In early March 2016, I found myself in a deserted coach station in Spain. At my feet lay my bike, wrapped in industrial size bin bags. Next to it, my four panniers rested in a line ready to be mounted on the racks. And I stood in front of them, the reality of my journey slowly sinking in. Eventually I hooked the panniers to their rightful place. I got on the bike and off I went. This is what I saw.
For 32 weeks, I will post a batch of photos every Monday morning.
Later words and sounds will come. But for now, I’m going to share what I experienced through the photos I took. If you miss a post, go to this page to find all the links.
I had heard of the holy week in Spain, of Semana Santa, but I had never experienced it. Incense filled the air, trumpets and drums cried out in pain, and people walked around cloaked and solemn. And I, a non-believer tourist, stood among them, snapping photos, recording sounds, and being awed by this almost pagan processions.