Beside the Seaside

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In Which A Stranger Returns

January 21, 2008 by Mike

Tarifa

Route: Tarifa - Norwich - Tarifa - Norwich - Tarifa - Norwich - Tarifa

Not many entries here recently. Not much besidetheseasideness to report. Not much biking:

I returned to Tarifa on Wednesday night, the flight to Gibraltar a study in relaxed, comfortable (non-Ryanair) travel, the wheezing, crawling buses from Gibraltar to Tarifa a model of Spain's worship of mañana -- why rush? So we do these 30 miles in two hours? No hay problema.

Or in other words, I reached Tarifa long after dark. The bike was still here. A good start. (Hernan's parting comment when I last flew to the UK? "Did you see the local paper this week? Lots of cars stolen from that car park recently." And he should know. He's the editor.)

But that was the only good start: the battery wasn't dead but the engine wasn't catching when I tried to start it. Oops.

Same story on Thursday morning -- and this time I could see what several weeks spent in this seafront carpark had done to the bike -- flecks of rust and pre-rust across anything chrome or even chrome-coloured. And the bike is indeed chrome-coloured. Oops again.

Still, infected with mañananess, I elected to send the day sunning myself, drinking good coffee (and house red), going for a long walk with my chum Malena (12-and-a-quarter months old.. she doesn't walk very fast) so it wasn't until Friday that I found a mechanic to look the bike over. Well, Friday afternoon to be precise. Which, apart from demonstrating just how Spanish I have become, is important in what happened next. You've guessed it. The bike started first time. Oops indeed.

What we figured out, Pipi and I (and yes, it means the same in Spanish, but a nickname's a nickname) is that the humidity and dampness had got to the bike over the weeks. Starting the bike in the late afternoon meant it had dried and sunned itself for several hours and was up for a spin.

Showering Pipi with golden compliments, and a promise to buy lots of bike-type things from him, I took the Bonnie up the coast to Facinas, then inland to the low sierra and the Parque Natural Los Alcornocales -- 18 miles, it turned out, of ripio, gravel road, broken tarmac in very small doses, green lanes, fords, ruts, sand and mud. Perfect off-roading -- but.. I'm not an off-roader and neither is my bike!

And I'm not complaining. The scenery was *incredible* -- high views down to the coast, a pristine lake, an enchanted forest that smelled of spring, two ancient and decrepit farmhouses, two ancient and decrepit mountain bikers and.. nothing else but me, the bike and the sky. Blue sky. Hot sun. It's January. I'm not complaining.

So this is where I am.

On Saturday, we had a barbecue in the trees just behind the beach: Hernan and Annie, Lucas and Malena, Gregorio and Cecile, me and Meg. (If you're looking for signs of a romance, I should point out that Meg is the family dog. We're just good friends.) Actually, calling it a barbecue does the food an injustice. This was an asado.. gaucho cooking straight from the pampas.. it tasted divine. I was taking notes the whole time.. in case you're thinking of popping over to Tarifa while I'm here.

Yesterday, I woke fashionably late, sunbathed in bed (it's tricky and I have to move round the bed -- but worth it), wandered into town for coffeecoffeecoffee and email, sunned myself again on the terrace, took the bike 40 glorious miles north to dramatic Vejer and odd Barbate -- more on these places later -- then watched the Madrid derbi with Hernan, Julio and Gregorio on the telly in Tarifa's lesbian bar.

If I manage to post this and some pictures to the site today I shall be proud of having done a full day's work.

A Good Day's Work