Sunday 8 September - Gadalajara - Madrid - 50 Miles.

Today was always going to be a short ride in to Madrid.  I knew that Madrid would be a sprawling place, and cycling through suburban and built up areas is always much slower than riding out in the countryside.  All stop and start.  Madrid does spread itself out and between Guadalajara and Madrid there wasn’t any countryside, just endless industrial estates and businesses along the roads.  Before leaving Guadalajara I’d crossed over the railway tracks to get some breakfast - pan tostado with tomato and jamon - at the cafe/restaurant where I had eaten the night before.  There was a team of young lads in there, football I think, having their coffee and breakfast before heading off to their Sunday  match.  They were well behaved, courteous, interested in their pan tostado and jamon, and I couldn’t help compare what I see back home with so many young people, who are often surly, bored looking, loud, aggressive, ignorant and just generally common.  And probably carrying knives. 20 somethings here behave so well.  You will see a group of them sit down to eat and drink, interested in their food, in conversation, in being together, and without an iota of bad behaviour or ignorance or drunkeness, or cropped tops, bare midriffs, or crotch revealing short skirts.  Which is so often what you see at home, and also lots of drunken behaviour and stupidness.  Take a trip down Broad Street in Birmingham any evening. I guess the difference it is that the youngsters here know what it is to sit down at table and eat together and to value the community and friendship of family and friends. They done it since day one in their own families. I couldn’t imagine one of them calling Uber Eats to get pizza or a MacDonalds.  And, in general, they are not fat and lardy.  Because they eat properly.  Compare that to what you see walking down our streets at home.  So, it’s nice to see well behaved and mannered youngsters who value being together, eating together and spending time together. Back to the Madrid suburbs.  The  going was slow and getting tough, with increasing traffic and having to keep an eye out all the time.  So, at a suburban train station about 10 kms from the centre I hopped the train with bike and went in to Atocha Station in Madrid and then headed the few kilometres in central Madrid to my AirBnB near Puerta Toledo.  Around Atocha, I did get told off by a policeman for riding on the pavement.  I was dutifully compliant.  Although, I did think,”Haven’t you got better things to do than stop cyclists - like looking for robbers, terrorists etc rather than worrying about me trying to find my way around a strange city ?!”Police are all over the place in Madrid, slowly cruising around the squares and streets, doing spot checks, lots of them, all over the place.  The police in their various guises are very much in evidence here, I’ve decided.  I blame Their Catholic Majesties Isabella and Ferdinand, the Inquisition and Franco.  There is lots of control going on here. I do like the way they behave.  I don’t like the coercive way it seems to be achieved.  Police presence should be unobtrusive.  In a democracy the role of the police should not be made too easy.  Otherwise they take over and take control.  I sense a bit of that here in Spain.

Monday 9 / Tuesday 10 September - Madrid - Rest Days

I’m having a couple of days in Madrid, to see the place, and to rest up, before my final leg through southern Spain and in to Portugal.  I’ve taken a small AirBnB near the Puerto Toledo, just up from the River Manzanares which runs through Madrid, nice part of town, with all the conveniences I could need, such as small supermarkets and cafes / restaurants etc.  Madrid is a tidy town, very clean, streets hosed down in the morning, and very little rubbish or litter about the place.  There are lots of little parks and green areas where people congregate, I guess because most people here live in apartments and only have a small balcony for outside air, and going to the park, parading along the wide boulevards and sitting for hours at the cafe is their way of getting out in to the open. I guess they have small kitchens as well, so eating out is a usual thing. The Plaza Major is about a pleasant twenty minutes walk away, there are some interesting indoor markets, and lots of small shops selling stuff.  And loads of places to pause and have a glass of wine, or a beer, and some tapas.  I ate two nights at the same restaurant / cafe just around the corner, because I thought it was so good, and no point setting yourself up for disappointment elsewhere when you’ve found  somewhere that suits, I think.  After exploring the place as much as I could on Monday, taking the open top double decker bus tour for 90 minutes to get a sense of the place, and catching up on laundry and tinkering with the bike, and some extra sleep, on Tuesday my plan was to head for The Prado to see the pictures, which I did.  The Prado isn’t intimidatingly vast, and a useful plan told me where the pictures I particularly wanted to see were to be found in the museum, especially the Goyas, the El Grecos, and a couple of Caravaggios.    My favourites were the El Grecos, all long and languid and rather camp dramatic figures, very different from other, more formal, stuff that was being painted in Spain in late 16th / early 17th centuries.  The Goyas, from the Napoleonic Spanish Wars, are amazing, especially the execution of the rebels, although there are some disturbing Black Period Goyas that suggest he was more than a bit of depressive at times.   One Caravaggio, called The Perdido, which has only been rediscovered in recent years, and which depicts the Ecce Homo moment of Pilate when Jesus was hauled before him, is only a small painting;  the other, David decapitating Goliath after he has killed him, is also small, both unlike the larger scenes that I have seen by Caravaggio in Rome.  Actually, they weren’t, I think, his best, too small and too limited.  But, then, I’m no expert !  They come, I believe, from his dark and desperate last years, his exile period in Sicily and Naples and his attempts to get himself pardoned for the street killing of a someone in Rome and his subsequent flight and exile from Rome. Caravaggio was a bit of a troublemaker and street brawler.  Great painter, but definitely troubled and troublesome on the streets. Velasquez, a court painter, was another that was interesting, and it was noticeable that the Spanish Habsburg hereditary large chin (as in Jimmy Hill) features in a lot his paintings of the Spanish royals of that time, first half of the 17th century. Perhaps it’s been weeded out in the the current King Felipe.I think you can still see the chin in the ex-KIng Carlos.  I wasn’t able to go and see the Picasso Guernica at the Reina Sofia gallery, because it was closed on Tuesdays ! 

  I’m no expert on all this art stuff, but I do know what I think I like and what I think I don’t like !  I like Madrid, clean, organised, monumental, well behaved people (well, with all those police around, who wouldn’t be ?), and with good food and wine everywhere I went.  I’d like to go back for a longer look / see one day.  The weather was lovely and pleasant, but I can imagine that in the height of summer it can be extremely hot and tiring.

Wednesday 11 September - Madrid - Toledo - 55 Miles

In beautiful weather, I left Madrid heading for Toledo.  The route out was not as bad as the route in but the morning was mostly through suburbs and industrial estates.  The countryside is pretty scrappy as you get out of the suburbs, lots of wheat fields that have been harvested and not much else.  My final bit of the route in to Toledo took me along a river with a path next to it, but they must have had a lot of torrential rain at some point and the path was wiped out by the torrent, so I had to pick my way carefully over broken pavement and boilers and sand.  Toledo looks hilly.  The town proper and cathedral are perched up on the hills, but I was headed for a camp site, which turned out to be very superior, and a bit expensive as camp sites go, but with wonderful facilities, pool, restaurant and a magnificent view of Toledo town and cathedral.  After a nice meal on the terrace, with Toledo illuminated before me, I went to my tent, but was disturbed by my Spanish neighbours who were chattering and nattering until midnight.  A bit of Old Anglo-Saxon shut them up.  And when I was leaving at 8:30 am the next morning, a retaliatory ringing of my cycle bell seemed justified.  The Spanish do make a lot of noise.  When they are in company, they all speak at the same time, over each other, nobody appears to shut up and listen.  Go to any square and sit in a cafe and all you hear is what sounds like a flock of starlings.  I didn’t see much of Toledo from my camping ground, but it looks monumental and has a wonderful hilltop position. A place to visit again sometime at leisure.  Now, in case you are wondering, this trip is about cycling, covering distance, and seeing what I see from the route.  I’m not interested in stopping off and visiting sites, except perhaps on longer stops such as Madrid.  I pick up what I see on the way, and can come back later and visit at leisure.  Which I will for Madrid, and maybe Toledo.  One day.

Thursday 12 September - Toledo - Navas de Estena - 65 Miles

I’m making my way gradually south west, and today took me in to rural Spain and in to the Cabaneros National Park, which is hilly/mountainous and very rural.  The morning out of Toledo was fairly flat, but then I hit the hills and the afternoon was a succession of climbs up in to the hills and the pine forests, and what I think are trees with lots of acorns on them, presumably for the pigs to snuffle for once they fall.  The aroma from the pines and whatever else was giving off scent was delightful, a sort of a mix of pine / resin / incense, all along the mountain roads that I travelled.  Delightful.  I’ve not had the scent of fig trees, which I often smell in Portugal, but maybe that is to come. I was heading for a small town / village of Naval de Estena where there was supposed to be a camp site, which there was, but it had a definite closed look to it.  A phone call, botched Spanish, and then some decent English when the guy realised I spoke English, ended up with the camp site being open, but the restaurant and bar closed for the night.  It will reopen on Friday for the weekend.  The other restaurant in town was also closed for the day, but the small, and I mean small as in front room, shop opened at 6:30 pm and I was able to get enough for a half decent picnic, which did the trick.  I think there were only a couple of other people at the campsite, but I had the company of a family of cats that kept looking for attention and food, and of a fox that sauntered around boldly, and was probably more interested in the kittens as a potential meal than he was in me and my picnic.  The weather was balmy and warm and I was able to have a quiet sleep in my inner tent without the fly sheet, and was able to look up and see the stars.  And breath, aaahhh !  Camping in this delightful balmy clime is not a problem, and quite a pleasure.  The problem is trying to find camp sites at the right place and distance.  Otherwise, I have to resort to little hotels, as I will tomorrow night when I get to Cuidad Real. 

Friday 13 September - Navas de Estena - Cuidad Real - 60 Miles

The road to Cuidad Real was more hills and up and downs, well up some mountainside actually, and past a hug reservoir.  Some of it was long, hot and hard, but I had a nice little wind behind me which helped me along.  I went though many little Spanish villages, where you would barely see anybody, although a couple had a little shop and a bar where I could replenish.  These little villages are very higgledy piggledy, and there doesn’t appear to be a consistent plan, they just seem to have happened without any thought.  There’s  not a lot happening it seems.  Mind you, some of them had signs of imminent bull running, as in Pamplona, with metal gates closing off roads, and railings along the streets.  It seems to be a thing at this time of year and in this part.  It’s all very agricultural, and I keep seeing signs about Don Quixote, who must have been through these parts, daft and blind old soak he was, tilting at windmills.  Anyhow, he’s evidently a character of these parts.  The fields of wheat have long since been harvested, and the pale golden stubble in the sunlight is delightful.  The corn of various types hasn’t yet been harvested, and some fields are being watered.  Maybe that’s what the reservoir was about.  So, this bit of Spain, southwest of Madrid and Toledo, which I think is Castille - La Mancha, is very agricultural and very Don Quixote.  My destination was Cuidad Real, which to me translates as Royal City, so I was expecting monumental and impressive.  In fact, it is quite small and I really didn’t see a whole lot of old buildings, just lots of modernish apartment buildings and squares.  The main square looks like a 1970s creation.  Although, maybe there is a plaza major that I missed.  Still, it was very pleasant, and my hotel very comfortable, sort of stuck in the early 2000s in decor and stye, but very acceptable, and evidently the preference of the respectable middle class Spaniards who made up most of the guests.  There is a look to these well heeled Spanish middle classes of a certain age, all sunglasses and big hair for the women, and slip on loafers and cardigans for the men (even in this weather !) You can tell they know their worth and I suspect most of them still would prefer to have Franco running the place.  I ate, almost alone, at 9 pm in the dining room, and another table appeared at 10 pm as I was leaving.  I had a little Spanish brandy at a bar down the road, which was a huge measure but wasn’t anything like brandy we are used to, more like a weak tea.  It did the job and I slept well.  There must be more to Cuidad Real than I have seen in my fleeting visit.  I need to look at Wikipedia to find out more.

Saturday 14 September - Cuidad Real - Fuencaliente - 65 Miles

Today was going to be a day of some big climbs.  So, I fortified myself with the hotel buffet breakfast, which was very fulsome, and cost less that 8 Euro, but would have been at least 15 Sterling in the UK.  I had pan tostado with tomato, then eggs, then some cooked ham, and then some sweet pastries, with good coffee and juices.  But, why I had to be afflicted  with 1980s hard rock musak with my breakfast, I do not know.  More of the incessant never-ending commotion and noise that goes with Spain and the Spanish, I think.  And, I didn’t even have my hearing aid in, but it was still annoyingly intrusive.  On more familiar territory at home, I now tell them that I am disabled of hearing and could they please turn the music down / off.  Of course, if they thought about it being disabled of hearing would normally mean that the impact of musak should be limited. But, they don’t think about it. The disabled bit gets an immediate reaction and they invariably comply.  If you just ask because you don’t like it, they take umbrage.  The D world does the trick.  They don’t want to be seen to be discriminatory to the disabled.  So, I was well set for the hills, although the first part of the morning was very flat coming out of Cuidad Real along a track that was full of joggers and walkers.  The Spanish never seem to shut up, even when jogging, and they are nattering away to each other as they take their exercise.  Likewise the twos and threes groups of cyclists I have seen, riding side by side and jabbering away.  I think nattering all the time is a Spanish pastime.  And talking over each other.  The route took me by the side of the high speed railway, although even though the trains look very flash and fast I didn’t think that they were moving at very high speed.  I hope our HS2, what there will be of it and when it finally arrives, will move a bit faster.  Eventually, my route moved away from the railway line and headed up some mountains, up a thousand feet or so each time, then down to a valley, then up again.  I was following the N road, which wasn’t very busy because the traffic now takes the autovia.  The old N road system is still in good shape, so are good roads to take if there is an autovia nearby which takes most of the traffic.  I went over four ridges and valleys, I think in the Sierra Andujar, sheep and wheat and corn and olives in the valleys, pine trees and oak trees higher up.  I’m staying at a little hotel in the Sierra just outside Fuencaliente, which leads me to think that there will be hot springs nearby.  The hotel is a little dated, but has a restaurant where I’m able to have my meal of partridge pate and oxtail stew.  At 9:45 as I write, there are only two other people eating, I think Eastern Europeans of some variety.  Why do Eastern European women have such high pitch voices  and up and down patterns to their speech ?  It would do my head in having to l listen to that day and night.  I feel for the husband. She went to bed and I chatted to the Polish guy as we finished our wine and had a little cigar on the terrace.  He was very big on the Poles always being attacked by the Russians and not to trust them, even citing battles from the Middle Ages to make his case.  Also firm on welcoming Ukrainian refugees, but tells me they don’t want any blacks.  Poland is a very monochrome place, as I recall.  Tomorrow, I’m heading for Cordoba, which I think is mostly downhill, and will have two nights there so that I can explore the Moorish history of the place.

Sunday 15 September - Fuencaliente - Cordoba - 65 Miles

Breakfast at the mountain hotel was only okay, because I was persuaded to have the local breakfast speciality of pan tostado rubbed with orange and sprinkled with sugar, then olive oil.  I prefer the pan tostado with tomato and olive oil.  Today’s ride was mostly downhill, but not completely.  There were a couple of sharp uphills.  However, the main trajectory was down from the Sierra (not sure which ones they are, there seem to be so many that I have crossed), and in to Andalucia.  As I came down the mountain, I started to smell the lovely scent of the fig trees by the side of the road, although most of the countryside was covered with olive trees. For the first couple of hours, I followed the N road which was pleasant and not too busy, but then it became the autovia and I had to take the service road, which was not always the most smooth. At some stage I was alongside the River Guadalquivir, which runs through Cordoba and on to Seville and then the sea. And alongside the high speed train line which avoids all the hills by going across on huge bridge spans.  I think it’s the line that runs from Madrid to Seville.  There wasn’t an awful lot else to see, other than the river, the train line, the autovia alongside me, the olive groves, and occasionally flocks of sheep and goats.  The weather was hot, in to the 30s, and so I needed water regularly, but being Sunday all the supermarkets and small shops were shut, so I had to resupply at petrol stations that were open, usually at five times the price of the supermarket for a bottle of water.  Monday to Saturday I use the supermarket. The outskirts of Cordoba, like most Spanish towns, is scrappy and rough, but once you get in to the old town, it is delightful, narrow streets, opening on to a little square.  I’m in an AirBnB, which is in a courtyard off a narrow alleyway, delightfully calm, peaceful and cool, with views of a variety of churches from the terrace.  I went out in search of something to eat, and began to smell incense, and then the banging of drums and a brass band, and came across a local church procession, everybody out in their finest, following a huge elevated statute of Our Lady carried by about twenty burly men.  It was the local feast of Santa Maria of Something or Other, who I think is patron saint of infirmarians, if my Spanish is correct.  Anyhow, it was quite a spectacle, and the local citizenry were fully engaged and enthusiastic.  Local pride in their place and culture, and all that.  Much of which I think we have lost back home, certainly where I live where Ramadan and Eid festivals are more the flavour these days, with an ersatz Christmas German market, although it’s actually Poles who run it, thrown in.  Cordoba is a Moslem / Moorish city, reconquered by the Catholic Spanish Monarchs, and repurposed as a Christian city, but all the churches and big buildings were originally Moorish edifices, and you can see it in the architecture.  At least the Middle Ages Moorish / Moslem style has some class and endurance, whereas the Mosques that I see in Birmingham are blingy, badly built piles, which are then just not looked after properly and after a few years begin to show their shoddy workmanship.  Different cultures, different attitudes, different priorities. Mind you, some of the 1960s post war church concrete monstrosities are no different.  Concrete rot, water staining and generally pretty ugly, most of them.  Think Liverpool Metropolitan Cathedral, ugly wigwam, that has cost far more to keep standing than it cost to build.  I’m not a fan. Tomorrow, I have a day to wander around Cordoba, to do some laundry, and to have a nice siesta after a pleasant lunch.  Pure pleasure !

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