Visions of Spain

The exploration of Calpe became the heart of my spontaneous but short journey without my bicycle. One of my greatest peaks of my climbing ability occurred on classic Mediterranean limestone on that sunny Costa Blanca. The whole trip was over in about eleven days time. Now it offered incisive images to look back upon. It was a full adventure with new and old friends expanding far beyond the confines of Spain. In Calpe, I would complete two bold and sparsely bolted big wall, multi-pitch climbs on a picturesque monolith. That was tucked on a tiny peninsula overlooking the vast Mediterranean sea.

The routes were mixed by nature meaning although there were some bolts and it had all bolted anchors
for the most part. It still required personal gear in addition for proper safety. (I didn't have any of my
own Traditional gear at the time, I only had a harness, two slings, an ATC with an extra locking carabiner and shoes). The water was visible from the top on three sides. While on the forth side, I was reminded of the dreaded modern era we currently lived in. The tiny Peninsula that separated the giant outcrop was congested with tall buildings end to end. congested because the desert and mountains aren't too far behind. You could hear the stench from up there, it was that close. Although there was still beauty to be found in that scene below. Unlike to the west, far in the distance, the view of the futuristic nightmare of
Benidorm appeared dark and gloomy. Shadowing dark contrasts in the distance against the perfect cloudless sky. Calpe had a little more character but still very built up in 2019. They both share a common problem and that they have a immigration crisis on their hands and not just from the south. Southern Spain had a bigger immigration crisis from retired white people than ever could be imagined from Africa! I saw so many old people from the UK, Scandinavia, Germany, USA and probably Russia. So much so that I was calling Southern Spain, specifically the area west of Malaga, "the Florida for Northern Europe."

I suppose I should've started with brief back story. In October and early November of 2019, I was riding my bike across Spain on the Camino de Santiago for the second consecutive year. Once I reached Fisterra, "the end of the world," according to the Roman legend. In the Beginning of November
and a thousand kilometers or more still from Southern Spain, I was completely out of dry weather. Those next days I followed the ocean south, which wasn't as easy as it sounds. From Fisterra the road was not only strenuous and very hilly. The peninsulas stretched like fingers down the coast, making the road unnecessarily long and rugged. After a whole day of fast riding, hardly allowing me to make any progress on paper. It took me days to navigate through the lost villages of coastal Galicia. It felt old, rustic and dank in those tiny fishing villages that resembled Nordic or Celtic cultures of yesteryear. As I moved south, I had one last beautiful sunny day with views of that beautiful coastline unimagined. I camped that night in a room without a roof. Four stone walls with trees growing throughout the
foundation and out the window. I watched those stars from my hammock knowing quite well that I was certain for some miserable days, traveling towards Portugal. After the first day of rain, I at least had a pilgrim hostel in Pontevedra to get dry and warm in. That luxury happened to end after the tourist city of Vigo. I asked around the plastic streets and the two places I checked out seemed to be old news.. I caught wind that there was a pilgrim hostel along the coast before the Portuguese border but I never saw it. Thus, I slept a couple of nights in the coastal bush
off the foggy boardwalks that led me into Portugal. The path was beautiful with expansive views of the beach. With not many houses I felt alone with nature at her worst. Since nothing could be seen in those clouds of rain. I endured the same dreary conditions day after day, until finally I made it to the city of Porto drenched. There outside of Porto, I stood soggy to the bone and probably appeared wetter than a wharf rat. I met a Brazilian man who was doing a mini bike tour of his own. We rode into the city together the last several hours in torrential rains. Luckily, he knew of the pilgrim hostel and volunteered to take me there.