increased.  Along the road were vines, grown in a different style to the 
French, and still with grapes on. (French vines are grown in rows, as low bushes.  
These were grown high, with the branches spread over a wire mesh above head 
height.)

In Totana I sat in a hot bath for a long time, wondering how long this wind will 
blow for.  Like Phileas Fogg I'm watching the schedule now.  With good weather 
I should be in Granada in 3 days.  With this wind it will be 4 unpleasant ones.


Monday 18th November

After the morning ritual of finding a bakery and a food shop I was off.  And for 
the first hour, I thought that the  weather forecast was wrong -- the wind was 
only a light breeze, and the sun was doing its best to shine through.  But when I 
crossed the motorway at La Hoya I realised that I'd just been on a sheltered 
stretch, and that the wind was back.

In Lorca I stopped on the bridge, with the wind blowing down the course of the 
river.  I decided not to look round the town but to press on (a problem with the 
short days at this time of year.  And extra hour of daylight and I'd have had a 
wander.)

Then I was back on little roads, into the wind.  Eventually I realised that another 
reason that I was making such slow progress was that the road was going 
gradually uphill (it climbs 1000m in 100km), climbing along the base of a wide 
valley, mountains to the right, lower hills off to the left, and the river bed to the 
side of the road.  Most of the way the fruit and olive trees had given way to 
ploughed fields, with the odd pomegranate tree by the side of the road.

With lunch I finally tried hortacha, the tiger-nut drink.  Wasn't impressed.  One 
of the village youths cycled past and wished me bon appetit, or at least he did 
once he'd explained slowly and with gestures what he'd said.

Further along the road was another Madonna on the top of a hill, arms  
outstretched;  further on, on a mound rising from the valley floor was the 
remains of a castle.  The complete castle at Velez Blanco was visible off to the 
right, below the mountains.  A couple of herds of goats were grazing by the 
road.

In Velez Rubio, with its cathedral with twin bell towers, much of it in brick 
rather than stone, I'm in an actual hotel, with a lift and everything, but with the 
hot water not quite hot enough to soak in for too long.  I'm not sure what altitude 
we're at here (somewhere between 300 and 800m), but it's _freezing_ cold 
outside.


Tuesday 19th November.

Too f**king windy!

That's really all I want to say.  For 3 hours before lunch I struggled uphill into 
this direct, head on gale, average speed 5mph.  Not impressed.  At Las 
Vertientes the bakery looked like it hadn't been modernised in 100 years -- old 
cast iron doors on a brick oven going off behind one wall, and a wooden trough 
to knead the dough in.

And then back on -- the wide valley giving no shelter.  They're in the process of 
upgrading the road to dual carriageway, although if today's volume of traffic is 
typical, I don't know why.  About one truck/car every few minutes.  Only the 
lorries carrying pigs were a problem -- the smell.

The road eventually turned into an 'autovia', with its sign banning pedestrians, 
bikes and horse-drawn vehicles.  But it was the only road, so on I went on the 
shoulder, ignored by the two motorcycle traffic policemen.  Finally, after a series 
of ever higher horizons, the road went downhill (still against the wind) to Baza, 
a pleasant little town, with an easily identifiable centre -- it was full of smart 
clothes and shoe shops.

Now, can I make Granada tomorrow?

Forgotten -- the first glimpse of snow on some of the mountains.


Wednesday 20th November

I got up an hour earlier than usual, in case the wind had dropped, to give me 
enough time to cover the roughly 65 miles to Granada.  Shouldn't have bothered.  
If anything, it was worse than yesterday -- at a couple of points, where the wind 
was channeled through a cutting, maintaining any forward motion was 
impossible -- I got off and pushed, and even that was hard work, leaning into the
wind to avoid being blown backwards.  And the terrain was the same wide, flat 
valley, Sierra del Baza on the left, other mountains off to the right.  And very 
slow progress.  I tried hitching a couple of times, with no success.  Just after the 
rain started, blowing across the plain, stinging any exposed skin, I signaled to a 
passing van who pointed off to the right.  But it was a  vehicle testing station, he 
wasn't offering me a lift.  But I did sit in the dry waiting room and eat lunch.

And then on to Guadix, making slightly better time.  But I was completely 
fatigued and exhausted when I arrived.  The road into town drops down into a 
form of gorge which the town is in, and passes the first of the cave dwellings.  
The local rock is very soft, so they carve out a room, put in a chimney, build a 
wall in front, and hey presto, a house.  On the other side of the old town is a 
whole suburb of cave houses, happily inhabited, with cars in the drives.

Earlier, I'd noticed the start of the gorge off to the right, and was watching that 
for a while.  When I turned to the left, the Sierra de Baza had finished, and in its  
place the great snow covered mass had appeared, all 3400m of the Sierra 
Nevada, the highest peaks shrouded in cloud, the lower slopes glistening in the 
sunlight.

In Guadix I figured as follows.  Three days ago Granada was 150 miles away, ie 
3 fairly average days.  Since then I'd done 3 very hard, exhausting, days.  So I felt 
justified taking the bus, the alternative being another hard day tomorrow, and 
unfortunately, time was starting to get short (next time, I'd like either much 
more time, to enable more days spent just visiting places, or more daylight 
hours, to achieve the same).  So, the bus.  But how to find if there is one, and 
where the bus station is?

In a cloistered square behind the cathedral there was the English Centre, a small 
school.  Walking in, I got the 'what are you doing here?' looks, until I started 
speaking, when it was obvious that I was English; even the English people 
thought I was Spanish.  But the did give me directions to the bus station on the 
edge of town, and assure me that the buses took bikes.

So, the bus.  For the first 20k it climbed steadily, with the trees still bending in 
the wind.  It was very odd -- no sensation of fighting the wind.  The next 40k 
were downhill!  And through much more interesting countryside, the plane 
giving way to valleys and mountains.  Unfortunately it was getting dark rapidly 
(I toyed with the idea of taking the bus back on Saturday morning after a couple 
of days off in Granada and cycling back, just to finish off the trip.  Then I got 
serious.)  so the run in to Granada, down the steep, twisting road, was done in 
the dark.  So, if I'd known more about the route I'd have cycled it tomorrow, but 
I think I made the right decision on the information available at the time.

It was odd to arrive in a city in the dark -- I've no idea how big it is, or where I 
am.  In the bus station they gave me directions to the youth hostel, which is 
where I am now.  It has no kitchen, and does have a TV in the common room -- 
not good for encouraging interaction.  Also, I want to stay 3 nights, but it's 
booked up on Friday.

Tomorrow: l'Alhambra


Thursday 21st November

The Alhambra palace!  I decided to walk there; in fact, I've spent almost the 
whole day walking.  So much for a rest day.  Turns out the youth hostel is a long 
way out, about an hour's walk along the Camino de Ronda, and then up 
Recogidas, but it did allow me to stock up on a good picknick lunch.  Then, 300 
yards from the palace, I did a classic bit of navigation, took a wrong fork down 
an interesting alleyway, and had to backtrack half a mile.

The entrance to the Alhambra is up through a shady,  leafy park, which brings 
you to the entrance tower, with a complete S inside the tower to keep out 
intruders, and over the gate insignias of a hand and key.

The 'Palacios' are incredible, truly indescribable (at least by me) - il faut visiter.  
And the series of rooms builds up gradually, starting with the intricate ceramic 
work just round the windows and the tops of the pillars in the Mexuar; the the 
Patio de les Arrayanes, with its pool full of goldfish, and side rooms of rich 
decoration.  But none of this really prepares you for the Salon de los 
Embajadores, the most stunning room I've ever seen.  The decoration is 
completely intact, floor to ceiling in geometric patterns and inscriptions; the 
ceiling being a wooden dome, equally richly decorated.  And in the ante-
chamber in a dark area which receives little sunlight, some of the original colour 
remains, blue and gold, red and green.

Then you pass to the Patio de los Leones, with its central fountain of 12 lions, its 
columns and the 2 side rooms, one with a ceiling in the form of an 8 pointed star, 
with touches of blue and red;  the other in the shape of an ocatagon, with 
detailing making it look like a flower when seen from below.  In the centre of 
each room was a little fountain, draining down the steps into the pool beneath 
the lions.  Everywhere in the palace is running water, and its soothing sound.

Beyond the lions are a series of small courtyards and balconies, leading out to a 
pool and the Palacio de Yussuf III, now an ornamental garden, with persimmon 
trees, bare of leaves, but laden with squashy orange fruit.  The perfect place for a 
picknick lunch.

The route back to the Alcazaba goes past a couple of gift shops, where I bought a 
copy of Washington Irving's 'Tales of the Alhambra'.  He does a much better job 
of describing and evoking the place than I do.  The Alcazaba is a series of 
fortifications, each tower rising higher than the previous one, with views down 
over the old Moorish quarter, the new city and the plane, and back over the 
Alhambra to the snow-covered Sierra Nevada. (In the gift shop,  tucked away 
behind the counter, was a menora and a picture of a man at the Western Wall, 
which looked very out of place.)

By ignoring the 'prohibito el paso' signs I went back into the Palacios, which 
really did benefit a second visit, detail and colour being much more obvious 
second time round.

Finally, the gardens of the Generalife.  A very easy way to keep me happy is to 
put me in a (partially) sunny day into a formal garden -- box hedges, pools and 
fountains, flowers and junipers.  I sat and read a while, overlooking the palace 
and mountains before heading back down the narrow gorge between the 
gardens and the palace into town, then a slow wander back to the youth hostel.

Later on there's part of the jazz festival at the faculty of sciences, so if I can stay 
awake, that's where I'm going.

And is indeed where I did go.  There were 4 bands on.  Two modern jazz, a bit 
too modern really for my taste, one blues, but the best was a Spanish group, with 
most of the rhythms coming from hand clapping and Spanish guitar, flute and 
bass accompaniment to the haunting voice of the singer.  Whether it was or not, 
it felt Spanish and so what I am in Spain for, rather than the others which could 
have been heard anywhere.

Turned out I was sitting next to an American. (She started reading a Fodors.  Big 
giveaway.) Debbie, who, like the previous American woman had just quit a job 
grant writing for a US non-profit organisation, and was on a month long trip 
through Spain.  We went for a drink in the centre of town, and had a real 
conversation, about issues and interests, rather than the somewhat stilted 'where 
have you been, where are you going, how long are you traveling for' 
conversations you tend to have in youth hostels, which, to be honest, I was 
getting a bit tired of.  I walked back again to the youth hostel, passing the 
university district, where the bars were still in full swing at 3am.


Friday 22nd November.

So today I did pretty much nothing.  A very late start, then walked into the 
centre.  The only sightseeing was a visit to the old Moorish baths, incredibly 
cool, with small circular and star shaped windows in the ceiling.  Then I sat in 3 
different cafes, reading and writing postcards in the sunshine.  Later on I 
stumbled across a little road off Gran via Colon which was full of old Arab style 
tea houses, low sofas and cushions, small tables and candles.  Probably for the 
tourists, but very relaxing, drinking mint tea and eating dates.

And then the slow wander back to the youth hostel, where I've just watched the 
weather forecast.  More wind and sunshine.

Later on in the room I tried to communicate a bit with the Spanish guy I shared 
the room with, who doesn't speak any English.  By pointing to the map in the 
guide book he made out where he was from, the area on the French border, and 
using bits of broken French, English and Spanish and plentiful gestures, he told 
me of a tragedy that had happened in his town,  when a fire broke out in a 
crowded nightclub, and all the people inside headed for the one door that was 
open.  Unfortunately, in the crush to get out, many were killed.  Which just goes 
to show that you shouldn't put all your Basques in one exit.


Saturday 23rd November.

More hilarious weather -- fog with visibility down to about 100 yards.  Half that 
when my glasses became misted up.  Leaving Granada the road goes gently 
downhill, so while the sun was beginning to burn through as I left the city, the 
fog soon became thicker -- the motorway junction being at the bottom of a dip, 
and the light and dark from the bridges, and the truck headlights in the gloom 
was straight out of a sci-fi film.

But as I wound my way towards Fuente Vaqueros the fog lifted, revealing the 
tops of the Sierra Nevada, with mist shrouding the base.  In Fuente Vaqueros 
there's a museum to Frederico Garcia Lorca, so I now know that he was a poet 
and playwright.

I navigated by the position of the sun through the tobacco fields and olive 
groves, there being almost no signposts, but at Huelar Tajar managed to end up 
on the autovia until Loja.  In one of the squares was an odd man in a uniform 
and cap, and a badge saying that he was the car park attendant, and he did try to 
direct the cars and buses round the square.  But judging from the reactions, I 
think he may have been the local oddity.

Just before Loja the rolling hills began again, with the odd long drag, and finally 
the climb into Archidana, a small town in a stunning setting, on the saddle 
between two valleys, ringed by mountains, and with a hill next to the town, 
from where I watched the sunset, casting the valley and mountains in shades of 
gold.


Sunday 24th November 

Something I'd eaten yesterday didn't totally agree with me, leaving me feeling a 
bit weak today.  Fortunately it was a short day, with a late start, and warm, 
bright sunshine.  After visiting the prehistoric caves just outside Antequera (the 
Cueva del Romeral, a long entrance tunnel opening into a large domed room, 
topped with a stone slap.  The very bored guardian hands you a torch at the 
entrance and points you in.  Of the other two caves (Menga and Viera), one the 
guardian couldn't be bothered opening; the other is a huge room, with great 
stone slabs for walls and 3 enormous stone slabs for the ceiling, supported on 
two columns.  No idea how they assembled the thing.

In the square next to the bakery I sat barefoot in the sunshine for a long time, 
before continuing through the countryside.  It was warm enough, in late 
November, to ride without a shirt (although the local club cyclists were well 
muffled up).  At Campillos I was sent on a bit of a wild goose chase.  At a 
junction a motorist volunteered directions, a pedestrian confirmed them, but 
they sent me back onto the main road to do 2 sides of the triangle.  I backtracked, 
and found the road I wanted 200 yards from the junction.

Teba is also on the top of a hill between two valleys, and has a ruined castle at 
the top, with views in all directions over the farmlands and mountains, and the 
artificial lake to the south east.  I'd walked there in cycling shorts and jersey, and 
was sure I'd heard the local kids talking and joking about me.  Sure enough, 
when I got back to the bike I was surrounded by 8 boys and made to feel like the 
pied piper.  Some of the boys were more interested in playing with their 
spinning tops, but the others wanted a go on the bike, and to wear the helmet.  
The only English phrase they knew was 'what's your name?', so there's a village 
load of kids who are going to be talking about Robin the mad English cyclist.  
When I was walking around later on I heard two small girls saying something 
including 'cyclista', and then dissolve into laughter.

For dinner I chose the busiest restaurant (walking around, the town seemed 
very lively with people (ok, 98% men) on the streets and crowding the bars.  It 
was significantly warmer than last night.  In the restaurant, I was faced with a 
menu I understood none of -- I usually do much better than that!  So off the fish 
list I picked something that came either grilled or fried -- I guessed that couldn't 
be shellfish and was right.  I still don't know what it was, mind, despite the 
enthusiastic waiter trying to explain.


Monday 25th November

Which makes 5 weeks, I  really can't believe it's that long, it's just flown by.  And 
tomorrow is the last day on the bike, 65 miles and 2000ft -- downhill -- to 
Gibraltar.  It's that same slightly melancholy feeling I had at the end of my 
Norway trip.  So I'm trying to forget about it by sitting on a very plump sofa in 
the bar of the Parador (state run luxury hotel) here in Ronda, drinking a very 
sweet muscatel.

Today was a fairly short cycling day, but felt much harder than I think it aught 
to have done.  Possibly I was slightly dehydrated, it was another scorchingly hot 
day, and in places the slight tail breeze made it feel even hotter.

Leaving Teba there was a great view down over the reservoir and the mountains 
and mist behind.  The road winds through fields being ploughed and sewn, and 
past olive orchards with wild boar (or more likely, captive boar) foraging 
beneath them.

From Cuevasdel Becerro, just outside which a shepherd, herding his goats and 
leaning on a staff called and waved to me from a small hill at the side of the 
road.  I detoured to Setenil.  Olives appeared,and a cluster of white houses 
around the base of a ruined castle.  Setenil's an odd place, built in a gorge rather 
than on a hill and the sides of the gorge overhang -- this being used as the roof 
for the rows of houses lining the sides of the gorge.

Ronda itself has a stunning setting, built on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a 
valley, rolling hills and mountains in the distance.  The cliff is cut in two by a 
gorge, cutting a cleft between the old, Moorish section and the more modern 
city.  Spanning the gorge is a 17th century bridge, two huge stone columns 
descending the 400ft straight down, and 3 arches at the top.  The Moorish town 
has a couple of palaces, one of which has been kept in its 18th century form 
inside, all arcades and old furniture, all explained in Spanish.  The gardens were 
great, with views across the valley and down to the Moorish baths.  The other 
palace is a museum of the region.  A great building, but not especially 
interesting exhibits.

In the new town I arrived at the bullring (Ronda developed modern bullfighting, 
and all round the town are pictures of the stars) just after it closed;  the clifftop 
walkway with the sun setting behind the mountains wasn't closed.


Tuesday 26th November

Up early for the final days cycling.  The route down from Ronda passes the 
'white towns' (pueblos blancos), but as I left Ronda, everything was white, the 
mountains were covered in low cloud.  Also, while there was a net hight loss of 
around 700m, there were a couple of decent climbs in the first half of the trip, the 
first being straight out of Ronda.  Fortunately, for a great change, the wind was 
behind me for most of the day, blowing me up some of the hills.

And when I did descend out of the clouds, the views over the mountains, all 
browns and greens and yellows were great.  Atajate, the first white town was the 
most picturesque, with the old castle in brown stone at the edge of the village 
(now a cemetary).  From Gaucin, on a clear day you can sea the sea, and 
sometimes the Atlas mountains across in Morocco.  Today you could see the 
clouds.  But a little below the village, through a brief break in the gray, I did see 
a sliver of silver, the Med.

From Gaucin the road descends.  Seriously downwards for about 10km.  But the 
surface was appalling, I've ridden smoother ploughed fields.  But once in Cadizo 
province, the surface turned into some of the smoothest tarmac I've seen, and 
mostly downhill with a tailwind.  So after lunch I made extremely good 
progress.

Coming up to the coast, I took the minor road past the oil refinery (not the most 
pleasant), but coming round a corner it all appeared, the sea , the ships, and the 
rock.  Impressive.  I rode the last few miles with a broad grin -- I cycled halfway 
across France and the length of Spain.  I nearly caused problems at the Gibraltar 
border -- I'd become so used to riding past lines of cars that I went straight past 
the Spanish border guard.  I asked for, and got, a Gibraltar stamp in my 
passport, then went for a ride round, nearly being killed by some woman 
pulling out of a side street without looking.

And now I'm at the Hassan's, where I've been well fed by a Jewish mother.


Wednesday 27th November

Well, I'm back from an 'interesting' day in Tangier.  'Interesting' in the sense of 
the Chinese curse.  And while it's been a long day, the actual time spent in 
Tangier was quite short.  To start with the ferry was an hour late (I get the 
impression, though, that this is quite normal.)  and the crossing cloudy, giving 
only outlines of the Spanish hills and Gibraltar on one side of the straight as we 
rounded the corner of Morocco.  But it did give a very clear picture of how close 
Europe and Africa are at that point.  Whilst waiting I talked with a guy from 
Birmingham, of Moroccan origin, who warned me that as a westerner I would be 
constantly hassled by people in Tangier, begging or trying to sell me things.  He 
also told me repeatedly about how I could make some money by buying carpets 
or leather jackets to sell in England.

On disembarking the first people to hassle you are the official government 
tourist guides.  They also lay it on thick about how hassled Europeans get, so I 
opted for the tour.  Up to the Kasbah, the old fort originally built by the 
Portuguese, now slowly falling down, and though the increasingly narrow 
streets of the residential quarter, with the tiny workshops on the ground floor -- 
metalwork, men sewing jelabahs, and the guide kept telling me about the 
carpets, the finest of which, he insisted, were made by the youngest children, 8 
years old, who can tie tiny knots with their slender fingers.  I know that in some 
areas of India and Pakistan there is a problem with child labour making carpets, 
and I tried to ask about schooling in Morocco, how many years, what hours etc., 
but didn't really get a clear response.

The shuk seemed very quiet; whether it was siesta time, or just off season I don't 
know, but a lot of the stalls were shuttered.  Others displayed stacks of bobbins 
of silk in vibrant colours, stacked to the ceiling in the tiny rooms.  Inevitably we 
stopped in one of the shops, a government run co-op, where upstairs was an 
Alladin's cave of carpets, in all sizes and colours.  The sales pitch was fairly low-
key, carpets were spread on the floor, and the guy explained the different 
qualities and materials used in the different styles.  Again he emphasised how 
the finest carpets are made  by the youngest children.  Downstairs was a whole 
array of herbs, spices and curiosities, and a little talk about what each is used for.

The guide walked me to the new city, which stretches away round the beach, and 
when I said that I wanted to walk around on my own for a while, he warned me 
again, then let me go.  Only for him to send his brother after me to look after me.  
So we walked a while.  He spent most of the time talking about girls, and drank 
some very nice peppermint tea.  But he wasn't that effective at keeping away the 
hassles, I was forced, with quite a clear threat of violence, to buy some hashish at 
a very inflated price.

Back at the port there are a lot of men with official badges who 'help' you, ie, 
before you can say anything they take your ticket, give it in at the desk, then 
give you back your boarding card and demand a tip for the 'service'.  I had to 
explain how I'd been ripped off and didn't have anything to give them.  And 
while I was within the time limit for checking on to the 6.30 ferry, they'd already 
closed the booking, and I got a card for the 8pm.  I tried bluffing my way onto 
the 6.30, without success.  The 6.30 finally left at 10 to 8, as I was on the car deck 
of the 8pm ferry, asking each truck driver where he was going - -by the time the 
8pm ferry left (at 9, which is 10 Spanish time) there wasn't going to be any buses 
back to Gibraltar.

There was a group of 6 English lorry drivers, all planning on driving back in 
convoy because of the French truck drivers' blockade, but they were all staying 
in Algeciras to clear customs in the morning.  I joined them for dinner in the 
truck drivers' restaurant on the boat.  Their language was very colourful as they 
described the other drivers (not present) and the people they work for.  But two 
topics I found a bit iffy -- they get a lot of Moroccan stow aways trying to get to 
Europe, who often aren't in the best state when they've spent 3 or 4 days shut up 
in a container lorry with no food or water, or have ridden on the spare wheel for 
a day or so, or get thrown off the roof of the truck.  The other subject was 
accidents.  They all seemed to have had one or several and plenty of close 
shaves.  I always thought truck drivers to be good drivers, much preferable to 
Sunday drivers (and watching the drivers reverse the lorries onto the boat, I was 
impressed by their driving skills), but now I'm not so sure.

So finally I took a taxi back to Gibraltar, where I think that my host had waited 
up for me, which I feel guilty about.  Also Dad phoned, I think I've got the grant 
for next year, which means that I can start planning the next trip!  (South from 
San Francisco, and then coast to coast USA, starting early 1998.)


Thursday 28th November.

The trip home.  A quick trip on the cable car to the Top Of The Rock to see the 
tail-less monkeys (rock apes) and admire the view over to Morocco and back 
over to Spain, before loading up the bike for the last time for the short journey 
past the Christmas decorations on Main Street to the airport.  At check in they 
insisted that I fully deflate the tyres, but left the pedals and handlebars as they 
were.  Someone should teach these people some physics.  And after a boring 3 
hours to Gatwick, another long wait for the delayed Manchester flight -- the 
problem of relying on other people to transport you!

The trip back has confirmed my views on travel.  If the point of the trip is to 
arrive, go by the fastest means available.  If the point of the trip is the trip itself, 
go by bicycle.