ALPUJARRA TOUR

DAY 1

A slight chill cuts through your cycling top as you pedal casually along the main street of Lanjaron. The sun is shining and it’s a lovely clear blue sky but its still quite low and the street is in shadow. Hotels, shops and restaurants crowd the road on both sides, they seem to lean over and invite you inside for a coffee, ice cream, pizza or a bed for the night. You see them, you see the people you see the cars, the lorries.

But not now, not today

You hear the scooter roaring along the road with a chica guapa on board, long blond hair flowing in the breeze, long brown legs flashing as she speeds past. Her dark glasses hide her from you, has she seen you? She should be doing 100mph given the noise but in reality is doing no more than 20mph. You double take and want to meet her, buy her coffee, dance cheek to cheek long into the night, hold her, caress her, kiss her, maybe make love to her.

But not now, not today

Lanjaron has been awake for a couple of hours already and the women are shopping for bread and basic provisions or stand idly chatting on the narrow pavements as lorries cars and coaches make their way slowly through the town. First stop is the local fuente about half way along the main street and set to the back of a small patch of grass, opposite the town hall. Above your head flutters a white banner stretched across the road demanding a by-pass. It’s promised but as you will discover later in the day promising it is one thing but building it is quite another, for this is mountainous terrain. Another poster is advertising details of an exhibition by a local artist. Maybe you could visit.

But not now, not today.

A group of old men sit on the bench opposite the fuente and talk animatedly as you fill your water bottle with fresh, cool mountain water. What are they talking about? The football last night? The traffic? The by-pass? The girl on the motor bike? You want to know. You want to stay.

But not now, not today.

Back along the street you pass the occupants of the hotels sitting on the sunny side of the street outside the hotels in straw chairs relaxing, talking. As you cycle along further a small group of old people is entering the famous spa. Probably the largest building in Lanjaron it looks more like an old comprehensive school built in the 60’s. The water has special healing powers but your feeling fresh and eager. Turning right you hit the start of a small climb, you think! After about 200 metres you leave the tarmac and hit a stone track and feel your heart rate rising as you turn a sharp right hand bend on a pot holed stone track. The track continues to climb, climb, climb, you cycle past an old farm house, (cortijo) the fields are worked but its quiet. Way down in the valley to your left you can see the motorway to the coast and Granada the other way. The scarred land indicates the presence of a quarry. Looking up are the mountains of the Alpujarra. Sierra Nevada remains out of view for now.

Half an hour has past, the terrain is lush green in the fields and still you are climbing. Just around the next corner is a surprise, a fuente, a chance to regroup and recover. The clear water is fed from an underground spring and is icy cold but refreshing. Behind the spring you spot a reservoir, looking in you’re surprised to see – fish. Fish! Up here in this pool with no river visible how did they get there? Don’t ask questions like that though, this is Spain and anything is possible.

Back on the bike you rejoin the track and guess what? Yep more climbing. But when you look over your shoulder you know why you came, why you’ve sweated and toiled for the best part of an hour. You look in awe at natures work. Mountains, sunshine, the odd cloud moving slowly across the sky, patch work quilt terrain, white farm houses standing in isolation, stone roads cut into the side of hills, cars way down below clinging to the side of the hill on tarmac roads winding their way along to the sea, Lanjaron, Durcal, Restabal - towns on lifescale maps are in scale, dwarfed by the size of the world. Can you capture it on a photograph, no, being there is what it’s all about. Yes you can see the sea, you might even be able to see Morocco. And still there are mountains higher than you. You are at 1400metres and you know you’re glad you came, peace is at hand, the world is passing you by for once and you just don’t give a fig. Mountain biking just became the answer to all life’s problems – at least for a few hours.

Lunch is taken at a rest area in the middle of a pine forest. The tree canopy provides shade from the midday sun. You lie back on the ground and close your eyes. And listen, listen to the breeze, listen to the birds, listen to your own heart and breathing. There’s no traffic noise, no chattering voices, no shouting, no arguing, no conflict, no intolerance, no prejudice, no racism, no hatred. Suddenly the world’s a better place.

Laughter wakes you, snaps you out of your stupor. Its time to get going again. Another short climb and then you are on a track, speeding along past a picnic site and then plunging downhill on a dirt pister (road) for 12km. Arms, legs and bike are all working overtime as you hammer it as fast as your nerve will allow you. Its pay back time - big time.

Pampaneira, could be the overnight stop. The first row of shops alongside the road display their wares, rugs hang over the wall ahead. The hostel straight ahead is a three-storey building painted – white. A large sign at first floor level proudly displays the name of its owner. It has a bar onto the street. Another street running to the left leads into the cobbled square. The church dominates the Town square on one side and small restaurants form the other sides. They each have tables and chairs haphazardly laid out in front of each of them, white lines donate the boundaries, but no one seems to care because the blue chairs of one restaurant seem to mix with the yellow of its neighbour. Do chairs make friends with each other? Are there secret liaisons taking place? Narrow streets lead off in all directions to more shops and restaurants. The small white buildings of the upper levels hang from the sides of the mountain above your head, threatening to fall down at the slightest provocation. But instead the stand there idly as they have for hundreds of years.

But Pampaneira isn’t your overnight stop. You cycle away and wish you could stop. The late afternoon sun is casting long shadows from the buildings and you are climbing again, this time on road. The road through Pampaneira has six hairpins, you know because you counted each one as you pushed yourself to maintain a speed as much above walking pace as you could manage. Standing on the pedals was not an option the energy required for that went long ago!

Through Bubion you arrive at the third of the white villages of the Alpujarra – Capilera. This is your overnight stay.

The bags are already at the apartments, all you want to do is sink a beer and there’s no problem there. The bar willingly obliges and as the young female waitress serves you, you want to meet her, hold her, caress her, dance cheek to cheek long into the night, kiss her, maybe make love to her.

But not now, not today - why?

Because you’re too knackered!

And it’s only day 1.

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