Its a beautiful day



Looking east from Portillo de Busto along the Montes de Obarenes



Its just a perfect day for cycling today (how many more song titles can we fit in Jer?! answers below on the obligatory post card), no wind, which is almost unheard of here in Burgos where I had to invent a new form of cycling called bici y tren, or bike and train, to overcome the howling gale that normally prevails, gloriously sunny and with that wonderfull clarity of light that winter brings and gives you views to die for all over the shop.

 

I believe that cycling is a rite. A series of rituals. It’s a bloody right too, and don’t let any four wheel based bastard tell you anything different ……. But back to the Buddism, the cycles, the rituals, the Zen, the mechanics of it all (all right, its broadened to books too). If I do a certain route I have little habits that have to be observed. Like turning prayer wheels, only they’re bike wheels. Kinda like songlines, singing the route out for me ………

So, f’rinstance, this route involves giving it some welly up the climb out of Riocereza, the beautifully named village of Cherry river. Pausing on the top to gaze at the whole of the intriguingly named Demanding mountains. Popping into Lences to admire the church and the bridge, if not the bar - inside and out; inside if its winter, outside under the succulent shade of the spreading vine in summer. In Oña its obligatory to consume a wonderful creation called either a Choripan (literally a chorizo sausage baked in bread; all the juices ooze out and infest the bread) or a Preñao, the bread being pregnant with the chorizo; depending on whether you’re in the Basque country or Asturias; as we’re in Burgos this can be confusing. This particular part of the rite is interchangeable in winter with the consumption of a Morcilla sandwich, Morcilla being what you and I would call Black Pudding. There is a further confusion as here the sandwich will be filled with Morcilla de Burgos, not to be confused with Morcilla de Asturias, and made with the vital ingredient of rice. Fancy, butch Black Pudding with Nancy boy vegetarian Buddist rice. Its an acquired taste. And I’ve definitely acquired it. what’s more its perfect cycling food! All yer carbs and pure protein thrown in.

Perfect plate!

Then its off again past the Guardia Civil station, who had the nerve to come and ask for my passport and get stroppy cos I didn’t have it when we all took over the youth hostel one perishin (it was blowin’ snow flurries when I set off home, all the others being encumbered with kids and cars) w/end last winter; words were had, I can tell you! Turn right and off up one of my two fave bits of road in all the province. The other is close by in las Caderechas. In the first village I usually have to stop and grieve over “my house” which was simply beyond my financial resources and then got sold. Buggers haven’t done bugger all with it! what can you do eh? Then its on to Barcenas, sometimes its necessary to stop and chat there, as we did today, David and I, with a lovely chap of a certain age who had left the village at a young age to work in the Basque country. He was forthrightly championing the joys of multilingualism, and the teaching and speaking of Euskera (Basque) in particular. Given the rivalry and suspicion that exists between Burgos and the Basque country in general, despite, or because of their being next door to one another and the interchange of population that brings, it was heart-warming to hear him express such views openly and without fear in the middle of the street. A life lived in exile, comments David, often leads to openness.

Encantapajaros

In la Aldea Portillo de Busto, I sometimes go to admire the “encantapajaros”. A play on the word espantapajaros or, scarecrow; espanta is scare, while encanta is enchant. So the birds will be enchanted rather than scared. The first time I climbed up from the beautiful castled village of Frias beside the Ebro river I met Jorge, an Argentinian and an artist, sculptor and organiser. He showed me about and we chatted, since then I’ve met him a few more times and he was always lovely. Last time he told me that he’d got cancer, but seemed optimistic, observing that I wasn’t the first time the doctors had told him he was finished. Sadly today we heard he passed away last month. One of his neighbours laughing admiringly told of his courage and how he’d left everything organised while joking that he himself wouldn't have been capable. A very sad moment. It reminded me of my Mum who’d also organised everything to the last detail.

Jorge

All that’s left, then is to climb the mountain. Well, we’ve been climbing steadily since Oña, but this is the beginning of the puerto proper. Its only 4 kms and reasonably suave, or gentle, but nevertheless after 70 odd kms it has to be climbed. And a sprint at the top has to be done, no!? Oh yes, I think so! Then it’s the perfect day moment of staring at the view, tho’ in winter this often has to be limited due to factors such as shivering, train times, light left, howling gales, severe hunger and simply being buggered. Today it was all big snowy mountains, just as it should be. Its why we do it, it really is. There's no finer feeling, sitting on a rock perched above a majestic view admiriing all the grace of creation.

 

All the grace of creation

Then comes the really hard bit. The false flat out of Vid de la Bureba. Today it was interesting to see, with no wind, plenty of time and light, well fed, full of energy after a not-battling-the-wind day that David was a tad sceptical of my stories of Fear and Loathing on the plain in Spain. I kid you not, I have died on that bastard many times. Ohhhh, it’s a bastard. About 3 kms, with a curve, always, always into the wind (wind, wind, what am I talking about – it’s a gale!), just uphill enough to kill you off. Twice I’ve missed the train and the first time I rode back, an extra 40 kms in the dark along the main road, all hurtling great lorries, up and over another big climb. Last time, soaked with sweat from my valiant effort to get the last train, I went into the baker’s, bought a preñao or two and asked if there was a taxi to be had. The lovely lad not only called the taxi for me, but invited me to wait in the warm of the shop and sit on the bench thoughtfully provided for his older customers – and buggered bikeys! Yesterday it was a stroll in the park, a dawdle not in the dark. That’s only the second time ever I’ve had that luxury in five years.

Song titles:
Its a beautiful day - U2
A perfect day - Lou Reed
The rain in Spain stays mainly on the plain - Alan Jay Lerner

Book titles:
Zen and the art of motorcycle mechanics - Robert Persig
Songlines - Bruce Chatwin
Fear and loathing in Las Vegas - Hunter S. Thompson