The north wind does blow and we peddle slow.
# 3: The Tramuntana, unexpected plans and naturist camps!
We awoke to intense clear blue skies and roaring wind which eclipsed the sound of the waves. Today, we planned to boost it to cover the two-day inland ride until we met the sea again, but the north wind had other ideas!
This is the third instalment in what I intend to be a series of ten travel logs documenting our family cycle tour tracing the Mediterranean coast. It’s a slight departure from my usual post content. Expect to see the travel logs land in your inbox more frequently than my usual fortnightly offering throughout October. I will be back to business creativity as usual from November!
‘This wind is certainly quite something’ I yell to Greg, eyes smarting. But it whips my words from my mouth. It steels Greg's sunglasses and swipes his cap. It blows our heavy pannier-laden bikes off course and turns the chariot into a sail. It transforms easy declines into hardcore gym workouts. It scratches sand across our eyeballs. It cracks lips and chaps skin. It assaults ears and tangles hair. It's so fears, I learn it has many names. Here in Catalonia, they call it ‘Tranamuntana’. If you are touched by the wind it can turn you mad!
By midday and a measly 10 miles, I call a halt. We are cycling along a dusty country road in the middle of nowhere. We turn to Google Maps. ‘There is a campsite with a swimming pool and hot tub five minutes ride away… But it's a naturist camp!’ Greg adds.
Leo, as soon as he sees the ‘no clothes allowed’ sign, being the rule follower he is, is quick to strip off. Solenne has no qualms about getting naked either- it is a normal state for her. The wind still bites, though, and as I write this, I am feeling slightly conspicuous wearing my merino wool jumper but naked from the waist down! ‘I don't get it!’ says Greg shivering while doing the washing-up, pantless but wearing his red waterproof jacket. I laugh. This is our second stay at a naturist camp, both times which have been out of season. ‘maybe we should come back when it's summer’!
I think of the golden figs with their opulent red centres, which hung suspended as giant raindrops from the tree near our tent at the ‘Camping Relax Nat’ and let go of the niggle that time will run faster than we can pedal, and we will miss out on ‘the best’ sights. I thank the wind for delaying us.
The cycle to reach the sea is through apple fields and passed fig trees.
We become experts at ‘scrumping’ and have the pleasant surprise of our lunch break serenaded by a local band. The path becomes increasingly sandy, scattered with jewelled pomegranate seeds from exploded fruit and heralds our return to the sea.
We sleep that night in a giant campsite, our tent perched on a rock ledge. The night air has been dried by the wind and is static with electricity. Our hair stands on end. Stray feathers from my sleeping bag float upwards as if animated by a magic spell.
Local knowledge dictates that the Tramuntana blows for three, six or nine days. The following day, we are thankful to wake to a ‘gentle’ breeze blowing off the sea, but the day brings with it an entirely different challenge.