From Merida to Granada, or maybe not.



This is my palace.  When I have time and fancy going to Sevilla, I stay here.  I named it ¨The Plaza De Espana.¨ I thought it would be very fitting seeing how it´s a plaza in Spain.  It should be noted that these pictures are of the prior journey from Sevilla to Merida.  I don´t have many of this particular trip due to fatigue and bad weather.  



So back by overwhelming demant, I´m back posting yet another excellent article about, uh myself.  This one, like so many others, is listed a bit out of timeline order.  I started the Via de la Plata, which is a hiking biking route between Sevilla and Santiago de Compostella totalling in all about 1000 km.  This entry isn´t so much about the route, but about the trip from where I stopped on the route, Merida, back to Granada.  I´ll put up other posting about the route later, but for now I´ll indulge my eager audience with this tantilizing bit of adventure. 

When I get the inkling, I leave my palace and head out to mingle with the pheasant folk and visit their farms.  Here´s me camoflauged as an ordinary Joe biking around the kingdom.  A secret well trained poporotzy must have caught me with this foto. 

2 dutch hikings here.  And it must be said, I like the Dutch.  I think I´ve met about 5 or 6 of which I can remember, and they are a proactive, direct, and friendly bunch. 



Now a whole new adventure begins.  The fun one ends, and a whole new lesson in “patience” is about to unfold.  At the Merida bus station I buy my ticket to Sevilla.  Easy enough. Now I know they'll try to charge me if they know I’m bringing a bike, so as the bus pulls up, I go around the back, open up one of the compartments and slide the iron steed inside.  Now its time to board.  But wait, what’s this? This bus is not going to Sevilla; in fact it CAME from Sevilla.  Woops… I also get a lecture of opening the bus storage doors myself, which apparently is prohibited.  The bike also needs to be paid for and packaged appropriately.  He’s speaking too fast for me, so I only pay attention to about 1/5 of what’s he says and only understand about 1/5 of that.  The most important part about getting my bike back anyway.  At this point my secret bike is well known, however my charm and striking personality come into play and the ticket woman pulls some strings to get me and my bike on the right bus.  Point!

On to Sevilla.  There the ticket office is closed so I have to use one of the ticket machines. 20 euros to Granada. I have 15 and a credit card the machine doesn’t take.  So it looks like I'm headed to the mid point Antequia and see what happens from there.  Once again at the bus, under the cover of darkness I slide the metal beauty into its respective holding.  All is good. No questions asked and no response given.  Smooth sailing onto Antequia.  Once we arrive, I practice my best fake sleeping as the conductor calls out Antequia.  I lay still.  Again it’s called and the lights now go on.  Uh oh, this is getting serious.  He walks up and down the aisle, but I am in deep REM and can’t be shaken.  Now he calls to see everyone’s ticket.  Ok Ok, enough already.  That was the magic word to break my slumber.  Totally drowsy, I stumble up asking where we are.  Antequia!! “Oh, this is my stop” I say.  He probably likes me even less as he sees me pull out my bike from the bottom.  Ha! At least I got one over ya.  Alright, 95 ks to Granada at 1:15 in the morning.  And I should have the entire freeway all to myself!  After loading up on some usually forbidden cookies I go in search of my bank down what appeared to be bank row.  Banks everywhere!  More banks than shops or even bars it seemed.  All banks of the world, except, yup, mine. 

Cash in hand, I cruise onward.  Also realizing how pleasant and peaceful Spain can be when no one is around and the streets are empty.  Quite mystical.  Seeing one sign for Granada I follow that until the roads get confusing and no sign to distinguish the route.  I stop a police car to inquire.  I get the usual “what?!” looks as I ask the way to Granada.  The officer says it’s a little too… at which point I say I know.  It’s a little too many things.  Far, late, cold.  Yeah, I've been there.  Moving on.  The ride is nice as it’s through silhouettes of the surrounding mountains over long rolling hill terrain.  I stop at a gas station to fill up the water bottle. Asking the attendant if the outside water is potable, he says no.  Alright, where can I fill this here bottle?  In the next town.  Right, well, as I’ve said before and will defiantly say a hundred times more before the end of this journey: Spain would be an awesome place if it weren’t for the Spanish.  Taking to the hi-way.  What does that sign with a red circle around a tractor, horse, person walking, and a bike mean anyway? The thing I don’t take for are the kilometer markers.  About 20 ks into it, I sense a bit of drizzle.  Hmm, let’s see.  They’re also quick to tell me I’ve only gone 3 when I could’ve swore I’ve done 10.  Now we get into a 3 k climb and after a set of bridges about a kilometer away the rain starts a fallen.  Cold and wet in the middle of nowhere doesn’t not seem to be a good idea.  At the top of the hill I see a heaven, yes a bridge.  Not to wet at this point. I set up shop.  Laying the bike against the bridge wall, I go investigate my surroundings.  Ether side of the freeway has fences and mud.  I count them out. In-between is dry and rocky.  Looks like that’s the place.  I pull out the sleepingbag and the valuables. You never know out here in the Spanish boonies.  It’s about 3 o’clock at this point id say.  These little pointy rocks are a bit uncomfy, but hey, we are in the middle of a freeway.  The rain and wind increase to a decent degree where I am happy to be under this bridge.  Then I hear drip.  What’s this? Oh nice, the bridge is raining too.  Drip drip drip on the bag. Change location.  Again, change location. And all this after everytime arranging the pebbles is such a manner to minimize their pointyness.  Then the wind would change direccion.  My goosh! At this point I’m thinking that they can’t even build a bridge right.  Anyway, I huddle down in the fettle position with the bag over me, head and all, toes numb, fingers cold, and shivering.  I did however notice that the body will stop shivering and remain in complete silence and be still when you hear a sound of interest as to listen closely and desipher what it is.  It’s quite an interesting evolutionary feature. 

I know its getting to later because the traffic is picking up. Cars are now passing regularly and it’s loud and some make an occasional honk, not knowing if it’s for me or warning someother reckless driver.  Now with the bag and shoes wet, I decide to make my move onward in hopes of reaching a village where the Granada bus will pass through, though the thought of biking through wind and rain doesn’t exactly appeal to me.  I remember a bus leaves Sevilla at 7 so maybe I have time to catch it.  6 hours have passed under that leaky bridge. 

Beautiful country side the right, nasty loud roaring trucks to the left, I’m cruising.  Cruising along nicely until, what?! Now? Right now?!  Rear flat. I hate this country.  Still raining, I walk the bike about 4 ks to Cuesta Blanca or something like that.  Some guy at the shop tells me “oh ya, a bus comes at around 11.” 2 hours, uhhrr, well I suppose I can manage.  Its 11:20 and nothing.  Still raining I head to a bar.  “Oh ya, I think there’s a bus at 1.”  Sounds familiar, but ill stick around to find out.  1:30, and yup, you guessed it.  I’m still here. Just for fun, I ask at another bar. This time it’s at 3 or 3:30.  I’m conceived these people know nothing about anything.  And worse, they don’t even know that!!

After again buying some would be forbidden chocolate pastry things, I fix the tube but am reluctant before everything is wet and I’m not sure how the patches are going to respond.  Seems to be fine.  Let’s roll.  Back on the freeway for 4 or so ks.  Flat.  Curses. I assume it’s the new patch I just put on so don’t bother fixing it.  Onto the next time. Now I’m pretty desperate and stick out the ol thumb.  Nothing as expected. Now I offer 5 euros to the gracias driver.  Not even that can bend their ways.  Sitting on a barrier on the freeway on ramp, in the rain, flat tire and all, 3 different Guardia civil and one police pass me.  They pretend not to see me, but id say I’m pretty obvious.  Heck, walking down a village street, people stop and stare like cows a good 100 yards away.  So with that effort hopeless (hey, at least I gave them a chance), I finally hail down an officer of the law, I wonder what they do more of protect or serve? and ask in what town can I grap a bus to Granada.  Loja.  How far? 6 ks.  But I can’t take the freeway so he points me down a road.  Like a moron, I follow his advice and like a moron I pay for it.  The roads alright for a while, but then drastically takes a detour from the freeway and I know the town is on the other side of it.  Looking in the distance, I see that the road I’m following is heading through the mountains.  6 ks…ya, right.  So before the road gets too far off course, I make the executive decision to cut through the grape vineyard which is separating me from the highway.  One word, mud and the sticky kind… again.  My metal beast is rendered useless yet once again due to the caking mud effect.  The great bain of all great bike adventurers.  Through the grapevine and over the fence we make our way to the highway…and walk…for about 4 ks to the town of Cuesta Blanca.  At the bar, once again no one knows much about any bus only that there is one that stops occasionally perhaps whenever the drivers feels like it.  Oh, and its still raining, but only a drizzle now, thank heavens.  Enough is enough; I’m fixing that tire or going to go completely crazy.  Into a bar, buy a beer and some donuts, 12, and the sugary kind, and yes, I eat them all.  I find that the new puncture is indeed a new puncture, which is a good thing meaning that the original patch held fast.  All set to go and that I do, off to Loja now 7 ks away.  How does this Spanish mileage system work anyway? 

Here we have the Aquaducto de Merida.  A fine structure of stone and brick initally created by the romans as a canoe passage between Merido and Rome.  It was later discovered that Rome was about 3000 kilometers away, so the project was postphoned until Italy could be brought closer to the Spanish coast. 

Glad to be off to Loja (although I have my doubts), hopefully where ill find a magic carpet to take me back to Granadaland.  Once again I come to a crossroad and once again there is absolutely no indication as to where either direction goes.  Good thing these Spanish folk are avid get-out-and-abouters.  I wait for the 2 walkers I past about 100 yards back and ask them which way to Loja.  “Well, this way goes to Loja although it’s long.  Ya, take this road.” “Wait, what about that road?” the other says and points in the opposite direction.  “I suppose you could take that road.  Its shorter and more direct and goes straight to Loja.”  Hmmm, I think to myself.  Which road do I want to take?  The long windy one or the easy shorter, direct one?  Now you begin to see the challenging dilemmas facing today’s modern nomad.  Going against my better judgment I take the direct easy road, and am rewarded for my use of logic and reasoning.  Loja is at the bottom of a valley surrounded by medium sized mountains.  Needless to say the scenery is very pretty as well is the town.  The kindly tourist office woman gives me the schedules for the trains and the buses.  Wow! Where before I didn’t have any options of transportation whatsoever, I am now overwhelmed with 2 liable sources.  And if I can make it to the bus stop in 15 minutes, one of those buses will have the pleasure of transporting me back. 

So here I go, and in 16 minutes, I see my bus pass me right by 40 yards before I reach the stop.  Bummer, but at the same time I’m kind of relieved.  A bit more time in Loja and a leisurely ride on the train, and of course as we all know, its still drizzling outside.  After all, it’s that what it’s supposed to do in Andalusia? 

Strolling through the town, I stop in a certain museum where there is an exhibition of Spanish cartoon, comic–type artists. And I must say many of them where quite good if not very impressive.  Oh, I’ve got a half an hour to get to the train station and finally but and end to this chapter.  Cruising down the cobblestone street, nothing can stop me now!  Stop me, no, slow me down, yes.  The rear rack, after so much bumping, water, dust, mud, weight, blood, sweat, and tears, finally decided enough was enough.  And with a thump, breaking at the the seatpost support, down it went.  I couldn’t be too critical at that point. It had been through a lot.  So with rack broken, the journey to the station continued.  There I found 2 other people waiting for the train and arriving just about on time, we boarded, bike and all. No hassle, no questions, just peace and quiet.  Ahh, it was about time.  Without further a due, the train arrives in Granada.  I exit and am ready for the walk back to the apartment where this whole journey began.  Put wait, I must have looked a bit dirty, grungy and suspicious, because within the station 2 police officers stop me and question me about my dealing here in Spain.  Uhh, I guess I was on a bike trip, with you know, this bike i have fixed with luggage and all.  They tell me this is just a run of the mill questioning like they do in my country.  At which point I tell them that actually this kind of random detainment is considered illegal as it violates the citizens’ rights.  Oh well, as I’ve said before... Spain.  And now I´m ready for cereal.

This is pretty countryside along the way.  I´ve simplified my life into tiny sets of joy. This here is one of them.