Cartagena – Las Marinas – Parque Natural del Cabo de Gata-Nijar – Almócita – Granada: 276 km

The rain has passed, moved on to dryer places, or maybe the skies have nothing left to give. Either or, it means I can comfortably move on to dryer places too. Eastwards, along the coast. Final destination Portugal, today’s destination Las Marinas. I’m meeting Ross there, who I know from a hostel in Alicante. A minute into our first conversation he immediately offered me a place to stay at his uncle’s holiday home, if I were to come that way. So today I do. Between us is a 113-kilometre ride. After a three-day rainy rest, I’m more than up for a big day in the saddle. One thing that bothers me is that Strava, Komoot and Google Maps suggest a route that is both longer and with more elevation than the goat track I found using satellite images. Stubbornly I decide on my satellite-goat-track-I-don’t-care-what-the-apps-say-route. Bad decision.

Already deep into a national park I take a left, leave the asphalt for light gravel. I like light gravel, I feel superior to the apps. The light gravel turns to rough gravel, the road narrows, steep climbs and descents succeed each other rapidly. Hard, but doable. After some kilometres like this, the path turns into something that doesn’t deserve the title of ‘a path’ anymore. The gravel makes way for rocks. Last day’s heavy rain has split ‘the path’ in two. A mini river has created a mini canyon that both sides of this road and its rocks diagonally fall into. My tires have no grip here, either the rocks are too big, or the gravel too loose. I decide to move forward, I feel like I’m past the point of no return, and it can’t be like this for the next 10 kilometres, right? Well, it can. I lug my bike up the steep gradients, I hold it back on the descents. In total I cycle, if you can call it that, for maybe one kilometre where the gravel is compact enough to ride, and the elevation is not too much. I fall, get lost, have to start over again, blisters growing on my hands from the pushing and hauling. Adventure! I may have gone where no other cyclist has gone, I tell myself. Exploring! After two and a half hours I see a route where the gravel gets lighter, I know it’ll turn into asphalt shortly after. Before I get there, ‘the path’ leads along the edge of a cliff, some 200 meters high, directly above sharp black rocks that stick out of a savage shoreline. The path fits about one person, no chance for my packed bike. On top of that, it’s a climb. A climb for climbers, the Alpineers kind, not cyclists. But after all of this, with the holy grail of sweet smooth asphalt ogling so near I can almost hear the comforting sound of rubber on tarmac, I refuse to give up. First, I carry the bags along, then the bike. The bike on the left next to the cliff, or on the right, next to the mountain. I decide on the latter, not sure why. Slowly I move along the mountain, rocks escape the grasp of my soles and fall into the ominous dark water below. Don’t look down, keep your balance, move forward, move carefully, gain footing on every step. Drenched in both nervous- and physical sweat I reach the other side, reunited with my bags and cyclable roads. As I ride away from the mountain and look back at it over my shoulder, I’m pretty proud of what I did.

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Ross is the perfect host after a day like this one. His uncle’s place is in a British enclave, where the first language is English and the Daily Mail glares from every kiosk. Guinness and Fosters in the replicas of old English pubs. But that’s not Ross’s fault. Once I finally arrive, he makes me feel as if we’ve been friends forever. It’s been about a week ago I spoke to him twice, shortly, at the hostel in Alicante. I bring some beers, he cooks me dinner. Pasta. Perfect. Ross is an exceptional conversationalist, and although we just sit on the couch (I’m too tired to move anyways), the night never gets boring. We talk about Spain, our lives back home, our yet to solidify dreams for days to come. As the night goes on and the bottles run empty, we get lost in each other’s music tastes. We listen to songs that remind us of something or someone or sometime or someplace. Exceptional night.

The next two days, as I make my way to the Sierra Nevada mountain range, are not as eventful. The climbs are serious, but I have wind in my back. I feel like I’ve had wind in my back since I left the Camargue in France. I might be just remedying my memories. The first day there’s some actual sunshine. Haven’t seen that in a while. The second day, as I make my way towards higher altitudes the sun disappears, the temperature drops and so does rain. The mountains are spectacular here, their highest point over 3000 meters, the villages are all white, seemingly deserted in this weather, but for the plants that grow out of every balcony, terrace and windowsill.

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In search for food I meet two Dutch men in a tiny bar in an even smaller town. They’ve eaten already but invite me for a beer. I’m not one to decline that offer. Ed and Hans used to be neighbours. They haven’t seen each other in 15 years, although that number gets higher and higher throughout the night that we share together. We stay at the same desolated camping. Ed sleeps in his car nearby, Hans is staying on the camp for a couple of weeks, if not months. In Hans’ seventies folding caravan the liquor and mixed nuts flow freely. The portable disco light project beams of purple, green, red and yellow on the vintage prints that cover his folding caravan. Ed; the builder, do-er, renovator and dirty hands kind of man. Hans; the thinker, philosopher, reader and soft-spoken kind of man. Every now and then I realise where and with whom I am, and have a little chuckle. I do love these uncommon encounters. It must have been far after midnight when we start talking about the area, and how there’s a ski slope not that far away. Excitedly we make plans to go for a roll in the snow the next day. Drunk man’s tales, I think when I leave the camper towards my tent shortly after. But the next day we are all there, at the agreed upon time (8 o’ clock) and the agreed upon place (Hans’ folding caravan). Ed has even made sandwiches for lunch. Before I know it we set out for Sierra Nevada’s highest point in Ed’s car, my bike in the back.

We are highly unprepared. In our jeans, Ed and Hans without gloves, we rent skies and buy a day ticket to the slopes. We’re not expecting much from what lies in the mountains above the clouds. But once the lift elevates us over them, we have a clear view of a large area covered in snow and sunshine. We’re a wonderful trio. They haven’t seen each other, by now for over 25 years, I’ve just met them, and we differ about 30 years in age. None of that matters today. Happily, we glide down, high-fiving one another when we rendezvous. After an unexpected but perfect day they drop me off in Granada. A city I heard many great tales about.

The tales ring true. Granada is green, historic and relaxed. Hippies keep the ideals of the seventies alive, playing music on street corners, selling art to the passers-by. With every drink they serve tapas, whether you like it or not. They do this everywhere in Andalusia, yet elsewhere it feels like they have to, here they do it proudly. I visit the Alhambra, get lost on the stairs that are streets, admire the fountains in the squares. I spend some days here. Then I see on Instagram a friend of mine is close. I send her a message. A new adventure enfolds with our plans of meeting up. But first, I have to make my way to Malaga.