6000 Stairs Without A Slinky
I had heard a great deal about a beautiful monastery perched atop a mountain that seems to stand alone among nothing but flat lands. The mountain is Montserrat, among being the only mountain in the world formed from sediment; it also houses a 1000 year old monastery and Europe's oldest music school. Chris and I thought this would be a good use of a beautiful Friday and decided to make a day trip of the mountain.
We set a agreed to meet at the usual place, El Banco de Espana, at 9:00am. In I rolled at 9:15 and we were off to the train station to buy our tickets. Low and behold, we miss the first train by 3 minutes and are forced to wait another hour before the next is scheduled to depart. I, feeling like an ass, apologized and, well, continued to feel like an ass. We decided to kill the time by exploring a market Chris had seen on a previous excursion to the area. While it was no where near as interesting as the one off Las Ramblas, it still holds its own against Seattle's. I'm sorry, for some reason Sea-town doesn't stand a chance against the markets of European coastal cities. I found a little grocery store, bought myself a jar of neutella and a loaf a bread, and called it breakfast, lunch and a potential dinner. All of this for 2,50. When you're doing Europe on a budget, some of your values go out the window. For more on that, read February 5's entry.
After successfully draining the day of 35 minutes, we head back to the train station and with 15 minutes to spare, decide to sit down for a cup of coffee. We start talking, get into a deep and rather heated political and philosophical discussion, and low and behold, manage to miss our train again by 3 minutes. Rather than making another excursion we head back upstairs to the cafe to continue our chat. Rather than going into any more details on this, I'll tell you that we finally made the third train leaving from Plaza de Espana and were well on our way to Montserrat.
While pulling into the station I realized why it is that this mountain is so heavily emphasized in my travel book. It really is nothing less than a marvel to look at. After taking a few pictures from the base of the mountain, we pilled into the cable car, and at that opportune moment, Chris decides to tell me he's afraid of heights. He hyperventilates his way to the top, I laugh and yet try to gauge the true severity of the issue at the same time, and we safely arrive at our destination.
Chris and I then made our way to the Basilica, the monastery's church, where the boy's choir is scheduled to sing at 1pm. Seeing as it was 10 minutes to, we very quickly skirted up the stairs and down the roads and after filing into the cathedral, found seats up at the front where apparently only Catholics are supposed to sit. Whoops. Actually "Oy vey" would be more apropriate. Because the choir rarely performs outside of Montserrat, it really was a rare treat to hear them sing.
Now, here's where the real story begins, at least the amusing part. We decided we could not come to Montserrat and not climb one of the peaks. Looking at our watches we assessed that we had roughly 3 hours to be back down at the bottom of the mountain for the last and final train back to Barcelona. Considering the trail was gauged as having a 1.5 hour time commitment, we saw this as an attainable goal. We climbed all the way to the top where the tram was which we were supposed to take down, but we decided to continue on up the hill to the absolute peak, it was the only way we would be satisfied. Along the way we came across what seemed to be the ruins of a rather large dwelling. A two-story house fixed with stoves and running water, and a view unequal to any I had ever seen. Chris and I then agreed that we would return here before leaving Spain for good and spend the night.
We made our way through and out the other side of the house and ran along a path that seemed to wind around the mountain's peak. The next 15 minutes of trail was no more a trail that a poorly worn, dried-out, creek bed, and required full use of our hands as well as our feet. We climbed to the very top of the peak, took some photos, had a good yell, looked at our watch, and had another gasp. With only 25 minutes to make it all the way back down to the very bottom of the mountain from a place that took us over 2 hours to reach, we realized there was a very good chance we would be spending our promised night upon Montserrat that very evening. This would not be a problem had either of us been prepared to do so.
At nothing less than a full out sprint we bolted back down the mountain to the top of the tram, a place that required 1 and a half hours of our time to reach. The building was closed and locked, and there was no car to be seen within. Then my eyes fell on a sign posted on the outside wall of the building that read "Last ride at 16:45". Taking a second glance at my watch I reassured myself that it was indeed 16:50 and we were most definitely going to be spending the night. Because we had no time to reverse our ascent and taking the stairs just along the tram's tracks would be trespassing, we decided to descend the mountain just next to the tracks as it was direct and relatively easy terrain. After about 50ft, we see the tram arrive at the station and Chris and I run around to see if we can catch a ride. The woman inside informs us that we may not ride on the tram because it is the last of the day and only she is allowed to board the car. I asked if it were possible for us to use the stairs and she said it was fine, so long as we stayed clear of the tram as it passed.
We exchanged "thank you"s and headed down the hill... full speed. I cannot tell you how much my legs hurt. The woman, as she passed, said "if you are going this speed now, tomorrow: death". Indeed, she could not have been more right. 6000 steps and many blisters later, we were pushing open a gray door that read "Authorized Personnel Only" and found ourselves back at the monastery. But the ends justifies the means as we safely arrived in quite literally the "knick of time" to catch the cable car to the bottom. And just our luck, the train was late.
We set a agreed to meet at the usual place, El Banco de Espana, at 9:00am. In I rolled at 9:15 and we were off to the train station to buy our tickets. Low and behold, we miss the first train by 3 minutes and are forced to wait another hour before the next is scheduled to depart. I, feeling like an ass, apologized and, well, continued to feel like an ass. We decided to kill the time by exploring a market Chris had seen on a previous excursion to the area. While it was no where near as interesting as the one off Las Ramblas, it still holds its own against Seattle's. I'm sorry, for some reason Sea-town doesn't stand a chance against the markets of European coastal cities. I found a little grocery store, bought myself a jar of neutella and a loaf a bread, and called it breakfast, lunch and a potential dinner. All of this for 2,50. When you're doing Europe on a budget, some of your values go out the window. For more on that, read February 5's entry.
After successfully draining the day of 35 minutes, we head back to the train station and with 15 minutes to spare, decide to sit down for a cup of coffee. We start talking, get into a deep and rather heated political and philosophical discussion, and low and behold, manage to miss our train again by 3 minutes. Rather than making another excursion we head back upstairs to the cafe to continue our chat. Rather than going into any more details on this, I'll tell you that we finally made the third train leaving from Plaza de Espana and were well on our way to Montserrat.
While pulling into the station I realized why it is that this mountain is so heavily emphasized in my travel book. It really is nothing less than a marvel to look at. After taking a few pictures from the base of the mountain, we pilled into the cable car, and at that opportune moment, Chris decides to tell me he's afraid of heights. He hyperventilates his way to the top, I laugh and yet try to gauge the true severity of the issue at the same time, and we safely arrive at our destination.
Chris and I then made our way to the Basilica, the monastery's church, where the boy's choir is scheduled to sing at 1pm. Seeing as it was 10 minutes to, we very quickly skirted up the stairs and down the roads and after filing into the cathedral, found seats up at the front where apparently only Catholics are supposed to sit. Whoops. Actually "Oy vey" would be more apropriate. Because the choir rarely performs outside of Montserrat, it really was a rare treat to hear them sing.
Now, here's where the real story begins, at least the amusing part. We decided we could not come to Montserrat and not climb one of the peaks. Looking at our watches we assessed that we had roughly 3 hours to be back down at the bottom of the mountain for the last and final train back to Barcelona. Considering the trail was gauged as having a 1.5 hour time commitment, we saw this as an attainable goal. We climbed all the way to the top where the tram was which we were supposed to take down, but we decided to continue on up the hill to the absolute peak, it was the only way we would be satisfied. Along the way we came across what seemed to be the ruins of a rather large dwelling. A two-story house fixed with stoves and running water, and a view unequal to any I had ever seen. Chris and I then agreed that we would return here before leaving Spain for good and spend the night.
We made our way through and out the other side of the house and ran along a path that seemed to wind around the mountain's peak. The next 15 minutes of trail was no more a trail that a poorly worn, dried-out, creek bed, and required full use of our hands as well as our feet. We climbed to the very top of the peak, took some photos, had a good yell, looked at our watch, and had another gasp. With only 25 minutes to make it all the way back down to the very bottom of the mountain from a place that took us over 2 hours to reach, we realized there was a very good chance we would be spending our promised night upon Montserrat that very evening. This would not be a problem had either of us been prepared to do so.
At nothing less than a full out sprint we bolted back down the mountain to the top of the tram, a place that required 1 and a half hours of our time to reach. The building was closed and locked, and there was no car to be seen within. Then my eyes fell on a sign posted on the outside wall of the building that read "Last ride at 16:45". Taking a second glance at my watch I reassured myself that it was indeed 16:50 and we were most definitely going to be spending the night. Because we had no time to reverse our ascent and taking the stairs just along the tram's tracks would be trespassing, we decided to descend the mountain just next to the tracks as it was direct and relatively easy terrain. After about 50ft, we see the tram arrive at the station and Chris and I run around to see if we can catch a ride. The woman inside informs us that we may not ride on the tram because it is the last of the day and only she is allowed to board the car. I asked if it were possible for us to use the stairs and she said it was fine, so long as we stayed clear of the tram as it passed.
We exchanged "thank you"s and headed down the hill... full speed. I cannot tell you how much my legs hurt. The woman, as she passed, said "if you are going this speed now, tomorrow: death". Indeed, she could not have been more right. 6000 steps and many blisters later, we were pushing open a gray door that read "Authorized Personnel Only" and found ourselves back at the monastery. But the ends justifies the means as we safely arrived in quite literally the "knick of time" to catch the cable car to the bottom. And just our luck, the train was late.
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