Baix Empordia has a fabulous network of cycle paths.  Our cycling plan for the day was to ride from L’Estartit to Flaca.  But which way?  There was a patchwork quilt of cycle paths on offer.  We chose the northern route taking in Jafre and Colomeres, but only because I had some vague memory that Eric Blair (AKA George Orwell) fought there during the Spanish Civil War.  And since we have forgotten to Google whether my memory serves me correctly I will continue under that preconception (ie – “in my mind”).

In any event, we cycled through some beautiful country, starting our ride at the estuary of El Ter.  The cycle paths were gravelly and potholed which slowed us up a little.  A cyclist usually impels two wheels however with our trailers we are pushing and pulling four wheels.  When the path is rough we feel the drag of our bikes and the weight on our trailers.  Add in a headwind and the going gets slow.

Despite these impediments, we made good time and lunched in a field with a view of the snow capped Pyrenees.    Jafre proved confusing and not just because I was trying to work out whether it was the setting for “Homage to Catalonia”.  We eventually worked our way out of the town and onto the next path to Foixa only to be told by a truck driver that there was no way through.  Thankfully we thanked him and ignored him and rode over a dam of the upper reaches of El Ter.  Immediately after the dam we encountered our first section of single trail (AKA goat track).  We found ourselves in a forest on the lower slopes of some hills. 

After taking an uphill gap between two hills on an unpaved trail to Foixa the roads became paved and turned ever upwards.   Cassy bagged her second hill of the trip with only a few swear words.   I think there were more swear words on the downhill afterwards when she proudly reached her new maximum speed of 38 kilometres an hour.  I know.

We arrived at Flaca train station and bought two tickets to Cerbere, the first train station in France.  We were both excited to be arriving in a new country.  

With our bikes, we are travelling with eight pieces of luggage.   2 bikes, 2 bike trailers, a pannier, a backpack, a handlebar pack and a rack pack.   The backpack usually travels on one of the trailers.   We had a cunning plan to negotiate storming the train.  Tie a pannier to one of the trailers.  Leave the rackpack on one bike and wrap the handlebar pack around my shoulders.   Cassy was convinced the cunning plan would be perfected by the train lingering at the station due to the fact that it was travelling across the border and for more than one hour.

 The train arrived.  I threw a bike on the train.  Cassy wrestled her bike on as well, negotiating the significant gap between the train and the platform.  I returned momentarily to the platform to grab our trailers.  When I turned, the doors were closed and the train was leaving the station.  I was so close to the train that Cassy could see the wrinkles of disgust on my face as the train left without me.

As the train hurtled out of the station towards France I realised Cassy had no money, no phone, no passport and (in my mind) no wits to negotiate herself out of the situation.  There was nothing for me to do but return to the station waiting room and continue reading Sack’s latest book “In the Mind’s Eye”.  Which is a fabulous read.

...

As the doors closed in Jamie’s face, his expression was priceless. Fury and disbelief, mixed with furious disbelief. I was surprised as it was all very sudden, but fighting hysterical laughter. I tried to convey in my expression to him through the windows “What should I do?”  I am not sure if I managed this as I was simultaneously trying to balance both the bikes, make sure the very old man ‘helping’ me load the bikes did not overexert himself and also wrangle the doors open or find a button to open the doors/stop the train. I did not succeed at anything, and we sped off for France leaving JB and luggage on the platform. I turned around to a carriage full of amused passengers. A few people were looking away, out of politeness I think, but five or so young men were craning backwards out of their seats, staring at me and the very precarious bikes. I think they wanted to see me cry. I needed a moment to compose myself and so I just hovered around the bikes and tried to conjure up a plan while attempting to look cool in front of the young Spanish guys.

I managed to wrangle a train timetable from a departing German tourist, but didn’t look at it before impulsively deciding that to proceed to France as planned would be best. I then sat quietly for a few minutes to contemplate things (while the onlooking passengers continued to check if I was crying or if the bikes had toppled). Then I realised (as my brain started to work rationally) that I would need to inform JB of the plan. I started hunting for a phone to borrow and found a few, but couldn’t get reception. Minutes and stations were passing. Then I finally realised I had no money, no ID, no luggage and no passport. I didn’t know if there more trains to France that night or even if I needed a passport for France. Then I realised I had no train ticket from Cerbere to Perpignan anyway. And no ticket for the train I was currently riding to Cerbere. At that moment the conductor appeared and started checking tickets. For some reason (“in my mind”) I decided he looked like he would speak English, and so I waited hopefully as he cruised down the train towards me.

Of course the conductor spoke no English.  After minutes of awkward sign language (me pointing at both bikes and indicating I was far too short for Jamie’s and could only ride one at one time) we knew the game was over. I found an English looking face and by some stroke of ridiculous luck discovered a young Englishman who spoke perfect Spanish. For some time, he translated between myself and the conductor.  I could tell the conductor thought I was the stupidest human alive, but he was very nice about things. The best plan for me was to disembark at Figueres (about 5 stations from Flaca, where we started) where Jamie could come and meet me shortly. No more trains to France tonight. I wrangled the bikes off the train at Figueres (with the help of the Englishman, and a Spaniard at the station) and managed to call Jamie from the Englishman’s phone. The new plan was hatched, I finally managed to read the train timetable and work out when Jamie would arrive, and so we were now to be in Figueres for the evening. The bikes and I waited on the platform, and all was well.

...

Half an hour later, the phone rang and interrupted my quiet reading time.  Miraculously it was Cassy AND she was safe.  Fortunately she had finished the Sack’s book before me and was obviously coping on borrowed intellect.   She had decided to get off the train before France (smart for a lady without a passport or ticket).  I bought a ticket to Figueres and met her at the station.  Oh how we laughed.

So we stayed overnight in Figueres.  And when we woke up the next morning we realised a couple of things.   We had been cycling for 8 days straight and had covered nearly 300 kms.  Time for a proper rest day.  And we had made a very surreal entry to the home of Salvador Dali.  We decided to stay the day and visit the Teatre Museu Dali - which was fabulous and interesting and ... well... surreal.

After the museum we found what looked like a dodgy restaurant called “Los Angeles”.  But really it was a fabulous place serving fresh and authentic Catalan fare.  We ate well. And then we needed time to email and google so we found ourselves in a wifi bar drinking sherry and spirits.  And now we are at home in our little “pensione” eating cheese, tomato and avocado sandwiches with Cassy’s best friend - Pedro Ximinez.  And blogging.  Good times.

 

We reluctantly departed our beautiful campsite about 10am, post obligatory morning coffee (with a view). We headed for l'Estartit - on the coast about 50klms from the French border and 50klms from our Palamos camp. The riding conditions of the day were mostly lovely - although it always takes us quite a while to navigate our way out of the town and onto the bike path/correct path. Lots of hit and miss. Jamie reminded me to quote his brothers to him when his map preoccupation is out of control "Stay on the f-ing path". I used this once, but then it blew up in my face a bit after we apparently headed some way in the wrong direction. 

Today's 50klm ride took us inland from Palamos to Palafrugrell and into a green field with a view of an ancient castle on a hill where we lunched on bread, octupus, tuna, salad and, of course, cheeses. We continued on through the delightful medieval village of Pals - which is all narrow winding cobbled roads, high walls, stone houses and charming flower pots: http://www.travelblog.org/Europe/Spain/Catalonia/Pals/blog-4845.html (why should I re-describe it?).

We plodded on, past St Julia and Gualta and after a slight unplanned detour (lost again) we slid into l'Estartit at about 5pm. By this stage I was flagging as I hadn't slept much and my legs, although not sore for the first time since we started cycling, were randomly refusing to peddle as fast as I wanted them to. Cycling sleepy is tricky as I found I was even more prone to riding in front of cars etc. Cycling hungover is the worst though - the first painful 20 minutes of adjustment is extended to over an hour...this really sucks. But, the wine is so good. The price you pay.

l'Estartit is a very sleepy village at the moment - beautiful coastal setting with craggy rocks and small islands just off the coast, but in serious disrepair. Coming into town we cycled for about a klm over a crumbling stone esplanade, filled with massive pot holes, loose rocks and gaps in the paving. Rattly. The village is also in disrepair - as it's not peak season, much is closed and there are workmen repairing some of the hotels/restaurants for the tourist season ahead. The town is pretty much empty, except for a few disgruntled looking (mostly German) tourists wandering aimlessly around. It took us some time to find accommodation, and we ended up hotelling it - nice beds and hot showers proved too tempting! With our bikes safely tucked away in a storeroom, we cleaned ourselves up and ventured out for feeding time. Mmmmmm more stuffed mussels and cod croquettes to start, and grilled squid for my main - Jamie opted for gratinated monkfish (Rape a la plancha gratinee) which came with gratinated potatoes - double cheesy joy! The food was delish, and we smashed down a 375ml local cava (spanish bubbly) and then a bottle of spanish musactel sauvignon blanc blend. Good times!

We're averaging (sort of ) about 50klms daily on the bikes now, and both of our bodies are starting to adjust I think. We've also re-packed our bike trailers into 'daily' and 'camp/storage' (rather than having a trailer each and sharing the camp stuff) and it's working out much better, except for the losses (sleeping bag and now Jamie's bike gear bag...oops). We have a little equilibrium going at the camp sites and just cruise through our errands as we set up/disassemble our camp site. So, all is well. Cycling a beautiful way to see Europe (probably anywhere with safe cycle routes) as you feel much more a part of the country, and get to see the tiny towns and villages and the countryside in much closer detail than you would otherwise. We get to ride between the people as they go about their daily routines, and see and smell everything close up...the hot foods, the coffee, the baking pastries and breads and the forrests smell very good...the field animals, the meat plants and the fertiliser smell very bad.

Random Daily Stats

JB falls: x 1 - amusing tangle with trailer and bike wheels while feet still in cleats. Went down in a flurry of long limbs, minor scrapes to ankle, hip and elbow. Much laughing by spectator (me).

CE falls: x 1 - dismouned bike as stopping, but unfortunatley tried to dismount over newly installed safety flag. Flag ends up wedged between legs and into face, bike is going down, all balance lost - sideways spill onto cobblestones with bike. No injuries. Much laughter JB. I also rolled my trailer today and got both feet drenched as we stupidly tried to ride up a path that had become a river.

Recipe of the region - Catalan Pa Amb Tomarquet (bread and tomatoes)

Need: Good artisan bread, garlic cloves, full flavoured sweet organic tomatoes, spanish olive oil. Other stuff.

Get the best and freshest rustic bread you can find, and toast lightly. Cut a garlic clove in half and rub it all over the bread. Cut the tomates in half lengthwise and squeeze out some juice, seeds. Rub (smash) the tomato over the bread. Drizzle with olive oil and season with sea salt/ground pepper if you want.

This simple dish I'd never have thought of is FANTASTIC! Can be eaten with anchovies, jamon (for you carnies), manchego or other cheeses or grilled vegetables....mmmmmmmm.

“In my mind” is a phrase Cassy and I use to describe that preconception one has about how one wants things to be.  “In my mind”, Cassy says, “the restaurant will have a cheese platter on the dessert menu.”   “In my mind”, I say, “ Barcelona will be playing Real Madrid tomorrow”.  Things appear “in my mind” because I want them to be that way.

In my mind, our trip would be filled with days where we wake up with a slight hangover from a meal at a Michelin Star restaurant.   We pack our gear and start pedalling along dedicated bicycle paths through the rolling hills of the canola field dotted country side.  Soon enough we are in a river valley and the trail turns downwards towards the sea.  We stop for a drink at a lovely village with a castle on top of the hill and then ride on down the valley.  We lunch at another village with a castle where the waiter gives us free drinks after messing up our order.  Then we continue on until we are riding along the sea on a beachside promenade for the last few kilometres of our ride.  We find an information map which points out the nearest camping ground.  We arrive and are offered our pick of sites in the otherwise empty camping ground.  We choose the one nearest the ocean with a view across a rocky cove filled with whitewashed houses to the Mediterranean Sea.  Cassy cooks a fabulous pasta whilst we drink local red wine from cans generously donated by the campsite shopkeeper. 

Today was that day.

Dinner the night before was at Massana in Girona.  The ride was from Girona to Palamos, around 55 kilometres.  There were dedicated paths almost the entire way, most of them hard packed gravelly sand.  The country side melted away under our wheels.   We had a diet coke at Llagostera and lunch at Castel d’Aro.  The waiter did forget our drinks and we did get them for free, along with a feisty seafood soup, gratinated mussels with aioli and delicious peppers stuffed with prawns and mushrooms all of which we were happy to pay for.  The Palamos promenade is beautiful stripes of terracotta tiles and cream which curve around a sand filled bay.  The site of the beach was a salve for our souls as our legs were a little sore by the time we reached it.  And the campsite – well you can judge from the photo.  It is completely empty and the only sound I can hear is the waves crashing against the shore.  And the campsite shopkeeper did give us free out of code CANS of local red wine which tasted the same way all free drinks do.

Just so that you don’t feel too jealous here are the bad things that happened to us today.  We were a little hungover when we started riding.   We ate lunch separately – Cassy’s meal arrived along with a meal I didn’t order.    By the time my meal arrived she had mostly finished.   I had finished my meal by the time the drinks arrived.   We struggled with directions on the bike route once we turned off the trail from Girona to Sant Felius de Guixols and ended up riding on the main road.  And then we became slightly lost looking for the campsite which resulted in us having to negotiate a categorised climb - with our trailers.   There was also a headwind most of the way and we smelt regular whiffs of cow poo and meat processing facilities. And when we arrived at camp we realised we had lost one of the sleeping bags; probably left in the hotel room the night before.

But on a day like this with 55 kilometres of great riding with so many rewards – who cares!

Tossa del Mar is a gorgeous little beachside village.  In fact, most of the towns here fit that description although we are visiting them in off season and suspect they may be a little crazy during peak season.  There is a gorgeous medieval section of the village which is still inhabited and we wandered through the walled area before finding a little restaurant for dinner.  After dinner we walked back to our hostel past some Roman ruins. 

The plan was to ride from Tossa del Mar to Palamos.  The ride would be 23 kms of hills and then 21 kms of beachside riding.  We packed up, saddled up and then hit the roads towards the first hill.  We became a little nervous when we pedalled towards the first bend and there was no sealed shoulder.  And then we turned the corner to find another stage of the Rally Costa Brava.  

The same rally that had plagued Cassy the day before when she ignored two angry policeman and one insistent cyclist to ride straight into a timed section of the rally was back to haunt us.  We watched them for a while setting off on their stage on the roads that we had planned to cycle.  And then we watched the crazy drivers coming in the other direction.  Having passed the rally drivers they had decided it would be a fine time to emulate them and they were screaming down the hill.  We had seen enough.  We rode back into town and bought bus tickets to Loretta del Mar and then continued on another bus to Girona.

Once in Girona, we decided that as a reward for having a rest day we should treat ourselves to dinner at a fancy restaurant.  I chose Massana and we headed out at 7.30 to see if we could score a table.  It was closed so we scoped out a few more restaurants and realised we were too early for dinner on a Saturday night.   There was nothing for it but to join the throngs of locals walking along the roads heading towards the river to the central square.  We had a glass of wine in a bar overlooking the river and then headed back to Massana to bag our first Michelin Star.