In the beginning: making our nest in Old Town Girona

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The circumstances were different this time. But primarily, upheaval leads us here.



Spain captivated us on the Camino in late 2017. Knowing we’d some day return, with a vision of being somewhere a little longer than ‘passing through’, a quest to seek out that unique place (that wasn’t brimming with what we didn’t want) began.



Ever our eyes on our favourite accommodation websites, and ears to Radio Tres (plus or minus checking nightly the studio video cam at the radio station), the immersion in Spanish language kept us super keen.

In a blink, late in 2018, we’d locked the dates in and started our online conversations with Spain.



Departure days are always filled with a little worry. In fact, departure month could be put into the stressful category, that culminated in an 11th hour car repair after a tow bar install went bad. Wheels, roof rails, bike carriage, all got sorted, but the sleep was lacking.



Easing into a departure, without the usual need to sign departure cards at Auckland airport, was so simple.



Tissue packet in hand thanks reliably to Mum, we passed through security. Fortunately, tissue packets were the more minor of security ‘breaches’ for P2, a small blade creeping through inadvertently needing inspection. We were let loose.



Almost 18 hours in the air takes a toll no matter where you sit. So in between several meals and sleeping, I tried to make sense of the automated handset, just as the attendant came to my aid. Wrong button, whoops!



Hamad International Airport is that same sight to behold for the transit traveler as it was in 2017. Modern and swift security, without the hassles we’d had in other destinations, means we 100% would return. It may be 12am but if you’re keen for some weights, a decent swim/ jacuzzi, or massage, Vitality Spa makes it happen, in much needed tranquility.



8 hours later, and we were back on the plane.



Jefe de la cabina, Vicente, surely found entertainment in these two foreigners, assuring us to be safe with our valuables, extolling the great highlights of his country, and eventually (with effusive persuasion on health benefits), loading us up very near to our arrival into Madrid with French red wine.



Always a good diuretic, we arrived and made for the nearest loo. Shortly after exiting, and super easily, the train station signage showed up. Perfect. It was our cheap, safe daylight hours plan, without potential traffic woes, to get into Madrid



Principie Pio station was an ideal choice, even if the scheduling was a bit loose. Then up the hill, roller bags in tow, to Plaza España, and a little back street nearby, Calle Rio, led us to these beautiful tall doors. Bladders calling again, the failure of messaging or WhatsApp meant our host wasn’t there as we’d requested. Time to hail help from the nearby hotel, whom hailed Willy in unit number 4, whom let us in.



Four hefty, steep, and worn out sets of stairs later, Willy carrying my bag, and P2 with his, we set down. Fundamentally, that critical question was answered to our hereafter any Spain trip; how did the front loader operate?



“How was your journey?”, Willy asked. 40 plus hours door to door, I wasn’t the most coherent.



But we’d places to go, given tomorrow’s departure for Girona.



Sorolla, a famous painter, has had his home converted into a museum and shrine attracting followers such as P2. The walk did us good I’m sure, and 3km later, passing early evening life, we got to a garden oasis.



A break from the intensely cigarette smoke filled streets, that point of difference with NZ stuck out, but isn’t unfamiliar to our travels.



A dead women walking, the attendant in one of the studio rooms spotted my uncontrollable yawning. Despite my interest, “this is a tired women!” she told P2. We made the best of a weary time, and once out in the cool air, perked up to get home.



A nights sleep solves all.



5C and frost on the ground, I could imagine the possibility of snow here. Bare trees in Casa de Campo, filled with early morning cyclists, joggers and Nordic walkers, is an oasis.



Time arrived to leave our cosy fourth floor spot. With the best plans as a 12.30pm departure, anything went really, as we lowered our expectations and begun to time-acclimatise.



The nearly 4 hour ride passed vast dry plains, escarpments, distant snowy peaks and many small villages. Via Barcelona, we scooted up the inland railroad to arrive after 6pm into Girona



A cool and clear evening, the wander through the old town to our home for the next few months gave us our basic bearings. And a dry looking river would be a main guide.



Typically old town in nature, a set of narrow, steep stairs led us to floor three, a rustic balcony overlooking Calle Ballesteries. So I learned, the 80 year old building and it’s tiled floor was all original, only the bathroom annex a more modern add on. It may have high ceilings, but ‘nest’ in the Airbnb title was fairly accurate.



Minus 1 degree Celsius. That was our point of difference waking up. But not a breath of wind or hint of rain on the horizon, the prospects looked good for bikes.



Several months before cooking up this Spain idea, we made contact with one of the many local cycling shops, interested in researching hire versus purchase costs. The one third less cost of buying was a no brainer.



Bike Breaks Girona, specifically Ángela, a Balearic island immigrant to Girona, was incredibly helpful in arranging all related. We took over in person, finally, our ex-rental Cannondale cross/bikes with pride, and took them immediately for a spin to, where else, a discount sports store named Decathlon.



Concerned to the point of obsession about punctures on tour, I’d scoped out the equivalent reinforced tyres before our departure as Bike Breaks couldn’t help. Schwalbe Marathon Plus, my first albeit expensive choice in NZ, didn’t seem to be easily stocked, so glumly I accepted the basic Kendas might do the job. But seeing several other European brands at Decathlon for around €15 each, I started on my path again.



Mechanic to the rescue, I was told how unsuitable such Vittoria or BTWIN tyres would be in Girona on the many surfaces we’d ride. My €15 plan went out the window, to only be blessed moments later with Plan B; out of thin air, he produced a set of Schwalbes. “A second set?”. “Si!”. And after a cheap addition to our purchase price, we left later that day with such reassurance only a cyclist knows.



Thinking we’d kicked the jet lag, we thought again as we lay in the futon-height bed, drowsily contemplating our next Decathlon purchase.



Zero Celsius was a little chilly for a morning ride, so after several cups of tea, we returned to the sports store to buy up large. Our winter cycling crutches needed support, and ten euros would go far. Like any discount store precinct, MediaMarkt next door also proved its worth. Two months without a stick blender literally wouldn’t cut it, and for around the same price, I walked out soon after with my 500W aptly named Taurus.



Afternoon sun warms you to the point of shorts and t shirt. Being siesta time, the city usually quietens, shutters go down, and tourists wander more silently than at promenade time. Five o’clock onwards, the town heaves.



Squeezing our bikes once more into our old town door, and up (and down) some slippery tight stairs reminds me I don’t want a holiday accident.



One solution, I get P2 to help. So with a little quiet cursing about the tight space, we’re assured the chance of theft (reportedly high here if anchored outside) is nil in our cozy little nest.

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Photos

Bike parking
If only our country could learn more from this