"It's a tick."
"No it isn't."
"It is. Look at it. It looks like a tick, it walks like a tick."
"It isn't a tick"
"Yes it is!"
"Has it bitten you?"
I crush it between my fingernails.
"Is there any blood in it?"
There's none.
"Maybe it wasn't hungry." I suggest.
We've brought the unidentified insects with us from the camp the night before. We are camping off a farm road that is being prepared for tarmac and had to push under a chain that closed off the road. It means we'll not be disturbed by any vehicles where we've put our tent up in an abandoned field. Well, except for the bored teenager whose riding a motorbike in doughnuts over by the farm down the valley.
The cycling has been good today. We're back on the road and visit some of the coastal villages. We meet four Scots who've just finished kayaking around the island. Then we find ourselves in a resort village, quiet, just opening up for the season, but at a dead end. We have the choice to turn around or get back on the Cami de Cavalls. Five minutes later we're pushing our bikes over large rocks. Thankfully it's a short push to the next coastal resort where we cut back inland to one of the roads that slice through the centre of the island. The roads to the coast radiate out from these central roads so it means we have to backtrack if we want to go out to the beaches.
We really enjoy cycling the centre of the island - the farmland and old estancias are very picturesque. We are heading towards the western end of the island but not in a straight line. The farmers are harvesting their hay for animal feed. The hedgerows offer good wild camping. The days are getting longer.
We find ourselves on a cycling route that takes us to the end of a road up to a dead-end valley. The road becomes a dirt track. It zig-zags up the hillside and climbs steeply past some farmhouses that are now holiday lets. Back on tarmac, but still a steep climb on loaded bikes. The view at the top is worth the effort. Behind us the valley we've climbed from and in front of us the western end of the island. And our first glimpse of the mountains on Mallorca. A big downhill takes us past a couple cycling the opposite way. We grin and they grimace. We thought we'd come a hard way, but their climb looks even tougher.
Another day we find a route into another forgotten valley - wooded and green, no traffic on the farm lanes. We cycle between high stone walls that remind us of north Yorkshire. Eventually the road drops into a barranco, a gorge. It's become a dirt track when we meet a Swiss couple coming the other way on foot. The man tells us that we may not want to continue down as the road deteriorates to large stone cobbles before you cross a stream and then have to climb a gully. It's very hard, he says. But at the top is a road isn't there?, we ask. Yes. He sees we're not put off. Ahh, you English will always find a way, says the man, smiling. But is it the right way? I counter.
It's hard. The gully has been eroded by water and the channel is too deep to wheel our loaded bikes. We unload and porter the panniers up and then follow with the bikes. Gayle's leg is still not healed so it's quite hard for her. It's sunset when we get to the top and the fields are all walled. Finally we find a collapsed wall and have to porter everything again so that we can camp in the field.
"No it isn't."
"It is. Look at it. It looks like a tick, it walks like a tick."
"It isn't a tick"
"Yes it is!"
"Has it bitten you?"
I crush it between my fingernails.
"Is there any blood in it?"
There's none.
"Maybe it wasn't hungry." I suggest.
We've brought the unidentified insects with us from the camp the night before. We are camping off a farm road that is being prepared for tarmac and had to push under a chain that closed off the road. It means we'll not be disturbed by any vehicles where we've put our tent up in an abandoned field. Well, except for the bored teenager whose riding a motorbike in doughnuts over by the farm down the valley.
 |
We really enjoy cycling the centre of the island - the farmland and old estancias are very picturesque. We are heading towards the western end of the island but not in a straight line. The farmers are harvesting their hay for animal feed. The hedgerows offer good wild camping. The days are getting longer.
 |
| not for road bikes |
We find ourselves on a cycling route that takes us to the end of a road up to a dead-end valley. The road becomes a dirt track. It zig-zags up the hillside and climbs steeply past some farmhouses that are now holiday lets. Back on tarmac, but still a steep climb on loaded bikes. The view at the top is worth the effort. Behind us the valley we've climbed from and in front of us the western end of the island. And our first glimpse of the mountains on Mallorca. A big downhill takes us past a couple cycling the opposite way. We grin and they grimace. We thought we'd come a hard way, but their climb looks even tougher.
Another day we find a route into another forgotten valley - wooded and green, no traffic on the farm lanes. We cycle between high stone walls that remind us of north Yorkshire. Eventually the road drops into a barranco, a gorge. It's become a dirt track when we meet a Swiss couple coming the other way on foot. The man tells us that we may not want to continue down as the road deteriorates to large stone cobbles before you cross a stream and then have to climb a gully. It's very hard, he says. But at the top is a road isn't there?, we ask. Yes. He sees we're not put off. Ahh, you English will always find a way, says the man, smiling. But is it the right way? I counter.
It's hard. The gully has been eroded by water and the channel is too deep to wheel our loaded bikes. We unload and porter the panniers up and then follow with the bikes. Gayle's leg is still not healed so it's quite hard for her. It's sunset when we get to the top and the fields are all walled. Finally we find a collapsed wall and have to porter everything again so that we can camp in the field.
