Reluctantly drawing myself away from what could have been the
quietest place on earth, I felt mildly bemused that I hadn't yet seen a
solitary person on my time on the mountain, let alone another cyclist;
and nothing was about to change during the next hour of riding! until I
reached the comparatively busy A-334.
Pleasant for a
while, it soon became a syphon for anything travelling east with four
wheels and a reverberating engine. If the area near the giant horseshoe
of road that is the Calar Alto is virtually bereft of human settlement, then the 16 kilometre stretch between Purchena and Albox
had the rest of the country's population travelling towards the
Mediterranean coast for the holidays. Road cycling can be a lot like
that, especially through the hills of southern Spain.
Marked
on my map as a planned autovia straddling the existing road, the only
way forward seemed the motorway itself. Once on these things, its like
the plane you are in has just left the tarmac bound for somewhere way in
the distance. You're all of a sudden in someone else's hands.
With
the prolonged blasts of car horns ringing in my ears, I could do little
but pedal as fast as I could, all the time longing for a slipway to
appear. It never did, at least not in the way I was hoping. The only
alternative available seemed an access road to an industrial estate,
nothing more than an enclave of empty factories along dead-end streets,
none of which were any help to me. Almost deserted and with no road
going anywhere, other than the route I came in on, I reluctantly
started backtracking towards the motorway.
Just
then, out the door of one of the factories, appeared a young man in
overalls. He was heading towards his car, parked out on the road.
Despite the short conversation, with hardly a word understood, I learned
enough from his raised arm motioning me towards the motorway to realise
what I already knew; l had no alternative but to put my head down, try
to ignore the unsettling blasts of the accompanying traffic and ride as
fast as I possibly could.
*****
It's
surprising how quickly you can travel when you have fear at your back.
It seemed only a matter of moments before I reached a smaller road off
the motorway. Though it might take me back into the mountains, I
thought, where travelling is often slow, far better to the tune of
nature than human intervention.
Already well past the
time of day when I should have been enjoying a beer with Roz, I arrived
at a cafe-restaurant on the outskirts of the small village of Zurgena.
Uncertain of the road to take, I approached two rather portly
middle-aged gentlemen sitting at a table out the front. Englishmen on
vacation, their faces as red as twin London telephone boxes, they were
the only ones the slightest bit interested in my predicament.
With
shirts unbuttoned and looking the worst for wear, having spent the
afternoon sipping beer in the hot Spanish sun, they provided me with
more instructions than you'd find on a Google map; except, rather
ironically, the first few kilometres. They just couldn't agree on which
of two unmarked roads I should take. One suggested the road to my right,
which I presumed would take me deeper into the mountains, and the
other, the one to my left.
Sometimes
you just need to make your own decisions and suffer the consequences.
More confused than I felt just moments earlier, I thanked them for their
good intentions and left them still engaging in vigorous debate about
who was right. With time on the wane, I'd already decided to head
further into the mountains.
Cycling up a long,
meandering road is physically tough but when it's late in the day,
you've been riding since early morning, and worse still, you're not
exactly sure where the climb will take you, it becomes every bit as
much a mental challenge. With more hope than vigour, I followed the
gentle curves in the road until they led me to another unmarked long
string of bitumen heading east, towards the sea. Possibly one of the
roads my English acquaintances were arguing about, it led down into a
steep valley, that perhaps included the town of Cuevas del Almanzora.
Soon
feeling reassured by the number of of passing cyclists slowly climbing
from the opposite direction, I could finally afford myself the
hard-earned thought of finding our overnight stay before dusk.
Swivelling my head from left to right, as I tiredly pedalled down the
town's busy main street, a huge cheer from the hotel's proprietor
and his patrons dining at tables out the front told me that I'd finally
arrived. Not much before ten in the evening, it was a welcome relief.
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