Part 1. El Puerto de Santa Maria to Zafra
Part 1
El Puerto de Santa Maria to Zafra
(170 miles)
Making a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela traditionally commenced from one’s own parish which explains why there are over forty different Camino routes found throughout the Iberian Peninsula but out of those, only eight are widely recognised and have some sort of Pilgrim’s infrastructure. The Camino Frances is by far the most popular but stories of Pilgrims racing from one hostel to the next in order to secure a bed and always having someone walking just ahead or behind me wasn’t my cup of tea; I enjoy company of an evenings but I do prefer to do my walking in solitude. Following further investigation, I found that the Via de la Plata (The Silver Way) offers the kind of ‘road less travelled’ vibe I was looking for. La Plata sees just 10,000 travellers each year as opposed to 300,000 on the Camino France, which amounts to an awful lot of snoring within Pilgrim dormitories. One of the reason the la Plata draws fewer pilgrims is down to the distances between towns. Down at the southern end of the trail, some towns are more than twenty miles apart with wild camping illegal and nowhere to refill a water bottle. So if you’re going to do it, you’ve got to be capable of walking the higher mileage. Evidently that’s not a problem for 10,000 people but with a bulge in my lower spine, I’m limited to just ten miles a day. Therefore, if I wanted to follow la Plata, it would have to be by bicycle. (Just so you know, cycling the Camino is in no way considered ‘cheating’. Most routes have a combination of shared and separate sections for walkers, cyclists and horseback riders and all are welcomed in Pilgrim accommodation.)
Once I shared my idea with my husband Steve, we figured we may as well expand our route and make it a coast-to-coast ride; from El Puerto de Santa Maria in the south to Gijon in the north which would total 620 miles. Mid-September, we flew with our bicycles down to Seville then caught a train to El Puerto de Santa Maria, a seaside resort where the smell of sherry hangs heavy in the air. Our early morning start was scuppered when our hotel surprised us with a complimentary bottle of vino and by the time we finally got going, it was eleven o’clock and as hot as hell. It had been my intention to take a swim on both Spanish coasts but when we arrived at the beach, the tide was so far out I decided not to bother.
Our personal experience of Spanish car drivers, was in the main, very good.
The weather that first day was pretty wild with 40mph winds buffeting us from the side but it helped stop us overheating. Out on the tarmac, Steve’s thermometer was reading 38° C and having just arrived from County Durham I wasn’t used to that kind of heat; after a couple of hours, I was starting to feel nauseous so we decided we would break ourselves in gently and stop in Jerez de la Frontera, just 20 miles up the road. At the first air-conditioned café we came too, we dived in gratefully and settled down with our cold drinks and not long after, another gasping cycle tourist joined us. Nigel was cycling back to Worcestershire on a charity ride but was on a much stricter deadline than us and with more than just a hint of dismay, he told us he was riding the full eighty miles to Seville that afternoon and sleeping in a tent. I didn’t envy him in this heat; Steve and I are normally fans of camping but with reasonably priced hotels and an abundance of Pilgrim accommodation on our route, we’d decided to ditch the extra weight and leave our tent at home this time. As we watched Nigel head out into the afternoon furnace for another sixty miles, that decision had never felt more validated and in the end, we make our way back to Seville over three leisurely days and buoyed by the promise of an air-conditioned room each night.
The Andalucian countryside between Santa Maria and Seville feels a bit like a no-man’s land, suspended between the more populous coast and city and we enjoyed riding many an untarmacked roads which saw just a few farm vehicles each day. The countryside here is so dry that I was surprised by the proliferation of dragonflies and snails, creatures I’d usually associate with moisture. But dragonflies thrive in the heat and, as I later learned, there’s a proliferation of insects in this region (their favourite food) so it’s an ideal breeding ground. The countless snails clustered in their thousands makes for a strange sight. During the fierce heat of the day, these small white Gastropods ascend whatever they can find, be it a fence post or a withered stem of a dead plant. They climb as high as they can to escape the higher temperatures on the ground then enter a state of dormancy to protect themselves until it cools down again of an evening. The Andalucian countryside could be beautiful in its own unique way but it’s thoroughly spoilt by the mounds of rubbish dumped along every highway. The litter consists of anything and everything from food wrappers tossed from cars to agricultural waste and discarded household furniture. It is not a pretty sight.
We arrive back in Seville; happy our first stage has run so smoothly. I fall in love with Seville every time I come here and this time, I fall harder still when I discover how cycle friendly the city is and I find myself dreaming wistfully of living in an apartment overlooking the Rio Guadalquivir. If only I could afford it. We are looking forward to joining the official Camino trail north of the city and we track down the Diocesan book shop were we pick up our official pilgrim passports; you will need one in order to stay in pilgrim’s accommodation. Steve and I have decided we will stay in regular hotels wherever possible because we prefer the privacy. I also feel we should leave pilgrim accommodation for those who are walking. I know from personal experience that finding oneself in the dreadful situation of arriving somewhere, only to find all beds taken isn’t such a big deal on a bicycle; riding an extra few miles doesn’t take long. But having to walk those extra miles to another hostel can be soul destroying.
We have broken ourselves in gently on the relatively flat plain south of Seville and now we are ready to begin on the hills. A few miles north of Seville we see our first signs for the Camino; the scallop shell (Viera) which represents the rebirth of the pilgrim. We also use our first official Camino path, a compacted dirt-track which runs alongside the road. I am ridiculously excited by this and we stop to take photos of one another on our pilgrimage but after a while, I find the tracks are sapping my speed and energy. Since the traffic isn’t particularly heavy, I choose to go back to riding on the tarmac again. Rather unusually, I’m unfazed by the traffic here. Spanish car drivers seem very considerate towards cyclists, far more so than anywhere else in the world I’ve ever ridden. It is one of the things which made our trip so enjoyable. Since setting out Steve has been singing ‘To be a Pilgrim’ and that tune is now stuck firmly in both our heads and has become our favourite cycling song.
Andalucia between the coast and Seville
Our next intended hotel doesn’t have a website or listed email address so I am forced to use my newly acquired Spanish to book us a room. I dial the number and stumble through Puedo reservar una cama por dos persones por esta noche por favor and am relieved when the man on the phone switches instantly to perfect English. I’d highly advise learning at least a little Spanish as English is not widely spoken away from cities and coastal areas. We have both been learning the language for a while and it really came in handy although as ever, I was frustrated by how much I still don’t know. Billingual I am not. We meet three Mexican gentlemen staying in our hotel who are also cycling the Camino and over the next few days, we leap-frog each other’s progress as we take our individual rest stops. They are riding exclusively on official Camino pathways whereas for now, Steve and I are sticking to the road. I can’t help noticing how often we see them grinding up a steep incline in places where the road remains flat. We are curious as to how these guys can travel with only one tiny rucksack on each of their backs, but at the hotel next night, we realise their luggage is being transferred from one hotel to the next by a tour company. It is a popular option for both walkers and cyclists on many Camino routes.
The Via de la Plata
As one travels through Andalusia, it would be hard to miss its proliferation of olive groves. An estimated 1.9 million olive trees cover 1.5 million hectares, keeping 30% of Andalusians employed as they work on producing 40% of the worlds olive oil. I love olives and we always cook with olive oil at home however, I also recognise that growing olive trees as a monocrop is, as monocrops often are, not so great for wildlife diversity. But as we ride into the mountains after Almaden de la Plata, the countryside starts to change. Our road winds through forests which comprise of a wider blend of tree species including ancient pines, remarkable old olive trees and the Quercus suber which is more commonly known as the cork oak. The agricultural system here makes for an impressive dynamic. Unlike English oaks, cork oaks are an evergreen tree. Their thick bark can be partially stripped every 9-12 years without causing the tree any damage and it is used most famously for corking wine bottles, although it has many other uses, for example building materials. We regularly see huge piles of the stuff piled up by the roadside awaiting transportation. The cork trees’ second agricultural use is their acorns which get devoured by Iberian pigs. These pigs lead something of an idyllic life for a couple of months, living a free-range lifestyle in amongst the forests and eating acorns to their hearts content. They go for slaughter at about 16 months which I’m told is 5 months longer than their indoor cousins. Their meat is considered a delicacy and features heavily in the cuisine of the Spanish interior. We see hundreds of these piggies each day nuzzling contentedly under trees – until they see us approaching. Then they run away snorting as they go, a sight which never fails to make me smile. These oak forests intermingled with other species make an excellent habitat for a wide variety of birdlife and we spot many song birds, buzzards and wood larks. I have also read these forests support populations of black vultures, several rare eagles and the endangered Iberian Lynx. It is a very strong argument for the continuing use of cork to seal wine bottles instead of swapping to metal screw caps. If the world ceased to need cork, Spanish famers, no longer able to profit from oak forests may find other ways to make money and if that involves deforestation to repurpose their land, it could have a devastating effect on local wildlife.
Into the Sierra Morena range, northern Andalucia
After El Real de la Jara we finally make use of the Camino infrastructure and we have a blissful afternoon following a dirt track which takes us far away from any roads. We spot many eagles circling in the skies above and as I round a bend in the track, I startle a beautiful Iberian deer grazing the side of the path. The second it claps eyes on me it leaps gracefully over a fence and is gone in a flash. Deer are hunted here along with wild boar, hare, rabbit and various birds; in these forested areas we’ve seen many signs for cotto privido de caza which means private hunting estate. For the first time we also pass a few walking pilgrims. It is a tradition here to call out Buen Camino when passing pilgrims and people say it to Steve and I all the time, although I never get used to using it, preferring to reply with a cheery ‘Hola’ instead.
Enjoying some off-road riding on the Via de la Plata
Our bed for tonight is in a brand-new motorway services hotel and we are amazed how luxurious it is considering the very reasonable charge. Hotels in Spain must be half the price they are in England. Even more surprising is what we get when we venture into the adjoining motorway café. I’m not expecting much but find myself served with a tasty beef stew and chips, a desert and small bottle of vino tinto and all for eleven Euros. I’m absurdly happy about my discovery and eat my dinner with relish, thinking about the awful, over-priced food on offer at our motorway service stations. When did Blighty become so over-priced? We return for breakfast next morning and the place is packed to the gills as friends and family alight from coaches and cars to drink their café con leches. The noise levels are really quite astounding and we have to shout in order to hear one another.
As always in mainland Europe, we find the breakfasts are not very substantial. In Spain they are usually just toastada (toast) with butter and jam. Personally speaking, it’s a must that I eat protein in the mornings and especially so when I’m planning on exercise; whilst I’m not a diabetic, my blood glucose levels are ultra-sensitive to food and a high carb or sugary breakfast can send my blood glucose levels plummeting by mid-morning. And as anyone who has ever suffered with hypoglycaemia will tell you, it can be very unpleasant. This morning I ask a waiter if I can have cheese with my tostada and he looks at me as though I’ve just ordered a shotgun. To keep things simple, most of the time, Steve and I intend to shop for food that doesn’t require cooking so we can breakfast in our hotel room. Bread, cheese, olives, nuts, tinned fish, ham, tortilla de patatas (Spanish omelette) and fruit are some of the items we will come to rely on. Along with copious cups of tea. Before our trip, I’d read somewhere that kettles aren’t normally found in hotel rooms in Spain so we made sure we pre-purchased a small travel kettle which doesn’t take up much room in a pannier bags. But beware, Spanish brand tea bags are exceptionally weak so if a good cup of tea is your thing, it might be best to bring some with you. We only occasionally found Tetley’s tea in supermarkets so when we did, we made sure to buy a few boxes.
We have now crossed out of Andalusia and into the Autonomous Region of Extremadura where we ride up a steep hill for six miles to Monesterio and stop for lunch to celebrate Steve’s birthday. Monesterio sits at an elevation of 2500ft and it’s known as the ham capital of Spain. It isn’t the perfect lunch spot for a man who has been a vegetarian for 50 years but Steve orders his tortilla de patatas; a reliable vegetarian option found on most menus. Whereas I, feeling a little ham-ed out opt for the lamb stew. Then it’s twenty-eight miles to the city of Zafra with three-quarters of the ride downhill.
Some five miles outside of Zafra we come across a hamlet of very large and expensive looking villas. If you are from England it may surprise you to learn that upscale country residences are not the norm out here in rural Extremadura and with eighty percent of Spaniards living either on the coast or in cities (which is where most employment is found), a lot of rural towns have an air of neglect about them. Spain is twice the size of the UK but with a population which is 1.5 times smaller, so I guess there just isn’t enough people or funds to go round and keep every rural community alive. It is estimated that 3000 settlements and particularly those which were very remote in the first place, have sadly had to be abandoned altogether.
In Zafra we take a day off to explore the city. It is a very beautiful old Moorish town full of baroque churches and boutique shops and with houses covered in bougainvillea and geraniums. Most buildings are whitewashed, a little like Andalucian Pueblos Blancos. We are fortunate to score a room in a hotel which overlooks the exquisite, palm tree-filled Plaza Grande and in the evening we watch as families and friends take their el paseo. It is the Spanish equivalent to the Italian passeggiata; the leisurely, sociable stroll around town in the cool of evening which separates work from dinner.
Part 2
Zafra to Salamanca
(230 miles)
It is now the 25th of September and on the morning we leave Zafra, it is feeling a little more autumnal. The temperature has dropped to 18° C and it starts to rain so for the first time on this trip, out comes our wet weather gear. Luckily, it doesn’t last and by three o’clock the sun is back out and the temperature rises back to a more summery 26° C. For much of our tour, we will be riding on the N-630, also known as Ruta de la Plata. It used to be the main road between Seville and Gijon (in the north of the country where we are headed) but since the A-66 Autopista (motorway) was built parallel to it, the motorway now takes the brunt of the traffic which in turn makes the N-630 quite a nice road to cycle on for the most part. In Almendralejo we chance upon a hotel which overlooks the local football stadium and much to the delight of my soccer-mad husband, there is a match scheduled for tonight. Whilst Steve goes off to watch the game I make use of the rare presence of a bath in our room and enjoy a long soak with a glass of wine.
The ride from Almendralejo to Merida is a piece of cake. Not only do we have a tail wind, but it is also flat. This part of Spain is a short reprieve between two mountain ranges; we have already ridden over the Sierra Morena and are now approaching the Central mountain range which we can see in the distance. There is no getting around the fact that there are an awful lot of mountains in Spain. Our cycling song has now changed from ‘To be a pilgrim’ to ‘The Rain in Spain’ from the film, My Fair Lady and as we ride, we break into spontaneous outbursts of In the plain. Today we see a number of storks and I confess I had never appreciated their size until now. I love them and their beautifully intricate nests which they build with abandon wherever they can, from window ledges to chimney pots or on the top of lampposts. Merida is a modern place but distinguished by its extensive collection of Roman remains which are dotted around the city. The most famous is the Teatro Romano, a Roman amphitheatre built in 15BCE to accommodate 6000 spectators. But my personal favourite is the Puente Roman. The bridge, partially restored in 17th century, is 792m in length and has 60 granite arches and it is thought to be one of the longest bridges the Romans ever built. It’s an even more impressive sight when illuminated at night.
Puente Roman in Merida, thought to be the longest bridge the Romans ever built
As a self-confessed foodie, one of the attractions of travel is the chance to try out new and exotic cuisine but we have both become a little blasé lately, eating excessive amounts of bread and cheese in our hotel room instead of going out for dinner. So in Merida, we decide to go out for lunch. The trouble for Steve is that Spanish food and particularly in the interior of the country is quite meat-based. Even dishes such as soups and salads which sound as though they should be vegetarian often come laced with hidden flesh. (Many a time, I’ve had to pick ham out a salad so that Steve can eat it.) My husband has already worked his way through all the ‘safe’ vegetarian dishes many times over: patatas bravas, tortilla de patatas, berenjenas con miel (aubergines with honey) and padron peppers, but he’s getting a bit bored of them now. And I do sympathise because although not a vegetarian, I do prefer my diet to be 20% carnivorous and 80% vegetarian; in this area of Spain, its often the other way around with vegetables no more than a token gesture. I appreciate that what you see in restaurants is limited compared with what you would find cooked in Spanish homes. But unfortunately a traveller only has restaurants to rely on and after a few weeks of it, menus do become repetitive. For example, the first time I ever ate a croquetas in Spain; I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Now, if I never see one again it will still be too soon.
Hopeful that in a city we can find a greater variety of restaurant including those that cook food of varying ethnicities, we go hunting in Merida and eventually track down a Mexican. I had similar food woes when I cycled across the United States some years back. Across the central states, menus were very meat based (and processed meat at that) but I was saved in the southwestern states by a proliferation of Mexican restaurants. In these, I could seek sanctuary from flesh and wolf down plates of fajita complete with a plethora of avocado and sizzling vegetables. But sadly not here. For lunch I am served yet another plate of meat (albeit spiced differently) with just a sad looking piece of avocado on the side.
The farcical manner in which we exit Merida next morning is sadly not unique to the way Steve and I clash whenever it comes to negotiating our way around an urban environment and it happens more times than I care to remember. It begins with Steve declaring confidently, he knows the way out the city and me putting my faith in him (or should I say, in his Garmin). We ride for a time and whilst I do appreciate he is trying to avoid main roads and dangerous junctions, as we go on, I feel more and more that the route we are taking is unnecessarily convoluted. I will go from quietly grumbling to myself about this to the point where I am so frustrated, I will eventually scream aloud, Where the hell are we going now – Just stop. I will then whip out my phone to consult google maps, express dismay over how far we still are from where we are trying to get to and demand that I now be allowed to take over the lead. The problem with my direction finding is that I insist on stopping at every single junction in order to check and recheck we are still going the right way. Which, as you can imagine, makes for exceptionally slow progress. Before long, Steve will be the one now shouting his frustration at me and insisting he take over again. On this farce will go until eventually, we will find our way out of a city but, depending on the size of the place, it often takes up to an hour longer than it really ought to. I say all of this with a good measure of jest because I absolutely adore my husband and he is by far and away the best travelling companion I could ever wish for. It’s just that directions are one of the few things we do fight over; that and where to go for dinner. (All I will say is that for a man who claims not to be fussy over what goes in his belly, he sure is the fussiest unfussy eater I have ever met.)
The weather continues to cool down. The morning we leave Aldea del Cano it is only 8°C which, to our amusement, has the Spanish dressing up like they are journeying to the Arctic. But by mid-afternoon, it warms back up to a very pleasant 19°C. Unfortunately, we also have a strong headwind. Right across Spain the winds seemed to change direction frequently so if there is a prevailing wind direction then I am afraid we didn’t notice one. In the UNESCO World Heritage city of Caceres, we arrive early at our hotel as we often do but it is the first (and only) hotel where the receptionist insists we have llagado demasiado temprano (arrived too early) and makes us wait until 2pm to let us have our room. So we return to the Plaza Mayor for lunch. On Sunday evening we join a crowd who are watching intently as a pasos (a very large wooden platform with a figure of a saint aloft) is carried from a church. It is so heavy it takes twenty-five young men just to lift it. Then the party sets off, carrying it for hours around the labyrinth of cobbled streets on a religious parade whilst a band of trumpeters accompany them. The rather haunting melody of the brass instruments seem somehow befitting in this wonderful old city. As we watch the parade, it strikes me how in so many ways, the Spaniards have held on to their traditions whilst much of the rest of the world has become so Americanised; homogenous and predictable.
Religious festival in historic Caceres
The further we get into the Central Mountain range, the more dramatic the scenery becomes but our last three miles to Canaveral are punishingly steep. All the more so now the weather has decided to get all summer-like again with air temperatures back up at 30°C. As usual Steve forges ahead then waits for me at the top and I am okay with this; I would hate it if he rode deliberately slowly in order to match my speed. I much prefer to be left alone to go at my own pace without the pressure of having someone else cycling up my backside. (Even if it is the person I love most in the world.) I realised a long time ago; I am a rare cyclist who is happy to stop now and again in order to get my breath back or even to get off and push if I need to. And I’m puzzled as to why so many cyclists see this as a sign of failure. I also don’t care if I get overtaken. A couple of racing cyclists fly passed me shouting Buen camino as they go, as do another couple on electric bikes. But when I do finally make it to the top I am thrilled to bits, especially when I remember how only two weeks ago, I could barely ride to Seville in this heat, let alone up such a steep incline. Only this morning, I had to tighten the chinstrap of my cycle helmet and I realised with immense satisfaction, it was likely because I have lost some weight.
In Canaveral, we finally stay in a pilgrim’s hostel (although we pay extra to get a private room). It is partially built into rock, like a cave so it is lovely and cool without needing air conditioning. Whilst Steve takes an afternoon nap, I decide to handwash some of our clothes and after, I put them outside in the fierce sun to dry. There is a man staying in the room next to ours. I said hello when we first arrived but now I notice how every time I go outside to hang out my washing, he appears and I start to suspect he wants to chat. So next time he appears I strike up a conversation. The man is a Londoner by the name of Dave and he tells me how tough his pilgrimage has been so far, especially in the heat. I am full of admiration for those walking the camino because I know I wouldn’t have lasted one day. Through Dave I gain a fascinating insight into the complex dynamics of walking pilgrims. As I suspected might happen, those who find themselves waking at the same time and place tend to form into little groups who stay together. Which is fine if you like someone but what can you do if you don’t? It must be hard when walking to try to ditch someone who is travelling at the same speed as you without causing offence. And I laugh as Dave tells me a number of times now, he has both caused offence and felt offended and I’m grateful it is just Steve and I are travelling together in our merry band of two. Whilst talking to Dave, the hostel manager drops by to feed his menagerie of animals. I am puzzled as to why he only takes one of his dogs inside for the night and leaves the other one outside. Later, I realise that the dog is none too pleased with this arrangement either and the little beggar spends the whole of the night barking and we barely sleep a wink.
After Canaveral we part ways from the official Via de la Plata for a while because the walking route does not follow the N-630 as closely as we are. Our morning begins with the continuation of the steep climb we began yesterday afternoon but at least now, at nine o’clock in the morning it’s much cooler. Then – disaster. Our beloved N-630 becomes a nightmare; extremely busy with buses and lorries all trying to overtake us on what is now a very hilly, winding section. We realise that a section of the autovia (the A-66) which, up to now has carried the bulk of traffic must be closed off for some reason and traffic is being redirected on to our road. Lucky for us the drivers are so considerate of us cyclists, I don’t feel unsafe as such. It is just a shame that this beautiful section is spoilt by the constant noise as vehicles rev and roar their engines as they struggled to overtake us on the steep, narrow, switchback hills.
According to Komoot, the ride from Plasencia to Banos de Montemayor today will be one of our most challenging rides; a continual thirty-mile uphill slog. We start out earlier than usual but it is slow going and I’m anxious in case we don’t arrive before siesta time. We are low on food supplies and a google maps search has revealed just one small supermarket in Banos de Montemayor which unusually for Spain, does not reopen in the evening. To complicate matters further, tomorrow is a public holiday and the day after that is Sunday so we really need to stock up in order to get through breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next couple of days. (Let this serve as a warning. Shops in Spain, even big supermarkets do not open on Sundays or public holidays.) Again, I am full of admiration for the Spanish that they have not let themselves get pressured into matching the rest of the world’s timetable of open all hours. Just be mindful that the quirkiness of their opening hours does make travelling by bicycle a little more complicated with today being a classic example. The moment Steve and I realised how all-encompassing restrictive trading hours are in Spain; we quickly learnt to get organised and shop in advance of closures. Unfortunately, today we have messed up so it’s with a sigh of relief we come across another mini supermarket, eight miles before our destination where we restock our panniers. My wonderful husband even agrees to ride up the mountain with a bottle of wine in his pannier bag so we can enjoy a drink on our day off tomorrow. (My hero). I find the rest of our ride to Montemayor although still hard, is a lot more enjoyable now that the pressure to get there by a certain time has gone. Montemayor is a gorgeous, peaceful town which benefits from a steady stream of Spanish tourists who come here to bath in the local spa but despite this, we can’t help noticing how many properties are empty and derelict.
Via Verde from Banos de Montemayor to Bejar
Next morning, behind the main street of Banos de Montemayor, we find our way through narrow pedestrian-only streets where the houses are built on the side of an incredibly steep mountain and from there, we get on to a dirt track which rises up almost vertically for two miles. There is no way I can ride up such a steep gradient so I don’t even try. Steve forges ahead gallantly whilst I push my bicycle up the remaining 1000ft but it is worth it for the most spectacular view from the top. Even better is that the rest of today’s ride is along a Via Verde, a disused railway line which is now an excellent (and flat) cycle path. We leave the region of Extremadura and enter Castile and Leon. It feels like a different country when compared with the south of Spain. Here there are a plethora of deciduous trees: chestnuts and oaks whose leaves are now changing colour in the autumnal air and unlike the south, I imagine they get a real winter here.
In the mountains above Montemayor de Banos
Bejar is a peculiar place where everyone seems to live exclusively in apartment blocks although I love the fact the cycle path goes right under the town by way of a disused railway tunnel. Our room for the night is pretty miserable and I go to bed with a formidable craving for a big bag of chips from a British fish and chip shop. It is a long hard climb out of town the next morning which I can only manage by riding in my easiest gear and stopping every half mile to get my breath back and drink some water. On one of these stops we are passed by a peloton of weekend cyclists. They are a merry band, laughing and cracking jokes and having a real jolly boys outing but we see them waiting patiently for any stragglers. They shout to us that we should join in on the back which we do for a while but sadly, they soon go a different way to us.
We have made it up to the highest point in this part of Spain, the Puerto de Vallejare which is 1202m high (almost 5000ft). The ride down the other side is exhilarating to say the least with wonderful views and birds of prey who circle us curiously. We finish our day in Guijuelo. It is only one o’clock but the hotel door is locked and a sign tells us the place doesn’t open until three. This isn’t unusual but normally, someone is available to let us in early. Not so here. Despite repeatedly knocking on the door, nobody answers so we give up and walk into town. It is a chilly day and there’s a strong wind blowing. We can’t find a single shop or restaurant open so instead, we park ourselves on a bench in the street to wait it out whilst grumbling about the point of a hotel where there are no basic facilities for tourists. Come two o’clock, it starts to rain hard so we rush back to try our luck at the hotel again and this time, a woman hears us knocking and lets us in early. I’ve never been more thankful. We have a warming shower and eat our meagre rations and watch a film but when we leave in the morning, we find we’re charged fifteen euros each for storing our bicycles in their garage. It is the only place in Spain to do this.
The rain that began yesterday afternoon has now turned torrential with the odd flash of lightning and rumble of thunder thrown in. We have 40 miles to ride to Salamanca and the visibility is so bad, we wear our fluorescent yellow jackets and keep our bicycle lights on. The first 20 miles is a gentle downhill and we almost fly to Alba de Tormes. There we stop to assess the damage. Both Steve and I have pools of water in both our shoes plus I am saturated under my so-called waterproof coat. I’m not impressed given the price I paid for it and I tell Steve ruefully that I now know what he can get me for Christmas. Aside from being wet, I also have a grinding noise coming from my front wheel but it turns out just to be grit which has become stuck between my brake block and wheel rim so it is easily fixed.
After the town we join another via verde but this one isn’t so good; we are disappointed to find it partially gravelled and predictably our tyres sink into it and it makes for hard riding. On the upside, it eventually stops raining long enough that I can strip off and put on dry clothes. No need to worry about anyone seeing me naked, we are literally miles from anywhere. I would definitely have enjoyed this ride in more clement weather but as it goes, the morning drags on and on until after what feels like an interminable age, we finally reach the city of Salamanca. We shower hurriedly and race back out to lunch, our restaurant already chosen in advance. For here in the centre of Salamanca is an Indian restaurant. Choosing hotels and restaurants over a tent and camping stove had felt like a luxury at the beginning of our tour but lately, I have been missing the freedom to choose and cook our own meals. On any given week at home, I am known to make an Italian-style pasta on a Monday, a curry on Wednesday, Chinese-style stir fry on Friday and indulge in a traditional English roast on a Sunday. Here in rural Spain, there just isn’t the assortment of restaurants we are used to in Britian. Back home, even in remoter regions, it’s possible, at the very least to find Italian, Chinese and Indian takeaways. I wonder if it has anything to do with The Franco Dictatorship which reigned in Spain for almost forty years from 1936-1975. It was a time when there was more emigration out of Spain as people left looking for work than there were people immigrating into it. Maybe this is partly why Spain doesn’t have foreign influence woven into their cuisine like we do in Britian. We fall upon the Indian restaurant like starving wolves and as I tuck into aubergine bhaji, king prawn jalfrezi and garlic naan, the rain and mud are soon forgotten. Food has never tasted so good.
Part 3
Salamanca to Gijon
(220 miles)
We spend a lovely couple of days in Salamanca. It’s our longest break since we began our coast-to-coast ride and it’s perfect timing because the storm which accompanied us into the city yesterday continues most of the time we are here. We stay right in the centre so don’t have to wander too far to see some of Salamanca’s best sites and each evening, we grace the Indian restaurant with our loyal custom. But for the most part, I spend my two-day sojourn in a lethargic fug, reading history books and resting my thigh muscles which haven’t stopped aching for this entire trip.
Salamanca
We leave Salamanca on the 10th of October and find the temperature has dropped to 8°C. Between Salamanca and Zamora is another flat area of countryside which divides the Central and Cantabrian mountains so we have a fairly easy ride of it; except for the illusion of immobility. I have noticed this happen wherever I cycle a straight road across a flat and featureless landscape. One gets the impression of not making any progress and a horizon which remains at the same distance. It might have gotten a little disconcerting if it were not for the miles ticking by on my bike computer.
Since there’s another public holiday looming tomorrow (the Spanish get fourteen in a year- the jammy beggars) we remember to stock up on supplies in Zamora and then we go for some lunch. In the beautiful Plaza Mayor we are tempted by a restaurant which serves some of the city’s traditional dishes including a vegetarian friendly chickpea and vegetable stew and a type of garlic soup. But when we ask the waiter for a table he looks at his watch almost with sarcasm and refuses us service. We are disappointed and confused because the restaurant clearly advertises it’s opening hours as 1200-1700 and it is only half past three. Later I will realise, only the bar remains open until five. Three weeks in Spain and I am still learning the cultural differences. So it’s back to our hotel for Pizza delivery. By this time, we are both depressed with the food situation and have ceased trying to be cultured tourists. Our diets have now descended into utter garbage with Burger King and Domino pizzas being consumed with alarming frequency because they are the only food outlets open during siesta when we usually want to eat. Funnily enough, it is in Zamora I finally get the chance to weigh myself and find I have lost half a stone. I should be delighted at this but I actually feel rather disappointed; I was hoping I might have lost a stone by now. Still, all those calories in the pizza and wine have to go somewhere…
Because it’s National Spanish day tomorrow and they are planning a parade in the Plaza for the following afternoon, it falls to the local constabulary to clear the place of cars which have been left unattended, despite multiple signs telling people not to. And when I say clearing the cars, I mean they are literally using a pick-up truck to lift and dump each one on to the truck before driving them away, presumably to a local car pound. From our hotel room that evening, Steve and I have a front row seat to the spectacle as car owners arrive back on scene to find their cars gone. We watch with unashamed glee as one driver after another tries arguing with the unsympathetic policeman in charge of the operation, but to no avail.
Just after Zamora we permanently part ways with the Via de la Plata as it swings west towards Santiago whereas we continue heading north towards the coast. Today is hands down my favourite ride on the whole of our trip. We ride through the Reserva natural de Langunas de Villafafila, a beautiful nature reserve of lagoons. The whole area is teaming with wetlands birdlife and I’m pretty confident I see the rare Great Bustard through my binoculars, thought to be one of the heaviest flying birds in existence, a bit like a turkey that can fly. The weather is very kind to us too; sunny but not too hot with just a light breeze and because conditions are so clear, we have a wonderful view of the Cantabrian Mountains in the distance. Admittedly, they look rather formidable with their tops covered in snow but knowing they will be our final barrier before reaching the north coast of Spain is very satisfying.
Big sky country. Riding across the Reserva natural de Langunas de Villafafila
Forty miles later we arrive in Benevente and find our hotel room is situated over a noisy bar. I ask the barman where we can leave our bicycles (Donde podemos dejar las bicicletas?) and without saying a word, he leads us up the street, unlocks a large door in a wall, then heads off back to his bar. Behind the door we are amazed to find a cave-like warehouse full of more wine, beer, cheese and salami then the eye can comfortably perceive which, we assume it is the stockroom for the hotel. Steve and I set about trying to make a space for our bicycles between the barrels and bottles when suddenly the heavy warehouse door slams shut behind us. For a second we glance at one another, both of us thinking the same thing. Will we be locked in here all night? Considering all the supplies at our disposal, it is a prospect I believe I could come to terms with quite happily but Steve isn’t convinced and quickly finds the mechanism which open the door from the inside. Some people have no sense of adventure.
As I lay awake that night, I listen to the many guests who are returning to their hotel rooms as late as twelve, one or even two o’clock in the morning. The Spanish are renowned for their late nights and all through Spain, I’ve witnessed people out and about at all hours. But unlike England, these hours are not reserved solely for the drunks and party animals. Since the Spanish often won’t go out to dinner until 9 or even 10pm, it’s perfectly normal for friends to be having a good old gossip in the street at two in the morning. What astounds me more is that a Spaniard’s working day still begins at 9am, just as in the rest of Europe. The only difference being, people might have several hours off for lunch during siesta then return to work at 4pm and work right through until 8pm. This does of course depend on where you live and in what sector you work in, with city workers having largely voted to abandon their extended hours. But if for example, you are a retail worker in rural Spain, you would certainly keep the traditional Spanish working day which incidentally was first designed to accommodate a workforce who once worked mainly in agriculture and who needed a needed a break from the hottest hours of the day. And even though this has not been the case for a long time now, the legendary (and even romanticized outside of Spain) siesta time still continues to this day in rural Spain, despite attempts from some politicians to change things. I personally wouldn’t welcome these split shifts into my working day; once I’ve arrive home, the last thing I’d want is do is to go back to work again later.
Ah Leon. What can I say. Yet another beautiful city which incidentally, the Camino Frances passes through. One day, when I have more time, I will return to Leon to explore it properly but by now, both Steve and I have become a little travel weary and our thoughts are turning to the long journey home. When we arrive in Gijon on the north coast we are intending to catch a bus over to Bilboa and then the overnight ferry back to Portsmouth. We are already booked up on both and I am so glad I bought flexible tickets because as our ride has gone on, we have changed our travel dates at least three times (in line with our changing progress). Catching the Brittany ferry back to England should be straight forward; a 13-mile ride from Bilboa city centre to the dock and then straight aboard with no dismantling of bicycles required. The bus trip will be a little more complicated. ALSA, Spain’s leading national bus operator, runs an extensive and inexpensive service throughout Spain and allows bicycles on a lot of their buses. (This can be checked easily on their website). The problem is they insist on bicycles being placed into a bicycle bag which, according to their website, can be purchased at most bus stations. However, as an experienced and sometimes pessimistic world bicycle travel, I suspect that if we just turn up at Gijon bus station and expect them to have bags they probably won’t, and then our bikes might be refused on the bus. In order to counter this, we decide to go to the bus station in Leon and hey presto, they do indeed have some bags which we buy. They are made of cloth and come neatly pre-folded so they fit easily into our rear panniers without adding too much extra weight.
Between Leon and Pola de Gordon, we ride an exquisite tree-lined road devoid of traffic with only the sound of the yellowing leaves rustling in the breeze. Our hotel in Pola de Gordon is run by a young couple who speak perfect English. The woman Isabella tells us she is originally from Mexico. She met her husband Jose when they were both studying at the university of Barcelona. It had always been Jose’s dream to come back here to Pola, his hometown and open a hotel and restaurant. So being the dutiful wife, Isabella returned with him to help make it happen. As we settle down for a girl’s chat, I can tell right away she is finding it difficult living in a town where the people have known each other their whole lives and see her as the outsider. (Having once lived as an outsider in a small town with ‘small town mentality’ myself, I cannot recommend it.) Isabella is also a vegetarian which is rare for rural Spain. Isabella’s pride and joy is her dog Max, a huge Spanish Mastiff she rescued as a pup. Spanish famers are apparently not sentimental about their working dogs and any which cannot earn their keep by guarding sheep and are abandoned or disposed of. I meet Max later. He is an enormous, waggy-tailed big softy and I can see he probably wouldn’t have had it in him to be a fierce guard dog so he is very lucky that Isabella came to live in northern Spain.
Now that we are up into the Cantabrian Mountains we encounter a number of road tunnels. At the first one we follow a detour, a track which takes us around the tunnel. But since the roads seems pretty quiet, we decide to save our legs and just ride through the rest of them (with our bike lights on) and luckily, we never run into any cars whilst doing so. They are all fairly short and nothing like the ones in Norway which are several miles long and are strictly prohibited to cyclists. We have fifteen miles to ride to the top of the pass at Puerto de Pajares (harbour of haystacks) which stands at an altitude of 1378 metres (4521ft) and makes it the highest mountain pass I have ever ridden over. (For comparison, Ben Nevis is 4413ft.) It really isn’t too steep if you approach it from the southern side and I find only one or two places where I struggle to pedal. When we were first planning our trip, I had initially wondered if we should ride Spain from the north coast to the south in order that we keep up with the summer rather than leaving it behind. Thankfully Steve did thorough research and insisted we ride from south to north and very soon, I will understand why.
One of the many road tunnels along the N-360 in the Cantabrian mountains
When you start to see signs for ski lifts, you know you are up in some serious mountains and not long after, we reach the sign telling us we have made it to the top and welcoming us into the region of Asturias, our final region. We take photos of one another in the victory pose and I blubber a bit – I am so proud of myself for having ridden all the way up – and then we dress in as many clothes as we have in order to stay warm on the ride down the other side. Just as we are about to set off, a couple of cars pull over in the layby next to us and two men get out. They begin congratulating one another for having driven all the way up here and I can’t help but notice that they deliberately don’t look at us once or catch our eyes.
Feeling on top of the world in the Cantabrian mountains
I thought the ride down would be exhilarating but the road is wet and slippery from recent rain so I actually find it pretty terrifying. It is, as Steve’s research suggested, much, much steeper on this side and for the next fifteen miles we have a series of hairpin bends to negotiate. I do wish I was the kind of person who can just let go of the brakes and fly down a hill. But ever since I came off my bicycle at speed after hitting a patch of ice and leaving much of my skin on the road, I’ve been too wary. It may have happened nearly thirty years ago but it seems that our bodies never forget pain. On the bright side, going slower means I get the chance to observe. I see the cattle and horses grazing on the mountain slopes. Most wear bells around their necks and are guarded by Mastiff dogs who sit close by and seem to think they are a part of the herd. Goodness knows what the dogs eat up here but none of them look thin. I also notice there is nowhere to stay up here, all the villages we pass through are now abandoned, with the houses falling into ruin.
The only downside that afternoon’s is the sheer number of lorries coming up and over the pass. I can’t image why these drivers would want to attempt such a difficult route in such large wagons but later, I hear that they come this way to avoid motorway tolls. Selfishly, I find them a nuisance as they spoil the peace. Halfway down we see a hardened cyclist going the other way, concentration and pain written over his face. Bravo senor. We have to stop now and again so we can rest our hands which ache from holding on to the brakes for so long and when we do, I place my hand near my wheel rims and laugh at how much heat is coming off them. A few miles from Pola de Lena, the road finally starts to even out a little (although we are still descending) and I finally pluck up the courage to fully let go of my brakes. We are astounded when we see a couple of cycle tourists going the other way. Like us, they are loaded down with panniers and I think they must be super fit bad asses if they can make it up and over the pass in the remaining 4 hours of daylight. More likely though, they are planning to wild camp up there somewhere.
In Pola de Lena, we are the only ones staying at our hotel and several times in the night I hear the elevator going up and down of its own accord and wonder if the place is haunted. We stay an extra day here so my body has time to recover from our mountain climb before getting on with our final leg to the coast. I don’t think Steve really wants to; with 580 miles done and only have 41 miles left I know he is itching to just get it over and done with. In the morning, when he announces he is coming down with a cold I feel guilty. Now he has to ride the final leg whilst feeling shitty.
Beautiful Oviedo with Steve not feeling so well
After leaving Pola de Lena, the road continues to descend for four more miles -I could get used to this. We ride on the AS-375 which is a minor road without much traffic however, this valley is narrow so we are crammed in next to the motorway and railway line so it’s a pretty noisy day. The steep sides of the valley also mean we must wait until almost eleven o’clock before the sun finally reaches us. It is a chilly few hours but once the sun does its job, the temperature soon rises from 7°C to a very pleasant 21°C. In Ujo we follow another offroad cycle track alongside the river but we share it with dog walkers and joggers so progress is slow. Then we have one final steep climb before we are back on another via verde. This one is tarmacked and smooth and lined with huge deciduous trees whose leaves have turned to gold. I am consciously savouring the warmth knowing, once we get home we won’t feel this kind of heat again until next spring. Oviedo is yet another beautiful city and I’m seriously struggling to understand why most visitors to Spain limit themselves to the Costa de Sol; our journey across the Spanish interior has been one long line of exquisitely beautiful cities. Our via verde takes us through another long railway tunnel under the city and then, because Steve is feeling rough and we are in no rush (we have 5 days before our ferry), we decide to make the most of the weather and stop here for the night. Amongst other things, Oviedo is famous for its cider and as we stroll around town later, we watch waiters who hold aloft bottles of cider and attempt to pour them into glasses from a great height but inevitably, a lot ends up on the floor.
Almost made it
And so to our final day but it’s not a great one. Steve’s cold is now at its peak and I feed him paracetamol whilst he tries to put on a brave face. Thankfully we have only 20 miles left but we quickly realise there is no countryside between Oviedo and Gijon, only ugly suburbs. Even worse is that our trusty N-630 has now merged with the motorway so our only choice is to ride the AS-11, a busy duel carriageway with no hard shoulder. We are both miserable to say the least but our ride does have a bit of a magical ending. Seven miles outside of Gijon we finally get to leave the dual carriage way for a much quieter road. The slip road up to it is incredibly steep and as we climb slowly for nearly a mile, a man in a passing transit van makes a very rude gesture at me. For a second I am furious. But then the adrenaline from the anger magically transforms itself into a huge surge of energy and suddenly, I am riding like a Tour de France cyclist, pounding down hard on my pedals and leaving Steve far behind. And even though my heart is thumping and my legs are hurting, I will not stop because I know what awaits me at the top and I have to get there as fast as possible. Just as I feel my lungs are going to burst, I arrive at the summit and there it is. The sign for Gijon and suddenly, I am spent. I lean over my handlebars panting hard and wait for Steve to catch up. Then we embrace and take photos of one another before completing the final seven miles, downhill all the way to the pretty seafront promenade where this time, I do go for a swim.
On the promenade in Gijon having completed our 620 miles coast-to-coast Spanish tour