I breakfasted with a trio of early-sixties-ish Spanish mountain-bikers who had a little English. They had a week away from their wives to drink and ride, and continually asked me how far I rode each day. 40-50 km, I said. We do 100 km, they said. I refrained from reminding them that I was ten years older than them. And the two who seemed proudest of the distance they were achieving were on ebikes. I didn't bring that up, either. But, all in all, a friendly group.

The ride commenced in a slapstick fashion. I rolled downhill out of Malanquilla, and then up the hill in front of the windmill until level with my hotel. I was getting sweaty so pulled over to search for my gloves. They weren't where I normally kept them, nor in my foldable backpack in my handlebar bag. Damn, I must have put them on the window ledge by the bike when I was loading up. Double damn: I'd have to go back down the hill and up to the hotel to retrieve them. Damn, damn, damn!

I let myself in back at the hotel, explained to Pilar (?), the housekeeper, that I'd lost my gloves. Sign language can be wonderfully effective. No, the gloves weren't on the ledge. In the room?, enquired Pilar. I was pretty certain I'd brought them down from my room but went to check. The bed covers were folded over and when I straightened them, what did I see? My gloves? No. My Kindle!

Back at the bike, I noticed my gloves in a side pocket on my handlebar bag! I not so sure about the 'creeping' part of the creeping senility I seem to be subject to!

But, if I'd found my gloves right away, and not returned to the hotel, I'd be now without my Kindle. A much worse outcome than losing my gloves. Something was working in my favour.

I had decided to follow the main N634 (the road to Valencia) most of the way to Calatayud, my destination for the day. I had ridden on it before, without much traffic, and the shoulders were reasonable. The alternative, suggested by the route planner on cycle.travel took me on quieter roads, but the three sides of a rectangle. I thought the direct, single side, of the N634 made more sense, until I reached a short section of Via Verde that would bring me almost to Calatayud.So, it was downhill, along a minor road to the N634, and then more downhill.

There was a strong, blustery wind. And a headwind at that. I had to pedal some to make progress downhill, which didn't seem fair. Still, it was better than pedalling uphill with a strong headwind. In the famous words of Monty Python, "Always look on the bright side of life."

There was plenty of downhill (to be regained tomorrow, I suspected) into the wind. It was a cooler day, 20C, and quite comfortable. The first vines I'd seen this trip. And olive trees, too. Nothing very mature looking so maybe climate change is expanding, or at least moving, the growing area.

The landscape was more interesting, and varied, than it had been for the last couple of days through sun-baked farmland.

I presume that these are to be future olive plantations, judging by the spacing of the 'trees.'

And then, after about 30 km, I reached the turn off for the short section of Via Verde. Roughish gravel, requiring more effort on my part, but it was nice to be off the main road.

This section of trail seemed to have be cut through the surrounding countryside for the prospective train line. The amount of excavating work, removing fill or placing it, in order to keep the gradients gentle, must have been immense.

I'm not sure what is being grown here. Neither grapes nor olives.

And then, at the end of the Via Verde, a few kilometres of road brought me into Calatayud. Ahead of the forecast severe thunderstorm. It did materialize eventually, although it wasn't dramatic.

Anticipating a long day mainly on tarmac, I was surprised to find a section of Via Verde shortly after leaving Calatayud.

It looked fairly overgrown, and there was a dirt road running alongside, so I went with the dirt road.

All too soon, after about five kilometres, the dirt came to an end and I was forced on the the N234 once again. For most of the day. I plodded along, the route a fairly consistent but moderate climb. As the elevation detail of my route map had promised. Towns, with more empty, abandoned houses than occupied, every few kilometres. Through Maluenda, with its ruined castle on the skyline and its local wine.

I stopped in the shade of a tree to take a drink from my water-bottle. It is fortunate that I did, otherwise I would not have noticed the deer on the hillside above me.

The day was overcast and humid. I worked away, hugging the crash barrier on the narrow shoulder when cars rushed past. Being Spanish, they were always considerate and gave me as much room as they could.

The forecast had indicated a severe chance of thunderstorms and there was a constant rumbling behind me. Large drops of rain but never really amounting to much. Impressive lightning ahead. I reached the steeper section of the route and I plodded, riding at walking pace uphill. At a sideroad, I stopped to change my sunshirt for a long-sleeved Merino layer, put my rainjacket on, and dug out my flashing rearlight from the depths of my handlebar bag. And began to walk.

Grape vines in the foreground but I couldn't tell what, if anything, was planted in the distance.

With still some climbing to the summit, I saw signs for a side road to Murero. Murero is where the next section of Via Verde started but I couldn't get cycle.travel to take me there. It insisted on taking me to a road further along the N234, and then down to join the Via Verde from there. But this looked promising. It would get me away from the main road, away from the traffic (which wasn't bad, really) and might even bring the downhill on sooner.

On this new route, I had a much closer look at those green fields I had seen earlier. Grain, of some sort, but growing over 1.2 m in height. And planted on steep fields that did not look very combine-harvester friendly.

Some inevitable climbing, into pines, and then down through deciduous trees towards the start of the next section of Via Verde.

The downhill required more forceful application of brakes than was generally required. This was accompanied by a rapid clanking from my rear brake. The noise was reminiscent of my rear disc rotor deterioration last year approaching Portugal.

Quickly off the bike, I upended it and span the wheel: everything seemed to be working well. When I applied the rear brake, it stopped the wheel as it should. No clanking, but it wasn't under any load in this position.

The rotor seemed fine. So far. All I could assume was that applying the brake under load caused something to flex, maybe the frame or the rotor itself, so that part of the brake caliper came in contact with the six 'spokes' of the rotor that connect the centre of the rotor to it's continuous outer bearing surface for the disc pad.

I made so minor position adjustments to the caliper but, when back on the bike, the problem remained. I'll have to remember to go easy on the rear brake unless absolutely necessary.

Murero appeared a typical sleepy, deserted village. Three ancients, sitting outside a bar, watched me pedal past without expression. I found the Via Verde, after a wrong turn and some backtracking, and headed towards Daroca. The rain started to come down more steadily, and puddles were developing in the tracks of the double track I was riding along. The arched entrance gate in the medieval walls encircling Daroca came none too soon.

I rode along the cobbles, looking for the turn to my hotel. And missed it. Then I found the street, and pushed my bike up the hill towards the hotel. Water channeling down the road washed my feet effectively.