Shall we give up?
Yesterday, unfortunately, the visit to the medieval village of Albarracin was largely marred by Jean-Paul's state of health. He is not getting better, quite the contrary. We rushed back from the town, hoping to find an anti-inflammatory in "Roulotte" that could reduce his fever. Our traveling room, still under the surveillance of the Stone Giant, is then turned upside down, in vain! Besides, tomorrow is Sunday. It is unlikely that a dispensary or even a pharmacy will be open.
For now, Jean-Paul literally collapses into bed, and I stay alone all evening wondering about our future plans, in particular that of spending the three summer months in Norway. However, I go to bed hoping that this night's rest will be beneficial to my companion and that all this will only be a bad memory.
Unfortunately, the night went badly, with incessant coughing fits for the unfortunate man. On the Internet, there is mention of an on-call pharmacy in Albarracin open from 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. this weekend. Jean-Paul has no choice, I force him to get up and come with me. Perhaps we will have the address of a doctor he can consult...
Looking for a pharmacy
I walk the streets of the village, Jean-Paul blows far behind me. While waiting for him to join me, I take the opportunity to ask passers-by where the pharmacy is, except that most of them are tourists like us!
Relieved, we finally found the pharmacy and bought ourselves some remedies to treat this cold. No practitioner in the town, the only medical office seems closed. Error! We should have rung and made ourselves known, we learned later. Jean-Paul does not want to go there again and thinks that the only medicines purchased will be enough to treat him.
The source of the Tagus
At the café, he swallows the pills and a good swig of syrup and takes the risk of accompanying me to the sources of the Tagus, about thirty kilometers from Albarracin.
I drive the whole way, very happy not to tow Roulotte, while Jean-Paul rests. The road crosses a long, wooded valley with its Batida waterfall. A stone's throw away, in vast peerages, sheep graze peacefully; the shepherd and his patous are not very far away. Aragon has managed to keep its trades of yesteryear and highlights its countryside for our greatest happiness. We take the time to stop for a few minutes to listen to the bells bringing joy to the place.
Allegory of the Tagus
Soon, a sign indicates “Fuente de Garcia”. We arrived at the birth of the Tagus. I park in the site's parking lot and see on my left a gigantic monolith which sits in the middle of a sculptural ensemble. Jean-Paul takes the opportunity to take a breath of fresh air. At first glance, I have difficulty understanding the work. It seems grotesque and disproportionate to me, and it is only by documenting myself that I perceive all the richness of the allegory of the statutes.
The work evokes the three provinces that unite the source of the Tagus: Teruel represented by its Torico, the chalice for Cuenca and the knight for Guadalajara. The Titan has a star on its head, which recalls the winter snows of the “Montes Universales” from which it emerges. His beard disintegrates into 4 streams signifying the thawing of the waters in spring. It was then that his sword planted in the base of the ground cracked the country from east to west, thus shaping the bed of the Tagus, the longest river in the Iberian Peninsula. It measures 1078km, 802 of which are in Spain. Its particularity is to follow the Spanish and Portuguese border for 48km before crossing part of Portugal for 228km. It flows into the Atlantic Ocean at Lisbon.
Lunch break
Once the enigma of the statuses has been solved, I return to the victorious car, and notice that my companion is even more tired, reluctant to listen to my discoveries. The kilometers traveled made my hungry stomach hollow. Jean-Paul drags himself to the spring to cool off and stocks up on cold, pure water from the high mountains. Near the fountain there is a very well maintained leisure area where we decide to have lunch.
On the way back, Jean-Paul immediately falls asleep in the car, his head leaning against the closed window. It is in a heavy silence that I take us back to Albarracin. After a few kilometers, he wakes up feeling numb and takes the third pill of the day and insists that we stop at the "Pinares de Rodeno", a place where we can discover rock paintings several thousand years old, classified as heritage UNESCO world
The rock paintings of Albarracin
With guilt, I plunge alone into the long pine forest at the “Rio Cabriel” car park after checking that our two cell phones are turned on and sufficiently charged.
The strong smell of fresh, woody resin fills my nostrils. The landscape offers beautiful contrasts between the ocher of the mineral and the green of the forests. Here, the relief has been shaped for millennia. The glaciers smoothed the rocks, leaving them as if piled on top of each other without regard to shape or size. On the route you can meet climbers training on fairly technical blocks, and opportunistic young shoots rooted in the cracks giving the illusion of emerging directly from the stone..
I look at the screen of my cell phone, no alerts from Jean-Paul; he must have fallen asleep under the influence of the medication. I then venture to the heights of the site and easily imagine the life of men before tracking down wild game. The signposted route takes me from shelter to shelter where the paintings are protected by red grids reminiscent of the Chimiachas cave in Alquezar. Many of the prints are erased, but we can see animal figures and hunting scenes on many of them. Some white-pigmented ones appear to be specific to the region.
Rushed return to France
My concern has been growing for a few minutes because I have not been able to contact Jean-Paul. I decided to cut the excursion short, and finally found it in very poor condition. He admits to me, with great difficulty, that he wants to return to France tomorrow.
So, in the early morning, we packed up our bivouac as best we could and left our paradise, which would have become less idyllic for me if I had to stay there with my companion who was in bad shape. I am here, facing my reality; I have difficulty maneuvering Roulotte and my sense of direction turns out to be a little chaotic.
Stopover in Alcañiz
Enough reasons to leave without delay. After 180km, we reach Alcañiz, a town of 16,000 inhabitants, and find a campsite on the edge of a lake. I am relieved. The manager points us to a dispensary in the city center where we will certainly find a doctor.
I bring the good news to Jean-Paul who prefers to wait one more night before consulting. I then take my courage in both hands and drive to the historic center of Alcañiz hoping that my GPS will not fail me to return to the campsite. It is also an opportunity to speak Spanish with locals and to visit the city.
I am surprised to discover that the filmmaker Luis Buñuel is a child of the region. His documentary on Aragon in 1923 “Las Hurdes” had an impact on me. It shows with chilling realism the life of peasants at the beginning of the 20th century in a certain region of Spain. Since then, European funds have made it possible to open up the villages, a real blessing for the populations.
What to do?
Finally, we spent four nights at the lake campsite, time for Jean-Paul to get back on his feet without going to the doctor. For my part, I was able to appreciate the calm of the campsite and the twilight during long walks around the lake.
However, this experience left a deep impression on us and raised questions about health while traveling. Should we replace Roulotte with a van, which I could finally drive?
Abandoning Roulotte saddens me, but the prospect of gaining autonomy compels me.
However, during the return trip, negotiations are going well because we will be leaving for Norway soon. By van or caravan?
You will find out by following us in the Flash News on the site's home page.
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