20th of August, 5.30 am. I hear the sound of my alarm clock. Even though it’s unpleasant, it fills me with excitement and joy. The reason: it marks the start of a week’s holiday in Catalonia that I’ve been looking forward to for a long time.
I take down my two luggage and my floor mat in front of my building, then attach them to the luggage rack of my bike. My vehicle will be with me for 4 days, the time I plan to spend bikepacking the Pirinexus. This 340-km cycle route is a loop that starts in Girona, in the north of Catalonia.
Here’s the story of my trip.
How I got to my starting point
On the train at Bordeaux station, other cyclists have to hang their bikes on a hook in the dedicated space. It’s not easy to do, so we help each other out. Looking at the equipment of my ‘colleagues’, I can see that I’m not the only one travelling and doing wild camping.
After travelling to Perpignan, then along the coast on the regional train, I arrive at around 11.30 am in the village of Cerbères, on the Spanish border. Deciding to enjoy the surroundings and places of interest instead of plotting my route, I take the time to stroll around and admire the azure-blue sea. The pebble beach in the centre of Cerbères is small. A different landscape than the endless sandy beaches of the Atlantic coast near Bordeaux.
Next, I take a pedestrian tunnel up to the train station, to admire a wall decorated with street art. I can hear my bike echoing, giving the place a mysterious cave-like atmosphere, enhanced by the absence of passers-by. After this diversion, I begin the journey to Portbou, on the other side of the border.
The road, which is busy with cars, twists and turns upwards, but the gradient is moderate. Luckily I’m wearing a helmet and a yellow vest. I stop to contemplate the sublime coastline and the sea that stretches as far as the eye can see. At the side of the road, I notice small shrubs lying on the rocky ground. A disused building stands just before the border, in the middle of the asphalt. This former border post has an historical aspect. At the end of the climb, I reach the retirada memorial. I get out of the saddle.
A concrete track leading away from the main road is lined with signs. I see photos showing haggard or worried faces in the middle of a huge line of people. It was taken where I’m standing, 85 years ago.
The exile memorial: crossing the border to stay free
In January 1939, Barcelona fell into the hands of General Franco, after around 3 years of civil war in Spain, and 450 000 Catalans and Spanish Republicans took to the roads of exile. They crossed the border at the Col des Bélitres, which I have just climbed. The reception they received in France was mixed: treated as undesirables, many Spanish refugees were interned in camps in the south of France and in French Catalonia.
The descent to Portbou begins. I find the small, unremarkable Spanish town less beautiful than Cerbères. After a picnic on the seafront, I hurry to visit the Walter Benjamin memorial. It stands on a cliff next to the municipal cemetery.
A tunnel juts out towards the sea. I walk along it until I reach the glass window at the end. The view of the blue water and the white rocks in the background is magnificent. This work of art is fascinating. As someone who knows nothing about the life of Walter Benjamin, I learn that he was a German Jewish philosopher who fled the advance of the German army into France in 1940. When he arrived in Portbou, he immediately learned that the Spanish police were going to take him back to France, and he died after consuming a large dose of morphine. This story reminds me of Stefan Zweig’s exile.
I then board the train and cycle the last few kilometres to Tordera. Some friends are spending holidays in the little town. After a relaxed evening with them, I leave early the next morning for Girona.
Day 1 – Discovering the Catalan mountains
As soon as I leave the station at 9 am, I see the Pirinexus green signs. The track runs through a park full of huge trees, then out of the city through fields.
The route runs alongside a road and then away from it. I’m currently on the Carrilet I Route. It starts to climb. In this green setting, a river flows below the track. I hear the sounds of Spanish tourists and spot them between the trees. They are bathing. It’s tempting to join them, but I decide not to. There will be other opportunities.
I find it difficult to climb the road, and the cars passing me make the climb even harder. At times like this, I tell myself that my bike is heavy and my panniers are full. I need to shift down a speed, to the smallest chainring.
Suddenly, I hear my chain jump: I can’t go any further. In the middle of a bend, I move to the side and turn my bike over, putting it on the saddle.
Things aren’t looking good. My chain is stuck, outside the sprockets. I can’t get it off, even if I try hard. Suddenly, a couple of cyclists pass me by and offer to help. I decline their offer. A few minutes later, I realise that I won’t be able to fix this by myself. Is my journey already over?
Another Spanish couple in their sixties offers to help me. This time I don’t pass up the opportunity. The man seems to know a thing or two about bike mechanics. He asks me to place the chain on the sprockets while he pulls with all his strength to unblock it. When it’s partly dislodged from between the sprockets and the protective plastic, he turns the pedals. The chain unlocks! I’ll be careful not to change speeds too quickly in future.
I reach the town of Olot at around 1.30 pm, having travelled around 55 km. I go shopping in a supermarket before eating my picnic in a large green square. I then set off in search of a café to complete my meal, but suddenly I see some beautiful buildings dating from the early 20th century. A neighbourhood of beautiful houses surrounded by gardens reveals itself to me. An information board in front of a large building catches my eye. It’s a house of typical Catalan architecture belonging to a wealthy resident of Olot. I let myself be charmed by this area, driving around aimlessly while admiring the surroundings. Then, after drinking a café con hielo on the terrace of a bar, I get back in the saddle. Charming little town of Olot!
The mountain road twists and turns. I zigzag to reduce my incline, but the slope forces me to stop at the edge of the asphalt to take a breathe. I choose a shady spot under the trees. A few sips of water and a piece of cake later, I’m off again.
I see a straight line ahead, which I avoid with my eyes. I’m exhausted but happy and positive. I’m humbled by my slow progress. In my thoughts, I start thanking people who are dear to me.
Suddenly, a cyclist appears behind my shoulder without me having seen him coming. We start talking in Spanish:
– “Are you doing the Pirinexus?
– Yes, do you?
– Yes, I’ve got an electric bike but it’s almost out of battery. My wife is with me.”
Shortly afterwards, a woman in her sixties joins us. She has less pain than I do, thanks to the battery on her bike. Talking to Yolanda and Andrés, my pain almost disappears. They remind me of characters helping a protagonist to complete a quest.
They live in Malaga, are retired and have cycled in almost every country in Europe. What a great way to spend your retirement! Andrés recommends the Mozart route, from Salzburg to Venice and a trip from Hamburg to Prague, along the Elbe.
We cross two passes, Coubet at 1,010 m, then Santigosa, at 1,064 m.
The descent begins.
Yolanda slows down and joins Andrés, as if she wanted to let me pass. I explain:
– “I don’t like going fast downhill, I’m afraid of falling.
– Me too, and I thought you’d go faster than us.”
At Sant Joan de les Abadesses, they drive further to spend the night at a campsite, while I decide to stop and visit the little town.
It’s that time of the day: the terraces are full of people. As I listen, I hear Catalan being spoken. The language and the red and yellow flags hanging from the balconies make me feel I’m in Catalonia, not Spain. I drive slowly through the narrow streets and stop to admire the abbey. Then I stumble across an area of young people chatting and laughing. At the edge of an ancient wall, I enjoy a magnificent view of the green mountains. After having a beer and recharging my mobile phone in a bar, I set off again to find somewhere to sleep.
The Pirinexus follows a cycle path and then joins a gravel track. Cows graze in the green meadows. I cross the Ter River, in which people swim. I still can’t stop to cool off, as the sun is about to set.
There seems to be an ideal place to pitch my tent, high up on the track. I set up my bike and place it on the other side of the wire that encircles the meadow to hide it from view. As I start to pitch my tent, I hear the sound of cowbells getting closer. They’re only a few metres away. Catastrophe! I don’t feel safe here. They might come over the wire to taste my food.
I’ve got to get my bike back before they get too close. Suddenly I feel a brief pain in my leg and then my arm: the wire is electrified.
15 minutes later, I find a more suitable site. It’s right on the edge of the track, flat and hidden behind some shrubs. I set up my tent and eat quickly in the dark, before lying down. In the distance, the sound of bells and cars can be heard.
Day 2 – A different atmosphere on the other side of the border
In the morning, I use my gas stove for the first time. I can’t wait to see how it works. I light it on the gravel track, away from the vegetation. The stove emits a blast and, in a few minutes, my water boils. An apple and some cake accompany my tea. This breakfast fills me with joy.
At Camprodon, a small tourist town in the lower mountains, I join a busier road. As I pass the campsites, I look for Yolanda and Andrés, who were supposed to stay here, but without success. I hope to see them again later. This must be a popular starting point for hikes. Many cars and camper vans pass me on the way out of Camprodon, which I don’t like. You have to be careful to avoid them and their noise is unpleasant. There are also motorbikes. I’ve never understood the point of riding a motorbike in the countryside. It doesn’t give you the pleasure of reaching a destination after having to actively move around.
On the other hand, the view of the mountains is sublime. I can take my time to enjoy it as the road climbs. My gaze wanders to the edges of the asphalt, covered in sweet-smelling vegetation. Suddenly, I see purple flowers on the grass, with butterflies fluttering around them. This climb is easier than the one yesterday. Either the inclination was higher, or I was warming up.
As I walk past the large trees that form a green mass, I find it hard to believe that there has been a drought in Catalonia for several months. This area must have had rain this winter.
The sign for the Ares pass, at 1,513 m, tells me that the climb is over. As I enter France, I feel excited, but at the same time I can’t wait to get back to the Spanish side, because one of the aims of this trip is to escape to a foreign country and immerse myself in a different culture.
The descent lasts around ten kilometres. As usual, I force myself to slow down. However, I don’t feel in any danger on this sturdy bike, especially as there are so few cars. The route passes through Prats-de-Mollo, ‘one of the most beautiful villages in France’. At the entrance to the village, I admire the bridge that spans the river and a majestic religious building that towers above the town.
On what seems to be the main square, I stop for lunch at the hotel-restaurant Le Costabonne.
As I walk around the village, I think to myself that most of the villages I passed through in Spain were much friendlier and livelier. What’s more, in France, I haven’t heard the regional language once.
During the afternoon, as I ride along a river from the mountain road under the sun, I see people bathing in several places. Time for a refreshing break. At an activity centre, I’m told that the area is private, but that you can swim 300 metres further on. There I see a nice access to the river. No-one in sight, but a Veolia van and two marquees are there. There must be some employees, but I can’t see them. What are they doing there?
I plunge into the water a little at a time. Firstly, because it’s cold and secondly, because the water is shallow. I feel the water wake me up and wash my skin, like a natural shower. I lie down on a rock, lulled by the sound of the current. If I fell asleep, I’d be in trouble. It’s better to have a nap on the ‘beach’, in the shade. I doze off for a few minutes and then set off again.
I pull on my legs, which are beginning to show signs of fatigue, all the way to the village of Céret, where there’s a beautiful bridge dating back to the Middle Ages. As I leave the bridge, I hear a noise behind me. One of my two panniers has fallen off. Inspection: the hooks have broken because of the weight. Not surprising, since this luggage is designed for city journeys and is more suited to carrying a computer and notebooks. The only solution is to take the straps out of the bag and use it as a backpack. I’m off again. It’s not so bad, but the weight makes my back sweat. Phew! I don’t have to stop my journey here.
The route then leaves the road to join a concrete cycle path that passes through fields of cherry trees. I admire the yellow of the grasses and the green of the trees. The mountain landscape has given way to a Mediterranean setting. I like this rapid alternation of natural spaces.
Just after 6 pm, I reach Le Boulou. Looking for a watering hole, all I see are some boarded-up public fountains. I ask a baker where to find one: ‘Because of the drought, the fountains are closed’, she says.
It’s impossible to bivouac in this urban area. I decide to continue on into the countryside. After passing through the centre of Maureillas, where I have dinner in a small square, I start the climb that will take me all the way to the border. Time to look for somewhere to sleep. As I make my way along the almost deserted provincial road, I realise that it’s going to be difficult. To my right is the mountain wall and to my left is a ravine. My eyes are on the lookout for a suitable spot. Suddenly, I notice a raised, flat area. There are a few metres between an electrified wire and the edge, which overlooks the road. I’ll have to be careful to secure the tent to the ground with the pegs, so that it doesn’t fall onto the road during the night.
I climb up and here I am, out of sight. This evening, I’m delighted to go to bed before the sun set.
Day 3: Ancient treasures along the way
After a full night, I light my stove on the deserted road. It’s impossible to tell what time it is because my mobile phone has no battery.
Riding in the morning, just after sunrise, in this Mediterranean setting, is a great experience. It’s my favourite time of day for cycling.
On the way up, I’m surprised by an apparition in a small locality: a fountain. It comes at the perfect moment, as my water bottles are almost empty.
The delicious spicy scents of small hit my nostrils. The green mountains surround me.
Suddenly, on a descent, I notice Roman ruins to my right. Reading an explanatory panel, I learn that this is where the via Domitia and the via Augusta met.
A highway from Rome to Andalusia
At the end of the 2nd century BC, southern Gaul had just been conquered. Proconsul Domitius Ahenobarbus founded the Via Domitia (or Domitian Way) to link Rome with Hispania, which was also under Roman rule. This first Roman road in Gaul consisted of earth and gravel, but was paved around the towns. It passed through the town of Narbo Martius, now Narbonne.
It reached the Panissars pass, where the via Augusta, named after the emperor Augustus, began. This road led to Cadiz in Andalusia.
It was here that Pompey’s trophy was built, a triumphal arch celebrating the Roman general’s military victories. In 71 BC, he crossed the Pyrénées at this point to wage war in Hispania.
I have the archaeological site all to myself. The new staircase leads up to the 2,000-year-old stones. They lie on the ground, on the grass. I can’t see any tall buildings. I’m delighted that it’s free and open access, and it gives me the impression of a hidden treasure.
Shortly afterwards, I reach the Panissars pass, which marks the border and where a gravel path begins to descend.
My fingers grip both brake handles and my bike jolts, but holds up under the large stones. A cloud of dust forms under my tyres. This is the most technical part of the Pirinexus.
One climb follows another, forcing me to put your foot down. A gravel bike or mountain bike would have a chance here, but not a trekking bike.
Suddenly, a concrete path appears. Then I hear the hum of the motorway that leads to La Jonquera, the first town on the Spanish side. The number of huge trucks using it impresses me.
I walk through the centre of the town, famous for prostitution and the sale of cheap cigarettes and alcohol. The Pirinexus signs lead me to a concrete track. I push off my legs and shift into a lower speed. Fortunately, it’s not very hot yet, despite the sun.
Vines appear. This is the sign I’ve been waiting for: the wine village of Capmany. I’m greeted by a café terrace full of elderly men chatting in Catalan. It’s the perfect place to have a coffee and recharge my mobile phone.
I hesitate to visit one of the many wineries in the village. As it’s only 10.30 am and still cool, I might make the most of it and get a move on. I could visit a bodega in the next town, Peralada.
After passing the sign announcing the entrance to this village, I stop to fill my water bottles in a small square. A couple of cyclists are sitting there. The man says to me:
-“Are you also doing the Pirinexus?
-Yes! I want to finish it in 4 days and I do wide camping.”
Pepe and Rosa live in Valencia. He’s used to cycle touring, she less so. Once again, I’m delighted to be able to practise a foreign language and to experience the fraternity between cyclists. The friendly exchanges with the other adventurers, especially if they are foreigners, enrich my journey. After exchanging numbers, we say goodbye and agree to meet up again in Girona.
At the Peralada tourist office, I’m told that there’s only one winery open for visit, for 25€. They mention that it’s a large estate and that the tour is ‘commercial’. The price is high and the experience doesn’t appeal to me that much. I should have visited a bodega in Capmeny.
Next comes a flat area covered with orchards. I admire the rows of apple trees spread out over large areas. Pepe and Rosa join me. We ride together to L’Escala, where the sea appears. They’ll be staying at a campsite here. I drive a few hundred metres farther to visit the ruins of Empúries.
Situated just behind the beach, the site offers superb sea views and impresses me with its size. The entrepreneurial spirit of the Phocaean Greeks who founded the city fascinates me. In particular, they traded olive oil and wine by boat. I walk along where the entrance to the city used to be, then through the ancient houses and temples. However, I fight fatigue to listen to the explanations on the audio guide.
After visiting the small museum, I continue towards the rear of the site. This is the more recent Roman part.
I make my way to the end of the tour, but I don’t follow what the audio guide tells me, because I can’t concentrate. Yet the explanations are very clear.
It’s 7 pm, time for a picnic. This time, I’m eating on a beach that’s busy but far from the city centre. I’m relieved when I’ve finished my meal, because it means all I have to do now is find somewhere to pitch my tent.
The Pirinexus route once again passes through huge orchards. In one of them, I say to myself that it would be an ideal spot: quiet, out of sight and flat. Two people are strolling down the central alley:
-“Are you the owners?
-Yes, we are.
-Would it be possible to pitch my tent here for the night?
-Of course, do you need any water?”
What hospitality! I put my tent between two rows of apple trees, then go into the house to fill my water bottles. Their family is here. They live in Girona and own a property in the countryside. Thanks to Esteban and his wife! It’s one of the most charming wild camping sites I’ve been to so far.
Day 4: The joy of returning to the sea
I wake up at 5 am, but wait for the sun to rise before going out. That’s when the workers appear, just as Esteban had told me. As I set off again, I admire the large fields of cereals and fruit trees, especially apple trees, which are covered in netting.
Several times, I take the wrong route and have to look at the route on Komoot. However, I prefer to keep my smartphone in my pocket rather than staring at it from my handlebars. Even if I sometimes take the wrong path, it helps me to enjoy the landscape, which is gradually becoming typical of the Costa Brava: pine forests and shrubs line the cycle route. At 11:30 I arrive in Palamós, a place too urbanised for me to want to swim. At the next village, Sant Antoni de Calonge, I follow the cycle path along the promenade.
Seeing the sea and knowing that I’ll soon be able to swim in it fills me with excitement. My gaze wanders to a corner of the beach where there are few people. In truth, there are quite a few, but I can see free spaces on the sand. The bath, which eliminates sweat and dirt, is a moment of relaxation.
I then look for a beach shower to wash away the salt, but there isn’t one. Perhaps it’s a consequence of the drought period. Lying on my towel half in the shade, I can hear people talking in Spanish, and sometimes in French. I’m used to the sparsely populated beaches of the Atlantic coast, and the closeness of the neighbours is unusual.
A few streets behind the concrete seafront, the Kubansky restaurant welcomes me for lunch. As I enter, I discover a tasteful decor and pass elegant waiters. I tell myself that they were kind enough to let me in, dressed in sports clothes and carrying two dusty bicycle panniers in my hand. Let’s hope I don’t smell.
Sitting at the counter, I’m delighted to be eating a real meal, which is a reward. After enjoying the obligatory pan con tomate and olives, I start with the escilavada, a cold starter of aubergines, peppers and onions, with smoked sardines. Then it’s on to the main course: pig’s feet and local white beans. I accompany it with a glass of the region’s red wine, Empordà, served chilled of course, because you have to support local agriculture, right? I have to force myself to finish my plate, because of the quantity of food, and I have no more room for dessert. The friendly atmosphere and the friendliness of the waiters made my meal even more enjoyable. What’s more, I seem to be the only tourist here: a good sign.
The cycle route then goes past seaside resorts, which I find rather uninteresting. As I pass the many restaurants and tourist shops, I wonder where the fun is in this kind of holiday.
I realise that the Pirinexus signs have disappeared. This causes me to take detours that end with a stop and a glance at my phone. I’m relieved when I see the green sign at Sant Feliu de Guíxols announcing the start of the Carrilet II route. This good quality bicycle path is the last section of the Pirinexus. It follows the route of an old railway line.
I’m trying to enjoy the surroundings and take my time. It’s the last few kilometres of the trip. Suddenly, at the start of a climb, just as I’m shifting into the lowest speed, my chain locks up again. No panic.
Unfortunately, the chain still doesn’t come out, as it had on the first day. Two Spanish cyclists offers to help me, but I refuse. I pull as hard as I can on the chain, but it remains stuck. I accept the help of two other cyclists. Their equipment, their bikes and their cycling outfits lead me to believe that they’re experienced cyclists.
After spending 10 minutes trying to get the chain loose, one of them says that the plastic part would have to be broken. I’d rather not go that far. They try again: one fixes the chain to the sprockets and the other pulls. Tac! It unlocks. I really must remember to stop using the lowest speed when I’m on the first chain wheel.
After crossing a wooded area, I arrive in the Girona conurbation. By 6 pm, I’m in front of the station, where my journey began. It’s time for a rest before going for a beer with Pepe and Rosa.
