[continued from entry of November 8]
Once again, I found myself amid talking people, no conversation coming my way. And not resisting it, the scenery outside becoming dramatic enough, compelling enough to hold my full attention as the car headed deeper into actual mountains, steep, forested slopes angling up toward darkening skies. At a certain point, the landscape changed from mixed forest to pine forest, enormous, tall old pines, extending away both uphill and down, a kind of landscape I hadn't experienced in a long while.
The car stopped, parked outside a gate, we got out and slipped past the barrier, heading down a dirt road into quiet, no sound except my traveling companions' voices and the wind in the trees. And in the moments when conversation ceased, or when I allowed the others to get well ahead of me, the silence that settled in felt total, a kind of silence that wind in trees only seems to deepen, if you know what I mean.
Quiet. Seemingly endless pine forest. And cow poop. (Visible here to either side of the trail.)
Same as with the morning's hike: cow poop everywhere. Strangely sizeable mounds of it. This time with nary a cow in sight. Just us five humans, trying to keep our hiking footwear poop-free.
The trail extended on and on, at one point skirting a section of forest that contained old open-air buildings, apparently a camp, at one time, for, well, fascist youth, during the time of the dictatorship. Now an assortment of empty, quiet buildings, spread out among tall pines, the space around the camp dotted with a few ingenious rustic fountains, a couple of them still spouting cold, clear water. A ghost camp, access to most of the structures closed off by strung wire.
Rain started up, began coming down as if it meant business. Falling heavily enough that an hour into the hike I began thinking about turning back, getting ready for the return to Madrid that evening. At which point the others left the trail, began heading straight up the slope, unmindful of shrubbery, plentiful rocks, steady rain. Hunting for a certain kind of conifer (which came as news to me). María gamely slogging along, despite wearing footwear made for city streets, not steep, rock-strewn, rain-damp mountainsides. And when they finally stumbled across one of the trees, they examined it, paused to talk/take a breather. One or two moved off to water the abundant moss and lichen, the rest discussed continuing uphill. I voted against, citing my need to return to the city that evening, strongly suggesting we head back to the car, head back to the house. They listened, agreed, we began the return hike, the sound of rainfall all around, surprisingly loud, streams that had been minimal on the trip in already beginning to swell.
The ride back to the house -- going from deep forest/deep mountains to small village then back out into open country -- included a detour through a teeny, nondescript hamlet to stop in at a surprisingly pricey furniture/antiques joint, dealing in an extensive spread of fare both interesting and cheesy. It's everywhere, the antiques biz.
At the house: me making a fire (not getting why it wouldn't catch until Juan Carlos remembered to tell me about the built-in fireplace fan, apparently an integral part of the process, immediately transforming me from puzzled loser to world-class fireplace dude), María and Tony making dinner in the kitchen. A homemade tortilla con patatas, which would have made me happy all by itself. Tony, however, conjured up a vinegar-based dipping sauce, the first time I've ever eaten tortilla with a salsa. Turned out to be so addictively spectacular that the meal disappeared in no time flat, all of us sitting around the living room coffee table, eating simple, excellent food at near supersonic speed.
Jorge and his friends materialized after the inhaling of the tortilla. People tried convincing me to stay the night, but I had work to do the next day, I was ready to go (the thought of trying for a night of sleep with eight partying Spaniards in that small house did not appeal).
María, the other person in the group with things to do in Madrid the following day, was my ride home. Still not completely sure of herself on the local roads, much smoother once we made the highway. Rain fell on and off all the way into town, mist rose from moist earth in the light of passing towns' streetlamps.
And suddenly we were in the city's northern reaches, María pulling over at la Plaza de Castilla, me dragging my bag out from the back seat, doing the two-cheek good-bye kiss thing, heading down into the Metro to catch a half-empty train into the center.
A short, simple jaunt -- 26, 27 hours. Out and back, really, nothing more. Hard to believe it's taken me so long to lay it out here.
Or not so hard to believe, given the number of things this simple overnight's gotten me thinking about. Self-examination, mostly. Nothing I'll inflict on anyone but myself, at least not now.
Later, maybe. Won't that be fun?
Madrid, te quiero.
rws 8:55 AM [+]
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