El Cid

Cogolludo was in full fiesta last night which meant I was treated to a medley of Sting, Bryan Adams, flamenco and - incongruously - Amy Winehouse. This went on till about 4.30 so I didn't get going this morning until 10:15. Still late, but a lot better than yesterday.

Looking back to Cogolludo at around 10:15

Nevertheless, I enjoyed a magnificent morning's cycling. The roads are deserted and surfaced like billiard tables, and the terrain is wind surprisingly varied. I passed pine forests, a reservoir and sunflower and wheat fields of Spain's high central plateau. I have spent most of the day above 1,000m, which is about as high as England's highest mountain (hill?).

Embalse (Reservoir) de Alcorlo

For some of the morning I have been following the El Cid way (Camino del Cid) which is marked with road signs written in faux-Arabic script. The choice of font seemed inappropriate, given his reputation. I don't know much about El Cid but from what I remember (I learned most of my medieval history from the drunken ravings of a history student I shared a flat with at university) he was a fearsome slayer of moors. I recently listened to a radio programme about the chivalric age where a history professor made the point that most knights were - far from the honour-bound gentlemen of arthurian legend - wide-o thugs who lorded it about in their suits of armour running what amounted to protection rackets. "Nice little hovel you have here, would be a terrible shame if anything were to happen to it..."

In fact, the chivalric legends were apparently put about by knights in an attempt to counter any misgivings the peasantry might have had about submitting to this brutal order. An early PR campaign, if you like.

The deal would go something like this, "I say, yoo-hoo! You in the rags, yes you! My what a lovely tooth you have! How would you Iike the honour of working for me? I'm a very chivalrous fellow and have personally saved three princesses from dragons. If you accept a position on my estate you could tell your bubonic drunking buddies down the tavern that you represent one of the most honourable Knights in Christendom.

In return for this indubitable honour, all I ask is your relentless, grinding toil... and a small tax. And perhaps your daughters. Or free access to your daughters anyway, I don't want them rambling about the castle. Look, we can figure out the details later - what do you say?

Oh, what the hell, because I like you I'm willing to offer a bit extra. If you work for me I will personally guarantee your absolute safety from me hacking you to death and burning down your hovel. (Exceptions to this safety may include, but not be limited to, acts of God, force majure, and the odd drunken rampage during holidays.)"

800 years later, you are honoured by road signs in faux arabic script.

/back to reality. The picture (if it comes out - bit of an experiment) is my lunch spot. I was keen to push on past the half-way point before stopping for lunch so I cycled past Atienza with it's church, fort and restaurants, to Paredes de Siguenza which has a church but no fort and, crucially, no restaurant. In fact, apart from this fly-blown bar and a big, vicious dog, it doesn't have very much. So on the menu for lunch today is Sprite, peanuts, a Magnum and a coffee. Lance Armstrong swears by it.

Technical update: I checked the wheel again this morning and it's nothing like as bad as I thought. It'll be fine until I get to the rest day.

My bike computer has given up the ghost completely and is now only good enough for the time. Since I accidentally reset it yesterday at about 6pm (see previous post) and my watch packed in 5 minutes before leaving on Sunday, I now have a new mental exercise to pass the time: working out the time of day by subtracting 6pm from whatever time is displayed on my bike computer.

BC

Ps. My spell-check has just highlighted "honour-bound" and suggested I should change it to "ho nor-bound". Eh?