Day 2 — Wednesday 27 April 2011

Vejer de la Frontera – Alcala de los Gazules

This was my first morning, and I spent some time re-packing my bags and regretting having packed so much. During the trip a number of items would be thrown out on the grounds of not having been used, but not yet.

Breakfast this morning set the pattern for most days: bread and cheese and plenty of bottled water before setting out, and then stopping at the first bar I came across for espresso coffee with milk (café con leche) and a toasted baguette and ham (pan tostado). The campsite was as deserted this morning as it had been last night, apart from the French family to whom I waved as I wheeled my bike across the sandy track leading down to the road. I cycled along the main road for a few kilometers until the first turn off onto quieter ways, not that the main road was busy in any case. The thing about cycling in Spain is that it is really hard to get lost. There aren’t many roads to start with, and the sign posting is excellent. Nearly all roads have white lines down the sides and in some cases this leaves room for bicycles, although they aren’t really for bikes, they’re to keep the cars on the hard surface. There is often a steep drop from the tarmac onto a soft shoulder, and fencing is often non-existant.

There was a false sense of progress until shortly before Alcala, which is at the top of a hill and took some puff to get up to. It was boiling hot as I cycled along the main street. There was a restaurant on a terrace above the street and I propped my bike against a wall and walked into blissful air conditioning. Maybe I was foolish but I rarely locked my bike when eating in restaurants. It was so heavy I reckoned no-one in their right mind would run off with it. Coming out of the restaurant into the hot afternoon was a shock, and I struggled out of Alcala looking for the campsite at Patrite, which I eventually found after one or two enquiries in broken Spanish and lots of arm waving down a long lane about five kilometers out of town.

The lady in the office spoke fluent English and I had just about the run of the place. There weren’t many people about but at least it wasn’t deserted. There was hardly any shade so I just pitched against a hedge, little realising that a noisy Spanish family was on the other side that talked into the early hours. I managed to send a text message to Liz and got one in reply, which was reassuring, and wrote up my diary sitting on a wall in the shade of a tree. Behind me there was a high chain link fence and beyond that what appeared to be lumpy pasture round which some young boys were riding horses at random. They were chasing each other and chatting and doing tricks. I was struck by the comparison with lads at home with their skate boards and these boys doing much the same thing but with horses.

There was a lovely swimming pool but I didn’t have the energy. By the time I turned in the sun had gone down and it was cool enough to lie on top of my sleeping bag.

I spent quite a time listening to the Spanish family talking in English to their young children, and I think there was an uncle there who may have either lived in England or was English. It’s difficult to get to the bottom of other people’s relationships only by observation, but quite fascinating all the same. Eventually all was quiet and I climbed into my sleeping bag in the early hours, although it was so warm I left it unzipped.

Liz and Eva would be in Carcares tonight.