Art of Travel: Paris to Madrid

Day Eleven

Yesterday, Saturday the 8th of June at about mid-day, I crossed into Spain on what has been the worst day of my travels, so far. I awoke in St. Gyrin at 05:27 to the now familiar sound of rainfall. Before falling asleep thee previous night I had decided I was going to cross the border on Saturday since there was no great attraction to stay another day in St. Gyrin (I had cycled along the prominade, watched guys kite-surf and walked through the port, so all was done). My stubborn streak had me sticking to the plan, dragging myself out of a warm sleeping bag to pull on my waterproofs, place plastic bags over my stockinged feet, and start out, once again, on the now flooded roads under a uniform grey sky (maybe that’s a slight exaggeration- I say flooded, what I met was one large foot soaking puddle after another).

The rain was relentless and the deteriorating road surface had developed a somewhat bone shaking, arse breaking quality. My route, the coast road, began snaking up the sides of intimidating looking mountain which tumbled into the sea, so although I may have slogged uphill for six kilometres, as the crow flies I had probably only gained a sixth of the distance. What made it worse was that at that higher altitude the wind had picked up to such a strength that when it blowing on my back as I travelled uphill I could freewheel, uphill! You maybe able to imagine how dangerous this became when the wind was not obligingly pushing me from behind. When the gusts hit side on it became hard enough to stay on the bike, let alone prevent myself from being blown across to the other side of the road and in the line of traffic (although I didn’t come up against much traffic). When a car did pass me the occupants invariably threw me a look of disbelief that someone would decide to cycle up the side of a mountain in such appaling condition. I even had people blowing their horns at me while mouthing unheard words from the comfort of their cars sealed from the elements, with a look that verged on disgust and anger.

At one point while pushing the bike a large van with a refrigeration unit to its rear stopped on the roadside a little ahead of me. The driver, a young twenty something year old, small of stature and sporting a goatie minus a mustache, called out to me while standing by the back of the van. I thought “Oh Christ, here we go, what the hell does this fella want” since I couldn’t hear what he was shouting because his words were being carried away from me on the wind. I assumed he was going to take a pop at me by hurling abuse for being on the road causing a hazard for legitimate road users, or something akin to that. When we were face to face he, with his broken English, and me with my virtually non-existent French managed to communicate the offer of a lift to Banyuls, the next town. What an unexpected and welcome turn around. I lifted the bike up into the empty fridge and climbed aboard the cab beside him. Soon we were off racing down through the hairpin bends in a white knuckle ride style.

The conversation wasn’t exactly flowing, for obvious reasons, however I did find out that his name was David who was on his way to pick up a consignment of beef and then head back north to deliver it. I was so grateful to him for his act of kindness. I guess I must have looked fairly pathetic for him to have stopped in the first place.

Once out of the cab, back in the present and exposed to the elements again I fully realised how brutally miserable the conditions were, like a rotten February day in Ireland or the U.K. I could instantly feel that the waterproofing bags around my socks had let me down (the squelch with each step was a bit of a gift give away), and I suspected the rest of my waterproofing measures had sprung one or two leaks since I was feeling bloody cold with only the renewed pings and pops from the front set of ball-bearings to distract me from my misery. As I unloaded Art I thought that my wet bum must have left its print on David’s seat.

To try regain an element of warmth I stopped just across the border on the Spanish side at a high point looking down on the village of Colera for a snack consisting of a banana, bread, a snickers bar and water. It was difficult to undo the bags containing the food because my hands had gone kind of numb, and my feet were not fairing any better. A quick look at the map with its damp print told me I probably had at least three hours astride Art to go before reaching Cadaques if the conditions remained the same. This realisation brought me to my senses, making me rebuke the stubbornness within me which, on any other occasion, would keep me on the road until I had reached the destination I had set myself that morning. I reasoned that if I stayed out on the road for a further three hours I would risk making myself  ill, so my revised destination was the first open campsite I stumbled upon. My luck was turning since Colera, the village I was a comparatively easy decent away from became my bastion from the elements.

Having reached the campsite in one piece, it was a bit of a struggle to erect the tent, what with the rain, cold wind and lack of digit sensation (which made it very difficult to print my details on the camp registration form), but I had the impetus of hot shower thoughts (the artwork picture on the sign for the shower had a very contented looking man standing under a powerful spray of water). The € 8 per night fee was worth it for the shower alone. The way I was feeling I think any shower would have felt like the best I had ever used. In retrospect I think this one definitely was the best, at least on this trip anyway, kept in reserve for my time of need. As I undressed it became apparent that I was spot on about my waterproofs spring one or two leaks since my tops were soaked through from the chest right to the sleeve ends. With the temperature turned up as high as my skin could bare, after five minutes or so I began to feel the sensation of pins and needles in my feet, signalling their gradual thawing out and return to a normal state of affair. I became that little man on the sign, the picture of contentment. Well, relative contentment at least

It’s a shame about the weather. No matter how optimistic an out-look I try to adopt (which may or may not come across in my writing- perhaps It sounds like I’m painting an exaggerated gloomy picture?) it has curtailed my options, or made a farce of the decisions I have made. A prime example being Saturday’s decision to take the coastal route being rendered pointless by the foul weather. Although the route held the potential of offering excellent views, low road traffic and would take me via Cadaques- the favoured hide away of both Dali and Picasso, the weather conditions obliterating the view and prevented me making it to Cadaques. It would have made much more sense to have taken the direct inland route to Figueres then onto Girona. There is a lot to be said for hindsight!

 

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