Cala Montgó to Torroella de Montgrí– 12th November
Let’s deal with the elephant in the room then. The worry that German Fucker and his mate Jorge put me through. Yes, there were hairy scary bits but they were nothing to what my imagination had built them up to be. I might even post – if that is the right term – on his site and tell him what a prat he is. A coolish start and under the trees and the shadow of the cliffs the sun had not yet burn the dew from the rocks. This made for quite a few slippage moments but thankfully I retained my feet. At day’s end it was 26 and in against the rockface of the mountain on the last descent, I was cooking. Had to use some of my water to soak my bounce – part of the reason I take three litres and well worth it. The path diverted significantly from the trail Nazi’s map but was no strain.
Platja Montgó and the early sun. I was feeling it. Did you know that it can take a million years for a photon to make it out from the core of the sun. It then shoots across the ninety million miles or so in eight and a bit minutes to hit my eye or reflect off the world around me and hit my eye. They bring me beauty and in doing so sacrifice themselves in my retina. Whatever is coming can’t be as bad as that Malta bit surely.The pine forest goes right to edge and so far plenty of options.Looking back to Platja Montgó.OK. As far as I can make out the worrisome bit is coming in that bit of cliff or the descent after.Ah! Bit of a landslip since the Deutsche were here, so the path’s been rerouted. look at me standing almost on the edge. Did nearly fall down a steep bit of trail though.The gun emplacement protecting the gulf of Roses. Turn inland here for the rest of the day.Three miles of this straight as a die stuff with one right angle bend. I’ve just passed a campervan nosed in to the trees and then, twenty metres further on across from it, a woman holding a yoga pose in the woods. She was balanced on the back of her head and shoulders, bent from the waist with her legs vertical, held upright against the sky. The sun was just peeking over the top of her feet. I’d like to think she gets to greet every day like that. Though she was probably cursing me and my mankers as they crunched in the gravel as I walked by. I wonder how long she could hear me for?Poor little Dutch boy has lost his drone. I suspect he was spying on the yoga woman and she burnt it from the sky with one of her power crystals.Next. Miles of this. It is a shit surface ‘cos you’re constantly having to look where to put your feet. I trip every few steps anyway. Heading up to the summit of that hill.Now we are motoring. Less rocks more soil.Now joining a path called, “The way of the wind.” I didn’t know that these lovely pine forests exist because all the oak trees have been cut down. Pines love it hot or cold it seems.There we go, the wild piggys They used to feed in the oak groves but now head into the outskirts of the towns or nick vegetables from the farms.A very large green tank. Must be water. V. Precious don’t you know.As you can see, the nipple on the tit is a fortress. I’m about sixty metres from the top of this one along a ridge to my left.Down below the gulf of Roses. I’m blowing a bit after the climb.The ridge leads to the left tit, which was hiding the whole time.All the forest that I’ve been walking through for hours.Across that plain through all those farms tomorrow. Then a finish up into the hills in the distance.Maybe I’m dreaming, but did someone ask me where Andorra was at Sunday dinner? Viola! The mountain kingdom herself trapped between Espana and La belle France.Getting to the top. It seems unreal having that way up here. A better view down and the edge of tonight’s town. Don’t believe it’s going to be that easy.The Catalunya flag. You sure as hell do not see the Spanish flag anywhere.That’s me on top of the left tit. But, of course, that means a cleavage and its a doosey. The path goes straight into that cliff.Shit and fuck! Are they taking the piss? After that ledge bit then what?About to start up. There doesn’t seem to be any other way. Unless I start down that sort of valley but nothing shows on any of the maps.I didn’t expect to be rock climbing. How are old biddies supposed to get up that? Christ! Herman the German should have said that was uncomfortable – ‘cos he’d be right. You get over the top edge and see …Weird as hell. Obs. more money than sense even back in the day.I’ve moved out of the direct sunlight so you can get a look. They must have cut the stone nearby ‘cos a mountain goat would have trouble carrying his own balls up that cliff. I really hope that the down isn’t the same. I can cope with the up by just focusing on the path in front but the down is very different.Torroella de Montgrí below. Far below.Well there’s a path of sorts. But how did the old lord of the manor get his stuff? The local merchants would have trouble getting the bread and fish, wine and wenches up that.I suppose the path has deteriorated in the centuries since, but they would have had to stop half way and have a prayer. And, of course, need to get out of the boiling sun, which is starting to get to me.The tit from the other side, doesn’t look any more inviting but I’ve finally a reasonable path.Look! Little piggy tracks.Coming into the town through the old gatehouse.The church, beside which is the old Bishop’s palace which has been turned into a lovely hotel.
Sometimes I am proud of myself. I started the day full of dread which quickly proved to have been a waste of my life, then for a half an hour had to climb a cliff face that I wasn’t expecting, certain that I was going to slip and plunge down on to the rocks below. All past now and the pain is forgotten. On to tomorrow.
