03/08 & 04/08 Andorra to Barcelona, Spain
We woke to the sound of rain, the tranquility of the valley shattered by this angry torrent. It had us tent bound for much of the morning, not because of an inherent fear of getting wet but because we knew from experience the misery and graft involved in getting stuff dry when it had been packed wet and left to stew. After too many hours held hostage though we had to throw caution to the wind (and the driving rain for that matter) and just go for it.
“Let’s ride to Barcelona, it’ll be sunny there” I said optimistically. We packed quickly and hit the shimmering wet road. I’d un-packed and re-inserted my waterproof lining, I had a long sleeve top over a T-Shirt and for the first time in a while I’d even taken the time to not only zip up my jacket but firmly button it up too – feeling the altitude, it was a bitterly cold start so I didn’t really care how sweaty I might get later, for the time being the chill was rapping my very resolve. The soggy tarmac proved treacherous but did an amazing job of lifting my spirits regardless and I soon found myself riding more exorbitantly that may have been advisable. We swept back up the sweeping Pyrennean passes and back up into the cloud – this time a dense, freezing covering that afforded us a mere 5-10m view ahead. It was all quite exhilarating for this relative newbie.
Rounding one particular blind hairpin we came face to face with a herd of cattle emerging from the thick fog, almost locking horns/handlebars. They were reluctant to move, seemingly oblivious to our revving and horn blowing, instead standing nonchalantly staring at us with those huge dopy eyes. We had to resort to squeezing the bikes through the smelly bovine gathering feeling certain that they were going to flip out and charge at us at any moment.
Our exit from Andorra was a very different story with a more complex border crossing than on entry. The traffic backed up for over a mile and to be quite frank we’d grown tired of traffic jams as we’d progressed though the few towns that had been the precursor to the border. Frustration getting the better of us we cheekily filtered down the outside of the lengthy queue and pushed in at the front – not very British, I know, but when in Rome… “Nothing to Declare!”
I was quite sorry to leave these beautiful mountains as we swept out of Andorra and eventually in to Spain although I was looking forward to the comfort of seeing the sea once more. Now in Spain my eyes were constantly scanning the horizon for a break in the weather and that much sought after Sol. If the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plains then I can only assume that the plains stretch from the Pyrenees to Barcelona and it doesn’t so much as ‘fall’ but ‘persistently drench’ – it was grim.
We’d formed a vague plan, conscious that overplanning would often lead to disappointment, our intention to save the city for day two of our stay, skirt around the hectic centre and find a base to pitch camp. Like many a best laid plan though things went awry and before too long we found ourselves deeply ensconced in the hectic heart of this massive city battling yet more traffic. It proved an interesting introduction to Barcelona. Finally following signs for La Porto (and with Rob following a Skoda, hand painted like a Camel Dakar car) we worked our way north along the coast to El Masnou where, just shy of Premia de Mar, we found possibly Barcelona’s nearest camp site. Also, coincidentally, quite possibly the hippest and coolest campsite we’d found to date. Absolutely rammed with young student types, hippy travellers and bikers we muscled our bikes through to the few available spots we could find in this random melée of pitches and made camp of our own. By the time we’d had a drink another three tents had pitched up around us and by the following morning another two. We were tripping over guy ropes just to get anywhere – anarchic chaos but a great, fun and chilled atmosphere all the same.
Moroccan hash was being smoked everywhere (we hear later that it’s incredibly cheap and easily accessible in Spain, hence it’s popularity), guys played guitars in the bar, drowning out the stereo in their endeavours to impress the young ladies. Rob got talking to two young British ladies recently graduated from Leeds University, one of which, Natalie, it turned out came from Ashby de la Zouch no less (my home town) – what a small world! They both struck me as very young but their company and easy conversation was a welcome change and animated our moods further. The bar shut at eleven so we attempted an early night after delicately picking our ways back to our crowded little camping spots.
I was up early, buoyed by a bright cloudless sky and a good night’s sleep (eventually and with the aid of ear plugs). The early start affording me a great opportunity to get some much needed laundry done and hung out to dry, albeit rather haphazardly and in any available space in an ever reducing space. I woke Rob a bit later and we spent a lazy morning opting for a dip in the pool in lieu of a shower – the queues for which were now back up around the block. It was hot enough to not even need a towel to dry off so I was confident that my freshly laundered grounds would be dry in no time but I let it out and we jumped on a train into Barcelona. We were a little unsure as to which station to disembark but picked one that looked central enough.
I’d last been to Barcelona many moons ago as a student and now saw the place through very different eyes – sober ones for a start. I suspect that previous visit had focused more on the bars, nightlife and peep shows so I was now, essentially experiencing a new city. Modern, metropolitan and almost cold and foreboding in some parts. We couldn’t really come to Barcelona and not visit La Sagrada Familia, Gaudi’s unfinished cathedral. Although a mecca for tourists it remains a dominant hub to this city and an awe inspiring sight. We’d chosen to forego a map for this excursion, choosing instead to rely on our instincts and sense of adventure – therefore soon finding ourselves lost and making a long walk a lot longer. It did mean that we got to wander through many of the cities streets, intimately getting to know this bustling metropolis.
The cathedral felt like Gaudi had had a million ideas in his life and thrown them all into this one life affirming project. Different parts of the structure strike a stark contrast against each other with adjacent bits sitting awkwardly together at time but somehow creating an amazing 360º work of art. Neither of us felt eager to join the huge crawling queue to climb the towers and see this from the top but the views from bellow are impressive enough if I’m honest, looking up into the gothic darkness as coloured light plays through the stained glass and bounces off the irregularities of the interior. Through the back I was doing just that, lying on a wall looking up at this magnificent creation, absorbing the intricacies of every detail (of which there is a lot), I was lost in a carved harpist, admiring the details in her hands when security bounded over – cuffs, truncheon and all – to move me on. Harrumph.
Clouds were gathering, making it look all the more dramatic. We wandered around the museum marvelling at Gaudi’s insane brilliance. As we left, right on cue, the heavens opened – I bet my clothes back at camp would have just been dry too! The return journey only served to remind me why I hate public transport. Mostly underground then at Arc de Triomph we waited an hour and a half for our train. Plenty of trains came and went, none of which went to El Masnou. The platform was hot, damp and smelly. Packed with soaked and irate tourists and screaming unhappy kids. I sat on the floor and tried to find my ‘happy place’.
Miraculously we found two seats when the train did grace us with it’s presence, sat opposite a chatty Dutchman. His English had a definite US slant to it and he insisted on embelishing every statement with colourful language and colloquialisms, “fcukin’ forget ‘bout it!” He’d just been to extend his return flight date and call his girlfriend to let her know he was staying longer – by all accounts she was not happy, “fcukin’ pished-off man”. My Mum called me whilst I was on the train to his great amusement.
Then we met Gesa. Amongst the myriad of tents that had been awkwardly shoehorned in and around our own little camp was the smallest tent we’d ever seen (pretty much IN the porch of my own tent). At first convinced that it must be somebodies extravagant ‘camp-cupboard’ or pet kennel we were amazed to see a young lady clamber out of it. Curiosity got the better of me and I had to ask how small it folded up and how the hell she slept in such a cramped space? Gesa had been doing her voluntary social services in Madrid, working with handicapped people for a year and was just taking a holiday before returning to her native Northern Germany to start four years of study with a view to becoming a social worker. She could speak English by aged three and now spoke five languages including Spanish and Latin. Like our Dutch friend she considered (rather fortunately) English an international language and could not understand my embarrassment at not speaking anything but. Have we really indoctrinated the world into believing this?
She shared her understanding of the Spanish and showed a wit and intelligence beyond her years. Despite this, I think the fact that she was travelling alone perhaps, I couldn’t help feeling a paternal warmth towards her. Her German family, it transpired, were bike mad – Gesa being the black sheep of the family by being the only one that didn’t ride. Mum, Dad and Sisters ALL riding BIG bikes. We spent a great evening enjoying a few cervezas in the camp bar (although, Gesa was less than impressed with the offering, insisting that Estrella is the ONLY Spanish beer one should drink). We made for a jolly trio.
