Paradise!

I realise that I have been spoilt for hospitality. My Cartagena host, a young Mexican student called Pako was quite busy, so I was happy to pass the time before he finished at school, then cook us and his two housemates some food while he continued integrating radio frequency calculations. The housemates were Polish and German, and seemed more interested and offering of their Sangria. I really can't complain though, I just know I have been extremely spoilt. I got breakfast in a cafe, and got ready for a big day, 110 km and over 1200m climbing, west down the coast to Aguillas. I think it's too hard to describe the ride today but it was definately the most beautiful, traffic free yet gruelling rides so far. About 20km were on a rocky coastal track, and the finale was a 600m climb in the beautiful Cabo Cope y Puntas de Calnegre. I'll let the following photos do the talking...
I arrived at Aguillas, had a pizza and met up with Camille and Frederick, my hosts for tonight. French and US respectively, they were delightful company, but I was probably not the best of company as I was so exhausted. Fred told me about his complicated immigration situation, how he had remained in France after his marriage with a French woman had ended, and he had been deported from France after refusing an offer from the authorities. He was a perfect candidate for working for the government as a spy, apart from his political stance which meant now he was in Spain, teaching English on a tourist visa.

I left relatively early and realised my ride to Mojacar was tiny in comparison to yesterday´s, and with a strong tail wind I was there in no time. The sun was fierce today, and I was happy to go slowly in order to recuperate. The last leg however was a very steep hill into this ancient hill fort. The warren of whitewashed buildings have seen an occupation of many different tribes over it's long history. Greeks, Moors, Spanish and most recently English it seems. My host, David was born in Merseyside, but had never considered Britain his home, having raised a family in Denmark for the most part of his life. We went to a bar and did a very British pub quiz with some other English. Our team came second and we left. David was tired of this community and wanted to go on to Thailand for his next chapter.

We walked down the steep hill and after filling my bottles with warm spring water I said goodbye and got going again. I would break up my journey to Almeria and take David's advice to go and wild camp in Las Negras, where I may find some other young travellers. I warmed to this idea, since France I have felt a lot more alien to the locals and other more 'mature' holidaymakers, and I am sure this is not just due to my language barrier. The going was tough as the road worked its way through a desert landscape. David had told me it had been used for many spaghetti westerns as a fake Nevada or other US wilderness. Although not a long distance, the climbing was fierce today, and eventually I descended into Las Negras. I cased the joint for evidence of wild campers and younger, more alternative travellers but there was nothing, just a 6 euro site with designated pitches, entrance barrier and noise curfews- not my idea of camping, but an option if I found nothing else. Eventually I found a hippy and asked him of this spot I had imagined. Victor, a Czech guy told me it was not Las Negras but San Pedro, a mere 3km along the coast, but the only way was by boat or a very rocky track which he doubted I could ride the last part. It didn't put me off, and after buying some dinner I pushed up an extremely rocky track and cycled around the headland on a terrain most mountain bikes would have never graced. Victor was right about the last bit, carrying a 35kg bike over it was hard enough, but off in the distance I knew what I could see would make the whole chore worthwhile. It was like a paradise, a shanghri la. A small abandoned beach hamlet with a beautiful sandy beach. Cut off by the modern world with no tarmac connection, the sandstone structures were rebuilt using found materials. The odd tent was pitched in amongst a terrace of beautiful wild gardens, vibrant with herbs and flowers. I knew I was in a dilemma, I was going to be sucked into this place. Getting the bike back up the path was going to be a mammoth ordeal, yet I had come with no food and needed to remember my mission. I met a few Germans, one of whom had been here every winter for 7 years. He showed me the abuse the elements gave his tent, a couple of months of sunshine and the nylon disintegrated. We had a couple of beers in a makeshift bar an entrepreneurial Austrain ran, a tarpaulin over the terragce and some small warm cans for a euro each, then I went to sleep in my beautiful little pitch.

I packed up and carried the bike and the bags in two stages, I was exhausted having not even ridden anywhere yet. The 3km took close to an hour and I picked up a coffee, breakfast and lunch and got going. Yet more spaghetti western backdrop, and the route took me off tarmac and up a red earth track steeply up into the mountains. It was a route the GPS had chosen for me so I didn't know what to expect, but it was ideal. A hard climb up and then 40km of ever so slight descent through the plains of Nijar, populated by hectares upon hectares of tomato poly tunnels. This was my landscape for the day until the civilisation built up to Almeria. I am ready to change my lansdscape and culture now, and continue the last leg along the North coast of Morocco.

the beautiful hills

Marlene and I took the poorly wheel to a motocycle cum bicycle mechanics a few streets away. They took it from me and told me to return at 6pm. After buying some provisions Marlene left me at her flat and went to play Bridge for a few hours. As well as catching up on couch surf requests, I tried learning some spanish, motivated by my need to collect the wheel. The young guy who served us was not there when I returned, Marlene had warned me that the older guy was pretty grumpy and unhelpful. Sure enough my terrible attempt at asking if the wheel had been fixed went over his head, the only think I understood was no comprende. Luckily I saw the repaired wheel, so the international sign language of pointing to it and saying quanto did the trick. 12 euros later and the bike was back on form ready to depart tomorrow. We went to a bar and had some wine, then returned to sleep.

After a hearty breakfast, I said goodbye and got going. It was overcast, and I went inland to traverse the hilly headland, climbing slowly up the N332 to 200m.

The road snaked its way through enormous gorges with a railway line precariously following a contour around the cliffs. Up we went until we reached a plateau with the occasional evidence of civilisation dotted about on the barren landscape. I pressed on through Teulada and Benissa before descending a great long hill down to the high rise landscape of tourist ville. Back on the coast the weather was fine again, but beyond the sprawl of tourist shops, Mc Donalds and small businesses there was little to see. The road undulated past Calpe, Altea and eventually skirted around the famous Benidorm, a metropolis of high rise apartments resembling a hazy salmon and cream coloured Manhatten. There was no desire to explore it, and I went inland to get away from the package holiday madness. The road climbed steeply up the mountain side, the 250m climb was relentless in the heat but it was comforting to enter the tranquil beauty of the vast arid hills. I passed through Finestrat and turned down a closed road for 6 km, weaving its way up and over the hills until I found Rosalind's little bungalow up a dusty little track. What a place! Rosalind defined a content life of solitude. She had lived here for five years, the last two alone, and she was quite happy to exist alone on the hillside. She had solar electricity, rain water to wash and cook with and spring water to drink. I marvelled at the landscape in the afternoon sun, then she lit a fire and cooked me some pasta and chorizo. I listened intently as she talked about her rich life, her travels around the world, her year in South America discovering her amazonian roots, her four sons of two marriages and the stresses and strains of love and separation and the complicated arrangements of her grandchildren. We talked about Bristol where she lived for many years, about the role of today's men and women in family, and last but not least, football which she surprisingly loved. Rosalind was a truely inspirational woman.

I said goodbye and thankyou after porridge, and descended to Villajoyosa to return to my coastal journey. The sun was intense but it wasn't too hot, the going was cooled by a gentle breeze. I cycled through the hilly arid landscape and on to Alicante. As I passed the cacti and aloe shimmering in the sun, I cast my memory back to the piles of snow I had passed on the hills of Somerset, the icy blizzards of Niort and the strong winds of the Canal du Midi and how these thighs of mine had got me here. They are still going strong, stronger now and I have to admit I am quite amused by their shape. Not quite Belleville Rendezvous legs but not far off.

The traffic in Alicante was frantic, but I followed the route through the centre despite it being barricaded off from traffic. The empty dual carriageway took me to the seafront where enormous yachts were moored up and everybody was out parading the street. There was a cycling event and a load of cyclists out, BMXs, families and children, mountain bikers, glamorous girls on folding bikes, young guys on retro fixed gear bikes and then me, a lonesome lanky grubby guy on a heavily laden vintage steed having ridden 2200km. I chuckled to myself as I cruised past, nobody noticing. The traffic re joined me as I left Alicante and descended onto a great shimmering plain with another high rise resort. I stopped for a pizza and continued on past huge salt flats before climbing gently to La Marina, my destination. I met my hostess, Viviana at the very busy, luxurious and successful campsite she owned, and we walked to her beautiful house where her Spanish husband, Tony, family and friends were. Originally from Belgium, she had lived in Spain since the sixties and spoke five languages. The sheer luxury of the house, swimming pool, many cars, caravans and pool was an indication of the campsite's success. She showed me her ceramic studio where she created a huge variety of beautiful pieces, and after a conversing with her friends with her as the interpreter we had dinner, I planned a long leg of couch surfing, wrote this and went to bed. The following morning after beakfast, she took me to the campsite shop where she insisted on filling a bag of goodies for lunch. I said goodbye, and as I cycled along I thought about the contrast of my two last hostesses. Both were so kind, yet there was something about the generous hospitality of a person who had made such a successful business out of hosting that gave me goosepimples. I felt very honoured to receive such an exclusive treatment from the Deckx family.

The journey today was another very sunny one, on past more tourist landscape and over a gently undulating terrain. The road was being widened, so I had a lane all to myself as it was closed off but more or less complete. 10km on and the two carriageways became busy with traffic and I was ushered onto a cycle lane. It didn't take long for the gratitude to turn into frustration as it was about the most stupid cycle lane I had ridden on. Navigating in and out of junctions with sharp corners and street signs in the way, down and up hills to roundabouts instead of straight on the road, and negotiating big kerbs made this path more dangerous than the road. So I got back on the N334 and pressed on to San Javier.

I then left the busy road and took an F road straight past more farmland. It was populated by lettuces and irrigated with black pipes, the occasional hut and run down house. I stopped for a coffee in a very one-horse bar and got the cheapest cafe con leche so far. The big hooped earrings and dubious mullets and dark skin of the clientelle made me suspect that this was a land of immigrant farm workers. I pressed on, and the last 30km was hard going with a steady headwind. Eventually I got into Cartagena where I am now, killing another few hours before my host Pako finishes studying at 8.30.

slow progress

Valencia is great. Kyle and Ana are great. What was meant to be a day´s rest turned out to be four. The first night I arrived we went to a couch surf party where Kyle did some projections. The theme was supposed to be Indian, though one would never guess. It was the most international gathering I have been to, I met French, German, Spanish, Estonian, Canadian, Romanian, US and Hungarian people, and then gave up meeting any more when the flat filled. It was very confusing knowing which language to try and speak, though I was happy to chat away in French with Julie, a young french girl studying furniture restoration. We drank lots of rum and coke and ate a buffet of food broght along by everybody, then at midnight the crowd was ushered out and we helped clear up. Kyle poured some more drink when we got back, but my 400km in four days made me quite dizzy and incoherent.
So the next few days were spent hanging out, seeing the city and meeting up with Julie and her German friend Anna, watching really budget zombie films and talking VJ. We go and see (or should I say hear) the mascleta, a daily explosion of fireworks for five minutes in the main square. It is all part of the Falles, a Valencian celebration of St Joseph in which enormous paper and wood puppets are burnt in the streets. They represent satirical topics of the moment, people unfortunate enough to be chosen are characatured in colossal inflammable structures up to five stories high. It is a pity not to see the main party next week where everybody from children to grandparents are out throwing bangers, processions work their way around the streets and the city is alive with noise. I pity the poor startled animals who must think there is a war going on. I confess that my time here was a major distraction to my mission and made me feel a bit transient, it made me warm to the idea of learning Spanish and spending some time here, but not just yet. First things first, some more pedalling to do.
So on Thursday I get back on the road, legs feeling recuperated. The weather is cool and sunny but there is a headwind. Out of Valencia I realise I must not take the souhwesterly direct route I had made, but detour out to the headland in a southeasterly direction. The GPS chose a route shaped like a question mark, 150km in all, so I predicted if I keep going straight along the coast it´ll be 100km. It's a steady flat ride past a the Albufera lake where rice is grown, and then on along the coast past the beautiful blue haze of some impressive hills to the right. The foreground of orange crops, mile after mile has now become repetitive like the vineyards of France, it becomes apparent what a massive industry oranges are here. I stop to pick up a stray one on the road and it is perfect. I press on past Gandia, only stopping at a supermarket where I stop for lunch. I'm right about the straight line, my concern was whether or not I would have to negotiate a headland with winding hilly roads or face a massive detour. But 100km and a headwind was still a hard day and the sun was setting as I reached Denia. Built around a castle up on a big rock, Denia appeared to be a classy tourist town, inhabited by many retired English and Germans. My host, Marlene was one, having moved here after devorcing back in North Germany. The children were grown up and she had chosen a new life in a sunny climate, with plenty of likeminded friends to make. She entertains herself walking in the mountains, playing Bridge and learning Spanish. After squeezing the old bike and luggage in the lift and showering, I sit down with some wine and some spaghetti bolognaise and we chat away. It is apparent that the previous evening, Marlene hosted her first couch surfer and did not have a good experience. The guy had made her uncomfortable and when she asked him to leave he had refused to. Only when the police had been mentioned did he leave but he stole her spare sim card, lent to him out of goodwill. It is a shame how much of a dent on one's confidence of trust one individual can make to hosts, Svetlana had mentioned she thought that Couchsurfing had grown too big for its own good. Still, Marlene was very pragmatic about it, the fact that his profile had existed for 2 years but nobody had witten a good reference is enough to be suspicious for the next time. Hopefully Gerhard will find it very hard to find a host again with his new negative reference.
I woke up today ready to press on with a fairly hilly 73km to Villajoyosa. However, after fixing the puncture I got at the end of yesterday I noticed that the back axle had broken. I knew I should have bought a new wheel in Bordeaux! We went to a scooter\bike mechanic who said to return at 6pm, so alas I am stuck here for another day. Slow progress recently.

pressing on

The weather changes quite a bit here. I realised in Barcelona that I had caught the sun from the previous two days´riding, yet when I woke up it was deadful outside. I guess most people would consider sampling the delights of Barcelona's culture, Picasso or Gaudi for example. But I had been in Spain for a week and looking at the progress so far made me want to press on. I've got a mission to do. Besides, the force 7 wind was in the direction I wanted to go, and the waterproof gear I had bought at great expense had to be put to good use. So, despite not getting a response from any potential hosts I said my goodbyes and got going. Getting out of town seemed to take forever as the traffic lights on each block of the city´s huge grid layout turned red as I approached. The road eventually got wider as I travelled inland and around the airport, and to my horror the GPS had guided me towards a motorway. Reprogramming it sent me all over the suburbs, so I used good old fashioned compass to work my way south through street after street of suburbia. The whole way along the roads were crammed with traffic, but eventually 20km later I was coastal again. I stopped for an early lunch, a 3 course menu to set me going, and got back on the damp saddle feeling ready. The weather forecast had got the torrential rain bit right but not the wind direction. The coastal C31 road became hilly and contoured as it curved around the rocky hills, and the traffic was very heavy with trucks and cars avoiding the toll of the motorway. I am glad I brought a high vis waistcoat with the conditions like these, especially at the speed I was crawling up the gradients at. Every half hour would see a new bay with the repeated views of 4 or 5 story apartments and hotels, all of which were still boarded up for winter. Past cement works, golf courses, marinas and nondescript wastelands I pressed on, still with the rain pouring down. The water was cascading down the cliffs and spraying out from behind the many vast trucks passing me. I was missing the tranquility of the French roads as well as missing the ability to listen to my mp3 player. Not only was it a pretty bad idea on these roads, but it's a 30 euro fine in Spain.

As the hills moved off inland, the roads became more and more inundated. Every now and again I would be sprayed by an oncoming car, but not only was I damp I was also getting tired and the litlle daylight I had was fading. I started looking out for a place to stay by the time I had reached Torredembarra, but I realised that beggars couldn't be choosers, and what with such poor choice being a ghost town I crossed my fingers for a good modest hotel. My luck was with me when I found La Torreta, a two star place with all you can eat evening buffet and breakfast for 46 euros. Its amazing how revitalising lots of food and a hot shower can be. I strolled to the village to find the internet didn't work, so I phoned a few friends to ask if they could search for tomorrow's host online, watched some boring BBC and fell asleep.
The following day the weather was quite pleasant. After stuffing myself for breakfast I got going. The progrees was good, though my thighs were aching. I reached Tarragona quickly and got online to book tomorrow's host. My host for tonight had replied, but my destination was a long one Amposta- 105km to do. With the wind properly behind me and a fairly flat terrain I was optimistic. I climbed out of the city past a vast port and even larger industrial plants. The N340 was yet more unpleasant riding, with as many HGVs as cars, and although I had a 2m wide hard shoulder it was not very forgiving for cycling. I didn't stop until I realised I could do with some sun cream, so stopped at an expensive resort supermarket to buy some, along with some DIY lunch. The scenery was pretty repetitive, although now there were more agricultural plots with oranges and pink blossomed trees. It was beautiful. The traffic was still relentless, so I took a slightly rougher little track running parallel for quite a way. I tried my best to work out routes avoiding the main road but these just proved too slow and I still had a way to go. Eventually I saw the peninsula of the Parc Naturel del Delta de l'Ebre. I imagined it to be a good place to explore, but not now- mission to do. Since being in Spain I have had some generally much nicer weather and some fantastic hosts, but my lack of language has made it lonely in the day. Fewer people seem to have the curiosity the french had, and even if they do ask me something as one guy on a motobike did, the conversation doesn't last long. I find Daniel's street and get a burger in a cafe beforehand. Daniel is the first host who I've not had a glimpse of on the internet, so I have an unusual anticipation when he opens the door. He is in his late fifties though he looks much younger, and despite his English being good he has an initially cold manner. This soon disappears after I have had a shower and he finishes on the laptop, we talk as he cooks boiled vegetables and omelete. He lives with a younger Pakistani guy (away), having separated from his wife five years earlier. He tells me of the injustice of the Catalan law, where he no longer has the right to his house. Whoever has custody of the child, usually the mother as in his case, keeps the house in order for the child not to be traumatised by the break up. In some ways there is sense in this (certainly for the child), but it can be very unjust for whoever does not have custody. Still, he doesn't have long before his son is old enough to leave home and study when he can have the right back to his house. We talk about travel, Morocco and living abroad, ties and freedom. He gives me a lot to think about on my way, and he writes down a sequence of villages to pass if I want to go inland and avoid the big trucks. It is very tempting, but is a massive amount of hill climbing and has little couch surfing opportunities.
I get up early and leave the same time as Daniel. The good bye is dashed as he is late for school. Yet another inspiring, kind human. So valuable for me in this alien land! I think of Ellen MacArthur sailing around the world alone, how mentally strong she would be to endure months of total solitude, not even a landscape to look at. Hats off to her. At least I have people like Daniel to help me along the way.
I get more of a breakfast at a proper trucker's stop, well doughnuts at least. It's back on the saddle for another 100km to Benicasim, but the wind is really on my tail and quite strong. I keep a steady 20mph and watch the road ease along on the GPS screen. The N340 leads me inland, past forgotten hotels and cafes, dirty apartments and massive swathes of orange crops. I am now not far from Valencia. I make brilliant progress, half way by noon and I celebrate by pigging out at a huge Carrefour supermarket. This store really sells everything, though I really only need protein, carbohydrate, a bit of fat, salt and fruit. I am quite disturbed to see a very vexed looking puppy for sale in the pet corner, it really does sell everything. I took Daniel's advice and took a bit of a detour to see Pentiscola, but I didn't really find it that interesting. The urge to ride was so strong I was in danger of being an anti tourist and not up for seeing what Spain was selling. So back on to the busy vein of the N340 and a I had a bit of a mountain to climb. The gradient was fairly forgiving but the climb seemed to last forever. I think the sheer weight of the bike is a blessing and a curse on these hills, the turbulence of the lorries hurtling past being less dangerous with the heavy load, but the obvious extra effort needed to lift it wasn't fun. The road became flat at about 200 meters altitude and took us through a barren valley with rocky peaks either side. Then after 15 km I was happy to see the bay view ahead and a steady long descent. Now I had no hard shoulder, so I just prayed no eager trucker would try his luck overtaking as the road swept downhill. It was another hour along the flat, whistling along with the strong wind before another unpleasant climb and a big steep descent into Benicasim. I cycled block after block in search of an internet place in this ghost town before realising the locals lived inland a bit. I found the library and whiled away a couple of hours writing this and then went and found my hostess, Svetlana when she finished work. From Volgograd, Russia, Svetlana has been living in Spain for 5 years. Another divorcee, she lives alone with her cat in a very pleasant house and works in the neighboring Castellon as an advocate. She had explained that she was going to be busy packing for snowboarding, so I offered to cook. It wasn't really until eating together that we could talk and unwind, and I was happy to experience yet another amicable interesting and interested host. She made a flan for dessert, a kind of thick set custard and lime caramel, and then after a bit more chatting we said good night. I woke and made us some coffee, then after a massive plate of scrambled eggs we went our separate ways.

The wind was stronger still and in my direction, so I was flying along with little effort. I took the coastal cycle path past Castillon and into Burriana where I stopped for coffee. I was invited to sit with two lycra clad mountain bikers drinking beer at noon. This was truely my first Spanish conversation, well a mixture of Spanish and English as we all had about the same rubbish level! Davide and Juan were so animated and awe inspired that I'd ridden all this way and paid my bill. I got a great send off from the bar staff and these two guys which lifted my spirits no end. From Burriana I followed the coast past waves crashing on the boulders, occasionally splashing over the road. I cycled past rusty industry and endless holiday developments. Daniel had told me about the recession halting some of the new developments along this stretch, and it seemed apparent. I could not imagine how many EasyJet planes would be needed to fill the amount of accommodation I passed. On and on I flew, going inland to Sagunto to avoid a port, with yet more industry sprawling across the flat landscape. I followed a stretch of coastal road on the gps but it was so close to the pounding waves that it had been eaten away by nature and blocked off. It was fun to go down it anyway. By the afternoon, the built up areas became more and more joined as I came into Valencia. I found the way to Kyle and Anna's flat through a maze of narrow streets in the old centre. Straight away I got a good impression of this city, stylish but not too trendy, varied but not too vast and with lots going on but with a laid back atmosphere. Although a couch surfer, I knew Kyle from the video jockey community and he had invited me to stay a while ago after generously donating to my cause. He was so happy to see me finally arrive all this way and I felt so priveliged to have such a hero's welcome. He showed me around his studio and flat, then gave me a chance to catch up on writing this. Tonight we will go to a couch surf party and I will tell you all about it in the next entry.

Down to Barcelona

Like I suspected, I did not get up at the crack of dawn and cycle on. I took Kike's offer of another day as I was enjoying his company and still felt quite exhausted and slightly hung over. We had a leisurely start to the day and I went and bought some lunch, I was hungry so I went and got lots of tapas style nibbles, remembering not to buy eggs as they were abundant back home. I appreciated another day of doing very little, writing the last blog, reading and hanging out with Kike. I was amused to see him watching his hen coop pensively, and my guess about what he was thinking was right as he watched the cockerel scornfully. Since getting him he has had no luck with any of his hens incubating their eggs, and the cockerel reciprocates the scornful look at him, attacking him when he goes to feed them. He's given the rooster an unlimatum, no fertilisation by April and he will be Sunday roast. Time passed swiftly and after another filling pasta I was feeling recharged and ready for another day. We got woken very early by the cockerel's call and I imagined Kike was thinking what sauce to cook him in. I said my goodbyes and thank yous and got on my bike, with a route planned to go inland and miss out the next 20km of coast as it was very up and down and twisting and turning, though it looked longer on the map the main road inland was less distance and climb. The weather was glorious with little wind, and I climbed gently up out of St Feliu and cruised downhill to the inland junction, only to find it was a busy dual carriageway and cycles weren't permitted. With no means of cutting across to the coast I had to trek back to my starting point with ten unnecessary kilometers on my clock. I found the coastal road, and despite crawling up a lengthy hill I began to realise this way was going to be much more worthwhile, with the beautiful coastal views and next to no traffic I was glad to have been made to go this route. The first ten kilometers were uninhabited, the road snaked its way around the contours of the steep wooded hillside, carving a line of red earth in and out of the bays. It was bliss, the smooth tarmac and no traffic meant the downhills could be taken with a wide racing line, and the uphills were taken at walking pace while admiring the stunning scenery. Gradually modular cubes poked out of the vegetation, little holiday resorts terraced into the bays like honeycomb, all of which were almost empty. The bays got bigger and more developed, and after Tossa de Mar The road became busier, finally mounting one last big hill where the long straight flat beaches of the Brava could be seen vanishing into the blue haze of the horizon. By now the wind had picked up, and to my annoyance it was directly oncoming. I had to pedal to descend the last hill into Lloret de Mar, a considerably sized holiday town and my first experience of proper Spanish seaside tack. Mc Donalds, casinos, full english breakfasts and R&B all day all nite lined the big streets, couples and groups of girls I could tell straight away were English. Still I was hungry so stopped at the most local looking place with the provision of having the bike close by. Ok I failed on this one, I got a kebab.

Back en route and the going was really tough with the headwind. I got off the main road and went coastal again, down past repeated views of high rise hotels and apartments, fancy little plazas and tightly packed caravan parks. I thought to myself how different humans can be, how little this environment appealed to me as a holiday destination.
Eventually my tired old legs got me into Calella, I knew my host Yam was at work so I passed the time calling people and reading. He said he finished at 6, but then that became 8pm so I killed some more time and got some food. Yam came and met me, a Cuban chap with a mischievous smile. We went up to his apartment and about five minutes after meeting me he left me with keys and his little laptop saying he's off out for a couple of hours. Throughout the trip I've been awe inspired by the level of trust people have in me, but Yam takes it to a new level. I shower in his marble lined flat, not too dissimilar to Joaquim's. Yam works on computers, but is also really creative, making music, photography and video. Three and a half hours later the elusive host returns and I buy him a Guinness at the Irish bar below his flat. Here he is obviously a local, the barman treats us all to a shot of Jagermeister and we talk about Ireland as Yam drools at the young (and I mean young) Italian girls. I like Yam, he's funny.
In the morning we have a Cuban breakfast of Papaya, hot chocolate and eggs and yet again he leaves me to let myself out. I did 80km yesterday, so the 50 to Barcelona mean I don't feel the need to start too early. Besides, yet again I feel a bit rough.
Still I get on my bike and am pleased to see the wind has reversed. Once the legs are warmed up, the gently undulating road passes by at a super pace, little effort uphills and racing down them. The road is busy though, and every now and again I try and take a path between the beach and railway. Sometimes this proves to be a chore, with a dead end or road closure and a bit of a detour back. One time I carry the bike down a subway onto the ststion platform, only to find I can't exit without a ticket.
The landscape is a busy one but residential and industrial rather than touristic. The traffic feeds off to the motorway leaving me more relaxed as I take in the views. Gradually the hinterland of industry grows and the pillars of the metropolis can be seen on the horizon. Before long I'm on the outskirts, a monstrous beast of a power station marks the end of functional ugliness and the beginning of sleek creative architecture, big tower blocks and apartments glistening in the sun. I'm confronted by endless grids of traffic lights, all seeming to go red on approach. I go right into the centre and then pass the time for my host to finish work, wandering through the streets amidst the hoards of guided tours and young couples wandering about. I go to find Rupert and Bettina's flat near the central station. They are the first people I know from beforehand since day 1, so it is refreshing to have some familiarity at last.