After we had trawled the bars they wished me a fond farewell. It was a good send off, one of the best. I had my new bicycle from Al Campo. It was very cheap. A decent size old fashioned frame and the modern ingredients of a mountain bike. The thin blue paint job didn’t look very tough, but there was plenty to go wrong before even a dot of rust could take hold. I had panniers and my back rack loaded up and bright and early I set off down the road. My first stop was Pontevedra. 60 km mainly downhill on a big road through the green hills of Galicia. The weather was fair and my prospects were good.
My flute had a few mechanical problems and my port of call was Oscar’s musical instrument shop. Oscar was the unassuming gruff but kindly type. He looked at the flute and examined the problem I had described and allowed me to follow to his workshop upstairs. From the order of the sales area we ascended into chaos. Tables cluttered with tools and dismantled instruments. He took his seat next to a clearing at the end of one of the tables. The job was to replace one of the needle-like springs that held open the keys. He hammered away at the problem as I diligently watched. As he removed screws and unhinged the flute he placed the parts amongst the unfathomable clutter on his bench. I worried they may never be retrieved but dared not interfere. Like a patient in pain as the surgeon stitches his open wound I gritted my teeth. At last the repair was made. He checked the mend and placed the flute back in its case. He handed me back the box and I politely enquired how much I owed him. He merely said "Eso es nada" (That’s nothing). I demurely retreated and contentedly left the shop.
At one o’clock the small town of Pontevedra was winding down for lunch and siesta. I bought some cheese and bread and headed for the hills. I still had a thousand pesetas and could last a few days before I would need to find somewhere to busk. I headed up to "La fraga". Small roads wound upwards to smaller tracks until dispersed pathways between scrubby bushes carried me to a solitary ramshackle house located on the brow of a hill . Abandoned in a remote area the residence was now the refuge of hippies. With no modern facilities fire and candles provided amenity. Water was fetched from a nearby stream. What may have been squalor in the city became romance in the fresh breeze of the hills. About 4 metres square with thick stone walls, the single storey was open to the tiles of the roof. One large room had a central fireplace on a slab of stone. Here the food was cooked and the warmth created for the crowd that would gather around to eat, drink, smoke and sleep. The smaller room had a wooden sideboard for chopping and a space for food storage. Other elements of existence mingled in and around these basics. No one was home.
Having perched my trusty steed against the rustic outpost I wandered further along the hillside. As I strolled beneath the fluffy clouds a figure not unlike myself approached through the low greenery. Soon we recognised one another. We greeted each other with a handshake and a slap on the shoulder. I had seen Manolo the previous week in Santiago and he had told me that he and his colleague were about to head to the hills. I had said that I would probably pass by. A loose arrangement though a definite step in my journey plan. I had resided in Santiago for 7 years and had itchy feet. Manolo, a djembe player, and I, a flute player were both part of the small community of street musicians in Santiago. Though we had not been particularly close in the scene we had shared joints in the square and I found his anti authoritarian attitude easy to get along with. He wore a T-shirt with "I am an animal" painted on it. I agreed with his principle. Another flute player of considerable talent, Jose distinctly disagreed with it and harsh words were exchanged. Jose could be a very genteel and generous fella but maybe it was his high moral standards that made him moody. He believed that human intellect placed us firmly apart from the animals.
Manolo was on his way to the fraga to find a lighter as he and Ernesto were staying in another house along the way. We returned to the Fraga where Manolo found a lighter and I collected my bike and we continued to the other house. On the side of a hill with views over the rolling landscape this was a narrow two storey house with two small rooms on each floor . They occupied the light and airy upper floor . Ernesto was seated by the window concentrating on making a pipe from bamboo and modeling clay. Manolo loaded up a pipe that Ernesto had made earlier with potent weed and we passed it around. Drifting into evening time we prepared cabbage and potato soup and I contributed my bread and cheese. We played some music and the day drew to a close. I rolled out my carry mat and sleeping bag as the darkness encroached and descended into sleep.
In the morning we ate porridge for breakfast and Ernesto took up his pipe creating once more. Manolo filled one he had made earlier and took to the djembe. I jammed along with the flute. Unfortunately the reparation of the small needlelike springs that held open the keys of the flute was not successful and some notes could not be played but I continued with the spirit of the moment. We completed our morning exaltation and took a break. Manolo rolled himself a cigarette and I decided to craft a didgeriflute. Taking a half metre by five centimetre diameter piece of bamboo I burned holes with a red hot poker. Six conveniently placed to lie beneath my fingers at one end of the small pole. After it had cooled I smoothed the end and blew into it with fluttering lips and created a low farty humming noise. Lifting and lowering my fingers I modulated into a random scale. Manolo put down his cigarette and took up the djembe. Now we created a new sound for midday. Ernesto beavered on. There was some bread and cheese left but the weed was smoked. As we lunched Manolo contemplated our situation. Ernesto seemed keen to get back to work and returned to his bench. Manolo expressed that we had run out of weed. Ernesto concentrated on smoothing the snake that coiled his latest work of art. Manolo asked Ernest what he thought about buying another 1000 pesetas worth of bud. Ernesto appealed that he was not really keen as he had already smoked plenty and his finances were limited. A small amount of pressure from the streetwise Spaniard and the gentle South American relinquished .
Manolo and I headed out on the mission to retrieve the ganja. Down picturesque pathways led us to the outskirts of a village. Cavada was also occupied by those seeking an alternative existence but here were families and a more established settlement. Germans and other nationalities had installed solar power and wind turbines. Some had managed to buy the houses from the families of old residents. Our contact had a primitive dwelling built up against a rock face. Manolo bought the smelly stuff and rolled up a fat one. Entering once again into the realm of cannabinoid intoxication, Heinz demonstrated his latest creation. A mandolin upon which he had replaced the original system of frets with a design where the frets did not pass straight across the neck but were staggered to achieve different positions for each string. The conventional tempered scale was now replaced with a harmonic scale. The effect was astounding. What looked and felt unusual actually sounded great. Heinz smiled for his contented customers. Manolo enjoyed directing circumstances. I relaxed.
On returning to our abode we found Ernesto working hard. Manolo loaded a pipe and we smoked, jammed and ate. As I lay in my early bed I decided tomorrow would be a good day to journey on. We arose in the morning and breakfasted on porridge. With determination I announced my decision to continue my mission. They seemed surprised at my choice to depart our comfortable circle. We smoked a farewell pipe and I manoeuvred my bicycle down the windy ways. I switched back into survival mode and headed for Portugal. Down the road once again. I stopped in Pontevedra to buy cheese, bread and a tomato. These supplies would last me to the border town where hopefully there would be population enough to busk. Only a few hundred pesetas remained. I filled my water bottle at the public water fountain and enjoyed the fine weather and scenery as I pedalled on. The wind whistled an ever changing tune through my handlebars to accompany my adventure. Rugged hills with scrubby bushes still indicated a reasonably temperate climate. The border followed the route of the river Minho and as I approached the landscape rose to a steep ridge defining the frontier. In times gone by the battle lines had been drawn here but now only an empty office signified a dormant control. A shop or a cafe may have been placed there but I did not feel there was sufficient footfall to ply my trade. I carried on into the unknown.
As the afternoon grew old I arrived at a small town. Few folk adorned the ways. Hopeful souls wandered towards the church as the bells tolled for mass. I joined the throng and wandered in. Politely observing the protocol I understood little of the Portuguese. As the crowd departed I approached the priest and explained I was travelling with scarce resources. I was hoping for a meal and some conciliatory conversation as I had received from priests in the past. I was surprised when he gave me a suspicious look and handed me a thousand escudos. I departed feeling strangely dejected. I retreated to a large arched doorway and settled myself down. I dined on half my rations and squeezed into my sack to sleep. After a peaceful night I awoke to the still quiet town. I breakfasted on the half loaf, tomato and cheese, refilled my water bottle and freewheeled out of town. Once more unto the breach. The good weather still held and the road took me down into the countryside of oranges. Groves of ripe fruit surrounded me. I steered my cycle off the road and wheeled into the orchard. The fruit was good and I sat down to eat. Four or five pieces boosted my energy and four or five for later tucked into my bag. Back onto the tarmac and along through the trees. Arriving at a small supermarket and petrol station I stopped for supplies. Ham, bread, tomatoes and cheese set me back a few hundred escudos. I packed them into my panniers, took a swig of my water and set off for a decent stretch.
I breezed through many miles of orchard. Settlements and villages passed me by as I wore into the afternoon but no town appeared. Pulling off the way l perched the cycle against a tree and lent against another for my sustenance. In my solitude I found peace. In deep meditation I sat. Up and away I went. Now I continued down the road looking for a place of a decent size to busk. I had a small scale map that did not clearly illustrate the dimensions of the towns. I passed through more villages without even a shop and saw more in the distance as I clocked up the kilometres. The sky began to cloud over and a light drizzle began to fall. The twilight descended with the rain and now my search was for shelter. At last I spotted a large sturdy concrete bus shelter and pulled in. For a while I sat in wet clothes until the night air began to chill. I opened my superficially wet rucksack and pulled out my dry clothes. I changed and sat, relieved, in the dry. I lay down my bed and climbed into my bag contentedly drifting off to the land of nod.
I awoke to the rain. Though dry in my recess the puddles were encroaching. The grey sky accentuated the green of the landscape. After fifteen minutes of contemplation I crept out of my bag and onto the bench. I stood to remove my dry clothes and carefully wrapped them into several plastic bin liners and stowed them in my rucksack. I dressed into my wet clothes, loaded up, and took to the saddle. The rain slowed my progress and stopped my handlebars whistling. I covered some distance and paused for partial shelter and breakfast under an orange tree. Wet clothes ceased my timeless drifting and refuelled I resumed. I saw a lonesome coffee kiosk parked in a layby. A fresh young face seemed to yearn for company. I impulsively pulled over and greeted her. I told her I could not afford a coffee and just wanted to say hello. She smiled and said she would make me one anyway. I rambled a little about my journey and she seemed amused. The coffee was delicious and spurred me on down the road. The rain continued to fall. My mood improved by the caffeine I zoomed along. A stop for more oranges and on again. A mid afternoon snack left me with one last meal. I had money enough for another shop and plenty of fruit (oranges). Still the rural landscape of scant population provided no urban density for a busk. My map only providing a rough guide I may have sailed close by providence without knowing. The day cried on and time swept by. The afternoon darkened and as the evening followed the rain thickened. Brushing water from my brow I perused the roadside for my night refuge.
At last I spotted two derelict wooden sheds off down a gravelly road. I bumped my way between the puddles and arriving carefully perched my velocipede against the firmest edge. With the elation of a hobo I entered the first through the half open door. A broken roof left one corner wet and one earthy and free from moisture. I entered the second which was dark with no light through the roof. A lingering damp didn’t smell too good. Old tools cluttered the edges. I chose the air conditioned option and wheeled in my dandy horse. I found my spot and laid down my mat. I peeled off my damp clothes and changed into my dry reserve. I ordered my supper and sat down to relax. As the rain eased the breeze came in through the rafters. Into my bag with the hood pulled up I was protected. Unanchored from domicile human population my mind drifted away. I dreamed of desert landscapes where shamanic spirits conjured fractious forms. I awoke refreshed and observed my rustic room. An old repair here and there seemed to have given way to entropy. Would another take a night’s shelter there? I didn’t think so. With such idle thoughts to occupy my mind I changed into my wet garb and set off into the precipitation. Another concrete bus shelter served breakfast. With few escudos left I needed to find my audience. I consulted my map and noticed a decent sized town a distance away. I pushed on. The rain thickened and my clothes dragged.
Around midday I stopped for a few oranges. Fifteen refueled me but left me hungry for a weightier dish. I packed some more in my bag. The rain eased a little and the breeze swayed me as I went. A sign indicated 39 kilometres to Ponte de Lima. I ploughed on through the splashed. By late afternoon the count was reduced to 20. I combed the landscape as I went in search of my night's refuge. On the outskirts of a village a small stream was channeled into a stone pool equipped with slabs around the edge to scrub clothes and a roof above. I drank the fresh water and filled my plastic bottle. I perched in the dry and surveyed the scene. It wasn't a day for clothes washing though the location was reasonably sheltered. I carefully changed and layed down my mat. I tucked into a few oranges and waited for the day to fade. Before the night fell I was cosy in my bag. Through the night the breeze tickled my nose and fuelled my dreams of Spanish galleons on stormy seas. The morning put me back in my damp clothes and through the wet to Ponte de Lima.
I arrived mid morning into the bustling town, parked my rod and found a pleasing spot. I took out my flute and laid my case down at my feet. I transposed one of my easy tunes from the key of G to A to avoid the unplayable G natural. I felt good to be back on the job and the coins began to fall. After a quarter of an hour I reckoned I had a few hundred escudos. Things were looking up until a man in an elegant uniform approached. I was not sure what his status may have been. In a quasi authoritarian manner probably powered by a morning brandy he told me this was a military town and my present initiative was not acceptable. I acquiesced and moved as if to retrieve my gains. With satisfaction he continued his proud march. I watched him round the corner and waited until he was out of hearing distance. I could not afford to give up now. Though loath to run into problems with the authorities I eked out another half an hour and a good few drops. I packed up quickly and headed for the supermarket. I stopped at a bench to count my earnings. Just over 1500 escudos was a decent catch.
I bought ham cheese bread olives and a bottle of beer and took to the road again. A short distance out of town and I veered into the seclusion of the orchards. A well earned repast and a pause from the rain soothed my soul. The beer seeped in and I found my great ponderance. What had brought me to this edge of existence? Stories of travel and adventure. Imagination wrapped coarse reality. What thought the spider weaving his web? The raindrops increased and I set off again. I headed for Braga. I would busk and catch a train to Lisbon and hopefully escape the infernal rain. As I gathered my momentum, so did the rain. The drops built up on my forehead until they overflowed my eyebrows and streamed into my eyes. I squinted and brushed some away. Others continued down to my mustache. I blew them through the hairs and tasted the mix of salty and fresh water as the sweat and rain reached my lips. The intoxication of the beer passed and I cycled through the groggy after effects. I began to look for my nightly retreat. I turned onto a smaller road away from the traffic. After a slow bumpy distance I noticed a quiet farm. Down the track was a cabin. With my eyes peeled I turned towards it. I paused by a rusty broken gate and the overgrown track to the building. Leaning my bicycle against the gate I climbed over and stealthily approached. Looking and listening I arrived at the door. Cobwebs indicated no-one had been recently in or out. I opened the primitive wooden latch and entered. Old fashioned wooden chair legs were carefully arranged by the walls. No rain leaked through the roof and the dust lay undisturbed. A dry space of floorboards was big enough for me and my bicycle. I retreated back out into the rain and checking I was not observed hauled my bike over the gate and along into the cabin. As quiet as a mouse I carefully changed into my dry garb and sat in repose.
My thoughts dissipated as I waited for the night. The darkness came and I settled down to sleep. The next day whisked me on to Braga where I found an urban underpass to play some tunes. Content to be out of the rain I managed a couple of hours and gathered a couple of thousand escudos. I headed to the train station and was surprised how cheap the trains were. I bought my ticket and payed a small surcharge for my bicycle. They say they build the houses close to the railway in Portugal so that the trains seem to go faster. Eventually we arrived in Lisbon and I entered the labyrinth of pedestrian tunnels in search of a pitch. Groups of youths scurried around me as I encased myself in my bubble of music. I made my crust and headed out of the picturesque city. Still the weather seemed uncertain. At a distance I found some ramshackle shelter. The rain increased and I consulted my map. My real destination was Andalucia. The home of Flamenco music, the birthplace of Pablo Picasso, the poorest region of Spain, the film location of “The Good the Bad and the Ugly”, the zone of the great Sierra Nevada and five hundred years of arabic history. The rain was too much and in the morning I headed back to the station to catch the train to the border between Portugal and Andalucia. I had just enough to afford the train and food for the journey. I waited on the platform and enjoyed a few oranges. The normal people with their fixed itineraries consulted their watches as I criticised the local vernacular. I took the train all the way to Vila Real de San Antonio. The rain was still on my case. Breezily blowing around the coastal town allowing me a sheltered corner to play my tunes. A few people passed and a few coins dropped in. I decided to move on down to the beach. I gazed at the sea for a long time. I was now at the real beginning of my intended journey.
As the sun disappeared behind the mountains, stars began to twinkle in the clear sky. I rooted out my compact star chart, a circular plastic disk with a clear plastic viewer to locate my portion of sky. A journey along the south coast of Spain was an ideal opportunity to learn the constellations of the zodiac. I traced the line of the Scorpion as it rose. Venus glowed in the evening. Deducing which constellation the sun was in I realised my calculations were erroneous. Further research made it apparent to me that when the astrologer states that the sun is in the sign of Libra it is actually in the constellation of Virgo. This is because the original scheme was set up 2000 years ago and since then the sun's path has shifted approximately one whole constellation. We are now entering the age of Aquarius. I pondered the ocean until the darkness came. I retreated up to the pavement where I found a sheltered bench. I waited a little longer and made my bed. I changed into my dry clothes and squeezed into my elephant’s foot. The night passed calmly but the daybreak revived the blustery showers. I braced myself and cycled inland to cross the river Guadiana and cross the border into Spain.
I headed for the town of Lepe. My legs pumped and the wheels turned. I arrived, dismounted and looked around. A quiet town with a nice pedestrian street. I set up and played my tunes. A lady looked me up and down. Her eyes rested on my shoes. Not the worst moccasins in the world though they had become rather muddy on my rambles. She decided she would buy me some new shoes and I agreed. We went across the road to a shoe shop and I chose a pair of trainers. Unfortunately the largest pair in the shop were too small. I explained it was not worth buying them. She tried to insist but I refused as I thought it foolish to waste money on shoes that simply did not fit. I returned to my pitch wearing my muddy moccasins. She was not happy and explained to passersby that I was a fraudster who had been offered new shoes but continued to wear old worn out shoes to evoke sympathy. After making quite a fool of herself she decided to retreat though returned a couple of times just to give me evil looks. She did not decide to give me the money that she would have spent on the shoes considering that I would spend it irresponsibly. I picked up my earnings and took to my bicycle. The rain was light and heading back into the countryside I looked for an evening retreat. A large tractor on a shallow hillside looked appealing. I trekked up to it and made my camp. Another early night. As the night progressed the rain became heavier and the ground soaked it up. The smell of manure rose from the ground. The tractor was parked on a giant dung heap. In the morning I carefully tread my way back to the road and journeyed on to the next town. Looking down I could see that the front cogs which my pedals were driving were beginning to twist. Changing into a lower gear the chain slipped between the cogs. I ground to a halt. I dismounted and wrenched the chain out and bent the cogs back into place. After replacing the chain I continued on. I pedalled gently and regularly looked down to see how the distortion continued. I didn’t change the front gear but then a worrying sound began. A knocking with a crunchy edge to it. All was not well. The bottom bracket was beginning to go. This was not a problem that I would be able to solve. Resigned to my fate I carried on. Without a gear change the cogs kept their shape but the knocking became crunchier. The bearings would collapse and the pedals would no longer drive. A long grind and it was gone. My feet whizzed the pedals around but I was going nowhere. I dismounted and wheeled my bicycle along the road. At least I did not have to carry my luggage. Eventually I reached the next town.
Arriving at a large recreation ground I took a seat on one of the benches along the perimeter. On the other side two men looked as if they had taken a good dose of heroin and were beginning to nod. I located the central street and did an hour of busking and then managed to find a rustic bicycle repair shop. Like the old flute repairman they did not embellish their diagnosis with fancy sales speak and joyous comradery but merely analysed the problem with a terse attitude. It would cost three thousand pesetas and take three days. I had maybe a thousand pesetas and over the next few days I would busk up the rest. I agreed and set off with my rucksack and panniers. Now to find some accomodation. I walked out of the small town and followed a track into the hills. As I walked along I encountered a local peasant wandering along the pathway. He regarded me, greeted me and stopped to speak. I returned the greeting and paused. He considered the situation for a moment and then explained to me that if I continued a little way along I would come across a shepherd’s hut that it would be alright for me to stay in. I thanked him and continued. It took a little time to arrive but after about a kilometer I came across the corrugated iron shed painted with thick black protective paint. Though a little spooky with no windows the earthen floor was dry and I was content to park myself. I sat by my hut and gazed over the agricultural land. I ate some of my usual bread olives and cheese. The rain had abated and again I found a timeless moment. The afternoon passed in contemplation and as the sky darkened I retreated to my bed.
The wind and stormy showers rattled the hut. I was glad to be inside and happy to have the local man’s permission. I awoke in the night to remind myself where I was. The next day brought breezy showers. I trekked down to the town and managed to find a slightly sheltered spot. Takings were slow but I had a target so I persisted. I reached my target and bought food, had my picnic and then retired to a bar for a milky coffee. I was the lonesome traveller. I observed and philosophised. A man entered the bar who had several fingers missing. The stitches and the blood edged wounds were still apparent. He conversed with the barman in a quiet Spanish that I couldn’t follow. The barman raised his voice a little and jovially exclaimed "Well, you won’t be doing that again!" and smiled. I was shocked by his harsh treatment. Maybe this was the best way to treat such cruel reality. Spain still remembered its brutal civil war. I bought a few supplies and wandered back up to my hut. The day drifted away and the stormy weather picked up in the evening. At dusk I retreated into my hut and the tempest began. Rattling the metal like it would uproot the cabin and whisk it away to the land of Oz. Distant from my fellow man I felt in touch with eternity. Who was my saviour? Not the system that creates expensive boxes but a marginal swirl of random energy. I was not in the mainstream and need not share their aspirations. Tomorrow I would reach my target!
The stormy night gave way to a gentle morning. I passed the friendly countryman who had allowed me to stay in the hut and headed into town to play my tunes. Progress was slow and I persevered for three hours to gain my required amount. I had my usual snack and was happy to retreat to the bar for my milky coffee. Old men played their serious card games as I quietly blended with the furniture. I whiled away the afternoon and wandered up towards the shed and explored the rugged countryside. Another solitary rambler was harvesting wild asparagus. Little bunches were growing here and there. He looked worried that I may be competition. I rambled the other way and circled back to my refuge. The evening brought back the stormy weather and I sat close to my tin box and watched the clouds gathering into ominous darkness. My third night in the simple structure was noisy again as the wind threatened to disassemble the iron. At least I was dry and warm and I awoke feeling rested. Down to town to busk up the last few hundred pesetas. The public were amenable and it wasn’t long before I had enough. I counted up and visited a few bars to change the coins into notes. Arriving at the repair shop I was relieved to find the job completed. I payed up and gave them my heartfelt thanks.
Back in the saddle again! Fair weather blew me down the road. I headed for the next town along. The day breezed past and the evening brought on my search for a refuge. As dusk descended I spotted an old railway station. The tracks were gone but the station with a large overhang at its front looked in decent repair. I sat down on the veranda as the day darkened. This was an ideal spot but I began to realise the desolate building was not deserted. Figures were moving inside though the entrance was not illuminated. I waited. They made little noise. If they didn’t bother me I would settle down to sleep. A door slowly opened and a figure quietly emerged. He politely questioned what I was doing. I told him I was a travelling musician and I had thought that the building was abandoned and was about to make my bed. He thought for a moment and explained that this was now a centre for rehabilitation. He asked me if I had any drugs on me and decided I could stay the night with them if I wished. I was just in time for the evening bible recitation. I followed protocol and then they asked me to play a tune on the flute. I played the bouree by Bach and they were entertained. I recognised two of the managers from the recreation ground in the town where I had my bicycle repaired. I slept in a clean bed and breakfasted with the group. I was happy to cycle away on my solitary journey.
On towards Huelva. I had few supplies and the hills were steep. The rain increased and by late afternoon I needed to find shelter. A grand stately house by the road no longer had windows or doors and the large rooms were windswept. The walls were inscribed with graffiti written with charcoal from a fire that had burnt in the centre of the room. The etchings advised me that if I had never taken it up the ass I had never lived. The rain was slowing down a little and I decided to look for more comfortable accommodation. I veered off down a smaller road. A ruined building was clustered by a tangle of trees. I squeezed through the broken door to a heap of rubbish. Old clothes, broken toys and a mish mash of household goods had been dumped. The broken roof allowed the damp to ferment the pile. I was tired and struggled my way to a dry corner. Relieved to be out of the wet I made my camp alongside the squalor. I slept until dawn but didn’t fancy I lie in. I struggled out of the foulness and hit the road. The sun broke through the clouds and my mood lightened. I neared the industrial outskirts of Huelva. Old railway depots and warehouses. I would return this way later and surely would find a space for the evening. A larger town with more flow of people afforded me a variety of pitches. I made my choice and began my tunes. I was happy to play my music and my audience seemed to sense it. A good few drops came my way. I enjoyed the bustle after the quiet towns I had passed through. This seemed to be my role, bringing a change to the pattern of existence. An hour was enough to fill my pocket and I ate and went for a coffee. I philosophised through the afternoon. Back to the hinterland as the day darkened. I decided it was too risky to climb aboard a static train and found a covered loading area and settled down. It was an improvement to the previous night. In my spacious abode I heard the rain begin to trickle down on the high roof. Happy on the fringe of civilization I drifted off. I dreamed I cycled off the edge of a steep road and floated off into space. In the dark of the night I awoke to a searching flashlight. Two figures slowly approached. I was relieved to see they were security guards. They asked me what I was doing. Just sleeping. They shone their torches around and could see I had nothing incriminating around me. Just sleeping they concluded and to my surprise decided to let me be. At daybreak I packed up and continued. The next small town along was amenable and I was able to put a thousand pesetas in my savings account.
Looking down at my front wheel I noticed it was beginning to buckle. My brakes were rubbing. Things could only get worse. I pulled over and sat down in the breezy sunshine. Slowly I decided I would take up the challenge. I released my baggage and retrieved my pliers. Upturned the bicycle and gave the uneven circle a spin. I carefully loosened the spokes and assessed the bow. Not too extreme to be remedied. Now to match the equal and opposite forces while giving a little extra to pull the curve into line. Gradually, with a little counter adjustment I seemed to get there. A little more all round tightening to secure the mend. I could hardly believe my success. I was not sure whether I had been triumphant in such an endeavour before. I lay back and savoured. A solitary man battling circumstance. The sky was clear and a bird began to sing. The thrush trilled into the wind. I wondered whether he was singing for me or maybe defending his territory. I looked around to see and scared him away from his perch. I too needed to be on my way. I had miles to cover while the fair weather blew in my favour. Onward and upward. Slowly I ascended the rising terrain. After a slow couple of hours uphill I came to a small town. Only a couple of shops. I decided to buy a few supplies and continue on. Long steep climbs were rewarded with easy downhill cruises. The weather was really clearing and I decided I would not need to escape the rain for the night. With only 15 kilometers to Bollullos Par del Condado I decided to pull over into a green field. I flattened the long grass with my mat and disappeared as I lay down in the herbage. The night came and I gazed at the stars as they circled Polaris.
In the morning I was only dampened by the dew. I packed up my kit and looked for the green bungee to strap it on. Camouflaged by the grass it was nowhere to be found. I unpacked my kit but it was not there. Again I scoured the grass but no luck. Several times more I went through all the possibilities but nothing. I sat down despondent. I would have to figure out another way to secure my load. I stood up in search of ideas and there it was at my feet. The bright green bungee. A small miracle. Confused but relieved I secured my baggage and set off for Bollullos. The day brought a slow but steady drizzle. Arriving at the town it's marble stone pavements were slippy and my leather soled moccasins had no grip. I slowly made my way around and stopped to play for a meagre flow of people. The drops came intermittently but generally picked up as time went by. Possibly people returning or maybe I developed more of a presence as the coins fell and my confidence built. Always hoping for company yet happy to be alone. My cycle continued and the mountains grew.
Another couple of small towns, sleeping in desolate places, a thousand pesetas stashed in my savings account and I was approaching Seville. This was a different story. Miles of suburbs finally brought me into the city centre. I slowly wheeled around. The pedestrian centre was heaving with life. Street people abounded. I busked a bit with my plastic recorder as I was fed up with my broken flute. The police moved me on. I tried another spot with the silver flute and they didn’t bother me. It seemed my status was improved. As the day whiled on I wondered where I might bed down in a city like this. I figured I could probably find company. Relaxing in one of the many squares where the people drank and smoked cannabis I met a young couple. Tina was English and had travelled to Spain to escape the petty bureaucracy of home. She had teamed up with Ronaldo who was a wiry dark Andalucian. He played the tin whistle. He easily blagged a mix for a chillum and with dedication to Shiva we smoked. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the outdoor party. American students, labourers, office workers, the old and young. I talked with Tina while Ronaldo went in search of food. He returned with coffee and cakes. Another chillum and I felt like improvising on my recorder. Weird and wonderful sounds emanated from the plastic flute. Some seemed entertained though an american girl tired of my paranoia and decided to leave. Beers were handed around. Just a few sips combined with the chillums left me well oiled. People came and went. Joints abounded. The flow continued. The long afternoon darkened and I retreated with Tina and Ronaldo. The cinema’s pavilion was spacious. I tied my bicycle to the protective fence and we layed out our beds. Ronaldo suggested that maybe I sleep with him. I couldn’t take him seriously. Though flamboyant and gay he seemed to make a nice match with Tina. She needed his protection.
We awoke early and Ronaldo hung up some clothes to give them an airing. He played a tune on his whistle and threw it to the ground in frustration. We left our shit behind and wandered out for an ad hoc busk. A queue at the bus stop was a good target. I played a tune and Ron charmed the punters. We bought coffee and cakes and proceeded to the square. Ron gathered the ingredients for the morning chillum and made the mix. With a boom he sparked it up. He passed me the cloth wrapped pipe and I filled my lungs. The tobacco spun me out and I reclined as the weed took effect. I passed it to Tina. She took a gentle toke. The morning intoxication was the best. We contemplated and Ron went to fetch more coffee. A cosmopolitan air of tolerance allowed the social classes to mix as the police turned a blind eye.
In the afternoon I dragged myself away from the crowd and wandered to the other side of town for an independent busk. An attractive young girl was charmed by my rendition of "The girl from Ipanema". She stopped to chat and gave me a few coins. She assured me she would pass my way tomorrow. I fostered no illusions. An hour rewarded me with a few hundred pesetas. I returned to the square for re-intoxication. Ronaldo was in animated conversation with a group and Tina was content. Someone provided omelette sandwiches and beers. Life was good. More chillums were passed around. Ronaldo was not keen on omelette sandwiches and went on a mission for more coffee and cakes. I played a paranoia on my plastic recorder. Searching inbetween the notes the broken harmonies gave me a new way to think. The evening brought more revellers and more chillums and beer. In the darkness Ronaldo became agitated with the present company and decided we would retreat back to the pavilion of the cinema. We followed suit and were relieved to be back at our quiet retreat. On the other side of the pavilion two men were making their camp. I wandered over to say hello. I greeted them with the colloquial "Que pasa?" (What’s happening?). He replied "Evitando historias"(Avoiding stories). I considered his reply and decided to return to my corner. I was ready for an early night.
We awoke to our daily routine. Ronaldo changed into the clothes he had aired yesterday. He played an agitated tune and threw down his whistle. We headed to the bus stop for a busk and after coffee and cakes headed for the square. Ron blagged a mix. We sparked it up and "boom" the day began. People came and went. The joints were passed around. I took a stroll for my afternoon busk. Maybe the young lady would pass by. No such luck but I collected a few coins. Back to the square and the social scene continued. Later Ronaldo decided he knew a better spot to sleep the night. We wound through the little lanes to a more secluded stone flagged square. Surrounded by stone pillars that supported a building. Here we hoped for some peace and quiet but in the middle of the night we were awakened by the police. They moved us on and we returned to the pavilion of the cinema.
We arose a little later after our disturbed night. Our usual bus stop was a little quiet and we took a detour to search out another. Coffee and cakes and off to the square. The morning rituals were performed. Brought together in communal smoking the small crowd exchanged stories. The world was put to rights. I began to consider the next leg of my journey. I sidled away from the crowd. After playing my tunes to earn a little cash I returned to the cinema pavilion where my bicycle was tied up. I gathered my belongings from the corner I had shared with Tina and Ronaldo. I loaded up and headed out of Seville. Back to the lonesome road. Through the swathes of suburbia and onto the A92. In the afternoon I was back in the hills. I stopped at a small shop by a petrol station to buy some supplies. The exchange with the shopkeeper felt more meaningful than the rushed transactions of the city. Ample time and space surrounded us. Nature cushioned our bubble. Space in the city was created by keeping the battling hordes at bay. Space in the city expressed status in the human hierarchy but here in the countryside the forgiveness of nature. He wished the traveller farewell and I journeyed on. Now to find a space to sleep. Not a space permitted to the lowest of the low but a space hidden from the crowds. "No more space" I hear you say. How many times can this weary word be repeated?
At the brow of a hill a rough verge led to a gravelly track. I pulled over and admired the view. A conspicuous spot. I felt observed by the passing cars. In a sloping field stood my type of cabin. Though not hidden from view, the ploughed field was deep in mud. I took off my shoes and rolled up my trousers and waded through the soggy soil. I explored the cabin. Inside were stored piles of nets which made a comfortable bed. I returned for my bicycle which I hoisted on my shoulders and carried over. I lay down and relaxed. The day faded and I drifted off to sleep. I awoke in the night to the sound of cars pulling onto the track. Drunken people descended and made rowdy conversation. Talk of sexual proclivity. I felt safe with the knee deep mud as a barrier. No one approached and I went back to my dream. The revellers retreated and I remained king of my cabin. The morning came and I made an early start. Down the road to anywhere. As I approached Alcala de Guadaira I noticed a young man begging door to door. I had seen him in the last small town I had visited. Laden with carrier bags of donations he looked in my direction. We seemed to be following a similar route. I wondered how he travelled from place to place and transported the goods he received. Though flowing along the margins by different means we followed the same pace. I reached the centre and found a pitch. I felt more relaxed here in the provinces and the audience was more receptive. The door to door beggar passed by. He wandered unencumbered. All his bags were gone. He gave me a critical glance. How close might our paths converge?
I recalled my repertoire of folk and classical tunes and left other concerns behind. I remembered an old melody I hadn’t played for a while. The coins dropped into my case. Such a gentle respect for the stranger passing through. A peaceful equanimity. A couple of hours saw me right. Off to the super for supplies. Bread, cheese, tomatoes and a vacuum pack of olives. I filled my water bottle at the fountain and seated myself on the stone plinth. Away from the stupefaction of the city I relaxed. The sun was shining and I felt healthy and sober. I was ready for a good stretch. After eating I set off on an uphill climb. In a low gear I ascended. Slowly but surely I rose. The upward slope became the norm. For hours I continued. My thoughts turned to my evening refuge. A byway sloped away into a picturesque valley. The road wound lower to an elegant bridge over the river at the bottom. I freewheeled down. As I neared the bridge a path led steeply to the watercourse. I walked my bicycle down to the shore. I settled by the flow and tore open the plastic casing of my olives. I munched away as I gazed into the rippling currents. An infinite reflection. This was a nice place to settle for the evening. I would sleep under the bridge. Hobos were expected to sleep under bridges so I would try it! It was a bit open and not sheltered from the breeze. I would look for somewhere more sheltered the next night. In the morning I climbed back up to the road and continued my slow ascent to El Arahal. An arabic name meaning a place on the path to rest.
At last I arrived and scouted out a spot to ply my trade. There was a market in town. I pitched nearby the stalls and the traders seemed amused. Some gave me money. The owner of a clothes stall came over to chat. He explained that someone had offered to buy me some new clothes. He showed me a pink pair of corduroys. I said they weren’t my style. He told me that this was a town where older ladies came to meet younger men. My frigid state of mind did not compute. He said I could choose different clothes if I wished. I went to the stall and chose some plain black tracksuit bottoms and a plain black sweatshirt. I changed at the back of the stall. I returned to my pitch and continued to busk. I suppose my dowdy choice of attire put paid to any further interaction. I was relieved. After a reasonable pitch I wished the trader farewell and went about my shopping. After buying my groceries I secreted myself in a quieter corner of town. Frivolities had become alien to me. The road was my cause. I enjoyed my meal and decided to move on. The ascent continued. My forever changing environment fed my mind. What was growing there? Rising through the thin air in a low gear I headed for La Puebla de Cazalla. Late afternoon brought me within a few kilometres of the town and I found an olive grove to dwell in. The gnarly trees stood sturdy in the dry ground. I managed to find a comfortable spot to lean back as I sat on the gravelly earth. These ancient allies of man made pleasant company. In the evening I rolled out my bed in the serene orchard. I slept well and woke to the twittering of the little birds in the silvery leaves. The sky was clear and I ate a crust of bread swilled down with water. Loaded up and not far to La Puebla for an early start. It was still quiet in the street when I arrived so I had a stroll around the town. I noticed a poster advertising a flamenco guitar recital that afternoon in a local community centre. I was excited and determined to go. I played my tunes for a couple of hours, then had my lunch. I had time for a milky coffee and off to the performance. A young dark haired man waited for the crowd to seat themselves. He looked agitated and checked his watch. The seats were half full and the moment to begin arrived. He tested his microphone and shyly greeted the audience. He explained that he had studied the guitar since he was a child. His father had also played flamenco guitar. He was part of a long tradition. He was well versed in the many different palos, but felt he had not received the recognition he deserved. His resentment at being brought up in a poor part of Spain mixed with his disappointment at not being a success which he ultimately blamed on the famous flamenco guitarist Paco de Lucia. This all served as a good subtext to his music of an oppressed people. He played the guitar very well but lacked a star quality, not seeming totally sure of himself. I enjoyed the performance. Then came a singer. He too had a preamble. He explained that there were two types of flamenco music - the gypsy and the orthodox. This was a surprise to me as I thought flamenco was the music of the gypsies. But it seems the origins of both the music and its name are obscure. He sang an orthodox cante grande which sounded like opera, not like the wailing gypsy sound that I was familiar with. I was not convinced. It was nice to participate in normal society for the afternoon and a relief to depart.
Back to the way. Onwards and upwards. The road to Osuna continued to climb. I camped in an open field with small bushes of a kind I did not recognise. The clear nights were cold as I gained altitude. The morning brought me into another town. With buildings more ancient than the last. History held on as the shops and cars embraced modernity. I struggled to find a pitch as the centre had no pedestrian area. A slightly wider area of pavement provided a spot. Opposite was a bar. As I played a man of tall stature perched himself in the entrance across the road. He sipped his beer and contemplated my recital. Of fair complexion he did not look Andalusian. He cracked a smile as I played a cheery tune. He adjusted his glasses and gently made his way across the street. He asked me where I was from. He was American. He invited me for a beer. I had played for an hour so I accepted. He asked me about my travels. I explained my journey. He said I could stay over at his place if I wanted to. He had to go and collect his car. He had been out drinking the day before and returned home without his car and could not remember where he had left it. He had reported it stolen to the police and they had located it. He now had to go and collect it. I waited in the bar and enjoyed my beer. A local asked me how I knew Ralph. I clarified that I had just met him. He told me that Ralph had inherited a large house on the outskirts of town. He had lived there for a while and then sold it and bought a small flat in town. The local imagined that he was now drinking the proceeds. I could see Ralph was a potentially wreckless character but felt an affinity with an english speaking outsider. Maybe after the car losing session the previous day he was reasonably sedate. On his return we retreated to his small abode and ate an evening meal. We drank a couple of beers and I retired to the spare room. I think Ralph was happy to have a quiet night. The next day I went out for a busk and we reconvened in the evening. I helped prepare the supper and a friend or two called in. I was beginning to feel quite comfortable with the situation. Again it was another quiet night. I wasn't the one to lure him into another heavy session. In the morning he asked me what my plans were. Surprised out of my comfort zone I realised this was my prompt to move on. I clicked back into my default mode and decided not to delay my departure. The weather was good and facing the truth I declared I would head on in the afternoon. After cordial goodbyes the road continued to ascend. From comfortable accommodation I returned to my hobo’s search. Another field along the way was a pleasant stay on a dry night. Reaching the high ground the ups and downs began to even out. The next day I glided down to a laybye at the bottom of a short downhill stretch. I decided to take a breather before the next rise. In the late morning some council workers were enjoying a break. They haled me over and offered me a beer. It would have been rude not to accept. Like the wandering jew I was called to tell my tale. They rewarded me with another beer. One quietly asked his colleague whether he should roll a joint. The colleague thought it was better not to. They sliced a thin sliver from a chunk of cured pig fat. I gobbled the tasty morsel down and they sliced me another. They gifted me the half a kilo of 'tociño' and I eased myself back into the saddle. I slowly climbed the next ascent. I arrived at Estepa almost sober and pulled myself together for a busk. A gift of polverone was a speciality of the town. A crumbly almond shortcake. I busked for an hour and the town began to quieten down for siesta. I filled my water bottle and headed on into the afternoon sun. A little out of town I paused for shade under a carob tree. I chewed on a fallen pod before an afternoon snooze.
I awoke to the sunshine breaking through a gap in the tree. I glugged down some water and rooted out my straw hat to shield me from the sun. The weather cooled a little and I enjoyed coasting down another hill. I passed through the picturesque town of La Roda de Andalucia and on through the endless olive groves. I cycled on into the fresh evening air. The stars began to twinkle and I retreated into the trees. I took out my small star chart and mapped the constellation of Virgo. I sliced myself a few pieces of pig fat and chewed a while. I rolled out my bed as the evening became chilly. I slept deeply and awoke from a dream I was rambling in the large overgrown garden of my childhood. Onward and upward. The windy day whistled my handlebar tune. A few hills gradually evened out into a gentle climb towards Antequera sharply steepening towards the town. I stepped off my bicycle and wheeled it slowly up. An ancient town built on a high hill, strongly defended and topped with a formidable castle. The Romans had built an impressive town that held on until the fall of the empire. The Vandals had taken over and later the Visigoths. The Arabs held strong for three hundred years until the Catholics anchored their dominion. Now a thriving commercial hub of the region. Large enough to feel the buzz of a city but not so grand as to suffer the harsh undercurrents of poverty. A good place for a busk. I found a nice spot and enjoyed reliving my tunes. In the early evening I left the busy buildings and cycled up through the mountain pass to the road south. Once through I was launched onto the downhill stretch. The gradient mellowed but the slope continued. On and on I coasted. Only braking occasionally to regulate my speed. For hours I freewheeled till the day began to darken and the road levelled. I imagined I had reached the lower ground and decided to sleep on the open plain. Late into the night the chill braced. I pulled tight my hooded sleeping bag leaving only my nose and mouth open to the elements. Inside my feathered cocoon I was warm enough. At daybreak I peeked out to see the condensation of the cold night had iced over my bag. This natural igloo had kept me cosy through the night but as the morning sun rose my protection began to melt. I rose to shake off the ice before I was left with a soggy bag. I packed up and continued. The plateau was only a pause in the downhill terrain and on I rolled. Cold wind froze my fingers. I reached a little town and found a small supermarket with a capacious entrance. I laid out my case and took up my instrument. I blew into the mouth of my flute to create my tone and hoped my fingers would modulate into a tune but the programme did not function. The fingers were dead. My brave opening was flummoxed. I had not realised my poor digits were so abandoned. I sucked them warm and squeezed them under my armpits. Eventually their life returned. Slowly the music emerged and at last the coins dropped in.
After a busk and a shop the day began to warm and the grand slopes carried me on. My legs relaxed after their long endurance. All day I cruised. By the evening I was less than twenty kilometers from Malaga. I bedded down in a random location. I was up early for the descent. I arrived in the large town and scouted the terrain. A black beggar kneeled down with his head to the floor and his hands cupped in front of him. Never had I seen such an extreme prostration. I didn't fancy it myself. He seemed to have found the best spot for the job. I had to settle for a quieter corner but I was beginning to realise that a lot of passers by wasn't always the best recipe for trade. Many people meant more people to drop coins but my performance became less intimate. The factors seem to balance each other. The occasional passerby had a more unique experience, more time to appreciate the music and more space to stop and drop a coin. Like animals free from the constraints of formal society, buskers and beggars could become very territorial beasts. Only a philosophical edge could release me from their turmoil. I played my tunes and gathered my precious earnings. I wandered the town and after a shop decided to follow the coast road. Industrial suburbs interrupted my sea views and sent me inland but I struggled to steer myself back towards the water. At last I managed to leave the city and enjoy the space. I meandered down onto a rocky outcrop and savoured my cheese and bread. The wind had dropped and it was lovely and warm in the sunshine by the mediterranean sea. I was content to be in the midst of my long contemplated journey. I dozed a while. I awoke and left my bicycle perched on the rocks and clambered down to the beach. I strolled along and followed the tidal line of seaweed. I was the beachcomber. My direction mapped the ebb and flow of the tide. I took off my moccasins and paddled in the chilly water. I looked back at my bicycle unperturbed on the rocks and settled myself down to gaze seaward. The water gently lapped the shore. Time drifted by and my worries floated away. I headed back to the bicycle and hit the road. I pedalled away the afternoon and found a rocky alcove for the night. Another fair morning took me along to Rincón de la Victoria. The pretty town was well kept and fair skinned northern European tourists gently took photographs. The warm blue ocean licked the shore. I found my spot and began my melody. The elegant folk could afford a few coins for my hat. Two well dressed policemen approached. Politely they intervened. It was prohibited to play music on the street in this town. Their authority was confidently asserted. I felt it was wise to adhere to the regulation and packed up my flute. I moved along and considered what to do next. I climbed on my bike and cycled out of town. Along the flat coastal road it was an easy ride to the next town along. Torre de Benagalbón had the same atmosphere and the same regulations. I packed up and realised a new approach was needed. I cycled inland back up into the hills. The palefaces decreased and the dark and swarthy locals reinstated their market towns. El Valdes was the place for me. I played my tunes and gathered my coins without interruption. A rise of two hundred meters and the air was notably cooler. I cycled back down to the coast and along the road from Torre de Benagalbón. A scrappy beach between settlements was a pleasant spot to bed down. The next day I decided to cover some distance. I made a steady pace until disaster struck. As my legs pumped suddenly all resistance was gone. The pedals simply span to no effect. The chain whipped itself away. No longer a slave to the machine it was free to fly. I looked down to see the empty cogs. I stopped and backtracked to find the metal snake curved into a coil on the roadside. I picked up the oily ligature and found the break. The link had lost its pin. I pondered. If I could find a bit of wire I could bind the links together. I placed the chain in my pocket and walked with the bicycle. It was not long before I found an old coca cola can with the ring pull on the top. I carefully removed it and with a break and a twist found I could fashion a link. I mounted once more and was surprised to find the repair held. I cycled gently just teasing the momentum on the level coast road. I stopped to gather more empty coke cans as I was sure the repair would not last the day. Evening came and still the ring pull held! I came to a gentle stop and made my way down to the beach.
Another pleasant morning and I continued on. Soon I made another repair as the aluminium ring pull had given way. Once again the level road and my easy pace carried me on. While I successfully traveled on I could avoid the worry of my broken chain. I was a fable in the making! I picked up more cans and stopped to make a new replacement. As I fiddled to insert the new link a cyclist pulled over and asked if he could help. He looked bemused as he observed my feeble repair. I shrugged my shoulders and he seemed relieved to depart from the maladjusted situation. He had done his good deed and yet done nothing at all. Such is life. I watched him speed off and resumed my casual pace . Soon the terrain started to become more hilly and I had to walk with the cycle as the chain would not survive an uphill exertion. Arriving at the next town I would have to search out a repairman. Asking around I was directed away from the pristine centre of town to the dusty suburbs where I found a local repairman. Even in this touristic zone the down to earth mechanic sympathised with the humble traveller and swiftly repaired the chain for a nominal fee. I bought some supplies and forged on as I did not wish to pause for a busk where I felt I may be moved on. I veered inland and the terrain became hilly. I was happy to find a more secluded spot to bed down. In a wooded ravine I ate my supper and dreamed my dreams away from normality . A chilly start gave way to another beautiful day and though I followed the coast the road was steep up and down. As I headed towards Motril I looked inland towards the mountains of the Sierra Nevada. The legendary town of Granada sits at the foot of the mountains at the confluence of four rivers. The majestic citadel of the Alhambra was deserted after the fall of the Moorish empire. Left to dereliction it became a hobo’s refuge. Rediscovered by romantic european travellers and ultimately restored to the modern day tourist attraction. Not far away from Granada was a new age settlement of hippies close to the town of Orgiva. I dared not travel towards the cold of the snow capped mountains. Motril was a large town and away from the seafront I found a street in the town to play my tunes. I allowed my mind to wander and hoped the music might soothe the passersby. I didn't get any hassle and managed to earn some cash. After a shop I headed along the coast once more. A small village had an old fashioned lavabo where I could wash my clothes. I decided to take it easy by the river for the rest of the day and take on the task in the morning and then have time to dry the clothes in the sunshine. Unusual birds sang their songs as they hopped around the trees. I checked my map and felt keen to cover some distance. I rambled along the river and looked for an ideal spot to spend the night. The music of the babbling river let the afternoon drift away and as the light faded I went to bed.
In the morning I took on my washing task. The local ladies nodded and gave me approving looks as I rinsed my clothes. A little distance away I found bushes to hang them. I decided I would rest for the day while the clothes dried and set off the next day with renewed energy. I had a few thousand pesetas cash and had stowed a few thousand in my savings account. I was keen to get to Almeria where the commercial development for tourism was less brutal. I rested by the river and listened to the rippling currents. No human hierarchies to climb just the mysterious message of the wordless landscape. My legs were content to regenerate. As the shadows lengthened the sun dipped down and the light began to fade. I retrieved my dry clothes and tidied up my kit. I moved further up the valley to find a retreat for the night. An evening snack and another early night. Up and away at the crack of dawn I pedalled the day through and reached Adra. Sixty kilometres was a good distance. I was used to the exercise now. I ate olives, bread and tomatoes and went to a bar for a milky coffee. I observed my bicycle perched by the window outside. My legs began to feel tired and eventually I dragged myself out of the civilised environment. I headed to the countryside to lay my head down. Another orchard offered me a familiar refuge. A pleasant sleep and I awoke to the sunrise. Still I could feel the weakness in my legs. I got organised and set off. Soon my muscles were working again and felt fine but I decided that today I would not over exert myself. I checked my basic map and decided to head along the coast and then inland to El Ejido. Not too far and a last stretch uphill would take me slightly inland where I found my audience more hospitable and more generous. I arrived in the mid afternoon. The town was just waking up after siesta. I cooled off in the shade for a little while and was ready to perform. The air was fresher in the mountains. I was now used to playing all my tunes in a different tonality to avoid the broken key. An old irish reel was a cheerful beginning. The people responded well. Someone stopped to chat. He liked the tune. I told him of my journey. He had a recording studio and would like me to come and play for a song he was putting together. He asked me if I would be around tomorrow. I figured I could hang around a bit and agreed to meet him in the morning around 11. I would be busking in the same spot. It seemed my lonesome journey may lead to an integration into society. The fine weather continued. I played some more and hauled in my cash. Off to the shops and then to find somewhere not too far away to bed down so I could return to meet my new found fellow musician! I sheltered under a large Alder tree and looked forward to tomorrow’s encounter.
I awoke early and tidied my kit. Slowly I wheeled down to the town and treated myself to my coffee with milk. At ten I was busking. Eleven arrived and my new associate did not arrive. I continued to twelve and fortunately my takings were good for the anticipated meeting did not occur. Generally people who make arrangements with a busker do not turn up. This confirms your low status. The celebrity separates himself from his audience with his high status and the busker by his lowly position in the order. We all have our role to play. I had earned some more cash and rested a little and was ready for the next stretch. I looked forward to arriving in Almeria. I took the inland road west to the coast. It was another uphill stretch. I took my time and thought of my meaningless life. Meanings are merely imaginings. The less meaning I had the more beautiful the landscape became. Yearnings came and went. I met some old men who believed everyone should have a place in society. They meant well but I couldn't believe any of it. My place was to have no place. I breezed on. Another fine day took me to Aguadulce. I bought my snacks and looked for a discreet spot to sit down in the shade. As I veered onto a picturesque track I saw a man cosily settled on the ground diligently focused on his task . He was weaving a basket . He had cut some stems of bamboo from a clump by which he was sat and split the fresh cane into thin slivers. These he carefully crafted into a small round container. I had to compliment him on his fine work. He explained he made one in the morning in exchange for lunch and one in the afternoon for his supper. Here was a self employed man with no great aspiration to conquer the world of business. His slightly begrudged attitude reflected his lack of the ego attained by the great artist. I admired his traditional simplicity.
After my light meal the day cooled and I descended to the beach. In this less built up area camper vans congregated in informal groups. I found a bushy corner to wait for the evening to fall. The day darkened and I made my bed. I dreampt of a family gathering with a convivial companionship. When the morning broke I was excited to make my journey into Almeria. I arrived early and strolled around the town. An incredible market sold an unbelievable variety of goods. I looked for street folk like myself. I wandered away from the hustle and bustle and around the picturesque streets. Down a quiet alley some alternative characters seemed approachable. An Englishman with a top hat told me he was a famous juggler. A joint was passed around. Someone came along and asked if anyone wanted to buy hash. Feeling refreshingly stoned I decided I would spend a thousand pesetas. My money went into the kitty and the dealer went to score the weed. A friendly fellow handed out some small bottles of beer. Now I was feeling content once more. I made a contribution for some more beers and whiled away the time in the sunshine. The conversation was animated and I listened to the travellers tales. Along came a bottle of wine. The conversation became more animated. Another joint and I was really spaced out. I breathed deeply and composed myself. I passed on a few joints and once again felt in control. Everyone was getting pretty mashed. A bottle of brandy was a tasty temptation. I took a measured swig. Now the rowdy talk turned to arguments. Voices were raised and the meaningless disagreements repeated like dogs barking. I was waiting for my hash. I kept quiet and let it roll on. More bottles of beer and the arguments subsided a little with some light relief of laughter. But now the blood alcohol levels were well topped up and the fury was unabatable. It was becoming tiresome. I drank some more and dozed a little. The futile wrangling continued. A short time became a long time and still the shouting continued. I was losing awareness and thought about making a move. I wondered about my hash. I drank from another bottle of wine. Already I was feeling the unquenchable desire to continue but the idiotic rowing was becoming too much. I spaced out a little longer and exchanged a few words with the quieter drinker by my side. I needed the toilet. I wandered down the alley to find a discreet spot. After relieving myself I took the opportunity to wheel away my bicycle and leave the gathering. The day had disappeared and the evening approached. I cycled out of town any way I could find. By the time I was breaking free from the suburbs it was dark. Now it was difficult to find somewhere to bed down. A rural building by the roadside looked quite deserted. Behind it was a narrow space . I dragged out my sleeping kit. My noisy unloading awakened a dog. A bark. Another bark. Then two dogs barking. They were coming my way. As soon as my bed was down I collapsed down to rest. The barking charged my way. In the pitch dark they abruptly stopped at the bicycle. Their ferocious rore continued but they did not approach the dark mystery. I dared not move and they dared not approach. Between us the bicycle kept them away. Eventually they tired and retreated.
I rose early with a thick head and made a prompt departure before the dogs decided to return. I made my way down to the beach for sunrise. I drank some water and gazed at the ocean. I considered my day in Almeria. Why had I hung around and drunk so much? I was waiting for my score. I felt in my pocket and there was a lump. I pulled out a sizable piece of hash. The gods were smiling on me. I rooted in my backpack and found some Rizla papers and a lighter, but no tobacco. I was not keen on the nicotine and preferred just to smoke the weed but I hadn’t got a pipe. I looked around and saw scraps of dried seaweed on the pebbly sand. I crunched up a few fronds and rolled one up. The perfect cure for a hangover! Without the tobacco rush I calmly waited for the effect. Slowly my brain relaxed. Everything was peaceful. A beautiful view. The sea gently kissing the shore. The day was heating up as the sun climbed the sky. I savoured the moment.
Eventually the timelessness ceased. I considered my next move. After my foray into the micro metropolis I decided to venture inland following the river. Smaller towns offered a more welcoming and profitable prospect. I cycled up towards Huércal de Almeria. As I approached the town a sign proclaimed "Prohibida la venta ambulante en todo el término municipal excepto día de mercado" ("street vending prohibited throughout the municipality except on market day").Though I wasn't a street vendor I guessed it would probably be better to turn up on market day. As I entered the quiet town I could see that this was good advice. A few locals were not much of a crowd. I asked when market day was. Tomorrow! Excellent. I made my way down to the river and found a shady shore a little way from town. I rolled myself a doobie and said my prayer to the six directions and sparked it up. Once more into the timeless zone. The infinite patterns of the rippling river carried my thoughts away. The Robin Red Breast was more timid here in Spain than England but as I heard his cheerful tune I spied him in the nearby hawthorn. Quikly he was away. Not to be served as a delicacy on my table! I carefully arranged my bed and observed as I waited for the evening.
I awoke before dawn and welcomed the day with a smoke. The territorial Robin was at his perch and made his morning music. Such volume from such a little fellow! I ate my bread and cheese and slowly prepared for my visit to market. The traders set up early but the customers took a while to arrive. At ten oclock I decided it was time to put on my brave face. With the traders at their open air stalls and a local bunch of customers this was more like playing to a static crowd than a passing flow of people. I played a sprightly tune and received smiles from the town. The coins dropped in and people made contributions of fresh bread and fruit. They informed me that tomorrow in the next town along the river was another market. Pechina was only six kilometres away. Just the right distance for an ambulant salesman or a cycling busker! I bought some cheese and olives, filled up my water bottle and followed the river up stream. I found a secluded spot and had my lunch and rolled a little smoke. After a meditative interlude I tidied my gear behind a tree where I felt it was quite safe in this out of the way world and wandered into Pechina. I found the local cafe and settled down for a coffee with milk. I rooted out my rat eared copy of "A History of Moors in Spain", the endless siege of walled cities. I battled through a few pages of turgid tales of conflict. After the hundreds of years of war it seemed we were left with a peaceful corner of Europe though not far away was the great divide over the sea to Africa. An old man told me that until the 1950s there was no border control between Spain and Morocco. People had moved freely across the Alboran sea though the Pyrenean border between France and Spain had been tightly controlled. How things change!
After a dose of local society I returned to my fluvial retreat. I might imagine that the trees' leaves rustling in the breeze was nature's soothing conversation. Happy to have my work cut out for the next day I settled down for my evening doobie. The night bid the day goodbye and I slowly welcomed the reprieve. It seems that when you enter into a routine of smoking cannabis there are enough dreams in the day for you to forget the dreams of the night. I awoke a little muggy and sorted myself out with a smoke. After pedalling the few miles to market I was not so stoned and ready to busk. The traders greeted me and I lay down my case and fluted away. The locals enjoyed the show and smiled as they contributed. With gifts of bread and cheese I headed to the river. The next day’s market was only three kilometers away on the other side. I crossed the bridge and found a spot a little upstream. I secreted my belongings in some bushes and went to explore Benahadux. Smaller and more old fashioned with a little town square and the characteristic coffee bar. I ordered my milky coffee from the friendly waiter. It seemed they were used to a few oddballs passing through. The caffeine perked me up. I read some more of my book but the conquests and politics were over my head. I just imagined the movements of the exotic tribes over the majestic landscape. Back down to my river for a stroll. My lump of hashish was half its original size. In a way I was relieved to get through it. Soon I could get back to sobriety. I decided not to have another smoke. I would enjoy it more in the morning. As the night came I had a clear view of the sky. I continued to map the stars until it was time to squeeze into my sleeping bag.
I awoke wondering what I was doing with my life but soon put my troubles to rest with my faithful joint. Feeling content with my spot by the river I decided to walk up to town. Up here in the secluded valley I found a relaxing rhythm. Another successful busk generated a positive vibration and the traders encouraged me to attend the next day’s market in the small town Rioja, not to be confused with La Rioja, the famous wine growing region. I once again returned to my favoured camp. Three nights at the same location was a pleasant respite. Tomorrow I would be on the move again. I loaded up a strong one and considered the lives people lead. Some would never step outside their well ordered routines. I was here and I was there and I was in between. Another timeless drift brought me back down to Earth and I headed up to the pleasant cafe in Benahadux. An old local nodded hello and I took my same seat and same coffee with milk and opened my book. Still finding the history a dense compilation of fact I followed the text like a gentle exercise in continuity occasionally finding a satisfying phrase along its course. I wondered about the great glories of victory amongst the suffering of slaughter and aftermath of crippled soldiers. The locals slammed down their playing cards with attitude as they drank their saucers of wine. It was later than usual when I returned to my domicile and I rolled out the bed and retired. I awoke early, packed up and set off. Rioja was a little quieter than the last market but still my takings were good. The traders wished me well and they would see me the next day in Gador. I returned to the river and smoked by the water. My lump of hash was only a few smokes away from disappearance. I decided to make Gador my last market and return down to the coast and continue my planned route. I was 18 kilometres away from Almeria. From Almeria to the edge of Andalucia was a hundred and twenty six kilometres. With more savings from my good run of markets and rested from long distances of cycling I was keen to complete my task. Almost.
A few days before I set off on my cycle tour I had taken a four mile walk to the village of Laraño to visit my friends Tarmin and Lippy. Their beautiful stone house with a fragrant garden was an excellent destination. We feasted on Lacon con grelos (Ham and cabbage) and drank the fine wine from Albariño. Large healthy cannabis plants grew in the garden and we smoked last year's harvest. I tried out Tarmin’s Gibson Epiphone and managed to thrash out a raucous melody. We discussed my proposed voyage and Tarmin insisted that after my journey across Aldaluçia I must surely make it across to Morocco. He told me tales of their idyllic holiday in Chefchaouen in the Rif mountains. He insisted I would cross the water as a vital step of my adventure. I remembered my promise and with twenty thousand pesetas saved I began to plan. I busked in Gador and was welcomed by the local traders. Another good day and they hoped to see me at the next market along the following day. I jovially agreed though I knew I would be heading back down to the coast. I wondered where their trade route may have taken me. By the afternoon I was back at the beach. I rolled up my last joint and admired the blue sea. Content after my inland expedition I rested in preparation for a decent stretch tomorrow. I took out my book and gazed at the pages for a while. The day cooled and the beach cleared. The stars came out and I mapped the phenomenal constellation of Leo. I slept under the clear sky and watched the heavens circle around the pole star. Early in the morning I was in the saddle again. Glad to be back to my routine I whistled down the road. My legs were keen to pace on. For hours I pedalled. I felt I could go on and on but from experience I knew that I would feel the fatigue later. I cruised past "Las Negras" where there were hippies living in the caves but my mind was on my voyage across the sea. After sixty kilometers I reached Carboneras. A beautiful town without the high rise development of the Costa del Sol. Here was a much more tranquil feeling. In the late muggy afternoon the beach was nearly empty. A naked man wandered up and down the beach and made strange expressions. I conserved my energy. Again I was blessed with another clear night. Here the stars were even brighter. My new friend Leo appeared in the sky. I was left to my empty space. I awoke feeling sober. No weed left. To counteract the rigamarole of normality I set off in a random direction. After my careful busking detour and my long leg I allowed myself to wander. The roads took me inland to rarified country. Winding lanes dipped and turned leading me into a deep ravine. Where was this diminutive road taking me? As it deepened houses appeared. Huge rounded stones lined the gorge and beneath these enormous overhangs were habitations. Painted and fashioned like normal homes yet secreted ten to twenty feet back beneath these gigantic overhangs. Shops, cars and people like any other town yet all set in these mysterious surroundings. I continued to cycle along, not sure what to make of this ominous landscape. I was stretched between complacent acceptance and doom laden trepidation. At last I passed through this daunting netherworld but still I seemed trapped in a labyrinth of passages. I stopped by a small river to compose myself. An alcove in the cliff face welcomed me to sit. Cocooned in stone I composed myself.
My exhaustion arrived. I had supplies of food and water and here in this secluded nature I rested. No sunset in this shady narrow passage and only a thin stripe of sky to see the stars. As my day darkened a figure appeared on the cliff top. A large goat was gazing down on me. Possibly I had stolen his nightly refuge. I lay down to sleep as he patiently watched. I awoke in the night with the chorus of the babbling brook. The goat had gone. I could see a few stars but not enough to define any constellation. A chill morning in the shade spurred me into action. I worked my way back to the main road and was pleased to find I had not veered too far in the wrong direction. I arrived at Los Gallardos. The fascination of my diversion had carried me along. Another 50 kilometres and I would have completed my distance across Andalucia. I was in hilly terrain. I took my time on another inland stretch. Only twelve kilometres to Vera. A fresh town to busk. A few coins, a few smiles, a shop for aliments and back into the countryside. A pleasant afternoon snack and I began a slow cycle in search of my evening refuge. Down behind a large house was an empty dog compound. I wondered where the dogs may have gone but I smelt nothing. It seemed it had been empty for a while. With a strange sense of absent company I made myself comfortable beneath the concrete esplanade. The spirit of the absent hounds gave me a cautious but calm night. Maybe they would wonder what strange smelling beast had entered their domain while they were away. Onto Calarreona, the first town in Murcia where I could congratulate myself. A pleasant town and another beautiful beach. From here I would head straight back down the coast to Algeciras and cross over to Tangier. Would I take my bicycle across the sea? Was my intrepid cycle journey to continue. I decided against it. Where would I leave my bicycle? I pondered as I headed back west along the coast road.
My new resolution took me along at a good pace and I found myself all the way back to El Calón. A quiet beach for a quiet night. With only a meagre crust of bread for supper I resigned myself to lay down to sleep still hungry. I awoke to a breakfast of water and headed on. By late morning I arrived at the coastal area of Vera. I shopped for a good portion of groceries and headed down to the beach to replenish. In the late morning the sun was shining and the beachgoers began arriving. They disrobed completely and as I began my lunch I realised this was a nudist beach. Feeling out of place in my crusty layers with my loaded bicycle by my side I finished my meal and wheeled back onto the road. I decided to cut inland once again. I meandered down the small roads and narrow ways. The evening brought me into a narrow pass where I enjoyed my solitude. The next day took me onto Venta del Pobre where I paused in the town square for my repast. Busking was off the menu as I headed back down towards Algeciras. I redirected towards the coast again to take the flattest route and enjoyed an olive grove for my night’s rest. The morning carried me back to Almeria. I ate in the square and was relieved not to see any of my drunken comrades from my recent visit. I was soon on my way again. Back along my recent route my familiarity with the curves and corners made them pass more easily. Such a temperamental soul left the dream of submergence into Andalucia and chased the coast of North Africa. The exotic Maghreb awaited. On the north coast of Morocco are the Spanish cities of Ceuta and Melilla. Though Morocco disputes their sovereignty they have been Spanish enclaves for hundreds of years before Morocco became independent from France and Spain in 1956. I chose to cross directly into the city of Tangiers. In the past an international zone but now firmly Morrocan. I still needed to cover most of my distance in return to reach Algeciras. Back through now familiar territory I prepared to leave the safety of Europe. Living frugally I reserved my savings for my voyage across the water. After days of continual cycling I paused for a busk in the busy town of Malaga. Just a casual pitch unlike my carefully planned ventures to remote markets. As I departed the town I decided to head inland and find somewhere to stow my cycle. I meandered through the hills to the small town of Ojen. An ancient Moorish settlement between the mineral rich Sierra Blanca and Sierra Alpujata. Far enough away from the tourist ravaged coast to feel welcoming. I found a pleasant camp a little up river and wandered into town to a cosy cafe that served a generous pot of coffee. Here I languished for the day before I steered my bicycle up a steep forested hillside where I locked it to a tree and secreted my panniers beneath the bushes. Free from my individualistic transport I could now take on a different pace. Back down by the river I leant against a smaller arbust. I decided to spend another day in this pleasant scene. I hid my rucksack behind a tree and decided to bury my silver flute, safe in its wooden case in the soily ground. A walk along the gravel road into town and back to the innocuous cafe. Foreigners seemed well integrated into the local community. I imagined I may have found a place in this gentle world. Comfortable with the knowledge that I now had a new dream to chase.
I had heard tales of the gullible tourists arriving in Morocco. An invitation for a tea, perhaps a more discrete venue for a smoke. Then things would get crazy away from the public eye. Inflated prices on deals they never knew they made. Beautiful rugs, sticky hashish, elaborate outfits. Whatever else may throw the innocent off course. I was not on a mission to get stoned in exotic surroundings. I wished to see the people and their culture and music. Early the next day I travelled by bus to Algeciras. I booked my crossing for the afternoon and had a few hours to wait. After a stroll around the town I relaxed in the waiting room at the ferry terminal. A morrocan man struck up a conversation with me. He asked me about my travels. I explained I had been busking across Andalucia, travelling on my bicycle and sleeping beneath the stars. He said that he used to sleep rough when he worked in Barcelona. His knees had ached in the cold and he had to get up and walk around. He didn't think I would make any money busking in Morocco but people would give me food. He advised me not to hang around in the north of Morocco but to head straight down to the south where I would find a more relaxed atmosphere. At three o’clock we departed. A couple of hours across the ocean blue and I descended into the port of Tangiers. At customs control the officials checked my arms for needle marks. Once through the barriers I was promptly approached by a man who appeared to be a casually attired policeman. In a blue leather jacket adorned with a badge of some sort he aggressively demanded an entrance payment. I rightly assumed he was a conman and continued on my way without him following. As soon as I exited the building the next hustler approached.
Now a much smoother approach was necessary. He was smartly dressed and in no way aggressive. He chatted in a friendly way. He smiled and gave me time to talk. We both knew there was some sort of game to be played out. If not him there would be another. Why not make the best of it? Where would I stay? What did I want to do in Morocco? His routine was not hard and fast. There was scope for improvisation. But he would not give up. I saw some American tourists seated on a terrace. A girl and a guy. I said hello and we struck up conversation. I sat down and ordered a tea. This was not part of my guide’s plan. He was visibly agitated. He hung around a little but as the couple told me of the reasonable accommodation they had found he decided it was no longer worth his while. He quit the scene. The Americans were not encumbered by any helpful guide. Maybe they were profiting from the tourist trade on a subtler level. We went to the hotel and they returned to their room and we agreed to meet up for some supper later. I booked in. A thousand pesetas for a room was not expensive by European standards but cheaper accommodation could surely be found. The receptionist said I would have to pay more if I brought young boys back. It was picturesque with tiled walls and a central patio with palms and a fountain. The room was basic but pleasant. I relaxed for a while and we headed out for supper.
I wanted to see some traditional music so we went to a restaurant where such a band was playing. The food was nice and the music was great. Rhythmic melodies with slurring notes on violins played like chellos and lute and percussion. The band and ourselves sat cross legged on raised cushioned floors. Though playing in the restaurant they passed a platter and we were obliged to give a note. Their low status proved their credibility as truly traditional musicians. A music for the common man played by the common man. A pleasant episode to end my long journey. We returned safely to the hotel and I enjoyed my solitary room. I awoke a happy man. Later I would leave Tangiers and voyage on but for the morning I was allowed to leave my luggage in my room while I strolled the town. Unencumbered by a heavy rucksack this scruffy westerner did not attract too much attention. Maybe this relaxed character was beginning to know the score. I checked out the Kasbah and wandered along the city’s Northern wall and gazed across the ocean towards my safe European home. Morrocans clad in hooded woolen jalabas took their time to do the same. Walking back into town was the next step on my musical quest. In my rusty french I enquired in a music shop where I might buy a book of notated Morrocan music. Here they only sold cassettes. They directed me to the Institute of Music. After twists and turns down streets and alleys I found the educational establishment. Here was the equanimity of civilised tutelage. I was greeted by an elegant fellow attired in suit and tie. We discussed my interest. Slightly bemused by this unusual alumnus he presented me with the primary text of the music Andalousse. For twenty five dirhams I could buy it. I payed up and meandered back to the hotel with my nice big blue book.
I leafed through from back to front as an arabic book is presented. On one side of the open pages was a complex arabic notation, but on the adjacent page the European solfege. Simple tunes, though unusual times signatures would not be difficult for me to play. I went to my bag to find my flute but it was not there. I realised I had left it buried beneath the tree near Ojen. I would have to return to retrieve it. I decided my stay in Morocco would not be a long one. I would not strike out to the South of Morocco but merely travel down to to the next town along the coast. I packed up and headed for the bus station. I found the stop for Houra and whiled away my time. At 12.30 we boarded. I took a seat by the window where I could appreciate the scenery for the half an hour journey but my time of placid contemplation was soon interrupted. Two youths sat nearby and began a conversation. After a polite enquiry about my journey they began to talk about Western pop music. Did I like Nirvana? I explained I was more interested in the indiginous music of Morocco. They seemed surprised I did not wish to eulogise my great western culture. The muslim religion was also falscinating to me. This did not seem to be the ground on which they wished to parlay. They tried to smooth over the impediment and steer back to their preferred subject.
We arrived at Houra and descended from the bus. They were happy to help me find accommodation. I wished to explore a little. As we wandered an associate of theirs joined our group. A small old man, grizzly and worn. The nailer. He quickly steered us to a small hotel with an ornate entrance. Various Moroccans waited to show us the rooms. He explained that fifty dirhams was a good price and I wouldnt find better elsewhere. I still wished to see the town. The youths dropped away leaving just me and the old man. I decided I would take a tea in the large cafe in the central square. He followed me in and sat at my table. There was no show of conviviality. I offered to buy him tea. He refused. He leant away from me not wishing to engage. This public place was not the arena for his activity but he doggedly stayed with his prey. I took my time but could see no way to lose him. We exited and he resumed. What was I going to do now? I continued to walk. He told me there were some English people living up on the hill. I was not tempted. His temper was running short. Impatiently he suggested that the best thing I could do was to turn around and go back to Spain. I agreed this was a good idea and decided I would take the next bus back to Tangiers. I upped my pace as I headed for the bus stop. He scurried along to keep up. On our way we passed a line of waiting taxis. He steered in front of me and insisted I take a taxi. His last ditch attempt at a sympathetic appeal to my status as a well-heeled gent. I knew for sure I was not that man. The smiling taxi driver coerced my backpack into the open boot. I stared into the bottomless black hole and pulled myself back from the brink. I strode on. Public transport would be fine.
At the bus stop he once again became the passive aggressive. The bus soon arrived and I thought this would be my escape, but as I boarded he also stepped up though he did not wish to make the journey. As I opened my purse he fiercely demanded payment. "Baggage" was his cry suggesting he had carried my luggage. He had not, nor ever offered to do so. The driver suggested I give him a couple of dirhams. He begrudgingly accepted and let me leave. A lucky escape. The breeze cooled me through the open window. Again I could peacefully gaze at the arid hillsides. A friendly passenger gently leant my way and offered me a comb to ameliorate the aggression he had witnessed. I was in no mood for interaction and declined. He left me to my contemplation. I arrived back in Tangiers and headed to the ferry terminal. A youngster proffered me money to buy western cigarettes in the duty free shop. I passed him by and entered. I whiled away a couple of hours and boarded the ferry back to Algeciras. A lonely wind carried me homeward. At twilight I descended onto familiar soil.
I walked out of town in search of a retreat. A building under construction was easy access. Exploring the bare concrete framework I found a covered corner. I sat until the darkness was complete. Ready for bed I rolled out my mat and was happy to squeeze into my bag. Down into a deep sleep. In the middle of the night I awoke to the sound of footsteps. Disturbed out of a profound dream where I still remained in Morocco. I had been there for many years. I had forgotten my own language though not learned the native tongue. Mute I sat by the roadside at the end of a line of old men passing the time. I looked at my neighbour in an effort to communicate. In my hands I held a simple bamboo flute. He gestured for me to play. The footsteps came closer. The shuffling of a dog. The beam of a torch. I remained motionless and hoped they would pass me by but the nose of the beast could not be appeased. The canine pulled the owner's lead and the torch turned the corner to illuminate the destitute. He moved the beam to assess my presence and let it fall. "You cannot sleep here". I agreed and roused myself to leave. Back on the road before the dawn. As the sun rose, comfortable on occidental land I stuck out my thumb to hitch a ride. In the fresh morning air a driver stopped and took me down the road to Estepona.
I breakfasted in a civilized cafe. I had no flute to busk. I must return to my tree by the river and dig it up. I took the bus to Marbella and walked the 8 km into the hills back to safe seclusion. My burial site was undisturbed. I secreted my bags and wandered into Ojen for a shop and a comforting coffee. I recognised the regulars and took my peaceful corner. I considered my bicycle further up the hill and allowed myself the option to bypass its recovery. Back to the river for an early nite. In the morning I dug up my flute and walked back down to Marbella. From there I took the bus to Malaga. Outside of the town was a nature reserve with large landscaped steps. I made my camp and considered my options. After a busk in Malaga I called my old school friend who was living in the South of France with his wife and children. Ever the good host he welcomed my proposal to come and visit though he may have had misgivings. Another night in the nature reserve and early down to the bus station. A 36 hour bus journey took me far away from my bicycle to Bordeaux. I put away my Spanish and revived my rusty French to travel to the small town of Aire sur L’Adour in the heart of rural Gascony.