Benassal to Vistabella – In Search Of Lost Time

Where has it all gone? You can’t get it back. Best to avoid madeleine cake dipped in tea if you don’t want to cry over it all. Jumpers for goal posts, bread and dripping for tea. Vulcan broken but not beaten. Rubble resting years on from the bombs that reduced it but didn’t kill it. It took the 22 to do that. Suck the soul southwards, along with fortunes made from blood, sweat and tears. Siphon off anything that sparkles. Let it loaf in Lombard Street.

Breakfast was simple and tasty. Fried eggs on toast and pastries. The elderly hotel owner insisted that we should pay in cash and we told her we hadn’t got enough. She said the card machine was broken. After a ten second standoff she sparked up the machine and we paid by card.

The day was fresh, with some rain overnight continuing as we walked, and we headed over the hills to Culla, another one of these hilltop castle towns nestled in the distance. It was a brisk walk, with the usual twenty minute mandatory detour around an active bull blocking the path and acting as bodyguard for five young bullocks.

The saga of the knee continued and this time the pain was significant even before we had set off. We’re just mindful that this could be causing Gary some longer term damage, and that the next three days to the finish line were very hard trekking days. Apart from the first day down the Ebro valley every day had been tough but massively rewarding. No intervening villages and pure countryside every inch of the way.

We stocked up on water and sugar drinks in Culla, as the temperature raised again and the rain cleared. In the far distance we could see Vistabella but the route would wind four miles down a ravine, followed by a longer climb up the other side. The route arced round to the north and on to the west before finishing with a six mile southwards section.

We started our descent into the ravine, which opened out further down into a canyon. I’m not sure what comes after canyon.

The route we’re following forms part of the pilgrimage of Sant Joan of Penyagalosa, being a six thousand foot high mountain blocking our path. Let’s just imagine it’s a bull and climb round it.

Finally we reached the bottom. Another boulder strewn river bed.

The climb up the far bank and mountainside was punishing. Gary was now in fierce pain, having to stop every few minutes. It detracted from our appreciation of the countryside.

The old lad was struggling and we suspected, from a WhatsApp voice message in Spanish, that there may be a problem with our accommodation, which would be unfortunate as it was the only place to stay in Vistabella and the rain was coming back with thunder and lightning accessories.

The pain was again apparent from Gary’s face.

The last 200 metres up a track into Vistabella were agony for him. It took him half an hour. We went to the only bar in town and found Dolores, the owner of the apartment which we were staying at. There was no problem with the reservation and she would take us via the butchers and the grocers to the apartment. We bought three types of sausages, wine, bread, butter beans and tomatoes and made a fabada bean dish. Just what the doctor ordered.

Let’s see what the doctor might order tomorrow for Gary’s knee.

Gary is upset to say the least. Bury my knee at Wounded Heart.

Night night.