Art of Travel: Paris to Madrid

Day Fifteen

Last night, after watching a group of kids on the shoreline of Calella creating artwork in the sand using their foot prints I found a small cove to stop for a picnic dinner. Although it was half six there was still a small scattering of sun bathers left on the small beach, but it wasn’t until I had my dinner set up and a bottle of red wine opened that I noticed groups of son bathers looking over to me while pointing and talking to each other with some degree of animation. When they stood up it became glaringly obvious why I had become the centre of attention. Initially I thought that perhaps there was some local rule forbidding consumption of alcohol on the beach, but no, what I had some how failed to notice earlier was that I was the only one on the beach wearing any clothes! It is the first time I have ever had dinner whilst at the same time enduring a small procession of fat, naked, middle aged men march past with venom in their eyes.

The ride on Art from Fornells to Calella was inspiring once I left the cycle track at llagostera. I was suppose to follow the C253 from here to the N11 but the road had been “closed for re-direction”. However there was an A4 sized sheet of paper pinned to the barrier with “Barcelona” print ed on it, followed by an arrow pointing left. I followed the trail of A4 sheets but at the same time felt rather suspicious that it might be a practical joke since the passage way I had been directed on to was none other than the single track cycle way I had just left as it continued along its costal route (this was suppose to be the alternative route for all traffic, not just bicycles and pedestrians)! After many twists and turns it did eventually lead back on to a main road but by this stage the A4 pages had run out. Perhaps they had exceeded their budget by this stage, or the photocopier jammed, or they had run out of toner? What ever the cause, I had lost my sense of direction, which is unusual for me. Not to worry, I knew that I needed to continue heading South (sud) so a quick consultation with the compass should help clarify the picture. Unfortunately the junction I had reached was giving me the options of either travelling east or West. Logic told me to turn West towards the coast. which should link up to a coast road running South, but my instinct suggested I head in land. The gut reaction won and paid dividends.

I hit the coast as the N11 hits Blanes, a tacky hell hole of a low budget package holiday resort, epitomising all the horrors of the Costa Brava cliché: heavily populated by beer swilling, pot bellied, boiled lobster coloured men. Those not walking around bare chested (apart from the ubiquitous myriad of tattoos) were sporting England football tops and shorts flapping around scrawny chicken legs. I got stuck there past the point of toleration as a result of the awkward one way systems down by the sea front. Panic began to coincide with “bad taste” over load. Although a way out of Blanes was eventually found the general tacky an disheartening look of each subsequent town made me feel like I was stuck on some sort of “Ground hog day” loop.

I was not too worried since the road signs began marking the way to Calella (which was reassuring). This corresponded to the direction I was travelling, south along the coast road straight into a heavy head wind. Eventually I entered yet another “Blanesque” town and the signs abruptly ceased marking the way to Calella (not so reassuring) although this particular town did appear to be the best of a bad bunch with its tree lined promenade following the central sea front. It also has pockets of sandy beaches enclosed by small rocky coves towards the south end of town (which makes a change from the long, sandy, hotel backed beach stretching from Blanes.

In fact, it was at the south end of town that disappointment struck as I was faced with a sign post informing me that I was about to leave Calella. This was Calella? It was no where like how the Rough guide described it. I could not understand what had happened. In any case I spent a little over an hour trying to find the campsite as recommended by the Rough guide “Moby Dick campsite” but, yes you have guessed it, “Moby Dick” failed to surfaced. Not only that, I could not even find an information map in the whole bloody town pointing out the where abouts of any camp sites.

You might very well be thinking at this point that I do a fair amount of complaining and you may be correct in your assumption, however, it is a great annoyance when at the end of a day’s ride, in descending order of pain: your bum, back and legs want to go on strike; and before finding a camp site where it is finally possible for them to give up the ghost for the day you have to become intimately acquainted with the town’s street network. Anyway, I eventually managed to find a site “El Far” stretched out along the side of a steep hill side on a series of platforms come terraces. The design gives the feeling of seclusion on what is a busy camp site, since there are usually only two groups camping on each platform, and the abundance of mature tree growth helps to hide the other tents and caravans.

 That evening I consulted the Rough guide print again to try and discover how I had managed to go so wrong, how I had managed to end up in package holiday land instead of a sleepy little picturesque fishing village. So, I consulted the index. “Calella”, page 762:

“Calella is still just a fishing port…the village’s white washed villas and narrow streets are very attractive…” From what I was experiencing this was very misleading and highly inaccurate. What the hell was going on? After close inspection of the road map it transpired that further up the coast, another 60km or so north, there is a second town called Calella which, I would hazard a guess, bares a remarable resemblance to the “Calella” described in the print of the Rough guide (I had been looking forward to tasting the fresh sea fish paella in the little Catalan fishing port).

 

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