This day had no climbs in it to speak of, just a pleasant stroll through the fertile fields around the abomination that is Empuriabrava. A quick bite in Castelló d’Empúries. Then back down to the coast and along the beach before heading up to Sant Pere Pescador. A nice day though longer than I originally measured. So painful at the end but, hey ho!
All the way around the bay inland past that huge hotel on the opposite coast and down a few miles. It might even rain.Presumably Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, having a ponder at the plans for the Ciutadella de Roses, a star shaped fort behind him. That Mystique has been here leaking her colouring.A little witchery hut down a lonely road. Funked it up with colourful tiles.Twenty metres away, the entrance to the wiccan protected with the arcane symbols of the Catalunya coven.What is Doh! in Spanish?Now, the frisky boys and girls do have a habit of throwing their trainers over the telephone lines, but surely steering wheels on the power lines is a step too far.Can you guess what they be for?Rocks, cliffs, floods and now cars. It seems a most perilous trip. They are stepping stones for when the road is flooded.Flat agricultural land as far as the eye can see.These concrete aqueducts are everywhere. Don’t see a mechanism for delivery other than opening the taps and inundating as per the Egyptians.The white cows live separate lives from their neighbours in an appalling apartheid situation.The brown ones. He’s come for his portrait.A huge abandoned farm that would suit Rosalinda Scarfuto, the Californian nutjob that wants to open a touchy feely art farm with major classes in colouring in. (Am I being unfair?)These two are not vain at all.Not something you meet every day on the road. A praying mantis. Hope she shuffles off before a motor scooter gets her.The last mile on this road and, it turns out, the next as well – apple trees. Literally square miles of them. They even have their own sun shades. These be golden delicious which do not feature in our homes, ‘cos Alex hates them.Again a country that cares for its ducks. Wake up UK to duck slaughter.And, of course, the bug hotels.Been at this wetland thing for an hour, miles of it but not a single duck – runover or not.Stopped for a rest and this dragon fly kept me company for a while. Flirting and touching my leg before flying off again.Finally, some big white ducks.Wild wetland ponies, a la Carmargue. Made it to the beach and pretty good it is. Acres of empty camping ground to my right, though.Back to old Roses across the bay.The river I was contemplating wading if I’d gone the total beach route. Looked doable until a yacht came up it.Another, vast acreage of temporary accommodation. This time for camper vans.I’d love to know what fruit this is,Just coming into Sant Per Pescador and it seems the fish are safe. Although, I’m sure that some gitish peeps pay so they can kill them.
Because Herman the German F’d around with the luggage transfer people by taking his taxi round this bit, I now have to find one myself to get me to the gaff. It was a nice hotel and had the necessary laundry service, but £9 per shirt, give it a rest. I was desperate though ‘cos I can’t be doing with walking in used socks.
