posted by Guest blogger - Kris Goodbody | 0 Comments
The next few days at this celebration of humanity’s more perverse leanings followed the same course with intermittent moments of sleeping and eating. The Bull Run is a story for another time; the amount of emotions crammed into that unforgettable fifteen minutes would take months to describe.
After four days of this we were all swept up in a dangerous case of the fear and decided it was time to get the hell out of there. We escaped our campsite through a wheat field in the dead of night in order to escape paying, and then it was back to the gruelling ride towards the sea.
The following week was spent pulling contorted facial expressions as we struggled up the ‘foothills’ of the Pyrenees. We picked up an alarmingly hairy American who was endeavouring to do the same trip alone. We also talked our way into spending an unnerving night in a monastery somewhere obscure, before nearly losing a man in a very dark encounter with the inside of a tunnel. I’d say it’s safe to say that collectively we shed about ten stone in weight along the way.
The journey into Barcelona in the early hours of the morning was nearly as hairy as the American, but we rolled triumphantly into two hedonistic days of celebration. As our second ferry of the trip pulled outbound for Rome, we couldn’t help but feel that the most exciting leg of the trip was over, but for better or for worse, we were about to be proved very wrong indeed.
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