20 years ago today – Day 28

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Sunday, March 31, Cordoba to Priego de Cordoba,

I am psyched for a hard ride today. I know it will be mostly climbing as we are heading in the direction of Montefrio. I am up before 8 doing sit-ups, push-ups and stretches to get my body ready. I am ready before Mike, as usual, so I get our bikes out of storage and my bike loaded up.

He’s slow at the start of the ride too, but as soon as we hit the first hills he starts to pull ahead. We are using N432 to leave the city. Almost immediately it begins to climb. It climaxes in a large hill a few km along, and then the terrain is undulating until it approaches Espejo, a small hill crest town at 34 km. We climbed the hill and through the town. From here I can see Cordoba and around us in all directions. If it wasn’t so hazy I am sure that my zoom lens would be great.


From Espejo we drop and climb again to Montillo, a small but renowned wine processing town. It’s a hilltop town too, and from there we can see Espejo. The road climbs gradually over the next 22 km south and east to Cabra. These past two towns were the ones the Brits recommended in Palma del Rio. They are scenic, but not spectacular.

From Cabra, the road climbs to its peak for the day, 792m, a rise of 740m for the day. It is almost a constant climb from Cabra. The drop on the other side to Priego is steeper. I top 57 km/hr while Mike gets up to 65.

We arrive in Priego before 4:30pm, the result of an early start from Cordoba. Our distance from Cordoba is 100 km, which is good for so much hill climbing. We find a very cheap hostel, 1600 pesados, with nice rooms. There is a bar on the main floor where both kids and adults are screaming their lungs out as if there is nothing better to do.

PHOTO 1: leaving Cordoba
PHOTO 2: starting to climb
PHOTO 3: Espejo
PHOTO 4: Montillo
PHOTO 5: Cabra
PHOTO 6: Sierra Parapanda
PHOTO 7: somewhere along the climb to Priego
PHOTO 8: castle outside of Priego
PHOTO 9: Priego at night

20 years ago today – Day 27

March 30 - Cordoba

Here we are stuck in Cordoba with no money! Mike was certain that the banks would be open this morning, but he has returned with news that they are not. He also said we could cash travelers cheques at the train station but we cannot. I am angry with him for being a know-it-all dork, at myself for forgetting my VISA card PIN (not that I can use it when the banks are closed) and not stashing away enough cash, and at this stupid country that allows its banks to close for five consecutive days to appease the Catholic Church.


He, in turn, is angry at me for not being ready to move on when he returns, but we are just taking out our anger uselessly on each other. He is no more ready to move out than I am. He is still packing when I set out at 11:20 to see what I can do. I leave my bags at the reception desk and seek out the larger hotels. Two hotels within the walled part of the city would not do an exchange. The Hotel Melia outside the walls keeps me waiting for the better part of an hour before allowing me to exchange 200 German marks.

Now I am back in the lobby of the hotel we are leaving, waiting for Mike. I have exchanged enough that he doesn’t need to, but I have sent him to line up at the youth hostel to get a cheaper room there. Fifteen or so noisy youths that kept us up last night are checking out too. I can’t imagine the youth hostel will be noisier than last night. Fortunately this is a lay-over day.
Mike returns without a room, but suggests we move our stuff over to the hostel and wait some more. I am feeling better about things now with money in my pocket and time to having had time to cool down. After we stow out stuff at the hostel we go for a brief lunch and return to wait some more.

Finally a room comes available, and it is worth the wait. This is a new youth hostel, the nicest we have ever been in. It’s bright and clean, and there are only the two of us sharing the room. We have our own private shower and two meals included for only 1540 pesados.

Mike and I go our separate ways to explore the town. Cordoba is gorgeous, more steeped in history than Sevilla. The day is pleasant, perfect for taking pictures. I walk around the old walled town and visit the famous Moorish mosque, the Mezquita, with its colourful arcade of arches and its beautiful gardens. When the city fell to the Catholics in the 1500s, they carved a hole in the centre of this architectural masterpiece and inserted a cathedral. The combination is totally bizarre. I walk over the first century Roman bridge over the Guadalquivir from the Puerta de Puente to the Tower of Calahorra on the far side.

Our room is empty when I return. I nap, take a shower and sketch out a plan for the next three weeks. Mike shoots holes in my plan when he returns, saying there are too many options to consider to make solid plans. He has been through this area with his family in a car before, and doesn’t like my plan to climb the mountains to visit Ronda, which Michelin rates as a top-level, 3-star attraction. “There’s a lot of gear shifting involved, even for a car,” he tells me. I am willing to try it though, even if it means cycling apart from him for three days while he visits northern Morocco. We still have a few days to think about it.

Meanwhile, he agrees to contact possible Servas hosts in Almeria, Alicante, Valencia and Barcelona. We plot out possible youth hostels in on the south and east coasts of Spain too. This planning exercise has me excited and in the best mood it days, certainly a big improvement from this morning. I write a letter to my parents before our evening meal. Afterwards, around 10:30, Mike goes to bed and I take a short walk to buy more postcards, mail my letter and have an ice cream cone.

PHOTO 1: street scene in Cordoba, with cathedral
PHOTO 2: Cordoba cathedral
PHOTO 3: La Mesquita
PHOTO 4: flower shop of street of old town
PHOTO 5: Roman bridge and Mesquita behind
PHOTO 6: Puerta de Puenta, by Roman Bridge
PHOTO 7: Tower of Calahorra, other end of Roman bridge
PHOTO 8: curious onlookers

20 years ago today – Day 26

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Friday, March 29 – Palma del Rio to Cordoba, 1219 km

We have an early start today – 9:20am – after a breakfast at our inn. Mike waits for me while I take a quick side trip into town to photograph the church, Iglesia de la Asuncion. So we are out of Palma and approaching Cordoba, shorter day (60 km) and a more gentle headwind.

We are very low on food and money before the banks open tomorrow morning so I have saved half my bun from our continental breakfast to eat during the route. But yesterday’s hard workout and not much food for the past day is sapping my energy. Within 20 km, Mike has once again pulled ahead out of sight, but I am not worried. The road we are on leads right to Cordoba.


The route becomes hilly shortly before Almodovar, where a medieval castle crowns a steep hilltop overlooking the valley. It can be seen from quite a distance.

Mike is waiting for me at the edge of the city. We cycle into the core to check out the youth hostel first. It is full. There may be rooms coming available after 4 but we don’t want to chance it. I am very tired. I ask him if he would mind finding a room and then coming to get me, as I know I will only hold him up, and he agrees. He finds a room reasonably priced for a city at 2200. When we get there we find that our bikes are not allowed, so we go back to looking. This time I go with him.

We find a place for the same price only three minutes walk from the Mesquita, the great Moorish mosque in the centre of the city. We wash up and take our usual walk to orient ourselves to the city. We find the streets where two gay bars are listed in Spartacus, but of course they are not there. There are two straight bars in their place, crowded with young people. I find another one that is listed, but it’s padlocked on a Friday night. Not much chance of finding it open tomorrow.

We return to our pension and share dinner in our room – sardines in Piri Piri sauce (a leftover from Portugal), crackers and some cheese. Later, on my own, buy an ice cream and a beer with the last of my money. I watch Christ and two more Virgins drift by through the narrow streets. I have come to see them as the evil that is keeping the banks closed and me hungering for food, but I forgive them as I only have until tomorrow morning before the banks open. I will be the first in line. After the procession of misery has moved on, I witness a bar fight outside a club across the street from the Café Siena. Some poor guy had a bottle broken over his head.

PHOTO 1: Almodovar Castle
PHOTO 2: billboard for Black Bull Sherry
PHOTO 3: gate entering Cordoba
PHOTO 4: street in old part of Cordoba
PHOTO 5: doorway in Cordoba
PHOTO 6: Roman mausoleum

20 years ago today – Day 25

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Thursday, March 28 – Sevilla to Palma del Rio, 1157 km

The time apart yesterday must have been as good for Mike as it was for me. He is a good mood this morning and he fills me in. Manuel is a member of the local Green Party and he is leaving early this morning to get to a convention in Madrid. He is stopping to study bats in a monastery on the way. We write in his guest book and share another continental breakfast before we set off.

Manuel leads us down to a district in the west side of the city where we can find a bank machine. I am unaccustomed to using my VISA card for withdrawals and have forgotten my PIN. Mike’s card isn’t working either but we find a cash exchange machine and convert the last US$35 that Mike has into pesados.

Then we leave town heading north east, following the south side of the Guadalquivir River. The route is flat and very scenic. There’s a smoky haze over the valley. There is also a fierce headwind that has us crawling at 16 km per hour. We keep a steady pace, which is what a headwind requires. We pass through the villages of San Jose de la Rinconada and Brenes. At 57 km, before Lora del Rio, we stop for lunch by the side of the road – slices of sausage, cheese and bread from our panniers.

At Lora, we cross over to the north side of the river and until we reach the outskirts of Palma del Rio, our destination. The headwind persisted but perhaps not quite as strong.

Palma is a very quiet town. The high tower of the cathedral looked interesting from a distance. We never checked it out because the only hostel in town was full. There is a second one on the outskirts of town on the north side of the river we are told. It is in the process of converting to a 3-star hotel so it was more expensive – 2600 pesados – but it was good value for the price. The proprietor reminds me of my Aunt Dallas.
We met two British cyclists coming into Palma and shortly after we arrive three German cyclists register at our hotel. The Germans are older, in their 40s and 50s, and totally unfriendly, but the Brits talk to us for a bit. They are going the opposite way we are, from the Costa del Sol through Grenada and Cordoba, and they are on their way to Sevilla tomorrow. The present wind conditions must be working in their favour.

I don’t understand the Germans or want to. Dedicated travelers know, especially those coming from where we want to go, that other travelers are valuable messengers. The Brits tell us that Cabra and Montilla are interesting towns. They also say Montefrio is spectacular. We had hoped to avoid that route to Granada because it requires a 10 km climb to reach that town, but then the other main route would have much more traffic, especially truck traffic.

PHOTO 1: Manuel Bordallo
PHOTO 2: Mike and I set to leave Seville
PHOTO 3: Cathedral in Seville as we leave
PHOTO 4: field near Brenes
PHOTO 5: near Palma del Rio
PHOTO 6: Palma del Rio from across the river
PHOTO 7: street in Palma del Rio

20 years ago today – Day 24

March 27 – Sevilla

It has been a frustrating morning. Whenever Manuel says something to Mike I need Mike to translate, but Mike, who doesn’t like to talk at the best of times, hates translating and thinks I should learn Spanish. Perhaps, but I still don’t know what is going on. He won’t answer my questions or gives smart answers that tell me nothing.

Manuel is offering us a ride downtown after feeding us a continental breakfast. This much I know. He drops us off near the river front and we immediately walk to the Tourist Office. We pick up maps and leave a note for Nick to meet us at the cathedral at 1 pm. Then we separate, as Mike says he wants to see different things than I do. It would be a waste of time to ask him why. Maybe it’s his way in saying he wants space from me, but I need space from him too so I accept it as a blessing.



I head for the Alcazar and the massive cathedral set a short distance in from the river. The twins sites across from each other, were declare World Heritage Sites just four years ago. The Alcazar was built by the Moors in the mid-1300s. The stonework screens and architecture are magnificent. The lowest level houses the baths, a rain water reservoir that reflects the wonderful arches about it.

The Cathedral of Saint Mary of Se, begun in 1402 and finished more than a century later, is massive. The brochure says it’s the third largest church in the world, and the largest Gothic one. The workers who built it gave half their salaries to pay for the materials and salaries of the architects and church hierarchy. Lucky for the rich who were spared the costs. It is very impressive and belittling inside.

Mike shows up at the cathedral at 1, but Nick does not appear. We assume he has left early for Grenada or Cordoba. Mike and I are doing so well on our own that we separate again. Mike decides to tell me before he leaves that Manuel will pick us up again at 8:30 at the Torre de Oro again.

I head back to the Tourist Office to get help finding streets listed in the Spartacus Guide. Although it is Wednesday, it has been three weeks since I have been in any gay-aware space and I feel a need to meet other gays, ones unlike Mike who might actually talk to me. Calle Serpias has three establishments listed on it, but when I get there it turns out to be a glitzy commercial mall and there was no one I could see cruising on it.

I go instead to the Nordic Baths on Calle Resolana. It is very interesting. In European sauna style, the towel, a long body wrap like a sarong and a pair of sandals are waiting for me in my rented locker. A locker costs 1000 pesados, about equivalent to what it would cost in Canada. I check the place out. Besides the mandatory shower and toilet areas, there is a pitch-black “steam” room, with very little steam, and a double dry sauna area. The latter proved to be the most popular, but not much sex was going on there.

I meet a 30-ish fellow named Virgilio, who speaks very good English. He takes me to another area that I have not explored yet. The halls are barely lit. Here there are several convenience rooms are available for locker users with bead curtains substituted for doors. We choose an empty one and make out there. Afterwards, we share a beer at the in-house bar. Then I leave with him to have a coffee.

He leads me south towards the city centre to get to his favourite café, but our way is confounded by more Semana Santa processions, with their many different ‘virgins’ tarted up like Indian goddesses. He explains there are several processions of “The Virgin” each proceeded by long lines of bare-footed ‘hermanos’ (brothers), or ‘cone heads’, as Mike and I prefer to call them. The processions follow different streets and converge at the cathedral. Festival goers spend the evening hopping from one procession (or Virgin) to the next. It is a good, detailed description of what is going on. I am glad to hear it but it doesn’t really increase my interest in the festival much. As Virgilio says, once you have seen one Semana Santa, you have seen them all.

As the time grows near to meet Manuel and Mike at the Torre de Oro I say my goodbyes to Virgilio and hurry to get there on time. My route is blocked by another procession. I try to find the end of it but it proves to be too long and, as usual, creeping at a snail’s pace. I try to race ahead to the cathedral to get ahead of it, but that way is blocked by crowds of spectators. Finally, I wait like one of them along the route and when the guards are looking the other way I dart across to the other side.

It is still a maze of crowded streets and my stomach is in knots trying to get through. It’s 9:00pm when I reach the tower. I’m half an hour late. Mike and Manuel manage to find me eventually, which is a great relief. Manuel leads over the Triana Bridge to find a place where we can have a beer and tapas. I realize only then that I haven’t had anything to eat since early afternoon.

Mike has bad news. We had planned to exchange money at a bank tomorrow morning but during Semana Santa they close Wednesday at noon and stay closed until Monday, except for a brief period Saturday morning. Mike has only 2000 pesados and I have only 700 left after my visit to the sauna. The post office is closed until Monday too, which means I won’t be able to get any of my “Poste Restante” mail. He plans to look for a bank machine tomorrow morning and if that fails the train stations will apparently cash travelers cheques.

We cross back over the bridge and stop for ‘churrios’, long deep-fried rolls of doughnut dough that are served with a cup of chocolate sauce for dipping. They are delicious. Then Manuel drives us back to his home.

PHOTO 1: portal framing the cathedral
PHOTO 2: Cathedral of Saint Mary of Se
PHOTO 3: stained glass window in St Mary's
PHOTO 4: reflection of Alcazar
PHOTO 5: wall of the Gardens of Alcazar
PHOTO 6: inner court of Alcazar
PHOTO 7: more of the inner court
PHOTO 8: part of the Alcazar
PHOTO 9: Alcazar baths on lowest level
PHOTO 10: in the Alcazar gardens
PHOTO 11: Triana Bridge
PHOTO 12: little "hermanos"

20 years ago today – Day 23

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March 26 – Huelva to Sevilla, 1052 km

Nick drops early to wish us well. He is hitch-hiking to Sevilla and may be there before us. We promise to meet on the steps of the cathedral at 6pm. Then it is off to the bike shop. Mike gets his freewheel replaced and I have them work on my derailleur.


The repairs are ready by 11 and I seem to have overcome a bout of diarrhea for the time being. We have a long ride ahead, just over a 100 km to Sevilla. Mike is pleased with his new freewheel, which has a larger granny gear for easier hill climbing. I’m still having problems with my front derailleur changing to my granny gear, until I am able to fix it by bending it slightly. I adjust my seat higher too, while I’m at it. I suspect that has been he cause of my knee problems, because it doesn’t bother me for the rest of the day.

The route is quite direct as the valley leads east and inland to Sevilla. The road has no shoulder and is heavy with truck traffic in spite of an expressway that runs parallel. At 16 km, at San Juan del Puerto, we’ve had enough and opt for a side road runs a bit further south. It is flat at first, but then leads us up a long hill and starts to wind all over the place. There are a few views over the hazy valley below, but in the end we just lose time and speed and end up returning north. Once we reach the highway we make good time. The road climbs a hill to a plateau and stays there until we drop into Sevilla.

We arrive at five. There is time to walk around. The broad avenues and stately buildings make this the most beautiful city we have been in yet. The streets near the cathedral are all closed for yet another Easter Holy Week procession, a very long one this time, and there is no way to meet Nick at our agreed-upon location.

We rendezvous successfully with Manuel Bordallo though, our Servas host. We meet him with his girlfriend Toni at the Torre del Oro, a Moorish fortress that serves as a landmark along the Guadalquivir River. We watch the Semana Santa processions for a while before leaving.
Manuel is a teacher, very casually dressed. He’s in his 40s, and has a pleasant, open face, but he speaks very little English. I depend totally on Mike to communicate for the both of us.

Manuel leads us back to his home in a suburb to the west of the river, Manuel driving and Mike and I cycling. I am tired from our 100 km ride and it is a royal pain to be climbing up hills again, this time into the sunset and against a headwind. Mike has to wait for me more than once. Eventually we get there and Manuel leaves us there to wash up. His place is cluttered and eclectic. He has gutted his TV and now uses it as an aquarium. He says he’ll be back by 9 but isn’t back before 11. I read and write postcards and go to bed.

PHOTO 1: San Juan del Puerto
PHOTO 2: Torre del Oro
PHOTO 3: Semana Santa procession
PHOTO 4: Semana Santa procession
PHOTO 5: Semana Santa procession

20 years ago today – Day 22

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Monday, March 25 – Ayamonte to Huelva, 936 km

Monday morning and businesses are open again. Mike takes a trip around the town to find a bike repair shop to get his freewheel replaced, but finds nothing, which means another day for him riding a bike without a functioning freewheel. Fortunately it will be a light day, less than 70 km, and the terrain in this region is only lightly rolling so he doesn’t need to change gears. But we will need to get it fixed soon as it will not be long before we encounter serious hills again. Before we leave he calls a Servas host who agrees to put us up for two nights in Sevilla.

I’m in a much better mood though my left knee is aching a little. We follow the busy but smooth highway, N431, in the direction of Huelva. We have a light tailwind. At Cartaya we cross the Piedros River. We choose a side road from there south that takes us along the beach. The route is a perfect choice. We are riding 20m above the water looking over a long strip of undeveloped beaches and dunes, half-forested by pines. The shore is actually the estuary of the Piedros. A half-overgrown sandbar across the river forms a natural jetty between the river and the Gulf of Cadiz. The scene is so inviting. I’d love to return here someday and walk alone for hours amongst the pines and dunes.

The sandbar jetty ends and we encounter a sea of condos at Laguna del Portil. The beach road beyond here dead ends in the marshlands at the end of the Rio Odiel so he head north 10 km to cross the river into Huelva.


Huelva, according to the Michelin Guide, is the largest city we’ve been in since Lisbon, about 140,000 people. It has nice buildings here and there and some nice sections but it’s busy and built up, and otherwise not too memorable. I note a large red and orange bull fighting stadium as we’re coming into town. There are many pensions in town so the competition is strong. We find one for 1500 pesados without hot water. But it’s still better than camping.

We set off to explore the city once we’ve changed into our street clothes. It is full of small malls that seem to run parallel, but they don’t. We get lost and found several times until it has become a game to us. I’m beginning to like this place. Mike says it hasn’t been a good day until you’ve been lost at least once.


The Tourist Office is closed when we find it, but it opens again at 5. When we return we get directions to a local bicycle repair shop. I buy a Spanish-English dictionary and stock up on some groceries. We have dinner in a wonderful Chinese restaurant while another mournful Semana Santa procession floats past our window.


Later that night, back at the pension, Nick Tulloch shows up at our door. He had seen my bike locked up outside the entrance and asked about us at reception. He is agitated from a long, hard day, his birthday of all days, and it hasn’t been a happy one. He is fast running out of travel money and will have to return to Scotland to work in his uncle’s garage again. We try to talk him into taking a room at our pension for 1200 pesados but he has already made other arrangements. We even offer him some money but he won’t take it. He agrees to walk about town with us a bit as we look for the bike shop. Then he leaves us to phone his parents and meet up with some other backpackers he met earlier today. He promises to drop by again in the morning.

PHOTO 1: National Park seashore
PHOTO 2: Plaz de Toro, Huelva
PHOTO 3: Huelva
PHOTO 4: Pinzon brothers statue
PHOTO 5: Rabida Institute, Huelva
PHOTO 6: Sanctuario de la Cinta