One man, a tent and a bike: part 8
Onwards through Spain and my journey is starting to come to an end. I began to question myself and how this whole adventure might turn out. Read on for more.
The snow covered peaks of the Pyrenees where bathed in red as I began my ride early on Saturday morning. I started by fighting my way up the foothills and after 3 hours of lonely climbing, busses full of tourists filled the streets on their way to the shops located on the Spanish border. I quickly braked as I realized I needed to take the obligatory boarder pic before my ride continued.
The first few kilometres in Spain
As I rolled into Spain, asphalt, concrete, prostitutes at truck stops and shabby cafés made up my first impressions. But after getting on to some gravel roads surrounded by trees, things started to get better. I was cycling through one of Spain’s beautiful Via Verdes, old railroad tracks turned into ‘greenways’ in great weather. Close to a bird sanctuary, I pitched my tent quickly to try and escape the early evening mosquito infestation.
Catalonian Independence
I was on my way to the coast, which would take me through an umpteen amount of small villages and two extremely steep mountains. Anyone one who has ever done it before, knows that pushing your bike up a steep gravel road is no fun at all. When I reached the top, I was covered in sweat and was excited for the descent that I had rightfully earned. Of course it went by too fast. The descent ended in Llorêt de Mar. I pedalled through the city and after a long day in and out of the saddle, I camped in the next town, Blanes, under a super moon.
My kind of roads.
A beautiful sunset.
The long haul to Barcelona
The days I thought were going to be great in the morning turned out to be the most taxing. I rode through Calella, where a friend and I spent a vacation hitting the bars when we were 16. Vaguely remembering that I had been there before, I cycled 25 km to the last campground before hitting Barcelona. Unfortunately, the campground was closed. Tough luck! For some reason along the way, I couldn’t manage to find an appropriate place to spend the night and ended up cycling to the centre of Barcelona. I reached a hostel exhausted at 7:00 pm.
Spanish architecture.
A crisis of self
Resting up in Barcelona doubts started creeping up in my mind. The 2000 km to Lisbon seemed like a long ways to go. Maybe it was distance, maybe it was the lack of a plan once I reach Lisbon, or maybe it was a just metropolitan depression. Either way, my days in Barcelona were the hardest I had so far. The city, with its beautiful buildings and small alleyways, was beautiful, but for me it lacked a certain atmosphere. BCN and I just did not connect and I was worried about how my trip would continue.
La Plaza Real - One of Barcelonas iconic courtyards.
In the kilometres before I reached Barcelona, my anxiety had begun to grow. This wasn’t new, I had experienced this in other cities as well, but I was surprised by its intensity. It turned the city into a trigger for unanswered questions and conflicts that the trip itself was unable to solve. After five days of countless walks, a city tour, a lot of reflecting and a little crying, I was back in the saddle. As I pedalled away from the city, a calm and clarity overtook me and the Barcelona blues began to subside.
The Columbus column in Barcelona.
My steed.
A change of plans
While riding along the coast, I realized that I needed a break from cycling. After two days, I decided to search online for a farm that I could work on in Portugal. At this point, I realized that it would be best for me to travel by car down to Sevilla and from there continue on. The next day, it was decided and I went to rent a car. I was most excited about getting to know more about the farm life and using the saved time to answer some questions for myself.
Sometimes plans change.
Come back later for more about my adventure.
