Saying When

A sudden and striking realisation takes root in my mind as I am riding along. I am no longer fully appreciating the beauty of the glittering glacial lakes that I pass. As the thousands of colours all bleed into one, I find myself riding along in a bit of a daze. Maybe my mind is too full to take in any more. I think it is time to head home and so I hatch a plan...

After the second lap of San Sebastián, I leave the golden beaches behind and head inland, southwards, to Pamplona. The major A-road sweeps its way above a forested valleys towards a seemingly impenetrable wall of limestone. A small notch in these high walls is the only way rivers, roads, railways or utilities can penetrate this natural barrier, crammed through with millimetres to spare.

Leaving behind Pamplona's parched flatlands, a hint of green tinges the landscape and there's a growing anticipation of very big mountains up ahead. The wonderful winding N240 has been replaced in parts by the modern mundane A-21. From this I can see the curvy lakeside section of the N240 between Yesa and Puente la Reina de Jaca tantalisingly close, but yet so frustratingly far. I eventually find the way to join the N240 which snakes through wide valleys and beautiful secluded villages.

A gateway to the western valleys of the Aragonese Pyrenees, Jaca is where I join a legendary biking road, along which I put my plan into action. The N260 runs through the foothills of the Pyrenees to Aínsa. Somehow I lose the route after Aínsa and decide to use my TomTom, hoping to find a simple way to Andorra. I mindlessly following the map-in-a-box over narrow, winding mountain passes, all the while wondering if the technology know where it is taking me!

Somewhere in the middle of nowhere I cross the border back into Catalonia. The Pyrenees in Catalonia encompass some awesomely beautiful mountains and valleys. It also takes me back towards the start point of my lap of the Iberian peninsula.

Eventually I rejoin the N260 en-route towards La Seu d'Urgell, with the Pyrenees climbing northwards towards Andorra, and the craggy pre-Pyrenees range of the Serra del Cadí rising steep and high along the southern flank. The lively town of La Seu d'Urgell is Spain's gateway to Andorra, 10km to the north and the end point of my story. From here I will race across France back home...

I'm still standing... Yeah, yeah, no!

Today I have mostly been trying to figure out how to surf.

I have failed. Trying to standing on water... Well, Jesus only managed it once ;-)

Still, it is a lovely sunset :)

Bosque de Oma

The delightful city of Bilbao is hemmed by hills and mountains into a tight valley which could explain why it is an absolute nightmare in which to drive. That said, I would have taken a thousand more U-turns to find my first destination...

Built in 1893, the Puente Colgante (The Hanging Bridge) is the World's oldest transporter bridge and was designed by Alberto Palacio, one of Gustave Eiffel's disciples. The bridge, situated at the mouth of the River Nervion, is designed to transport passengers and cargo whilst still allowing enormous ships to go through to the Port of Bilbao. To my delight, it still in use, so I load my motorbike onto the gondola and am whisked to the opposite bank. I then complete one final U-turn (as I am now on the wrong side of the river) and take the return trip - much to the bemusement of the guy selling the tickets. For me, this splendour of engineering rivals any piece of artwork in or outside the Guggenheim Museum, as it is a perfect blend of beauty and functionality.

Back on the right side of the river, I travel eastwards into the mountainous, forested Basque Country. There must be thousands of trees here, but today there are only a few of interest to me. Bosque de Oma (aka El Bosque Pitado) is an interactive, living, three-dimensional work of art created by Agustin Ibarrola. The forest is tucked away near Kortezubi (Bizkaia in Basque) and it is here that canvas has been swapped for the bark of Monterey pine trees. Attentive eyes, wavy lines, wildlife and silhouettes of little men are the most commonly repeated representations. The paintings of one tree and the next are related, and take on a different appearance depending on the perspective from which they are seen. All the images change and mutate as I wander through this enchantingly unique place.

I jump back onto my motorbike and head North to the coast. On my way to San Sebastián, I ride along the tightrope of Tarmac that is delicately poised between the Bay of Biscay and the rocky outcrops of the coastline through picturesque little towns like Lekeitio, Deba and Zarautz.

I have lucked out again on my motorbike tour of Spain and Portugal. Having left behind the curves of Bilbao's Guggenheim Museum and chaotic, drink-fuelled evening on Las Siete Calles, I arrive, almost by accident, at the start of a carnival that is unique to this corner of the country. I have a feeling San Sebastián will be a different experience during Semana Grande...

Outside the Guggenheim

Inside the Guggenheim

Garganta del Cares

The Garganta del Cares (Cares Gorge) is in the very heart of Picos de Europa National Park and divides the central massif from the western Macizo El Cornión. Also known as La Garganta Divina (The Divine Gorge), the popular trail which is perched high above the River Cares is reputedly one of the most breathtaking trekking trails that can be done in Europe.

After a short walk along the road, a climb starts which to brings me panting and puffing to Los Callaos. I look ahead along the wide, early stages of the gorge and can see the ancient communication route between the hamlets of Poncebos and Caín carved into the rocks of the mountains.

The rest of the trail is relatively flat, but I am not getting complacent as the path is narrow and there are hundreds of meters of free fall down to the crystal clear waters of the River Cares.

Just over half way, the gorge becomes narrower, creating a greater contrast with the jagged peaks towering above. The most beautiful part of the route is beginning. As the valley floor rises to meet the trail, I pass through a series of low, wet tunnels to emerge at the end of the gorge among the meadows of Caín.

I take a short break to devour a sandwich and an ice cold drink, before returning to Poncebos. Despite the wonderful, vertigo inducing journey being the same route as earlier today, it appears and feels different. The return leg feels more exposed and I see new sights that were hidden on the outward leg.

I throw my tired body onto my motorbike and make the short journey to Bilbao, where I will have two days on the to explore the exciting and cultured city.

The Farmer & The Writer

There are times, rare occasions, when I do something stupid. Now I can see the look of disbelief some of you are giving this statement. Yes, rare occasions, but today may just qualify as one of those rare times...

My day begins simple enough; walking along beach, eating my nutritional breakfast of a chocolate doughnut. Back on my motorbike, I wriggle my way eastwards somewhere between the coast and the foothills of the Cordillera Cantábrica. Ahead of me tower the three imposing, dark, jagged, limestone massifs of the Picos de Europa.

I reach the edge of the Picos and it is here that I make my decision. I head off the main road to find a route through the Picos rather than around them.

The first warning sign is the dramatic narrowing of the road. I ignore the fact that road surface changes to loose sand and gravel. The road narrows and steepens to just a bit wider than my motorbike. Lord knows how people get a car up here, but they do.

I land in the courtyard of a small farm, much to the surprise of the two men quietly going about their day. "Pon-they-boss?" I ask through my helmet whilst gesticulating in the direction of the road. "Do you speak English?" the younger chap replies.

It transpires that this road will get me to Poncebos, it is just that nobody ever goes the way. After a short while exchanging pleasantries and stories, I thank the farmer and the writer for their friendliness and leave them to continue with their day.

I would think twice about riding my mountain bike on some of these tracks and here am I on a 300kg beast. Unsurprisingly, I take a few wrong turns in the tangle of tracks. Much to the surprise of an elderly gentleman quietly reading his newspaper, I drop into his back garden, but he just casually waves me in the correct direction.

When I eventually get to Labra, a place large enough to warrant a name, I am dripping with sweat, starving and dangerously low on fuel. I continue to descend into the valley where I find a better road and a place to cure my pangs of hunger.

Refreshed, revitalised and refuelled, I make the short trip down well maintained roads to Poncebos. This tiny straggle of buildings at the northern end of the Cares gorge is set amid spectacular scenery and will be my home for the night.

...and this is how I turned a 90 minute journey into a five hour expedition! Stupid or adventurous? I will let you decide.

Escanciada

Climbing the steep hill out of Porto, once again I am astounded, and pleased, at how empty the roads are! I seem to spend all morning climbing until I reach the rock-strewn highlands of the Parque Natural do Alvão. It feels good to be back on the motorbike :)

Continuing northwards, I pass the spa town of Chaves and head towards the border. Crossing the River Feces, brings me into Spain. There is no fanfare, just a simple sign informing that I have lost an hour of my life. Even the land does not seem to care as the Portuguese patchwork of brown, yellow and green fields continues into Spain.

Shortly after, I turn right and follow the border through the peaceful highlands of the Parque Natural de Montesinho and join the long road to León.

The mountains of the Cordillera Cantábrica, striding east-west along the southern boundaries of Cantabria and Asturias is the final obstacle before my night on the coast. A fantastic road winds its way through these mountains sandwiched between the River Bernesga and a disused railway line. Rising past abandoned mining towns, the road reaches its high point. A stunning viewpoint offering fine panoramas of high peaks and deep river valleys. Every imaginable shade of green seems to have been used to create this view. I take in the view on the steep, narrow descent as I follow the queue of traffic stuck behind a tractor heading back to the main A-road.

I blast along A-road towards the Bay of Biscay and the sweet, sticky, cider covered seaside town of Gijón; where I spend the evening learning how to pour cider like a local... Poured from a bottle held high above my head into a tiny glass held low. You pour about a mouthful into the glass and knock it back before in one before the fizz fizzles out. It does not seem to matter that most of the cider ends up on the floor! :)

The Times They Are a-Changin'

The early bird is said to catch the worms as is proven this morning. Entry to the Mezquita is free every morning between 8:30am and 9:30am. Organised groups are prohibited before 10am meaning that, without the incessant rambling of tour guides, my visit is quieter and more atmospheric. The Alhambra should take note!!

Córdoba's gigantic mosque is a wonderful architectural mish-mash of delights with delicate horseshoe arches making it unlike anywhere I have seen on my journey. Due to Córdoba's turbulent history, the gigantic Mezquita is uniquely part mosque and part cathedral. It has to be the only place in the World where you can worship Mass in a mosque. Sadly the Vatican did not consent to Muslims being allowed to worship in the Mezquita again.

With my head full of historical and religious stories, I jump on my motorbike to have some time to try to make sense of it all. I retrace my route to Sevilla and continue westwards to Portugal...

The road snakes its way through the gently folded uplands of the northern Huelva province. The largely rural landscape is the perfect backdrop for my mood. Gnarly oak trees, foraging (and soon to be legless) pigs, iconic Spanish bulls dusting themselves in the golden brown earth. What a beautiful place :)

Now I am fully aware that this is a long way to come for, what is essentially, a ham sandwich but Aracena is where Colin told me to stop to try the region's celebrated jamón ibérico, otherwise known as Iberian or Jabugo ham.

As I roll into town, Rincón de Juan catches my eye. It is standing room only in this wedge-shaped, stone-walled corner bar. A guy at the bar tells me that the best way to eat the ham is in one's fingers with a glass of sherry. I demolish the lot. The ham is sweet, rich and nutty, with a seductive creamy fat. The flavour is spectacular. I find it utterly addictive.

Passing over the border is as easy as crossing the road - no customs, no guards, no checks at all. Just derelict border posts with boarded-up windows. Somehow, though, the scenery knows to change as it becomes much flatter. I am now crossing the Alentejo plain, which is dotted with walled fortress towns and imposing hill-top castles.

I arrive in Évora, a beautifully preserved medieval town and decide to stop riding for the day. A quick pitstop in my residence for the evening, a former holiday home of a 16th-century count, and I am on the tourist trail...

Inside the walls, I wander along Évora's narrow, winding lanes and find the Aqueduto da Água de Prata (Aqueduct of Silver Water) is protruding into the town. It has been bringing clean water into the town since 1530. An impressive feat of engineering!

As my stomach tells me it is feeding time, I look at my clock to see it is 9pm - it appears my stomach has quickly adjusted to the Spanish lifestyle :) I head to the town's focal point of Praça do Giraldo. It is only then, looking at the clock in the main square, that I notice the time difference. The clock says 8pm; my clock, still on Spanish time, reads 9pm. For reasons I still have not fathomed, Spain is on Central European Time, Portugal in step with GMT. Still, with a belly full of the tasty Arroz de Pato (duck risotto) and Super Bock, I no longer care :D

Hello Sunshine

The dawn chorus of cockerels crowing and dogs barking is shattered by the sound of hundreds of motorbikes streaming past the village of Prado del Rey. It is 5am and I have just witnessed the arrival of Club Motero Gaditano. José shouts something at me in Spanish. I follow his lead by jumping on my motorbike and following the stream of red lights of into the cold and dark Spanish morning...

As I follow the lights, I try to recall exactly how these events have fallen into place. I promise myself that I will learn more Spanish in the future.

The road weaves higher and higher into the mountains. With every hairpin bend the road gets more narrow. The steep sides of the mountain change colour, white follows red. It is like playing a strange video game as I nervously wobble my way around every tight bend. We eventually fill a tiny lay by on the Puerto de Las Palomas (1357 meters) with all the motorbikes and scramble our way up a nearby peak to watch the sunrise.

Huddling like penguins on the rocky peak as we try to keep warm in the surprising cold morning air. Mother Nature puts on a technicolor display that makes dragging my shattered body out of bed at this ungodly hour so worthwhile. Deep golden yellows give way to crimson which then fade to a deep magenta. The whole sky illuminates a rich orange as the sun eventually pops above the horizon to warm our frozen bodies.

With this burst of natural energy, we descend to our makeshift car park and chase our shadows down the mountain for breakfast.

I meet Colin and the last remaining wedding guests for my second breakfast. Over breakfast, Colin plots my two day route into Portugal. With my tick list ready and my motorbike all packed, I leave the polka-dotted hills of Prado del Rey behind and head North for the first time this trip...

I follow the old N-IV route towards Sevilla which takes me through the fascinating old town of Carmona. Perched on a low hill overlooking the "frying pan" of Spain that sizzles in the summer heat, Carmona is full of impressive old buildings which hold my gaze as I ride along the ancient cobbled streets.

I feel the temperature rise as I descend into the frying pan. The cooling summer breeze is kind to me though, as I zip my way across to Córdoba to catch up with some much needed sleep!

Aceituna Violada

...meaning "raped olive"!

The Fairytale Wedding

Wine Tasting

Sunflowers

My two wheels hit the sizzling tarmac of Granada and the air begins to flow through my leather jacket as I try to find the road to "the village". I escape the reaches of the city limits and weave my way between mountains, along emerald green lakes and across deserted shrub land.

I stop to refuel and eat in Ronda. The town is dramatically perched on the edge of El Tajo gorge. Tourists are drawn to the stunning Puente Nuevo like bears are to porridge. The impressive bridge towers over the dry river bed connecting the old town to the new.

To find Prado del Rey, I leave the major route and follow minor roads through endless fields of sunflowers. My wheels roll on to the cobbled main square of "the village" where I meet Colin. It is now time to get ready for a wedding... :)

Belle of the Ball

The sheer walls of the Alhambra rise from the woods and stand watching over the stifling heat of Granada. Inside is one of the most splendid sights I have ever seen, a network of resplendent palaces, lush oxygen-filled gardens and numerous photo opportunities :)

That said, the thousands of visitors who tramp through the heavily but respectfully restored buildings, make it difficult for me to pause inspect every intricately designed detail much less enjoy the tranquility buildings like this is supposed to invoke. Despite arriving at opening time, I feel rushed and harassed by the sheer volume of people. Tour group leaders, in a myriad of different languages, explaining details to people who just want to take photos. Hoards of bored teenagers wishing their lives away as their parents tell them the scores of legends and fantasies.

I leave just after midday, filled with a sense of relief as I see the masses scrumming at the entrance. Now I am grateful for having had a quiet(ish) period to put the big picture together. Next time, I will focus on the detail...

After a short siesta, I head into find an outfit for the wedding. In a lot of ways I have become more European in my approach to life, thankfully this has not extended to any area of my sartorial elegance. I eventually, and somewhat reluctantly, cobble an outfit together. I will either look like the belle of the ball or a complete bell-end :D

As the evening closes in and the stifling heat of Granada slowly dissipates, I disappear into the narrow streets of Realejo San Matias to find food and cerveza. Wish me luck!

Mulhacén

Bleary eyed, I smash my alarm until it ceases making a racket at such an early hour! Even a shower does nothing to rouse me from the state of semi-consciousness in which I find myself. I devour my dry prepackaged breakfast and begin to pack my bike. The air at this hour and this altitude (1500 metres) has a crisp bite to it. I hop on my motorbike and ride to the end of the loose and bumpy road.

Mulhacén rises to 3482 metres and is the highest peak in Europe outside of the Alps and the Caucasus Mountains. I approach from the South and am informed that the ascent is roughly nine hours of walking from Hoya del Portilla (2145 metres). Most people do the ascent over two day. I am not most people though :)

After returning to collect my sunglasses, I begin, for a second time, to hike up the huge southern slope that has the shape of a half pipe rising to the summit. My breathing is heavy and my heart is trying to jump out of its ribcage, as I do not have nine hours to complete the route.

Whilst the south flank of the mountain presents no technical challenge, the mid-morning sunshine is already enough to put sweat on my brow. I take few breaks as I continue to push up the mountain. I reach the summit at shortly before 1pm and peer down the steep North face. This is an impressive piece of rock and I wish I had climbed a route on this instead. Still, now there is something to come back to ;-)

On a clear day one can see as far as Morocco and half of Andalusia. Today is not a clear day though. I descend the steep scree slope of the west flank and retrace my route to Hoya del Portilla. Seven hours and thirty minutes after leaving, I arrive back at my motorbike. I am shattered. This is one ride that I am not looking forward to!

I slide my way down the track and ride zombified to Granada, where the hunt for accommodation begins. The overwhelming heat over Granada compared to the freshness of the mountains is almost unbearable. Next on the agenda is food...

Granada is the first place I have come to in Spain that offer free tapas with every drink. What a fantastic idea! As I am sampling the menu of a local eatery, I discover the most entertaining drunk in Spain. Tears of laughter roll down my face as this Basil Fawlty character chats up the most beautiful women around by revealing his secret: he is Che Guevara. He is so surprised when this revelation fails to have the desired effect, that Che begins to hurl abuse at them in German! ...Maybe you have to be here ;-)

I Am Legend

Bimbling around the centre of Murcia City is like being on the set of I Am Legend. There are signs of life, but the unnatural silence of the city, even for a Sunday morning, is unnerving. The Catedral de Santa María is a striking building and full of people... So this is where they are all hiding, but where is Will and his dog!?!

I cross the border into Andalucía, off in the distance are the snowcapped mountains of the Sierra Nevada. Within no time I have eaten up the hundred or more miles that stood between the peaks and my wheels. I leave the motorway and ride along the jumble of valleys, known as Las Alpujarras, which flank the southern aspect of this arid hillside. Deep ravines alternate with white villages as I head higher and higher along the narrow and exposed switchbacks into the Sierra Nevada. These small villages, clinging to the side of the deep Barranco de Poqueira valley, are pretty, quaint and dramatically sited. Capileira is the highest village and my destination for this evening.

Within five minutes of checking into the rural hotel Finca Los Llanos, I have a room for tonight and a map, a route, food and water for tomorrow's adventure. Time to sit by the pool with a Mojito and relax in the sun :)

Ghost Town

The café itself is small with only two tables inside, the rest fill the medieval cobbled streets. I am enjoying my Pan con Tomate y Jamón Ibérico and trying to read my book as two women fire words at each other with the speed of a machine gun firing bullets, when it suddenly dawns on me that I have not spoken a word of English in twenty-four-hours. Nobody seems to speak it much around here... 

By midday my motorbike is loaded and ready to ride. After several attempts thwarted by dead-ends or staircases, I finally leave the medieval town and wind my way southwards through the deserted shrub covered dusty land of the Valencian Community. My petrol warning light sparks into life and gives my mind something to focus on. I have not seen a petrol station in over an hour of riding and my mind chooses all the potentially fatal scenarios on which to focus.

As if to save me from my misery, a tiny two pump petrol station appears on the horizon. As I roll onto the forecourt, a little Spanish man springs to life . Much to his dismay, I insist on filling my own bike. Chaos then ensues when more folk arrive and the Pump Attendant in a panic creates a chaotic weave of petrol pumps to vehicles. Despite being the first to arrive, I have to wait my turn to leave as he has sewn me into the forecourt! The Pump Attendant throws me an apologetic glance, I smile at him as I prepare to get back on the road.

Passing from the Eastern Hemisphere into the West is celebrated with a simple sign. The next part of my journey is spent contemplating the alignment of countries to understand how the Greenwich Meridian Line can pass through London and the North East of Spain.

Despite the numerous cans of coke, my eyelids are fighting a losing battle with gravity. I pull out my map and guide book to decide tonight's destination. Murcia City is described as "a laid-back provincial capital that comes alive at during the weekend". Sounds promising, so I hop back on my motorbike and head southwards. I pull off the motorway on to a five lane road and then join a five lane roundabout, only the strange thing is, I am the only person on the road and it is 5pm! Despite being almost in the centre of the city, I have not seen a soul. When checking into my hotel, I am informed that everybody is at the beach as it is not a working day. They will back on Monday, the concierge informs me with a helpful smile.

The Lonely Road

As I ride through the empty car park, I can only imagine how unbearable this place would be at 11am on a sunny day in high season. Luckily for me, I am here at 9am and there are clouds in the sky. Even at this hour, there is one coach, one other motorbike and a street sweeping vehicle blasting out the best of 80s rock from its crackling stereo.

The Monestir de Montserrat, cradled at 725m on the side of the Serrated Mountain, was built to commemorate a vision of the Virgin Mary, seen by - predictably - shepherds. As a result, pilgrims come from far and wide to honour the Virgen de Montserrat, affectionately known as La Morenta (the little brown one!?!). This 12th-century sculpture of a regal looking Mary, holding a hippy-looking infant Jesus and a globe which the pilgrims come to touch.

I enjoy the stillness and the silence of this remarkable place before the tour buses begin to pull up, though possible not for the same reasons or with the same intensity of feeling as some other visitors.

I descend from the impressive skyline of Montserrat to the scorched valley bottom. It is 35 degrees centigrade down here, "basically, it's hotter than a snake's ass in a wagon rut".

Now this is beginning to look like the Spain in my head. That said, the endless monochrome images of brown, dusty ridges are replaced by a greener landscape as I ascend into a rugged region offering some outstanding scenic drives with no other vehicles on the road.

The temperature also drops to something beginning to resemble bearable as I travel further into the Maestrazgo Region. I sweep around one of the many bends and Morella, the principal town in this region, comes into sight. This outstanding example of a medieval fortress town perched on a conical hill top, crowned by a castle, almost causes me to lose the road as it holds my gaze. Decision made, I will stop here tonight.

The confusing, compact jumble of narrow streets, alleys and steep steps that form the centre of Morella, do not make finding a bed easy. That said, it is not too long before I am on the tourist trail...

Morelia's castle comes in three layers and is cleverly built into the caves on the summit of the hill. It well merits the strenuous ascent to savour the breathtaking views. Just as I contemplate descending the many steps back to the town, a huge thunderstorm envelops the castle and keeps me prisoner in the Zeloquia Tower.

I celebrate my freedom in a small tapas bar before heading to Daluan for food. Now I do not often rave about food places, but if you ever do get chance to sample their friendly service and hugely creative menu; take it.

Fully satiated and less than sober, on the walk back to my hotel I have an idea... It might be nothing, but it might possibly be the best photograph I have ever taken. Full of alcohol fuelled enthusiasm, I trot back to my hotel room, grab my tripod and jog towards the town wall. Once I reach the town wall, I continue to sweat along the only road in and out of town. I regularly check over my shoulder to see if my idea has any merit. It does :) I begin to set up my tripod and then, suddenly and without warning, my dream is gone. The lights that illuminate the castle and the city wall go out at midnight. Bugger. My night is over... Or is it!? ;-)

A Green and Pleasant Land

When I was at school, castles were always on top of hills. Built on a low hill, the largest fortress in Europe is far too easily accessible, given that it is still in the centre of Figueres. I can even ride my motorbike around it! How, in the 18th-century, did the Castell de Sant Ferran repel any French invaders?

I leave Figueres and choose to avoid the mayhem of the toll roads. Instead I enjoy the ride through a lush green forested part of Spain. As I pass between Les Guilleries and Montseny National Park, I find myself rethinking my preconceived idea of what Spain looks like.

Nothing can dampen my spirits as I dance along this winding road. I need my shades as the sun is blinding and I can see for miles and miles, until... I ride straight into a cloudburst. In the space of five minutes, everything I am wearing is soaked. As I ride out of the other side, my feelings are beginning to reflect the damp and soggy nature of my clothing, until... The magnificent vista of Montserrat comes into view. I open up the throttle, stir up a little dust and begin to dry my clothes :)

I arrive in Monistrol de Montserrat and find a charming hostel. Just as I finish checking in, the heavens open once more. Decision made, I will visit the Monastery tomorrow...