Al-Andalus…
Sunday 20 October
We woke from a very light sleep, if it could be called a sleep at all, and prepared ourselves to be on that platform well before 11am to get out of Alcázar de San Juan. We arrived at 10am folded up two of the bikes and got cold as we waited on the platform. As we got closer to 11am we saw some familiar faces re-emerge. The security guard who seemed like he showed up to watch the next episode of the bike drama unfold with this crazy family. The cleaner, and then a more official train master all were standing around … waiting. Another guy showed up with a bike which spoke directly to the failure of the system they say they have in place. If there is a maximum of three bikes on each train then there should be some form of reservation in place right? The train arrived and the witnessing party stood by as we entered the train and the doors closed. There was a sense of relief for us all. The train master came by checked our tickets and said absolutely nothing about our bikes. The train ride was smooth all the way.
We had plenty of time and no issues whatsoever with the bikes or other passengers. We enjoyed the comfort of the train’s seats, foldable tables, room for bags over head. Nice big windows. We had time to make sandwiches, eat tortilla, and do a few pages of maths. We arrived in Jaén and changed trains for Córdoba. It smelt like olives. The moment we got off the train, the perfume was unmistakeable. We arrived to Córdoba and the tension seemed to have come down a few notches. Knowing that we had a camp ground to go to made us feel better. We passed hundreds of thousands of olive trees and there was only one small mountainous part that made for different viewing. We saw eagles, deers and of course rabbits. We’re hoping that we might get to see more wildlife than what we have so far in Spain.
We were reminded of the importance of zip ties again. Something we learnt in Japan. Zip ties are an essential on the packing list especially when you have any intentions of catching trains. They come in so handy when you have to take front wheels off, fold up pedals and realign handle bars to make one neat package. Although, each is another piece of plastic and that is something we lament. String is an alternative but it needs to be thick, which therefore makes it slightly heavier and certainly bulkier to carry.
Then there is all the other plastic we’ve been using, but predominantly food packaging from supermarkets. Having a fixed address means you can cook easily for yourself, have no need to buy packaged items where possible and make extra for later. None of that is possible when travelling like this. You can’t carry food around for too long without refrigeration, food is heavy so you can’t stock up and are therefore reliant on accessing food along the way. Rolling with unpackaged food in bags that are jiggled all day long is not ideal. Carrying plastic containers, plastic and paper bags is an option and we make the most of reuse where we can. Is it better to simply travel in your mind, without all the waste? Expand the mind, but we know that we don’t physically need to move for that. LSD looked after that option, although that’s not a long-term healthy option. So what is it about elsewhere that is so attractive? What are we really looking for? Travel is a way to escape the cookie cutter life, but after a while every life becomes a cookie cutter. It’s just about which cookie cutter you’ve been dealt, or if you’re lucky, the cookie cutter you choose. Sometimes it feels like travelling is overrated. Particularly when there is no effort on behalf of the traveller and all that is expected is a desire to get on the conveyor belt of Disneyland moments drowning in selfies and fake smiles that instantly evaporate in anticipation of checking whether the impression is good enough. Travelling is a raw exposure of the soul.
The boys were very happy to find a grove of eucalyptus trees not far from where we pitched our tent. There was a smouldering pile of ashes so the boys picked up the fallen branches in an attempt to recall our camping trips in Australia. They ended up creating a smoking pile which diffused the area with that fabulous citrus peppery perfume. They also believed they were keeping the mosquitos away.
Monday 21 October
We left the camping ground in Córdoba a little later than anticipated because we got talking to the elderly impressive adventurers Alexander and Olga from Berlin who kayaked in Greenland. They too were on a bike trip. They inspired thoughts of an active nomadic future life. In stark contrast, yesterday afternoon we made the acquaintance of two women from Nantes travelling with their partners in caravans. While that mode of travel isn’t so appealing, it was refreshing to exchange words with others.
We went on to the centre of town and the eagle took flight. Through the intoxicating narrow white streets spotted with Klein blue hanging pots marked by Andalusian designed ceramic street names, we were high on the euphoric smell of jasmine. To breathe deeply was not enough. Eyes rolling back, the need to be in it, bathe in it, be it. Susskind’s Perfume came to mind. Weak at the knees, a craving with roots deep within the recesses of time made the desire to bottle this for ever painfully necessary before movement in any direction was possible. In the beautiful parks spotted with date palms, it became clear what the secret ingredients were to these Andalusian gardens – palms, fruit trees and roses. We rode along a haphazard array of decorated cobblestone streets and bike paths to the Mezquita – Mosque Cathedral of Córdoba. What an astonishingly diverse, tolerant and open place. The mélange of Islamic, Byzantine, roman, Catholic, Renaissance, gothic styles was mesmerising. Dizzying. There was so much to contemplate in such a place and watching people of all faiths gather on this site and enjoy its wonders was as powerful as the building itself. How wholesomely sophisticated to be able to absorb all that is spectacular from each. From the Romans to the Visigoths to the Umayyad Caliphate. Mind blowingly liberating. Although small, Córdoba is spectacular. A magical moment we will remember.
In the late afternoon, we got back on the train to Jaén where we will spend the night before we start our ride to Granada. Something we’re all apprehensive about because we’ll be riding in the cold and the rain up hill all day tomorrow. The only consolation is that we have a hotel waiting for us although our hotel experiences have been hit and miss. The hotel tonight hardly had any running water. Oreste’s bed head fell on him and the beds seem like they are going to fall apart every time you move. Again we’ve chosen to sleep in our sleeping gear for fear of bed bugs.
Tuesday 22 October
We left the awful Carlos pension this morning and went to see the well preserved Banos Arabos in Jaén before starting our road for Granada. We were tempted to visit the huge cathedral that we saw from the train window but we had to get moving. It was a cold start to the day. We rode with jumpers on all day despite the constant ascent. The higher we got the cooler it got and it seemed that we didn’t even break the 12 degrees mark. A two litre carton of juice exploded on the road when Arsène road over it after it fell off Xavier’s bike. We stopped by the road side to have a yummy sandwich and the cold fell upon us pretty much immediately even though the sun was out. The boys enjoyed a frolick in the mountainside and even found some beautiful crocus flowers. Oreste picked one for Lisa which is how we discovered these flowers were up here which makes total sense given the required growth conditions of these very special flowers. We were surrounded by wild rosemary and of course fig trees, almond trees and thousands upon thousands of olive trees.
Today we climbed from 400 metres above sea level to 1200 metres over about 45 kilometres. The higher we went the more pain we endured but the more beautifully wild, dramatic and sublime the landscape became. Xavier scratched himself twice on his nasty bike pedals, Léon had brake issues, Lisa’s bike squeaked all day long which was a real shame because perhaps we would have been able to see more wild life if her bike was a little more quiet. We could start to see the dark clouds getting closer in the distance which made everyone pedal a little faster to the village.
Eventually we arrived in Montejicar which is another one of our best experiences in Spain so far. We were welcomed by the daughter of the owner of Apartements Rurals who then introduced us to her mother. We are the first family of cyclists they have had in the village which is so strange for them – and us. We heard about how pleased they were to have us stay because they bought these apartments when the financial crisis hit Spain and have since been struggling to keep them going. We had a good conversation with the daughter who has her dissertation on tourism due tomorrow about how this could become a wonderful cycle tourism spot. The distance from Madrid to Granada is perfect and they are right in the middle, the fact that Spanish drivers are so fabulous on the roads with cyclists, the natural beauty of the area, the close distance to Granada means that it could become a real mecca with assistance from local councils and businesses. It was certainly an interesting proposal for their consideration. We were escorted to our apartment and it was fabulous. It was warm, spacious, clean and had everything that we needed including a washing machine. We were asked if we wanted to eat out for dinner and were told about the options. We said we wanted traditional Spanish food and were advised to go to the place just across the road.
After nice warm showers, a change of clothes and got the first round of washing out, we went to the restaurant just across the road where we met Rafael and Miguel, brothers who now have ownership and stewardship of the family restaurant that started in 1974. They knew we were coming so already had a table for 5 set out and ready! We were treated to a delicious entree of tomatoes and tuna with an incredibly sweet vinegar that we savoured. This was followed by a mushroom based tortilla before the main dishes were served. Oreste’s chorizo was delicious as were the pork shanks Lisa and Xavier enjoyed and the lamb cutlets Léon and Arsène vacuumed. Looking at the poster, we saw the resemblance to one of the bullfighters. It turned out that Miguel was a bullfighter, before he became the chef. The boys were seriously impressed to be in the presence of a man who’d been charged at by bulls! They were awe struck. We stepped outside and it was definitely one of the coldest nights we’d had so far. We felt so snug knowing that we had a warm apartment waiting for us and that we didn’t have to fear the unknown potential snow drop over night onto the tent. It’s very remote around here but there would be no where to pitch a tent. It’s just simply way too exposed. We all slept so well, too well, making the desire to find a fixed address again very real.
Thursday 24 October
Snow at 1800 metres and we can certainly feel it this morning. Freezing! Today we set off from Montejicar, rather reluctantly given the alluring 23 degrees floor heated apartment. Outside it was having trouble breaking the 10 degrees mark. There was only one way to go and that meant braving the cold.
The moment we left, we turned the first corner and uphill ascent to the 1287 metres mark. It was so god damn cold. We’re not sure how cold it was but it felt like 4. It was overcast and then just before our summit it started to sprinkle. Lisa gave her gloves to Oreste but that still wasn’t enough. Our hands were freezing. We got desperate and put socks over our red hands to protect what we couldn’t feel anymore. It was difficult changing gears and dodging potholes in the road with numb hands. There was a moment of panic when we realised that we really weren’t all that well equipped to ride through this type of weather. Xavier was rather calm but the others weren’t. The only thing we could do was get down as fast as possible.
It wasn’t until we got down to 800 metres that we started to feel a little warmer and think that we might just survive it. We found a place to quickly eat some lunch and then continued our way to Granada. There was only one point about 30 kms out from Granada that we got to take our rain pants off but as soon as we got to Granada we had to put them back on again when it started to rain. We got to the camping ground after doing the shopping for dinner. It was a bonus to have the supermarket next door to the camping ground. We had to get the tents up quick smart because there was a dry patch. We managed to get the tent up but not completely meaning that Xavier had to keep pegging and tweaking while Lisa was cooking dinner inside the tent. None of us were brave enough to take on the cold after the warmth of the tent so we just stayed in and went straight to sleep after dinner which wasn’t so bad because tomorrow morning we have to be at the Alahambra at 9am.
Thursday 24 October
Woke up well before sunrise. A cold, wet, overcast day greeted us. No breakfast before we left camp, although we packed it and took it with us. We jumped on our bikes and rode through the dark streets of Granada. Most people dressed and ready for work. The entry into the Alahambra was magical, mystical, poetic – with a hint of Rome at 6am. As we rode up the main entrance, the sound of the running water filled the air. On either side of the grand entrance gushing water ran down narrow channels. Looking and sounding like water sprites, rushing, bolting, frog leaping over one another to see who could get down first. The dampness in the air hung like crystals weighing down on the leaves of tall cathedral like trees. A lone walker seemed to be making his way back from the alter head down through the foggy scene.
The Alahambra is cosmic. You can’t help but feel in some places that these people wanted to live amongst the stars, indeed within the cosmos. The makers knowledge, respect for natural laws represented in the geometric patterns repeatedly seizing the magic and freezing in time the intense intangible joy only fireworks create. With every move, you see something different constantly. As we had lunch, looking out to the mountains over which we came and those over which we will go, we saw the most sassy, bad assed black cat with an incredibly attractive attitude.
A beautifully coated black cat with a strut so elegant, it healed independence. We were reminded of similar felines we came across in the hidden, bushy areas in Rome. If there is ever a beast to be had, it is one of these, although their beauty resides in the fact that they can never be had. We walked through the beautiful gardens, smelt the deeply perfumed Bulgarian red roses and took notes of what inspires pleasure. Wild flowers, autumnal colours, thick, life bursting wise old vines creeping up, around and over burnt textured walls, lightly scooped watering holes in walls to water the birds. But all of this fixed. Static. There is a death like quality to all buildings nonetheless. Once they are done, they exist and remain until you die or they do. There is comfort in a fixed address, but somewhere in that comfort, there is death lingering when it is not playing a hand with time. Perhaps it hides between complacency and indifference.
We visited a charming little cafe after our visit for some lunch. The back room was filled with mirrors, beautiful metal worked objects, Andalusian coloured was tiles and a lusciously overgrown Swiss Cheese plant. The tables were too small for all of us so the boys sat on one and parents on another. The boys were loving their Spanish version of bacon and eggs, topped up with hot chocolate, while Lisa and Xavier went for a more traditional dish. The elderly couple that sat next to the boys table came over to Lisa and Xavier on their way out and congratulated us on how well behaved the boys were. The elderly lady said that she brought up her kids the same way with discipline being the key until they were old enough to leave home. She encouraged us to keep doing what they were doing, irrespective of what anyone else says. Lisa and Xavier were reminded that this couple weren’t the first to congratulate them on their ‘hard-core’ parenting. Many people congratulated them, including the little old ladies in the train from Central to Burwood one morning who were bowled over that young children would get up and offer them seats! So much nicer being congratulated for the effort rather than being made to feel like a punching bag at the expense of another’s ‘feel good moment’.
We went to the train station to get our tickets to Antequerra, only to find out that in fact the train we thought we would catch from Granada to Antequerra is now a bus that doesn’t accept bikes. This is the second time this has happened. First, from Aranjuez to Granada via Alcala de San Juan. This means that we will have to ride to Antequerra where we’ve been told we can catch a train to Rhonda. This means we’re about to loose two days which we will have to make up further down the track, but our track is starting to get shorter with only a month left.
We acknowledged however that it’s not such a bad thing, particularly when you know we could stumble on the fabulous moments like Montejicar. We’ll just go with what fate has install for us and hope for the best. We went back to the camping ground but on the way realised that we had a fairly serious problem with Léon’s front wheel. Xavier tinkered around with it but then had to take it for replacement to one of the two bike shops in Granada. We were supposed to go back and get ready for the day ahead tomorrow but instead had to deal with another issue that we weren’t expecting – more bike issues resulting from slamming bikes around to do tricks. So far we’ve spend over 100 euros on fixing bikes. In any case, Léon and Xavier took off to repair the bike while the others stayed back to prepare dinner and do some maths homework.
As soon as the boys got back, we were having a stand up dinner around a low wall. We all kept looking at a lock on the wall which Oreste had found earlier in the day. With a mouth full, Arsène pulled a key that he and Léon found in Aranjuez out from his pocket. Using the key, Arsène tried to unlock it. Oreste had a turn and it opened much to all of our surprise. The boys were so excited that they were able to unite a lock and key that had been separated! This significant object made it onto Lisa’s handle bar which now carries the significant collection. The lock and key join the red and blue string, the rabbit’s paws and the vulture’s feather.
The Sierra Nevada is covered in snow. The mountains look amazingly close. So crisp so white. So powdery. Would love to just be able to reach out and touch it – although that would require more serious clothing.
We met a family of four from France. Parents and two very young kids, three and four, who were riding around on bikes in the camping area. They asked whether they could go on the roads in Spain with the kids – to which we responded a unanimous “Oui! Sans problèmes!” which led to a nice exchange. We found out that the mother travelled a great deal with her parents from Florence and Venice when she was young. She reminisced about when catching a gondola in Venice was a practical undertaking with a practical price.
Friday 25 October
We’ve been told that it’s unseasonably cold here at the moment. No joke! We’re freezing. What a day. We set out from Granada a little later than expected. 10:30. It took us sometime to thaw out and pack. The Sierra Nevada is gloriously covered in snow and we can feel our proximity to it. As we left, the French family we met yesterday, wished us a safe journey. On our way out of the camp ground the mum screamed out to us “Vous nous faites rêvé!” (“You make us dream!”). The idea of that has stuck ever since and brought together comments from others we’d received including the elderly lady who cried when we said our goodbyes the night before we slept under the bridge, the wonderful Marc on his mountain bike, the wonderful owner of Cafe Moderne, the ladies getting dinner ready on the terrace in the Appenini, the film crew that clapped us through their scene, the priest in Ulm and so many others. This dream was not just ours, we’d simply become the vehicle. People want to dream with you. This was felt not only in the exchanges with people, but also the more fleeting although no less memorable exchanges like words of encouragement, offers of hospitality, little notes being slipped into hands as we ride by, cheers, beeps and gestures of encouragement from moving cars and trucks. We were just fortunate enough to be the ones to live it, but it has to be shared.
We left wearing three layers including the thickest jumpers/jackets as well as our rain pants which stops the cold from numbing your legs. As we rode out we could see the full extent of the Sierra Nevada of which we were at the base. No wonder it was so god damn cold. It was only some 20kms away that we started to peel off the layers. We rode some pretty challenging terrain. Muddy, boggy, bumpy, pot holed, gravelled, stoney paths. Xavier’s bags came off his bike twice, we stopped to de-mud Léon‘s bike and we had only done 30kms by 12:30pm. With 60kms to go, we had a quick yet fulfilling snack by the roadside where the stray dogs came to see who had arrived in town and the locals looked at us like aliens – something that we’ve now become used to. Although we certainly poisoned ourselves with the awful chips we’d been gifted. Back on the road, we endured more of the same difficult terrain, although the view and the landscape through olive plantations was a great deal more dynamic than what we thought it would be. There was not once when we were bored of the scenery. And we enjoyed the toots from the big trucks on the highway we road alongside. The bike tracks often run alongside the freeways which are closed to cyclists only but those on the highway can still see you. As the day went on we started getting closer to the biggest climb and the most difficult part of the day. At about 4pm we stopped in a park for some lunch in another charming little town called Loja to enjoy our aioli, ballotta, tomato and salad sandwich. Well and truly in the swing of the Spanish rhythms, we got on our bikes in the hope of being able to have dinner at about 8pm once we arrived at the hostel and had reached the highest peak for the next two days.
It went up and up. The views were incredibly and beautifully powerful. The mountains are never the same. As you ride by, different angles provide another insight into this almost mars like terrain. Even two months ago taking on a day like today with the terrain we had would have been almost impossible. There has been a marked changed in all of our physiques and mental capacities. None of us have never felt stronger nor so good nor so free in our lives. This is a trip that is going to be hard to forget. Léon found a French number plate by the roadside. As we rode, we all made up our version of a story about how it got there. The freaky, the absurd, the scary, the hilarious and the mundane versions were all given form.
Despite the habitual toilet pit stops, sometimes in the most unlikely places, we kept on rolling as the sun started to set. The further down the sun went, the harder we rode. We wanted to be at the hostel before nightfall and even though riding in Spain has been a dream except for that one driver in Granada, Lisa definitely didn’t want to be riding on the road at night. With 6kms to go and one last ascent we rode hard and fast. We arrived at the hostel only to find that it was completely closed on the verge of closed down! So we got on the phone and were very pleased to hear that the owner would be over in 5 minutes to open up for us. Relief! We skipped dinner but not dessert, had a nice warm shower and were in bed by 11pm. Tomorrow we sleep in. We made the acquaintance of more beautiful black cats and three black kittens.
Saturday 26 October
Woke up this morning with two thoughts: firstly an exhibition of Chris’ work in a church – where people will pay what they want to buy the artwork or just for having experienced it. Secondly that cities belong to the people, not governments, nor corporations. It’s one of the reasons why Rome is so successful because the lasagna of history, as Tiziana put it so well, is a record of the trials and tribulations of the people and how they overcame them. It is a demonstration of our human successes and failures. A place where people can decide the routes people take, its colours and contribute to the skin of their city through whatever means either grafitti, written word, etc. A city where people can be free to express themselves. You get so much more out of people when they don’t fear. Sydney, and Australia more generally, needs to turn fear into freedom. A place where people are not limited in their contribution but encouraged to pour out their appreciation, their love.
We left Archidona just before midday after the biggest breakfast we’ve ever had on this trip. We started with hot chocolate and panettone followed by bacon and eggs, tea, orange juice – That’s all we could fit in. We had the entire hostel to ourselves which was lonely and a little spooky especially in the middle of the night.
We had a fairly radical descent in the first 10 minutes and quickly found ourselves in Antequerra and we went strait to the dolmens site which was crushingly powerful beyond words. These built forms made 5000 years BC had such a simple rustic enginuity to them they were spellbinding. The warmth of the textures the gentleness of the forms, what could be considered an oppressive power of the slabs overhead created a warmth and provided a sense of undeniable protection. These underground sanctuaries were mesmerising. Their placement not accidental with the strangely shaped mountain range in the distance that we rode by, aligned perfectly to the entrance of the Dolmen. It is said that there are certain times of the year when the full moon rises to fit perfectly within one of the features of the distant mountain range. No doubt an opportunity for ritual. To imagine what life would have been like in and around these dolmens back then in contrast to now with plumes of black smoke rising in the distance.
We rode a short distance to the other dolmens site and were again blown away by the rustic ingenuity of the tumulus mounds. Part ritualistic part burial sites, they did find human bones in one of the chambers but what really took place in these areas, we won’t ever really know. The layering of stone, perfectly aligned to form beautiful internal domes. There was something that suggested this may be a form that Turrell may have been influenced by.
There was a shady spot amongst the pine trees outside. The temperature has risen dramatically and we find ourselves in short sleeves and shorts again, just as we wore during the summer. In the shade we made lunch and the boys cracked the many almond nuts we had collected by the roadside. Perfectly textured, not sweet but almost like rich, creamy almond paste in the mouth. Heavenly.
We made our way to the train station to check whether we would have to ride to Ronda or whether we could catch up on our schedule and catch the train. Good news, from Antequerra Santana we can catch média distancia trains. We went shopping, bought the ritualistic summer ice block and then rode 5km uphill to our camp spot. We rode through the charming town of Antequerra where we noticed a change in how churches are marked. Here we see a cross incorporated into the tiling designs on the roof. We kept riding up and up and were in awe of the closeness of these impressive mountains. Tomorrow we continue riding up 10kms until we reach 1200 metres where we will visit El Torcal natural world heritage site. The camping ground is more like a small village. It feels like what a small village in the making would have been like way back when. It’s lively. Cats and dogs, young children, teenagers, old people singing, young women in hysterics and most were overly tipsy. Little alley ways leading to secret spots where used condoms fertilise the trunks of trees and not so secret spots where people gather to eat and drink. Here we set up camp, made a yummy dinner of chicken marinated in garlic and mustard – a specialty of Xavier’s, which attracted the nostrils of a few local dogs.
Sunday 27 October
Beautiful light in the sky pre-sunrise. Majestic contours of the mountains accentuated by the pink hues, while a few twinkling stars twinkled bye for now. After packing up camp, we set off to reach 1200m metres. We were down at 700metres. After two and a half hours of a 10% climb we finally reached the El Torcal national park. Along the way, we stopped to take in the view of Malaga down below and the sea between Spain and Africa. Being such a clear day we were able to make out Africa itself. It was an incredible moment in the journey to be able to see Africa and our thoughts immediately went to Chris who felt almost within reach. As we were looking through the binoculars, an armada of vultures approached from behind and appeared over the peak of the rocky mountain in front of us. These massive birds glide seamlessly cutting through what was for us a heavy forceful wind that was holding us back, is for them an opportunity for leisurely, graceful flight. The form of their wings, the shadow they cast on the rocky cliffs. Simply magical. Religious. As we hovered between the view to Africa another armada of vultures started making their way from the south. It was one of those moments on this trip where we felt we were where we were meant to be at exactly that moment. It was like a performance put on by the elements. The timing, the introductions, the transition, but no sense of an ending. It just continues for as long as we understand this entire experience of life as a performance put on by the essence of life itself. Our soul lives alone.
After the final gruelling climb which in fact we didn’t have to do but could have caught the shuttle bus to the top, we made it to the start of the El Torcal National Park walking track. One can’t help but feel life within the natural elements. They are so unusual, so characteristic, so charismatic that denying the existence of their inner life seems pathetically, superficially ignorant. The wind that has carved these forms, the rain that has coloured them, the sun that lights them, the fertile soil that holds the nature between them. Unlike El Bruc, but it has the same powerful presence. This is not a place to engage with lightly. It is a place that demands undivided contemplative engagement in silence. There is something cathedral like in the felt experience but so very different from a cathedral form. Respect is handed over reverently here.
On our way out, a Spanish Mountain goat leaped out the front of Léon and ran across the road much to our delight. It was the first big four legged animal we’d come across literally, in the wild.
We rode all the way to Antequerra Santana station which seemed to get further and further away. It was late afternoon and we were feeling tired. Tired of the demands the wind was making on our bodies, on our legs and on our spirits. We were in the middle of nowhere and then all of a sudden a new contemporary massive shelter appears in which was the train station designed like an airport. Strange. Like a UFO. Perhaps it was to give the locals a feeling of going somewhere, but it seemed to be completely over the top for a train station. We had to have all our bags scanned, even though we were taking the standard Media Distancia. We went through another queue because we didn’t realise that all passengers had to go through the baggage check, which really put the local security guards off side. They immediately thought we were dodgy, stopped other people from putting their bags on, told them to stand back, while we off loaded all our bags from our bikes. They questioned a few items in our bags and were completely confused by the tents. It was simultaneously funny and ridiculous, particularly considering the nature of our adventure. We certainly got the freak award. Perhaps they saw us as an opportunity for some excitement. To live out some drama that ‘could have been’. It was all very strange. Eventually we got through and we were being supervised the entire time we were in the station. Every move we made, whenever we went to the toilet. While we ate, who we spoke to – notably another cyclist that had a few practical questions. And then the same hideous process to get down on to the platform. Similar to embarking on an aeroplane after you’ve had your ticket and passport checked. It made no sense and seemed to be so completely over the top that you could only think these people had a real sense of drama, performance, theatre. We had to negotiate getting on to the platform a little earlier because we had to state the obvious – we were a family of 5 with bikes. They played the shitty police state part really well.
Made it to Ronda. Don’t even know what time we got to bed. Lost track.
Monday 28 October
Today started late. We woke up it was 8:30 after a deeply satisfying sleep in an apartment in Ronda, which feels like the parents place that the two sons are renting out, although they grew up here. We did a load of washing had another large breakfast with hot chocolate, croissants and another patisserie from the area which has a paste of walnut and raisins on the outside. This was followed by the unusual bacon and eggs accompanied by orange juice and tea.
We made our way out the door just before midday and were immediately greeted by a relaxed charming city with human scale proportions, streets lined with shops, eateries, and people, mostly locals but also tourists. We stopped in one of the main squares next to the parochial and stripped off a layer. It was hot in the brilliantly shining sun.
The first point of call was the oldest bullfighting ring in all of Spain, Plaza de Toros de Ronda opened in 1785 and has been beautifully maintained. The interior hallways have a simple, organic architecture with complimentary earthy materials. The thick wooden beams, the semi cut wooden rafters and the white plastered walls made for a cool, appeasing environment. From the top of the arena we could see the mountains surrounding Ronda and that we were on yesterday. We walked in the bullfighting ring and felt the deep incisions into the wooden panels marking the shear anxiety, fear and hopelessness of bulls fighting for their lives. This sinister aspect was confirmed when we went into the pens where the bulls are kept before being released into the ring. The tiny rooms they occupy the day they die that must increase their anxiety levels which lead to the deep unconscious engravings onto the wooden doors made by their horns and their drawings on the metal doors as they wait for the final barrier to be raised above them.
We learnt a great deal about bullfighting today. A practice that we never really cared for. Learning however that the cavalry used bulls as practice enemies to hone in their fighting skills was a revelation. This city has been thriving on horsemanship since 1485. RMS stands for Real Maestranza de Caballería, the oldest and most noble order of horsemanship in Spain. From the halls of impending death, we were led to a large indoor horse training area where the trainer was directing majestic and beautifully groomed horses and their riders. It was regal. The pride of both riders and horses was unmistakeable. The power of these beasts with their tight toned velvet skin accentuating the bulging viens of their girth. Their thick strong necks. An absolute pleasure to loose oneself in. Their rhythms, the thumping, the shimmering prance, the flaring nostrils, the thick wild mane…
After these moments of beastial intoxication, the passage led us into the museum. Where immaculately handcrafted costumes, saddlery, hats and horse garments awaited us. The detail of these objects were sheer poetry. The detailed embroidery entwining fine golden thread with precious stones and fine metal work was astonishing. Mesmerizing. Devotional. Then the transcendental moment: staring into these vitrines, like a dream you could hear the sound of distant horses trotting. The sound became louder and louder until it filled the exhibition space. From one view of decorative devotion our heads were turned to experience the divinity which inspired their creation. Never before had a museum experience offered such a visceral collision. It was the most overwhelming museum experience. All senses were engaged simultaneously. The simplicity with which this was created made it even more powerful.
Standing on the dirt floor, looking into these basic vitrines, lit with basic lighting, there was nothing of the highly polished, contemporary, reflective, teflon, sterile experience that is sold to audiences all over the world as a ‘museum experience’. It’s all arse-up. This is real. All of that is highly polished marketed fluff. It became very clear why objects should never be removed from their original settings, uprooted from the very people and their culture that gave rise to them. The relevance of history, culture, objects and appreciation have never been clearer. It was a museological epiphany. How poor we are for not exulting the uniqueness of diversity. How much poorer we are for not making the connection between the rich inner life of people, the place which inspired it, through the people that translated it.
We continued to walk on the dusty floor. The exhibition continued, including striking graphic posters of bullfights gone by and Goya’s prints of bullfights.
Elated, transformed, we rode to one of the most picturesque and dramatic bridges – the Puente San Miguel which was the original Roman bridge over a breathtakingly deep gorge. We then went to the pristinely preserved 13th century banos arabos where we understood how the donkey going round and round in circles delivered water to the aqua-duct that delivered cool and heated water into the baths. Very Roman but great to be able to see how it actually worked.
We then went and spent sometime looking over the gorge inhabited by pigeons and questioning why the water in Spain tastes as bad as it does and smells as pungent as it does.
We then decided to call it a day and head back to get a nice arrabiata pesto pasta dinner ready given we had access to pots big enough for us to make pasta which is not a luxury we can afford while on the road. It was then time to pack our bags, making sure we didn’t leave anything behind which is easy to do when you relax and start feeling comfortable.
Tomorrow is an early rise so we can ride the 70kms to the next station – Osuna- from where we can catch the train to Seville. We were supposed to go directly from Ronda to Seville but once again our path was blocked last night when we found out that the train we thought we could catch has a leg in the middle of the journey which is by bus only and of course buses don’t accept bikes! So third time lucky, we’re doing it again which isn’t so bad because each time it happens we discover something new.
Tuesday 29 October
After an explosive start to the morning with Lisa wanting to walk out on the family because she’d had more than a gut full of all the stupid arguing, teasing and taunting going on, we rode from Ronda to Osuna train station. It was an easier ride than the last few days but the up ills still tested our commitment to the remaining month ahead of us. After a day off yesterday in beautiful Ronda, you start to relax, you start to get comfortable physically and psychologically. It would just be so much easier to spend another week relaxing, not moving, not pushing your body and home to the next place. But that’s not an option. That’s not what we signed up for. Sometimes that lack of flexibility becomes an irritation, only soothed by the insights into the natural world this form of travel offers. A peak into secret moments. A peak into a play scene between light and clouds. A peak into the flights of birds, the activities of insects or snails caught hanging on the long grass.
We rode through some beautiful landscape again and even came across a mummified toad on the road. It was amazing that it had not been crushed by a vehicle but we supposed it was just proof of how few people travel along this road. We hardly came across anyone. So easy. So free.
We rode past the olive farmer spraying pesticide all over the road as well as into his trees, breathing it in as well as the black smoke chugging out of his tractor. The entire time we have travelled in Europe with the exception of Holland, the roadsides have been littered with cans, bottles plastic and glass, clothes, computer wires and various micro parts strewn out of broken plastic bags, plastic bags, washing machines or dryers or both, mechanical parts, plastic sheets, hard plastics from car lights, barrier protectors, cigarette packets, exploded tyre parts the list is long and the brand names plenty Coca Cola, Fanta, Kit Kat and umpteen water brands. All this rubbish led to conviction that all producers of products irrespective of size – individuals or large multinational companies – should pay a dumping tax as a percentage of the value of the goods produced, not sold. This dumping fund would then go into an industry dedicated to collecting all the rubbish off the road and in water ways and invest into research about how best to reuse/recycle/repurpose the trillions of tonnes of garbage created since the plastic revolution. It is absolutely disgusting that we leave our children and grandchildren this legacy demonstrating out greed, stupidity and sheer irresponsibility.
We made it to Osuna well before we expected so were able to catch an earlier train to Sevilla. On arrival we went straight to the apartment we found last night, made dinner and went to bed after catching up on emails and some news from around the world.
Wednesday 30 October
The day started with a phone call to mum to wish her a happy birthday. She spoke of how much praise she received about the boys from the relatives in Italy.
We head out without bikes. Something our sore feet regretted at the end of the day but it was a nice pace nonetheless. In any case it was going to be a long day given the flamenco performance we bought tickets for started at 9pm.
We drifted through Sevilla. Feels like spring In Sydney. A beautiful city with narrow walkways, wonderful shops including the shop we bought our lemonwheels t-shirts from, beautiful fabric shops, of course all the eateries but the most striking thing of all in this town are the ceramic paintings on the exterior of a variety of buildings from churches to shops and the internal area of the military museum. The fleeting magic of the black leather clad, bald, tall, muscley guy pushing a cart, that jumps out only to grab a bundle of metre long thick candles for delivery to the church. His huge bunch of keys dangling from his waist announcing his arrival and this sight of contemporary and ancient just vanishes into the narrow doors of this enchanting city. The electrician pushing his cart through the narrow streets forcing everyone into a patient procession which gives way to a sneak peak inside a little window offering a view into a room filled with blood red roses and carnations. Laid out in waiting. The small narrow streets force patience to guide your eyes through slow, meaningful, fulfilling, life.
The flamenco show was in another stratosphere. The intensity, the respect for the art, the passion to want to deliver it to the absolute best level possible, the uncompromised emotion. It was more than magic. There was a major shift in the solar plexus. The cry of the singer that looked like a modern day Durer, dancers with feet that seemed to be driven from another world, able to operate at a rhythm beyond comprehension, their intense trance like regards that looked at but straight through you, elevating the viewer to another place where bodies are no longer flesh but pure energy. The male dancer in his silver tightly fitted pants and vest starts with pacing out classic rythmes, still aurally comprehensible and in no time all of a sudden what you’re hearing doesn’t match with what you think you are seeing. His use of feet and a simple cane shifted to otherworldly contemporary, techno, electronic beats. His feet and arms moved so fast that it was no longer possible to distinguish what was making the music. He became a musical dimension. It was hypnotising. When he stopped the room was silenced into disbelief. He left the scene drenched. It seemed the singer was about to cry moving viewers to tears, the dancer who was so fast that, as the boys pointed out, ‘she exploded at the end’ and what a dramatic cathartic slam it was. It felt like a total cleansing. So much fire in the place that anything unsure was just demolished. Another life shifting epiphany into the true meaning of performance. When it is made absolutely clear that performance is not about the performer, but the ability to channel the purity of their demonstration. The raw power of a life lived. Painfully beautiful, so exhaustingly sublime. This was beyond the tourist attraction. It was pure expression of an intense respect not only for the art practiced but for the emotional intelligence of the audience that came to see it be performed. Like vessels these performers took on that responsibility with the utmost respect, pride, passion and joy. There was definitely a sense of watching an exorcism of some sort where the performers called upon the spirits to drive them. It was simply astonishingly purifying. The purity of expression was levitating.
This is another of those moments that will stay within us deeply buried in our souls as a moment to savour and to call upon for the rest of our lives. There is so much beauty in what we saw that it can only be understood when the reader’s soul also shifts. Xavier summed it up perfectly – brutal purity.