A Sandwich—Day 26 of Bicycling Through Morocco and Spain (and England)

I was going to tell you about all the struggles of the day. How I woke in the dark to rain, and lay there feeling at first annoyed and then guilty for feeling that way, because this region is having such a terrible drought. They say the trees will die in two to three years here if the pattern doesn’t change. Then there was a lull in the shower, so I got out of my sleeping bag and took down my tent in the predawn darkness, hurrying before it started again. I really hate taking down a tent in the rain.

I was going to tell you how, it was so early that I forwent my café con leche because the restaurants weren’t open yet, thinking I would get some in the next town, and in my bleary eyed state, I kicked my chain off and didn’t fasten my panniers correctly, so they bounced off and hit the ground behind me. I stopped suddenly and got a spiked pedal in the ankle—the worst.

Once I got going for real, I got lost and ended up climbing a huge head wall for over a mile along the coast for no good reason, my rain pants pulling against the upward motion of my knees in a very inflexible, unhelpful manner. When I realized my mistake and coasted back down, I took another wrong turn and ended up on a beach with very soft sand. I trudged through it, pushing my heavily laden bicycle that was trying its best to bury itself. I refused to turn around again, sure that eventually it would work out. I came to a rocky gully. It wasn’t pretty, there may have been some cursing, but it did work out.

I missed home, I was tired and it was hard to see the beauty.

But, I am not going to tell you that. Because, eventually I did come to a small town with café con leches and I had two, and a chocolate croissant. It stopped raining and the wind came up, and it was at my back. I eventually turned on to the right gravel road, full of foreboding, and then found myself climbing and coasting for 18 miles all by myself in a park called Parc Natural de la Serra D’irta. No houses, no cars, just the wild Mediterranean crashing up against red coastal rocks, deep green pines and the sound of beach stones rumbling and rattling in the surf. I didn’t know there were still places like this.

Then I came to a castle. The Castillo de Peniscola. It sits atop a rocky knoll that sticks out into the sea. It was built by the Knights of Templar in the 1200’s and was the last refuge of Pope Benedict XIII. Its towering walls seem to rise up right out of the water. I pedaled to the top and I went inside. I breathed in that history. It put some things in perspective.

I finished my day 20 miles later at a fairly awful RV park and it is raining again. There is a carnival in town tonight and the music starts at 11:30. I have been warned that sleeping will be a challenge. Everyone I see is wearing tutus—not sure why. This must be a bad luck/good luck sandwich and I have to say, I find it delicious.

By the way—my blog no longer lets me see comments or lets me see if people are reading this, but I am just going to keep going.