Final day into Tarifa - after a long and trying five-day 600 km sprint from Lisboa, we're finally within reach of Tarifa, the ferry across to Morocco, and the Strait of Gibraltar! The heat, though still ever-present, lessens perceptibly as we near the coast, and the salt-tinged breeze fills our lungs...still, this day proves to be no shorter than the others, maybe even somewhat harder; we ride through the hilltop villages and rolling hills and, as the day wears on into evening, up around the rocky capes that characterize the last curve of the Atlantic below Cadíz.
The early rising has become routine, but today that routine is marred by an unexpected occurrence - the hotel where we were forced to take up residence last night is protected by solid gates that are closed overnight as a matter of Important Security, and the Spanish do not rise at this hour to open gates for such as ourselves...so, after some failed consideration of less brute-force approaches, we resort to shoving them aside. We then promptly lose ourselves in the cliffside meanderings of Arcos de la Frontera - but only for a short time; as usual, we succeed in leaving town in roughly the correct direction, and are soon on an unmarked (on our map, at least) road towards the coast. Exhaustion is catching up with us; it will take everything we've got left to reach our destination.
And the next bit is not promising; the road stays within sight of the mountains off to the left, threatening to veer off and climb into them if we should be foolish enough to turn off the path...but we mercifully stay clear of them, heading instead into the surrounding foothills and around a massive dam that tenuously holds back the fresh mountain lake water from crushing the villages below. We head on around the lake, panting in the heat of the rising sun, inching forward against a nasty headwind that promises to thwart our every move.
And the next bit is no more promising. We reach another of the hilltop towns up in the foothills of the mountains, and find we have no choice but to go up. We are passed by cyclists who zoom down the hill on unladen racing bikes, out enjoying their Sunday rides. Their faces do not wear our tiredness, our grime. It is hard work sometimes, this bike trip; it is hard, hard work, and it is utterly crucial that any aspiring bike tourist understand this. The day will arrive when you must go on despite all the odds, and you will be hard-pressed to maintain morale...
...and yet we do it, day after day, working and sweating and squinting in the sunlight for the next beautiful view...like that which awaits us on the hilltop, the plains far below stretching out to the ancient city of Cadíz, that bastion of Phoenicians and Egyptians and Romans and Moors and Catholic kings who, long before us, arrived in ships and saw fit to civilize this land by whatever brutal means necessary - and yet we will not pass through Cadíz; our lot, instead, is to head down to Barbate on the coast, for otherwise we have no chance of making it to Tarifa in any reasonable time frame. That is another lesson from the last few days: a single act of planning, committed far in advance, can completely change things. What is the reason for all this rushing? For us, this mad dash to Tarifa is the result of our desire to see the Alhambra, for which one must reserve tickets months in advance. Since we were new to this game, we overestimated our daily distance by a good margin and left ourselves with a drastic shortage of time between Pamplona and Granada.
And so here we are. After the requisite siesta in Barbate, we prepare to travel along the coast to Tarifa, following the road which, counter to the ardent beliefs of our map, does not exist...so instead, we must walk our bikes along a 1.5 km stretch of footpath up by the lighthouse, a hike that is followed by a long and steady climb against yet more wind to circumvent an impassable stretch of rock...
...and this is why we continue on; for the elation we get on reaching the top, that impossibly sweet knowledge that our trials are over - even if only for the day - that it is merely an easy ride downhill and along the beach to the next campsite or beach inlet or wherever we manage to find shelter...that feeling makes it all worth it. If it didn't, I expect each of us would have packed up a long time ago, thrown in the towel.
But we haven't done that yet, and so I can say proudly: we have reached the Strait of Gibraltar, and are now officially next to the Mediterranean Sea! Tomorrow we will leave the continent, even if only briefly, to visit Morocco - although we will only hop across to Tanger, it should provide for exciting times!