Valencia – Refugi – Alicante – Murcia – Cartagena: 339 km

Donna left. With her leaving, I’m back to my old ways of travelling solo. I’ve gotten so used to her being around, that I’m almost nervous to set out alone again. How did I do that before she was here? But as fast as her company normalized, the solitude does too. I’ve found a refuge on the map where I plan to set up camp. It’s a flat and sunny day along the coast. A strong tail wind blows me forward. Easy day, until the last 10 kilometres. The climb towards the refuge is gruelling with gradients nearing 20%. It’s been a while since I’ve encountered serious climbs. Nauseous and completely drenched in sweat I reach my destination. It’s a small cabin on the edge of a cliff in the middle of forest covered mountains, with spectacular views in every single direction. I’m overly excited about my find.

As night sets in I’m watching a show that is way too scary for a night alone in the forest. I get anxious with every sound I hear outside. “It’s probably nothing. But what if it was? Don’t worry, there’s nobody here, I’m pretty far out into nature. But if there was just one person here…?” I fall in and out of sleep, alternating between complete relaxation and utter panic. The morning sun takes my anxiety away, and I laugh about my unfounded fears. Sleepy and sore from yesterday’s climb I set out for Murcia. From kilometre one I can feel the lactate acid in my legs. It’s a whole bunch of uphill today and I’m dying from the very moment it starts.

After my broken night in the mountains, I long for an actual bed. I book a hostel in Alicante. A city that in my mind is nothing more than a tourist destination, and has therefore nothing interesting to offer. Its proximity to Benidorm has made me sceptic. But it surprises me positively. Yes, it’s quite touristy, but in a tasteful way. The historic centre is beautiful, the terraces on the squares inviting.

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The next day I seem to wake up on another planet. The sun is invisible, the air think with an opaque orange glow that absorbs every other colour. I ask around at the hostel what in the world is happening. Soon enough I learn that the strong winds of late have carried Sahara sand across the Atlantic. I also learn that this is the most intense they’ve seen it here since anybody can remember. It’s incredible. I’m cycling trough a science fiction movie. The orange glow only intensifies during the day. Once I reach Murcia, everything is covered in sand, myself not excluded. With dust in my eyes, hair and everywhere else I arrive at Gines, my Warm Showers host for tonight. We cook Shakshouka together, but only after we’ve had a beer and some tapas in the city.

The ride to Cartagena is a short one. The orange air has paled overnight and is now a pastel yellow. When I arrive it starts to rain. The kind of rain that comes down with an enthusiasm like it’s been waiting to drop for way too long. The kind of rain that seems like it could last forever. The water is filled with the Sahara dust, creating orange streams in the streets and colouring the sandstone buildings an even more deep yellow. The rain doesn’t stop for two days. Unmotivated to get completely sandy-wet I stay put during that time. It’s a small place, one shopping street, one main square, a Roman ruin on top of a hill. Some houses are nothing more than facades, rather than looking up at ceilings from which lamps spread soft homely light, the broken windows reveal the cloudy heavens. Often these facades are covered with huge nets, probably because of danger of collapsing. But Cartagena grows on me. It doesn’t have a sophisticated tourism industry like Alicante, or Barcelona. It’s sweet and sleepy, albeit a little sad when wet. There’s not much to do, especially in these conditions. Spanish people seem to not do anything when it rains. Shops and restaurants stay closed. I enjoy how quiet it is. Slow life for a couple of days.

In the four-floor hostel, three are occupied by Ukrainian refugees. Women and children mostly. A van comes by three times a day with meals in paper bags. The children play in the hall, blissfully unaware of their own situation. The women check the news every waking second. I’m not sure what to say to them. Every word or thought seems insignificant in light of what they are going through. When I try, it turns out we don’t share a common language. We communicate by sharing food. I interpret their smiles as optimistic, but they vanish once they turn on their phones. The reasons of us both being here are painfully different. I would like to do more for them, help them in some way, but I have no idea how. And when the rain stops, I get on my bike again and continue my journey east. They wave me away, I shall think of them for the rest of the day.