Spain has been amazing so far, with the brief exception of my sweaty fight to San Sebastian on unavoidable motorways.
Basque festival in a seaside village. Triumph of my first real hill climb. The thrill of a downhill and uncontrollable shouts of joy mixed with terror, plunging down the Caminho de Santiago in hysterics at how fucking great life can be. Street filled with checkered Basque scarves and long striped skirts. Wake up early to see the sun dawn on france, and cycle 45km before breakfast in Spain. Layout my cutlery and food like pieces on a chess board. People smile at me making porridge at 10:30.
I read good emails from family and friends in the free WiFi next to the cathedral.
Smoke flavoured cheese bought on the street and the beginnings of conversation with familiar words from South America.
I can’t hear a single word now, over the Tambourines, accordians, baby chuckles and back slapping. Pinstripe waistcoats and bound shoes.
But there is a limit to how much I can enjoy by myself. Because I need someone to turn to, to confirm, its not just me, but this is really amazing.
I need to find a place to sleep, But i am reluctant to move away from the sounds of the street party, or even the smell of BBQ.
Lurching up hills, muscles across my back taut, pull myself up by the handlebars.
I wish I was still in Getaria, amongst the people, drinking and lauging, but instead I am a distant lamplight on top of a hill. Thought, If I was there I would still be on the outside, mute amongst them, probably looking at the same hill wondering where to sleep. can’t win sometimes.
