I love Soria. At the same time, it frustrates the living hell right out of me. For a province that has so much going for it (amazing Romanesque architecture, wide open spaces, boundless heritage sites), it's so damn disorganized that if I didn't love it so much, I'd scream, frankly. Maybe it has to do with the fact that it's the least densely populated province in the country. And it shows. No sooner do you leave Burgo de Osma than you end up passing through towns populated with little more than feral cats and a handful of houses with collapsed roofs; long stretches of road dotted with dovecotes and dolmens; and the occasional towns, populated by silver-haired women in black who knit or fuss with their geraniums while their black-bereted husbands lean against the bar and knock back bottles of rough wine...if the town is lucky enough to have a bar that's still open.
Much of today's ride is rough, taking place on dirt roads that have been graded and prepared for tractor traffic but which isn't much good if you're on a bike that doesn't have hydraulic forks. But in a sense, it doesn't matter. Today is the first day we've had decent, sunny weather, and I'm willing to walk all the way to Atienza if it means being able to be outside when it's this nice out.
The biggest surprise is when we get to Montejo de Tiermes. One of the reasons that I wanted to go through here is because the SO-135 road was quiet and not particularly busy. Work has begun on widening the road, which is good news for the residents; but it's hell if you're on a bike. Aside from having to dodge an army of dumptrucks that are taking building materials to and fro, there's dust, there's nowhere to pee because of all the workmen (trust me, this is a MUCH bigger problem for women than for men)...annoying.
Then I get to Retortillo de Soria. According to the Junta de Castilla y León, there's supposedly a pensión in Retortillo. There's a campsite. There's a town hall, too, but I can't find anyone but a couple of the old-age pensioners who probably make up the vast majority of the 218 official residents of the town, plus a couple of Romanian workers who are rebuilding a house. The campsite is closed, I'll be damned if I can find the pensión, and the only person who seems cognescent enough to offer any kind of conversation is determined to warn me of the foxes that live in the Sierra de Pela, on the north side of town ... I don't exactly flee, but my last image of Retortillo is of an eightysomething resident with two teeth and a big cane, screaming, "If you get bitten, don't say I didn't warn you!!!" This is one of the things that is frustrating about Soria: the sense of wasted possibility. Retortillo could be beautiful, it could be a tourist centre, if only, if only, if only...........
So it's over the pass and through the fields, to Atienza we go, to stay the night in the Hostal El Mirador, run by the very amiable Miguel Angel and his family. Atienza is not exactly tourism central, either, but I know that with Miguel Angel and his family, I always have a bed and a meal at the end of the day.
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