Forcall
There were some big mountains ahead of me, surrounding the basin of the river Ebro, and I spent a lot of time trying to work out which route would be the most bike friendly, and even if I could avoid them altogether. I have been invited to spend a few days with my friend Felix in Denia, South of Valencia so eventually I decided to take the Col de Ares and set out for the village of Forcall which lies at the foot of the pass. I was hoping to make the final climb in a single day.
The road to Forcall from Andorra starts off pretty straight, though not always very flat. Lorries outnumber cars by at least ten to one. I know because I counted them!
Since I got to Spain I had been struggling to make sense of the local geology as it seems to be very mixed up. As if in answer to my unspoken prayer a sign appeared at the side of the road welcoming me to a UNESCO Geopark, or site of outstanding geological interest. I hope if you are interested that the following photos will explain themselves.
All the towns in this region seem to be ancient and sprawled out over hill tops. This is a typical Street in Aguaviva, but to be honest it could have been taken in any one of the towns I passed through.
Just a few kilometres outside Aguaviva the road enters the gorge of the Riu Bergantes and the scenery takes a dramatic change. The road twists and winds through this beautiful valley that is populated only with trees and wildlife. Occasionally there are dramatic cliff faces exposed and although I tried hard to capture the atmosphere on camera it proved impossible to get any kind of impression of the immense scale of the surroundings. I submit my humble efforts below but I suggest if you want to get a better feel for the place, try using Google earth satellite images. It is truly amazing countryside and definitely the most awe inspiring I have yet passed through. To think that only 24 hours previously I had been trying to find ways to avoid it!
The lorries were still coming ten to one along this mountain road, but I had lost all fear of them because they always gave me plenty of room. The drivers often waved or gave a friendly toot of the horn, even those coming in the opposite direction, and I had the impression that they probably made this journey regularly and were trying to let me know that they were looking out for me. I always responded by waving back and never felt in the least bit troubled. It's not as if they sneak up on you anyway, in the silence of this Virgin forest you can hear them coming from a mile away, and if the road narrows or there's another truck coming the other way it's nearly always possible to pull over and let them whistle past, which they appreciate with a toot.
There was one particular place I came to on that section with a large lay by that went down to the river. To me it was a sacred place of power, and felt mysteriously connected in some way to places of power in the other continents of the world. A group of large birds were spiralling on the updrafts of hot air, possibly eagles or vultures. I stayed there meditating for an hour or so and wondered whether I should make camp and stay the night. There were some very dark clouds circling around and I found that because there was no phone or internet signal I couldn't check the forecast. I felt unprepared for a night in such a wild place and reminded myself that I was not actually a shaman and maybe should not be messing with things I didn't really understand. As I walked back to the place where I had parked my bike I came across the whole leg of a deer that had been severed from its body and I took this as a sign that I had made the right decision. All the same, as I took to the road again, my mind encountered many of the self generated and familiar forms of criticism based on the hunger for excitement and experience, and the desire to be the best possible version of myself. At least, I eventually convinced myself, I had left this wild place without interfering, which might not have been the case if I had stayed longer.
Turning a corner I was suddenly greeted with this astonishing sight.
A small village with a church clinging, even carved into the rock face of the mountain and the first sign of human habitation I'd seen in probably ten kilometres.
The road led on to the town of Sorita and eventually to Forcall, which was again situated high on a hill on a bend in the river. I didn't have to look far for a place to pitch the tent as there was another abandoned municipal recreation ground on the riverside just outside the town. There were barbecues and tables with benches which brought to mind happier times, for lighting fires in this part of the country was still strictly forbidden. I had time to do some shopping in the town before going back to pitch the tent. Something I've noticed is that throughout France and Spain the clock towers all seem to have bells that chime the hours and oftentimes the quarter hours. Some of the Spanish bells sound very Iron and un-sonorous but I'm finding something very re assuring about hearing these bells wherever I go. To begin with it reminds me that people are never far away. If I can hear the bells then they can probably hear me if I make enough noise. And it sets up a kind of rhythm to time that I'm finding very helpful. I don't have a watch and it means I can get a pretty good idea of the drift of the day without having to constantly check on my phone. As I lay trying to get off to sleep I wondered whether the Chiming would go on all night, but I never did find out.
