I had become so used to waking to sunlight and blue skies, weeks of it, that a wet day was more than a surprise. Another night in the four star wasn’t really an option though, so the bike headed off north into persistent precipitation. Once you have become used to wet clothing, there is something perversely pleasurable about riding through it. Flat landscape on either side, farming country. The smell of brassicas and livestock, streaming roads, and labouring gangs in the fields cutting greens for market. All observed through misted glasses, while the legs kept turning the cranks, strangely filled with a new energy. A break for strong coffee and a pastry in a village panderia full of noisy locals, accepting of the soggy orange apparition that walked through their door. I would not have been surprised to hear Flemish spoken such were the surroundings, and had to remind myself I was in Southern Spain. A lady at my table with a fine tray of dark brown eggs, strangely comforting, and limited banter back and to about the rain; then on again to San Javier where a passing car sent such a deluge of water my way that I may as well have been in a bath. Enough, and for once at the right time, a modest hotel with welcoming staff and very hot water in the shower. Bliss. The rain passed, and a walk to the seas edge saw sunlight finally, missed already. A beach restaurant full of a dining party celebrating some event as only the Spanish can, and me watching, beer to hand contemplating the huge fish menu. Spontaneity is the stuff of life.