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Internetcafé
along the way, Torre del Mar 27-10-2006
Peniche to Lisbon (2 cycle days; 113km;
1350m)
Peniche to Ericeira (62km)
was a hell's day of riding. I could have
handled the steepness of the hills, the gale force headwinds
or even the arrogant, road greedy truck drivers that
continually pushed us off the road or drove so close
that you got sucked along in their stream (very scary
indeed). But when it began to piss with rain going up
the 12% hill just before reaching our destination, I
had had it! I screamed as loud and hard as I could.
I let everything out and it's these times that you wonder
what the dickens you are doing. Riding a bike around
the world. What an idiot! But soon after these moments
of despair, when you've calmed down you know exactly
why. Can't explain this in words yet but that'll come.
The camping in Ericeira was super and had every possible
amenity to make camping comfortable and pleasant. And
it was certainly needed that evening because it stormed
a beauty. We resorted to a cold dinner of cheese, olives,
apple salad and bread in the tent because there was
no chance to light the cooker. The next day was calm,
pleasant and sunny and we had a easy trip into
Lisbon (51km). Passing through the outskirts
you witnessed the rather unpleasant sights of a big
city's poverty. Two days later we took the bus into
the city and the route took us through a much more affluent
area. Everything was neat, tidy and well arranged. It
was so apparent that there are the well off and the
not so well off in Portugal. And there's a huge gap
between the two.
The campsite (half hour ride by bus
from the city itself) was surprisingly okay except the
stench from the toilet blocks and outrageous prices
in the supermercado (supermarket). We travelled into
the outskirts of the city the next day to get Ali's
eyelets welded back on his bike. We ended up in the
back streets at a car mechanics and Tiago, the brother
of the bike repair shop owner and while chatting away
in brilliant English, happily welded and sprayed Ali's
bike back together. Lonely Planet warns that you need
to take everything with you into Portugal but this is
not true at all. There a plenty of trendy mountain bike
shops in the cities with prices to match and even a
few in the smallest of towns. Secondly, you can purchase
standard parts from the chain stores: Sportzone or Decathlon.
We visited the centre of Lisbon on a Thursday, which
unbeknown to us was a day when all the shops are shut.
Still haven't worked that one out yet? There was a demonstration
in the late afternoon and of course this disrupted the
transport system so that we arrived home very late to
cook in the dark. We had a nice break there for 4 nights
before heading on down the coast. The weather had also
held for the complete stay.
Lisbon to Olhão
(5 cycle days; 364km;2373m)
Getting out of Lisbon was easy. There
was another demonstration and the road blocks meant
we had to weave in and out of traffic queues, pedestrians
and footpaths. Still it took us just over 30 minutes
to reach the ferry terminal that took us to Barreiro.
From there we cycled into Setubal
(51km) and decided to pitch
tent early that day. There were two campsites just out
of town (Outão) and we chose the one on the beachfront.
Don't know what the other one was like but it couldn't
get much worse than the one we were at. The whole site
was full of permanent vans with attached tents and there
were only about four spots to choose from; all in the
blazing sun and with no tree in sight. No-one smiled
at us at this campsite. The outsider syndrome! Anyway,
we wanted to update the web site and check our mails
so off into town we went with the hope of finding an
internet café. After a lot of biking around and
yet again following directions from misinformed tourist
office employees we finally went to a copy-shop that
we had spotted on the way into town. Unfortunately,
after a couple of tries (our Lacie not recognised),
we abandoned this plan and ended up on a terrace sipping
an ice cold beer out of the bottle because the glasses
looked as though they had been rolled in fat. And the
Lonely Planet recommends this town if you really want
to see Portugal for what it is! We left as soon as we
could the next day.
We needed to catch a ferry to the Troia
Peninsula and met a couple of Spanish guys (George and
Michael) on lightly packed bikes heading towards Seville.
They recommended Porto Covo (96km)
and so we decided to see what was on offer there. The
trip was very boring. No where to stop along the way
and nothing of interest to see but pine forests, military
fences, shrubs, more shrubs and sand. As consolation,
the roads were good. I found it rather frustrating that
the beachfront was only a kilometre away or so. One
break in the boredom was the majestic image of storks
standing on top of their almost human-size nests on
the uppermost perch of buildings and electricity masts.
The last stretch of road into Porto Covo was dangerously
narrow for us and obviously frustrating for some of
the very impatient drivers. We reached the campsite
early enough and were once again disappointed by the
lack of good pitches available for tents. Everything
is geared towards camper vans and caravans and it's
beginning to become extremely annoying. To further taint
our freedom; light is out really early now (7.30pm)
and is still dark when we get up in the morning; 7.30am
and stays that way until about 8am. Makes it difficult
to achieve a lot in one day, when most of the day is
taken up with riding. Next stop was Lagos
(116km) Weather was beautiful and it
was also quite a hilly ride (911m). We got into town
really late, did some shopping at my favourite store;
Pingo Doce and then followed a sign
to a campsite that no longer existed (down a 17% hill
that Ali had to cycle back up again afterwards. I had
waited on top). Rather dubiously, we took the other
sign in the other direction but this time it did lead
to a campsite. Again a stretch of rocks and sand with
a price tag for those seeking refuge for the night.
Lots of Australians backpacking and tenting it around
Europe!
The next campsite was even worse: Armação
de Pêra (42km). This town was obviously
catering for the British tourist with bars offering
fish and chips on Friday, roast beef on Sunday and full
English breakfasts available all day long. The beach
was pretty okay, if you don't mind deck chairs and umbrellas
lining the waterside. Our luck with campsites changed
the next day when we arrived in Olhão
(62km). Well equipped, pleasant and helpful
staff, oldish but very clean amenities, internet service
and local priced bar and restaurant facilities. Nice
sites with lots of trees. We managed to find a fairly
quiet area with a flat piece of turf to camp on but
towards the end of our stay it became more raucous with
the addition of a Spanish family and several overly
large camper trucks from The Netherlands with attention
seeking occupants. We had chosen an opportune moment
to leave. Met a Dutch couple a few days later in El
Rocio who had camped close to where we were and left
after one day because it was too busy for them.
Ou
cycling trip through Portugal: click HERE to view a
larger map and more details
Olhão to Tarifa
(6 cycle days; 1 rest day; 477km; 2105m)
We only needed to cycle 45
km's to reach Monte Gordo
near the ferry crossing on the border of Portugal and
Spain. This would have been the worse campsite ever
except for the fact that the next day we stumbled upon
the most slimiest and grottiest of all places I have
ever dared set foot in. We had decided not to mention
bad places but besides the fact that it cost an outrageous
15 euros a night, this one is really a health hazard.
So our message is: stay clear of Mazagon
(95km). Camp wild; go four kilometres
further on to the next site; use one of the cardboard
boxes on the roadside; do anything but stay here. The
ride that day had revealed both sides of the scale.
We had rain and sunshine, very good and extremely bad
roads, cycle paths and highways, nature and enough industry
to remove most of your nose hairs in one sniff. We first
stopped at a campsite about 30kms earlier but they wanted
21 euros (2/3rds of our budget) for a sand pit. Although
it was spick and span and 4pm, we promptly left and
decided to take pot luck. And that's what we go for
sure. The next morning it bucketed down; enough to keep
us in our tent until 10.30am. Upon exiting, we were
amazed that our spot was surprisingly dry. All around
us however, the puddles reflected the blue and green
tarpaulins from the permanent erections that filled
the place. Half were for sale if that gives you an indication
of the state of affairs. So it was a very late start
(around 12pm) and we reached El Rocio
after a very easy 42kms. The
whole way we were heading towards a little patch of
blue in the sky, while all around us the greyness continued
to close in. The landscape was dry and quite barren
except for olive tree groves that went on further than
my eyes could see. We managed to get the tent up and
have a shower before we realised that the 13 days of
glorious sunshine were over. It bucketed again and well
into the next day with thunder and lightning and all
the other noises that go along with a storm. We exchanged
travel stories with some very interesting couples; all
from The Netherlands. El Rocio is just as its name suggests:
a town where all the roads are dirt and the houses resemble
a western town out of High Noon. At the weekends they
all come out and play cowboys. Unfortunately, we didn't
get to witness this act of frivolity as it was the beginning
of the week and seeing as there was not much more to
experience there, we moved on after the habitual morning
shower the next day to Dos Hermanas (107km).
You couldn't have asked for a more contrasting image;
a town of complete renovation. New apartments and buildings
going up in every corner possible. All of this was happening
around a city centre where you could easily get lost
in the one-way cobbled streets. There's a lack of supermarkets
and bread shops and we experienced the annoyance of
the Spanish opening hours once again. You really have
to be prepared in this country. Most shops close at
1 or 2 pm and don't open again until 5.30pm. When it
gets dark at 7.30pm, this doesn't give you much time
to cycle into town, shop, shower and then prepare and
eat the evening meal. I wanted to stop and do some washing,
chores and the usual garb that comes with travelling
on the road but Ali promised me that we would reach
a beachfront the next day and we could relax in the
sun on sandy shores. He was right about the beach bit
but unfortunately the weather didn't permit the sun
baking (not that there has ever been time for that so
far in our trip) The journey to El Peurto
de Santa Maria (107km) was very hard work.
Despite the fact that I had two flats within half an
hour and my bottom bracket nearly fell out and it felt
like I was pushing a lump of sponge along the highway,
we managed the distance in reasonable time. It was however,
highway in every sense of the word. Triple lanes and
raging traffic. Having to come to a complete stop to
cross lanes on numerous occasions because the vehicles
were constantly roaring past at well over 100kms/hour.
It was exhilarating to say the least and when we reached
the well manicured campsite we were both pretty exhausted.
I can't remember falling asleep that night but I do
remember enjoying every moment of rest. The next day
was spent trying to find a bike shop to replace my bottom
bracket and again the opening hours stopped us from
achieving everything we wanted to do. Luckily, the bike
shop managed in their busy schedule to fix my bike,
which meant we could leave the next day. Tarifa
(108 km) is, according to the Lonely Planet,
a Bohemian town. My experience is that it is more of
a yuppie, dreadlocked kite surfers town with a few other
normal people camping overnight before venturing further
along the coast or jumping continents to Morocco. We
met Lucas here. Also another cyclist, but heading towards
Africa. It was the first time that we faced the chance
to radically change our plans. What if we turned the
applecart upside down and decided to go to Morocco and
travel down through Africa. I mean, what is stopping
us? We did think about it and I even planned a route
backwards from Brazil and through America and into Asia;
then Indonesia to Australia. But then we would miss
out Italy, Greece, Turkey, Iran, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan
and well ...we'd really like to see these places as
well. So it's on with the original plan. Tomorrow away.
Heading towards Malaga and then on to Alicante for a
long earned rest. Well at least that was the plan. However,
it poured from mid afternoon on the 23rd until 12pm
the next day and we were stranded once again. The camping
just out of Tarifa is pretty okay though with some well
seasoned travellers with an experience or two to relive.
Some of these guys have been on the road forever. Hope
we can hit it tomorrow.
Camping
Bella Vista [website]
Águilas
03-11-2006
Definitely not a cyclists dream: Tarifa to Puerto
Motril (3 cycling days, 261km, 2065m)
There's no cycling info here because I
wouldn't recommend this section of Spain to my worst
enemy. You are forced to use the highways (Only the
autovia's). There are no alternative routes and the
drivers are impatient and have little respect for anyone
else but themselves. I have never been so scared nor
felt so helpless in my whole life. Worse still, I couldn't
have imagined that I would have been faced with this
attitude so early on in the trip. We've cycled in South
East Asia and read and heard first hand stories from
others about the pecking order of cyclists there and
in most second and third world countries. Just wouldn't
have imagined that this mind-set was here as well.
Since the rain in Tarifa, I have been
grumpier and grumpier about the weather and looking
back on it a little unfair on Ali, who is the eternal
optimist. It's just that, I thought it would have been
fairly smooth sailing at this stage in our travels.
Sunny beaches, white sand, great summer weather and
after a hard days work which I've never minded at all,
relaxing by the tent in the evenings. Sure it's got
to rain every now and again because that's life. But
if you've been following our story you will have realised
this picture is far from reality. Luckily enough, Tarifa
was a nice place to camp and we could relax in the bar
while the showers continued. On the down side, there
was the enormous price tag of twenty euros a night for
this patch of grass. In addition to that, you have to
pay for your bicycles in Southern Spain. We have only
experienced that once in our travels, up until now.
Down right cheeky really. In fact, it cost more in Tarifa
for two persons, a tent and two bikes than it did for
two persons with a caravan laden with bikes on the back.
As soon as the guy at reception realised this, he charged
us the same as the latter package. Sorry, but something
just doesn't add up there.
Anyway to stop me from being a right
proper pain for the entire trip, the sun shone as we
left Tarifa and we pushed up a couple of quite easy
passes. All the while, I was panging to see something
different. Something non-European. Something exotic.
And maybe it was my saddened feeling about not opting
for Africa that triggered the events that followed.
Ali would say that's rubbish and that there's no such
thing as fate. I on the other hand, don't really know
anymore. That day, we nearly died twice on the highways
due to a couple of insane drivers with radical manoeuvring
tactics at exit lanes. Ali skidded in some oil on a
round-about just before Algeciras and ended up flat
in the middle of the road, minus his packs on one side.
One Ortlieb bag didn't stand up to the skid as well
as his minor-grazed knee and I'm afraid, the holes are
a firm reminder that our gear is not as sturdy as all
the adverts make out. Mid afternoon and well past the
Rock of Gibraltar, we were cycling like mad to try and
outride the black skies coming in from behind us. Our
efforts were in vain and within seconds it was as if
someone was throwing buckets of water over you at close
range. Going down a hill, with this sort of rain means
the brakes don't really work and it's hang on for dear
life until the well appreciated bus stop, where I chucked
another wobbly. After the ferocity had died down a bit,
we cycled on in the drizzle for the rest of the afternoon
until the timely stop under a viaduct that prevented
us from getting even wetter than we already were. Our
main concern now was that it was getting dark and we
still hadn't shopped or found the campsite.
A quick detour through the town to
the tourist bureau and then we were heading back out
again towards the highway. The roads were incredibly
busy (peak hour) and rain filled potholes indistinguishable.
Ali hit one at a decent speed and his other backpack
flew off. Luckily enough, on the side of the street
and at one of those moments when I wasn't sitting right
behind him. We pulled up on the sidewalk to repack his
gear and noticed a female proprietor anxiously pacing
under the canope of her fancy shoe shop. She looked
most uncomfortable that we had placed ourselves in close
proximity to her store. Bad for business I suppose and
to be honest we must have looked a sight; saturated
from the days downpours, mud from head to toe, collected
off the highways and our bikes in literally the same
condition.
There were 3 campsites in this area:
the first 8 km out of town and a ridiculous 25 euros/night
looked dark and dismal and so we after a few supplies
from the Spanish equivalent of a 7-11 (SuperCor), we
ventured on in the drizzle. We arrived, relieved at
the next site, 4 km further on to be told that we couldn't
camp there. They had a policy of not accepting tents
in the winter season. The woman explained that they
didn't want to take responsibility for what may happen
to us during a storm and according to her it could rain
"ooh la la" there. Well according to this
cyclist it rains "ooh la la" all over Europe!
And on that note we have to give our Helsport
tent a 10 out of 10 score. It has kept us dry through
some of the strongest storms. Of course, the campsite
owner wanted to earn money. So, after Ali diplomatically
and charmingly explained that it may have escaped her
attention that we were on bicycles, it was dark and
that we couldn't go on any further, they took our 14
euros and let us stay. But only at our own risk! We
pitched in yet another gravel/rock pit and very willingly
went to sleep after warm veggie soup, bread, chocolate
and reliving the day's danger moments.
A visit to the periodontist
The next day had a promising air about it. The weather
had broken and we only needed to find somewhere to stay
close to Malaga because I had the first of my 4-monthly
checkups with a periodontist on the following morning
at 9am. I had been dreading this bit since I found out
the news about my teeth in August last year, but it
was all relatively simple to organise. I e-mailed a
clinic that I found on the internet in Tarifa and mentioned
that I would be in Malaga on the Thursday or Friday.
I received a prompt reply the next day that an appointment
had been made for me on the Friday and could I please
confirm via e-mail. After what I went through in The
Netherlands to get an appointment with a periodontist,
this was a piece of cake!
The trip was highway for the complete
37km to Torremolinos. The early arrival at the campsite
along with the warm sun and slight breeze gave Ali a
chance to repair the Ortlieb bag with bike puncture
patches and silicone and myself to do the never-ending
laundry. Situated 7 km from the city centre of Malaga
we gauged an hour would be ample time to get to the
clinic in the morning. We rose at 7am in the pitch black,
left at 8am, still in darkness and arrived rather distressed
and without a minute to spare at the clinic just after
it had begun to get light. Fourty-five minutes of cycling
in the dark across Spanish highways in peak hour traffic
is an experience I would like to forget.
After pressing the buzzer to the majestic
old building, right in the centre of Malaga, I trundled
up the staircase to the first level. I was let into
a completely different world; baby blue walls, white
ceilings with elaborate cornicing, brass fittings and
waxed wooden floorboards were a civilised break from
the mayhem I had just faced. Picture frames housed numerous
lithographs which immediately caught my eye and kept
me entertained while sitting in the glassed-off waiting
room. Behind reception hung a polished steel logo of
the business. Even the toilet was fitted with fine porcelain
and stainless steel. Not to forget the Calvin Klein
and other such brand name perfumes at your disposal.
A far cry from what I had been used to.
Adrian
Guerrero personally checked my teeth and gave me
his opinion before leaving me in the hands of one of
his hygienists. She meticulously grinded, scraped, cleaned
and polished my teeth for almost an hour. This visit
cost 65 euros. What a shame I didn't know about this
when I first moved to the Netherlands.
I stepped out of the dream world and
back onto the reality of highway N340. The drizzle started
soon after Malaga, worsened along the way and was replaced
by gale-force headwinds in the early afternoon. It made
the ride up and down the coastal region of Costa del
Sol incredibly difficult. There was a constant flow
of trucks and cars and buses and things moving faster
than you that you grew increasingly irritated by their
extreme closeness and the headwinds made, what would
normally be a fair days workout, an energy zapping experience.
At some stages, I had absolutely no control over my
bike. I had to let the wind take me and allow my balance
to keep me upright. I had been lagging well behind for
a while and was hoping to stop for something to eat
and drink. After the climb out of Nerja, when I managed
to catch up to Ali, I was rather annoyed to find that
it was the last town for quite a while. It was partly
lack of communication, stress of the full-on day, trip
to the peridontist, weather conditions and just the
sheer frustration of feeling so vulnerable in the traffic
that sparked it, but I pulled up in a parking bay and
flipped yet again.
I just couldn't see the fun in it anymore.
Personally, if I had done this alone (and that's a question
in itself), I would have jumped on a train with my bike
by now and gone somewhere else. If, every third day
or so, I saw something stunning, that blew me away or
gave me goose bumps, then it would be worth the two
days battle with traffic, highways, wind and rain. But
if I'm really honest I haven't seen much in Spain, except
the Pico's and the Pyrennees, that has really touched
me at all. The beaches along the Costa del Sol have
black sand for goodness sake and are far from spectacular.
They do however, sell everything English, German and
Dutch if that's any consolation. Everything is totally
over-developed to the max. The countryside is one huge
construction area and like the Portuguese, the Spanish
use any public space and especially roadsides as dumping
grounds. Anything that doesn't work anymore, televisions,
fridges, car parts, baby pushers, not to forget the
copious amount of plastic bottles, cans, glass, waterlogged
diapers that look like they'll explode any minute and
the days leftovers from a parkside picnic gets thrown
onto the land. The other rather alarming issue is the
amount of cadavers on the roadside that as a cyclist
you have to swerve around or you and your bike end up
in a pretty messy state. They are everywhere and some
of the sights we have witnessed are enough to give you
nightmares at night. It's quite possible that as a tourist
you'll miss this side of Spain from the air-conditioned
car or bus and you are wondering what the dickens I'm
on about. Mostly, you look above your nose to the horizon,
to where you are going and to be honest the touristy
spots are pretty clean: to give the right image, of
course. Travel a few kilometres out of there into some
of the smaller townships and it's another story. As
a cyclist your senses are heightened; you see, hear,
feel and smell almost everything.
So back to us: both, on top of a hill,
in a parking bay both feeling miserable and this time
it was Ali's turn to let it go. It was for all the same
reasons I had flipped plus the added strain of my never-ending
whinging. All he could get out between the tears was,
"I just want to enjoy myself with you!" I
felt like a right proper shit and immediately sorry
for not endeavouring to look on the bright side of life,
which he does do to perfection. From this moment on,
after cuddling him as close as I could while still perched
on my bike and repeatedly saying sorry, I promised myself
to try!
In Spain, they relentlessly beep their
horns; to say hello, let you know that they are overtaking,
relieve their frustration in a traffic jam and warn
you of danger. So you can well imagine, it's all very
confusing. Maybe it's a tonal thing and we have not
yet worked it out; but when the truck beeped his horn
from in the distance behind me I thought nothing of
it and continued to cycle along the puny gravel covered
shoulder available for slow moving traffic. The next
thing I heard was Ali screaming "quick, get off
the road Son!" I did and in just enough time to
feel the truck whisk by with only centimetres between
him and me. Had I stayed on the shoulder then I don't
think I would be writing this now. Since emotions were
high that day, the tears just flooded out. So much so,
that I had to stop because I couldn't see anymore. I
couldn't and still can't believe the arrogance of the
guy behind the wheel. What would he have done if I had
have stayed on the road? What if I didn't have space
to pull over? A little further on he would have had
to slow down for the road block. If it was his daughter
on a bicycle along the highway I'm sure he would have
made ample space for her. I guess I have to get accustomed
to it but I will never accept it for normal behaviour.
We had to pass through three tunnels
that day and it was pretty scary stuff as well. The
longest being only 650m, seemed like an eternity and
we had about 50cm to cycle on with cat eyes strategically
placed in the middle. The grates on the side were sunken
10cm below the surface so it was concentration to whole
way. Upon exiting I breathed a sigh of relief. Ali as
well, so he told me later on that night. Most of the
days events were forgotten when a truckie slowed down
and covered us by the last tunnel so we could cycle
freely through without feeling threatened by traffic
from behind. Thank you. You restored our faith in human
nature.
We arrived late in Puerto Motril and
the storm was in full swing. We had to push like crazy
to get ourselves down the hill leading into town. We
were once again disappointed at the state of the campsite
but that was only a minor detail. Our legs were aching
and we were in need of a warm meal. I smothered Ali
in kisses all night because he deserved them and said
repeatedly I was sorry. We planned our escape into the
mountains for the next day but unfortunately the storm
was still around us and forced us to stay another day
where we really didn't want to. We visited the town
of Motril and found a wifi point by the Tourist Office
so we could update the site. The next day we did make
the escape.
Granada saved our sanity
(86km; 1475m)
We should only travel in the mountains.
We seem to encounter fabulous weather when we do; the
Pyrenees; Picos and now Granada. The trip (Puerto
Motril to Granada) is not for the weak
hearted as it was a almost seven hours of climbing (more
than 50 of the total 86 km's). At some stages in the
upward journey, I was secretly hoping that it would
level off, just for a little breather but it still kept
on at between 7 and 12%. Of course you always make it
to the top. Something inside seems to keep you going,
even when you think you haven't got enough in you. At
the end of this trip I realised that we are now both
really physically fit. Mentally, I still need a bit
more work but I reckon, Ali could climb his way to heaven.
Although the day started out very overcast
and we could only see our immediate surroundings which
is a bit of a bummer when cycling in the mountains,
the weather turned out to be just perfect. Beautifully
clear blue skies, which also meant it was baking in
the sun. Constantly dripping with sweat, we needed several
water stops along the way. The first part of the day
took us through very small villages with not much sign
of life. The road was good and with very little traffic
(for Spain that is). We needed to take a stretch of
highway (10kms) to shorten the trip by 21kms or so and
in hindsight I'm not so sure which is worse. Of course,
it was just as nerve-wracking as any other Spanish highway,
except for the decent sized shoulder. Continual flow
of fast cars, trucks and buses and that irritating vhrrrmmm
rhythm they create as they incessantly fly past. We
were glad when we could turn off onto the alternative
route again. This took us up and down like a couple
of yoyos until we reached the valley just before Pto
del Suspiro del Moro. The surroundings, all day, had
been spectacular: rugged limestone rocks jutting high
into the sky and us like tiny ants crawling our way
up the side. It's these moments and you know exactly
why you are doing this. There's an amazing sense of
freedom being in such majestic nature and it makes up
for all the not so nice experiences. From then on it
was almost downhill into Granada; a modern, very fast-moving
and rather chaotic from a cyclists point of view, city.
In fact, Granada makes London seem quite orderly. It
has all the mod cons of course and a chance for us to
find some badly needed additions. First on the list
is a light that attaches to our battery. Daylight savings
has finished, so it's dark at 6.45pm and that's way
too early to get into bed, I'm afraid. We are normally
just starting to cook dinner. Also on the list are a
few bike spares and lubricant but the most challenging
quest is trying to get our Sony cybershot camera fixed.
Three pieces of dirt have managed to find their way
inside the lens and this is obviously very annoying
when trying to take a photo and not to mention the time
and energy used to photoshop it out afterwards. After
several emails and with absolutely no response from
Sony in The Netherlands (minus 10 points guys!), we
got a reply from the Spanish customer service. There's
an authorised dealer/technician in Granada, so our fingers
are crossed.
We took a day off to go and visit La
Alhambra; Moorish castle built in the 13th century and
the last one to be taken over by the Christians. Cost
ten euros each to get in but was certainly an interesting
enough visit and kept us walking around for a number
of hours. It had a certain calming effect up on the
hill and was a totally different atmosphere to the Spain
we knew below.
By the way, we found a nifty little
light for the battery which helps us see at night and
the bike bits were dead simple to obtain. The Sony story
is not as promising. Apparently, the lens needs replacing
and we are not very happy about that; 329 euros and
14 months old and we need to make a repair of more than
half the camera's value. The emails are out, but I don't
like our chances up against a multinational. Will keep
you informed.
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