Boondock Puffins

We left La Vall de Boí bathed in that kind of early morning golden light that makes you question every decision that involves not living permanently in a remote Catalan valley surrounded by goats and silence. But alas, the road was calling (again!) and so off we went, back into the mountains like moths to a particularly winding flame.

The route down was ludicrously scenic. Not mildly scenic. Not even “ooh, that’s nice” scenic. This was the sort of scenery that should be illegal unless accompanied by a string quartet and a warning about distracted riding. Through El Pont de Suert, past La Pobla de Segur, and Isona i Conca Dellà, every corner revealed yet another impossibly picturesque village clinging to a hillside, or a view so vast and craggy it looked like the Earth had forgotten to iron this bit.

And then we hit El Bruc, the final curtain of mountains before Barcelona, and the mood shifted. Gone were the peaceful, winding passes. In their place: Barcelona traffic.

We enjoy a bit of city riding as much as the next masochist, but this was something else. It was as though all the rules of driving had been replaced by interpretive dance. Scooters appeared from nowhere. Horns were used like punctuation. It would not have been surprising to see a man reversing around a roundabout while drinking a cortado.

We arrived at the hotel far too early to check in, but the staff were surprisingly unfazed. “Leave your stuff in the storeroom,” they said, pointing to a room that had eaten five other storerooms for breakfast. The bike, meanwhile, was stashed safely in an underground car park that may or may not have been designed by Escher.

With the luggage sorted, we did what you do in a city like Barcelona: wandered. There’s no other word for it. You can’t march with purpose through Barcelona. The streets won’t allow it. Gaudi’s buildings suddenly rise out of nowhere: melting stone, twisted iron, whole houses that appear to have been grown in a coral reef. It’s all slightly mad and completely brilliant.

Eventually, we made our way to La Sagrada Família, which is, frankly, ridiculous, in the best possible way. It is not a church. It is a cathedral-sized hallucination in stone. Parts of it look like they were designed by aliens. Others by particularly devout termites. But all of it is stunning. You stand inside and it’s like being in the world’s largest kaleidoscope, if kaleidoscopes were made of stained glass and ambition.

That evening, real life reasserted itself in the form of a job interview – conducted from the quiet of the hotel room, with only slightly dodgy Wi-Fi and one eye on the mini-bar snacks (which we didn’t break into… we’re not made of money). Afterwards, a picnic dinner of supermarket finds: bread, cheese, fruit, and a strong sense of “we’re not eating out again because Barcelona doesn’t understand what a ‘cheap meal’ means.”

The next morning, because we are apparently gluttons for early starts, we got up before the sun and ran (yes, ran) to Parque del Guinardó, where we caught the sunrise from El Carmel. It was quiet, slightly chilly, and completely worth it. Then to Parc Güell, which is like stepping into a Gaudí-themed amusement park where every bench is a piece of art and every corner reveals something slightly more surreal than the last.

By mid-morning, we figured we’d earned ourselves iced coffees and a slab of tiramisu. We shared this in reverent silence like two pilgrims who had finally reached dessert-based enlightenment.

Then, it was off to the supermarket again to prepare for the ferry between Spain and Italy. We bought the essentials: a whole roast chicken, an avocado, a red pepper, a cucumber, and some lettuce. It sounds questionable, but when you’re about to spend 20 hours on a ferry, you’d be surprised how glamorous cold chicken in a wrap can feel.

Finding the ferry terminal at the port was… an ordeal. There were signs, yes, but they seemed to follow the logic of a treasure map drawn by someone three glasses of wine in. We drove through industrial wastelands, container yards, and places with signs that I reckon said something along the lines of “absolutely not for passengers,” until we eventually stumbled upon the correct dock – probably by accident.

The bikers were already queuing, some patiently, others not, and there was the usual confusion about which ferry was going where. A few poor souls queued in entirely the wrong line and discovered this at what can only be described as “the dramatic last moment.”

Eventually, our ferry arrived. Pillions had to walk on board separately, hauling bags and balancing helmets, while riders disappeared below deck into a hot, echoing garage of chaos. Tom and I found each other again in our cabin and, after a shower and a good dinner, settled in.

As the ship slid out of the harbour, past the lights of Barcelona and into the open Mediterranean, everything felt still again. It was that awesome kind of calm you only get after a day full of traffic, ancient architecture, early mornings, and an excessive amount of poultry- and dairy-based snacks.

Tomorrow, we land in Italy – vamos! Or should that be andiamo?