The Diary
Days 1-10 Days 11-20 Days 21-39 Days 40-48 Days 52-59 Days 60-69
Day 60 - 10 June - (Arles to Millau) - Miles covered - 165
After sheltering from the horrendous thunderstorms that have plagued eastern Spain and the south of France, we set off from Arles in blazing heat. The Camargue, (or as we heard it pronounced by one of or cousins from across the pond, "Cam a Gay") has many hidden beauties. One of them of course is the Wild Horses. The Horses were so wild as we rode through that they decided to sulk and hide away! It was evident that the flat flooded fields of the camargue are being used for rice growing as the acres of paddy fields bordering the roadway resembled some of the areas of the New Territories of Hong Kong. Buildings that were obviously once important to the farming community, now stood derelict and abandoned and reminded us both of those that we had seen in Romania. Strangely, we both almost simultaniously suggested that they could be converted into visitor centres for tourists with the upper floors giving commanding views over the billard table type landscape and who knows, the tourists may even see those elusive "Wild Horses".
Following the coastal route we skirted on Montpellier before heading north to the Town of Millau and its now famous bridge. Millau is actually pronounced "Me-oh" and the enormous bridge, that is the highest in the world was designed by a BRITISH Arcitect, Sir Norman Foster. This man's vision of a highway in the sky almost takes your breath away when you first set eyes on it. Viewed from a distance, its sheer enormity becomes clear as the seven towers supporting it's roadway stand to attention like sentries on guard duty across the Valley.
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The best way to appreciate a structure of this nature is from the visitors center situated directly beneath it. Our route to that centre gave us wonderful views which became increasingly breath-taking the closer we got. Once underneath, it's shadow sheltering travellers coaches, cars and Bikes from the afternoon's baking heat, you can see that this enormous structure is in no way offensive to the eye, in fact it strangely seems to blend in and you feel that it's shadow, as well as offering shelter from the sun, casts an air of calm over the valley that its span seeks to bridge and protect from the traffic it carries. Coaches came and went as did the groups of bikers, including one group of four (2 Girls and 2 Boys) from Hereford, (Andy's Home City). Sorry we didn't exchange names guys and girls, but thank you for your well wishes and we hope you had a safe ride home.
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Setting off from the visitors centre, it was time to "Ride the Bridge". we stopped briefly en-route to fix the cameras to the bikes and soon found ourselves on the Auto-Route approaching "The Bridge". It's see through perspex wind deflectors offer a splendind view across the valley but prevent those who suffer from vertigo from suffering an attack in "mid structure".
Strict regulations prevent you from stopping on the bridge and even after you have cleared the "Peage", and stop in the massive area where motorists usually pause for personal admin, you are soon hurried on, but only after you have had time to remove the cameras from the bikes.
As you enter Millau from the northern side and the old roadway winds it's way down the hillside, you can see why the bridge was constructed. The town sits in a valley and prior to the bridge being built, the motorways finished either side and the traffic was forced down the valley through its small streets only to ascend on the otherside and rejoin the motorway on top of the escarpment. This is so very evident when you view the structure from the hotel in the town centre. Some of the UK's councils and the government should take note of this wonder of the modern world, and plough some of the money raised from road tax and fuel duties into our often archaic infrastructure, making a driving a pleasure again.
Day 61 - 11 June - (Millau to Andorra) - Miles covered - 223
A morning vist to the hotel's parking lot revealed another 7 UK registered Bikes which had magically appeared overnight and as one of the groups were preparing for the days ride, we chatted about each others' trips. One group of Lads, complete with "support vehicle" were Kiwi's who lived and worked in London. Sorry Guys for getting your accents mixed up with your "neighbours" from the former penal colony who still believe that they can play cricket. We hope you enjoyed the rest of your trip and had a safe ride home. (Did you do the Stelvio?)
An interesting route over the hills away from Millau took us along some single track roadways which had been recently dressed with chippings. This type of road surface, with it's centre collection of chippings slowed our pace a little as the bikes skittered through the each time we changed our position to get a better view around each bend.
Onwards and onwards we continued through neatly manicured vineyards that lined the roadways, past picturesque, apparently deserted villages where the typical teracotta tiled roofs of houses contrasted against the green of the hillsides on our destination for the day being Andorra.
The dramatic raise in fuel prices which had sparked renewed protests and blockages throughout the continent caused us to venture onto the Autoroute as we knew that the Service Stations would have plentiful supplies. Our "re-plen" at a petrol stop and lunch on an auto route was almost prevented by the huge numbers of lorries from every country in mainland Europe which had been forced to park up in the service areas by the "Routiers" to prevent them part taking in further protests. Seated by their vehicles or in small groups around calor gas cookers, all these guys had a look of total dejection, as they were forced to spend precious time away from their families and loved ones. With food in our bellies that would shame any UK motorway service area, we soon left the autoroute and found ourselves on the N116 as it shadowed the river in the valleys floor and began then began to climb the pyrenees towards the mountain principality of Andorra.
Hampered by traffic lights that controlled safe passage through the seemingly endless roadworks we eventually reached the border of France and Spain, then turned a corner into France again as we continued on our quest for the Holy of Holy Grails that is Andorra. The rain came again and faced by a choice of either tunnel or another mountain pass, we chose the tunnel. Describing ouselves as "stelvio-ologists" we were preficient in negotiating mountain passes in all weathers and felt that as the weather conditions seriously deteriorated, we need no further practice. The exit of the 4 kilometre tunnel greeted us with an horrendous downpour and as we sought shelter to don our waterproof "sweat- suits" another 'BMW R 1200GS Adventure' pulled up.(That's a motorbike like ours, for those who wondered). A converstaion with it's rider revealed he was also in search of what was now almost becoming a title from a Harrison Ford Film, "The missing Principality of Andorra", Our joint decision, - Let's all go and have a beer and sort out these Maps and Sat Navs.
The 'Hotel du Puymorens' was our chosen refuge and no further than 400 metres from where we had just stopped. Over a beer we discussed the somewhat confusing signing that was the cause of meeting. (Basically we had come from direction following the signs and Larse, our new found friend and fellow biker, had travelled from the other doing the same but neither had managed to trace the illusive principality). Rooms being available, we decided to sample the hospitality of the hotel and stay the night, continuing our quest the following morning.
The hotel, quaint in its antiquity, seemed to be run by two television soap-addicted old ladies, and the promise of freely-flowing beer, home-cooked food and, let's not deny it, convenience, sealed the deal.
Over simple but superbly prepared food, we chatted and established that Lars was taking time out from Holland and visiting friends in Spain, a country which he seemed to know quite well. He tempted us with tales of roads that bikers dream about and scenery which sounded beyond belief, fueling our fires of expectation. We invited him to join us and ride till our paths would separate, as he was not continuing to the extreme south west of the country and into Portugal.
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Day 62 - 12 June - (Andorra to La Fresneda) - Miles Covered - 229
Once again, we donned our waterproof suits to fend off the rain as we left the Hotel for Andorra. Climbing yet another mountain pass, we wound our way heaven-wards and eventually found the sign post that marked the border. Passing through the Border checkpoint and following the main roadway across mountaintops, we soon found ourselves stopping to admire the view of the snow covered mountains and hillsides that form Andorras ski resorts in the winter. It was evident that the best runs were on the extremities of the resort where every hotel boasts at least 4 stars and although closed and shuttered up now the season has finished, they still had a pristine appearance which reminded us of Switzerland. The city of Andorra la villa hugs the mountain side and its streets with its duty free shopping opportunities, rise and fall like a rollercoaster ride.
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Parking our bikes in the square with others, we sat down and relaxed over coffee and planned the route for the rest of the day. Our aim was to head South west out of the principality into Spain and ride about 200 miles before we stopped for the night.
Our experiences on this trip have been difficult to describe without repeating ourselves. However, it dosn't matter how many times the word has been used before, our route out of Andorra and through the Pyrenees was 'breathtaking'. The road often hugged the cliff face with sheer drops to our immediate right hand side and very little or no barriers to save us should we get it wrong. So many times we wanted to stop but as we slowed, the view ahead looked even more inviting encouraging us to ride on and on. Looking at eagles circling above the mountain tops as they gracefuly rode the thermals we paused for our first lunch in Country 35. The location was dictated by the sight of several other motorcycles already parked outside the restaurant and although the "manyana" effect became almost apparant, the food, When it arrived, was fresh and tasty. A brief chat with bikers revealed that they were Lars' fellow countrymen (Is there anyone left in Holland? The reason for asking this question will become evident later).
With full bellies, we pushed on south, on roads that became more and more "remote", and signs of human life became less and less evident. This was truly the Spanish interior, wild and untamed, sun- and wind-blasted over eons, the vegetation and trees equally stunted by the harsh conditions that they are continuously forced to endure.
We decided, with the aid of Lars' recently purchased "camping programme" that he had loaded onto his Garmin, to head for the recommended site at "La Fresneda", which proved to be as far into the middle of nowhere as it could be possible to be, and then just a little further!
As the afternoon wore on, we took the opportunity to stop for the obligatory espresso and water, in one of the many typical roadside villages that we passed through. Arriving at the central square, we took advantage of the sizeable area of concrete, directly outside the only bar to be found, to park our three bikes. Sitting, exhausted and exhilarated from the exertions of the last few hours, we placed our orders, noticing that a large group of English chaps were taking advantage of the cool beers available on such a hot day. We certainly would have joined them if our steeds hadn't needed some form of guidance to the campsite!
Just as our coffees arrived, we noticed a large 4x4, adorned in the now distinctive colours of the "Guardia Civil", pulling up at the entrance to the square. Two very officious looking officers alighted, each carrying ominous looking notebooks. They were looking, incredulously, at our bikes, a sight that we had come to expect, and we thought that, as they approached, a few friendly moments of enquiry and discussion would ensue. It was as the (evidently) senior member of the team started to open what now became obvious as some type of "booking form", that our attention level rose significantly! As they approached us, ther expressions certainly didn't look friendly, and the "Boss" started pointing at the bikes and gesturing to us to "join him". Immediately adopting the most innocent and meekest of expressions, we enquired if there was any problem? At this, the Boss ventured into a tirade that, with our severely limited Spanish, seemed to involve God, Maddona (the Religious one!), prison, death, children, old people, roads and the Spanish way of life in general! Completely non-plussed, we just stood there, like three errant schoolboys who had just been caught spraying the back of the bikesheds!
Suddenly, like a scene from "Deliverance", one of the other English chaps approached, and started talking, in equally rapid and "gesture-governed" Spanish, on our behalf. Colin Dunn, the owner of the bar and married to a local, who has lived there for the last eight years, running a fishing guide operation, literally saved us, at the last moment, from what appeared to have been a lengthy prison sentence, if the (we now discovered) the "Chief of Police" had had his way. As it was, with Colin's timely assistance, we moved the bikes off the sacred square, returning to our, now cold, coffees, suitably chastened.
In the bar were many photos of the most enormous Catfish that, quite honestly, you would EVER dream about, let alone actually see in real life. Apparently, these "things" can grow to over 200kg in weight, and look like something from a horror film. Originally released illegally into the local river, they have become an attraction for specimen fishermen from all over the world (Robson Green was there, apparently - who's he?), and are only beated in size by some in Russia. Andy and I decided to stick to Salmon! However, thanks Colin, for your timely intervention, and tight lines!
Passing through the tiny little towns and villages that seemed to lay, panting, in the evening sun, we finally felt a part of what we were passing through, and were regularly tempted to join the locals in their impromptu bars. The knowledge, however, of what difficulties lie in making camp in the dark, drove us on to our destination, wherever that turned out to be.......!
Just as the sun was descending into it's "orange phase", we arrived at Lars' GPS-chosen campsite, only to discover that, whilst perfect for our night under "canvas", it was ENTIRELY inhabited by his fellow Dutchmen. The place was owned and run by a very pleasant Dutch couple, ALL the guests (except two young, permanently confused French who, I am sure, became lost in Bordeaux, and took a wrong turn) were Dutch, and even the menu was in Dutch!
The orange sun, dutifully supporting the nationality of our hosts and neighbours, stayed with us long enough to put up the tents, and a very pleasant evening was spent, consuming local rustic fare and wine, before wearily turning in, each to reflect upon the events of the day.
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Day 63 - 13 June - (La Fresneda to Ciudad Real) - Miles Covered - 368
Today, we part company with Lars, who will be heading in the direction of Valencia, as we push further south, to the town of Ciudad Real. This will allow us to ride together, on some of the roads that Lars knows well, until lunchtime when, like in all good biking movies, he will turn left, and we will turn right!
A combination of the night's dew and our "alcoholically moist" breath meant a delay to the intended early departure, as we waited for the sun's rays to warm and dry, not only the tent, but some of our previous night's washing, that we had hung out on the surrounding trees.
As we "twiddled our thumbs", literally, for things to dry, we took in our surroundings, and, amongst the beauty, noticed that every hilltop seemed to have been sliced off below the summit, the tips probably having been shipped to Dubai for their "Spanish sector". The plateau and escarpment dominated region appeared incongruous, after such a dramatic journey, and we certainly felt that something was "missing".
Once we had broken camp, we continued on the "eternally" winding roads, seeming to pass through the same village every twenty minutes, as if we had entered some mysterious "time loop" from which there was no escape! What made matters worse, was that Lars' Garmin and my two GPS's, ALL differed in their intentions for us, and, comically, we would find ouselves at a junction, IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, with one saying LEFT, one RIGHT, and the other instructing a prompt U-TURN! We were sure that these machines could communicate with one another, and were just "having fun".
Relying on the map, we eventually found our way to the village of "Monreal del Campo", the point at which Lars would leave us, but not before a hearty lunch, breakfast having been a non-event. Entering the restaurant that, conveniently, was located at the junction itself, we were informed that lunch would not be served until 1300hrs, in nearly an hours time! However, the "TAPAS" on the bar looked interesting, so we fell into the Spanish way of things, and spent a very convivial and reflective hour, waiting for lunch, eating food!
After rather too many Tapas, we were called through for lunch which, incredibly, we really enjoyed! It must be the weather, and "hard riding" that gives us such enormous appetites!
It was a rather sad, and subdued atmosphere as, fully sated, the three of us ventured back out into the hot afternoon sun, preparing to go our separate ways (although Lars has said that he may join us later in Spain!). After finding a common and kindred spirit, not to mention the same taste in heavy-duty touring bikes, it was an awkward farewell, interspersed with well wishes and promises to ride together again soon. Needless to say, Lars, you're always welcome, wherever we are!
And then there were two........
Day 64 - 14 June - Rest day in Ciudad Real
Day 65 - 15 June - (Cuidad Real to Cadiz) - Miles Covered - 379
As the early morning temperature began to climb, we pulled out from the shelter of the hotels underground garage and headed southwards towards the southern coast of Spain and Tarifa, the most Southerly point of mainland Europe. The variations in the colours of the soil as we passed through the Sierra Morena range would be a credit to any artist’s palette, as the brightest oranges merged through the range into the darkest of reds and back to orange. Little, if any crops would survive around this area and where attempts had been made to farm, there were miles upon miles of irrigation piping snaking across the landscape like a huge serpent that shadowed the seemingly never-ending roadway as it climbed and fell over the undulating ground. Slowly as we neared the coast the vegetation became greener and olive groves, vineyards and small fields of crops were re-emerging from the now more fertile ground.
Malaga and westwards along south coast does not reflect the true Spain. This area that is so very popular with holiday makers from around Europe, is spreading ever inland away from the sea that so many people seek, and the growing number of little boxes which are built clusters in the area are now making it so densely populated during the "Holiday season", that it questions the reasoning of wishing to visit the area to "Get Away" from it all. The infrastructure in this belt is subsequently under pressure too. Roads are becoming more choked day by day as they struggle to deal with the plethora of hire vehicles leased to the sun seekers who drive them in the style of "White Van Man on the M25".
In the film 'Field of Dreams', the catch phrase was "If you build it, they will come". This slogan seems to have been adopted by every developer who dares to dip his toe in the "Holiday home" building industry, because "They are still building them, and yes, They are still coming". As the developments spread inland offering promises of "Peaceful inland locations", their views of the sea become ever hazier from the general pollution and smog that hangs over the area masking the true azure blue of the sea that drew them there.
Tarifa is the most southerly point on mainland Europe. A holiday resort mostly frequented by locals, it was overflowing with families taking advantage of the weekend’s glorious weather conditions. Their heads turned in surprise as two British registered motorcycles rode along the peninsular as far as possible to park between notice boards on either side of the road. These boards clearly informed you that the stretch of water behind one, on one side of the road, was the Mediterranean Sea, and behind the other, on the other side of the roadway, was the Atlantic Ocean.
This was a major point of our journey. We had covered The Arctic Circle in the North, The Black Sea in the East, and now Tarifa, the furthest point South. We had traveled about 10,700 miles to reach this point and now effectively, we were heading northwards and, eventually, home.
Making our way along the coastline of the Atlantic Ocean towards Cadiz and our resting place for the night, we were treated to breathtaking views of the Oceans might as it crashed over the rocks at the base of ragged cliffs or its breakers rolled and smashed against the sand on the beach, sending bathers and paddlers shore-wards laughing and giggling, as the latter struggled to avoid getting their clothes wet.
After having arrived at our hotel, we were able to witness a truly stunning sunset over the Atlantic Ocean before retiring to our rooms for reflection on the days travel and hopefully a good night’s sleep.
Day 66 - 16 June - (Cadiz to Santiago Do Cacem) - Miles Covered - 358
Outside the hotel as we loaded our bikes for the day’s journey, the wild parakeets chirped and fluttered in the palms above our heads. It was immediately apparent to us both that these wild birds had more character than any of the waitresses that had begrudgingly served us at breakfast, where not even a smile or thank you accompanied their actions.
What is it about some of the waiting staff that serve breakfasts in hotels? Is it that they know you are leaving that day and therefore can't be bothered as they will likely never see you again? Is it that they are from another planet and don't like mornings? Or is it that they are a particular type of specially selected surly person who excels in a crabby, unhelpful and churlish attitude? Whatever the answer, it may be easier to train the parakeets in future - at least we wouldn't expect the respect from our fellow species.
Following the road out of town we avoided Seville like the plague as we had been forewarned about its traffic problems and then heading westwards soon found ourselves crossing the border and entering Portugal, Country 36 on our journey. Hugging the coast we continued to Cabo de Sao Vicente, the most westerly point of mainland Europe. We have commented on the amount of Dutch registered vehicles that we encountered in the countries we have visited, but we are convinced that there can't be ANYONE left in Holland, as they are all out "on the road", or camping everywhere! Perhaps they have seen us, as we went through their country, so many weeks ago (seems like yesterday!), and have all decided to follow suit!?
Just outside the delightfully named "Monte Gordo", but slightly less delightfully VIEWED, we dropped down onto the coast road and, for the journey past Faro, Albufeira and Lagos, tried to concentrate on the glorious sea views and ignore the profusion of hotels and holiday apartments that were creeping up the rising ground that forms the hinterland of the southern coast of Portugal. The policy in Portugal seems to be that, provided you cement a few bricks together in the middle of a field, you have established a "property" and can develop it at any time you choose. The incongruous and ugly constructions that festooned the countryside stand as a sad reminder that, unchecked, the greed of humans to capitalise upon any site of beauty will, ultimately, destroy the very same site that they seek to monopolise!
It was with great relief that we broke through the "border" town of Vila do Bispo, after which the "National Park" rules prevented the development "mould" from spreading to the Western-most point of Europe. The few properties in the area reminded us of how the country must have looked, before the "package holiday" cowboys took over. It really is quite beautiful!
Once again, we were subjected to several "GPS tours" of the centre of tiny villages, with even tinier "corridors" that were supposed to be roads, some leading to the bright white fronts of a private house! The dazzling white buildings, with their uniform terracotta roofs, all seemed the same, and the narrow lanes that threaded their way between them gave us absolutely no indication of direction, location or salvation!
Eventually, after passing the same bemused locals several times, we were "accosted" by a "hardy" looking fellow in an enormous 4X4, who proved very helpful, and we soon found ourselves passing through the town of Sagres, nearing another milestone in our trip.
The final part of the journey to "Cabo de Sao Vicente" is quite lovely, provided you ignore the steady stream of coaches and motor homes that line the route. The road meanders around the flat top of the coast, passing, at times, alarmingly close to the deep gashes that tumble down to the energetic waters below. Indeed, the activity, over time, of the Atlantic Ocean on this piece of coastline, has led to a dramatic confusion of caves, exposed outcrops and "spouts” that, like the blowhole on a whale, deliver impressive plumes of spray, catching the foolish or overly adventurous photographer unawares.
Initially, the western-most point itself is a little disappointing. You arrive at an old fort that seems to be permanently closed to the public, in a car park that is festooned with coaches, Dutch and the ubiquitous "Tat stalls". It is only when you orientate yourself, that you realise that the western-most point happens to be, wait for it, to the "west" of the fort!
Walking to the back of the car park, you find yourself on a well-worn track that leads, quite literally, to the cliff's edge. No barriers, no warning (unless the memorial to a young Dutch guy who got too close to the edge gives you any clue!) and absolutely no maintenance! The smooth cliff top stands testimony to the many thousands of feet that have, tentatively, approached the dramatic plunge to the white horses far below, and a faint track out across the wind-blown arête to the very farthest tip shows that far fewer have made that journey. In honour of the momentous occasion that we were experiencing, we decided (three points of contact, AT ALL TIMES!) to get as far west as possible, and with that "sensation" that we have previously mentioned, edged out to stand on the pinnacle that marks the end-point of Europe.
Moments like this can have a profound effect upon you, and make one reflect upon so many different things, people and events. Go there, sit on the rock as far out as YOU dare (it's not brave to push yourself beyond where you feel capable! - to the guy in orange!), take in the incredible view, and let it happen. It may surprise you, what goes through your mind!
Taking full advantage of the photo-opp, we then realised that we had yet to take full advantage of the "food-opp". Perhaps due to the salty sea air, precipitous drop or emotion of the moment, our stomachs, in unison, reminded us of our ceaseless duty to them, and a new mission ensued. Returning to the bikes, we were approached by a young couple (Dutch) who, in conversation, mentioned that they had enjoyed a very pleasant meal nearby, at a restaurant that didn't offer a disproportionately sized car park, to cater for the "larger vehicles" that trolled the roads. The mission was developing - we had an objective!
Ordinarily, you DON'T want to visit any restaurant that appears empty but, having passed two that possessed those extra large car parks, each of which sporting several coaches that were disgorging their cargo for an "authentic Portuguese experience" , we arrived at one that seemed practically deserted, and fitted the description given to us at the point. Ever so slightly dubious, though at the same time encouraged by the modest parking area that certainly would NOT have accommodated any coaches, we approached the "WAZA" restaurant (YES, so named, after the Bud. advert - God!) with "open minds". The entire experience, however, turned out to be a jewel in the crown of the day's experiences! In a strangely multi-national festival of languages (French Chef, Portuguese wife, German waitress, British customers, NO DUTCH, NO Japanese!), the food was fantastic, the service impeccable, the atmosphere convivial, and the lack of tourism refreshing. Don't bother with anywhere else on your trip to the point, go there!
Once fully sated, and fortified by some of the best coffee that we had tasted in ages, we set out, back towards the mayhem that surrounds the beauty that is Portugal, only to discover, to or delight, that the coastal road, almost all the way up to our destination, meandered through an enormous National Park, rising and falling through the low hills, providing an exhilarating biking experience to cap off an amazing day. Indeed, our heavily-laden bikes "bottomed out" more times on that journey than throughout the entire trip! Tired, dusty and THIRSTY, we arrived in the exquisite town of Santiago do Cacem, still excited by the day's experience.
The "Alberghia do Nuno" is unremarkable in itself, though the staff are very helpful, the scenery wonderful, and the terrace perfect for a late-evening reflection of the fact that we were now "on the way back". To add a perfect end to a perfect day, the measures of single Malt whisky that were served would do credit to certain Scottish establishments, the hosts of which know who they are!
Day 67 - 17 June - (Santiago Do Cacem to Salamanca) - Miles Covered - 352
Despite the exertions of the previous day, we had a lot of ground to cover today, and, with slightly "woolly" heads, made an early start. Indeed, owing to the fact that, unknown to us, this area is actually on the same time as the UK (it IS, after all, further WEST than the UK!), our start proved to be the earliest on the entire trip. The birds, indignant at being woken at such an unreasonable time, vented their frustration by colouring the bikes profusely!
The first fifty miles reflected the roads of the day before, and served to sharpen our attention and blow away any cobwebs that may have remained from the previous night's indulgence, or the ultra-early start. As it happened, the sun seemed to be "on a mission" that day, and we were glad to have caught it while it was still low in the uniformly azure sky.
The roads in Portugal are, generally, fantastic for riding, and our journey to the border, although long, was entertaining and picturesque. It is said that one can ride from Faro to Porto on the tracks that abound in the hills that form the large part of the country. Having "done the course" in several countries, we decided to leave that experience to lighter and more agile steeds, preferring to stick to the cork-bordered route that wound its way through the multi-coloured earth.
In Chicago, on St.Patrick's Day, the Irish inhabitants of the city pour a bright green dye into the Charles River, which flows into Lake Michigan, and the colour remains for months after. In Portugal, perhaps the large number of Dutch people that seem to abound, do something similar, as the soil is coloured the brightest orange that you could imagine!
Returning into Spain (where was the border?) we aimed for the achingly pretty town of Ciudad Rodrigo, for one of our by now customary "late lunches". Approaching the citadel, you are thrown back to the Napoleonic Era, when the French took it from the Spanish in 1810, and the English took it from the French in 1812. It looks like a cross between a film set from the film "El Cid" (although there is no connection other than the name "Rodrigo" - the Cid's adventures took place in Valencia!), and an episode from "Sharpe". Indeed we half expected to see the familiar green jackets flitting amongst the battlements, with the words "Chosen Men" fading into the narrow alleys and walkways!
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We parked the bikes in the centre of the town, as the sun was at its hottest, just down from the "Dublin School of English" (don't believe me - see photo!).
The beer was cold, the food excellent and the views of the ancient citadel, of strategic importance since Roman times, were a perfect backdrop for our lunch stop. The advantage of a "late lunch" in Spain is that the majority of people have disappeared for the essential "siesta" and we virtually had the place to ourselves!
Leaving Ciudad Rodrigo, we followed in the footsteps of so many Military Commanders over the ages, leaving the first point of defence, and entering the City of Salamanca, that it served. As we passed through the fortifications, we were immediately reminded that this was a University Town, as the place was "heaving" with students, disgorging from every portal and alleyway.
"Freshers' Week" aside, this is a truly stunning place, and we spent a pleasant evening, marveling at the ancient and modern blend of harmonious architecture, the plethora of fine Tapas' bars and cafes, and the incredible cleanliness that certain parts of Italy would do well to emulate!
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We loved Salamanca - it gives you a great sense of peace, comfort and safety. We'll go back!
Day 68 - 18 June - (Salamanca to San Sebastian) - Miles Covered - 290
Today, we were on a mission – Our Dutch friend, Lars, has contacted us, to let us know that he will be in San Sebastian tonight, and would like to show us his favourite Spanish town. We don’t wan to miss the opportunity to catch up with him, and decide upon another early start. Having parked in the garage (reminiscent of the “Comfort Hotel” in Finland – in another life?!!), we were able to “saddle” up in the cool comfort of the car park, as, even at such an early hour, the heat of the day was causing the first trickle of sweat to meander down the spine.
Once back on the open road, our views seemed to resemble aspects of Spanish Children’s stories, as classically-shaped black “Toros” stood in magnificent splendour, amongst the diaphanous grass, interspersed with the gnarled, ancient cork trees that shaded that “oh-so-typical” image of Spain. The dry, arid landscape seemed to stretch forever, but we were in good company - storks nesting in colonies (never seen before), Eagles, Kites and our cloven-hoofed friends kept an eye on our progress, and we were never alone!
As we made our way Northeast, skirting around Valladolid, towards Burgos, the gradual increase in greenery became apparent, with rice fields making the occasional re-appearance, although the hillsides still gave the impression of a “Dali-esque” octogenarian. As we neared the Northern Spanish coastline, the assortment of trees grew lusher and more plentiful, until we spotted the snow-capped peaks of the Pyrenees on the distant horizon.
The last leg of the day’s journey was, once again, a biker’s paradise – the long, sweeping bends and occasionally alarming humpbacks helped us sharpen our dust- and distance-dazed focus, and we entered the town of San Sebastian, tingling and “alive”, looking forward to a night of tall beers and even taller tales, in the perfect setting and weather that greeted us.
Strolling out of the back of our hotel, we were immediately struck by the resemblance to Brighton seafront, but with decent weather and “Hola” instead of “Awight”! The sandy beach seemed to be smothered with mahogany bodies, and you could almost hear the sound of sizzling. No factor 10 or 20 for these sun-worshippers – olive oil, or 20W40 was the order of the day!
The tiny harbour, which sits at the entrance to the old part of town, was delightful, and the “physical” manner of parking the boats, like sardines, in the small spaces, made us glad to be on two wheels. On the harbour wall, like a scene from a Truffaut parody, young Spaniards were draped on the hot stones, occasionally rolling off to drop into the torpid waters below, when they weren’t engaged in languid embraces that could only have been learnt from hours of practice! When we approached the wall and looked into the sea below, the romantic image was immediately dashed, as the swimmers were having to push the floating piles of “rubbish” before them, in order to return to the harbour steps!
We had arranged to meet Lars in the old town, and lazily made our way to a bar overlooking one of the many squares, taking pleasure in the cooler evening air. We sat at a table that gave us a grandstand view over the passing waves of humanity, and ordered two of the most expensive, insipid beers that we had tasted in the entire trip! Luckily, before the embarrassment of a second round became an issue, Lars pitched up with another pal, and we were taken off, to explore the plethora of Tapas bars that abounded in San Sebastian – WHICH WERE NEARLY ALL CLOSED!!!
In spite of the limited choice at our disposal, and in delight at Lars’ embarrassment that we seemed to have chosen the only day, EVER, when the number of Tapas bars that were open exactly matched the number in our party (!), we enjoyed a splendid night, retiring to the hotel with enormous bellies from the wonderful array of “tid-bits” that we had gorged upon throughout the evening.
We thought that we knew what “Tapas” meant – a few dried out sticks of celery, carrot and cucumber surrounding a suspicious dip, or the odd sausage, rolled in an old bit of pig. The true experience can offer, literally, hundreds of variations and ideas, with each establishment offering its own “specialty”, whether hot or cold, meat-, vegetable- or fish-based, but all absolutely delicious! Thank God I don’t live there – I’d break the scales!!
Day 69 - 19 June - (San Sebastian to La Rochelle) - Miles Covered - 264
Collecting the bikes from the overnight secure parking, we again parked them almost directly outside the front door of the Hotel. Not only was this gesture for our convenience, but it was, as far as we are concerned, a snub to the Hotel. Its staff were pleasant, polite and efficient enough, but the overriding attitude was that of 'we don’t want those motorbikes parked outside our hotel'. You just know that had we been using a pristine Italian or German Sports car, for our journey, the Hotel would have been perfectly happy for it to remain in a prime location outside their front door for the duration of our stay. Lars soon joined us at the hotel and we headed North - Out of Spain. It only seemed like a few minutes and we had crossed the border into France and headed for the border port of St Jean de Luz, and a planned late breakfast. Sitting in sunshine at a typical French cafe, we mused over our travels and enjoyed wonderful French bread, “pain au chocolat” and the best omelettes ever!
Lars' previous visits to this area of France enabled him to show us some of the stunning coastline where beachfronted small restaurants, which only open during the summer, provide evening diners with spectacular a sunset backdrop to their meals which would include fresh fish plucked from the ocean that morning.
From a point high on the cliffs above the Cantabrian coastline, you are able to view the hilltops behind San Sebastian, the snow topped peaks of the Pyrenees and the Atlantic ocean as its waves crash onto the beach providing breakers for the watersports fanatics playing in the surf like baby seals.
It was with a sense of great sadness as we again parted company with Lars, He had his journey to continue and we ours, but knowing that our paths would cross again, a firm handshake sealed our farewell for now.
Heading for the coastal port of La Rochelle we followed the road northwards through billiard table fields, where local farmers busied themselves harvesting and tending their crops. For our lunch break and fuel stop we paused at a service area during a short journey on the autoroute. Here, unlike in The United Kingdom, a pause at an “Aire” is a pleasant affair. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, snacks and sandwiches were available on plates with minimal packaging that doesn't require a chainsaw to open, and an overall general feeling from the staff of being welcomed as opposed to tolerated, made this lunch break a totally pleasant affair. The picturesque blue sky began to shade and darken as we approached our evening’s destination and Sat Nav again decided that we should take the 'Scenic Route' into La Rochelle. Constant attempts to make us turn down one way streets and pedestrian areas hampered our progress, being so near, yet so far away, but in the end mind over matter ruled. "We didn't mind, and the one way pedestrian area didn't matter" (as other mopeds and bikes were riding down them!).
If they were capable of doing so, the bikes would have heaved a sigh of relief as we dismounted and began to unload our luggage onto the cobbles surrounding the harbour. Once again we were the subject of curiosity, and we struck up conversation with a young couple on holiday from Germany. Both Husband and wife seemed truly envious of our journey and had both traveled extensively but as they were due to have an addition to the family in December, their future travels would have to be tailored for some time to include another family member. Although we cannot remember your names, it was a pleasure to meet you and we do wish you every happiness for your future.
The hotel staff suggested that we parked our bikes undercover, beneath the passageway at the front of the hotel which not only provided security for them but again allowed them to be scrutinised by passers-by, which led to numerous further conversations with other fellow bikers and tourists. Although the weather was not glorious during the evening, we still managed to walk around the town and its harbour, enjoying the sights that this beautiful port with its fortifications and towers has to offer.
Day 70 - 20 June - (La Rochelle to Orleans) - Miles Covered – 245
Today marks the end of our tenth week on the road, and we are starting to get “the Blues” as we keep poring over our maps, reminiscing over where we have been. Indeed, we are positively reluctant to load the bikes, as if the mere act will bring us closer to the end of our “epic” journey. But, we have one more country to visit, and people to see en route, so we start our journey, “heavy footed” toward the Loire valley, following the delightful C- and D-roads through textbook-quaint French villages.
Memories of a wonderful time spent in Saumur were enough to make it our destination for lunch, and the lazy, French-paced route through the countryside to our destination fuelled our appetites. We arrived in the central square in Saumur, to find it block by………….. THE DUTCH!! Some distant relative of Lars’ had parked his enormous camper van right in the turning circle in the square, blocking the entire place off and causing a huge tailback that, effectively, tied itself up in the series of bends and off-shoots that led into, and out of, the place.
Again, the advantage of bikes came to the fore, as we squeezed past the mayhem, parking the bikes directly outside our chosen restaurant, and enjoying a cool beer while we watched the second half of France vs. Holland.
The route that meanders its way alongside the Loire river is truly delightful, passing the most exquisite Chateaux on the way, that stand testimony to the incredible wealth that existed before the Revolution, and justify the sobriquet “most expensive valley in France” that accompanied it at the time.
Orleans, like many of the large towns that surround Paris, is typically contradictory. Parts of the town are achingly beautiful, suspended in time from better days, when the incessant march of technology and manufacturing seeks to destroy all that is special, and delicate. Other parts are awkwardly repulsive, with confused warehouses and industrial estates vying for the limited space available. You can look at a part of the town from one angle, and see that Orleans of fantasy and romance, but a short move to another angle exposes its “warty” side. We found ourselves right in the middle of the two!
Isolated somewhat, with our own thoughts and reflections upon our almost-completed journey, we spent a subdued evening in Orleans, restricting our exploration to the banks of the Loire, and watching the last rays of the evening sun disappear over the modern roofs of the town. We took this opportunity to enjoy a quiet chat, acknowledging how lucky we are, to have the partners, friends and relatives who have been so supportive in our mammoth “quest”.
Strangely, in spite of the effects of the journey, weather and emotions that were “bubbling under” as the darkness surrounded us, neither was keen to let the day go, and we continued to sit there, staring across the valley, into the distance from whence we had come.
