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.
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.
