I forgot...again, Monistroll to Mura to Tarrassa 50 miles & Bisaurin, Pirineos

If you go back and read though some of my BLOGS, you may notice a common theme. I have a tendency to lose, forget, or break things. My bike in Scotland, prescription sun glasses in Portugal, helmet at the Philadelphia airport, shoes on the train in Italy, another pair of shoes at a seafood restaurant in Spain, etc.

When I was a little girl, I always just blamed it (losing things) on the little leporcons that lived in my room and seemed to take my socks. Now, the leaporcons have followed me to Spain and now like Ruben’s socks.

Ruben’s mother makes it a point to now ask me if I have everything, because I seem to leave something behind every time we visit her.

A pair of pants last December, my Spanish book in May, and now my hiking tennis shoes that maybe have had their last adventure up a mountain, that is until I hopefully return again some day and find them again.

But if this time never comes, my tennis shoes made a great last assent up one of the highest peaks in the Pirineos, Bisaurin

with great company.

Accompanied by Ruben’s mother and Amador,

I found a earth heaven that was most vibrant because of the piercing blue of the Spanish sky.

The rock and dirt camino starting at the refuge,

extended well beyond what the eye could actually see,

winding up through scarce forest and past the breath taking lilly scattered valleys,

which actually inspired me to try a Katelyn version of the Sound of Music, “Hills Are Alive” that then lead to a grinning Spanish man.

We walk for over two hours up towards the white, until it was time, insisted by Slyvia, to leave her and Amadore at the base of the mountain.

They watched us through binoculars walk another 1.5 hrs on sometimes unstable rock that was no problem for the Spanish mountain goats,

and well, not really any problem for my favorite Spanish mountain goat.

We past memorials to the dead that must have died there from the hard winters in the past, overlooking a horizon of colors

continuing toward what is atop all mountains in Spain.

A reminder to me that all this beauty must of came from someone that has a different name to all the people of this world.

So my story continues, because now I have no shoes, and there is nothing I like more than an excuse and a mission that includes my bicycle. I could of waited until Ruben returned from work and was able to drive me 20 minutes to the sports store, however all was aligned that day. The arriving fall dulled the heat of the sun, my projects for work were complete, all my friends in the village were on Holiday, and the mural of my favorite rock “elephant” of Montserratt)

needed to dry.

Also, I wanted to accomplish my goal of exploring all the “little” beautiful roads in the Bages region. http://www.property-net-spain.com/provinces/barcelona/bages.html. Moreover, I wanted to explore the roads of Sant Llorenç i l'Obac Natural Park.

http://www.diba.es/parcsn/parcs/plana.asp?parc=4&m=198&o=2 that are situated approximately 15-20 miles from Monistrol de Montserratt

and around-about on the way to a major city, Tarrassa, where I could purchase some new shoes.

My adventure began with a plan to get shoes, and shortly evolved into also purchasing a new helmet, because I realized “I forgot” my helmet in the car of Ruben that was now parked at the train station. Hesitantly, I borrowed the 1980’s fast looking helmet of Ruben

and began the 50 mile journey through Spanish forest that was more dense than Montserratt, because the fires of the past left the land how God intended it to be. Winding up and down the mountains

passing cobbled villages of Rockafort and Mura

,

on roads that for a moment I pretended were made just for me and my bicycle.

Reaching the rock of Sant Llorenç i l'Obac Natural Park, similar in form and substance to the conglomerate rock of my now home, I was positive, and it was later confirmed, this was also a great place to climb.

Finally reaching the city, I now had the task to find the sports store that could be described as a “Wal-mart” of sporting goods. It seemed that two young policia had there eye on me as I was braving the traffic and stopping every 5 minutes to ask for directions while utilizing my spanglish. Yes, I was “lost”, but not for long, because they then insisted I follow them.

My 10 minute police escort lead me to my final destination to purchase my new shoes that would make it home by bicycle

Moreover, I had a more safe return with a new helmet that will now become Ruben’s new helmet, because I cannot bare to see him wear that thing again in any more countries.

Spanish Sun

I now understand where the Spanish Siesta comes from….. before, I just assumed “taking naps” after lunch was an expression of their laid back culture; however as I now live in Spain, in July, I fully appreciate and absolutely agree with the need for a Spanish siesta…the product of a cultures adaptation.

It actually took me a “long while” to get use to the fact that in the small villages almost all closes down from 1pm-5pm. No post office, no grocery store..or any store, most tourist information centers- closed, no pharmacy or doctors appointments, the streets become barren, the crowds leave the beach-(well except for the tourists)…all seemingly frozen in time-except for the local bar and maybe a restaurant serving a cooling coffee with ice; Spanish cold gazpacho soup made from tomatoes, peppers, onion; or my favorite “Clara” , a lemonade soda/ beer combo that is more lemon than beer and tastes even better if served in a perron, a traditional, yet messy way to share a beer.

I made my first mistake the other day, when planning an afternoon bike ride. I remember the rational behind my timing.. “I will go after lunch when everyone is at home eating lunch and taking a siesta…less cars on the road.” I planned on 60km, within 15 minutes my plans changed and it became 40km.

Another hour and a half later, I still had not made the first 20km to my first destination city, both of my water bottles were empty, and you can say I was not enjoying my bicycle. Two hours after I first started, I found myself only cycling 25k in two hours (did I mention it was up and down a mountain), a route previously done in almost half the time. I then found myself on the train not on my bicycle, returning to the village.

Did I mention the climbers of this village do not even attempt a climb in the sun? Well..that is unless you count the other day.

Ruben and I’s dilly dallying/ poor planning resulted in a 3 ½ climb up a 120 meter wall,

in the sun, that resulted in unwanted obstacles such as sweating slippery rocks, my burning feet due to black climbing shoes absorbing the rays of the sun, lack of water leaving me with pickled looking lips, and I got to see a“real Spanish drama” about how hot it actually was.

Actually, I am told this summer is unusual. Rain brings a fresh breeze and keeps the land near the mountains of Montesrratt a green hugh

that is always re-realized as I reach another top

and the vallys of the Peryness are full of spring flours.

The river fed pozas or swimming-holes are filled with running water that pools to cool the local inhabitants that would rather not pay to enter the village swimming pool.

Then there is the other extreme of "fresh" snow melt rivers that bring pain to the body

and besides my feet, out of all ruben's family and friends; he was the only one "brave" enough after a hike to try a swim at the destination waterfall. This place is where we visit his father and brother;

at the same summer camp in the Peryness where Ruben as a child spent weeks out of a summer forming a love of the mountains.

Then, there are times it even seems I could be living in a jungle,

or living in a film about some northern european country that was more about yodoling and not flamingo.

The same rain that brings Spain color, almost spoiled an afternoon walk with Ruben’s mother, Slyvia and Amadore.

Neverthless, even with the unusually fresh and wet summer; there are always moments you need to escape the Spanish sun and enjoy a fresh glass of Gazpacho or clara, or a after lunch siesta when you want to do nothing else... but lay around in front of a fan.

Amor xoxoxoxo

My grandmother recently said that she was surprised I have not written many BLOGS since my departure two months ago. I look back and it seems I write when inspired, and usually this is brought on by a new landscape, unique food, unpredictability of people, or just the fact my eyes are more open and looking..

I can look up and see remains of roman aquaducts before my gaze focuses on the distant horizon of rock formations that were once spiritual grounds of pagans.

Cobbled narrow paths wind as a puzzle through my “now’ home.
Yes, as I walk down the streets of Monistrol de Montserratt, to pick up groceries at all four separate tiendas of fruit, bread, meat, and a special store for fresh eggs; I am still amazed at the ancient beauty of this village, yet not surprised anymore.

But I guess this association of “home” is the reason for my lack of inspiration. A home; for most takes on a form of comfort and predictability, perhaps the same with the regular routine of work, or possible relationships with friends and family. With this, I think we forget to see what we have, because we already “know” what we have, and we know what to expect; thus our eyes, our minds, and our spirit becomes dull and perhaps not inspired anymore.

Kafka says it best, “Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old”.

I think this is true and the easiest during Holiday or Vacation, but I think most importantly the ability to live this in our normal, comfort-filled, predictable grind of everyday life, is most important…being if it is in Spain, Nashville, in a office, on a mountain, with family, or a stranger.

So as I am led by my guide



up multi-pitch peaks of Montserratt National Forest, my "now" home,



climbing for hours, and resting just a little as we dangle or crouch

struggling to overcome my fear and make it to the top

to only turn around and climb down, seemingly a more dangerous route

I am reminded that all in life should be just as beautuful and inspiring as the first time you see it.
Amor,
Katelyn