Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/13/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-25-25-04-29-seville-friends-the-nationwide-blackout-and-i-finally-get-that-the-berlingo-and-sand-dont-mix

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I’ve been invited, on very short notice as usual, to stay with a Servas host named Abel in Madrid. As the biggest city in Spain, Madrid has real urban traffic and I arrive, after sitting in a jam caused by a freeway accident, at his house adjacent to the large San Isidro Park in a neighborhood just south of the Manzanares River which runs through the city. I find parking a 10 minute walk away in front of the large cemetery, load up my overnight gear, and walk down many steps to the house. Abel has warned me he lives on the 6th floor with no elevator. After he buzzes me in it’s a bit of a slog humping my way up all those stairs under load but I make it with some energy to spare. He lives in a 1-bedroom apartment with the major asset of a rooftop terrace, high above the street. He has hundreds of interesting books, most of them in Spanish, of course.

Abel is sort of a recluse these days, largely due the debilitating effects of long Covid, which limit his mobility and endurance. Photos he shows me, indicate a wild and crazy guy during his younger years, He adheres to a careful diet to combat his symptoms. On Sunday morning, Abel and I take a short bus ride to a major plaza. He shows me a few locales in the immediate vicinity and then leaves me on my own. One of the major attractions in Madrid is the Prado, the giant art museum. I know when Susan comes, the Prado will be an inevitable stop, so I’m not going to subject myself to it prematurely. Strange to say, Madrid does not evoke any favorable feelings in me. I guess I’m jaded by too many European old cities. I decide to just do a large walking loop through various neighborhoods and then back along the river, only 3.5 miles in total. Call me a barbarian, but that’s enough Madrid for me, at least for the moment. Back at Abel’s rooftop apartment, I spend the rest of the day with him and a small succession of female guests. One of them, Sophia, arrives with guitar in hand. She was born British but has adapted totally to life as a Spaniard. She plays and sings some of her original songs in Spanish. Interpreting for me in English, she points out various Spanish double entendres incorporated in her lyrics. The surface meaning is innocuous but the second one is something salacious or risque. It takes real command of the language to pull that off.

Sophia incidentally mentions that she has some facility in about 5 other languages, too. In light of the proficiency ceilings I encounter with foreign languages, she makes me look completely incompetent. I am so jealous of people like that.

Sophia arrived with a friend, Lourdes. In the course of the evening she reveals a lot of unhappiness with the way her life has turned out. I offer her what sympathy and encouragement I can but, of course, I have no power to make it better, She does teach me one vital fact, though. At least in Madrid, a hole in one’s sock with the skin showing through, is called a “tomato”. How did I get this far in life without knowing that?

Late in the evening, the guests leave, Abel retreats to his bedroom, and I sack out on the couch for the night. Monday I spend time with him. At Susan’s request, he dresses up as Don Quixote for a photo.

After lunch I pack up and head uphill to the car. As I walk out the front door, a substantial rainfall is beginning. Just as I reach the car at the end of my 10 minute walk, the rain intensifies to a complete downpour. By the time I manage to unlock the Berlingo, shrug out of my backpack in the narrow space between cars, and get everything, including me, inside, I’m soaked. It’s nothing a half hour of heat can’t fix, though.

On my way northeast, I detour to an attraction I found in Atlas Obscura, a site dedicated to collecting a large collection of offbeat places. Many of them are uninteresting to me but a number of the ones I’ve checked out have been quite rewarding. Today, I stop in the tiny community of Civica, where an entire cliff is riddled with excavated cave rooms. Their purpose is obscure, and they’re said to have been sponsored by a local priest in 1950-1970. I arrive with the intent of exploring a little bit, but every access to the property is blocked off and prohibited. The only view I get, but it’s a good one, is from the road passing by.

I’ve booked a room at Hostal Las Nieves in a likely looking hiking area in Castile and León where potential hosts are quite sparse. “Nieves” means “snows” referencing the only ski area in this portion of Spain. I arrive about 6 pm, checking in with a young guy who seems like a new employee. He asks me how long I’m staying (this will turn out to be a significant question tomorrow) and I say at least one night, perhaps more if I like it. The room is very nice and I go down to the restaurant for some food. The owner is an Argentinian and, in true Argentinian style, his menu is laden with half pound Angus beef burgers. I order up one of the fanciest ones and thoroughly enjoy it. Best (and only) $20 burger I’ve ever had. That done, I go up to my room to spend the evening working and writing.

I pop up the next morning, having decided to stay, and go downstairs. The only visible staffer is a woman I haven’t seen before, presumably the owner’s wife. I ask her how much a second night will cost and she informs me that today is their rest day. I don’t quite understand. I already know the bar and restaurant will be closed today. As in the US, virtually every Spanish restaurant closes one or two days a week, but she seems to be saying I can’t stay another night. And she means just that: not only does the restaurant close today, the whole hotel does, too. Every Tuesday, all the guests have to vacate. I ask why the clerk from yesterday asked how long I wanted to stay if the place would be closed today, anyway, but she is unmoved. I’ve never heard of a hotel kicking everyone out for rest day, but that’s what’s happening here.

Now, I have just 2 hours to get out and find lodging for tonight. I do locate something not too far away and in the same price range, but I doubt it will compare to this deal. I make the reservation and start driving to the area I plan to hike today. Along the way, I see a small attraction sign for Monumento Natural de La Fuentona. “Fuentona” means fountain, so totally on impulse, I take a left and follow the sign. Driving a number of small roads, I end up at a deserted, dead end parking lot. The trail signs promise a waterfall and a spring, and that’s enough for me to start walking. The stream along which the trail runs is absolutely beautiful, water crystal clear so you can see the bottom perfectly.

Eventually, I come to a fork, waterfall to the right, spring to the left. I walk up the branch to the fall, It’s a very scenic spot, but there’s currently only a small seepage coming down the tall, vertical, moss covered slope. After watching the drip pattern in the small pool below for a while, I go back to the main trail.

It ends in a small pond that turns out be the outlet of a flooded cave system. If you’ve ever visited any of the well known Florida springs (e.g. Blue, Silver, or Weeki Wachee, the latter of the ubiquitous mermaid television commercials of the 1950s), you can imagine what I’m seeing: many gallons per second of perfectly clear water emerging from the earth under the pond. This is the source of the crystal stream I’ve been following. My random decision to follow a sign turns out to be a very rewarding excursion.

It’s now too late in the day to do my originally planned hike, so I drive a short distance north to my last minute lodging. Along the way, I see a tall tower off to the side so, Catskill fire tower fan that I am, I turn off onto a track that looks like it may lead there. It’s quite steep in places and on one pitch I need 4WD to make it up. At the top there is indeed a tower, but it’s deserted and the stairway is clearly off limits. Adjacent is a stone shelter that seems to have served as a traveler’s refuge at one time. Now it’s nonfunctional.

I arrive at Hostal La Tablada. Here, I’m assigned a 4th floor room, quite acceptable, but as often occurs I forget to test the wi-fi in the room before committing to it. The hotel advertises wi-fi “in all public areas”, which generally includes guest rooms, but at least all lobbies and lounges. After settling into the room, I try to connect — complete failure. I move down the hall to the guest lounge — same result. I talk to the owner about this and his attitude is “you can sit in the [ground floor] bar and use the internet”. The bar is loud and has no comfortable seating so that’s not a solution. My mention of his “all public areas claim” does not move him. I try relocating his wi-fi extenders, but they can’t pick up a 4th floor signal either. Eventually, I sit in the 3rd floor lounge, far from my room, and switch repeatedly between 3 sketchy wi-fi networks to get some access. Around midnight, the manager comes up and tries to blame the problem on the whole town’s unreliable internet service. This is bullshit, of course, because connecting to a wi-fi network has nothing to do with that network being connected to the outside world. I find his cavalier attitude annoying and that will be reflected in my review. All in all two frustrating hotel stays. In retrospect, I would have been better off in a dorm bed in a hostel. Note that in Spanish, a hostel offers dormitory bunk beds whereas a hostal is a small hotel with conventional rooms.

Wednesday morning, I proceed to the site of yesterday’s planned hike. A long and popular rail trail passes through the adjacent village of San Leonardo, along the ambitious but now defunct 500 mile rail line that connected Santander on Spain’s north Atlantic coast and Valencia on the Mediterranean. In the village, a station has been preserved whose claim to fame is that it was used to film a train scene (using artificial snow) in the movie Doctor Zhivago.

I’m heading for Cañon del Río Lobos (Wolves River Canyon). The approach road first offers a broad, east facing view of the canyon from high above.

I descend, get to the visitor center at opening time, walk in through the open door, and am politely told they, too, are closed for rest day. Checking the trail map, I decide on a loop through the canyon. The outbound trail goes up and over a high, rocky ridge. Shade is sparse at first but the air temperature is modest so climbing the long, steady slope is no hardship. Eventually the trail leads to another broad overlook, this one on the west side. The canyon is quite striking from above.

Walking further, the trail descends to the canyon floor through pine forest, emerging at a picnic area. Down here, spring is in full force and flowers are blooming.

I’m going to follow the riverside trail back to the car. I start that route but find that the Río Lobos, although it’s a narrow stream, is running quite high from recent rains. The trail crosses the river several times and rocks have been placed to allow dry crossings. Unfortunately, today, the rocks are all submerged and the fast running water does not give me confidence to try to cross them safely. It’s a situation where you have to commit to stepping on the next stone before knowing if it’s slippery and will dump you into the stream.

My only other choice is to walk over to the road and follow that back — not a desirable alternative. So, I decide wet crossings are the way to go. Ignoring the large, currently submerged rocks, I make my crossings easily along the stream bottom. In wilderness Alaska, almost all stream crossings are wet, and can be dangerous to the inexperienced or incautious. The situation here is safe but similar, with two major exceptions: I’m not carrying a full backpack that threatens to pull me off balance into the stream and the water, rather than being near-freezing, is not the least painful. All in all, a pretty trivial job. The only negative effects are walking along in soggy sneakers and wet pants legs after each crossing.

Nrear the end of the trail, I pass a small forest planted German-style, with the trees in a perfect grid, presumably for lumber quality and future ease of harvesting.

Eventually, I return to the car to leave the area.

In just a few miles, I pass an inconspicuous sign “Canal Romano”. Following that a short distance leads to something odd, the visible mouth of a 400 foot tunnel through rock that was part of a 25 mile canal reputedly built by the ancient Romans to serve their city, Uxama. If true, this work must date back to at least the 2nd century and their engineering skills were amazing for the time.

Now I drive a few hours east to my next hosts in another town I’ve never heard of until now, Calatayud. Servas members Maribel and Juanjo welcome me warmly. Maribel is 24 years younger than her husband and they appear very happily married. Their adult daughter is currently with them, studying hard for a make or break civil service test. Maribel’s mother, in her 80’s, lives in the flat just below and comes up every evening to watch her favorite quiz show with the family. Both Maribel and Juanjo speak some English, so when the discussion falters in Spanish, we can still find the right word.

We spend the evening talking, getting acquainted, and having dinner. I spend the night on the convertible sofa in the living room. After breakfast in the morning, Maribel, who just retired a few weeks ago from her government job in agricultural support, takes me to her now-former office and shows me around. I’m introduced to various employees, each of whom deal with farmers to help them comply with various EU regulations. She introduces me to Javier, a veritable fount of information, who suggests a couple of local destinations and, when he finds out I’m familiar with beavers from New York, Alaska, and Patagonia, gives me a half hour lecture on local beavers, who are both protected and inflicting environmental damage. Apparently there’s an ongoing process to mitigate their negative effects without killing them. The last thing we do is go up to the rooftop, only accessible to employees, for an impressive view of some of Calatayud’s historical buildings.

We then part company and I go for a walk through the town. Inevitably, I choose a prominent hilltop building, the Ermita of San Roque, as my goal, and end up walking up steep, twisting streets, in the sun, to the high point.

The view of the city and surrounding region is comprehensive and I sit in one of the few shady spots to enjoy it for a while. As it usually happens with my walks, it’s midday so there’s very little shade.

Right in front of the hermitage is a statue I can’t fathom.The inscription on the plaque says, “In memory of the deceased peñista.” After considerable research, I finally decide it’s a memorial to one or more dead local football fans. The fact that it’s sitting in front of a church confused me until I learned that Calatayud’s team is named San Roque, which is the name of the hill I’m atop.

From the hermitage, I can see Calatayud’s castle (there’s always a castle) on an adjacent hill. It looks impossibly far, high, and hot, so I set out for that. This involves a steep sunny descent to the valley between the hills and another long uphill slog to the castle. It’s a massive structure, built by the Moors. In fact, Calatayud is an Arabic name referring to the castle (qaliat) of Ayyub (an 8th century ruler who was the namesake, in English, of the biblical Job).

On the way up, I see a schoolyard far below me with students apparently at recess. In the bright midday sun, what are they doing? Sitting in a semicircle directly in the heat. I wonder if any Spaniard has heard of sunblock, a hat, or long sleeves.

At this point, I’ve had enough activity for the day. Fortunately, the walk down from the castle back to my hosts is shorter than the way up, and I detour only briefly to buy cold fluids. As I’m resting up before dinner, the bells of the Santo Sepulcro church that is their immediate neighbor start to ring loudly and intensely. The bell tower is perhaps 75 feet from the apartment, so the tolling is hard to ignore, especially since it goes on for about 5 minutes. After dinner and the nightly quiz show, I’m definitely ready to sleep.

Friday, I’m going to take up Javier’s suggestion and drive to Cañon del Río Mesa (Table River Canyon). I stop first, as advised, in the thermal spa town of Jaraba but it’s curiously quiet. The various baths, all commercialized, have locked gates and almost nothing else seems to be open either. Maybe it’s rest day.

The canyon itself is neat. Steep walls, a winding river, and roadside caves make it visually interesting. However, the hike I plan to take is a problem. What my available resources indicate as the trailhead is a spot with no road shoulders and no possible route for a trail. It takes me about an hour of trial and error before I finally find the correct location in another direction, a trail sign for Mirador de los Buitres (Vulture Overlook). Parking the car nearby, I’m confident this is the right spot. The trail is a short one, from the canyon bottom to the rim, well under a mile. The trail starts out great, a clear signpost, a wooden foot bridge over the river, and another signpost. Piece of cake. I follow what looks like a well-used trail but, curiously, I see no more markers. None the less, the route seems clear.

Let me give you the end result right now to avoid suspense. The trail starts out left along the base of the canyon wall but after only a few hundred feet it turns sharply and goes right. It’s this switchback I miss, somehow. In my defense, the canyon wall is shear and clearly visible and I can see no way up in either direction. Thus I assume the trail will ascend the top of the large talus slope and eventually deposit me on the rim. Incorrect!

The seemingly clear trail starts to peter out. I’m torturously working my way up the difficult margin of cliff and talus, convinced this is the only feasible ascent. Above to my right is a 90 degree cliff, below to my left is a 45 degree slope.

Finally I get to a point where the going is so difficult that I have to leave the margin and cut side slope across the talus. This would be difficult enough if it were just rocks, but it’s covered with blowdowns. Some severe storm uprooted thousands of trees which are pointing down the slope at right angles to my path. Just to make it harder, the grass has grown tall, so many of the trees are hidden and it’s easy to stick my leg into an unseen void in the branches as I clamber over the trunks. Right in the middle of this mess, I get a phone call from Susan. I describe my current activity and now I know that if she sees my movement in this area stop for a long period, she’ll be calling out the troops. Succor for the sucker.

OK, I get through that portion and return to the top of the slope.

Remember, I’m visually convinced this is the only route to the canyon rim. Just to encourage me, by this point if I look straight up, I can see a structure that is almost certainly my destination.

I have to be on the right track. Another half hour of difficult progress and my remaining illusions are shattered. The canyon wall turns at a substantial angle — and the talus slope just ends. I can’t go up, I can’t go down, I can’t go forward.

Just before this, I had decided, once at the rim, I would hike the much longer “regular” trail back to the car, one I know is easier. No matter how long the walk, it’s preferable to retracing my last half mile. Bowing to the inevitable, though, now I brace myself to do just that. When there’s only one option, no matter how undesirable, you have to take it. It’s kind of like voting for the over-the-hill Joe Biden in 2020 because Trump was no alternative at all.

Going back is at least familiar. I know what to expect. At every step of the way, I can see, in the canyon bottom, the narrow Río Mesa and the adjacent road I drove in on. At several points, I look up and see vultures circling in front of the overlook. So as not to miss out on that experience, I get out my camera and shoot some photos of them from below. The view horizontally from the top would have been much more rewarding, but that ain’t gonna happen.

Once I’m again forced down into the talus slope and fallen trees, I decide that instead of going cross slope, I’ll head straight down. This is no easier because now I’m struggling along the length of the obscured trees instead of across them, but at least it’s shorter and gravity is with me. Whether that’s safer or more dangerous is an open question.

Being exceedingly careful not to get injured by catching my leg in a hole or losing my footing on a steep rock, I eventually make it down to the bottom, where the undergrowth is much thicker and harder to penetrate. Another ten minutes through a thorny thicket and I finally get to the river bank.

The stream is very narrow but too deep and fast for a wet crossing. The dense growth also makes it almost impossible to walk downstream to the footbridge. The road is so close and yet so far.

Scanning up and down, I see a tree whose branches more or less reach across the stream. I decide that’s my solution. Fighting my way to the tree, I get up a few feet and manage to inch my way across — the current is just below me — on two more or less parallel branches, one for my feet and the other for my hands.

Very fortunately, this technique works, although at the far end the branches are much too thin for comfort. Once across the stream, I fight through another 50 feet of brush to the road, Of course, being in a canyon, it’s built on a 20 foot vertical embankment. At this point, this is the easiest part of the whole day. I find an eroded portion of the otherwise sheer wall and manage to clamber up to the road. From there it’s a short walk to the car, and boy am I happy.

On the way back to Calatayud, at one of Spain’s ubiquitous traffic circles, the Policia Nacional are waving over drivers. I’m asked for my license — the New York one I present does not faze the polite cop at all — and asked to blow an alcohol test, which of course I pass. There is virtually no moving violation enforcement by police in Europe, no police cars with radar guns lurking for excuses to do a traffic stop as in the US, so I consider this a minor convenience.

I drive back to Maribel’s and tell my tale. They haul out detailed trail maps and we figure out, long after the fact, that I missed that very early switchback on the trail. In fact, Maribel was only aware of the long, easy trail to the mirador. The short ascent trail is new to her and I can see she’s looking at me as pretty crazy for choosing it. Not the hike I planned but a good adventure — in retrospect — because the residual Prussian in me knows you can’t have fun unless there’s some suffering involved. By that standard, I had several weeks worth of hilarity. It’s important to note that at no time was I sacrificing safety. Three hours to go less than a mile indicates my extreme caution.

In late afternoon, as dinner is being prepared, Maribel leads me to the window and points out the once a week dramatic night lighting of the adjacent church. As soon as the evening living room activities end, I’m fast asleep.

Saturday morning, I’m going to make the long drive to son, Eric’s, house near Girona. I plot a route that avoids major highways so I spend a good part of the day on scenic back roads. I have to say, I’m impressed with the Spanish commitment to road construction. At least 50 miles of my route is on lightly trafficked roads undergoing major widening, straightening, and repaving. Of course it may just be pork barrel spending, what I sarcastically call in the US the National Highway Contractors Full Employment Act.

Early evening, after a final stop for an oil change appointment at the local chain, Norauto, I arrive at my true home in Spain where I’ll spend time with Eric and take care of some other maintenance tasks before heading across France to Italy.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/28/road-trip-europe-iii-25-05-10-25-05-22-down-time-at-erics-house-then-narbonne-3-hotel-nights-and-the-trip-to-corsica/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/13/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-25-25-04-29-seville-friends-the-nationwide-blackout-and-i-finally-get-that-the-berlingo-and-sand-dont-mix

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I roll into Monachil, a small, valley town exurb of Granada on schedule on Tuesday evening. My host is Nika, Chicago-born but raised in a Slavic family, now living in Spain. The heart of Monachil consists of narrow streets perched on steep slopes above a small river.

Nika’s house is on one of these streets and I’m extremely lucky to find a legal parking spot within 200 feet of her door.

As is often the case with weekday visits, Nika has warned me she’ll be quite busy and that I’ll be on my own quite a bit.

When her remote work is finished, we have dinner and start to get acquainted. Despite her U.S. origins, between her ethnic family and long absence as an adult, she says she doesn’t feel like an “American”. Indeed, Russian was her first language and she speaks English perfectly but with an unusual, very slight accent. Currently, she’s studying to improve her Spanish and broaden her social and professional opportunities in her adopted country. After a walk through the village, we call it a night.

Wednesday morning, I hop the commuter bus into Granada, switching to the tram system, foot, and city bus to scale the heights to the Alhambra. This is one of the world’s most visited tourist attractions, a 35 acre Islamic complex whose origins date back to the 13th century. With the expulsion of the Moors in 1492, it became the property of the Spanish Crown. It’s had its ups and downs in the subsequent 500 years but is one of the most famous landmarks in Europe.

I know same day tickets are never available but when I ask one of the gatekeepers whether there’s anything for tomorrow, I’m surprised when she says the next available day is in June, at least 5 weeks away! I suspect many of the tickets are bought by or allocated to tourist agencies which means same day access is probably available at a hefty markup. At any rate, I have no intention of trying to get in today, preferring to follow several of Nika’s suggestions for other points of interest.

From the Alhambra, I head toward a neighborhood called Sacromonte, on a higher, adjacent hill across a substantial valley. The shade temperature is modest but, as always, walking in the sun is a real effort for me. It takes me about 30 minutes to slog up there.

Aside from its elevation, the community is noted for having many cave houses. One of them is opened as a museum and I pay the small fee to get inside. The unit consists of about 6 rooms dug into the mountain.

As I’m walking in this high altitude neighborhood, I see how the more conventional tourists are getting there — electric bikes and Segway tours. Bunch of candy asses [grin].

As I’m about to descend, I encounter a public water fountain. I’m really thirsty by now so I take a big drink, hoping (correctly, it turns out) the water is safe and potable.

Spain has many public fountains and they’re generally sanitary unless posted otherwise. I descend via steep alleys and stairways to a mid-level neighborhood and stop at the touristy scenic viewpoint, Mirador de San Nicolás. The view here isn’t any better than other elevated points in town, but the plaza attracts buskers performing music, flamenco dances, and other entertainment for donations. It’s quite lively.

Descending further to downtown Granada, I stop at a grocery for fluids and make my way to another plaza to sit in the shade and drink. In front of me is a large statue of 2 people. The inscription says, “Isabel the Catholic Accepting the Proposals of Columbus”, the event that made Christopher Columbus, a Genoan by birth, a Spanish admiral and led directly to his voyages of Spain’s “discovery” of North America.

Cooled and refreshed, I work my way across town to catch a two bus connection back to Monachil. I’m back home by 6 PM and Nika and I spend the remainder of the evening talking. Thursday morning, I’m again up early and out of the guest room, because it doubles as Nika’s office. Sitting in the living room, the apartment is filled with loud, live music. As the crow flies, nothing in Monachil is very far from anything else, but due to the topography, a few hundred feet can involve a much longer, roundabout walk. I head over to the music and see that May 1 is the town’s Dia del Caballo, the Day of the Horse.

The town park has a stage set up and various local ensembles are dancing Flamenco, singing local songs, and offering various tributes. In an adjacent area, are dozens of horses and riders, along with horse drawn wagons containing families.

I don’t know where the horse culture comes from, but at least today it’s very strong. In one area, several people are preparing an enormous amount of rice, in a pan at least 12 feet across, over an open fire the same size.

Two people are moving the rice around the pan with long handled wooden paddles. It’s still very liquid, but signs promise a plate of rice for 3 Euros, so I buy my ticket and take in the action and entertainment, waiting for the 3 PM serving time. The line forms about 30 minutes early and it’s a bit of a hardship for me to queue up in the sun for that long, but I survive. Eventually, I receive my heaping plate of delicious flavored rice along with a piece of fresh bread. Every chair in the place has been staked out by families, so I go over to a small curb and sit in the shade, balancing my plate precariously on my knees.

A while later, I walk back to the house to find Nika gone. A text from her clarifies that she arrived at the food line shortly after I left. A little later, she returns home and tells me there will be a horse show in a few hours and we agree to go back for that. As show time approaches, we walk back down to the park together and rendezvous with two Italian friends also living in Monachil. I have to admit, I’ve always been a hiker and never a horse person. After a couple of short trail rides decades ago, my question has always been, “Why ride somewhere when you can walk instead?” I recognize, though, the deep bond many people have with horses, including a number of my close friends. And the fundamental role of the horse as a pre-petroleum power source and as a cultural partner can’t be denied.

I don’t know the details of the role horses have played in Andalucia, but today demonstrates that it still holds sway. The horses and riders are respected and culturally significant. The show begins, incongruously with a fashion show — women in traditional costumes strutting across the arena to applause.

Then come costumed riders and horses. The crowd is impressed. The show progresses into horse and rider demonstrations. Horses “dance” with intricate side steps, they rear up and walk on their hind legs, and groups of riders execute coordinated, choreographed parades around the arena. The onlookers are appreciative even though many of them obviously have no more daily contact with horses than I do.

After an hour or so, the show ends and the four of us proceed to a bar in the town to participate in an informal Spanish language practice group. The crew around our table grows to about 8, including two Finnish expatriates who are absolutely the worst possible examples of Finns who consider their nation the happiest on earth. To my surprise, they have nothing nice to say about their country and have no intention of forsaking Spain to move back there. Katja and Tero are both very nice people, but they’ll never land jobs with the Finnish tourist bureau! In fact, they urge me not to visit because there is nothing of interest there — advice I intend to ignore.

By about 10 PM, the group’s cafe bill has been paid and Nika and I peel off back to her nearby apartment. She heads to bed and shortly I decide to do the same. In the morning, I’m moving north and save Nika some transit time by taking her to one short, out of the way appointment and then dropping her in Granada for another. Before noon, I’m driving north in the direction of Madrid, but I’ve booked a night in the town of Mancha Real, my first hotel stay of the trip.

I’ve sent them a message that I’ll arrive between 2 and 3 PM but I haven’t accounted for Spanish siesta. Their reception desk is closed from 1 to 4 PM but they say they will have someone there for you if you advise them of your arrival time, which I have. I find a parking spot about 7 minutes away, load up my overnight items and walk to the hotel through narrow no-parking streets. The hotel is right where it should be and I trudge up to its 3rd floor entrance — to find the door to the lobby locked and everything deserted. I send a message through booking.com that I’m at the door and sit in the stone stairwell to await my welcome. Nothing happens. I try sending a WhatsApp message but the hotel phone number is not compatible. I’m definitely not happy with the service but have no choice but to sit in the silent stairs until someone appears. I end up cooling my heels for 80 minutes until the desk clerk arrives to open up. She speaks only Spanish, so rather than make an immediate fuss and, no doubt, get a complex answer I won’t fully comprehend, I check out my quarters and get comfortable. It’s a really nice little place: pleasant room, good internet, guest refrigerator in the lobby, 24-hour coffee. In that regard, I have nothing to complain about. I’m paying more than I would for a hostel dorm bed, but after a month of being hosted by wonderful people, I’m ready for a private room and no social obligations.

I spend the evening working and go to sleep relatively early. In the morning, before packing up, I write a message in Spanish complaining about yesterday’s abandonment and suggesting that it merits a discount on the room. Within minutes, the desk clerk is apologizing profusely and saying she slept through my messages yesterday — hey, it is called siesta. She says I can have the discount I’m requesting but makes it clear that it will be coming out of her own pocket. True or not — and I think it is — what kind of jerk would I be to demand it? Besides, because I tend to book rooms at the last minute, my reservation itself arrived after the 1 PM closing time. I just have to get in the habit of adjusting to the afternoon break so common in Spain. I accept her apology, pack up my stuff, and trudge back to the car to continue on to Madrid, my next stop, with a short supermarket diversion to get cold drinks for the ride.

As usual, I drive a circuitous route over secondary roads and go through Sierra de Andujar Natural Park, a long traverse through scenic hills. At one remote overlook I notice a quirky statue of a father and son dedicated to religious pilgrims.

Further on, I pass a prominent church situated on a lone prominence visible for miles in every direction.

Back in flat, agricultural country, I pass through Arenas de San Juan (Sands of Saint John), a village in the La Mancha region that, for tourist purposes, claims some relation to Don Quixote, It’s sort of like Rip van Winkle references in the Catskills — a geographical relationship to a fictional character, for profit,

Late in the afternoon, I roll into Madrid for the first time.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/20/road-trip-europe-iii-25-05-03-25-05-10-madrid-springs-and-canyons-dr-zhivago-locale-calatayud-the-hike-from-hell-and-return-to-girona/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/02/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-19-25-04-22-3-nights-in-an-off-the-grid-log-cabin/

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Today, Tuesday, I’m driving further south to a city I’ve never heard of before this week, Almería. As is the case almost universally in Spain, any place name starting with “al” (which means “the” in Arabic) derives from the 800 year Moorish occupation of Iberia. Almería is a Mediterranean seaport lying, subject to your interpretation of the coastline shape, at the southeast corner of Spain.

I’m staying with Andreea, a Romanian expatriate who lives in a very nice apartment in an eastern suburb, Retamar, a block from the beach.

Notably, she shares her home with three pet tropical birds, who have the run of the place. All through the day there are parrot calls and frequent flights from room to room. One of them is incubating eggs and I never see her.

The second is constantly flying around and, after a while, takes a liking to me. As I’m sitting on the couch, I periodically feel a sudden landing on my shoulder, where a substantial grooming session is undertaken (the bird grooming itself, not me).

The third one is futilely but determinedly incubating infertile eggs in the kitchen and is very defensive. The first time I go to throw something in what appears to be the kitchen wastebasket — which turns out to be the nesting box — I’m viciously attacked. It takes me a moment to even understand why my hand hurts so much but even if I had comprehended the danger immediately, I couldn’t have defended myself in any way that might hurt the bird. Andreea rescues me by chasing the attacker back into its box and placing a heavy object on the cover.

From then on, anytime I approach the kitchen or the adjacent front door, we have to first be sure the screeching aggressor is contained. I only sustain one more successful attack. Andreea also has a very affectionate, squat legged dog that craves attention.

Andreea works remotely in logistics — enabling goods to move efficiently from seller to buyer — and she warned me in advance that she would be busy. Nonetheless, once work is done, we spend the evening discussing our lives and choices, making a plan for tomorrow, and going for a walk along the beachfront.

My room is also the one where the birds sleep — in covered cages. Once the room is dark, they’re mostly silent.

Wednesday, Andreea works a while before a midday medical appointment. From there, we head east to Cabo de Gata National Park, a large area of mountainous seacoast.

We stop at the historic lighthouse and then walk down to a rocky cove which is one of her favorite snorkeling areas. I go swimming in the relatively warm and very clear water, while Andreea watches with absolutely no temptation to join me in what she considers off-season bathing.

The views of mountain and coastline are beautiful and afterward we drive further east around former salt evaporation ponds that are now a bird sanctuary.

As evening approaches we arrive in San José beach and harbor. This is a tourist resort but not overcrowded this time of year. Andreea chooses a very popular restaurant and we have a truly excellent dinner, including some of the best pastrami (!) I’ve ever tasted.

A long, after dark walk looping to the harbor and back finishes the day and we drive back to her apartment.

I’ve been invited to a Couchsurfing host in the center of Almería, but due to a prior commitment, I can only stay one night. Since parking there is very difficult, Thursday morning I leave the car where it’s parked outside Andreea’s and she drops me off downtown on her way to a friend’s house. I’m only a few steps from Klaus’ apartment and he’s there to greet me. He lives in a rooftop penthouse high above the street. Klaus is German but has lived in Spain for 46 years. He’s well-educated, articulate, and an excellent English speaker. He runs a business out of his home that lobbies (the more polite term is “advocates”) the European Union on behalf of tourism enterprises. Although he warned me that I would be on my own because of his workload, we quickly establish rapport and spend some hours in the morning discussing a wide range of topics. Later on, I head out on foot, eventually climbing the big hill to tour the Alcazaba, an enormous Moorish fortress with commanding views of the city and sea. The large site is also under active archaeological excavation.

I thus occupy myself until about 8 PM when I meet Klaus at a bar near his house. Here we spend another several hours in interesting conversation over drinks and tapas, finishing up long after dark. I learn a lot about EU politics, Klaus’ expatriate views about Spain, and lots more. Additionally, I resolve something that’s been quietly tugging at me all day. Sitting at the outdoor table in the evening light, Klaus bears a striking, and disconcerting, resemblance to Clint Eastwood. When I finally put my finger on that, he says he’s heard it occasionally from others.

After a comfortable night in Klaus’ well appointed guest room, I pack up in the morning but before I depart, we continue our conversation for another couple of hours. Although we have many differing viewpoints, we find our opinions very aligned on many issues.

Finally, I leave to catch a city bus back to Andreea’s home about an hour to the east, say my fond goodbyes to her, and head westward several hours, along a scenic route parallel to the still snow covered Sierra Nevada, Spain’s highest mountain range. I’m heading for Seville to stay with friends I made 18 months earlier.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/13/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-25-25-04-29-seville-friends-the-nationwide-blackout-and-i-finally-get-that-the-berlingo-and-sand-dont-mix/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/04/24/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-15-25-04-19-valencia-spain

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My next stop is in the Murcia region, a section of seacoast and mountains seemingly lesser known to international tourists. I’ve been invited by Elias, a rural Servas host. Following directions to Totana, I find a finca, an estate of sorts, operated as a cooperative. My lodging is a rustic but fully equipped log cabin — a rarity in Spain, which is not known for forests of tall, straight-trunked trees. There is an ample supply of e electricity, all supplied by solar panels and storage batteries.

Elias is my host but the cabin belongs to another resident, Silvan. Shortly after I arrive, two young Italian women, Laura and Arianna, pull up in a rental car. The three of us will be sharing the cabin tonight. Elias takes us out on an evening tour. We’re in an area of rugged mountains, the highest almost 5,200 feet, so the scenery from the valleys is very impressive. After visiting Totana, an out of the way mountain community where some small tourist lodgings are being developed, we wend our way to the nearby town of Aledo, with the usual complement of churches, steep alleyways, and a small fortress and watchtower.

The town is positioned on a height, so the views are extensive.

Below, I see many acres of lowland crops, all draped in white cloth shelters. Elias tells us they are table grapes, protected from the scorching summertime sun that will arrive all too soon.

As night falls, we find respite from the cool wind in a village bar. Silvan joins us and there, amid the lively conversation of the locals, we sample various tapas and consume an array of beverages well into the evening. One area specialty is Asiático coffee, a layered combination of coffee, condensed milk, and cognac. As its name evokes, it’s similar to Thai coffee, sweet and creamy. Asiático and black coffee are a couple of universes apart.

By the time we return to the upland cabin, everyone is ready to rest. The two women, apparently to Elias’ surprise, are only staying one night — contrary to usual Servas custom. He has made plans for tomorrow, but they explain they are on a tightly scheduled vacation and have to move on.

In the morning, the four of us travel in two cars to Estrecho de la Arboleja, a modest Utah-style slot canyon. From the parking lot, we descend many steps to the valley floor, passing elaborate abandoned aqueducts once used to guide canyon water to downstream crops, and then work our way along the narrow bottom, the footing sometimes wet and difficult.

After exiting and climbing back up to plateau level, the women depart for Granada, while Elias and I make a second visit to Aledo.

It’s Easter Sunday and today is the town’s elaborate Easter procession. After a leisurely breakfast in another town bar, Elias and I climb the streets to the church located near the town’s highest point.

Waiting patiently through intermittent sprinkles and sun for the parade to launch, Elias leads me indoors where I find myself in the middle of a Catholic mass — communion, homily, the whole bit. There’s a chorus singing up in the balcony but instead of traditional hymns, they stick with modern music, among them George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” and Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”.

The procession finally begins about an hour late. There are marching bands, many young people dressed as Roman centurions (somehow, these are primary symbols of Christianity), and three religious floats carried on the shoulders of large, carefully rehearsed teams. Various bell peals indicate “lift”, “stand”, “set down”, “march in place”, and “move forward”. It all works as the heavy floats avoid crashes and mishaps, despite the growing heat and sun.

After the drive back to the cabin and a short break, Elias takes me on a tour of the finca. We walk up to a high point where a large, plastic lined reservoir has been constructed. The water is pumped in from a well and distributed across the property by a gravity system. I meet Fran, who grows a variety of vegetables, and Antonio, who has commercial lemon trees, and his two children, Sofia and Samuel. Sylvain has made 2 short appearances, but is apparently quite busy. When we return to the cabin, I rustle up some late lunch or early dinner from my perishable supplies, ground beef and cheese, and Elias and I eat outside. That pretty much ends the long day’s activities.

Monday morning, Elias brings over some breakfast and late in the morning we drive up into nearby Sierra Espuña Regional Park. It’s a well kept unit with interpretive signs, trails, and turnouts. The highest point is over 5,000 feet, a respectable elevation in most of Spain. A well engineered, paved road winds its way scenically ever upward.

At about 4,600 feet, a side trail gives access to a curious feature, Los Pozos de Nieve (The Snow Wells). For about 400 years, ice for the lowlands was made here by a labor intensive process. As many as 25 large structures consisting of excavated pits, each topped with a tall, above ground stone dome were built here. Much of the Spanish population has always lived in the coastal lowlands, where temperatures have been too warm for natural refrigeration. Lacking frozen ponds that, during New York winters, were a limitless source of ice, Murcians created whole mountain communities to make ice as best they could. One part of each pozo’s crew would collect snow from the ground and dump it in the well. Another group manually tamped down the stored snow to remove the air and allow it to freeze into denser ice. The final group hurriedly transported the ice many miles to warehouses for sale. Even though most of this movement happened during the coldest hours of the night, transportation losses were about 50%. This torturous process ended in 1926 when the first commercial ice manufacturing plant was established in Murcia. Today, the pozos are protected in the park and a couple have been restored to their original form for educational reasons.

Back in the car, we continue upward on the winding road. On the mesa-like top of the mountain is a prominent military installation that’s a combination of defense monitoring and air traffic control. I breeze past the first two signs warning against unauthorized vehicles, but near the summit at the third one, which includes “No Trespassing” in English, I decide the risk of arrest is getting too great, so we appreciate the far ranging views from there and head back down off the mountain.

On the way to the finca, Elias has us stop at one of the only local restaurants in the area. The food is economical, cheap, and very plentiful. I am stuffed with 4 courses, along with beer.

As we’re finally leaving, Elias spots Antonio, the lemon grower from yesterday, his two kids and his brother. They invite us to join them and another hour of drinks and conversation ensues, ending with shots of mantellina, a very local liqueur homemade with lemon, anise, and honey. It goes down smoothly — too smoothly. By the time we leave, I’ve consumed far more alcohol than usual. I’m not feeling anything but I’m sure I’m close. If home weren’t just a mile away, along a deserted road, I might have to take precautionary measures to get us there. My concerns turn out to be pointless as I get no hint of intoxication or after effects. I am, however, so stuffed with food and beverage that my siesta flows smoothly into the night’s sleep.

Tuesday morning, after a simple breakfast with Elias, I pack up and head further south to my next destination. My stay on the finca has been very different from any of my other Spanish experiences — a real treat thanks to a devoted host and guide.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/05/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-22-25-04-25-my-first-stay-along-the-coast/

On a recent visit to Valencia, Spain, my host informed me of a literary “open mic”, Club Hemingway, in which he would participate. As a courteous show of support — and since it was being held in English –, I said I would attend to hear his piece.

The day before the reading, the organizer posted rules for the participants and, with no clue how I would react (we had only met the prior day), he shared it with me:

Now, I’m a writer, both professional and amateur, although in no sense a literary person. I could not plot the arc of a good novel to save my life. I have no talent for fiction. Nonetheless, I love writing. Moreover, my social life is interwoven with many literary people, including my close friend, Susan Deer Cloud, a well published poet who is partly Native American.

I’m also not a person prone to let sleeping dogs lie. For years, I’ve watched with dismay the growing pressures on writers to limit their work. Accusations of “cultural appropriation” are rampant. It’s “wrong” to write from a perspective you haven’t lived or “authentically experienced”. There’s pressure not to write as a gender that you are not, to tell an ethnic story without being of that ethnicity, to write of trauma that you haven’t personally experienced. I’ve seen real world consequences repeatedly: accepted readings canceled due to opposition before the fact, anthology submissions rejected on political grounds, books unpublished on the basis of personal vendettas, or in Susan’s case, not being an Indian with official government recognition and benefits — a reservation Indian.

To me, it’s all bullshit. Freedom of expression is paramount. All the great ideas are likely to originate in some uncomfortable literary expression. Prior restraint is the death of revolutionary transformation. It’s the awkward, even offensive, writing and speaking that stretches human bounds and sows the ground for new views of life. I have always been a free speech absolutist. There’s no way to avoid the slippery slope of censorship once you first declare, “I will not allow you to say that!”

So, when I saw the above rules, I immediately took notice. My first thought was to not attend the event as a matter of principle. On further reflection, I felt the need to object to this imposition of prior restraint. I took a speaking turn prepared to rebut the wisdom of the above dicta, but failed. The organizer cut me off very quickly and, since it was not my event, I respected her authority and left the stage. I’m not an elegant public speaker. I could have done much better — but so could she. When ideas are suppressed, we are all the worse for it.

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/04/22/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-11-25-04-14-exploring-southeastern-spain/

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From Castellón, it’s only about an hour to my next stop, Valencia, and I zip down the highway, paying no attention to anything else, including my phone. On arrival at the home of my BeWelcome host, Ariel, I finally look at my messages and see the price of the delay in reading them. Although Ricard and I met this morning for the express purpose of returning his apartment keys, we got so involved in talking that, at the end, I hopped up and drove off — with the keys still in my pocket! Ricard realized this within minutes and messaged me about my omission. Had I read it promptly, it would have been a minor diversion to go back and drop them off. But no, I paid no attention and it’s clear I now have to make the redundant 2-hour round trip. Estupido!

Ariel, comes from a multinational background, and speaks a variety of languages well. He works from his large, comfortable home, surrounded by agricultural fields.

Our conversation gradually turns mostly to English as my Spanish skills are quickly eclipsed. I have a comfortable, airy guest room and from the roof, the view is unobstructed in every direction. It’s a vegan household, always a bit of a challenge for a dairy lover like me. As the initial hours go by, I see there’s a steady trickle of interesting people coming and going.

Ariel and girlfriend, Claudia, are attending a philosophy discussion group this evening at a downtown bar. The topic is Consciousness and since it will be conducted in English, I decide to go along. At the venue, there are dozens of participants and we get divided into tables of about 6, each initiating their own little meeting. My group is quite interesting and a lot of time is devoted to trying to define the term. Nothing gets resolved, but the interaction among educated people is stimulating and fun.

Wednesday morning, I’m going to make the run to Ricard’s to return the keys, and Ariel says there is some good swimming not far from Castellón. He suggests we incorporate that side trip into the itinerary, so off we go. After 30 minutes or so in the bar with Ricard — and this time not forgetting to give him his keys — we head out of town to the Sitjar reservoir. Although it’s not a natural lake, it feels that way today by virtue of being 100% full — no “bathtub ring” of exposed mud. We stop at a picnic area along the shore and go for a long swim. The clear water, while not exactly warm, is far from cold and feels clean and refreshing. Finished, we drive around the rest of the lake/reservoir. While swimming I notice that although my cold symptoms are gone, except for the occasional cough, my energy is noticeably low, so I’m still fighting off something.

Thursday, Ariel, Claudia, and I go for a hike in some coastal hills along the Camí de Bonilles trail. The lower elevations are lightly forested and the higher terrain is bone dry with only sparse trees. In some areas the trail is lined with thickets of rosemary, one of my favorite herbs.

Although the shade temperature is very reasonable, the sun is strong, so I go into cockroach mode, scrambling from one spot of shade to the next and recovering my heat balance. My water consumption is unusually high but the views are extensive. We limit the hike to about 6 km to prevent me from becoming just puddle of sweat. I am such a heat weenie.

After the hike, Ariel guides us to a Valencia neighborhood famous for horchata, one of my all time favorite beverages. It’s a water extract of the tuber of chufa, or tiger nut, growing widely across the Eastern Hemisphere, but uncommon in the west. In the US, horchata is mostly found in Mexican restaurants. Today, I’m in the cradle of horchata, indeed on Horchata Avenue itself, home to a selection of well known horchata cafes. Ariel and I each order a liter of the beverage, with ice on the side. I am in heaven, sitting in the shade sipping away at an unending, frigid supply of my favorite drink. I get a small bag of unprocessed chufa as a souvenir.

As we sit outdoors, a person walks up soliciting donations for a charity. He has a professionally produced information sheet, but I get the feeling he’s a fraud. Claudia gives him 10€, though. After he walks off, Ariel calls the number on the sheet and determines that the solicitor isn’t associated with them and has scammed us. Getting in the car, we chase him down and Ariel retrieves the donation. Good for him.

I should say here that throughout my visit, Ariel was dealing with a rapidly escalating household crisis about which, for privacy reasons, I will say nothing further. However, given the severity, it was extraordinarily generous of him to have me stay 4 nights. In similar circumstances, I might have said, “Things are falling apart here. It’s better if you move on immediately.”

On Friday, Good Friday, I head out on my own northward toward an area my son, Eric, has recommended as scenic but not over-touristed. As I drive and choose a specific trailhead, I realize it’s too far for this time of day. Impulsively, I follow a brown sign (these generally point to tourist towns or natural areas) marked Montanejos. The road winds up into picturesque hills and pine forests. As I approach the town, the roadside is lined with parked cars and RVs, with no obvious attraction. Thinking perhaps there are secret swimming holes in the adjacent canyon, I ask a driver and she says, no, these vehicles park here because Montanejos is full. Now, I’m intrigued. Whatever is there obviously makes parking 2 or 3 km, away worthwhile. I continue on into town and easily find a place to park. I’m now aware that one of Montanejos’ attractions is public river swimming, a locale named Fuente de los Baños. I’ve parked at the wrong end of town, so a leisurely 2 km walk through hilly streets gets me there. There is an entrance fee, but no one seems to be selling or collecting tickets today, so I follow the busy path down to the water.

I find a pavilion and river beach at the foot of a steep walled canyon just upstream. There are some hundreds of visitors but I imagine in summer it’s far more intense. Ignoring regulatory signs prohibiting most activities, “No food, no ball playing, no…..”, people are having a grand time sharing trays of home made food, kicking football (soccer) balls along the beach, and lounging about in various levels of undress. I go into the water, which turns out to be never more than chest deep, but adequate for swimming. The slow current gives some hope that it’s clean, but judging by the number of bathers, including many children, I suspect the water is at least 1% urine. Nonetheless, it’s a really nice experience on a hot day.

Once out of the water, I walk back via a streamside promenade and then climb steeply toward the car, with a supermarket stop to pick up some non-vegan picnic food — meat, cheese, bread, and some of the worst chemical “fruit” drink imaginable — which I devour with dispatch. I arrive back at Ariel’s in late afternoon.

There is a literary “open mic” in Valencia tonight and Ariel asked me yesterday if I’d like to hear him and friend, Arthur, perform. I agreed, but during yesterday’s hike, the organizer posted rules imposing substantial prohibitions on what people could say. The text was:

Free speech absolutist that I am, I react strongly to this and say I won’t attend an event that imposes prior restraint on speech. “Triggers” is a word that triggers me [grin]. Ariel, who also rails at the rules, urges me to come along and make a statement objecting to the instructions. This has some appeal, so I spend about 30 minutes writing a short objection piece with some humor. As the 7 PM start time approaches, I bus into downtown Valencia to meet Ariel. The speaking order is chosen at random from a bowl, and the limit Is 3 minutes, except Cata, the organizer of the event series, gets to go first and, despite her stern warnings, neither she nor most of the speakers adhere even vaguely to the time limit. Arthur and Ariel do two long dialogs. In Arthur’s mind, they’re comedy sketches (prohibited by a separate rule) but both way too esoteric for my brain.

Near the end, it’s my turn and I start my expression of indignation at the topics and styles that Cata has prohibited in the name, presumably, of non-controversy. As soon as she realizes where I’m going in response to her declarations, she asks me to leave the stage. Ariel is disappointed that I acquiesce, but it’s not my event, so I do. I’m not an elegant public speaker. I could have done better, but so could she.

Saturday morning, I pack up and head south. It’s been a very hospitable, if unusual, visit.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/05/02/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-19-25-04-22-3-nights-in-an-off-the-grid-log-cabin/

Prior post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/04/11/road-trip-europe-iii-25-03-31-25-04-09-once-more-unto-the-breach-dear-friends-once-more/

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Last year I made a leisurely, meandering, counterclockwise loop through Spain and Portugal, interrupted in Algeciras as I ferried to Morocco for 5 weeks. On returning to Spain, my plans were changed by my daughter’s announcement that she and family would be flying to son Eric’s house for a vacation. So we could all be together, I had to drive more directly across southeast Spain, back to Girona.

I’m going to fix this now by looping through the southeast, per last year’s plan. An easy 4-hour drive gets me to the small city of Castellón along the Mediterranean coast. Although I’ve left Catalonia and entered the Valencia region, the local language and culture are still Catalan. In always fractious Spain, the Valencianos don’t appear to crave independence the way their cousins do.

Ricard, a retired hospital worker, has graciously agreed to host me at the very last minute, so I head for his home, arriving late afternoon. It takes about 30 minutes to snag a curbside parking spot, after which I go up to his 8th (European)/10th (American) floor apartment. After settling in, we head downstairs to one of Spain’s innumerable bars. Unlike American bars, alcohol consumption is only part of their function. Many customers pass the time drinking coffee and eating snacks. Ricard speaks a little English and German so I have to work hard to understand his Spanish, especially when there’s any ambient noise. Through the stay, I catch about 2/3 of what he’s saying in his Catalan accent. I’m satisfied.

Ricard is definitely more to the political right than I am, but that doesn’t damage our ability to build rapport. One thing he mentions is his concern about the effect of Muslim immigration on European culture. It’s true, many Muslim immigrants don’t assimilate quickly, but I don’t see that as a long term problem. I may be wrong. Many Europeans worry about the dramatic difference in birth rate between Asian immigrants and the traditional population, their version of the American “Great Replacement Theory” white nationalists. After an hour or so in the bar, we go up to the apartment. While he makes a simple vegetable dinner, we continue some hours of talk, Much later, I get a good night’s sleep, ready for tomorrow.

Saturday morning, we’re going on an excursion up into the nearby mountains, but first it’s a walk to a bakery for pastries and coffee. We drive up the coast a little and then inland up a winding mountain road that takes us to the Mirador de Sant Josep, a panorama of the mountains with an ancient convent in the foreground and the Mediterranean Sea in the far distance. Coastal mountain ranges are always appealing to my sense of landscape appreciation.

Back down the winding road we go to the beach town of Benicássim to a favorite restaurant of Ricard’s. At 2:30, the large dining hall is full but they manage to find us a table. We both get paella but Ricard says it is below their usual fare. My understanding of paella has always been a ridiculously expensive dish of rice chock full of many varieties of seafood and sausage. When I’ve made it, I could easily add $40 worth of ingredients into one pot.

So perhaps my preconceptions were false. What we get is a big plate of seasoned rice with 3 or 4 bite sized pieces of chicken and beef ribs. What is unarguable is that the rice is substantially over salted, but the sangria served as a beverage is excellent. Hey, not every restaurant meal lives up to expectations. That’s one reason I try to avoid eating out — I generally like my food better [brag, brag].

After lunch, Ricard takes me to his nearby beach apartment, where we both sack out for a nice siesta, with the sea breezes blowing though open windows. He splits his time between the two apartments — not a bad life for a retiree. Later in the afternoon, we drive to the Mare del Déu del Lledó, a nice, well kept piece of ecclesiastical architecture but the signal attraction is a pervasive flower aroma. I first identify it as lilac, but Ricard points out we’re surrounded by acres of orange trees, all in fragrant bloom — a unique treat for a New Yorker.

Sunday, we’re off on another excursion, this time to Vilafamés, an ancient town perched on the steep sides of a ravine, topped by a fortified church. Apparently, the Catholics have always felt under siege, centuries before widespread allegations of sexual misconduct became publicized. We park near the bottom of the village and ascend steadily on foot via streets, alleys, and stairways until we reach the defense tower at the apex of the hill.

Vilafamés is a popular destination, with many families and couples wending their way up and down. A local landmark is “The Large Rock”, a 5 million pound boulder perched precariously on a steep slope. Succumbing to custom, I have my photo taken with it.

Back at the plaza where we’re parked are a variety of cafes and bars and a six-piece musical group is setting up for a performance. One of the bars (sorry, no photo) displays, “Cerveza tan fría como el culo de un pingüino!” (beer as cold as a penguin’s asshole), which on a scorching day would be an alluring enticement. We settle for cool horchatas, about which I will have more to say in another installment. As we’re drinking, the jazz band starts up, and they’re very entertaining. Unlike in the US, they are apparently being paid and not busking the audience for donations.

Thirst quenched, we get back in the car and head back to Ricard’s city apartment. I have planned to move on today, since Ricard’s adult daughter is due tomorrow and I’m occupying her room. I mention that I’m going to check into a dorm hostel in Benicássim and Ricard insists that I use his beach apartment instead. This sounds good to me so he hands me the keys and I’m off for the 20 minute drive.

Just about as I arrive, I start feeling a little under the weather. Rather than explore the beach area, I decide to just ensconce myself on the porch sofa under a blanket. This turns out to be a good idea as I now realize I’m getting respiratory symptoms. I’ve had a very intermittent cough for a few days, perhaps once every 30 minutes, but it’s now progressing into minor coughing jags and as the evening advances I get chills and perhaps some fever. I’m hungry, but since it’s Sunday, it’s easier to make do with the meager snacks I have on hand than muster the energy to drive around with all the grocery stores closed.

So, I hunker down overnight and feel slightly better Monday morning. I make a brief run to Aldi to get some sustenance and then right back to the couch. It’s a very pleasant environment for recuperation. I sleep and read away the day and on Tuesday morning I seem to be mostly symptom free and more energetic. By mid-afternoon, I get my belongings back in the car, and make the short drive to Castellón to return the apartment keys to Ricard. As usual, we meet at a bar to talk and have coffee, keeping a watchful eye on my illegally parked car. Finally, we say our goodbyes and good wishes and I head south about an hour to the next coastal city, Valencia.

Next post: https://blog.bucksvsbytes.com/2025/04/24/road-trip-europe-iii-25-04-15-25-04-19-valencia-spain/