The last few days of riding have obviously not taxed my legs much at all, because I had another great run this morning, charging up the hills with a power I thought beyond me. I left the campground fairly early, pausing only to have an enjoyable conversation with an Italian guy who'd done some touring himself. Then it was onto the autovia, braving the early morning traffic to try to get the hell out of this neck of the woods and onto roads that are more hospitable to cyclists.
The bike didn't feel that well balanced for some reason. Maybe I hadn't packed the panniers very well or something like that because I was wobbling all over the place. I wasn't feeling very safe riding on the autovia, where you really have to hold your line perfectly to avoid being smacked into, so I got onto the footpath next to it, which was probably just as unsafe because I came very near to hitting a light pole on quite a few occasions. After giving my tyres a shot of air at the service station, I felt a bit more sturdy and got back on the highway for the five km until the city of Marbella.
Seeing the coast open up a little bit, I sidled down to the beach and rode along the paths there. It was a lot nicer than riding on the autovia, I can tell you that. I did feel a bit out of place though on the 'Golden mile'. From what I can gather, Marbella is a bit of a haven for rich ex-pats. There were certainly a lot of palatial villas on the beachfront. The path lasted about five km before it became completely choked with sand. I whispered a sad goodbye and crept back onto the highway.
There were only fifty km until the camping ground I wanted to stop. It wouldn't be very pleasant, but if I pushed, I could get there while it was still early afternoon and maybe have a chance to visit the rock of Gibraltar if I was lucky. Excited by that prospect, I put in a bit of effort, surprised at how much power I still had in my legs after yesterday's efforts.
Twenty km later, I hit the city of Guardario, where some confusing signage convinced me to get off the autovia, when I actually should've stayed on it. After using side roads for a while, I found a way back on, and was about ready to pull into a lane, when I spotted two policemen on the side of the road. The prospect of being pulled over by two Spanish cops, convinced I had shown a flagrant disregard for their authority, didn't really appeal to me, so I pretended to ask for directions, knowing full well that the autovia was the road I had to take. They basically just said 'Right here buddy', pointing at the highway, and waved me off.
From then on, (well actually the whole time I was on the autovia), it was just about counting down the kms. My pannier, on which I painted “The journey is the destination” in fluro green, would not be impressed with such an approach to touring, but right at that point, the journey was a lot less interesting than the destination. My ETA (Estimated Time of Arrival) turned out to be a bit optimistic due to a few tough climbs, but in spite of that, it was only about 3.15 pm when I spotted a sign for the campground. Whoopee, no more autovia! I turned off, followed the first sign to the campsite, and then got a bit confused. Where was this place?
There was a 'golf resort' to the left, but somehow I had a feeling that the clientèle there would not acquiesce to living within spitting distance of a campground, so it probably wasn't down that way. When I went the other way though, I couldn't see any other option. I didn't go all the way down the service road, but it looked very much like the road joined up to the autovia again after a short downhill, and I really didn't feel like climbing up again, so I wrote it off and rode back down to the golf resort. After asking first at a cafe (where they were rather snooty towards me) and then at the barred gateway to the gated community (where the security guard was in fact very nice), I received the advice that it was indeed up the other way.
“The first turnoff”, the guard had said, so I climbed back up the steep hill, and turned into the first turnoff. It looked quite like a farm, but there was a faded emblem on the wall of the building that might have said 'Camping' at some distant point in the past, and the gate opened when I tried it, so I went in. The building that might once have been the reception for a campground was in a rather advanced state of repair. It was clear no-one had been there in some time. There were some cows in the field across from the building, but apart from that, the place looked completely deserted.
I had a good look around, and had to admit, that while it didn't look like a campsite, there were quite a few places, which would be very suitable for stealth camping. 'I'll just go down that road there and see if there's anyone I can ask'. There didn't appear to be, so I decided, what the hell, I'll just camp here. I really didn't want to ride any further, and it looked like it was about to rain, so it was quite ideal.
Being careful to avoid stepping on the many cow pats that covered the place, I followed a little path up next to some kind of automatic telephone exchange facility, and discovered an alcove, completely shielded from view from all sides. It looked like it would do very nicely, so I dragged all my things up and set up the tent just in time to avoid the drizzle that was beginning.
By then it was about 4.30, definitely one of the earliest finishes I've had throughout the tour. Getting to Gibraltar was probably out of the question given that I was stealthing, but at least I'd have plenty of time to catch up with the journal. I went for a run first, staying within the grounds of the property, and in the process discovering that there was actually a house a bit further down the road that led from the gate. I'd already invested too much to risk asking for permission, so I ran back up, hoping no-one had seen me, and restricted the rest of the run to the upper part of the property.
I went to sleep very early, suppressing fears of shotgun wielding farmers ripping open the tent fly and roaring at me to get the hell out of there.
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