It felt strange packing away my life into the pannier bags again. Not really concerned about evenly distributing the weight so that my bike would be balanced properly, I just threw everything in and did up the straps. Wobbling slightly, I rode to the station and asked about the next regional train to Barcelona. It didn't leave until 12.18 pm, so I had two hours to kill. With the sun peaking out between the clouds, it seemed to me like the best way for those arbitrary units of time to meet their demise would be through a farewell bike ride along the banks of the Ebro.
Barely had I gone one km when I spotted a big Sunday market. Thinking that there might be some churros to be found, I launched myself into the mass of people thronging around. Sadly there were no such artery thickening treats available, but there were lots of cheap and nasty wares to browse through! I bought myself some new underwear, a very daggy pair of tracky dacks, some gloves, a pair of pliers and some nail clippers before the fatigue of pushing my bike through the crowds wore through my resolve to visit every stall there was. By then it was nearing 12, so I headed back to the station, got through the security screening (the nail clippers didn't pose a threat apparently) and hopped on the train.
The scenery passed quickly before my eyes, and I found myself unconsciously appraising the terrain for suitable stealth camping sites. There was no shortage of well hidden spots on the strip of land adjacent to the rails, but I suspect that the proximity to the train line might not be very conducive to a good night's sleep. Still, the desolate and undeveloped landscape appealed to me. Reminiscing, I decided that this part of central Spain had something special about it to attract cycle tourists. Following the coast had been nice climate wise, but it all felt a little commercial and overbuilt. Here, far off the beaten tourist track, I felt like the spirit of adventure still existed in some way. The harsh cliff faces and the many crumbling peasant huts hearkened back to an earlier age where things were simultaneously simpler and more difficult.
I had no idea how long the train would take, not having bothered to ask before I got on board. It's only 300km east to Barcelona as the crow flies, so I was expecting to be there in not much than three hours. I was therefore a little surprised when I looked up from my laptop and discovered that we were in Tarragona, which is a long way south of Barcelona. “What kind of a route is that?” I wondered and mentally added a few hours to the ETA. Once in Barcelona, I wanted to take a night train to Zurich that would bring me within spitting distance of Germany. If all went well, I'd be in Deutschland the next day. It left at 7.55pm, so I'd still have plenty of time to make the connection despite the very indirect route the regional train was taking.
We ended up arriving in Barcelona around 5:30 PM. I didn't know what station to get off at (there were three apparently), so I just chose the first one, and madly rushed around trying to get all my belongings off the train before it went on. Upstairs, there was more rushing as the men manning the information booth urged me to take the lift back down and get on yet another regional train that was about to leave. Trusting that they knew what they were talking about, I went back down, lay my bike on the floor of the train where it would cause maximum inconvenience to people entering and exiting and made myself comfortable.
Pretty soon it became obvious to me that we were leaving Barcelona. Doubt assailed me, and I looked around for a conductor to ask, but there was no-one. 'Just relax', I told myself and turned on my MP3 player to try and dispel the evil thoughts lurking in my head, telling me that I'd gotten on the wrong train and was heading back down the coast towards Gibraltar.
Luckily I hadn't, because after a time, we reached Girona, which was one of the stopping points for the train to Zurich. I could've gotten off, but decided to stick it out until Cerberes like I'd been advised. A conductor finally showed up, and confirmed that I should stay on til Cerberes, but started me off on a whole new round of worrying when he told me that we were still two hours away. The train to Zurich would have left Barcelona by then! It was a race between the RENFE high velocity express train and the slow as hell Regional train. Hopefully the headstart I had would be enough!
Shortly before eight we pulled into Cerberes. I hadn't even realised it, but in the process I'd crossed into France. The pronunciation of the name should have given it away, but I didn't twig until I heard the distinctive (and very annoying) tone that marks the start of an announcement at French railway stations. Woohoo, making progress here! I bumped my way down the stairs (no concessions were made for the disabled or for heavily loaded touring cyclists) and inquired in very bad French (which involved the use of several Spanish words before it disintegrated completely into English) about the train to Zurich. There wasn't one, she said, but there was a night train to Strasbourg I could take. That would do just as well, and it was only going to cost me one euro fifty too (for a seat not a sleeper), roughly forty times cheaper than the 'hotel train' to Zurich.
I had twelve minutes til the train left, and of course, as it always is with me and French trains, it turned into a very close affair. After dragging my things up the stairs with the help of a nice French girl, I got the assistance of a young conductor who listened to my poorly worded request for a place for my velo before replying in perfect English. He walked me all the way up the other end of the train and helped me lug everything on board. About thirty seconds after I'd sat down in the closest seat (ignoring my reservation completely), we were off. Phew!
It was a fairly uncomfortable journey. I can see now why people are prepared to fork out extra for a sleeper. It's just impossible to sleep properly in the 'Super reclining' seats. I nodded off a few times, but always woke up as soon as we pulled into the next station and a rush of cold air blew into the cabin. It didn't help that I was starting to show symptoms of a fairly serious cold, coughing and rapidly eating (metaphorically) through my box of tissues.
As daybreak arrived, my eyes were treated to the lovely sight of a snow covered landscape. The rain that had been falling in Cerberes had become snowflakes in the colder conditions up North and I was glad. This was the Europe I had come to love. Not so good for bike touring, but for skiing and general aesthetic purposes, it is marvelous.
At nine am, slightly delayed by the adverse weather conditions, I arrived in Strasbourg. Somewhat naievely, I tried immediately to get on an express train to Stuttgart, but was told in no uncertain terms (in three languages) by the conductor that I was not getting my bike on the train without a reservation. Retreating to the ticket office, I first forked over 15 euros for a reservation before discovering that there was a regional train to Offenberg, Germany that would cost me nothing. “Can I have a refund please?”
Three train rides, two pretzels and one warning to get a ticket for my bike later, I was in Bad Teinach, where I planned to ride unannounced (I'd tried calling, but couldn't reach anyone) to the home of the Dietrich Family. I've formed a close connection with them after WWOOFing (volunteering one's labour in exchange for food and board – Willing Workers on Organic Farms) on their farm for two weeks the year before and having no accommodation organised, I thought I'd see if they'd mind me staying a night or two.
Taking most of my warm clothes off in anticipation of the steep climb ahead of me, I rode three km uphill to Zavelstein. It was a lovely ride through the Black Forest, and I barely felt the cold with the afternoon sun shining down on me. That said, I probably would not have ridden up there, had I known that Alt Bulach, the town where I wanted to go, was in the other direction. After receiving that news from two decorators ('Total falsch'), I streaked back down the hill at 50kph and turned left at the bottom, ready to start all over again on the even steeper ascent to Alt Bulach. Coughing and spluttering, I tried to spin in first gear, but my drive chain wasn't behaving, so I had to shift up a bit and climb out of the saddle. Thankfully it was only two km and soon I was in familiar territory, going past a spot in the forest where I'd gathered wood a year ago while WWOOFing.
Coming into the town, I saw three figures on horses and of course it was Sigrid Dietrich and two young girls who she was giving riding lessons. Beaming broadly, I called out to her, and without a trace of surprise in her voice, she replied with 'Why that looks like Jeremy. Martin and Luke are back at the house, why don't you head on over?' Ah so Luke was still here, fantastic:) I wasn't sure when he was leaving on his tour (by train) around Germany, so it was great to learn that I'd get a chance to catch up with him beforehand.
Arriving at the house, I spotted 'Opa' (Grandad) Dietrich out the front. He's always great fun, and after we had a chat, he asked me if I wanted to play a practical joke on Luke. Unable to resist, I watched on as he went inside, told Luke that there was a strange man waiting outside who he didn't recognise and asked him to go out and take a look. I'm not sure what was going through Luke's mind as he poked his head out the door, it was probably one of the strangest WWOOFing tasks he'd had yet:P
After he'd gotten over the shock and given me an über-hetero man hug, I boasted unashamedly about my skill in navigating the European train system. It had taken him three and a half days and something like seventy euros to get back to Alt Bulach, but I'd managed it in just over a day (27 hours to be precise), having spent the princely sum of one euro fifty!
That night (having been graciously invited to stay by the Dietriches), Luke and I swapped stories of what we'd experienced over the last three weeks while having another shot at cooking vegetable Paella. It turned out quite well in spite of the paucity of suitable ingredients, but I found it quite tricky to eat, all the coughing having worn my throat raw, making it torture to swallow.
It really sucks getting sick again literally one day after I'd recovered from the food poisoning incident, but I guess it isn't very surprising. My immune system would've already been pretty battered from the cycling, so the stress of the stomach bug probably obliterated it completely. It's not fun at all, this is definitely the worst cold I've ever had.
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