This weekend marks the Fires; a local festival, which brings all Girona folk to the old town for music, dancing, drinking and generally pondering around. I love it, honestly, for about a day, then I want quiet Girona back, the Girona I love.
As I left the bustling streets this morning I yearned an escape to peace and tranquility. I had dreamt about a particular route last night which Louise giggled about over breakfast. It wasn’t just what I’d see, but the sounds, smells and feelings too.
I rode out through stick farm where reds, yellows, browns and all shades of green created a patchwork quilt against the clear blue sky. A cyclist coming the other way smiled at me because he was seeing the same thing.
I took a left through the medieval old town Flaçà. The old cobbled streets shook my bike but an old lady filling water bottles next to the church calmed the mood with her polite “bon dia”.
I rode up into the sky with the birds at Foixà. I was on my own on that road and the sun beat down warming my skin. Cresting the top I realised how lucky I was to be in that moment, seeing so clearly the hilly coastal landscape to my left and the Pyrenees to my right.
The birds sang to my descent and the wind cooled my skin, the adrenaline of not knowing what was around the next corner kicked in.
Through Púbol and passed Dali’s castle my imagination ran wild with how this place would have looked 500 years ago, and then I realised – almost exactly the same.
More climbing, but this time I didn’t even feel it because I was so at peace.
I pass a lady sweeping her lawn and she glanced a smile.
I crossed a busy road and only felt glad that I am not rushing around in one of those tin cans. I am an observer of that madness.
The road is so smooth and fast on the way home I hardly need to pedal.
I realised I have not thought about anything important the last hour and a half and I am so so glad.