We arrived punctually in Tortosa and after refuelling at the famous petrol station (I will explain in due time why it is called “famous”) located in front of the hotel, we checked in, took our suitcase to the room and went down to the meeting point (the bar). We found it “drunk”. Luckily the person in charge of these things (Jordi) had already organised it so that we could not miss the famous Beefeater – a delicious gin of British origin that goes so well with Schweppes tonic, some ice cubes and the essential splash of natural lemon juice. It is a secret formula so I will not go into details. It is a refreshing, digestive drink that generates a pleasant “good vibe” among its consumers when they gather, without hurrying, around a table.
The Armadá family (Josep María and Maruja, more beautiful than ever), the Capgrossos family (Ramón and Lluisa), the Carchano family (Josep and Isabel), and the Moya family (Jordi and Àngels) were already there, and we joined them after greeting friends and acquaintances from other outings organised by the groups – maximum four cars – for the weekend.
Suddenly I missed the gratifying presence of my favourite (I’m going to call her G-10). I looked for her in the room, in the garage, under the tables and, finally, I faced the number one suspect: – “Jordi, where have you got her, what have you done with her?” He denied everything, putting on a poker player face. Nobody believed him, of course. She must have kidnapped her like other times, I thought. But finally I found her in Reception, who knows what she had gone there to do by herself.
When dinner time came, Albert appeared and, with that straight face he puts on when making a joke, he said to me: “Whoever owes anything should pay before coming in for dinner.” I was taken aback for a moment, but I turned to my copilot: “Pay what you owe or we won’t be able to come in for dinner.” And my favorite copilot (and only one, as I don’t have a spare) paid, collected the two t-shirts and the booklet with the historical data of the route. And we went on to eat what there was.
Dinner was spartan and very “Italian”, meaning pasta-based. It was spent in relaxed conversation and harmony. After dessert, Albert proceeded to explain the route for the next day and the difficulties we might encounter. We might encounter ice, rather than snow, some mud and fallen trees, which we did not find.
Josep Carchano offered to solve the problem of the fallen logs, and the next day he showed us a creepy axe, with which the famous Wikingo king Achastarazaux III probably conquered part of the perfidious Albion. In any case, he assured us, and I believed him, that just in case he also had a chainsaw like the one in “I know what you did last summer.” We would have no problems with the fallen logs. Our group would leave in third place, but as someone said: “What does the order of departure matter, if with so many stops we will arrive last, as always.” And there are those who consider that stopping to photograph a landscape, a ravine, a majestic peak, or allowing Jordi and Josep María to drink… is a waste of time.
During dinner, Josep (from Industrias Carchano) told us about some of his many hobbies, from racing motorcycling – one of his sons races, or has raced, as a professional – to piloting planes or motor boating. For these last two activities he has the corresponding pilot’s licence and PER. It is overwhelming to hear him talk with total simplicity and modesty about so many adventures, so many trips that have taken him to visit the five continents (Jordi Tobeñas could take note, as he hardly ever leaves the house). After the usual coffees and a bit of chatting at the bar, we filed towards the rooms, each with his intentions and needs, more or less confessable. We all agreed to stop by the petrol station first thing in the morning, apparently none of us had “completely” filled the tanks in the afternoon.
The ladies were giggling when they heard us say that we had to fill up with petrol again without having driven a kilometre after filling up. Until some joker mentioned the kindness and the good “views” of the lovely petrol station attendant who served us in the afternoon, then they stopped laughing and opposed us returning to the petrol station without them. What kind of girls these are!
Punctually – I can’t believe it, Clara punctually met us in the dining room early in the morning and in a flash we had eaten the copious and varied continental breakfast (Jordi got a litre of hot coffee for the “snack on foot” at eleven o’clock). We left at the scheduled time, we were not allowed to say goodbye to the nice petrol station on our way to the first WP. We left the head of the group to Josep María, partly to speed up his learning (it’s time for him to loosen up a bit) and partly as a recognition of his decision to replace – at last! – the old Winch with a more powerful and reliable one.
The most delicate job was assigned to Capgrossos and Lluisa: looking after the rearguard, assisting those who had breakdowns, pushing those who could not climb a ramp, rescuing those who got stuck in the ice, pulling out those who slipped in the mud… the rest of us were comfortably in the centre of the convoy, protected like younger children.
At 08:30, we set off towards the Els Ports and Beceite Natural Park. The first impression of the route is very suggestive, with the majestic image of the Caró in front.
We started having problems with José Ma’s radio station, it emits such a noise that it is practically inaudible, finally he finds out that he is not on the right frequency, he changes to FM and the noise disappears (we save the collection that someone proposed to give him a new one).
We stop to take our first photos, it is the monument to the Spanish goat, which is located at the entrance to the Natural Park. Jordi and I, the only photography enthusiasts in the group, slow down (well, Jordi’s was more because he had been smoking on us for several kilometres back).
We tried to climb Caró, at an altitude of almost 1,500 metres, but what seemed like a harmless layer of snow a few centimetres thick on the path turned out to be a hard layer of ice. José Ma skidded slightly on the ice on a curve of more than 90º with a steep climb and a huge ravine to his left. The first adrenaline rush for him and for those of us behind us observing how complicated the situation was.
He barely manages to control the Toyota’s trajectory, regaining traction. With great difficulty, he turns around despite the lack of space and the added problem of the ice. He assures us that things are very complicated up ahead. Ramón and Josep, who have managed to get past the curve, inform us over the radio that a little further up the road the clouds don’t let us see anything, it’s not worth continuing. So we turn around and follow the signs almost exactly as on the route. Ruta d’Ebre – 19/02/210
In box 12 of the route, the limiter on Jordi’s front right shock absorber breaks. This is how we find out his best kept secret: he has fitted some super shock absorbers that will be the envy of everyone, but the sling that acts as a limiter has not withstood the first half hour of the route.
This causes a bit of a fuss from the shock absorbers – for some reason Jordi didn’t want to publish it, he knows how little formality some people have – and, like a movie hero, he throws himself onto the ice, mud and water under the belly of the Toyota to remove what’s left of the limiter.
Luckily, for these occasions I carry a few meters of bubble wrap to insulate against the cold, ice, and mud. I have a hard time convincing him to put the plastic down and avoid getting soaked. Heroes are like that, they are not daunted by difficulties or the weather.
We continue on our way to Sénia and, following the course of the Matarraña River, we arrive at Beceite (or Beseit), a name of Arabic origin, possibly named after the little king Abu Said who conquered Zaragoza and Tortosa, of which he was proclaimed Governor in 788 (it could also be translated as “land of olive trees”). There are indications in the region of the existence of settlers 2,000 years B.C., although the ceramics found date back to the Neolithic, specifically to the Bronze Age (late).
We wade a little, trying to splash as much as possible – they are like children – and this makes us hungry – it is already 11:00 – and we are in box 19 of the route book. We find a space next to the road and park the five vehicles, in total disarray, which means there is no way to take a proper photo of the group. We take out the supplies and try with obvious greed the potato and onion blood sausage from Angels – and we throw ourselves like starving beasts on the food placed on the table.
We enjoyed some clams in their juice from the Cantabrian Sea, several bags of wavy potatoes, seasoned chorizo from Almendralejo and other culinary delights. All washed down with just a couple of bottles of very cold Juvé Camps, brought by Josep and Isabel.
Manolo, Albert’s right-hand man on this expedition, happened to be passing by, smelled what was cooking and stopped to help us. He refused to eat anything, but eventually tried everything. However, he left immediately, skidding on the road so that the other groups wouldn’t see him fraternizing with our group, glass of cava in hand.
We have a bad reputation for the Jerte brandy and people only come close to try it, then run away. By the way, Mr. Jordi, who is a national importer of this delicacy for Els Països… did not bring even a small bottle to try, so on this occasion we had to resort to the injection alcohol from the Cutty Shark bottle, which is not so bad either, to remove the bad taste of the hotel’s sock coffee. And there, in that small lunch, we lost several places in the general classification. We knew it, you can’t stop to take photos and even less to have lunch.
After lunch – which did not last as long as some say – we continued along the Sénia path and the valley of the Algar river – whose waters separate Aragon from Catalonia – towards Arnes. A visit to the town is almost obligatory in order to be able to contemplate, and photograph, the town hall building and the restored apse of the old (Gothic) church, located next to the current one, whose origin dates back to the 18th century, but… time did not allow us to stop any longer. We travelled for a stretch of the route through the province of Teruel, returning again to Tarragona.
We pass through L’horta de Sant Joan, already in the Terra Alta region, a town that is highlighted on the route for the existence of a museum dedicated to Picasso, a painter who visited the town on two occasions (1898 and 1909) and created more than two hundred works between paintings and drawings, inspired by the area. The Picasso Centre was created in his honour, in an old Renaissance hospital dating from 1580.
The town is located on a hill about 600 m high, the houses are lined up in a similar way to the white villages of Andalusia. In 1296, the inhabitants of L’horta de Sant Joan demanded to be governed by the Fuero de Lleida, which was abandoned by those of Zaragoza. We are greeted in front by the Monte de Santa Bárbara, which, as the route progresses, offers us different images and appearances in the form of a sharp cone, similar to the Japanese mountains. The view of the mountain from Sant Joan offers us an absolutely different aspect. Ramón and Lluisa comment that they have climbed it on foot, to the top, on several occasions. We continue along the Camí de Sant Joan and, upon reaching the outskirts of Bot – a small town of Iberian origin where traces of the irrigation systems implemented by the Romans and Arabs still survive – and near which the Canaletas river runs.
As it was lunchtime and we had not found a suitable place to stop and have a picnic (the wind and the cold did not allow it), we decided to look for a restaurant on the route. We found the Can Josep hotel, which did not look particularly attractive from the road, but we left the vehicles under some olive trees and decided to go in.
Our surprise was to find a place of exquisite cleanliness, magnificently decorated and the dining room with impressive views. We eat like travelers without hurrying, with a freshly ironed linen tablecloth. After the modest but more than sufficient meal my fellow travelers surprise me, as always. Because I accidentally presided over the table, I was the last to sit down, and they forced me to pay the bill for everyone. I accepted grumbling, but, of course, I previously demanded from each one the revolutionary tax, equivalent to what each couple had eaten and drunk. Then I pay, with the money collected. If I am not ready, Jordi will take half of the euros with the pretext of getting change. Thank goodness I was able to distract him by letting him play the G-10 for a few moments, if he gets into it like teenagers do on their first time, very anxious.
After lunch we continued towards Prat del Compte, a town of just 26 km2, settled and populated by the Templars from 1210 onwards, on a rugged terrain through which the track runs – full of winding curves – that we will follow. The narrow and complicated path we were travelling on had some surprises in store for us: we found several fallen electricity pylons, and thick cables crossed on the ground, or hanging at a low height. We passed over some, we got around others and, some, had to be raised with the branch of a poplar tree so that the vehicles could pass.
One of the cables got caught in José María’s snorkel – that’s what happens when he raises the suspension every six months (Maruja requests an elevator to access the interior) and he had to be unhooked with the help of some broken branches. Anyone risked touching them without knowing whether or not they carry the usual 20,000 volts that these types of electrical conduits usually carry.
At box 79 we had to cross a chicken farm. Albert had insisted the night before that he had made a deal with the angry owner of the chickens that he would allow us to pass on condition that we do it slowly and without stressing them. Recently, three thousand of the four hundred thousand he has on the farm committed suicide because of some vehicles that passed with their lights on. The chickens saw the lights and three thousand of them followed them from one end of the shed to the other and, of course, the other three hundred and ninety-seven thousand chickens followed them and ran over them, crushed them. All three thousand chickens died without pain or glory. It is easy to imagine the anger of the farmer of the stupid chickens.
When we reached the entrance to the road that passes by the farm, Manolo, like a sheriff from a lawless city in Wichita, blocked our way, caressing the butt of his pearly Colt 45, the latest generation GPS with nickel-plated heat sinks. Apparently, the damn farmer – fed up with attending the burial of thousands of his chicks – was determined and refused to comply with the agreement with Albert. He wouldn’t let anyone through. Manolo, while “Death Had a Price” was playing on the radio, asked us to continue in the direction of Tortosa.
When we got out on the road we tried to get to Tivenys. Although we wouldn’t get there in time to visit the caves of wonders, but the GPS indicated a distance of 22 kilometres there and the same amount back, we decided to turn around and continue by road to Tortosa. It was already dark. We arrived at the hotel at around 6:00 p.m.
We all agreed to leave the co-pilots in the hotel bar and go fill up with petrol and wash the cars, the mud remained stuck to the steering column, the rims and the shock absorbers. It was necessary to remove it as soon as possible. Our joy was short-lived, the petrol station was no longer there, replaced by another one which, to our dismay, offered us a glass of old wine.
She was friendly, nice and helpful, just like the day before (how these creatures can stand the cold!), I send you my greetings on behalf of all of us.
We headed to the washroom, where we dumped tons of hardened mud and uncovered a fresh collection of deep grooves in the paintwork, the grating tunnels having worked properly.
We returned to the hotel and each one went to do their most urgent things and to tune up their co-pilot, which also requires maintenance, not only the vehicle. We meet again at dinner time. By the way, I now remember that we owe Josep Carchano two bottles of Marqués de Cáceres wine, a special reserve, and Ramón and Lluisa another, which they paid ahead and, as we are stingy, we were unable to convince them to accept the part. The next outing we will not allow them that confidence. The common expenses of the group are paid at the neckline.
After dinner and during Albert’s comment, we reminded him that the pacts with the chicken pact reminded us of those other pacts of passage with the Kosovar Albanians, which were not respected either. To which he replied that he is very good at negotiating and reaching agreements, even international, but if then the countrymen of the chickens, or the Albanians, do not respect them… it is felt.
After dinner, after listening to Albert’s recommendations on what to do and what not to do in the Delta, the warnings about possible falls into the canals, the quicksand, whether or not to get to the Lighthouse, the… we went to the bar scared to take some antidote and, then in the early hours of the morning, when they threw us out of the bar by opening the door to the street wide (-2oC in the shade), we went shivering to sleep in one go.
Baix Ebre.
The region has two Natural Parks: Els Ports and Delta del Ebro, endowed with great landscape richness. Since the Palaeolithic, the successive inhabitants of these lands have learned to fight against the abrupt elements of the environment and take advantage of the richness and fertility of the Ebro.
On Sunday we leave for the Ebro delta, in the direction of Amposta, going up to the Castle of La Suda, where the incomparable Castle-Parador de Tortosa is located. We follow the Perelló path crossing canals and rice fields until we reach the Delta Natural Park. We go to the Lighthouse, the sand is hard and you can ride perfectly.
When we reach the lighthouse there is a small dune near the base and Josep Carchano, following the plan, gets stranded “unintentionally”, so we have the right opportunity for Josep Ma to check that his new Winch works. There are minutes of maximum tension. Josep pulls out tons of sand with his four tires spinning madly and the engine snoring powerfully, his belly rests softly on the almost Saharan sand, but he does not move an inch from the site, making it so difficult for Armadá.
But the latter, convinced that he has the right device, hooks his light plasma cable to the back of the Toyota LC 120, returns swaggeringly, grabs the remote control and, with a gesture of triumph, presses the pick-up button… Dozens of applause prey on immediate success.
After a few moments of uncertainty, the winch, which maintains a homogeneous and silent purr, begins to pick up the cable and pulls the heavy vehicle out of the ditch which, a few meters away, regains its autonomy.
After congratulating Armadá for his wise choice, we met for family photos next to the lighthouse, then resumed the march towards Punta del Fangar.
My co-pilot and I cross a small arm of shallow water alone, and when we look back, surprised that the naughtiest ones are not following us, they make it clear to us on the radio station that it is salt water! We will have to wash the underbody as soon as possible or we will run out of joints.
As we continue the walk we find a wooden viewpoint, I climb it in a flash and, from there, I take some photos of the landscape and the cars of the group that are left.
We continue in the direction of Platja de la Bassa rolling parallel to the sea until we reach Deltebre, where we take the ferry La Cava that crosses the river to the other bank – Sant Jaume d’Enveja.
The Charon who drives the mini shuttle maintains the same stern gesture as always, he seems serious and absent but he is not impolite, at all. As Jordi Tobeñas would say (we have stayed for centuries with that phrase) it is “correct”.
On the first ferry go Ramón/Lluisa and Josep/Isabel. In the next one, the rest of the group. When they reach the other side by the radio station they ask us if they set up the eleven o’clock table (the fridge) in the parking lot. We gladly consented. When we arrive, everything is ready. We eat Lluisa’s omelette and some other little thing that hunger beats and we uncork a good Juvé Camp. We continue in the direction of Buda Island and from there we head towards Punta de la Banya following the line of the power lines, as Albert had indicated.
Kamicaces?
A group of vehicles, also from Territori, led by a white pick-up, forgetting that we are in a National Park and that we are not coming to risk our physical integrity, circulate at full speed to our left, on the other side of the small dune that limits the authorized route, trying to overtake us. At a point where the dune, to our left, is momentarily cut, he takes advantage of the pic-up to cross towards our line, crossing in front of Ramón, who has to brake – very difficult on sand, as we all know – to avoid the impact against the aggressor vehicle that tries to join the path – in front of him – without succeeding due to the swerves that the vehicle suffers. Finally he goes off to the right and manages to control his trajectory without overturning. I, too, who ride behind Ramón, slow down with the gear, without touching the brakes, while I watch the swaying of the pic-up. It has been on the verge of overturning and causing a stupid, unjustifiable accident. We decided to inform Albert, upon arrival at the restaurant, in case they deem it convenient in Territori, in successive calls, to avoid this type of guest who puts their own safety and that of other members of the group at risk. We leave the sands and head towards San Carles de la Rápita where lunch is planned at the Ramón Marinés restaurant.
Before arriving at the restaurant we look for a gas station with a laundry room. We find it next to the national 340. Josep Carchano suffers a spectacular accident, when he puts the coins in the washing system the hose jumps due to the pressure and the metal part of the lance hits him on the head causing an ugly wound. Fortunately, it is superficial and does not affect the eye, near which the impact has occurred.
Without further complications we returned to the city center, located the restaurant and sat down, ready to eat and go out on foot. We have at least three hours on the road to return home, 8 unless the weekend bottlenecks delay us. While we wait for them to serve us, we comment on the experiences of this outing through the lands of the Ebro, all showing our satisfaction for the good times we have had.
Casa Ramón, the restaurant. The last day’s meal, as sometimes happens, ended up ruining in part the good mood with which we finished the outing. It was set for 2:00 p.m. with a margin of 0:30 minutes for the stragglers. We were all seated minutes before 2:30 p.m., a rare punctuality.
The distribution of space at the tables was as overwhelming as traveling by subway at rush hour. When we tried to sit down, we had to perform a thousand maneuvers to place our elbows without disturbing the neighbors in the chair excessively. There was hardly any room for glasses and plates. However, more than half of the place lacked tables and chairs, it was incongruous to place ourselves like pressed anchovies when the center of the place remained empty, like a dance floor. Did I say dance floor?
Later we understood the reasons; when an older lady appeared, very respectable just for that detail, who connected some amplifiers and a keyboard and, microphone in hand, tried to earn her modest salary as a woman-orchestra based on jokes from the last century (very early in the century), forcing the one who allowed herself to be forced to give a few dance passes around the place to provoke laughter and timid applause from the diners who, thus, perhaps, they forgot about the time that had passed since they were served the previous dish.
The grandmother of the fairs kept her harangues from the microphone asking for “a fort applause” for each person she named, or invented and, curiously, some diners applauded furiously. Of course, the sound of the amplifiers prevented conversation, at least in the area of the table where we were and, in more than one of us, it caused a painful migraine that will remind us of a meal that Buñuel would have filmed delighted and whose script could have been written by Don Kafka on an insomniac night. The meal was transformed into an incomprehensible succession of dishes, served without order or concert, which would last for three endless hours.
Finally, when they served the famous rice with lobster announced by the organization (who had not seen the lobster even in paint) – it was almost five in the afternoon. It turned out to be a brothy rice, in which boring prawns danced sadly, which we had to eat with a fork. Yes, with a fork. When they handed the spoons to the waiters – incomprehensibly there were no spoons on the table – the broth was already cold.
When it seemed impossible to overcome the mischief, the grandmother of the kermes, the woman orchestra, proclaimed from the power of her watts that she would immediately proceed to raffle a trip to Mallorca aboard an inflatable mat. No sooner said than done, he appeared at the head of the table, held out a small scoop of esparto grass and a strip of paper with numbers – of those used a hundred years ago in the tombolas of the fairgrounds – and asked for our contribution to participate in the raffle for “a trip to Mallorca on board the mattress”. mat that he did not show us but that surely exists.
Faced with my refusal to contribute to such an extravagant event with cash, he decided that, “since you are more wapo than Richard Gere, I will give them to you”. And he left, rumblingly, two strips of numbers that remained there, between glasses and bottles: I got up and fled without waiting for either dessert or coffee, which I imagine would finish serving late at night, those who endured until the end, like heroes, will tell me.
We said goodbye to friends and acquaintances (Thanks to Patricia, she made my day with her affectionate meals) Ruta d’Ebre – 19/02/210 9
We talked about the visible success of my plastic surgeon who has put my things in the right place, it seemed) and we left by foot before the old waiter, or founder, forced us to sit down again and wait another hour to consume a dessert and the obligatory coffees.
Albert comes out to say goodbye and, on the stairs, asks me for a copy of the chronicle – if I write it – which I am not sure will happen. It bothers me to create expectations and much more to generate frustration, we are not always going to be fortunate enough to please readers. I tell him that I don’t know, that we’ll see. How much responsibility!
Chronological sequence of the meal:
-14:30. Everyone seated.
-15:15. The hors d’oeuvres begin to be served.
-15:30. They serve a fried squid and mussels.
-15:45. They serve squid again, this time several.
-16:15. A croquette.
-16:30. They serve the whiting. We have a retired waiter, with a trembling pulse who, in order to be vir, rests his right elbow with all confidence on the combed, or bald, head of the diner who is next to him. It unravels us all and forces them to go to the hairdresser with a certain urgency. He grumbles very offended, and offensive, when I say “no thanks” to the whiting that bites its own tail. Maybe I’m wrong but I sense that it must be the founder of the company, or the maternal grandfather of the founder.
-16:50. They serve the leftover croquettes again and, then, more whiting.
-16:55. Finally, at 4:55 p.m. – official Festina time – appears, as the wedding cake of the Godfather I, the long-awaited and announced rice with lobster, without spoons.
We eat it with a fork, there was not a leg, nor an aroma of lobster, just two prawns floating disconsolately in a broth without substance.
