The meeting point, Peñíscola, is a city worth visiting, especially the famous castle perched on a rock that juts out into the Mediterranean Sea. Castillo who was nothing less than papal see with Benedict XIII (Pope Luna) on the occasion of the schism of Avignon.
The Suites hotel of the ZT hotel chain (I said ZT, not ZP, I know you), is a building with a grandiose, colossal appearance, like an almost oriental palace of the Arabian Nights, and so many early mornings. The absence of directions to the hotel – and my natural tendency to get lost in the bathroom – forced me to go around the beach area completely.
The entrance to the garage was free and clear, we threw ourselves into the depths of their basements fearing the worst, an absolute full. But no, there were places, many free places. I was struck by the fact that the spaces for the disabled, located near the entrance, were all taken, reserved by means of traps, from which it can be deduced that no disabled person passing through will have access to these spaces. Curious.
The reception did not disappoint us regarding the exterior. Grandiose, of gigantic proportions. Huge lounges, hidden corners with sofas and armchairs and the front occupied by dozens, yes dozens of computers to receive, and attend to customers, immediately. Okay, so we imagined, but the employee who touched us, with only one customer in front of us, made us wait forty-five minutes of Swiss watch before asking us, without much interest, what we wanted.
Telling them that we were coming with Fenek was almost miraculous, the inefficient intern became nervous, smiled palely, and, after tripping over himself several times behind the counter, ran to the other end to consult something with another colleague. He left us with the ID in his hand and the face of Coria’s fools (I have a witness to the scene in three acts and an epilogue: Jaume). The minutes continued to tick and my desire to open the suite (that’s what they call the hotel with three thousand rooms overlooking the sea) increased by the moment.
On the verge of screaming with pure hysteria, we saw the return of the man who was neither a greyhound nor a hound, but an inefficient and useless employee, employed on a temporary contract by his own merits. Made into an egg-flavored powder flan, he began to ask me for information, forgetting that I had already given it to him.
Suddenly he gave me back his ID and desperately typed on the computer avoiding looking at me. I came to imagine that I was playing a difficult online game of Tétric, or strategy, due to the delay in returning to reality, my room reservation.
My co-pilot, worried and fearing the worst, that we would not be able to get a room that same day in front of the inoperative individual with the bangs raised, like half a Berber cutlass, due to the excess of gel, ran to take a turn in another queue of the many that had formed. For a moment I had the feeling of being at an airport, in front of the windows of Iberia, that exemplary company that half a century ago proclaimed that “in Iberia only planes received better treatment than their customers”. But for twenty-five, five years up or down, no one has treated them worse.
It is not the reception of a luxury hotel, rather it looks like the railway station of a third world country. Forty-five minutes to get a key and a room number, considering Feneck already provides them with all the information they need.
After leaving the suitcase in the room we met in an area of the hall, near the cafeteria, with the usual companions on the route. There is Armadá and his inseparable Maruja, together with Ángels and Jordi with empty glasses. When I ask about the origin of their gin and tonic they warn me that I will have to go to the counter to order them (five-star service).
The waiter, uniformed as he can only uni- Peñíscola-Teruel exit. May 21-23, 2010. That’s how I thought I saw the queue at Reception. Pope Luna, Blessed XII 3 Chronicle Peñíscola-Teruel.: 21-23 May 2010 to train a five-fork waiter, he takes his time to serve me. When I ask him for a gin and tonic he informs me that neither the tonic can be schwepps, nor packaged, it is tap and they have no name, nor is there lemon, nor… -Okay, a beer- he asks me if I prefer it blonde, or toasted, if branded, if tap, yes… -I want a VollDamm. “Well, we don’t have any, not that one,” he tries to hide the joke that is being made at my expense. “Give me a beer, whatever it is, I don’t care.” -Toast? “Well, no, I don’t want toast, okay?” And also a Martini. -The Martini, red, white…? -That it is white. -Yes, but sweet, semi, or dry? -Dry, I want it dry. -Impossible is semi or sweet…
I accept what he wants to give me and, when I ask him for the amount, he tells me to pay tomorrow at reception. Just thinking about tomorrow’s queues to pay opens my flesh. I insist, I always pay in cash, I don’t want it to be charged. “I’m sorry,” the twisted smile tells me that no, he’s not sorry, “but I can’t get paid, you must pay tomorrow at reception, like everyone else.” Tell me your room, the number.
I couldn’t pay. I took the drinks and olives to the table on two trips, swearing in Hebrew, so much imposition bursts me, it revolts me. How can you treat customers? Ask the ZT Hotel Suites chain, they do it and nothing happens, they are overflowing with foreigners and yayos from INSERSO.
We collect the road maps and the shirt (I finally get a Territori shirt in my size directly, without resorting to exchange and marketing) before going to the dining room. Jaume joins the group, who has shared a queue to get a room. We have dinner not when we want, but in the shift that has been imposed on us – nor in the fucking military service.
-“What group are you coming with?” We tell them, meek as lambs so as not to off the staff, they send us to the back, there in that corner. We went to the buffet.
We are hungry and tired, we want a simple, light dinner and go to bed. I tried several things, the tomatoes that didn’t even taste like plastic, the hard, inedible and tasteless fried legs, I tried a dry, hard and inedible hake, I tasted… Finally I had some salad for dinner and little else, I gave up bread because I don’t like chewing gum, when I went for desserts the trays were empty.
The temperature was truly overwhelming. I asked different employees to activate the air conditioning but they replied that I would like to work with air conditioning but that maintenance has instructions not to activate it yet. I finished the so-called dinner with my shirt wet with sweat and went to reception, I complained about the situation and they shrugged their shoulders.
I asked for a complaint form and complained in writing about the air conditioning issue. In a year I will tell you that they answer me, although I already know.
The breefing takes place in a room of the lavish hotel in which there are two sofas, we are fifty or more people, who are waiting on our feet for the meeting to begin, pass and end, remembering the mother of the aspiring deputy head of section of the hotel, who has decided to give us a room without chairs.
Albert, with the seriousness that characterizes him to tell lies, details the evils that we have to find tomorrow, the millimetric accuracy of the tracks (if it reads 45 meters, there is the detour, or we will not find it), the problems we will have to orient ourselves in the immense fields of vines, several meters high? through which we will pass, the places where, if we see that there is more than a palm of water, it is better to turn around and take an alternative route, better not to pass.
The chilling trials that will force us to look for alternatives if we do not dare to pass them, and if we face them, everyone there if they want to do it but always with a reducer, in the first place, and with the five senses. We were frightened to know what awaited us along more than two hundred and fifty kilometers of a route designed for the very hard-working, for the seasoned centaurs of the 4×4.
Pages are distributed with the alternatives in case of finding a lot of water, or not being able to pass the trials. Our navel shrinks. The groups are formed and Armadá, before Clara objects, asks that our group leave first, to avoid the rest of the comrades the tremendous early morning and, incidentally, leave the ruts well marked and make things a little easier for them.
The second group, led by Carbonell, will start ten minutes later – on our heels – and will mark with tapes the path that we will have already marked with the tires.
Saturday 22/05/10 At six o’clock in the morning, still dark night, our group is busy preparing the vehicles (including Clara!!), holding the load well to avoid surprises in the fearsome trials, the inevitable fording of deep and plentiful riverbeds and, of course, fine-tuning all the electronic navigation equipment, the 27 radio stations and the others, pre-selecting the stipulated bands and channels. Emergency rations, water suits, spare boots and, especially, the provision of water and spirits for emergencies are checked, such as the famous medicinal elixir called “distilled cherry juice”, or in other words, cherry brandy, also very useful for loosening rusty screws. There was no shortage of cava, in case there was something to celebrate, and there always is, that spicy choricín from León provided by Ángels, the omelettes of various tastes and all those victuals necessary to face an adventure in the middle of nature.
Of course, we also make room for ropes, electrician’s electrical tape, patches in case we puncture, band-aids… In short, we are not, nor do we pretend to be experts, we use what we consider to be useful to us in the face of a serious problem, isolated in the mountains and without possible help from third parties. Around seven o’clock we faced the first and most serious decision of the day: Were we taking the right risk of having breakfast, whatever they give us, at the ZT Suites hotel? And we did, and we survived, even though Albert’s Brifing, with our backs turned, aimed at the four There are reactors that fly with less equipment 5 Crónica Peñíscola-Teruel.: 21-23 May 2010 that we leave fuming because of anger, and hungrier than when we entered. The buffet was as sparse and bad as the dinner.
Our steeds were already snorting through their exhaust pipes, impatient to shoot off to the first track. A member of the group – I won’t say his name to avoid painful jokes – had forgotten to refuel the previous afternoon, a big mistake. We had to look for the nearest petrol station, and hope that it was not true that in Peñíscola they open at ten in the morning, we needed it to open at 7:30. We’re lucky, it’s open. We start the lost route with the initial advantage and perceiving the heat of the engines of the Carbonell group on our back. Clara offers to guide the group but, as almost always, the computer fails, she passes the baton to Maruja who protests:
-“It’s always my turn.” Ángels says that she doesn’t even get in front of her, or is it Jordi who protests?
Ángels and Clara set up a rally on the radio station demanding terratrips for the next outing, at the latest. Yes, okay, but if they don’t work later, what’s the point of so many electronics? Can’t measure with a simple extendable tape measure? There is unanimity: it is useless. Jaume closes the group with his brand new Toyota five-door, he does not confess it out loud but he spends a lot of the LR.
The first squares of the route map run through the Natural Park that runs close to the coast, following the few beaches and coves that still remain on the Mediterranean coast without urbanization, in the direction of Alcossebre.
This small coastal town has undergone a wild transformation in recent decades at the hands of developers who, attracted by the beauty of its coastline and the mixture of mountains and beaches, have built tens of thousands of townhouses and, of course, their own marina.
But it also has a castle, Xivert, located on the Sierra de Irta. It is still easy to observe the part of Arab and Christian origin. Its last inhabitants were the monks of the Order of Montesa who abandoned it at the end of the eighteenth century.
From square 11 we take the direction of Teruel, we leave the Baix Maestrat region entering the region of Plana Alta (Castelló) passing near the town of Benlloch which, despite its current size (barely a thousand inhabitants) the Roman road Via Augusta passed through its municipality from north to south, which makes us suppose that it has an outstanding historical past in the region.
Albert emphasised to us: “At box 20 you will pass under three bridges on the motorway and, from box 24 to 30, you will drive along zigzagging paths of earth, between vineyards, it will be very difficult for you to find your way around them”. And we find the fields of vineyards, of paranormal dimensions and the “grapes”, of a strange orange color. It took us a while to understand that Albert’s gigantic “vines” were beautiful orange trees, still pubescent. Come on…!
We enter the Sierra de ‘En Galcerán, cross the town of Els Ibarsos – patronymic derived from the surname of Doña María Ivars, direct ancestor of San Luis Beltrán and owner of the adjoining lands. We continue in the direction of Culla. We enter the region of L’Alcalaten.
At square 128 we find the village of Xodos which, from the road, offers us the incomparable image of a small village hanging on a tozal of more than a thousand meters of altitude, highlighting the silhouette of the old tower 6 of the tribute of the wall that once protected the city. The access to the town is preserved in excellent condition, through a double semicircular arch made of classic medieval ashlar masonry.
We continue rolling towards the hermitage of San Juan, at the foot of Penyagolosa, which rises in front of us at its almost nineteen hundred meters of altitude, appearing and disappearing behind the trees as we advance. The highest in Castellón and second, after Cerro Calderón (Racó d’Ademuz), in the Valencian Community.
At box 107 we enter the Monlleó riverbed – mysteriously dry that day – rolling on the bed, formed by boulders, makes us enjoy a joyful drive with sudden loss of traction and funny rear axle snakes, like rolling on Maghreb sands. The walls, cut vertically and with a height of more than twenty meters, form a narrow cannon that causes the reverberation of the sound of the engines that thunder as if they were two thousand armored vehicles of the Panzer Division in combat formation.
After three kilometres sliding on the boulder, we leave the riverbed, enter the forest and face the first trial. It was a difficult decision, we weighed the pros and cons, the difficulties were many and serious. Finally the spirit of adventure prevailed, we chose to take risks. One after the other, leaving a prudent space, we climbed with our teeth clenched and our feet controlling the exact point of the gas so that the machines rolled on the huge blocks of loose stone, with more pointed facets than a well-cut diamond.
The tires held, and the reduction gears roared meter by meter up the steep slope. You couldn’t go faster, or slower. The risk of “stalling” in the middle of the climb put a shiver down the spine of the drivers. What would happen if, suddenly, the engine stopped pulling and the two and a half tons of the vehicle were stopped on the loose stones? Would it slide down at full speed, with no steering, no brakes, no locks…? Or would it directly tip backwards and roll like a snowball until it reaches the bottom of the canyon dismembered?
We pressed the button on the electronic control unit to provide those extra horses that could avoid tragedy and we reached the top. We breathe, something we forgot to do during the climb: like divers under the sea, we endure without breathing for several minutes.
Suddenly I was aware of the great day that had come out, the blue, clean sky, the pleasant temperature and a fresh breeze that brought us all the smells of the wild plants of the mountain: a delight. The abundant rains have left the countryside like a Matisse painting, full of flowers of a thousand colors, with a range of incredible greens, the slopes of the mountains look like slides of fluffy greenery through which you want to slide. We leave the province of Teruel and enter the Alt Mijares region (Castelló) which has a peak of 1050 meters of altitude, the Salvatierra. We discovered, very close to the track, a meadow of soft and beautiful greenery, with its little shade and we chose it by acclamation as the ideal place to set up the eating tables. Once the tables were set up with the comfortable extendable armchairs, equipped with programmed relaxing movements, we brought out the lunches: the cold beers (never better said), and the Angels & Jordi cava. Jaume looks at us stunned. He, who was going to eat a light sandwich, standing up, does not believe what he sees. He does not understand the calm with which we took the ritual of eating, how we enjoyed the relaxation, earned by hard work during the morning of intense driving.
We were finishing the first omelette when the noses of the first vehicles of the second group appeared on the dusty track. We went out to welcome them and offer them our hospitality, but they preferred to continue despite the fact that they recognize that “it is the best place on the entire route to eat”. We offer them tortilla skewers. Some take the pincho but continue at full speed, now they are the leaders. Shortly afterwards another group passes, it is clear that once again the advantage acquired on the route is lost because of good food, good cava, desserts and digestive spirits. Jaume was unable, despite repeating several times, to admit that the cherry elixir is not just another pomace. I think he is not prepared to taste this species of ragweed with such beneficial effects for the right organisms.
We pick up in a flash – after a relaxed after-dinner – and we set off again. We pass through Villahermosa del Rio and Cortes de Arenoso but shortly after our route runs through the lands of Teruel (Aragon) again. We enter the region of Gudar-Javalambre, on our left we can see the Sierra de Nogueruelas and in it the Paredes de Peñacalva.
We arrive at Rubielos de Mora – a medieval town located at an altitude of one thousand and thirty metres – and, following the suggestions of the Llibret de Territori, we visit its historical-artistic complex. We enter through the Puerta del Carmen, after parking next to 8 in the small park. We walk through the streets that have the most unique buildings. The city still has part of the medieval walls and two of its monumental access gates, the Carmen and the Portal de San Antonio.
The architectural complex, palaces, stately homes and secluded squares are distributed throughout the old town of the town. A quiet walk after hours of driving could be good for us. After we returned to the cars and in the fridge we found – what a coincidence – a couple of liters of horchata. The horchata was almost slushie, but we were able to drink it. Then enjoy the authentic Valencian tiger nut horchata and its corresponding fartons.
We continued the route that would take us to the Hotel “Ciudad de Teruel”, located on the outskirts of this city to which, for a matter of time, we could not dedicate the necessary time to enjoy its many charms.
We refuelled and passed through the car wash, the underbody accumulated dozens of kilos of mud and the windows and mirrors were opaque with dust and mud.
We went to the dining room and this small hotel on the outskirts of Teruel provided us with an adequate, “correct” service, as Monsignor Tobeñas would say if he had been with us. The temperature was pleasant and the menu was tight. After dinner Jordi, the one from Ángels (the most skilled at these things), found a secret passageway to get to the cafeteria that we had been assured did not exist.
This is how we achieved acceptable coffees and some glasses of malt with ice, you know, which helped us fall asleep. As soon as the lights went out a couple of times we left, we quickly took it for granted. Fortunately the forty children who were making a fuss by the window of our bedroom had already left, they had come to celebrate a communion. Worse was Jordi, he had to turn off the lights so that the parents of the forty children did not look out the window to see if they caught changing the statuesque blonde who accompanies him, Ángels.
Sunday, May 23rd.. As the route was shorter than the day before, we delayed the departure and, like Swiss clocks, at eight o’clock, we were ready to leave as soon as Albert gave the starting flag. A small group had to spend the night in another nearby hotel, including Jaume, but at the scheduled time he was ready to join the group.
Jordi managed to get our Bluetooth-GPS device connected to the Tablet to work, which is giving us a war. Finally we have Clara leading the group (look how she likes to command, even in the mountains). The challenge is to reach box 21 of the route map where there is a track “not very visible, or not at all visible” according to Albert’s precise words, marked with some stones that he left days ago and that may or may not be there.
Our group starts first, we ride in the direction of Fuente Cerrada, we leave the asphalt, we pass under the highway, and then we face a trial, downhill, with a 30% incline, we are at the limit of the risk that prudence advises accepting. We assessed the risk and decided to jump off the cliff with all the consequences.
It is difficult to dodge the large boulders that lurk to crack a tire or cunningly hit the underbody. The vehicles snore down, their engines retaining the impulse of inertia that would throw us into the abyss. It took us almost an hour to get to box 21. We crossed between the stone signs, which we were able to identify among many other similar piles (yes, we had to use electronics to identify Albert’s fingerprints and DNA on the rocks) and, along the little-nothing visible path, we entered the forest. Satisfied with having been able to find the non-existent ruts and with the nose and sides of the Toyota making way through the brambles, branches and bushes, I suddenly discover, a few meters ahead, the trunk of a gigantic tree overturned laterally, and with one of its thick branches stuck directly in the center of the ruts. Impossible to pass. We call our group on the radio station and stop. As I walk in the direction of the fallen tree – like the biblical angel, but with more bad blood – it occurs to me to think that if Albert left the stones to mark the ruts, it means that he has passed through here and, one thing is that he does not warn us of the obstacle – very much his own – and another is that he could have passed.
Once next to the trunk we observed what the bushes prevented us from seeing, turning right with caution we could avoid it, by the skin of our teeth. And that’s how we do it, marking the ruts well so that the groups that come after have it easier, that’s how we are.
We continue through the forest that takes us along intricate paths – hidden by dense vegetation, shrubs and branches, with hair-raising descents and impressive climbs – towards the straits of the Mijares River. When we reach the point of the last fording we stop to contemplate the majestic fortress of the granite walls that rise vertically creating a narrow shady and cool passage.
We stop to take some photos and contemplate the grandiose landscape. Jordi takes the opportunity to check that the lighter is working. We wade through the mighty river, more than four meters wide by, no one knows how deep, and we submerge the Toyotas in a curtain of water that exceeds the end of the snorkes. We pass by the hermitage of El Pilar, cross the village of El Castellar and a “Martini” advertising sign confirms the exit.
It’s time to make ourselves a little snack and finish with the food that we have left over from the day before. And, by the way, we allow Carbonell’s group to pass us again, that we have already delayed their usual rhythm too much.
We continue the route and stop at the viewpoint next to the Alcalá River from where we can see Alcalá de la 10 Selva. We continue to the Virgen de la Vega, going up to the Valdelinares station. At the top Albert is waiting for us and he is gathering the groups and “compels” us to stop. After a while of chatting and taking some photos we resumed the march, I don’t know why they penalize us with the last place, this is worse than the referees and the briefcases.
Suddenly, Clara’s electronics fail again, the GPS of the damn Tablet, she passes the baton to Jordi and Ángels who lead the group and we are at the tail, behind Jaume’s Toyota.
We stop when we catch up with Carbonell’s group, they are stopped to repair a puncture, a moment that Margi’s children take advantage of – as always – to abandon the vehicle and run around. These nanos are already centaurs of the desert and of the dusty routes, they are more than a promise of future quatreros.
We descend a very trial-like ramp (box 49). We arrive at the ravine of Las Ranas and we find the Linares river and a new viewpoint that allows us to contemplate the town of Linares de Mora. Finally we follow the track that takes us to Mosqueruela, where an excellent meal awaits us, at the El Molino restaurant.
The menu is excellent and the service of five forks – even if it is an establishment of only two, in a remote village in the mountains. The groups are arriving and occupying their tables, when the first ones finish the stragglers are still arriving, those who have enjoyed the landscape and the absence of pressure the most, in a hurry. And it is that carrying Carbonell and his people behind us, hot on our heels… that imposes a lot.
We say goodbye to everyone, we give up the last adventure of the day, a promenade with water and stone that will surely be a splendid culmination for the weekend, those who do participate will tell us.
