To León…almost

I am on a train! And so is my bicycle. But it is late in the day and it has been a fraught and uncertain morning.

Last night I wandered the narrow and cobbled streets of Bilbao old town enjoying the buzz of Saturday night Spain. Despite the drizzle it was only the uncertainty of my plans that in any way disheartened me and today I hoped to dispel those concerns. I had originally intended to spend two nights here in Bilbao before heading by train to León, then Monforte de Lemos and finally Vigo. On paper that worked for both me and my bike. Yesterday caused me to rethink. I now hoped on leaving today, thereby getting ahead of any future problems. But I still needed the certainty of a ticket. 

I rose early and went to the station to hopefully book the train I could not yesterday only to be told that now I would have to wait until 2pm. Talk of possible replacement bus services did not fill me with optimism but at least hinted at the problem. Breakfast, a deal to sell on my now extra night in the packed hostel to a young Dutch traveller, and a cycle across town in an abortive attempt to check on the possibility of a bus (a helpful local told me of at least one firm that would sometimes carry bikes) all helped to kill time until the watershed moment. 

My luck was in. Mostly. I could not get to León but I could get as far as the village of Cistierna some forty miles short. Here passengers (and there were not many) for all stations onwards would be provided with taxis. Unless you had a bike. But I at least had a destination and could take stock from there.

Two tiny carriages formed the train, looking more like something that should be on a city underground. And like an underground train it jolted and trundled through the whole six hour journey, a journey that was both slow and beautiful. We stopped at tiny and isolated villages, handfuls of ancient houses showing the ravages of time but still served by train - no 'El Beeching' here apparently - and I’m sure we also stopped a few times for animals on the line. For the most part we seemed to be in the middle of a hilly and rural nowhere. We travelled through woods, some green and alive with leaves, some laden with mistletoe balls, others dying, spindly and laden with lichen. We passed forests of white hawthorn blossom and extensive pasture, dotted yellow and of an intense green despite the grey day. And as I looked down on great green valleys showing hardly a hint of the presence of man we rose to meet the clouds, becoming enveloped in their swirling mistiness like something from a horror film. 

There was something ageless in the beauty of those views that I could not initially place. It was only later that I realised it was about absence and not presence: three hours of scenery had not been tainted by power lines stringing their way across the landscape. I had not realised until they did and when they did it jarred: those views with their sense of timelessness, unadulterated countryside, nature unencumbered - choose your adjectives as you wish - were now forever altered. 

At eight-thirty we finally reached Cistierna, a tiny place nestled in the hills and looking like some out of season skiing village. I waved farewell to those I had been speaking to on the train and pedalled off into the fading light for the short journey to my small, self-contained accommodation, my bed for the night and thoughts of plans for the morning.