Into Sevilla

As I stole away from Cordoba, past the usual lurid strip joints and one rather inconspicuous 'top secret' grow shop with a happy stoner ants mural, I assumed there would be the same agricultural routes running parallel to the main road for me to walk on. This was not the case. It seemed that south of Cordoba business was in mass produced ceramics, and this did not, apparently, demand the same type of transport access. And so, once again, I braved the hard shoulder, and was honked severely for my struggles, presumably to discourage such future acts of insanity. Occasionally I was spared by a roadside community and I could enjoy pavements and the shade of trees. Laurie observed the healthy covering on the people of Valdepenas and I observed a similar correlation between the southerly direction and growing waistlines. I considered the practicalities of whaling it in the frying pan of Spain and found none, other than to throw off the presumptions of someone like me, who thought they lived off Mediterranean salad and the fruits of the sea.

My first stop was Almadover, an almost white town which hugged a rock with a castle on top. I had no intention of visiting the castle but some how ended up there whilst looking for my hostal, which was at the bottom of the rock. My homing skills seem to lose satellite reception in vaguely built up areas and I always end up somewhere of touristic interest when all I want is a bloody bed and Oreos. I slid back down the hill in my own perspiration and was asked, very earnestly, by the hostal receptionist if I wanted a double with an ensuite or a single with a bathroom in the hall, both the same price. I took advantage of this rather questionable business strategy and slept like royalty in the double. 

I after a couple of days I found a canal which I was able to follow, for the most part, all the way to Sevilla. Sometimes I walked through orchards of orange trees whose paths were chained off and so I hid every time I heard a tractor. One day I was caught, 'can I pass through?' I asked meekly and the guys face broke into the best smile, it was like the earth was smiling it was joyful, 'of course!' He said 'why not?'. The towns were dotted more closely together now, their main streets, no matter how small, were lined with benches. There were poppies too, and these little snails, yellow, pink and pearl, which clustered in close tribes on almost anything narrow and green. 

My last days walk before Sevilla was long. I was panting and my eyes felt like they were the wrong way up, I slumped against a wall and resigned myself to gravity. Something twanged in my left leg. In the pensiones I found some ice and put it on my leg but it felt uncomfortable, the muscle on the front had gone really hard. I watched a documentary on Dawn Porter living off crackers and apples for a month to achieve size zero, which made me stop rubbing my leg and start prodding my belly. In the morning I tried to put my rucksack on and realised I couldn't walk. The muscle spasm in my leg hadn't gone down so I went back to bed with it propped up in the hope that something would drain out of it. I had breakfast at the pensiones, which was painted in really fresh colours and had potted plants and hanging baskets, and the owner had a glass eye. It was a nice break from yoghurt and bran flakes at 5.30 in the morning and I felt excited for Sevilla. I was going to be staying in La Banda hostal where there would be other people my age who spoke my language and good food with mojihitos. This thought drove my decrepit left leg in front of my right all the way to the station and within half an hour I was into Sevilla.