The audacity to even consider building a railway here is incomprehensible. The Serra d’Aligues are a massive limestone mountain ridge paralleling Spain’s east coast south of Barcelona. Karst canyons and craggy caverns have been eroded by the Canaletes River as it travels from western plateaus to join the Ebre River, Spain’s second largest, and drop into the Mediterranean Sea.
The complete 173 kilometre train route from La Puebla de Hijar to Tortosa was first conceived in 1863 as a military defense against attackers who might swarm central Spain from the sea. Phoenicians, Romans, Christians, Moors, the French and other conquerors had found southern Spain’s mild climate and fertile soil irresistible over the centuries.
It would be too easy to compare this railway’s construction tribulations to current government boondoggles around the world. The first 30 kilometre section wasn’t completed until 32 years later in 1895, and the section we were cycling between El Pinell de Brai and Tortosa was completed in 1942, 79 years after construction began. This section served as a railway for only 31 years before a tunnel cave-in mercifully provided an excuse to shut down the complete railway. The final section crossing the Ebre Delta was never completed.
In just 23 kilometres of riding today we would pass through 20 tunnels, some up to 800 metres long, and pass over five century-old stone arch viaducts clinging to the flanks of the Canaletes River gorge. Within ten minutes of embarking, we noticed motion across the gorge. A lone mountain goat scrambling up rocky scree above the river confirmed the railroad hadn’t totally tamed the Serra d’Aligues.
No tourism brochure could overstate the incredible natural beauty surrounding this Via Verde. Precipitous rock walls mixed with massive pine forests wherever sufficient soil was available. Narrow, fertile valleys were packed with olive and almond groves, stretched as far up the slopes as possible on ancient rock terraces.
Original train stations constructed as meeting and commerce points in decades past were scattered along the trail—some collapsed and in ruin, others reinvented as cafés, bars (yes – cycling is thirsty work) and lunch stops for hikers and cyclists.
Entering a long dark tunnel from a narrow aqueduct, to emerge into warm sunlight and magnificent views of small villages on the distant shores of the Ebre River, obligatory cathedral spires and thousand-year-old fortresses rising above their main streets, inspired so many questions.
How many thousands of years had valleys like these—the Nile, the Indus, the Yellow River and others—supported human civilizations? How many battles had been fought to seize or protect these life-sustaining lands? How many more warnings like the recent floods south in Valencia or 2022’s raging wildfires in Andalucía would Mother Nature send us before she would no longer tolerate our destruction of the bounty she has given us?
Perhaps I was over-thinking the existential when I should have been paying more attention to the tunnel we were riding through. Most tunnels had been lighted, but in a few cases the excessive rain of the previous weeks had turned the lights out, including in this pitch-black 500-metre monster. As we searched for our phone to use as a light, a family towing their young child in a bike trailer passed us and entered the tunnel.
“Let’s just follow the tail light on their trailer,” I suggested, and away we rode without lights of our own, following 20 metres behind them. I should have added, “What could possibly go wrong?” The strategy worked brilliantly until for some reason their light extinguished.
There is no darkness that compares to being inside a mountain.
Els, my wife, stopped immediately and safely, but her less coordinated and slower-reacting husband crashed into the tunnel wall.
No major damage was done – three of the 14 knuckles on my right hand weren’t bleeding, and the dime-sized flap of skin hanging from my index finger would fall off within a couple weeks as the finger healed. Fortunately I had brought cycling gloves on the trip. Of course I hadn’t been wearing them at the time of the crash, but they were enormously useful to wear the next few nights so blood didn’t spatter all over the bedsheets.
Benifallet, population 714 and our destination for the night, is so nondescript that even Tripadvisor can’t find more than one reason to visit. My tranquil late-afternoon reconnaissance walk along the River Ebre was interrupted by unexpected sounds of music and laughter. Diego’s Pub, an oxymoron if ever there was one, appeared around the next corner. English conversation floated above Diego’s tables along the sidewalk on a dead-end street and river promenade as I passed, headed to the pub’s doorway to ask what was happening. The food and drinks on the table were strictly Spanish.
The owner explained in flawless expat English that it was Saturday night, warm enough to serve outdoors, and yes they’d still be open in an hour. As I left to share this discovery with my spouse, he shouted, “Live music starts at 7:00 p.m.” Would it be a guest appearance by the Irish Rovers?
Thankfully not. An amazing DJ was throwing everything disco, from Love Train to YMCA and Get Down Tonight at the street in bylaw-defying volume through two massive speakers. Feet were tapping under tables and seated bodies swayed, drinks in hand. A purple- haired woman covered in tattoos was circulating amongst the tables, saying hi to everyone between her sets. Families and kids from the village were gathering just beyond the tables, loving every minute of Diego’s free entertainment.
Benifallet had discharged its roosters from announcing the sun’s rise the next morning in favour of dozens of yapping hounds. Caged dogs in pick-up trucks and on small trailers were delirious, thrilled to be headed to the countryside to hunt wild boar. Our ride back to the Via Verde passed through forest and swamp along a remote one-lane country road. Hunters with large guns were stationed everywhere, concentrating on separating their dogs’ barks from a possible hog’s panicked squeal. We instantly discovered an unintended use for our high-visibility neon cycling jackets – avoiding getting accidentally shot.
Part 3 of 4. Next week: A harbour full of seized Russian super-yachts? Rice, wheat and oranges growing side-by-side, and beaches everywhere.
