Barcelona by bike

I hadn’t planned to stop in Barcelona. I was just going to grab some breakfast on my way from Tarragona to the Pyrenees, but the pull of the pedals, spurred on by my time in Valencia, was too strong.

I decided to cycle down to the harbour and have breakfast with an old acquaintance.

I picked up a cheery-looking Donkey Republic bike, called Filo, from the station and headed off along the cycle path towards the old bullring.

From there, it was on to another bike lane down the Avenida del Paralelo, which was a bit fruity. The bike lane runs down the middle of a busy six-lane carriageway, where you’d normally expect a crash barrier. It’s slightly disconcerting to ride along especially at each junction. But the stream of other cyclists in front made me feel less like a crash test dummy.

From there, it was on to another bike lane down the Avenida del Paralelo, which was a bit fruity. The bike lane runs down the middle of a busy six-lane carriageway, where you’d normally expect a crash barrier. It’s slightly disconcerting to ride along especially at each junction. But the stream of other cyclists in front made me feel less like a crash test dummy.

Time to meet my old buddy for breakfast, but disaster - my breakfast buddy was being broken up!

The Ictineo was a submarine designed by my hero, Narcis Monturiol. Now it was being broken up. Actually the sub was only a copy made for a film and not a particularly accurate one at that, but still, it would have been nice to see it and remember my walk to the Cap de Creus last year, following in Narcis’ footsteps.

With my breakfast plans scuppered, I headed down the Rambla and past the Hotel Continental where my favourite old-Etonian George Orwell holed up during a particularly tricky patch in the Civil War. I could have picked up some grub at the La Boqueria market, but instead I decided to head over to the almost-organic Sagrada Familia that is rightly crowded by tourists.

With my breakfast plans scuppered, I headed down the Rambla and past the Hotel Continental where my favourite old-Etonian George Orwell holed up during a particularly tricky patch in the Civil War. I could have picked up some grub at the La Boqueria market, but instead I decided to head over to the almost-organic Sagrada Familia that is rightly crowded by tourists.

With my ideas of breakfast mutating into brunch I headed past Gaudi’s other masterpieces, Casa Milo and Casa Batlló and with my tummy now in open rebellion, I peddled over to the Mercat del Ninot.

I knew it was time to say goodbye - It didn’t make sense for us to stay together. It wasn’t far from the station and I wanted a cheeky glass or two with my lunch. We said our goodbyes, and I chained up Filo and went in for lunch.

‘Why not pick something from the stall and we’ll cook it for you’ suggested Teresa

La Medusa is a fishmonger with kitchen attached. I settled for a signature Bombe with padron peppers and a black beer.

Then Teresa suggested, as I was only in Barcelona for a couple of hours, to try something from David’s joint, where they are bringing back traditional dishes like tripe, oxtail and snails.

I ordered some snails, well-seasoned artichokes and a caña and listened in to some locals gossiping - which isn’t being nosey if you don’t understand.

Tummy appeased, I strolled back to the station and headed for the Pyrenees.