July 25, 2010 (continued)
Re-reading my post from this morning, I think that I may have actually fast-forwarded through the stages of mourning. To be perfectly honest, I was still pretty pissed and just a little bit homicidal when we left Globe Backpacker at 8:30 AM this morning.
The good news is that last night (this morning) was the worst part of the day. Apparently, at 8:30 AM on Sunday morning, there isn't a soul awake in all of Exeter, and we pedaled through the deserted city streets with ease. Headed for Tivorton, we followed a river through a low-lying valley. That's right. It was flat. FLAT. FLAAAAAAT... (Isn't that such a pretty word?) And, even though it was flat, it was also pretty, and the next 15 miles slid under our tires quickly, easily, palatably. Through Tivorton, we headed for Brampton. It became clear that other cyclists liked this stretch of road as much as we did, and we saw more than a dozen zipping by on their fancy bicycles.
At 20 miles, we stopped to snack on a little bit of bread, and we couldn't believe how far we had come in just an hour and a half. Feeling optimistic, we cycled on through Brampton, up a few short hills, and into Wiveliscombe at 30 miles. Surrounded by beautiful, gently undulating English countryside (and roads that somehow found a level course), our spirits were increasingly high. Joshua said he like England, and I said summer in England, with its blue skies, green meadows, and bucolic livestock, is bliss. We bought local cheese, bread, and berries for lunch, and then sat in a little landscaped courtyard overlooking the tiny main street of Wiveliscombe. After a desert of chocolate covered flapjacks (our new English favorite), we hopped back on our bikes and steered towards Taunton.
Although the roads into and through Taunton were a bit more busy, they ran generally downhill, and within two hours, we were taking in Taunton's main shopping district. Spying a scarf that I had fancied in another Debenham's window display, I made Joshua stop so we could make a detour through the English department store. Unfortunately, while the scarf had appeared in more than one window display in more than one store, the building did not carry said scarf. This was doubly frustrating, because upon further investigation, the scarf would have cost 15 pounds, the max price Joshua and I had agreed upon prior to the detour. Sadly, the white lacy scarf with tassels eludes me... Don't worry, I'm sure I shall find another.
From Debenhams, Joshua and I went in search of supplies for dinner and found it at another Marks and Spencers. With a bag of stir fry and some more chocolate covered flapjacks strapped to our back pannier, we made our way to the Cedar Mill Farm campsite. Luckily, there was excellent signage, and we found the little farm with ease. Inside the gates, there were a number of old steam cars and huge vats of fermenting cider. A peacock strut across the driveway, shedding azure-eyelid feathers, and the little farmhouse sat beside a field of apple trees.
At reception, no one was home, so we explored the complex and found the section where a couple of other tents had parked. Finding our own little piece of flat ground, we cleared away little green apples and set up camp. For the next couple of hours, I typed while Joshua dozed, and when the air began to cool, Joshua cooked up dinner. Intermittently, our camp-neighbor, a batty Lancashire man with a very thick accent would come over, offer us pilfered cider, and tell us little anecdotes. He always ended his garbled sentences in the phrase, "d'ya know what I mean?" And Joshua and I had no recourse other than to nod our heads, and say yes, we knew what he meant (even though we hadn't the faintest idea, accent or no.).
After dinner, we made a couple more efforts to find the site manager at reception, but the owners were gone. Tired from two days of biking and no sleeping, we went to bed at 8:30 PM.
June 26, 2010
At 7:30 AM, roosters woke us up. We broke down camp, ate breakfast, and rolled out of Cedar Mill Farms within an hour. Just as we were pedaling down the road, the owner of the farm came calling after us, and we paid our 4 pounds to a crotchety man who was convinced that we were trying to jilt him (even while we were paying). Feeling a bit cowed by his bit of stern talking, we pedaled somberly out of town.
After a mile or so, we found a small off-road that Lonely Planet recommended, and we proceeded to take a small detour off the busier roads. It ended up being a fantastic choice. The back roads took us through small little villages and along swift little dips over rivers and around fields. To our left and right, we passed little stone cottages and sweet hobby farms. Blackberries are in full season, so whenever we stopped, I picked a few and ate them.
Just past Athelney, we spotted Burrow Mump, an old tower perched high on a hill (the only high hill for miles). Pulling into the parking lot at its base, we propped up the bikes and hiked up to the top for stunning views picture framed by the old architecture. Pleased with our little pit stop, we trundled on towards Glastonbury. While the roads became increasingly busier, the terrain remained level, and we reached our 25 mile mark at Glastonbury handily. Grabbing some pastries from a local baker, we pedaled up a steep slope past the old Abbey and up to the Tor. Once again, we propped up our bikes and made the steep hike to the top for even better views of our trip to come.
Below us, Glastonbury spread out over a few knolls, and I remarked to Joshua how much I had liked the little town. Glastonbury is the site of England's Woodstock, and judging by the shops in the town center, it has yet to move past the 70s. Dharma, Chakra, Buddha, and Wicca all converge on its quirky main street, and while I was searching for pastries, I had fun looking through the windows of all the New Agey, Hippy Dippy shops. Even on our road up to the Tor, there were plenty of psychedelic murals, suggesting that free love, peace, and a little bit of acid are still alive and well in the streets of Glastonbury.
Already feeling a little bit tired, Joshua warned me that we had about 30 to 35 miles to go to make it to Bath. Feeling fairly assured by our view from the Tor that there was nothing but flat land around us, I said, "let's do it."
I could beleaguer you with the ways that it sucked, but I'll just tell you now - in a nutshell - it sucked. If it's possible to go 30 miles uphill, then we did it. If it's possible to go 30 miles up hill next to traffic speeding by at 60 miles an hour, then we did it. If it's possible that Joshua had a minor panic attack and I almost blew out my knee in the absolute lowest gear, then we did it. At mile 30, Joshua looked back at me, sweaty and pissy, and said, "Bath better fucking be worth it."
At the crest of the last hill, we saw Bath spill out over the valley before us. For the next two miles, we coasted downhill past golden stone buildings. At one junction, we stopped for a break and to find food for dinner. Joshua bought pork pot pies and tortellini for dinner, and when he returned, we decided we were to weary to really investigate Bath. We wanted our campsite. We wanted food. We wanted Advil, and we wanted bed.
Heading out of Bath, we saw a sign that pointed towards the campsite, saying that we had a mile to go. Too bad they're a bunch of no-good liars, and it was actually 3 miles to go, and in those 3 miles there was not one, but two massive hills at 16 percent grade.
When we got to the Newton Mill campsite, it ended up being 10 pounds each just to pitch our tent in a little field surrounded by a bunch of Germans. I don't mean to sound bitter, but really. Poor signage and worse prices? Near our camp, we ran into another couple who had taken the ferry from Holland and biked along toe-paths and canals to Bath. They seemed pretty chipper, and when we mentioned all the hills, they looked confused. Toe-paths it is.
We set up our tent with lightening speed, showered, dressed, and cooked dinner like it was our job, and for our meal's entertainment, we watched 14 German teenagers figure out how to put up 7 tents. It was actually hilarious, and Joshua and I made bets to see who would erect theirs first. For a while, the girls seemed to be winning, but when I looked down at my bowl to scoop another few tortellini into my mouth, Joshua said, "uh oh. She's going in!" That's right, the German girls entered the still partially deflated tent and tried to set it up FROM THE INSIDE. Laughing at the Germans made me feel much better, and for the rest of the evening, I basked in my camping know-how and in my book, Bel Canto.
July 27, 2010
This morning we woke up late to the Germans shouting. I'm not sure what they were saying, but judging by the boy-girl interactions, I'm pretty sure it was a mating call.
We broke camp like pros (just to show 'em how its done), and then we pedaled out, waving goodbye to the eternally smiley couple from Holland. Joshua thought he figured out a short cut into Bath, and we took it. Yup. Apparently, we were like, half a mile from the city center the whole time. Grrr.
Every one's told us that Bath is the Shit, and after our nightmare bike ride yesterday, we were certainly hoping that this would be the truth. It is. Bath looks like a classy English city that's been dipped in honey and then dappled with the most talented street performers known to man. I'm not kidding you: these women were singing OPERA. They were singing ARIAS for change! Men were playing classical music on their violins, and the streets sounded like an orchestra. I may have been dreaming, but I think Bath and Heaven have a lot in common.
It's ok that the Bath Tourist Information Center is a bunch of hogwash, because we found WH Smith, the bookstore, and bought our own map (complete with topographical notations). We headed out of town, but before we really got cruising, we stopped to see the famous Circus and Royal Crescent, two disc-shaped rows with more golden-honey buildings.
Outside of Bath, we made an epic climb, and I was not a happy camper, thinking that this was a sore harbinger of things to come. But when I looked for the next plunging downhill and its subsequent tortuous incline, I found nothing but flat road, high on ridge overlooking the Cotswolds.
It's been pretty much easy riding all day, and from Bath, we toured through more honey-colored villages. One of my favorites was Shipton Moyne, with its classic pub and beautiful old Manors and cottages surrounding. I think I could live there, buy a few sheep, write, and be very happy. In Tetbury, we bought some Onion Bhajis, Couscous, and Fruit, and for the last 15 miles, we coasted downhill into Stroud, and then onto the National Cycle Path 45 where there were no cars, no hills, and sweet glimpses of the canals.
Tonight, we're staying in a tiny village called Nupend, complete with thatched roofs and old churches with beautiful stain glass windows. Our tent site was 5 pounds, but it doesn't have any bathrooms. For fine dining, we headed back to a interstate pit stop to enjoy cheesy chips, a biff, and some free wi-fi.
Hoping all is well with you, my reader, and I've also been meaning to thank everyone for their comments. I write for them, and every time I get a new one, I nudge Joshua in the middle of his reading and tell him I have fans! He is very patient, and so are you, for wading through all of my hastily written typos. I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings, just so I can share it all with you.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Capiliera and Alicante
July 13, 2010
The next morning, we woke up early, wrote Irina a thank you note, and left her a gift of champagne. After another breakfast of pastries, we walked to the bus stop and caught the bus to the train station. The seats and standing room were packed, so the three of us stood squished into a little corner. By the time we arrived at the bus station, we had hardly 15 minutes left before our bus to Capiliera departed, and we ran to be first in the ticket lines. With all three of us in a different line,we had the luxury of picking the fastest one and getting our tickets just in time.
According to Lonely Planet, Capiliera is a quaint little mountain town high in the Sierra Nevada. Although it is very small, Lonely Planet recommends it because it also happens to be one of the best starting points for any mountain hiking. As you can imagine, the bus ride to Capiliera was wrought with all sorts of twists, turns, and switch backs, and once again, I fell straight asleep to avoid the inevitable motion sickness. At one point, the bus came to a screeching halt and every one's gasp woke me up, but the bus driver calmly backed down the narrow road to allow the other bus to pass. Like I said, it's just better to be asleep for bus rides.
When we finally arrived in Capiliera a couple of hours later, I looked to the south and discovered what I had been missing: Capiliera stands high in the mountains, surrounded by cliffs and dry, brushy trees. The streets are cobblestone and all of the buildings are painted white and have strange little chimneys perched on top. The view is... Perfect. For 180 degrees, the mountains tumble down and up into gentler, softer mountain tops, and in the valleys below, mountain streams and rivers churn themselves white in their frantic pace to reach the grey-blue waters of the Meditteranean Sea. The horizon just behind the mountains fades from ocean to air almost imperceptibly, and the effect leaves you believing that both the sky and sea go on forever, or perhaps that they are the same. The 180 degrees above us is craggy and snow-capped, and it seems impossible that tomorrow we will climb the tallest one of them all.
In an effort to do just that, our first stop in Capiliera was the Sierra Nevada Tourist Information Office. In broken Spanish, I explained to the woman behind the desk that we were interested in climbing Mulhacen, and did she know how we might find the bus to get to the drop off point? The woman was very patient and repeated a couple of times that we were to catch the bus here, outside this very office, next morning at 8 AM sharp. It was the only bus that would be going to the drop off point this week.
Feeling very lucky indeed, we went in search of our Hostal Paco Loco. The day before, Irina had helped us book our reservations, and when we arrived, we were all the more thankful for her help. The inn keeper led us to the second floor just above the bar and showed us our three person room for which we would pay 39 euro per night for (13 euro per person). On the opposite end of the room, I spied three doors, and I intuited right away that we had majorly lucked out. The room was spacious and clean, the beds were expertly made and crisp, and the doors... The doors led to a roomy balcony that looked out over Capiliera and the mountains and valleys behind it. As if that didn't make us happy enough, the room also had an en-suite bathroom with a shower and a bidet (not that I know how to use one, but saying that there was one makes me feel somehow classier.).
Pleased as punch, we went in search of a little supermercado for foodstuffs for lunch and dinner, and fortified with bread, veggies, fruit, and cheese, we packed our little day packs and started hiking. The hike out of Capiliera is a steep one, and within minutes all of us were panting. Ashlee, who is easily as fit as the two of us (and probably faster), became very quiet as we hiked. After a while, she said, "I feel kind of weird, like I'm short of breath or something." Joshua and I looked at one another and then thought to ask Ashlee if she had ever been at altitude before. Besides a few car-ride mountain passes, she had not. Both Joshua and I looked forward to sharing the mountains with Ashlee. It's always fun to be with someone who's never been in the mountains before and are seeing them for the first time.
The first time I saw the mountains, I was flying into Colorado with my mom and David. I looked out at the Rockies, and I thought the wrinkly, bumpy land looked weird and almost out of place. When we began driving through them, I got the sense that they were, in fact, a continuation of the very same thing that is usually flat, but they were just way, way, way better. With mountains, there is a sense of anticipation when you come into a valley and begin your ascent. At the summit, you find what you've been waiting for: a vista, a view, a sense of where you would like to go. I feel like I'm suspended between the sky and the earth. I feel like this is what churches were trying to do with echoing, cavernous cathedrals and soaring, stretching spires. I feel like the architects tried and they did a pretty good job, but they never quite got it because, really, it had already been done so perfectly and effortlessly on the top of every mountain.
Ok. So mountains are like a religion, and Joshua and I proselytize with missionary zeal. I think you get the picture.
Our first hike took us through the ghost town of Cebadilla where an old water power plant and hermitage looked more than a little bit creepy in their desolation. Beyond Cebadilla, we began climbing the river valley, and when we reached an open area where we could get to the water, we did so immediately. It was hot.
Perched on some large rocks in the middle of the river, we ate our salt and vinegar chips and dipped our dusty, hot feet in the icy alpine water. Ashlee decided it would be a good idea to play chicken, and the two of us fought it out, taking turns submerging more and more of our bodies for longer and longer. It has been documented that I won, but I am a generous enough winner to admit that Ashlee also submerged her entire body (including her head).
On the way back, we listened to the cicadas singing and the hot, dry air rustle the yellow, brittle grasses and bushes. Past Cebadilla, we once again had a splendiforous view of Capiliera and the mountain towns below, and when we arrived back at our hostal, we rested on our beautiful balcony.
Although the day was almost completely perfect, Ashlee did find a small fly in the ointment: she was unable to use her debit card, and when she tried to call the bank, she found that it was impossible. No. I mean, really. It's freaking impossible to call the US. We tried a hundred times. We bought phone cards. We tried them. We brought them back. We bought more phone cards. We tried them. We tried 10 different country codes. We tried no country codes. We tried international codes. We tried to call from residential phones, from public phones, from pay-as-you-go phones. It didn't work. To make matters worse, Lonely Planet describes - in detail - how to make international phone calls, and we still couldn't figure it out, much to the amusement of a handful of spectators that we soon accrued. Ashlee IS pretty entertaining to watch when she's pissed.
Once we had given up, we retreated back to the bedroom for a cold dinner of supermercado snacks, and we relaxed, reading and writing to the sounds of the bar below. For a nightcap, Ashlee and I wandered down to a little cafe for gelato, and after we had ordered (chocolate ice cream for Ashlee and chocolate dipped raspberry sorbet for me), we sat in the fading light of the street and savored our icy treats. Joshua stayed back because he's seriously considering becoming a vegan after reading Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma. I'll consider it too, but not while I'm in Spain :)
July 14, 2010
Early the next morning, Ashlee, Joshua, and I woke up, got dressed, packed our hiking day packs, and hustled to the bus stop. Outside the Sierra Nevada Tourist Information Office, we found a global assortment of day hikers at all fitness levels. Call me a snob, but it just BOTHERS me when people exercise in their jeans and makeup.
Anyway, after a little bit of waiting around (and let's be honest, sizing up the competition), the small bus arrived. After about 20 of us had boarded, the little bus was nearly full, and Paco, our guide, hopped on with us. As the bus driver made his ascent, Paco took it upon himself to educate our multi-lingual group on the endemic flora and fauna of the Sierra Nevada. I think he also told some dirty jokes, but my Spanish isn't that great, and I certainly didn't want to ask him to repeat himself. At Mirador Trevelez, Paco let us off, and we were treated to a spectacular view of the Sierra Nevadas running into the Mediterranean and far behind, a glimmer of Africa.
From there, we took off on foot. While some were not planning on making the ascent, most of us were, and we walked at the head of the group until Josh looked at his map and directed us in another direction. Nobody followed. After we rounded a corner, we were completely alone, and above tree line, the landscape seemed impossibly big. The trail led us over a couple of snow and scree fields, and Ashlee nervously panted her way across them, certain that we were trying to kill her. On the other side, we found another spectacular view of a dramatic caldera and an alpine lake partially covered in ice. To our right, the mountain rose up at a dramatic, rocky incline, and when we looked at our map again, we realized that we would be climbing directly up the steep scree field. Luckily, after another half mile, we found a path that led us up, and we were not forced to plow our own path. Between grunting and panting, we stopped and turned to look at the ever-widening view below us. At one point, four hook-horned goats scampered down the slope at top speed, and Ashlee tried to catch their descent on her camera.
After nearly an hour of climbing, we finally made it to the top where everyone was waiting. I felt like a complete fool, but Ashlee said that - for all they knew - we had taken the more bad-ass scenic route. At the summit of the highest peak in all of Spain, Joshua, Ashlee, and I ate the largest tomato known to man and some delicious sweet and sour gummy candies. Once we had finished stuffing our tummies, we climbed the Spanish Geographical Marker for a photo op and some more oohing and aaahing over the forever and ever vista.
On our way back down, we got lost again, and ended up scrambling down a steep, rocky slope to the path 400 meters below. At one point, I began crab-crawling on all fours, and I think even though we were a little ticked that we again looked like total outdoor hiking fools, we had a lot of fun. (One creepy note: we definitely saw large bits and pieces of a burnt plane hull littering the side of the mountain.)
Once the three of us rejoined the trail, we cruised. Paco had told all of us to just keep walking past the drop off point so that we wouldn't have to wait and get cold, and so we walked a good couple of miles past our starting point before the bus passed us. Ashlee looked at me, frantic, wondering if they hadn't seen us, and I reassured her, saying that I seen Paco wave at us, and besides, we were above treeline, OF COURSE they saw us (to be perfectly honest I was reassuring myself, too). Thankfully, I was right, and about 20 minutes later, the bus stopped on its way back down. Not that everything is a race or anything, but we totally toasted our competition.
On the way back down, Paco told a couple more dirty jokes and picked on Ashlee, but all of us were so tired, we could barely put up the effort to laugh. Back in Capiliera, the three of us took turns showering, and when we were done, we went to a nearby Taberna to have dinner, drink a pitcher of Sangria, and play cards. While Joshua ate grilled chicken, Ashlee and I feasted on enormous fillets of swordfish which were AMAZING. Once we had finished eating, we entered a complete food coma and decided to call it a day. And that, my friends, was my favorite day in Spain.
July 15, 2010
On our last day in Capiliera, we did practically nothing. We slept in, ate bread, fruit, and vegetables, and napped a little more. Joshua read and contemplated various forms of veganism, Ashlee fell asleep reading, and I tried to catch up on my writing.
Later in the afternoon, Ashlee and I went on a little walk through the village, and we wandered through the narrow, windy, and steep cobblestone streets. Even up here in the cooler mountains, everybody takes siesta, and the entire village was resting peacefully. On one of the lowest streets in the village, we found a tiny little art and tea shop with beautiful little tables set up in cozy spaces with absolutely stunning views. The woman tending the shop wore a flowy white dress, and the sound of the old berber irrigation that runs through the whole village made the whole place seem otherworldly (think paradise in the Lord of the Rings).
Back at the hostal, the three of us changed into our running clothes and began running the path we had walked two days before. While Ashlee and I sweated our way to Cebadilla and back, Joshua turned his run into a loop. Back at Capiliera, Ashlee and I taught each other our favorite calisthenics and sweated it out in a little park with perfect scenery. The three of us reunited again at the hostal, and once we had showered, Joshua and I went out to have tea at the little art shop while Ashlee finished getting ready.
Tea in southern Spain is usually Moorish, and the teapots are lovely little silver numbers with intricate detailing. We sipped on our mint infusion and watched the sun set over the hills, the Meditteranean, and Africa. Once the sun had set and the moon had risen, we went back and found Ashlee. Although we had planned to eat at another Arab-infusion restaurant, Ashlee had met up with Paco, and he had invited us to come and see him play guitar at a little Taberna where he and his friends like to drink. At the Taberna, we were the only foreigners, and when we asked the bartender what he would recommend off his tapas menu, he told us everything. If he doesn't like it, he doesn't put it on his menu.
Amen. They were the best tapas we had in Spain. We had rabbit stewed in whiskey, pheasant braised in something, and something else that I can't remember, save for the extreme gastric pleasure it brought me. We ate everything. We drank wine and beer, and we were happy. Back at the bar, we somehow communicated with Paco and his friends, and we all became amigos. One woman taught me briefly how to flamenco, and everyone had fun watching the American girl try to stomp her feet and twitch her skirt with style. At one point, Paco took out his guitar and tried to get Ashlee to sing, and everyone laughed when I fed her the line, "No canto" (I don't sing.) It was a ton of fun, and we had some sort of traditional sweet liquor before we all reluctantly said goodbye and rolled into bed for our early date with a bus ride tomorrow.
July 16, 2010
Bright and early the next morning, we wiped the sleep from our eyes, hefted our packs onto our backs, and headed out to the bus stop. From Capiliera, we returned to Granada for another connecting bus ride to Alicante. Although our bus driver to Alicante seemed more serious about stopping for rest breaks than he was about actually driving, we eventually arrived in Alicante at about 4 PM. I pretty much slept the whole way there, so I can tell you little else :)
Once we arrived in Alicante, we took out the Lonely Planet and navigated our way to the Hostal were we had made reservations. Hostal Milagrosa was centrally located less than a five minute walk from the beach, next to the old historic cathedral, and just below the Alicante alcazaba. Fortunately, we stayed in the very nicest part of the city, because, as our new friends had told us the night before, Alicante is ugly. It's modern and has little of the old-world European-Arabian flavor that Sevilla, Cordoba, Granada, and Capiliera have. The little square where our hostal was located was very nice though, and we were all looking forward to our air conditioned private rooms.
After we settled into our rooms, we changed into our swimsuits and headed to the beach. Although the sand was a pretty pale shade and the water was startlingly blue, the place was jam-packed with tourists. At the boardwalk, we ran into Eddie and Tim, Ashlee's friends from college, and we made plans to meet up later on the rooftop terrace at the hostal. After wading in the water for a little bit, we made our way back to the hostal to shower and get dressed.
The top of Hostal Milagrosa is an open-air dining room, and the night we arrived, they were serving free paella, the traditional dish of Alicante. While everyone waited for the Paella to cook, we met the crew. There was a couple from California, two sisters from San Jose, Eddie from Minnesota, Tim from Germany, and a few other travelers from Austria, Italy, Norway, and France. We played spoons for a little while, and after it became apparent that no one other than Joshua would ever win at that, we moved on to Sangria and cigarettes. While everyone smoked, drank, and talked, the sun set and the Paella was served.
At midnight, Joshua and I called it a night, and Ashlee went out with Eddie and Tim to "sample the frenetic nightlife" (as Lonely Planet recommends).
July 17, 2010
The next morning, Joshua and I awoke to the loud tolling of the cathedral bells outside our window. Downstairs, we gathered information on how to visit the town of Torrevieja, and then we woke up Ashlee. The poor girl had just barely gone to bed by 8 AM, but she was determined to view the beaches and pink and emerald lagoons of Torrevieja.
After we walked back to the bus station, we caught a smaller bus that stopped at multiple destinations down the coast. After an hour, we got off at our stop and headed for the beach. One thing I will say about Torrevieja is that it made me appreciate Alicante a little bit more. In comparison to the lifeless, dull apartment buildings and flavorless streets of Torrevieja, Alicante is a regular hotbed of beauty and culture. We stayed on the beach for a couple of hours, occasionally going for a dip in the crowded waters to cool off, and when we got hungry, we packed up and wandered forever looking for an acceptable meal. Although the meal was overpriced and our fish salad had way too much mayonnaise, the shrimp in garlic butter was pretty delectable, and watching Joshua eat his fried octopus was pretty hilarious (he had no idea what he was ordering).
Finished eating, we went in search of the pink and emerald lagoons only to find that they would require a half day's walk to reach. Scrapping that idea, we walked along the lackluster and somewhat polluted coast, trying to enjoy the sea-salt air and the crashing waves. At one point, Ashlee tried to get us to go cliff diving, but if you were wondering where the buck stops, it's there. I do not go plunging into uncertain waters. I don't care if the locals are doing it. I'm not.
On our way back to the bus station, Ashlee searched for the perfect dress, but like the rest of our day, it evaded her. At the bus station, we discovered that the bus wouldn't arrive for another hour, so Ashlee and I went in search of a supermercado to gather items for dinner. At least in this, we were successful, and after we had made our way back to the hostal that night, we showered, changed, and made a fabulous pasta meal (all credits go to Ashlee, who is an absolute MATRON in the kitchen).
The night before, Ashlee had bought a bottle of wine and another of tequila to aid in our true experience of Spanish night life, and we had yet to touch either. Never ones to waste, we opened both, and within the next two hours, they were gone. I'm not saying that we drank all of it between the three of us, but I'm not saying that we didn't. I guess what I'm saying is, I'm not really sure what happened. It's kind of a blur.
I do know this: at some point, we left the hostal. At another, I was dancing, and I must have been dancing well, because people thought I knew how to flamenco. Joshua and I danced. Ashlee and I danced (to All the Single Ladies?). We went to a club, to another club, and then an outdoor bar? I drank lots of water, and I'm pretty sure that's the only reason I did not vomit. At 4 (or 5?) AM, Joshua and I went back to the hostal to sleep it off.
It might not seem possible, but Ashlee had an even wilder night that we did. She didn't get to bed until 8:30, and before she did, she managed to swim in ocean, watch the sunrise, and eat McDonalds in a foreign country (all good goals well accomplished).
July 18, 2010
The next morning (or should I say afternoon?), Joshua and I rolled out of bed feeling... Ok. Not great, but not too bad either. For drinking more than I've ever drunk before (and being drunker than I've every been before), I'm pretty amazed that I did not vomit. I feel pretty proud of myself (pat on the back).
To begin, we woke Ashlee to see if she would like to walk about the city with us and climb the Alcazaba. She did not. Leaving Ashlee to her bed, we wandered in search of a post office, and then - realizing that it was Sunday - gave up. At a little joint, we ate sandwiches to absorb the last of the alcohol, and refortified, we went to climb the Alcazaba.
After we had returned from Torrevieja the night before, I had run up the stairs of the Alcazaba to see the night lights of Alicante. The run had taken me a full fifteen minutes to the top. Today, in the light of day, the walk took us nearly an hour, but the view was just as breath-taking. We could see all of the city, the hills off in the distance, and the torquise-blue ocean below. The water looked very enticing indeed, and we resolved to immerse ourselves as soon as possible.
Taking photos of the copious graffiti on our way down, we made a stop for our swim suits and Ashlee at the hostal, and then we headed for the beach. Joshua and I played in the waves while Ashlee sunbathed, and in all, we decided Alicante wasn't so bad.
For our last night in Spain, we made corn and avocado relish and fried eggplant. The eggplant was a bit too oily, but the relish was delicious, and we ate the whole saucepan between the three of us. With our tummies full, we went back to our rooms to rest and digest in the air conditioning, and after night fell, we went for a last walk through the streets of Spain. At a heladoria, we stopped for cups of ice cream and sorbet (respectively), and then we idled the last few blocks, slowly savoring our after-dinner sweet and listening to accordion music.
At 11 o'clock, we went to bed. Tomorrow we leave for London.
July 19, 2010
At 5 AM, we saddled up and hopped a taxi to the airport. The flight was completely full, so we split up and sat apart, and when we arrived in London, we hustled through immigration, customs, and the baggage claim to see Ashlee safely off on the National Express bus to Heathrow where she would catch her next flight to Rejkavik and then to Minneapolis. We cut it very close, and I was worried for the rest of the day that she wouldn't make it to Heathrow in time for her flight (she did, just barely).
Our goodbyes were suitably European, with a kiss on each cheek and well-wishes of a bon voyage. I feel impossibly lucky to have been able to travel with Ashlee in Europe. It's the stuff that high school friends dream of, and we did it. Kudos to Ashlee for beginning her life as a traveler and falling in love with mountains. I'm so glad we were able to share it all on this trip, and I think we may have found a new backpacking buddy, too :)
Back to the two of us, we went back into the airport to buy train tickets to London Bridge and then to Charlton Station. At 1 PM, Joshua and I showed up at the Naylor-Roll residence. Everyone was at school, but it was just as well, because Joshua had to reassemble our bikes and we had to pack our panniers for the next leg of the trip: Lands End to John O'Groats! A bike trip from the Southwestern most corner to the Northeastern most corner of Great Britain. Our other errand involved finding a camping store where we could purchase a camp stove and light weight cookware, and with the help of Google maps, we biked 3 miles through outer-city London to get there. NOT FUN. My initiation to driving and cycling on the left was absolutely terrifying: rather than simply think, "oh! Everything is opposite!" I thought, "holy shit! Where is the next car going to come from?!" as I wildly wipped my head left and right and right and left and then back again.
In the end, we made it there safely, and with our stove and cookware purchased, we headed back to the Naylor-Rolls. By the time we arrived back at the house, nearly everyone was home. Joshua and I briefly forayed out again for a little jog and to pick up some foodstuffs for dinner, but by 7:30, everyone was back. We spent the evening eating chicken from the grill and salad, talking about Spain and biking, and the travels to come. When the light fell, we all said goodbye, and Joshua and I stayed up a bit longer to finish packing.
Tomorrow we will bike!
The next morning, we woke up early, wrote Irina a thank you note, and left her a gift of champagne. After another breakfast of pastries, we walked to the bus stop and caught the bus to the train station. The seats and standing room were packed, so the three of us stood squished into a little corner. By the time we arrived at the bus station, we had hardly 15 minutes left before our bus to Capiliera departed, and we ran to be first in the ticket lines. With all three of us in a different line,we had the luxury of picking the fastest one and getting our tickets just in time.
According to Lonely Planet, Capiliera is a quaint little mountain town high in the Sierra Nevada. Although it is very small, Lonely Planet recommends it because it also happens to be one of the best starting points for any mountain hiking. As you can imagine, the bus ride to Capiliera was wrought with all sorts of twists, turns, and switch backs, and once again, I fell straight asleep to avoid the inevitable motion sickness. At one point, the bus came to a screeching halt and every one's gasp woke me up, but the bus driver calmly backed down the narrow road to allow the other bus to pass. Like I said, it's just better to be asleep for bus rides.
When we finally arrived in Capiliera a couple of hours later, I looked to the south and discovered what I had been missing: Capiliera stands high in the mountains, surrounded by cliffs and dry, brushy trees. The streets are cobblestone and all of the buildings are painted white and have strange little chimneys perched on top. The view is... Perfect. For 180 degrees, the mountains tumble down and up into gentler, softer mountain tops, and in the valleys below, mountain streams and rivers churn themselves white in their frantic pace to reach the grey-blue waters of the Meditteranean Sea. The horizon just behind the mountains fades from ocean to air almost imperceptibly, and the effect leaves you believing that both the sky and sea go on forever, or perhaps that they are the same. The 180 degrees above us is craggy and snow-capped, and it seems impossible that tomorrow we will climb the tallest one of them all.
In an effort to do just that, our first stop in Capiliera was the Sierra Nevada Tourist Information Office. In broken Spanish, I explained to the woman behind the desk that we were interested in climbing Mulhacen, and did she know how we might find the bus to get to the drop off point? The woman was very patient and repeated a couple of times that we were to catch the bus here, outside this very office, next morning at 8 AM sharp. It was the only bus that would be going to the drop off point this week.
Feeling very lucky indeed, we went in search of our Hostal Paco Loco. The day before, Irina had helped us book our reservations, and when we arrived, we were all the more thankful for her help. The inn keeper led us to the second floor just above the bar and showed us our three person room for which we would pay 39 euro per night for (13 euro per person). On the opposite end of the room, I spied three doors, and I intuited right away that we had majorly lucked out. The room was spacious and clean, the beds were expertly made and crisp, and the doors... The doors led to a roomy balcony that looked out over Capiliera and the mountains and valleys behind it. As if that didn't make us happy enough, the room also had an en-suite bathroom with a shower and a bidet (not that I know how to use one, but saying that there was one makes me feel somehow classier.).
Pleased as punch, we went in search of a little supermercado for foodstuffs for lunch and dinner, and fortified with bread, veggies, fruit, and cheese, we packed our little day packs and started hiking. The hike out of Capiliera is a steep one, and within minutes all of us were panting. Ashlee, who is easily as fit as the two of us (and probably faster), became very quiet as we hiked. After a while, she said, "I feel kind of weird, like I'm short of breath or something." Joshua and I looked at one another and then thought to ask Ashlee if she had ever been at altitude before. Besides a few car-ride mountain passes, she had not. Both Joshua and I looked forward to sharing the mountains with Ashlee. It's always fun to be with someone who's never been in the mountains before and are seeing them for the first time.
The first time I saw the mountains, I was flying into Colorado with my mom and David. I looked out at the Rockies, and I thought the wrinkly, bumpy land looked weird and almost out of place. When we began driving through them, I got the sense that they were, in fact, a continuation of the very same thing that is usually flat, but they were just way, way, way better. With mountains, there is a sense of anticipation when you come into a valley and begin your ascent. At the summit, you find what you've been waiting for: a vista, a view, a sense of where you would like to go. I feel like I'm suspended between the sky and the earth. I feel like this is what churches were trying to do with echoing, cavernous cathedrals and soaring, stretching spires. I feel like the architects tried and they did a pretty good job, but they never quite got it because, really, it had already been done so perfectly and effortlessly on the top of every mountain.
Ok. So mountains are like a religion, and Joshua and I proselytize with missionary zeal. I think you get the picture.
Our first hike took us through the ghost town of Cebadilla where an old water power plant and hermitage looked more than a little bit creepy in their desolation. Beyond Cebadilla, we began climbing the river valley, and when we reached an open area where we could get to the water, we did so immediately. It was hot.
Perched on some large rocks in the middle of the river, we ate our salt and vinegar chips and dipped our dusty, hot feet in the icy alpine water. Ashlee decided it would be a good idea to play chicken, and the two of us fought it out, taking turns submerging more and more of our bodies for longer and longer. It has been documented that I won, but I am a generous enough winner to admit that Ashlee also submerged her entire body (including her head).
On the way back, we listened to the cicadas singing and the hot, dry air rustle the yellow, brittle grasses and bushes. Past Cebadilla, we once again had a splendiforous view of Capiliera and the mountain towns below, and when we arrived back at our hostal, we rested on our beautiful balcony.
Although the day was almost completely perfect, Ashlee did find a small fly in the ointment: she was unable to use her debit card, and when she tried to call the bank, she found that it was impossible. No. I mean, really. It's freaking impossible to call the US. We tried a hundred times. We bought phone cards. We tried them. We brought them back. We bought more phone cards. We tried them. We tried 10 different country codes. We tried no country codes. We tried international codes. We tried to call from residential phones, from public phones, from pay-as-you-go phones. It didn't work. To make matters worse, Lonely Planet describes - in detail - how to make international phone calls, and we still couldn't figure it out, much to the amusement of a handful of spectators that we soon accrued. Ashlee IS pretty entertaining to watch when she's pissed.
Once we had given up, we retreated back to the bedroom for a cold dinner of supermercado snacks, and we relaxed, reading and writing to the sounds of the bar below. For a nightcap, Ashlee and I wandered down to a little cafe for gelato, and after we had ordered (chocolate ice cream for Ashlee and chocolate dipped raspberry sorbet for me), we sat in the fading light of the street and savored our icy treats. Joshua stayed back because he's seriously considering becoming a vegan after reading Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma. I'll consider it too, but not while I'm in Spain :)
July 14, 2010
Early the next morning, Ashlee, Joshua, and I woke up, got dressed, packed our hiking day packs, and hustled to the bus stop. Outside the Sierra Nevada Tourist Information Office, we found a global assortment of day hikers at all fitness levels. Call me a snob, but it just BOTHERS me when people exercise in their jeans and makeup.
Anyway, after a little bit of waiting around (and let's be honest, sizing up the competition), the small bus arrived. After about 20 of us had boarded, the little bus was nearly full, and Paco, our guide, hopped on with us. As the bus driver made his ascent, Paco took it upon himself to educate our multi-lingual group on the endemic flora and fauna of the Sierra Nevada. I think he also told some dirty jokes, but my Spanish isn't that great, and I certainly didn't want to ask him to repeat himself. At Mirador Trevelez, Paco let us off, and we were treated to a spectacular view of the Sierra Nevadas running into the Mediterranean and far behind, a glimmer of Africa.
From there, we took off on foot. While some were not planning on making the ascent, most of us were, and we walked at the head of the group until Josh looked at his map and directed us in another direction. Nobody followed. After we rounded a corner, we were completely alone, and above tree line, the landscape seemed impossibly big. The trail led us over a couple of snow and scree fields, and Ashlee nervously panted her way across them, certain that we were trying to kill her. On the other side, we found another spectacular view of a dramatic caldera and an alpine lake partially covered in ice. To our right, the mountain rose up at a dramatic, rocky incline, and when we looked at our map again, we realized that we would be climbing directly up the steep scree field. Luckily, after another half mile, we found a path that led us up, and we were not forced to plow our own path. Between grunting and panting, we stopped and turned to look at the ever-widening view below us. At one point, four hook-horned goats scampered down the slope at top speed, and Ashlee tried to catch their descent on her camera.
After nearly an hour of climbing, we finally made it to the top where everyone was waiting. I felt like a complete fool, but Ashlee said that - for all they knew - we had taken the more bad-ass scenic route. At the summit of the highest peak in all of Spain, Joshua, Ashlee, and I ate the largest tomato known to man and some delicious sweet and sour gummy candies. Once we had finished stuffing our tummies, we climbed the Spanish Geographical Marker for a photo op and some more oohing and aaahing over the forever and ever vista.
On our way back down, we got lost again, and ended up scrambling down a steep, rocky slope to the path 400 meters below. At one point, I began crab-crawling on all fours, and I think even though we were a little ticked that we again looked like total outdoor hiking fools, we had a lot of fun. (One creepy note: we definitely saw large bits and pieces of a burnt plane hull littering the side of the mountain.)
Once the three of us rejoined the trail, we cruised. Paco had told all of us to just keep walking past the drop off point so that we wouldn't have to wait and get cold, and so we walked a good couple of miles past our starting point before the bus passed us. Ashlee looked at me, frantic, wondering if they hadn't seen us, and I reassured her, saying that I seen Paco wave at us, and besides, we were above treeline, OF COURSE they saw us (to be perfectly honest I was reassuring myself, too). Thankfully, I was right, and about 20 minutes later, the bus stopped on its way back down. Not that everything is a race or anything, but we totally toasted our competition.
On the way back down, Paco told a couple more dirty jokes and picked on Ashlee, but all of us were so tired, we could barely put up the effort to laugh. Back in Capiliera, the three of us took turns showering, and when we were done, we went to a nearby Taberna to have dinner, drink a pitcher of Sangria, and play cards. While Joshua ate grilled chicken, Ashlee and I feasted on enormous fillets of swordfish which were AMAZING. Once we had finished eating, we entered a complete food coma and decided to call it a day. And that, my friends, was my favorite day in Spain.
July 15, 2010
On our last day in Capiliera, we did practically nothing. We slept in, ate bread, fruit, and vegetables, and napped a little more. Joshua read and contemplated various forms of veganism, Ashlee fell asleep reading, and I tried to catch up on my writing.
Later in the afternoon, Ashlee and I went on a little walk through the village, and we wandered through the narrow, windy, and steep cobblestone streets. Even up here in the cooler mountains, everybody takes siesta, and the entire village was resting peacefully. On one of the lowest streets in the village, we found a tiny little art and tea shop with beautiful little tables set up in cozy spaces with absolutely stunning views. The woman tending the shop wore a flowy white dress, and the sound of the old berber irrigation that runs through the whole village made the whole place seem otherworldly (think paradise in the Lord of the Rings).
Back at the hostal, the three of us changed into our running clothes and began running the path we had walked two days before. While Ashlee and I sweated our way to Cebadilla and back, Joshua turned his run into a loop. Back at Capiliera, Ashlee and I taught each other our favorite calisthenics and sweated it out in a little park with perfect scenery. The three of us reunited again at the hostal, and once we had showered, Joshua and I went out to have tea at the little art shop while Ashlee finished getting ready.
Tea in southern Spain is usually Moorish, and the teapots are lovely little silver numbers with intricate detailing. We sipped on our mint infusion and watched the sun set over the hills, the Meditteranean, and Africa. Once the sun had set and the moon had risen, we went back and found Ashlee. Although we had planned to eat at another Arab-infusion restaurant, Ashlee had met up with Paco, and he had invited us to come and see him play guitar at a little Taberna where he and his friends like to drink. At the Taberna, we were the only foreigners, and when we asked the bartender what he would recommend off his tapas menu, he told us everything. If he doesn't like it, he doesn't put it on his menu.
Amen. They were the best tapas we had in Spain. We had rabbit stewed in whiskey, pheasant braised in something, and something else that I can't remember, save for the extreme gastric pleasure it brought me. We ate everything. We drank wine and beer, and we were happy. Back at the bar, we somehow communicated with Paco and his friends, and we all became amigos. One woman taught me briefly how to flamenco, and everyone had fun watching the American girl try to stomp her feet and twitch her skirt with style. At one point, Paco took out his guitar and tried to get Ashlee to sing, and everyone laughed when I fed her the line, "No canto" (I don't sing.) It was a ton of fun, and we had some sort of traditional sweet liquor before we all reluctantly said goodbye and rolled into bed for our early date with a bus ride tomorrow.
July 16, 2010
Bright and early the next morning, we wiped the sleep from our eyes, hefted our packs onto our backs, and headed out to the bus stop. From Capiliera, we returned to Granada for another connecting bus ride to Alicante. Although our bus driver to Alicante seemed more serious about stopping for rest breaks than he was about actually driving, we eventually arrived in Alicante at about 4 PM. I pretty much slept the whole way there, so I can tell you little else :)
Once we arrived in Alicante, we took out the Lonely Planet and navigated our way to the Hostal were we had made reservations. Hostal Milagrosa was centrally located less than a five minute walk from the beach, next to the old historic cathedral, and just below the Alicante alcazaba. Fortunately, we stayed in the very nicest part of the city, because, as our new friends had told us the night before, Alicante is ugly. It's modern and has little of the old-world European-Arabian flavor that Sevilla, Cordoba, Granada, and Capiliera have. The little square where our hostal was located was very nice though, and we were all looking forward to our air conditioned private rooms.
After we settled into our rooms, we changed into our swimsuits and headed to the beach. Although the sand was a pretty pale shade and the water was startlingly blue, the place was jam-packed with tourists. At the boardwalk, we ran into Eddie and Tim, Ashlee's friends from college, and we made plans to meet up later on the rooftop terrace at the hostal. After wading in the water for a little bit, we made our way back to the hostal to shower and get dressed.
The top of Hostal Milagrosa is an open-air dining room, and the night we arrived, they were serving free paella, the traditional dish of Alicante. While everyone waited for the Paella to cook, we met the crew. There was a couple from California, two sisters from San Jose, Eddie from Minnesota, Tim from Germany, and a few other travelers from Austria, Italy, Norway, and France. We played spoons for a little while, and after it became apparent that no one other than Joshua would ever win at that, we moved on to Sangria and cigarettes. While everyone smoked, drank, and talked, the sun set and the Paella was served.
At midnight, Joshua and I called it a night, and Ashlee went out with Eddie and Tim to "sample the frenetic nightlife" (as Lonely Planet recommends).
July 17, 2010
The next morning, Joshua and I awoke to the loud tolling of the cathedral bells outside our window. Downstairs, we gathered information on how to visit the town of Torrevieja, and then we woke up Ashlee. The poor girl had just barely gone to bed by 8 AM, but she was determined to view the beaches and pink and emerald lagoons of Torrevieja.
After we walked back to the bus station, we caught a smaller bus that stopped at multiple destinations down the coast. After an hour, we got off at our stop and headed for the beach. One thing I will say about Torrevieja is that it made me appreciate Alicante a little bit more. In comparison to the lifeless, dull apartment buildings and flavorless streets of Torrevieja, Alicante is a regular hotbed of beauty and culture. We stayed on the beach for a couple of hours, occasionally going for a dip in the crowded waters to cool off, and when we got hungry, we packed up and wandered forever looking for an acceptable meal. Although the meal was overpriced and our fish salad had way too much mayonnaise, the shrimp in garlic butter was pretty delectable, and watching Joshua eat his fried octopus was pretty hilarious (he had no idea what he was ordering).
Finished eating, we went in search of the pink and emerald lagoons only to find that they would require a half day's walk to reach. Scrapping that idea, we walked along the lackluster and somewhat polluted coast, trying to enjoy the sea-salt air and the crashing waves. At one point, Ashlee tried to get us to go cliff diving, but if you were wondering where the buck stops, it's there. I do not go plunging into uncertain waters. I don't care if the locals are doing it. I'm not.
On our way back to the bus station, Ashlee searched for the perfect dress, but like the rest of our day, it evaded her. At the bus station, we discovered that the bus wouldn't arrive for another hour, so Ashlee and I went in search of a supermercado to gather items for dinner. At least in this, we were successful, and after we had made our way back to the hostal that night, we showered, changed, and made a fabulous pasta meal (all credits go to Ashlee, who is an absolute MATRON in the kitchen).
The night before, Ashlee had bought a bottle of wine and another of tequila to aid in our true experience of Spanish night life, and we had yet to touch either. Never ones to waste, we opened both, and within the next two hours, they were gone. I'm not saying that we drank all of it between the three of us, but I'm not saying that we didn't. I guess what I'm saying is, I'm not really sure what happened. It's kind of a blur.
I do know this: at some point, we left the hostal. At another, I was dancing, and I must have been dancing well, because people thought I knew how to flamenco. Joshua and I danced. Ashlee and I danced (to All the Single Ladies?). We went to a club, to another club, and then an outdoor bar? I drank lots of water, and I'm pretty sure that's the only reason I did not vomit. At 4 (or 5?) AM, Joshua and I went back to the hostal to sleep it off.
It might not seem possible, but Ashlee had an even wilder night that we did. She didn't get to bed until 8:30, and before she did, she managed to swim in ocean, watch the sunrise, and eat McDonalds in a foreign country (all good goals well accomplished).
July 18, 2010
The next morning (or should I say afternoon?), Joshua and I rolled out of bed feeling... Ok. Not great, but not too bad either. For drinking more than I've ever drunk before (and being drunker than I've every been before), I'm pretty amazed that I did not vomit. I feel pretty proud of myself (pat on the back).
To begin, we woke Ashlee to see if she would like to walk about the city with us and climb the Alcazaba. She did not. Leaving Ashlee to her bed, we wandered in search of a post office, and then - realizing that it was Sunday - gave up. At a little joint, we ate sandwiches to absorb the last of the alcohol, and refortified, we went to climb the Alcazaba.
After we had returned from Torrevieja the night before, I had run up the stairs of the Alcazaba to see the night lights of Alicante. The run had taken me a full fifteen minutes to the top. Today, in the light of day, the walk took us nearly an hour, but the view was just as breath-taking. We could see all of the city, the hills off in the distance, and the torquise-blue ocean below. The water looked very enticing indeed, and we resolved to immerse ourselves as soon as possible.
Taking photos of the copious graffiti on our way down, we made a stop for our swim suits and Ashlee at the hostal, and then we headed for the beach. Joshua and I played in the waves while Ashlee sunbathed, and in all, we decided Alicante wasn't so bad.
For our last night in Spain, we made corn and avocado relish and fried eggplant. The eggplant was a bit too oily, but the relish was delicious, and we ate the whole saucepan between the three of us. With our tummies full, we went back to our rooms to rest and digest in the air conditioning, and after night fell, we went for a last walk through the streets of Spain. At a heladoria, we stopped for cups of ice cream and sorbet (respectively), and then we idled the last few blocks, slowly savoring our after-dinner sweet and listening to accordion music.
At 11 o'clock, we went to bed. Tomorrow we leave for London.
July 19, 2010
At 5 AM, we saddled up and hopped a taxi to the airport. The flight was completely full, so we split up and sat apart, and when we arrived in London, we hustled through immigration, customs, and the baggage claim to see Ashlee safely off on the National Express bus to Heathrow where she would catch her next flight to Rejkavik and then to Minneapolis. We cut it very close, and I was worried for the rest of the day that she wouldn't make it to Heathrow in time for her flight (she did, just barely).
Our goodbyes were suitably European, with a kiss on each cheek and well-wishes of a bon voyage. I feel impossibly lucky to have been able to travel with Ashlee in Europe. It's the stuff that high school friends dream of, and we did it. Kudos to Ashlee for beginning her life as a traveler and falling in love with mountains. I'm so glad we were able to share it all on this trip, and I think we may have found a new backpacking buddy, too :)
Back to the two of us, we went back into the airport to buy train tickets to London Bridge and then to Charlton Station. At 1 PM, Joshua and I showed up at the Naylor-Roll residence. Everyone was at school, but it was just as well, because Joshua had to reassemble our bikes and we had to pack our panniers for the next leg of the trip: Lands End to John O'Groats! A bike trip from the Southwestern most corner to the Northeastern most corner of Great Britain. Our other errand involved finding a camping store where we could purchase a camp stove and light weight cookware, and with the help of Google maps, we biked 3 miles through outer-city London to get there. NOT FUN. My initiation to driving and cycling on the left was absolutely terrifying: rather than simply think, "oh! Everything is opposite!" I thought, "holy shit! Where is the next car going to come from?!" as I wildly wipped my head left and right and right and left and then back again.
In the end, we made it there safely, and with our stove and cookware purchased, we headed back to the Naylor-Rolls. By the time we arrived back at the house, nearly everyone was home. Joshua and I briefly forayed out again for a little jog and to pick up some foodstuffs for dinner, but by 7:30, everyone was back. We spent the evening eating chicken from the grill and salad, talking about Spain and biking, and the travels to come. When the light fell, we all said goodbye, and Joshua and I stayed up a bit longer to finish packing.
Tomorrow we will bike!
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Photos from Ireland and Spain
Gettin' our groove on in Alicante.
Ashlee, Joshua, and me on top of Mulhacen.
Ashlee and I eating the biggest tomato ever on top of Mulhacen.
The Alhambra.
Ashlee and me celebrating. Spain won!
Ashlee's photo of Ellie in Casa Al-Andaluz.
Joshua and Ellie in the Jewish Quarter.
La Mezquita.
View of the Old Roman Bridge from Torre Calahorra in Cordoba. (Ashlee's got mad photo-taking skills!)
Ashlee's photo of me running up the boardwalk on our run over Glendalogh.
Gettin' drunk off wine in Glendalogh.
Joshua and me standing on a bridge. Day 2 of the Wicklow Way.
Joshua and me walking down the Wicklow Way.
Joshua and me at a pub in Enniskerry.
Day 1 of the Wicklow Way.
Joshua and me at Gravity Bar in the Guinness Brewery. Dublin behind us.
Dublin street art.
Joshua and Ashlee trying to figure out where we are in Dublin.
Photos from England
Joshua's lovely photo of Henry Moore's piece.
English roses in Grandma Vivienne's garden.
Ellie, Auntie Trudi, and Grandma Vivienne.
Joshua sitting in front of the Houses of Parliament and the Thames.
Ellie standing in front of The Real Deal. DeChirico's The Poet's Uncertainty... Here's to you, Dad!
Ellie on the riverboat in the Thames.
Photo op of the Naylor-Roll family. (From left to right: David, Sophie, me, Jessica, Rosemary, and Owen.)
Lands End and the Fat Neck Man
July 24, 2010
When we woke up, it was sprinkling. I said a little prayer, thanking whomever that we would not be carting our panniers on our little ride today. We dressed, ate, and then hopped on our bikes, headed for Lands End.
To get to the start (or the middle of the beginning, as it were) of our journey, we pedaled through Penzance and into Newlyn Beach where Joshua's yummy fish from the night before had been caught. Continuing down the coast, we followed the National Cycle Route into Mousehole, a cute and quirky seaside village with tiny which-way streets and topheavy, skinny buildings stretching above the hedges to see the sea. On our way out of the village, we climbed a steep, 15 percent grade hill into the rich farmland of the peninsula. To our left and right, cottages and farms dotted the fields, and pretty blue hydrangeas festooned the blackberry bushes.
Down another hill, we entered the small village of Lamoran, and then we climbed another hill for view of the sea on the other side of the peninsula. Passing a couple more lovely villages with big, beautiful church towers, we followed the signs for Lands End. At mile fifteen, we crossed into... An amusement park? Apparently, Lands End is not really the seaside village of our dreams. Instead, I think there might even be a theater showing Mr. Ripley's Super Famous Whats-its and Who's-its.
Oh well. We hadn't really gotten our hopes up, having been warned by Lonely Planet that it was a tourist trap. We bought overpriced Cornish pasties and sat on a bench near the cliffs, watching the gloomy sea and a hundred German tourists taking their photos near the sign that points to O'Groats. In the free museum, Joshua and I walked through and read about all the famous E2E journeys (that's right. I'm "in the know" now. E2E stands for End to End... What Joshua and I are doing.). People have walked it, run it, run it twice, run it backwards, biked it, roller bladed it, and even hiked it naked. Apparently, some 4,000 people journey the length of Great Britain every year, and the two of us seemed to be in good company, even on a dreary day like today. Just as we were leaving, people were popping champagne and having a little to-do fanfare for those departing and arriving.
It costs 5 pounds to get your picture taken next to the official sign, so Joshua and I just asked Eric to take our picture with the cliffs in the background. When we were done, we rode back to Penzance. Round trip (including getting completely lost on the way there), we traveled 28 miles. In Penzance, we stopped by the library for a little Internet face time, and then we made our way back to our campsite to pack up and head out. We picked up a quick snack of bread, humous, and hot pastry sausages for dinner, and then we went to the train station.
539 to Penzance arrived early, and we tied up our bikes and loaded our panniers onto the luggage racks in time to find a table with seats to ourselves. I typed a little bit, and then we spent the last hour chatting with Eric about his upcoming trip back to the States. When we arrived in Exeter, we loaded our panniers back onto our bikes and cycled to Globe Backpackers, a hostel at the top of the (yet another) hill.
July 25, 2010
I should have just come down to the sitting room of the hostel hours ago. Joshua and I decided to splurge on a real bed last night when our train came in late to Exeter, and both of us were looking forward to clean sheets and the extra padding. To scrimp on a few pounds, we chose to sleep in the 6 person mixed dorm. We came in at 9 PM, showered, empty our bags of sodden clothing into the washing machine, and then read for a little bit under the electric lights. Had I known that those couple of hours were going to be my only chance to sleep, I would have gone to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
At midnight, a very large bearded man trundled in and turned off all the nights. Clearly, he was serious about the business of sleeping. I had just powered down my computer, so I didn't mind the sudden plunge into darkness, and I nestled down into my freshly cleaned covers and fell asleep. Two hours later, I awoke to the sound of a steam engine chugging through the room. I gasped and spluttered, wondering how on earth a vehicle of that size could have possibly entered through the small window or narrow door. It was then that I realized that the sound was coming from a human being, namely, the man who is very serious about the business of sleeping.
For the past three hours, I've gone through the stages of mourning. First, I was in denial. How on god's earth could just one human being create that kind of noise WHILE THEY ARE SLEEPING? I can't believe this! I paid nearly 20 pounds to sleep in a cave with a man who sounds like he's being strangled by his neck fat in his sleep! That's like 40 dollars! Tomorrow I'm going to have to bike god knows how far, and I won't have even slept! (Clearly, I segued into anger pretty quickly.) Doesn't he KNOW? How could a person move through life not KNOWING that he creates a racket on par with a pre-historic engine? He must know. He must think this is funny. He probably lives in Exeter, and for his Saturday night kicks, he rents a 6 person dorm and just lets it rip. Then, the next morning, he looks at his bleary eyed, weepy room mates with the self-satisfied knowledge that he can destroy the next 24 hours of 5 people WITHOUT EVEN TRYING. I'm going to kill him. This is how hostel horror stories begin. A room mate snores with the thundering volume of a soccer stadium during finals, and another room mate plots his immediate death. I am not a violent person. Really, I'm not. But I thought of at least 8 different ways to end this man's life as I lay there, bemoaning the loss of a good night's sleep.
After over an hour of broiling anger and violent machinations, I took out my (until now unused) iPod, thinking that maybe I could drown out the sound of the beast with some very chill, very relaxing music. I circled my thumb down the playlist and selected Bon Iver. If the crooning and strumming of this beautiful man can't calm me down, I don't know what could. Unfortunately, not even Bon Iver's sexy voice at top volume could block out the snorts of the fat-necked man. I briefly forayed into more violent dreams of slitting the offending throat, but then decided that I just needed to find my ear plugs.
No earplugs. Don't know what I did with them. Back to the iPod.
No luck there, either. By now, I'm in such a state, it's pretty unlikely that I will ever fall asleep again. I resign myself to lying in bed and listening to Bon Iver. With nothing else to do, I start listening to his lyrics and replaying my favorites, Blood Bank, Skinny Love, and Stacks over and over again. I'm far from sleep, but now I'm remembering (as if I had ever forgotten) how much I love Bon Iver, and how his music, like, speaks to me. I communicating with his music on another plane. He makes me feel sad and hopeful all at the same time. He makes me fall in love with my husband all over again. If it sounds epic, that's because it is. There's discord and rising tension, and then there's the pure resolve of his one guitar and his bed-pillow voice. I'm not falling asleep, but I see the light slitting through the cracks in the blinds, and I think that maybe I should just go downstairs and write. (I think I'm at acceptance now.) I'm behind in my posts anyway, and who doesn't love to hear about the funny misfortunes of others?
When we woke up, it was sprinkling. I said a little prayer, thanking whomever that we would not be carting our panniers on our little ride today. We dressed, ate, and then hopped on our bikes, headed for Lands End.
To get to the start (or the middle of the beginning, as it were) of our journey, we pedaled through Penzance and into Newlyn Beach where Joshua's yummy fish from the night before had been caught. Continuing down the coast, we followed the National Cycle Route into Mousehole, a cute and quirky seaside village with tiny which-way streets and topheavy, skinny buildings stretching above the hedges to see the sea. On our way out of the village, we climbed a steep, 15 percent grade hill into the rich farmland of the peninsula. To our left and right, cottages and farms dotted the fields, and pretty blue hydrangeas festooned the blackberry bushes.
Down another hill, we entered the small village of Lamoran, and then we climbed another hill for view of the sea on the other side of the peninsula. Passing a couple more lovely villages with big, beautiful church towers, we followed the signs for Lands End. At mile fifteen, we crossed into... An amusement park? Apparently, Lands End is not really the seaside village of our dreams. Instead, I think there might even be a theater showing Mr. Ripley's Super Famous Whats-its and Who's-its.
Oh well. We hadn't really gotten our hopes up, having been warned by Lonely Planet that it was a tourist trap. We bought overpriced Cornish pasties and sat on a bench near the cliffs, watching the gloomy sea and a hundred German tourists taking their photos near the sign that points to O'Groats. In the free museum, Joshua and I walked through and read about all the famous E2E journeys (that's right. I'm "in the know" now. E2E stands for End to End... What Joshua and I are doing.). People have walked it, run it, run it twice, run it backwards, biked it, roller bladed it, and even hiked it naked. Apparently, some 4,000 people journey the length of Great Britain every year, and the two of us seemed to be in good company, even on a dreary day like today. Just as we were leaving, people were popping champagne and having a little to-do fanfare for those departing and arriving.
It costs 5 pounds to get your picture taken next to the official sign, so Joshua and I just asked Eric to take our picture with the cliffs in the background. When we were done, we rode back to Penzance. Round trip (including getting completely lost on the way there), we traveled 28 miles. In Penzance, we stopped by the library for a little Internet face time, and then we made our way back to our campsite to pack up and head out. We picked up a quick snack of bread, humous, and hot pastry sausages for dinner, and then we went to the train station.
539 to Penzance arrived early, and we tied up our bikes and loaded our panniers onto the luggage racks in time to find a table with seats to ourselves. I typed a little bit, and then we spent the last hour chatting with Eric about his upcoming trip back to the States. When we arrived in Exeter, we loaded our panniers back onto our bikes and cycled to Globe Backpackers, a hostel at the top of the (yet another) hill.
July 25, 2010
I should have just come down to the sitting room of the hostel hours ago. Joshua and I decided to splurge on a real bed last night when our train came in late to Exeter, and both of us were looking forward to clean sheets and the extra padding. To scrimp on a few pounds, we chose to sleep in the 6 person mixed dorm. We came in at 9 PM, showered, empty our bags of sodden clothing into the washing machine, and then read for a little bit under the electric lights. Had I known that those couple of hours were going to be my only chance to sleep, I would have gone to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
At midnight, a very large bearded man trundled in and turned off all the nights. Clearly, he was serious about the business of sleeping. I had just powered down my computer, so I didn't mind the sudden plunge into darkness, and I nestled down into my freshly cleaned covers and fell asleep. Two hours later, I awoke to the sound of a steam engine chugging through the room. I gasped and spluttered, wondering how on earth a vehicle of that size could have possibly entered through the small window or narrow door. It was then that I realized that the sound was coming from a human being, namely, the man who is very serious about the business of sleeping.
For the past three hours, I've gone through the stages of mourning. First, I was in denial. How on god's earth could just one human being create that kind of noise WHILE THEY ARE SLEEPING? I can't believe this! I paid nearly 20 pounds to sleep in a cave with a man who sounds like he's being strangled by his neck fat in his sleep! That's like 40 dollars! Tomorrow I'm going to have to bike god knows how far, and I won't have even slept! (Clearly, I segued into anger pretty quickly.) Doesn't he KNOW? How could a person move through life not KNOWING that he creates a racket on par with a pre-historic engine? He must know. He must think this is funny. He probably lives in Exeter, and for his Saturday night kicks, he rents a 6 person dorm and just lets it rip. Then, the next morning, he looks at his bleary eyed, weepy room mates with the self-satisfied knowledge that he can destroy the next 24 hours of 5 people WITHOUT EVEN TRYING. I'm going to kill him. This is how hostel horror stories begin. A room mate snores with the thundering volume of a soccer stadium during finals, and another room mate plots his immediate death. I am not a violent person. Really, I'm not. But I thought of at least 8 different ways to end this man's life as I lay there, bemoaning the loss of a good night's sleep.
After over an hour of broiling anger and violent machinations, I took out my (until now unused) iPod, thinking that maybe I could drown out the sound of the beast with some very chill, very relaxing music. I circled my thumb down the playlist and selected Bon Iver. If the crooning and strumming of this beautiful man can't calm me down, I don't know what could. Unfortunately, not even Bon Iver's sexy voice at top volume could block out the snorts of the fat-necked man. I briefly forayed into more violent dreams of slitting the offending throat, but then decided that I just needed to find my ear plugs.
No earplugs. Don't know what I did with them. Back to the iPod.
No luck there, either. By now, I'm in such a state, it's pretty unlikely that I will ever fall asleep again. I resign myself to lying in bed and listening to Bon Iver. With nothing else to do, I start listening to his lyrics and replaying my favorites, Blood Bank, Skinny Love, and Stacks over and over again. I'm far from sleep, but now I'm remembering (as if I had ever forgotten) how much I love Bon Iver, and how his music, like, speaks to me. I communicating with his music on another plane. He makes me feel sad and hopeful all at the same time. He makes me fall in love with my husband all over again. If it sounds epic, that's because it is. There's discord and rising tension, and then there's the pure resolve of his one guitar and his bed-pillow voice. I'm not falling asleep, but I see the light slitting through the cracks in the blinds, and I think that maybe I should just go downstairs and write. (I think I'm at acceptance now.) I'm behind in my posts anyway, and who doesn't love to hear about the funny misfortunes of others?
Granada
July 11, 2010
The morning of our anniversary, Joshua and I woke up on the rooftop terrace of our hostel in Cordoba. I had slept the night in a hammock, and Joshua had slept next to me on a suspect outdoor sofa. Finally cool and rested, we went downstairs to wake up Ashlee and head for the bus station. Once we were packed, we searched for Kevin the hostel keeper, but he was no where to be found. Late the night before, we realized that we had yet to pay, and in a rush to catch our next bus, we wrote a quick note to Kevin explaining our abrupt departure.
Running late, we caught the city bus right outside our hostel. At the bus station, we purchased our tickets for Granada and boarded with less than five minutes to spare. The ride took us a little less than three hours (I slept all the way through), and at about 1 PM, we disembarked at the bus station in Granada. To get to the center of Granada, we caught another city bus and found ourselves in the main shopping district in the dead of siesta. Every building was closed, and the temperature had already increased to 39 degrees Celsius.
After two days in a sauna, 39 degrees felt practically balmy, and right away, we decided that we liked Granada. Just beyond the cathedral, we crossed a plaza and found Hotel Nevada. The inn keepers, Irina and Francisco, spoke very little English, but between Irina and I, we were able to stumble along in Spanglish. After a short conversation and some insider tips from Irina, it became clear that this was one cool lady. We were even able to joke through our language barrier, and before long we were teasing one another with Ashlee's favorite Spanish word: Mentirosa! (liar).
After we had dumped our packs in our room for three, Ashlee and I went back downstairs to investigate ticket reservations for the Alhambra. Once again, Irina proved to be indispensable, and she not only helped us figure out how to print off our tickets, but also she hooked us up with a two-for-one deal to the Banos Aljibe (the Arab Baths). Thoroughly smitten with our new friend, Ashlee and I went to collect Joshua and wander through Granada in the hot heat of the afternoon.
Using the Lonely Planet walking tour as our guide, we headed uphill to see the older part of the city. Below the Alhambra, we entered the ancient gate into the city, and we followed the cobblestone lane up towards stairs. To our left, touristy shops hung their wares in the windows, and Ashlee finally found a dress. Although these shops and even some of their merchandise are pretty much the same whether you're in Spain or Greece or even South America, their cheap prices and worldly appeal still hold our interest. I love browsing through the knick knacks, and of course, earrings always draw my interest. I bought my first (and only pair so far!) pair in the same shop while Ashlee tried on her dress.
After countless stairs, we were sweating profusely. Joshua was getting cranky from the heat, but I was teaching Ashlee basic Spanish vocabulary, and the two of us were well enough distracted from the discomfort, reciting the present tense conjugations of tener, querer, and necessitar. At the top of the hill, we rounded a number of old, whitewashed domiciles and found ourselves in a courtyard just beyond a church. In front of us, the Alhambra rose impressively over a backdrop of the snow-capped Sierra Nevadas. Below us, Granada stretched out into the desert where our vision fizzed and waved in the heat. Sitting in the shade of a sparsely leafed tree, we listened as street musicians played flamenco and people clapped their hands. It was a spectacular sight.
When the music stopped, we walked back down the hill to find our Hotel. On our way down, we walked through the Arab-infusion district and wandered through shops selling tea, incense, and beautiful weavings. Ashlee resolved right then and there to go smoke hookah before we left Granada.
Back at the Hotel, the three of us took turns showering and then dressed in our best travel outfits. As daylight fell, we walked back towards the cathedral and found a tapas bar called Pasie Gas. There, we found seats in full view of the television and ordered lightly fried eggplant drizzled in molasses (Crujientes Aubergines), fried shrimp pancakes, and our new favorite, gazpacho. The head waiter ruled his roost with an iron fist (mixing metaphors?), and he grimly served us our delicious feast and kept the alcohol coming. I had two or three large glasses of white wine, and Joshua and Ashlee drank more than a few Alhambras.
The game was intense. After dallying with futbol in Laragh, Ashlee and I were now avid fans, and we watched the final game with nervous excitement. With more than 20 minutes of overtime, a couple of red cards, and some dirty plays, we were not disappointed. When Iniesto finally scored, we cheered with the rest of the restaurant, and everyone began chanting, "Espana! Espana! Espana!"
To celebrate, the three of us went out into the plaza in front of the cathedral and jumped ecstatically for a couple of photo shots. Then, because it was our anniversary, we split ways. Joshua and I wandered through the streets of Granada for another hour or so, watching people dressed in red sing and drink themselves into a happy, blissful oblivion. Cars driving down the main thoroughfare tooted their horns and blasted celebratory music with their Spanish flags flapping rapidly in the wind.
Back at the hotel, we found Ashlee and Irina about to leave for a couple of drinks and more celebration. We said our goodbyes and went to sleep. At 3:40 in the morning, we heard Ashlee come back in, and a couple of hours later, we woke up to her vomiting in the trash can. Although she and Irina had only had one more drink, the mixture of sweet mojito, foreign tapas, and three or four Alhambras had done Ashlee in. Although I'm sure it was not very reassuring, Joshua and I informed Ashlee that you haven't traveled until you've vomited your brains out, and she was now a full-fledged member of the traveling elite.
July 12, 2010
The next morning, Joshua's alarm went off to wake us up for our trip to the Banos Aljibe. Although Ashlee had been excited to go, her vomiting episode just a couple of hours earlier had weakened her interest, and Joshua and I went off alone. At 10 AM, we arrived at the baths and changed into our swimsuits. The baths were laid out in a dark, warm room, with lovely pillars, mosaics, and arches decorating the walls and passageways. We spent the next two hours lounging in warm and cool baths, and when our number was called, we had a fifteen minute massage. Joshua elected to have his back kneaded and smoothed, while I chose to treat my legs. Nearly asleep from the pleasure, we finished out our session floating in warm water near a little waterfall. Both of us decided that it was a lovely anniversary present to one another.
Once we had showered and changed, we found Ashlee and walked to a map shop to find out more information about the trails we would be taking in the Sierra Nevada. On our way, I bought a kilo of fresh cherries, and we ate our way through the bag as the day began to heat up.
With our maps purchased, the three of us walked back to the Arab infusion shops and found a restaurant with lovely arches and draped walls. Joshua ordered couscous with roasted vegetables, Ashlee ordered a serving of gazpacho for her angry tummy, and I ordered Chicken Swarma. For tea, each of us ordered our own pretty silver pots with exotic infusions from the Middle East.
To get to the Alhambra, we began walking uphill and caught a tourist bus to the top. Our tickets allowed us entry into the main palaces at 6 PM, but both the General Life and Alcazaba are open to the public. For the next hour, we wandered through the ingeniously irrigated gardens of General Life, and our tickets gave us a one-time entry into a pretty courtyard with a long reflection pool, beautiful carvings, and window overlooking the rest of Granada. Although it was hot, the trees and flowers provided us with shade, and we enjoyed 360 degree views of the gardens, the Alhambra, and the Sierra Nevadas.
To get to the palaces, we walked through more of the General Life gardens, and once we arrived at the palace gate, we waited in line for fifteen minutes in a crowd of irritated and hot people to enter. Finally admitted, we spent the next two hours staring in awe. The Alhambra is fantastically beautiful, and even though the most famous fountain (the Fountain of Lions) was under renovation and not open to the public, it was still the most beautiful historical site I had ever seen. The entire complex is so intricate and detailed that it would take a whole day to really appreciate everything. By themselves, the pools, fountains, windows, carvings, and ceilings would each hold your attention, but together, they are spell-binding. If you go to Andalucia, you must go to the Alhambra. Go.
With barely an hour left, we exited the palaces and wandered through the more formidable Alcazaba. The massive towers gave us panoramic views of the city and the mountains, and the arid, dusty wind whipped our hair around our faces. At 8:30 PM, the guards kicked us out, and we walked down the massive hill to the town below. At La Bella y La Bestia, we ordered the Menu del Dia, and while the portions were large they were not very tasty. Looking for a little something more, the three of us tried to find live flamenco, but the places we tried were full. In the end, Ashlee's dreams were fulfilled and we went in search of a hookah bar. While Joshua and I were initially skeptical, we had a lot of fun sitting in our pillowed seats, listening to Arabian music, sipping Moorish tea, and smoking cachimba.
That night, we lay in our cool hotel room and talked and laughed until we fell asleep.
The morning of our anniversary, Joshua and I woke up on the rooftop terrace of our hostel in Cordoba. I had slept the night in a hammock, and Joshua had slept next to me on a suspect outdoor sofa. Finally cool and rested, we went downstairs to wake up Ashlee and head for the bus station. Once we were packed, we searched for Kevin the hostel keeper, but he was no where to be found. Late the night before, we realized that we had yet to pay, and in a rush to catch our next bus, we wrote a quick note to Kevin explaining our abrupt departure.
Running late, we caught the city bus right outside our hostel. At the bus station, we purchased our tickets for Granada and boarded with less than five minutes to spare. The ride took us a little less than three hours (I slept all the way through), and at about 1 PM, we disembarked at the bus station in Granada. To get to the center of Granada, we caught another city bus and found ourselves in the main shopping district in the dead of siesta. Every building was closed, and the temperature had already increased to 39 degrees Celsius.
After two days in a sauna, 39 degrees felt practically balmy, and right away, we decided that we liked Granada. Just beyond the cathedral, we crossed a plaza and found Hotel Nevada. The inn keepers, Irina and Francisco, spoke very little English, but between Irina and I, we were able to stumble along in Spanglish. After a short conversation and some insider tips from Irina, it became clear that this was one cool lady. We were even able to joke through our language barrier, and before long we were teasing one another with Ashlee's favorite Spanish word: Mentirosa! (liar).
After we had dumped our packs in our room for three, Ashlee and I went back downstairs to investigate ticket reservations for the Alhambra. Once again, Irina proved to be indispensable, and she not only helped us figure out how to print off our tickets, but also she hooked us up with a two-for-one deal to the Banos Aljibe (the Arab Baths). Thoroughly smitten with our new friend, Ashlee and I went to collect Joshua and wander through Granada in the hot heat of the afternoon.
Using the Lonely Planet walking tour as our guide, we headed uphill to see the older part of the city. Below the Alhambra, we entered the ancient gate into the city, and we followed the cobblestone lane up towards stairs. To our left, touristy shops hung their wares in the windows, and Ashlee finally found a dress. Although these shops and even some of their merchandise are pretty much the same whether you're in Spain or Greece or even South America, their cheap prices and worldly appeal still hold our interest. I love browsing through the knick knacks, and of course, earrings always draw my interest. I bought my first (and only pair so far!) pair in the same shop while Ashlee tried on her dress.
After countless stairs, we were sweating profusely. Joshua was getting cranky from the heat, but I was teaching Ashlee basic Spanish vocabulary, and the two of us were well enough distracted from the discomfort, reciting the present tense conjugations of tener, querer, and necessitar. At the top of the hill, we rounded a number of old, whitewashed domiciles and found ourselves in a courtyard just beyond a church. In front of us, the Alhambra rose impressively over a backdrop of the snow-capped Sierra Nevadas. Below us, Granada stretched out into the desert where our vision fizzed and waved in the heat. Sitting in the shade of a sparsely leafed tree, we listened as street musicians played flamenco and people clapped their hands. It was a spectacular sight.
When the music stopped, we walked back down the hill to find our Hotel. On our way down, we walked through the Arab-infusion district and wandered through shops selling tea, incense, and beautiful weavings. Ashlee resolved right then and there to go smoke hookah before we left Granada.
Back at the Hotel, the three of us took turns showering and then dressed in our best travel outfits. As daylight fell, we walked back towards the cathedral and found a tapas bar called Pasie Gas. There, we found seats in full view of the television and ordered lightly fried eggplant drizzled in molasses (Crujientes Aubergines), fried shrimp pancakes, and our new favorite, gazpacho. The head waiter ruled his roost with an iron fist (mixing metaphors?), and he grimly served us our delicious feast and kept the alcohol coming. I had two or three large glasses of white wine, and Joshua and Ashlee drank more than a few Alhambras.
The game was intense. After dallying with futbol in Laragh, Ashlee and I were now avid fans, and we watched the final game with nervous excitement. With more than 20 minutes of overtime, a couple of red cards, and some dirty plays, we were not disappointed. When Iniesto finally scored, we cheered with the rest of the restaurant, and everyone began chanting, "Espana! Espana! Espana!"
To celebrate, the three of us went out into the plaza in front of the cathedral and jumped ecstatically for a couple of photo shots. Then, because it was our anniversary, we split ways. Joshua and I wandered through the streets of Granada for another hour or so, watching people dressed in red sing and drink themselves into a happy, blissful oblivion. Cars driving down the main thoroughfare tooted their horns and blasted celebratory music with their Spanish flags flapping rapidly in the wind.
Back at the hotel, we found Ashlee and Irina about to leave for a couple of drinks and more celebration. We said our goodbyes and went to sleep. At 3:40 in the morning, we heard Ashlee come back in, and a couple of hours later, we woke up to her vomiting in the trash can. Although she and Irina had only had one more drink, the mixture of sweet mojito, foreign tapas, and three or four Alhambras had done Ashlee in. Although I'm sure it was not very reassuring, Joshua and I informed Ashlee that you haven't traveled until you've vomited your brains out, and she was now a full-fledged member of the traveling elite.
July 12, 2010
The next morning, Joshua's alarm went off to wake us up for our trip to the Banos Aljibe. Although Ashlee had been excited to go, her vomiting episode just a couple of hours earlier had weakened her interest, and Joshua and I went off alone. At 10 AM, we arrived at the baths and changed into our swimsuits. The baths were laid out in a dark, warm room, with lovely pillars, mosaics, and arches decorating the walls and passageways. We spent the next two hours lounging in warm and cool baths, and when our number was called, we had a fifteen minute massage. Joshua elected to have his back kneaded and smoothed, while I chose to treat my legs. Nearly asleep from the pleasure, we finished out our session floating in warm water near a little waterfall. Both of us decided that it was a lovely anniversary present to one another.
Once we had showered and changed, we found Ashlee and walked to a map shop to find out more information about the trails we would be taking in the Sierra Nevada. On our way, I bought a kilo of fresh cherries, and we ate our way through the bag as the day began to heat up.
With our maps purchased, the three of us walked back to the Arab infusion shops and found a restaurant with lovely arches and draped walls. Joshua ordered couscous with roasted vegetables, Ashlee ordered a serving of gazpacho for her angry tummy, and I ordered Chicken Swarma. For tea, each of us ordered our own pretty silver pots with exotic infusions from the Middle East.
To get to the Alhambra, we began walking uphill and caught a tourist bus to the top. Our tickets allowed us entry into the main palaces at 6 PM, but both the General Life and Alcazaba are open to the public. For the next hour, we wandered through the ingeniously irrigated gardens of General Life, and our tickets gave us a one-time entry into a pretty courtyard with a long reflection pool, beautiful carvings, and window overlooking the rest of Granada. Although it was hot, the trees and flowers provided us with shade, and we enjoyed 360 degree views of the gardens, the Alhambra, and the Sierra Nevadas.
To get to the palaces, we walked through more of the General Life gardens, and once we arrived at the palace gate, we waited in line for fifteen minutes in a crowd of irritated and hot people to enter. Finally admitted, we spent the next two hours staring in awe. The Alhambra is fantastically beautiful, and even though the most famous fountain (the Fountain of Lions) was under renovation and not open to the public, it was still the most beautiful historical site I had ever seen. The entire complex is so intricate and detailed that it would take a whole day to really appreciate everything. By themselves, the pools, fountains, windows, carvings, and ceilings would each hold your attention, but together, they are spell-binding. If you go to Andalucia, you must go to the Alhambra. Go.
With barely an hour left, we exited the palaces and wandered through the more formidable Alcazaba. The massive towers gave us panoramic views of the city and the mountains, and the arid, dusty wind whipped our hair around our faces. At 8:30 PM, the guards kicked us out, and we walked down the massive hill to the town below. At La Bella y La Bestia, we ordered the Menu del Dia, and while the portions were large they were not very tasty. Looking for a little something more, the three of us tried to find live flamenco, but the places we tried were full. In the end, Ashlee's dreams were fulfilled and we went in search of a hookah bar. While Joshua and I were initially skeptical, we had a lot of fun sitting in our pillowed seats, listening to Arabian music, sipping Moorish tea, and smoking cachimba.
That night, we lay in our cool hotel room and talked and laughed until we fell asleep.
539 to Penzance
I'm a little behind in my posts, but I thought I would give you what I have so far... I still intend to write about our time in Granada, Capiliera, and Alicante, but I have to find a bit more time! Here is the writing from the first part of our bicycle ride, named 539 to Penzance in honor of our outbound train ticket which left at 5:39 PM on July 24:
July 20, 2010
Joshua's alarm went off at 4:50 in the morning. We grabbed toast and bananas for breakfast and wheeled our bikes out the door. At Charlton Station, we caught the train to Charing Cross where we disembarked and then rode four miles through the heart of London to Paddington Train Station in Notting Hill. This would have been absolutely terrifying if people had been awake and driving, but as it was, most people were still in their beds and the roads were fairly free. At Paddington, we waited for 45 minutes until our train to Exeter arrived. On big trains like this one, you can reserve a space for your bike for free, and we were able to stow our bikes in the last car.
The train ride from Paddington to Exeter is about three hours long, and although the seats in the train are relatively plush and spacious compared to other forms of public transportation, they do not recline. No worries. I am exceptionally talented at sleeping in awkward positions, and I slept the entire distance.
We arrived in Exter at 10:30 AM. Having decided the night before that we would need to purchase new panniers, we headed into the heart of the town with our Googlemap directions to find The Bike Shed. Joshua commandeered the selection and purchase of the extremely large and waterproof panniers while I avoided the checkout counter and the final sum. Luckily, once Joshua had purchased the panniers, The Bike Shed was kind enough to let him affix the racks using their tools inside the shop. Running out of time to meet Eric, I left Joshua to the panniers and headed back to Exeter St. David's Station, and I arrived just as Eric exited the station with his brand new Sirrus Sport bicycle and back panniers.
I don't know if it's a part of growing up or just a part of living all over the country, but it feels like I only get to see my closest friends and family in short, intense bursts that occur at infrequent intervals. The greeting is almost always the same. The familiar face and smile makes me remember: yes, this is what I have been missing, and it is so good to see my friend. I big part of me wishes that I could gather these people close to me all the time. I wish I could always be surrounded by such loving and easy company, but like Ashlee says, we live our lives and those lives don't always live in the same place. You take what you can get, and you enjoy it. (I, of course, take some poetic license, but Ashlee IS an exceptionally wise lady.) I still dream of that place surrounded by people I care about and who care about me, but until then, it's not so bad hopping planes and trains and bicycles to spend time with family and friends around the world.
Eric and I waited for Joshua for a few minutes, and when he pulled in, we had another round of greetings. It soon became apparent that neither Joshua nor Eric really had any idea where we were headed next, and I waited patiently while the two pooled their many maps and guide books in an effort to ascertain the next best course of action. It was almost noon, so they decided that 30 miles would be a conservative goal. We set our sights on Two Bridges or Princetown in the heart of Dartmoor, and then we went back into Exeter to purchase foodstuffs. At Marks and Spencers, Eric and I rounded up bananas, a baggie of vegetables, rice, butter beans, and chili dipping sauce for dinner and bagguettes, salami, and humous for lunch.
With all of our food packed into our now very heavy panniers, we made our way to the Cathedral for a pre-trip photo, and then we headed down towards the river. Using a combination of bike paths and highway passes, we circumnavigated the business intersections. Exeter seems to be a pleasant, well-populated town, and it took about two miles to fully exit the city. It was at this point that we started biking up.
Let me preface the next part of this entry by saying: I am very fit. In my last semester of teaching and in the three weeks before we left for Minnesota, I was working out eight to nine hours a week. As I have also mentioned, I was taking serious thigh and butt-burning classes, and I am no stranger to breathing hard and sweating like crazy. Even in the past month, we've been running, hiking, and walking nearly every day for many hours. After the intense run in Capiliera, I had even convinced myself that I was in the best shape I had been in since high school.
Then came Dartmoor. Let me also preface what I'm about to say with a little disclaimer; in order to fully express this experience, I'm going to need to use some colorful language. If this offends you, then you may want to fast forward for the next couple of months of posts.
Holy mother-fucking shit. We went up and up and up and up. By the second hill, my legs were already burning, I was breathing hard, and my t-shirt was soaked with sweat. You might ask me: was the scenery pretty? I would answer: how the fuck would I know? After 30 minutes of climbing, I'm pretty sure that I didn't move my gaze from the ten feet directly in front of me for the next two hours. I am aware that we were climbing, and therefore, I'm pretty sure that the scenery was pretty, but if you want to know what it looks like, you're going to have to look it up for yourself.
After about an hour of climbing, it started raining. It started with a drizzle, gentle enough to lull us into a sense of complacency. It might pass over, we thought. Then it started to ran a little harder. By now we were basically soaked, but we put our rain jackets on anyway, and it was a good thing: now, it started pouring.
I have a prediction: by the end of this journey - or actually, more likely near the beginning of this journey - I'm going to run out of words that describe the quantity and quality of precipitation falling from the sky. On July 20, it started raining at 1 PM and it didn't stop raining until 7 PM that night. It drizzled, it poured, it shit, and it fairly dumped all over us, the whole way, the whole time. At Moreton-hampstead we stopped beneath an ugly little underpass to eat lunch and question our wisdom. Why the fuck, you might ask, did we decide to bike from Exeter to Lands End? Why the hell, you might ask, did you not just begin in Lands End with Eric? The answer, my dears, is highly classified information. It belongs in a little manila envelope labeled, "Marital Strife." You might also be curious to know if this is what we can expect for the next 60 days. So am I, but I sure as hell hope not.
Moreton-hampstead is, I'm sure, a very quaint, cute little town, and it claims the distinction of being "The Gateway to the High Moors." Excuse me? The GATEWAY? Are you suggesting that I've only begun climbing massive mountains?
Yes indeedy. The next seventeen miles took us through heavily misted high moors with free-roaming horses, sheep, and cows. Like the Wicklow Mountains, the land was exposed and quilted in heather. It was beautiful, surreal, and thoroughly under appreciated by me as I panted and swore my way up hills and over moors. At one point, I'm certain an over-size cow shared my dismay when he hoarsely brayed, "For Fuck's Sake." A horse also whinnied, "Christ Almighty." At times, we could barely see 50 yards ahead, and livestock crossing the road appeared to be walking through air. It was a bit ghostlike, and I will refrain from drawing any more parallels to hell. It really was very pretty, I'm telling you.
At some point, we started hopping off of our bikes and walking them up particularly steep sections of road. This is probably why my back and arms hurt like I've been bailing hay for 12 hours. At Princetown, we took the first exit to camp in the field outside of a pub. It don't know what the field or pub were called. This is not because they weren't well marked. This is because I've already blocked out part of this experience from my memory. Eric can explain this to you: there's something called your experiencing self, and there's something called your remembering self, and nary the two shall meet.
ANYWAY. We payed a little less than 7 pounds apiece to pitch our tents in a sodden field. While Joshua and I own a very small, lightweight Mountain Hardware two-person tent, Eric - attempting to save money - had purchased a tarp for the journey. His shelter consisted of a tarp, two poles, and six stakes. We put up our stuff as quickly as possible to avoid getting our sleeping surfaces completely soaked, and when we had finished, I retreated to the shower to warm up. The water was pleasantly hot, but unfortunately, cleanliness just isn't the same when you have to don damp, smelly clothing afterwards. By the time I had finished with the shower, Joshua was sitting in the beer garden of the restaurant cooking dinner with our new camp stove. Thankfully, rice with vegetables and beans don't take very long to cook, and we were almost ready to eat by the time the pub owner came over and kicked us out into the rain. I will refrain from making mass judgements about the English race, and instead inform you that we ate our basic dinner inside a little hovel meant for washing dishes. There was a very nice corrugated plastic roof that was kind enough to keep the rain out and an even classier drain in the cement corner to dispose of our liquid wastes when we had finished.
After dinner, we stuck it to the man by walking a distance down the road to another pub. Eric ordered a beer while Joshua and I ordered two cups of hot tea. Joshua seems to think that real men don't drink their tea with milk and sugar, but I've grown to appreciate the finer things in life, and I say, bring it on. For the next two hours, we talked about the past two years, what's sucked and what hasn't, and Eric's upcoming research in history, economics, and human welfare.
Usually, a discussion such as this would bore me to tears, but I actually find this stuff pretty interesting. Eric is looking a data sets from different periods in history to determine different peoples' quality of life. He does this by looking at height. Throughout history, whenever societies have experience periods of relative wealth, their communities have grown taller. Data such as this can show how certain areas developed and even how different members within their communities benefited from food availability. For example, underdeveloped countries have lower average heights than more developed countries, and the average heights of men tend to be taller than women because historically men have had better access to the benefits of wealth. This is a vastly over-simplified summary of course, but hopefully, you'll be able to read all about when Eric publishes his dissertation and becomes fabulously wealthy (and tall?).
At eleven o'clock, we bundled up in every item of clothing we had carried and headed back for the camp site. Joshua and I looked on dubiously as Eric assured us that he would be fine under his little tarp. To be honest, I didn't worry for long, because as soon as my head hit my sopping wet pillow, I was fast asleep.
July 21, 2010
The next morning, I woke up to the sweet sounds of my husband hocking phlegm into the grass next to the tent. It was 8:30, and I figured we should probably get going, so I began stuffing our now only slightly damp sleeping bags into their stuff sacks and rolling our sleeping pads into their compact bags. When we're camping, this has always been my job. I like the straight-forward tasks that are the same every time, while Joshua prefers the spacial math-game of finding a way to stuff all of our crap into a small space.
For breakfast, we ate chocolate-covered flapjacks, oranges, dried apricots, and croissants. By the time we finished breakfast and breaking down camp, it was nearly 10:30, so we hopped on the road right away. We covered the first four miles in less than 20 minutes. Clearly, we were out of the high moors. Within the hour, we reached the Tavistock where we pulled off to the side and the men chose the next part of the route. After another uphill, we descended even further to the village of Gunnislake, sitting on a narrow brown river. For the next three miles, we switched into first gear and climbed back into the hills. In Callington, we stopped for lunch purchased from the Spar, and we ate our pasties and fresh fruit in a little courtyard just beyond a lovely stone Medieval Church. Joshua, having lost our bike pump, spied a bike shop and went in to see what was available. When he returned, he told us that the bike shop owner had done the Lands End to John O'Groats trip a couple of years ago. To his memory, Cornwall and Devon were by far the most difficult stretch of the trip. While other parts of the journey are also hilly, the road tends to make a more gradual ascent via switchbacks or circumnavigation.
This was good news indeed, and we took the next 8 miles by storm. Actually, Joshua and Eric took the next 8 miles by storm, but I conveniently got myself caught behind an old-fashioned steam car. You might ask me, what the hell is an old-fashioned steam car doing chugging through the steep-ass hills of Cornwall? I would tell you, why, there's an Old Fashioned Steam Car Festival in Buconnic! What great timing! Really, I can't think of a more enjoyable way to spend a four mile down hill after laboring up thousands of hills. Who doesn't love holding on to their breaks with white knuckles and breathing in the belching smoke of steam engine? The men engineering this pre- 19th century feat were positively charming, but I hated them nevertheless.
In better spirits, Joshua decided that he would christen our arrival into Liskeard by going number two in the middle of a field just beyond a busy roundabout. He is so classy.
The next few miles into Lostwhithiel, our port of call, were a bit less enjoyable. We headed onto a main freeway for a couple of miles, clinging to the shoulder the whole way. At our exit, we breathed a sigh of relief a bit prematurely, for the road simply narrowed, but the traffic seemed to maintain a steady pace. At one point, we took a little breather next to a car dealership, and we ate the rest of Eric's sliced ham along with the raspberries growing nearby. Tired and a little bit crabby, we hopped back on for our last few miles. It rained for a little bit, but it soon let up, and as we approached Lostwhithiel, we descended into another steep valley. Looking at the town's welcome sign, I considered how the name sounded a lot like a speech impediment.
At the tourist information center, we stopped for a potty break and directions to the nearest campsite. The woman behind the counter was optimistic about everything, and we predicted a campsite and a warm meal within the next 30 minutes. It was not to be. At the co-op, we loaded up on more beans, pita, humous, spinach, and pastries for breakfast, and then we headed out of town. Naturally, "out of town" also means "up a big fuckin' hill." Psychologically, we were all a bit down, so we slowly made our climb, crying into our gears.
We crested the hill, and Joshua and I spied our exit for the Eden Valley Holiday Park. Eric did not. We're convinced he just hadn't had enough cycling for the day, and he went on, climbing the next hill. Neither Joshua or I were about to cross the busy road with a blind curve again, so I dumped the bike and went running after him. After a quarter of mile, I realized the error of my ways and flagged down a car to play telephone with Eric. The nice elderly couple who stopped invited me to sit in their backseat, and we went in search of the lone rider in his orange jacket.
Once Eric had been corralled, we headed into the camp park. The man from reception was very nice, and he thought we were completely ridiculous. We exchanged a few stories, and then Joshua and Eric set up the tents while I made dinner. After 44 miles of hilly road, we inhaled our dinner of rice, steamed spinach, and beans. Once our bellies were full, we changed into warm clothing and headed out for the pub in Linlivery. To get there, we walked up a steep hill and into the courtyard of another Medieval Church. The small graveyard surrounding the double-naved stone building was full of ancient tombstones covered in lichen and moss, and on the other side, we spied our pub, filled with light and people drinking.
For their nightcap, Joshua and Eric ordered pints of beer, and again, I ordered my cup of doctored tea. The boys played Rummy 500 while I tried to catch up on some of my writing, interrupting them at odd intervals for suggestions on word choice, spelling, and fact-checking. At eleven o'clock, we called it a night and walked back through the dark country lanes to our campsite. Once again, my weary body succumbed to sleep within seconds and we slept through the night toasty warm and oblivious.
July 22, 2010
I woke up to the sound of my husband farting loudly. When I objected to this wake-up call, he heaped the blame back upon me, saying that I was feeding him too many beans. What to do? We're trying to wean ourselves off of meat and dairy, but how else are we supposed to get our protein? Beans, m'dear.
This morning began as the morning before, and I rolled up our camping gear as Joshua began packing. For breakfast, we ate muffins and bananas as the sky got darker and darker. Then it rained. It rained really hard, and then it rained some more. We continued loading our panniers onto our bikes and then soldiered on. At the top of the next hill, we caught our first glimpse of ocean through the gloom, and within six miles, we entered the larger town of St. Austell. After another four miles of busier road, we exited onto a smaller B road heading toward Tregony. All of sudden, the sun came out, and our entire landscape changed. For the next few miles, we pedaled through pretty country roads lined in brambles and pink and purple hydrangeas. The villages we passed had pastel painted homes with thatched roofs and overflowing gardens, and the air smelled of cow manure and sea breeze. At Humphrey Farms just outside of Tregony, we stopped for a little snack of fresh strawberries and chocolate covered shortcake. The farm shop was stocked with all sorts of farm-fresh produce and locally baked goodies, and we sat outside on their picnic table while we gobble up the berries that still tasted warm from the sun.
After a few more miles of biking, we descended into St. Mawes, a beautiful beachside village complete with a castle and picturesque cottages overlooking the sea. Hopping the ferry for Falmouth, we hoped that the village across the inlet would be just as pretty.
Too be fair, it began raining on the ferry ride, and by the time we arrived in Falmouth, the sky was dark and overcast, and the air was damp and cold. At the tourist office, we asked for information about camping sites, and the woman forlornly informed us that we would have to go uphill a couple of miles to find the shelter we were seeking. When we asked if we would find a pub nearby, she shook her head sadly.
Giving up our dream of a hot meal and shelter with ambiance, Joshua and I walked to the Marks and Spencers up the cobblestone lane. We purchased ready to eat Mexican salads and more humous for lunch, and for dinner, we settled on some canned curry (yum). Restocked, we joined Eric on the pier and ate our lunch in the drizzle. Perfectly miserable and completely fed up with English weather, we hopped back on our bikes and headed for Pennance Mill Farms.
The ride out of Falmouth contained a few climbs at steep pitches and just as many abrupt downhills. To our left, the fabled Cornish coast unfolded in fits and starts. One bay had pretty white sands with a pastel blue beach. Up above, the road wound past a grey-brick cottage with hydrangeas spilling out of the hedges. We climbed one more hill at a 17 percent grade and then descended into the valley containing our campsite.
Pennance Mill sits in a sunlit gully, and the friendly woman at reception informed us that they had received none of the drear that had effected Falmouth just an hour earlier. Judging by her sunkissed and smiley face, it wasn't hard to believe, and we enjoyed light breezes and sunlit for our entire stay. In our camping meadow, we stretched out our damp clothing to dry in the sun and took showers to rinse off the grime. Joshua cooked our canned curry and rice which wasn't half bad, and all of us decided that biking from Lands End to John O'Groats wasn't such a bad idea at all. In fact, we might even enjoy some of it. We sat up on our knoll watching the moon rise over the next hill; night fell, and we grew sleepy. Saying good night all around, we crawled into our tents and slept for hours.
July 23, 2010
After some discussion over our top secret folder labeled "Marital Strife" we have made a mutual decision: today we will ride to Penzance, and tomorrow, we will leave our panniers at our campsite and make the short 20 mile round trip to Lands End. Then at 5:39 PM, we will join Eric on the train back to Exeter. We have not scraped our E2E (End to End, for those of you in the know... I am not. I just learned this tacky abreviation today.) dreams, but we have revised the wisdom of biking the hills of Cornwall and Devon twice. We can now re-label our top secret folder "Marital Bliss."
Mornings have sorted themselves out already. We wake up, we pack up, and we roll out. I don't mean to suggest that this happens with any amount of speed, but happen it does, and we were on the road again by 10 AM. The night before, Eric had poured over the map looking for a route to Penzance that avoided the worst uphills. As a result, we found ourselves on obscure little country lanes winding through Mawnan Smith, Constance, and Gweek (yes, Gweek.), tiny villages with epic churches, brick homes, and flowers lining the road.
As a side note, I'd like to share with you our incomparable wit: when I shared with the boys that I though that Lostwitheil sounded like a speech impediment, we started refering to it with a slight lisp. Once again, I couldn't help but draw the same conclusion with Falmouth. As Joshua says (with a slight lisp), "I lost my fuckin' whistle, and now I'm in fuckin' foul mouth." It's become a bit of mantra, and now we've added, "bwing me to the Gweek!"
After we pedaled through Gweek, we climbed another steep hill into the hedge-lined countryside and made our way to Helston. At the Sainsbury's in Helston, we grabbed ready to eat sandwiches and ate them in the parking lot (al fresco?). The next 14 miles to Penzance were on a busier A road, but the lanes were wider and we had a beautiful view of the sea to the south.
The sun that found us in Pennance Mill Farms followed us throughout the day, and by the time we reached Marazion, I was feeling positively optimistic. Like St. Mawes, Marazion sits on a hill beside the sea, and it's quaint brick buildings have pastel colored shutters and enviable views of a castle island just off shore. We stopped just after the village on a stretch of sandy beach to lay in the sun and look at the crazy people strip down and dance in the sea. There may be sun, but that sure as hell doesn't mean it's warm enough to prance around in ice water. To our right, the German tourists in speedos industriously engineered a sand and driftwood dam through a freshwater stream running into the sea, and just beyond them, the French began stripping off their underclothes for an even tan. I guess some stereotypes exist for a reason, no?
We cycled a few more miles into Penzance were we found both the Tourist Information Office and the Railway Station in the same parking lot. Joshua and Eric purchased our tickets to Exeter, and we found a campsite nearby. While our new camp is not nearly as lovely as some of the others we have enjoyed, it is centrally located, and we will be able to bike to Lands End and back tomorrow with time to spare in Penzance before our train leaves. Once we had set up our tents, we dressed in our least smelly clothing and headed into Penzance on foot.
Penzance is a nice sea-side town, and in all honesty, it's probably very much like Falmouth. The sun, of course, makes all the difference. The cobblestone lanes and big stone buildings seem more quaint than drear with a little splash of sunlight softening their edges. Right now, we're sitting in The Turks Head, a pub with good grub. I ordered a Goat's Cheese Tart drizzled in aged balsamic resting on a bed of greens which was absolutely delicious (if a bit small), and Joshua ordered an enormous plate of Fish and Chips with his first helping of mushy peas (to which he tasted, screwed his brow, and then rated with a thumbs up). Eric ordered something with Ham and Egg and Fries. He ate all of it, so it must have been good.
While the boys drink pints of Bombardier, I'm sipping my tap water and writing on the laptop. It may seem a bit anti-social, but I've received their blessing. Without having to worry about femme tastes or sensibilities, the conversation has wandered from Battle Star Galactica to Joss Whedon's Greatest Hits, the Wire, teaching, and inevitably, race and New Orleans. In a few minutes, I'm sure they will finish their beers and we'll all go in search of "something sweet."
Then, weary from 138 miles of hilly road in 4 days, we'll head back to our tents to sleep it off and do it again.
July 20, 2010
Joshua's alarm went off at 4:50 in the morning. We grabbed toast and bananas for breakfast and wheeled our bikes out the door. At Charlton Station, we caught the train to Charing Cross where we disembarked and then rode four miles through the heart of London to Paddington Train Station in Notting Hill. This would have been absolutely terrifying if people had been awake and driving, but as it was, most people were still in their beds and the roads were fairly free. At Paddington, we waited for 45 minutes until our train to Exeter arrived. On big trains like this one, you can reserve a space for your bike for free, and we were able to stow our bikes in the last car.
The train ride from Paddington to Exeter is about three hours long, and although the seats in the train are relatively plush and spacious compared to other forms of public transportation, they do not recline. No worries. I am exceptionally talented at sleeping in awkward positions, and I slept the entire distance.
We arrived in Exter at 10:30 AM. Having decided the night before that we would need to purchase new panniers, we headed into the heart of the town with our Googlemap directions to find The Bike Shed. Joshua commandeered the selection and purchase of the extremely large and waterproof panniers while I avoided the checkout counter and the final sum. Luckily, once Joshua had purchased the panniers, The Bike Shed was kind enough to let him affix the racks using their tools inside the shop. Running out of time to meet Eric, I left Joshua to the panniers and headed back to Exeter St. David's Station, and I arrived just as Eric exited the station with his brand new Sirrus Sport bicycle and back panniers.
I don't know if it's a part of growing up or just a part of living all over the country, but it feels like I only get to see my closest friends and family in short, intense bursts that occur at infrequent intervals. The greeting is almost always the same. The familiar face and smile makes me remember: yes, this is what I have been missing, and it is so good to see my friend. I big part of me wishes that I could gather these people close to me all the time. I wish I could always be surrounded by such loving and easy company, but like Ashlee says, we live our lives and those lives don't always live in the same place. You take what you can get, and you enjoy it. (I, of course, take some poetic license, but Ashlee IS an exceptionally wise lady.) I still dream of that place surrounded by people I care about and who care about me, but until then, it's not so bad hopping planes and trains and bicycles to spend time with family and friends around the world.
Eric and I waited for Joshua for a few minutes, and when he pulled in, we had another round of greetings. It soon became apparent that neither Joshua nor Eric really had any idea where we were headed next, and I waited patiently while the two pooled their many maps and guide books in an effort to ascertain the next best course of action. It was almost noon, so they decided that 30 miles would be a conservative goal. We set our sights on Two Bridges or Princetown in the heart of Dartmoor, and then we went back into Exeter to purchase foodstuffs. At Marks and Spencers, Eric and I rounded up bananas, a baggie of vegetables, rice, butter beans, and chili dipping sauce for dinner and bagguettes, salami, and humous for lunch.
With all of our food packed into our now very heavy panniers, we made our way to the Cathedral for a pre-trip photo, and then we headed down towards the river. Using a combination of bike paths and highway passes, we circumnavigated the business intersections. Exeter seems to be a pleasant, well-populated town, and it took about two miles to fully exit the city. It was at this point that we started biking up.
Let me preface the next part of this entry by saying: I am very fit. In my last semester of teaching and in the three weeks before we left for Minnesota, I was working out eight to nine hours a week. As I have also mentioned, I was taking serious thigh and butt-burning classes, and I am no stranger to breathing hard and sweating like crazy. Even in the past month, we've been running, hiking, and walking nearly every day for many hours. After the intense run in Capiliera, I had even convinced myself that I was in the best shape I had been in since high school.
Then came Dartmoor. Let me also preface what I'm about to say with a little disclaimer; in order to fully express this experience, I'm going to need to use some colorful language. If this offends you, then you may want to fast forward for the next couple of months of posts.
Holy mother-fucking shit. We went up and up and up and up. By the second hill, my legs were already burning, I was breathing hard, and my t-shirt was soaked with sweat. You might ask me: was the scenery pretty? I would answer: how the fuck would I know? After 30 minutes of climbing, I'm pretty sure that I didn't move my gaze from the ten feet directly in front of me for the next two hours. I am aware that we were climbing, and therefore, I'm pretty sure that the scenery was pretty, but if you want to know what it looks like, you're going to have to look it up for yourself.
After about an hour of climbing, it started raining. It started with a drizzle, gentle enough to lull us into a sense of complacency. It might pass over, we thought. Then it started to ran a little harder. By now we were basically soaked, but we put our rain jackets on anyway, and it was a good thing: now, it started pouring.
I have a prediction: by the end of this journey - or actually, more likely near the beginning of this journey - I'm going to run out of words that describe the quantity and quality of precipitation falling from the sky. On July 20, it started raining at 1 PM and it didn't stop raining until 7 PM that night. It drizzled, it poured, it shit, and it fairly dumped all over us, the whole way, the whole time. At Moreton-hampstead we stopped beneath an ugly little underpass to eat lunch and question our wisdom. Why the fuck, you might ask, did we decide to bike from Exeter to Lands End? Why the hell, you might ask, did you not just begin in Lands End with Eric? The answer, my dears, is highly classified information. It belongs in a little manila envelope labeled, "Marital Strife." You might also be curious to know if this is what we can expect for the next 60 days. So am I, but I sure as hell hope not.
Moreton-hampstead is, I'm sure, a very quaint, cute little town, and it claims the distinction of being "The Gateway to the High Moors." Excuse me? The GATEWAY? Are you suggesting that I've only begun climbing massive mountains?
Yes indeedy. The next seventeen miles took us through heavily misted high moors with free-roaming horses, sheep, and cows. Like the Wicklow Mountains, the land was exposed and quilted in heather. It was beautiful, surreal, and thoroughly under appreciated by me as I panted and swore my way up hills and over moors. At one point, I'm certain an over-size cow shared my dismay when he hoarsely brayed, "For Fuck's Sake." A horse also whinnied, "Christ Almighty." At times, we could barely see 50 yards ahead, and livestock crossing the road appeared to be walking through air. It was a bit ghostlike, and I will refrain from drawing any more parallels to hell. It really was very pretty, I'm telling you.
At some point, we started hopping off of our bikes and walking them up particularly steep sections of road. This is probably why my back and arms hurt like I've been bailing hay for 12 hours. At Princetown, we took the first exit to camp in the field outside of a pub. It don't know what the field or pub were called. This is not because they weren't well marked. This is because I've already blocked out part of this experience from my memory. Eric can explain this to you: there's something called your experiencing self, and there's something called your remembering self, and nary the two shall meet.
ANYWAY. We payed a little less than 7 pounds apiece to pitch our tents in a sodden field. While Joshua and I own a very small, lightweight Mountain Hardware two-person tent, Eric - attempting to save money - had purchased a tarp for the journey. His shelter consisted of a tarp, two poles, and six stakes. We put up our stuff as quickly as possible to avoid getting our sleeping surfaces completely soaked, and when we had finished, I retreated to the shower to warm up. The water was pleasantly hot, but unfortunately, cleanliness just isn't the same when you have to don damp, smelly clothing afterwards. By the time I had finished with the shower, Joshua was sitting in the beer garden of the restaurant cooking dinner with our new camp stove. Thankfully, rice with vegetables and beans don't take very long to cook, and we were almost ready to eat by the time the pub owner came over and kicked us out into the rain. I will refrain from making mass judgements about the English race, and instead inform you that we ate our basic dinner inside a little hovel meant for washing dishes. There was a very nice corrugated plastic roof that was kind enough to keep the rain out and an even classier drain in the cement corner to dispose of our liquid wastes when we had finished.
After dinner, we stuck it to the man by walking a distance down the road to another pub. Eric ordered a beer while Joshua and I ordered two cups of hot tea. Joshua seems to think that real men don't drink their tea with milk and sugar, but I've grown to appreciate the finer things in life, and I say, bring it on. For the next two hours, we talked about the past two years, what's sucked and what hasn't, and Eric's upcoming research in history, economics, and human welfare.
Usually, a discussion such as this would bore me to tears, but I actually find this stuff pretty interesting. Eric is looking a data sets from different periods in history to determine different peoples' quality of life. He does this by looking at height. Throughout history, whenever societies have experience periods of relative wealth, their communities have grown taller. Data such as this can show how certain areas developed and even how different members within their communities benefited from food availability. For example, underdeveloped countries have lower average heights than more developed countries, and the average heights of men tend to be taller than women because historically men have had better access to the benefits of wealth. This is a vastly over-simplified summary of course, but hopefully, you'll be able to read all about when Eric publishes his dissertation and becomes fabulously wealthy (and tall?).
At eleven o'clock, we bundled up in every item of clothing we had carried and headed back for the camp site. Joshua and I looked on dubiously as Eric assured us that he would be fine under his little tarp. To be honest, I didn't worry for long, because as soon as my head hit my sopping wet pillow, I was fast asleep.
July 21, 2010
The next morning, I woke up to the sweet sounds of my husband hocking phlegm into the grass next to the tent. It was 8:30, and I figured we should probably get going, so I began stuffing our now only slightly damp sleeping bags into their stuff sacks and rolling our sleeping pads into their compact bags. When we're camping, this has always been my job. I like the straight-forward tasks that are the same every time, while Joshua prefers the spacial math-game of finding a way to stuff all of our crap into a small space.
For breakfast, we ate chocolate-covered flapjacks, oranges, dried apricots, and croissants. By the time we finished breakfast and breaking down camp, it was nearly 10:30, so we hopped on the road right away. We covered the first four miles in less than 20 minutes. Clearly, we were out of the high moors. Within the hour, we reached the Tavistock where we pulled off to the side and the men chose the next part of the route. After another uphill, we descended even further to the village of Gunnislake, sitting on a narrow brown river. For the next three miles, we switched into first gear and climbed back into the hills. In Callington, we stopped for lunch purchased from the Spar, and we ate our pasties and fresh fruit in a little courtyard just beyond a lovely stone Medieval Church. Joshua, having lost our bike pump, spied a bike shop and went in to see what was available. When he returned, he told us that the bike shop owner had done the Lands End to John O'Groats trip a couple of years ago. To his memory, Cornwall and Devon were by far the most difficult stretch of the trip. While other parts of the journey are also hilly, the road tends to make a more gradual ascent via switchbacks or circumnavigation.
This was good news indeed, and we took the next 8 miles by storm. Actually, Joshua and Eric took the next 8 miles by storm, but I conveniently got myself caught behind an old-fashioned steam car. You might ask me, what the hell is an old-fashioned steam car doing chugging through the steep-ass hills of Cornwall? I would tell you, why, there's an Old Fashioned Steam Car Festival in Buconnic! What great timing! Really, I can't think of a more enjoyable way to spend a four mile down hill after laboring up thousands of hills. Who doesn't love holding on to their breaks with white knuckles and breathing in the belching smoke of steam engine? The men engineering this pre- 19th century feat were positively charming, but I hated them nevertheless.
In better spirits, Joshua decided that he would christen our arrival into Liskeard by going number two in the middle of a field just beyond a busy roundabout. He is so classy.
The next few miles into Lostwhithiel, our port of call, were a bit less enjoyable. We headed onto a main freeway for a couple of miles, clinging to the shoulder the whole way. At our exit, we breathed a sigh of relief a bit prematurely, for the road simply narrowed, but the traffic seemed to maintain a steady pace. At one point, we took a little breather next to a car dealership, and we ate the rest of Eric's sliced ham along with the raspberries growing nearby. Tired and a little bit crabby, we hopped back on for our last few miles. It rained for a little bit, but it soon let up, and as we approached Lostwhithiel, we descended into another steep valley. Looking at the town's welcome sign, I considered how the name sounded a lot like a speech impediment.
At the tourist information center, we stopped for a potty break and directions to the nearest campsite. The woman behind the counter was optimistic about everything, and we predicted a campsite and a warm meal within the next 30 minutes. It was not to be. At the co-op, we loaded up on more beans, pita, humous, spinach, and pastries for breakfast, and then we headed out of town. Naturally, "out of town" also means "up a big fuckin' hill." Psychologically, we were all a bit down, so we slowly made our climb, crying into our gears.
We crested the hill, and Joshua and I spied our exit for the Eden Valley Holiday Park. Eric did not. We're convinced he just hadn't had enough cycling for the day, and he went on, climbing the next hill. Neither Joshua or I were about to cross the busy road with a blind curve again, so I dumped the bike and went running after him. After a quarter of mile, I realized the error of my ways and flagged down a car to play telephone with Eric. The nice elderly couple who stopped invited me to sit in their backseat, and we went in search of the lone rider in his orange jacket.
Once Eric had been corralled, we headed into the camp park. The man from reception was very nice, and he thought we were completely ridiculous. We exchanged a few stories, and then Joshua and Eric set up the tents while I made dinner. After 44 miles of hilly road, we inhaled our dinner of rice, steamed spinach, and beans. Once our bellies were full, we changed into warm clothing and headed out for the pub in Linlivery. To get there, we walked up a steep hill and into the courtyard of another Medieval Church. The small graveyard surrounding the double-naved stone building was full of ancient tombstones covered in lichen and moss, and on the other side, we spied our pub, filled with light and people drinking.
For their nightcap, Joshua and Eric ordered pints of beer, and again, I ordered my cup of doctored tea. The boys played Rummy 500 while I tried to catch up on some of my writing, interrupting them at odd intervals for suggestions on word choice, spelling, and fact-checking. At eleven o'clock, we called it a night and walked back through the dark country lanes to our campsite. Once again, my weary body succumbed to sleep within seconds and we slept through the night toasty warm and oblivious.
July 22, 2010
I woke up to the sound of my husband farting loudly. When I objected to this wake-up call, he heaped the blame back upon me, saying that I was feeding him too many beans. What to do? We're trying to wean ourselves off of meat and dairy, but how else are we supposed to get our protein? Beans, m'dear.
This morning began as the morning before, and I rolled up our camping gear as Joshua began packing. For breakfast, we ate muffins and bananas as the sky got darker and darker. Then it rained. It rained really hard, and then it rained some more. We continued loading our panniers onto our bikes and then soldiered on. At the top of the next hill, we caught our first glimpse of ocean through the gloom, and within six miles, we entered the larger town of St. Austell. After another four miles of busier road, we exited onto a smaller B road heading toward Tregony. All of sudden, the sun came out, and our entire landscape changed. For the next few miles, we pedaled through pretty country roads lined in brambles and pink and purple hydrangeas. The villages we passed had pastel painted homes with thatched roofs and overflowing gardens, and the air smelled of cow manure and sea breeze. At Humphrey Farms just outside of Tregony, we stopped for a little snack of fresh strawberries and chocolate covered shortcake. The farm shop was stocked with all sorts of farm-fresh produce and locally baked goodies, and we sat outside on their picnic table while we gobble up the berries that still tasted warm from the sun.
After a few more miles of biking, we descended into St. Mawes, a beautiful beachside village complete with a castle and picturesque cottages overlooking the sea. Hopping the ferry for Falmouth, we hoped that the village across the inlet would be just as pretty.
Too be fair, it began raining on the ferry ride, and by the time we arrived in Falmouth, the sky was dark and overcast, and the air was damp and cold. At the tourist office, we asked for information about camping sites, and the woman forlornly informed us that we would have to go uphill a couple of miles to find the shelter we were seeking. When we asked if we would find a pub nearby, she shook her head sadly.
Giving up our dream of a hot meal and shelter with ambiance, Joshua and I walked to the Marks and Spencers up the cobblestone lane. We purchased ready to eat Mexican salads and more humous for lunch, and for dinner, we settled on some canned curry (yum). Restocked, we joined Eric on the pier and ate our lunch in the drizzle. Perfectly miserable and completely fed up with English weather, we hopped back on our bikes and headed for Pennance Mill Farms.
The ride out of Falmouth contained a few climbs at steep pitches and just as many abrupt downhills. To our left, the fabled Cornish coast unfolded in fits and starts. One bay had pretty white sands with a pastel blue beach. Up above, the road wound past a grey-brick cottage with hydrangeas spilling out of the hedges. We climbed one more hill at a 17 percent grade and then descended into the valley containing our campsite.
Pennance Mill sits in a sunlit gully, and the friendly woman at reception informed us that they had received none of the drear that had effected Falmouth just an hour earlier. Judging by her sunkissed and smiley face, it wasn't hard to believe, and we enjoyed light breezes and sunlit for our entire stay. In our camping meadow, we stretched out our damp clothing to dry in the sun and took showers to rinse off the grime. Joshua cooked our canned curry and rice which wasn't half bad, and all of us decided that biking from Lands End to John O'Groats wasn't such a bad idea at all. In fact, we might even enjoy some of it. We sat up on our knoll watching the moon rise over the next hill; night fell, and we grew sleepy. Saying good night all around, we crawled into our tents and slept for hours.
July 23, 2010
After some discussion over our top secret folder labeled "Marital Strife" we have made a mutual decision: today we will ride to Penzance, and tomorrow, we will leave our panniers at our campsite and make the short 20 mile round trip to Lands End. Then at 5:39 PM, we will join Eric on the train back to Exeter. We have not scraped our E2E (End to End, for those of you in the know... I am not. I just learned this tacky abreviation today.) dreams, but we have revised the wisdom of biking the hills of Cornwall and Devon twice. We can now re-label our top secret folder "Marital Bliss."
Mornings have sorted themselves out already. We wake up, we pack up, and we roll out. I don't mean to suggest that this happens with any amount of speed, but happen it does, and we were on the road again by 10 AM. The night before, Eric had poured over the map looking for a route to Penzance that avoided the worst uphills. As a result, we found ourselves on obscure little country lanes winding through Mawnan Smith, Constance, and Gweek (yes, Gweek.), tiny villages with epic churches, brick homes, and flowers lining the road.
As a side note, I'd like to share with you our incomparable wit: when I shared with the boys that I though that Lostwitheil sounded like a speech impediment, we started refering to it with a slight lisp. Once again, I couldn't help but draw the same conclusion with Falmouth. As Joshua says (with a slight lisp), "I lost my fuckin' whistle, and now I'm in fuckin' foul mouth." It's become a bit of mantra, and now we've added, "bwing me to the Gweek!"
After we pedaled through Gweek, we climbed another steep hill into the hedge-lined countryside and made our way to Helston. At the Sainsbury's in Helston, we grabbed ready to eat sandwiches and ate them in the parking lot (al fresco?). The next 14 miles to Penzance were on a busier A road, but the lanes were wider and we had a beautiful view of the sea to the south.
The sun that found us in Pennance Mill Farms followed us throughout the day, and by the time we reached Marazion, I was feeling positively optimistic. Like St. Mawes, Marazion sits on a hill beside the sea, and it's quaint brick buildings have pastel colored shutters and enviable views of a castle island just off shore. We stopped just after the village on a stretch of sandy beach to lay in the sun and look at the crazy people strip down and dance in the sea. There may be sun, but that sure as hell doesn't mean it's warm enough to prance around in ice water. To our right, the German tourists in speedos industriously engineered a sand and driftwood dam through a freshwater stream running into the sea, and just beyond them, the French began stripping off their underclothes for an even tan. I guess some stereotypes exist for a reason, no?
We cycled a few more miles into Penzance were we found both the Tourist Information Office and the Railway Station in the same parking lot. Joshua and Eric purchased our tickets to Exeter, and we found a campsite nearby. While our new camp is not nearly as lovely as some of the others we have enjoyed, it is centrally located, and we will be able to bike to Lands End and back tomorrow with time to spare in Penzance before our train leaves. Once we had set up our tents, we dressed in our least smelly clothing and headed into Penzance on foot.
Penzance is a nice sea-side town, and in all honesty, it's probably very much like Falmouth. The sun, of course, makes all the difference. The cobblestone lanes and big stone buildings seem more quaint than drear with a little splash of sunlight softening their edges. Right now, we're sitting in The Turks Head, a pub with good grub. I ordered a Goat's Cheese Tart drizzled in aged balsamic resting on a bed of greens which was absolutely delicious (if a bit small), and Joshua ordered an enormous plate of Fish and Chips with his first helping of mushy peas (to which he tasted, screwed his brow, and then rated with a thumbs up). Eric ordered something with Ham and Egg and Fries. He ate all of it, so it must have been good.
While the boys drink pints of Bombardier, I'm sipping my tap water and writing on the laptop. It may seem a bit anti-social, but I've received their blessing. Without having to worry about femme tastes or sensibilities, the conversation has wandered from Battle Star Galactica to Joss Whedon's Greatest Hits, the Wire, teaching, and inevitably, race and New Orleans. In a few minutes, I'm sure they will finish their beers and we'll all go in search of "something sweet."
Then, weary from 138 miles of hilly road in 4 days, we'll head back to our tents to sleep it off and do it again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)