In the glorious ancient prehistoric times, or more precisely in 2017, my husband and I traveled by bicycle through Andalusia (for LL - the area in Spain).

And here, in the area of Gibraltar, we are twisting on a not very steep, but very long rise, (this is also called a "pull", either because it stretches for a long time, or because it pulls all the veins out of you). The air temperature (which is important) is slightly below +30C.

We meet an old man, too. He stopped, began to say something, to move his hands. It points to my chest, it hugs itself by the shoulders and depicts that it trembles. My husband and I are building versions, one of which is sloppy, the other is rugged. The old man shrugged his hand, pulled out the bag, broke it into two pieces, one gave to his husband, the other to me. And it shows that, he says, we need to get underneath the moths. Thirty on the street, remember?) is

Well, they didn’t argue, he went away, took the bags, gave him a bag with a mattress – we always buy on trips. We went to the top and there was a wind! As it turned out later, in Gibraltar some hellish rose of winds, and cyclists try to avoid this place. And here began a long long descent... In my ears whispered, my fingers were fastened to the brake, and only the bag under the trunk saved me from blowing through.

Forgive me, my dear grandfather, for thinking bad about you.)