'Orrible 'ellish 'ostal

On Friday morning just before sunrise at 3 minutes after 8am I cycled away on a freezing morning from the Horrible Hellish Hostal where I had dined on cold pig & sliced pimentos covered, not as one would expect, in olive oil, but a greasy oil more used to fuelling diesel vehicles. It glistened in the overhead strip, bright lighting. 

I decided the main course of beef slices with a few chips shouldn't be eaten let alone photographed. The waiting staff/owners had begrudgingly let me hang my wet clothes, washed in a shower tub in the smelly bathroom down the darkened hallway, in the locked backyard, amongst the broken beercrates, broken glass and bottle tops.  I assumed the vicious German Shepherd dog wanted a job guarding them. 

I was glad I had invested in the fetching black yoga/fitness/hanging out in the street café stretch tights. It wasn't that much above freezing until 9am. Those apart I was dreading the distant hills and Cruz de Ferro. If only to avoid the space age spirit geeks with their freak flags attached; their messages and nationalist  flags, to the 'gods'.