End of the Trail
Ahhh, the lovely Pyrenees. I’ve been to Spain many times, but never to the Pyrenees or Basque Country. As for the Pyrenees, they seem to me to be a combination of bits of Switzerland, the Tyrol, the Dolomites and the Maritime Alps all rolled into one. They are at once verdant and sweet valleys and craggy and dramatic rock outcroppings. The views at every turn are spectacular and I suspect we will see much more of them in the next two days. Yesterday, after doing the obligatory jaunt to Andorra to tick that travel box and do a little bit of Duty Free shopping and buying one Andorra patch to add to Steve’s impressive “I’ve Ridden the World” jacket, we headed into a short loop that was all Pyrenees. I’m reminded of our visit to the Dalmatian Coast when we left Dubrovnik and all its charm to sneak into Montenegro for a glimpse of Kotor. We may never go back to see Kotor or Andorra, but I’m glad we saw both. In some ways, both were ends of a trail in very similar manner.
Tonight we will overnight in Bielsa, which is another obscure village in the Pyrenees, slightly to the northwest of here. We have to drive around several mountains to get there, so the views should be as or more spectacular than what we saw yesterday. That is one of the best arguments for point-to-point motorcycle riding rather than stay-and-loop programs. The former is more exciting while the later is more comfortable. Speaking of comfort, I last rode the international motorcycling rails in 2019 when we all went to our Turkey extravaganza, also with Kaz and Skip. So that was three years ago. Going backwards, we did Sicily in 2018, Greece in 2017 and a few years before that, Croatia (and Montenegro, Slovenia, the Dolomites, and Bosnia-Hertzagovina). This morning I told Kim that I felt very comfortable on this ride so far (check in with me after another ten days of riding to see if that physical comfort still holds). In fact, I think I feel better and more fit to ride all day than I did at least as long ago as the Greece trip or five years ago. I suspect my back hillside workouts and losing 40 pounds over the past three years of retirement might have something to do with that. I don’t think well in cause and effect terms when it comes to my own body, but I suspect I’m right about the basis of my relative feel good of the moment.
Today’s ride has just further reinforced my commentary on the excellent infrastructure and socio-economic fabric of this country. We are in the equivalent of the Spanish Adirondacks and yet there are no signs of broke down trailer parks with rusting cars in the yard and there are no destitute and aimless indigenous people wandering into the convenience store to buy their dinner with food stamps. Instead there are neat and tidy villages connected by roads that are actually well maintained and not pothole-strewn. The road crew workmen are all dressed in hi-viz yellow and seem to know what they are ding and are doing it well. There are not twice as many flag men as are needed and from the look of the recently completed work on these alpine roads that hug the craggy hillsides, and the extensive and well-lit tunnels at every turn, they have some significant civil engineering chops as well.
At one point we had to stop in a deep canyon beside a raging stream. The weather was so pleasant, it made for a nice break for twenty minutes. They seemed to be getting out ahead of their roadwork needs, building massive stone walls that looked like they would last a century or two. In the European timeframe context, that is par for the course. Everything here seems built of stone and made to last for many years. When we finally got our turn to go through the narrow and under-construction canyon, the crew had gone for lunch at the very spot down the road where we stopped for our lunch. They all looked neat and clean and seemed to be welcomed by the local cafe. It reminded me of the old American depression-era Civilian Conservation Corps of the 1930’s, who went around building public works like stone bridges and retaining walls. We got things done quickly and to last and gave decent wages to men who needed work. It was a good deal for everyone and not only got the short run economy on its feet, but it made America strong by giving it a meaningful infrastructure base.
After lunch on a delightful terrace with views in every direction of the surrounding peaks, we headed up the road towards the French border. As the roads got narrower and the mountains seemed to close in tighter to us, I couldn’t help but think about all those WWII movies like The Great Escape, where someone like James Coburn rides a bicycle from Paris down to the Spanish border and then hikes across the Pyrenees to freedom with the help of the Spanish resistance. This is a very romantic place and riding it in crisp and clear early Fall weather is like a dream come true. We have waited COVID out for three years to do this ride and so far it has been worth every bit of the wait.
As we approached Bielsa, the area got more and more authentic-feeling until finally we got stopped right in our tracks by a group of local shepherds bringing a flock of perhaps 500 sheep up the road presumably to another pasture. They were a mix of ewes and rams with about half of them with large brass bells and collars around their necks clanking as they walked. We aren’t talking about little bells, but rather big cowbells that were as large a ten inches wide. They were being driven from the back by young shepherds and out front was the wizened old head shepherd with his two sheep dogs. These sheep acted like….sheep…. in that they plowed forward bumping into anything, including us, that was in their way. After the jostling, we got on our way and wound our way through the town of Bielsa to head up the long box canyon that looks at its top like a scene strait out of The Sound of Music. The Hotel Parador, where we are staying, has that Berchtesgaden look in a sort of secluded Eagles Nest look and feel.
Today’s ride has taken us to a place just a stone’s throw from the French border. I imagine that if we were inclined to hike up the mountain, we could cross the frontier like those freedom fighters of yore. This place is truly the end of the trail of the Pyrenees for us as we head down the mountain tomorrow and across the hilly midsection of the north country towards Pamplona and the start of southern Basque Country. Today we were caught in the Bielsa rush hour and the running of the sheep, so it seems only appropriate that tomorrow we may be imagining the running of the bulls through Pamplona.
P.S. No sheep were harmed in the making of this tale.