To the border of Portugal

Different patterns in my travel emerge. Like on previous travels I use cities or other symbolic stops as my horizons and targets. I often beforehand divide my route into different parts based on them. Madrid was special in the way that it was, when leaving that town, the last big stop and horizon before Morocco. But the latter one is not a specific stop. It is for me mentally a vague big place where I’ll take a ferry to, but nothing more. Maybe Tanger is quite concrete, but no-one is waiting for me there and I haven’t really decided yet what I shall do once arrived. Parallel to the pattern of my cycling/stopping behaviour, is also a sense that it is always a bit hard for me to leave. Especially the day before and the day where I start pushing my pedals again, I often don’t feel very happy or enthusiastic. I remember when I left home and how weird I felt. But the same goes for leaving l’impasse du Mage or Grenoble. But never has it been harder now than leaving Madrid. The week spent with my university friends (even though they are so much more than just our common link of the UGent) and then with Rosa, a good friend of my fathers’, was so nice and comforting. I remembered how thrilling it can be to live in a city: going to bars, good food, museums and exhibitions, meeting people, discovering weird places and thank goodness, cinemas! Safe to say, I wish it could have lasted longer. But this is a bicycle travel, no city trip. And it was difficult to leave, nonetheless. A big fear, or something that I have been taking a lot into account at least, is me losing the motivation to continue. I feel like this time I have been close to that feeling when biking away through Madrid’s suburbs. I was suddenly again confronted with loneliness, that only became clear when I saw my friends on the other side of the street at the youth hostel when arriving in the capital. Throughout the week, I looked back on all those days travelling alone and felt the contrast, how happy I was to be in such nice company. It hit me hard to see them go away to the bus station and came as strongly back when cycling away from Rosa’s apartment. But I knew somewhere that this feeling, numb, aimless and sad, would go away, but I was surprised that for one day and a half, it didn’t. 

Surprise of ripping my bag and the later result of repair

Somehow I was able to handle quite well the first setback of this new part of my travel: ripping my old brown Ortlieb bag to shreds on a sharp bit of a crash barrier. I’ve been checking all of them since that accident and literally not a single shard is to be seen. What a bad luck to crash on the only crash barrier shard of Spain! I secured the different shreds of the bag together with a few safety pins and then biked to the nearest Decathlon thinking to buy a new bag. But not finding any suitable model, I stumbled on some kind of blue-coloured fabric repairing tape. It worked quite well, as can be seen on the picture. It is even supposed to be water repellent, but we’ll see about that. I’m not expecting much rain in the areas I’ll be biking to (just touched the ground to not jinx myself). I handled all this rather indifferently and cycled further, back towards the Guadarrama mountains I had come from the week before.

Looking back, it was a beautiful camping spot

When I woke up the next morning, close to an actually beautiful lake, I was worried to still feel this kind of numbed out. I even started to think about my options for if I decided to return home. But I was close to the Escorial and the Valley of the Fallen, a Fascist/Francoist monument to the victims of the Civil War that used forced labour to get constructed, and also house thousands of remains of rebels, that often got exhumed from their previous resting places without the consent of their family. I knew that somewhere my future self would have wanted to see this places so that already was some sort of motivation. Of course it was a goddamn Monday so the Escorial palace would be closed, but at least I could admire it from the outside. It was truly imposing to see. When I ate my lunch in a park close by, I stumbled on Raul (or rather the other way around), a surfer and world traveler, who lived there. He always spoke with “people on the Way” as he said, beautiful, poetic spanglish, and was very admiring and asked many questions. Somehow this interaction formed a complete switch in my mood. We laughed a bit and I asked him about his travels. It was like stumbling onto a small stream in a desert and then seeing how is slowly grew into a mighty stream. Another thing that helped when leaving El Escorial, was listening to podcasts. With this newfound sense of enjoyment and eagerness to continue, I started cycling to get over the Guadarrama pass and into the direction of Salamanca. Having crossed the mountains, I arrived back into the vast, endless spaces that Spain seems to be so full of. 

I took a road between El Espinar to Avila that was in this valley that was so enormous and empty, with perfectly straight barbed wire fences that almost disappeared in the distance up the valley’s flanks. Then, leaving that valley, came a particular rocky terrain, with huge blocks of granite that stuck out of the ground, the latter having eroded away. Populated with all these holm oak and other arid vegetation, it forms a hostile, impressive and thus beautiful landscape. It is only weird how many of the terrain is private (or at least thoroughly fenced).

Camping between boulders near Avila

With some difficulty I camped in this landscape close to Avila, that I discovered the next morning. The old medieval walls are really impressive, as is the cathedral made of this bloody-meat stone. I was going to Salamanca that day as Rosa had brought me into contact with the son of a friend that lived there. I biked all day through the same rock chaoses, as described before. At some places the rocks made way to tall, old holm oaks sparsely distributed over the dry grass of meadows, simulating what for me resembled to the Savannahs of Africa or South America. Podcasts continued to be a continuous presence and I discovered a format I really like: the “Long Reads” of the Guardian. I like the vast range of topics it brings and just a voice reading this long, well-written articles. Another podcast worth mentioning, “Kunst, Kunst en nog eens Kunst” (unfortunately only in Dutch), is about Flemish artists in the broad sense that in long talks of at least one and a half hour get the time to really go in dept about their lives and art. I appreciate the time they get and also the slightly amateurish (but then also disarming) interview style of the often very well prepared host.

Those podcasts brought me swiftly to the oldest university city of Spain. I got hosted amazingly by Axel, who teleworked as a software developer for an international company. He is passionate about darts and after an excellent home made tortilla we went to a nice bar where we also met one of his childhood friends Adri. Trying out interesting beers and also one round of darts set the mood for a very pleasant stay in Salamanca. Axel, who also studied economics, was very nice to talk to and this even lead to some deep conversations about economic history. The next day I took the time to visit the city that reminded me a lot of Bologna, my Erasmus destination. I combined the picturesque city centre, already quite full of tourists, with a visit to the Ars Domus 2002 museum, that was almost completely empty, but housed some very interesting modern art. Especially the temporary exhibition about contemporary Cuban art was impressive.

Cheeky self-portraits in Salamanca

That evening I joined Axel and Ari for their weekly darts competition, but not before having a delicious tapas diner and trying out some of the local dishes like Jeta (not vegetarian unfortunately). I think I got a bit more appreciation for darts, even as it still kind of affirmed all of it’s clichés of a macho, beer, cafe oriented sport.

Literally empty, finding in the middle
of nowhere this abandoned real
estate project, as if everyone had vanished

The next morning, I left again, eager to explore the northwest of Spain. I again cycled through alternations of this Savannahs and rock chaoses. I also managed to find a Warmshowers host who would accept me in Lisbon, which created a new concrete horizon to my travels. I was surprised to find again empty spaces so close to the border with Portugal. The next day, I crossed the Duero river I already had seen as a big stream near Soria (and now had cut out a deep canyon) and cycled a short time through Portugal, only to come back in Spain after that. Apart from the delicious “pastels de nata” I saw that the small roads were in poor shape and the small villages that lay next to them were in a significantly more precarious state than in Spain. I was slowly leaving the rather flat, undulating plains north of Salamanca behind and arrived in the mountains of the North. 

The Duero river as border between Portugal and Spain, arriving in new hilly terrain and the climb in the Sierra de la Cabrera

This meant again long climbs, which the podcasts helped me overcome. The sierras of Culebra and La Cabrera were the next two big obstacles, both on rather bad roads, but with vast, amazing wildness. Traces of more or less recent forest fires alternated with heathlands that were grazed by cows or sheep and intact pine forests. When cleaning my chain, I noticed that my experiment of not changing the cassette when replacing the chain had given rather poor results. The wear on the new chain had gone much faster. After less than 1000 kilometres it had already been worn down to 75%. I ventured deeper into the Cabrera mountains, having crossed a 18540m pass that I kind of wasn’t used to anymore. But quickly I readapted to cycling through mountains, I had to: the next day I crossed a mountain, part of the Montes de Leon, that took me back to 1950m (still nothing compared to that damn 2400m Andorra pass and I also started out quite high). 

Desolate mountains

The bare flanks, only low shrubs, the curvy valley bassins, rocks, the patches of snow and the resulting desolation were impressive as was the view on the other high mountains. The roads up there were capricious and steep. The grey weather even provided some snowflakes which made me even more disconnect from the busy worlds of Madrid and Salamanca. But I felt strong and curious, determined to tame the heights and the cold wind. After that high climb I arrived in Ponferrada, from where the mountain I had been only an hour before seemed impossibly high and far away. From that city I was determined to follow the Sil river to Ourense, as had been suggested by Miguel, my Warmshower host from Zaragossa. 

Las Medulas

A particular area of interest on the way was Las Medulas, one of the biggest gold mine of the Roman Empire, where 1600 tonnes of the precious material had been mined throughout the antiquity. For that, the Roman engineers used a technique called ruina montium, or the ravaging of the mountains. This was a technique where water was used to erode enormous parts of the mountain flanks through dug out tunnels to expose veins of gold and later to also carry the gold to sluices were it could sink and be collected. The effects of this landscape-changing technique are still visible and together with the reddish earth of the exposed and eroded flanks and extremely old chestnut trees it creates a truly beautiful site that is justly incorporated on the UNESCO list. It is even possible, with some mountain-bike skills, to explore the site by bike and it was certainly a highlight of my journey in Spain. 

Arriving spring and the Sil canyon

Afterwards following the beautiful Sil river through the mountains really enthused me to continue and enjoy the next parts of my travels. It was weird to remember the disinterested feeling when leaving Madrid. The next day showed the full extent of Sil’s beauty, with lush, lichen-covered forest, the same century-old chestnut trees, terrace cultivations and rocky canyons. Another surprising thing was that suddenly a lot of plants were flowering. Spring was arriving and colours came back to the often grey-brown nature. It gave a joyous feeling, as spring should, and made me arrive just in time in Ourense to enjoy for five minutes its thermal hot springs (some of them have a free entrance), before closing time. Just lying in that hot water, aaaah… I stocked up on food in the local Lidl and biked away into the night. The next day I measured my chain again, and it had been completely worn out, which prompted me to buy in the nearest bike shop a new cassette and chain, which I replaced at once. That way, I’m hopefully prepared for Portugal (I’m 30kms from the border) and Morocco, having 2500 worry-free kilometres before me.

To Madrid

Looking at the high snowy peaks from the lower Provence Alps 

Having left my grandparents again, I cycled through a part of the Alps, and through the very touristy zones of the Ardeche, then Cévennes and direction Toulouse. I was again struck by the incredible differences in landscapes, the dry Provence vegetation, the raw, primal nature of the Cévennes and again bucolic green fields after The Grandes Causses.

The iconic tower of the Mont Ventoux...

I often get the remark that I didn't chose the timing of my travel well, with the cold winter. I now would argue that 1) so far conditions can be quite ok, especially when well-equipped.  2) there are no insects that can bite, suck or sting. 3) beverages and other food remain cool. 4) Winter is actually a great season to travel for people like me who hate cliché, crowded touristy places. I was for example able to enjoy the Pont d'Arc completely alone, one of the most enigmatic natural monuments of France. The same goes for the breath-taking Gorges du Tarn or the windy hights of the Mont Ventoux. Admitted, the road to the latter is actually closed during winter, so I of course only encountered a few hikers.

... And its icy road on the northern side

I first thought it was weird that this perfectly fine road was closed, even with a real barrier!  But once I arrived sweating and out of breath on the top, I realised that the road that lies on northern side of this mountain was completely covered in ice and snow. I had to walk down long stretches of ice sheets very slowly, my heavy bike threatening to slide away at any time... After descending a few kilometers like that, I could hop back on the bike and slalom between the remaining icy chunks. It is also a good segway for new conditions that I have to face on this travel: sub-zero temperatures. On my first night, having crossed the Col de la Croix Haute and bivouacking in the Provence Alps, I was surprised to find all of my drinking water frozen solid, lighters almost not working anymore, and very cold shoes to slip into. It has been a weird pattern ever since: beautiful weather, so that by noon every part of my body and equipment is warm again, and then at night very cold. Nothing abnormal of course, it is the lack of clouds at night that enables all the warmth of the sun to radiate away into space. But it is weird to experience this big switches on the thermometer. 

Alone at the Pont d'Arc!

Jeffersons and Shimano clipless
 shoes (I took off the clips
to have a hike with it in Madrid

I've left with a few new things from Grenoble. Firstly I made a big switch talking about cycling gear: clipless pedals. I found in a thrift store some nice clipless shoes, that actually had enough room for my toes (to prevent any new inflammations). So I decided I would take the risk experimenting with this pedal system. I found secondhand pedals via a website, so the experiment so far has been very budget friendly. I like the feeling of being able to pull as well as push, but so far I don't see any big differences in performances. The drawbacks are not yet big: the action of clipping in and out, that can be a bit risky sometimes, extra parts that will have to be replaced (clips, and the second-hand and thus already worn pedals), and a bit clumsy shoes. Big advantage is that I will hardly slip. I was curious to see if I would get better performances, but so far it doesn't really look like it, I can do similar distances in similar times. I also chose new 'comfort' shoes on the side. I tried to look for a shoe that could take up the role of flip-flop, while being sturdier and more comfotable for long walks. I discovered the Native shoe brand, that offers Crocs-style sneakers called Jeffersons, with an absurdly low carbon impact, made out of bioplastics. I decided to buy a pair and so far have been quite contempt. They are of course extra voluminous objects, but I found that I can fasten them easily on my front panniers. Buying new shoes goes of course against my anti-consumerist stance, but I think that this company is doing things so different that supporting them is probably outweighing the actual environmental costs. They also recycle there old shoes into playgrounds floors or isolation, if that is any good.

Not finding water a Tarabias but
 enjoying a beautiful sunset

I also passed my 65th day on the bike and overcame almost 6000km since the start. Some interesting things that happened on this part of trip were for example the different locations were I slept. Besides some better and worse camping spots (nothing too spectacular, only terrible was next to the ugly, busy, yellow-illuminated highroad somewhere in Andorra) I was once more welcomed by a stranger in his house. It was in the Cévennes, were I arrived after four days. I had traversed the Gorges de l’Ardèche with the spectacular Pont d’Arc and entered the high regions of the Massif Central zone. I had unfortunately not looked for water very well and found myself hesitating to knock on doors in a messily build, crunched together small village called Tarabias. I didn’t found any doorbel, many housed seemed empty and it was unclear which door belonged to which house.  I looked for faces or a way to mentally facilitate the making of contact (still proudness and some timidity), but didn’t find any. So I decided that I would rather ring at the next stand-alone house. The first inhabited one was of Sylvain, who immediately after I had asked for water, started talking about how closed people here are, as if he had guessed why I had knocked on his door and not in Tarabias. Sylvain, about 60 I’d say, lived there alone in the house he had expanded and renovated himself in the last years. It was pleasantly modern, slightly alternatively decorated. Once I had filled up my bottles, he kept on talking, almost teaching about the region of the Cévennes, firing off questions about my voyage. Quite soon he proposed me to stay over for the night. So I moved my stuff in and we kept on talking about a broad spectrum of things. He remarked that he was a highly gifted person, "un surdoué", with high IQ and all that (I took it with a grain of salt). His main occupation was research on broadly anthropology and writing poetry and fiction. When I say that we kept on talking, I really mean we kept on talking without stopping until midnight. Sylvain was a great educator, funny and philosophical. Conversations got quite deep and he even lost me at a few moments as I could not grasp his reasoning anymore. When I left the next morning (wow sleeping in a bed is so nice), I felt very different from the day before.

Crossing the Cevennes incredibly wild and desolate

Different landscape: Causse de Méjean

That day by the way, was one of the most spectacular: crossing the middle part of the Cévennes, who are desolate and wild, climbing over the Causse de Méjaen, that looked like how I imagine the Badlands from the US and then via a slippery icy road back down to the Gorges du Tarn, a huge sublime canyon! The whole France-is-spectacular-route was concluded by the viaduct of Millau, an incredible feat of human engineering that is impressive to see from far away; but also from underneath. Between that and the crossing of the Pyrenees, I was allowed to sleep in the holiday cottage of my mom’s distant family in the village were that part of the family is from. It was a special feeling to have a whole house for my self, but enjoyed the comfort, especially after 156km of cycling. Discovering this far-away family history in the villages was as peculiar, seeing the many graves in the cemetery or having a look at an old house that belonged to it. Two days cycling from there, I also visited Toulouse, clearly a nice city, but with the cumbersome bike it was hard to really walk around to enjoy it. I took time to visit the Modern Art Museum and that night I was again hosted by a connection of my mom, super nice.

Too many beautiful sights, too many pictures (Gorges du Tarn and viaduct of Millau)

The landscape I met Sabrina in.
The fierce Pyrenees!

When approaching the Pyrenees the next day I encountered the first other bike packer of my trip! Sabrina from Frankfurt was climbing the same quiet road as me when I caught up with her. I felt instant solidarity with her and we cycled a bit together, exchanging everything in rapid succession. It somehow really energised me so see a soul sister (if I’m allowed that word). We exchanged numbers when we split. She was interested in some small dirt road that I generally avoid and I later heard from her that she went back home to start a new adventure later this spring. I camped in the mountains, two climbs away from Andorra. In Ax-les-Thermes, I sensed that I needed some relaxing before the big climb, I stocked up on cheap burning alcohol for my stove and ate with my feet submerged in hot thermal water from a spring. Apparently the whole area is full of this kind of sources. I talked with Nicolas and Anena, life-coaches who were resting there from a recent workshop they had given and they kind of calmed me down about suddenly emerging uncertainties about my own professional future. Conclusion of our talk: it is okay to not know what you’re going to do, intuition and sudden realisations often guide the way. That means I can just keep on cycling then.

Passing over the 2400m high Port d'Envalira, cold and exhausting, sleeping next to the road in Andorra

That afternoon, I started a big climb that I completely underestimated. I hadn’t seen on the map how the mountain pass to Andorra was at 2400m, which meant I had to climb those two vertical kilometres up! I slowly made my way up, but felt already tired when halfway. Even climbing the mont Ventoux hadn’t been that high! The wind ahead and the cold didn’t help, so it was already dark when I reached that darn Port D’Envalira; quite exhausted. Luckily some of the drivers going down had encouraged me by honking or showing their thumbs-up, but man that was hard, as I hadn’t prepared myself that well for it. But now I was in Andorra, one of those weird, micro-states in Europe that are not part of the EU and that can cost a lot of money if you forget to turn your data off (which I luckily had though about). For me it felt like some kind of big, ultra-rich ski-resort, with a lot of the valley stuffed with high alpine apartments, ski-related shops, ski-lifts. The big broad road that leads down to Andorra la Vella, the capital, is in very good, Swiss-like shape and was nice to roll down of.

Andorra La Vella, suddenly a rich
metropole in the mountains, with the
accompanying questionable taste

Andorra la Vella is a really weird city, with a “lost” modern feel, like it had been recently build, but was already crumbling. It had an incredible amount of traffic policemen to regulate all the chokepoints of the busy roads and many luxurious shops. I was glad to leave again and arrive in Spain! What an incredible feeling I had, finally arriving in that country. I clearly had been spending way to much time in comfortable France. I have been learning some Spanish since Grenoble, but it still is in its infantile phase. It is the biggest difference, suddenly not being able to fluently communicate. But the weather was so much warmer and I discovered new kinds of food in the supermarkets, that seems to be a bit cheaper, especially vegetables and fruit. My second lunch consisted of one of those tortilla omelettes (in Catalonia called truites), delicious! Once I left the high mountains I immediately noticed the big differences in landscape. I so far feel like I don’t understand how Spanish terrain functions. In France you have hills and valleys and when you climb out of a valley you arrive in another one. Here, there seem to be sudden enormous plateaus that you reach after a climb that completely let you forget the valley you just left. Gone are the trees and I have only have the arid, desertlike landscapes left to appreciate. A nice thing is that wild rosemary is growing everywhere, excellent for cooking!

Entering Spain and leaving the mountains gradually behind
in exchange for the arid landscapes between Lleida and Zaragossa 

On my second day in Spain I felt my clothes were so dirty that I decided to do something I never did before: wash my clothes in a laundry mat. This probably sounds like I’m really spoilt, but I never arrived in that situation. I either wash clothes by hand or let them wash when sleeping in someones home. Even though the “lavanderia” was a bit expensive, I was so happy with my dry and  fragrant clothes! Travelling brings you new experiences everyday… 

Climbing on gravel roads to the San
Caprasio peak, tricky with clipless pedals!

Saragossa was the big city I had been aiming for in my route planning and I decided to look for a Warmshower host there. When I got turned down by one host and got no response from three others, I had the option to contact Miguel, living a bit outside of the city. He said he couldn’t host me on the day I was asking for, but proposed to join him on his own little camping trip. The idea was to join him home the next day. But what a place he was aiming for: the caves of San Caprasio. Located in the Monegros mountains, it is an old hermit instalment, now acting as a refuge. Located completely solitarily on a high peak around 800m and exposed to the south, the caves are constantly warmed and thus are naturally warmed in the winter.

View with Dani and Miguel from the
platform in front of the cave in the morning

But the great value is the incredible view they offer on the desertlike valleys and fields that lead to the riverbed of the Ebro. Besides being a bit dusty, they are very comfortable, with a table and mattresses. After a brutal climb on gravel roads I met Miguel on top and he introduced me to his friend Dani, who was joining us. It was the recipe for an amazing night, with a an atmosphere as if we’d known each other for years. Plenty of wine, guitar playing (with some beautiful traditional songs on their part), gazing at the stars and the Ebro valley and a fire on which we cooked fish and potatoes ended by freestyle rapping (I was terrible). The night was super comfortable in the warm cave and I spend the next day reading and planning the rest of my trip. 

View on San Caprasio. The cave chapel and sleeping room are located in the the rock formation on the left

Miguel and his friend, staying until noon advised me on the route and I also had the opportunity to see Miguel painting. He is a firm believer of trying to capture what you see during your travels by drawing or painting it. He is clearly quite talented (never took any lessons), so I think that’s why it is working so well for him. I imagine me trying to draw and I would probably end up just being frustrated. I prefer this modest blog then. In the late afternoon I cycled down to the Ebro valley to sleep at Miguels place, having a last glimpse of the mysterious and desolate environment of the Monegros hills. I did manage to choose the worst way to get down, not taking Miguels advice. 

A stubborn mule in a bit of trouble

I had to slowly carry my bike over a steep rocky track for 300m (didn’t read the map well) and later when attempting to shortcut over gravel roads, encountered a fence (didn’t read the map well). I overcame both obstacles with some difficulty and had to cycle next to a big highway to ultimately arrive an hour later then promised. I should have listened to Miguel. But the shower felt amazing and I was well fed. Most importantly I was able to recharge my devices, since I had been stressing for the last few days because of low battery levels.

In the next days I firstly briefly visited Zaragossa, unfortunately on a Monday, when all the museums are closed (I clearly am not in luck when passing cities), but could see that it was a vibrant and pleasant city, full of bars, art and cool little streets. Secondly, realising I still had quite a few days before my scheduled arrival in Madrid, I decided to keep a northwestwards route, with Soria as a target. 

The opportunistic traveller: after Zaragossa
 I passed a night of thunderstorms
 in an abandoned building

What I didn’t plan, was a terrible head wind that seemed to blow in my face whatever direction I was going. It was strong and cold and especially the first day and third day after Zaragossa I suffered as the landscape was open with empty fields where the wind could really get up to speed. Not only did I advance slowly, I also felt less motivated to do big distances. I took my time in the mornings and took plenty of breaks. I also noticed during the windy days how my interest in the news peaked, following different crises in the world, government formation in Belgium, the terrifying things being enacted by our favourite convicted fellon in the US, … It just shows how my mind can get captivated by different things, seemingly at random and how it defines my time and perception of a day. I felt a bit disappointed and frustrated by slow advance, especially when I realised I had to skip my visit to the Picos de Urbion. 

Towards Soria, encountering again some snow. Soon after that climb, I put on warmer clothes again.

Cycling away from the snowy
Picos de Urbion, wind-free!

But on the fourth day, having passed Soria with great difficulty (I gave up on the plan to visit the Picos the day before) it was when the wind laid low and I advanced again more than 100km. It was only then that I realised how lucky I was in a way: that the things that frustrated me were only the physical elements like wind and my only deceptions were what distances I can overcome in a day. After Soria I started my dive to the south, to Madrid. I entered the valley of the Duero, that again was much more agricultural and less interesting. Having crossed it in two days and arriving at the mountain chain north of the capital called the sierra de Guadarrama, the only worthwhile thing that happened was a strange encounter. The shops were very sparse and as I wasn’t ever planning more than 12 hours ahead for my food supply, I often kind of ended up having either to wait for the opening of shops after the siesta (sometimes only at 18 o’clock!), or racing before the closing. That’s how I ended up in Alimentation Samuel, a small grocery. The shop was non-lit and quite chaotic. Samuel (as I presume the shopkeeper was called) was a rather old, large man, badly shaven and with a grubby beanie on his head. He welcomed me a in limited English in a slightly mocking way and quickly asked where I was from. When he learned my Belgian origins, he immediately referenced Leon Degrelle, one of the most famous pre-war fascists of Belgium and a staunch nazi collaborator, who managed to escape after the war and lived a long, peaceful life in Franco’s Spain. I was completely surprised that he even knew about this figure, but was even more shocked when Samuel gave a nazi salute, then did a sign of the cross and said that Degrelle had been a good catholic. I now feel I should have walked out of the shop at that moment and looked for something else, but I stayed, not sure how serious he was. I weakly tried protesting about it, but then he switched subjects, talking about his products. When, together with another client the subject arrived on the destination of my travel, they loudly protested my choice of Morocco, stating that all those Muslim were filthy animals and dangerous. I had clearly arrived in a right-wing mud-pit, similar to many left-behind places in most of Europes countryside. It was just the enthused cheering of Degrelle that was so baffling. I also had to hear how Spain was a very good country and one of the oldest of Europe and how rich its history was. I left and kind of had to let the whole encounter sink in, slowly realising how shocked I was by it. Not to say that I will get triggered by every extremist , but this time I was caught off-guard by the pure fascism. I am realising that I cannot negate the past of Spain and the many years of dictatorship its people have lived under. In Belgium, if you’re not growing up in the darkest flemish-nationalist vipers nest, you live in a society with a strong anti-fascism stance. Maybe this should not be taken for granted after all.

Last night camping before gaining
 back the luxury of a bed!

The last stretch was cycling out of the Duero valley. I passed the beautiful medieval town of Pedraza and then entered the Sierra de Guadarrama, the high mountain range of the Systema Central  (Spains central mountain range system). I passed the mountain pass of Navafria (1773m) at dusk, again seeing a lot of snow, camped in the wild valley under the Lozoya lake and on my last day surpassed the Canencia pass (1524m) that offered me the first view on Madrid. The Guadarrama mountains are quite beautiful, with majestic pine forests, that really felt like pillars supporting a green dome. After that it was only following the ever busier cycling road next to a major highway into Spain's capital, were I finally met up with some of my incredibly dear university friends. Cycling to Madrid and the idea of seeing these people, started as a vague and far-away plan, but became incredibly important to me, both for my motivation to continue as for connecting with home and the past.

Evening over Lozoya lake, winter is very present still