From Castillejar to Granada
On my way south again Jenny and Al directed me to a quiet cross country route that by passed the main towns. The weather was very sunny and it was heavenly to get back on the bike again in such tranquil conditions.
Just outside Baza I picked up another Via Verde trail, the old railway line between Baza and Guadix.
As I mentioned on an earlier page of the blog I've visited this area about seven times before and it's always very emotional when I leave. Whichever way you go it seems there's a quite specific moment when you leave the Altiplano. Maybe because it's more or less surrounded by mountains, and when you look down on it from above as well as being able to identify many of its features, there's also a strong sense of its "genius locii" or essential nature as a place. Here's one of my last glances backwards towards La Sagra, the mountain which dominated my view of the Altiplano, in the far north and at the centre of the background. To get some idea of the perspective, that mountain is about 50 miles away!
I spent my first night on the trail and pitched the tent on the platform of an abandoned railway station at Zujar. I think about two cars passed on the road outside during the whole time I was there which suggests why it may have been abandoned.
Next morning was beautiful, crisp and clear with amazing views of this colossal countryside. But it was quite hard work. Although the constant gradient was fairly shallow, the surface was loose gravel which makes for difficult going and is more exhausting than tarmac because of all the shaking. Added to which there was quite a strong breeze blowing directly against me. So I was very glad to get back onto sealed roads again. Unfortunately my delight was short lived as the road to Gore, the next town on the route, was completely closed for repairs, and the diversion was across gravel tracks. As it turned out the diversion lead me around the town and across the valley further up so that I didn't get to go there. Instead I got this tremendous view of the motorway as it soared across the valley above me.
Gore was on the way to a much larger town called Guadix, my objective for the day. There are no direct routes for non motorway traffic between these two towns and I spent a long time trying to work out the best option. Google and Czecki Mapi both wanted to send me North via Gorafe, which was roughly an extra days riding. There was a southerly route that involved some fairly steep mountain bike trails which I decided to risk on the basis that they were roughly 40k shorter. At the town of Hernán Valle there was a cafe open, the first I had seen all day, so I called in for a coffee, well two actually, and a delicious cheese sandwich. I asked about the quickest way into Guadix without using the motorway and the landlord gave me some detailed instructions with a hand drawn map. I had been warned by a couple of Brits that Spanish people and particularly the older Campos or country dwellers, seem to have a different sense of spatial awareness, and as the barman drew out his map I had to stop myself from laughing disrespectfully as he basically just drew a straight line between two points. There were one or two important landmarks on the way, but his representation finished in an indeterminate squiggle marked with pine trees and the admonition to take the centre of three routes. This will lead to Guadix railway station. Well I hope i was able to convey my gratitude for his encouraging information. He told me his name was Antonio and we were able to part company in very good humour. I followed his directions as closely as I could, which took me alongside the motorway until it soared off again on a lengthy elevated section. I don't know if I missed something along the way, but I eventually arrived at a gate across the trail which looked like it was electronically locked. Behind it I could see the road rising through some very well cultivated plantations. So that must have been why although the trail was marked on both my maps, it was not given as a route by either Google or Czecki. Maybe the landlord has not come this way in a while. So although Guadix was less than 10k as the crow flies, I had to embark on a 25k detour to get there. Well I knew it wasn't going to be easy so I consoled myself with the fact that there was still plenty of daylight left. The final section into town was all downhill but on a totally unmade trail. It was really exhilarating and extremely picturesque so I think in the end I had the best of both worlds.
In town there was a motor caravan parking area, but all concrete so not really for me and my tent, but there was an extensive and fairly wild park area nearby in which I found a secluded spot for the tent. I did a little shopping in a supermarket I hadn't tried before, Mercadona. I was surprised by the quality of the stuff and the reasonable prices. In my mind I dissected the name Merca for merchant, Dona for one who gives. The merchant that gives! Could be completely in my head, but it was a nice thought anyway, and more attractive than the name of one of their main rivals, Consum!
Being Saturday night there were quite a lot of kids around, until about 11pm, when it was getting pretty cold, and it became quiet and still, but for the occasional and inescapable sound of dogs barking in the distance.
It was really chilly in the morning so I made no delay in making my escape from the park. Guadix is in a hollow, unusually for a Spanish town, and the only way out is up! Well there was going to be a lot more up as the route to Granada lies over the pass at Los Blancares which is at 1300 metres above sea level. It was all on metalled roads so nice and smooth and wether it was because it was a Sunday I don't know but there was virtually no traffic at all. But there were a lot of other cyclists, and every now and again chalked on the road there would be words of encouragement written into the tarmac, as if to offer help in the ordeal of the seemingly endless ascent. As the altitude increased so the terrain became wilder and eventually gave way to pine forests, criss crossed with paths, some of them carrying the pilgrims route to Santiago de Compostela. Seems like wherever you are in Spain you are never far away from one of these pilgrim trails which invariably flow through beautiful countryside.
At the pass I found these words chalked onto the tarmac.
Which really brought a smile and a laugh to my lips.
After crossing the pass the countryside becomes even more spectacular, passing a huge embalse or reservoir and descending into the valley which would eventually lead into the city of Granada.
There's a distinctly more exotic feel to this part of Spain, probably to do with it's Moorish history and proximity to Africa. I had pre booked a room in a hostel in the Albaicin, the old quarter of town, and on my way across town at around 5pm, encountered a small flamenco group apparently rehearsing in the street. This was an unexpected delight and just the sort of thing I came to this town for. No problems checking in at the hostel, and very cool that my dormitory room was on the roof with a terrace overlooking the town.
After a short crash on the bed and a phenomenally refreshing shower I ventured downstairs. Only a few hundred yards away I found a very attractive Syrian restaurant. It's a funny thing that I don't seem to get hungry while I'm cycling and generally avoid loading up my stomach with food. After all that climbing with the bike I was feeling pretty exhausted but until I stumbled on this place I had not really got an appetite. Lentil soup with lamb, aubergine and rice followed by mint tea with baclava. The kind of food that restores the soul as well as the body, and served with a humility and sense of service that provoked in me a profound sense of gratitude which lasted, like the flavour of the meal, through the night until coffee the next morning.
