Leaning against the windmills that Don Quioxte fought, as sun sets over Castilla y La Mancha, where Cervantes set his story.
I didn’t expect this. Bus and train travel deposited me in some unknown town on my way to Barcelona, but I soon discover its the centre for Quioxtes adventures. I like to think that the stubborn train man, who insisted that I had to pass through here, knew its significance, and that it would be right for me to finish my riding in spain here. Among giants, looking out over hundreds of kilometres of patchwork farmland. Red wine and Tortilla.
