Journey to the End of the Noise

The passenger seatbelt rattles. The passenger window is too far open, but I can’t reach it. Harry, the van squeaks and creaks, and his engine roars. Trucks suck past. The air comes audibly through the open windows because it only has arco (2).

We’re going through the Spanish plateau to Zaragoza

And that’s quite a struggle. Hectares of bare fields, if you’re being generous, you might call them golden yellow; with stubbled pimples interspersed that could be mistaken for hills. A stripped-bare landscape, heading towards being a desert.

Lots of people, lots of industry, and therefore lots of traffic. Lots of trucks too. My Spanish friends had assured me there are no toll roads here, so I didn’t have to worry about sticking a little box on the windshield. No, no toll, because it constantly alternates between newly opened stretches of two-lane highway and two-passenger roads, where everyone has to stick to one lane in the same direction.

Just before Zaragoza, we pass through a landscape that would have completely blown Don Quixote away. Nothing but windmills in the desert. “Hey, look, there’s one with six blades,” I think, but as we continue, I see that there are two of them in a row. There are hundreds of them, with a solar panel farm here and there. And of course, lots of high-voltage and other electricity pylons.

It’s sizzling, not just from the electricity but also from the heat. It’s 27 degrees Celsius and windless – just a little further on, all the wind turbines are useless.

I have to drive through the dystopian noise and the corresponding landscape towards the Pyrenees

My cousin Bart has moved to Corsavy, and I’ve been meaning to visit for a while. It’s a bl**dy long drive! My sister and brother-in-law – both retired and passionate campers – are coming there too. They’ll even pick me up in Soria, from where we’ll drive up together. “Can we get a little nostalgic?” says sister Tien, “just like in the old days: you in your Citroen, and we in the boat.”

That was fun, for sure. They in their boat on the French canals, and me in the car – maybe 20 kilometers each day. How relaxed can you get? Sometimes I could ride along the paths that were once built for the draft horses along those canals, and are now paved. Sometimes we’d meet up. And if we got lost? Oh well, how far can you wander?

Now I have to rack up miles, because I only have forteen days of vacation. Thirteen hundred kilometers to there, stay a few days, and then cross that plateau again…? Or maybe along the French side to the other crossing of the Pyrenees? “We went straight through it on the way to Soria,” says brother-in-law Dick, “but I’ll never do that again. Narrow roads, nothing but bends, even there there were trucks, up, down… no, it was beautiful, sure, but less fun driving.”

Crossing the Spanish plateau is also less fun

It’s worth it, because eventually we arrive in wooded hills, no more trucks, reasonably good roads, plenty of roundabouts, and relatively quiet. The campsite near cousin Bart is beautiful and quiet with a magnificent view of the surrounding mountains. The village is prosperous, mainly medieval, and what’s most striking is its quiet.

You hear sounds differently in the silence and in the mountain air. We take a stroll through the village. Here and there are viewpoints with magnificent views of all those mountains. A few white clouds, a pleasant temperature, an idyllic “Epicerie” shop, a monument from 1914-1919. WWI apparently lasted a bit longer here, or no one had told them it was over yet. It’s that kind of place—time is in no hurry to move on.

The church bell chimes on the hour and half hour with a beautiful, light sound. I know church bells from Portugal, of course, but they sound much richer there. And they start with the Ave Maria. This one just tells the time, very French and elegant.

In the evening, there’s a concert with medieval instruments in that medieval church. Music lover Dick is eager to go. That turns out to be a great idea. The church is beautiful, as is the music. And what’s especially wonderful is the discovery that there’s so much more than haste, noise, dystopian landscapes, and the daily bad-news show on TV. Or chasing likes on social media.

As far as I’m concerned, this is the best vacation has to offer. During my walk on the third day, I think: “Why rush around like a madman when you can just be here in the silence? What a blessing, that silence…”

Unfortunately, that changes when I’m sitting on top of one of the many mountains, enjoying life and everything. More next week, dear readers, I’ll leave you hanging on a cliff for now!

1. “Harry” is my incomparable van, a 1999 Renault Master, and hello, may it squeak and creak a little? In human years, it’s already 78! Starting out as a van to get the materials for the renovations, it quickly climbed to the “Indispensable” category. If Harry were a human, he’d be an Arnold Schwarzenegger type: a big guy with a heart of gold, who grunts: “Would you mind sitting down, I’ll pour you a cup of tea.” The kind that never lets you down.
2. Arco: All Windows Can Open

(Disclaimer: I’m a bit tired of the hassle with keywords and the dictatorship of Google. So here they are, and I’m also hoping for the cleverness of AI in this matter, that it will still be found and read, but that I don’t have to force myself to use the right terms in the title and headings. #Zaragoza #dystopian landscape #Pyrenees #holiday #holiday in the Pyrenees #noise #silence)