Back in circulation after The Trip, having survived the embraces of a very charming nun, hordes of starving mountain dogs, the sinewy legs and cynical glances of the stars of Peña Ciclista “Los Llanos”, Andalusian quad drivers (for whom sideways skids constitute the preferred means of locomotion), an abandoned croc (ex the El Portal farm), currently in gypsy Juanjo’s allotment pond, Alejandro Sanz and a very wet carnival in Cádiz, an earthquake, the coldest spell in several decades (-20, said the mountain farmer’s thermometer, this being its lower limit), and the stellar lunch served up by Bar Manolete in Mogón.
This material–augmented by frustrated loves and an autistic serial killer–is now to be the subject of a burlesque novela caballeresca, for which I am bashing out 1,000 words every morning before 9. The alternative at some stage would probably be a return to timesheet terror, which I doubt I would survive, so wish me luck and find me an agent, if you have nothing better to do this Friday after lunch.
A final word of thanks to Batavus, whose Comanche hybrid touring bike did most of the hard work on the way down to Cádiz and then, returning, via Sevilla and Córdoba to Albacete, where Renfe took over. It doesn’t look or cost much, but it’s a very fine machine.
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