Aniezo, final night

After my fuel stop in Espinilla I carry on south to Aguillar de Campoo, which is as far South as I’ll be going today. The roads here are open, and for the first time I enjoy 3 figure speeds on a completely straight stretch about 3 km long. This is what I imagine central Spain to be like, dusty and hot, with the vanishing point of the road as vague as the horizon in a shimmer of heat. 37 degrees, got to keep moving. The cuffs of the jacket undone, I fill up like the Michelin Man but it still feels like 37 degrees.

On a whim I try to get a closer photo of the castle in Aguillar, today’s cobalt sky and little fluffy clouds would make an ideal backdrop, but I don’t feel like walking up the hill on the edge of town and both attempts to ride closer to the magnificent ruin end first in a pine forest and then in a dead end by a newly built church.

You have to hand it to the Spanish, they’re very good at building new things that are in keeping with traditional styles and their surroundings. I’ve seen many bridges, churches, and even farm houses with barns that have been constructed so that in a few years they’ll look as though they’ve always been there, at obvious expense. On leaving Aguillar I see a monastery on the left side of the road, but I’ve been dawdling around in town too long and want to get going again so I don’t stop.

The Embalse de Aguillar de Campoo is yet another huge damn on the outskirts of town. This one has a sandy beach all around and is obviously popular with locals, who park their cars under any available shade before going off for a swim and a spot of sunbathing.

Having respected the Normas I head north out of Castilla y Leon on the CL627, passing through Cervara, and take a photo of one of the town’s two bridges. Nobody is around and the place appears deserted, must still be siesta time.

I pull right onto the CA281 just north of Puerto de Piedrasluengas, intending to get a good photo of a section of road I’ve dubbed Ebbo’s Curve after the man who first posted a picture with definitive GPS coordinates. The picture shows a mountainous section of road which passes through a rock arc before turning sharply right and doubling back on itself as it drops steeply into the gorge below. It’s a bikers dream and was first posted by a guy called Alex back in the murky mists of time. The image was published in a magazine and, to cut a long story short, its location has been sought by many riders ever since. Great as it would have been to be the first person to publish a set of GPS coordinates for these magical bends, Ebbo has beaten me to it in his excellent blog. His (and edipalazzo’s photo on Panoramio) are way better than mine, but I’m going to blame my late arrival today and the consequent low angle of the sun. Will try to get back here tomorrow as close to noon as I can in order to make the most of the light and get a decent photo of my own.

On the way back from Ebbo’s Curve my Garmin decides to direct me over an unpaved road in order to save a couple of yards over the tarmac alternative. Back in the UK I leave the ‘avoid unpaved roads’ feature disabled because there are precious few green lanes left to ride on, so when you do find one that you weren’t expecting it’s often a breath of fresh air rather than cause for re-planning, but out here the scope for literally getting lost in the woods is much larger, as I discovered when directed down a donkey path that ran out of the elbow of one particularly steep and angular bend. Another time, but not with road tyres and luggage.

Riding back south to Potes, I take the same gorge road which gave me a misty exit two days ago, only this time the surface is dry, I’ve an excellent week behind me, and (I swear t’is so your honor) the bike just wanted to go! One overtake after another, the kind that are only possible when you’ve got more acceleration than everybody else and the ability to see past the vehicle in front. I pass 8 French (dress the same, look the same) Harley riders, 6 cars, 2 camper vans and a coach in about 4 km of very tight, twisty road, ending in a visor-shattering ‘whoo-hoo’ whilst standing on the pegs and punching the air.

I decide to have another look at Potes on the way to Aniezo because my last impression was formed quickly and without really giving the place a chance. Parking the bike in front of a bank, I leave jacket and gloves padlocked to all my other gear and take a stroll around for half an hour with just my camera. All I can say is that sometimes first impressions are right – I won’t be coming back here.

I arrive in Aniezo and 19:45 and check in with John and Gwen at La Pisa. A large beer is served and dinner ordered, and once I’m over the shock of a shower that I don’t have to share and an actual bed (with blankets and everything!) I head back down to the bar to talk to Gwen while John’s busy in the kitchen. The starter arrives; chorizo on a bed of fresh tomato, and I know it’s fresh because John went to pick it from the garden as soon as I’d ordered. The chorizo was already to hand, and is followed by fish on sautéed potatoes with crushed minted peas. Everything is cooked to perfection and for once I don’t mind eating a little earlier than I’d grown accustomed to over the past week.

Plans for a little post-dinner blogging dissolve in the bottle of local vino tinto, and it’s when I try to send a text message back home that I suddenly realise that there’s no reception at all. Gwen tells me that it’s sometimes possible to pick up a signal if you go to the wooden bench behind the cider house, advice that leads me on a dark, drunken escapade during which I find a hedgehog the hard way (I’m wearing flip-flops), walk into a fence, and nearly fall off said bench onto somebody’s dog kennel because I get cramp in my arm from holding the phone aloft like some kind of offering.

Wine aside, I’m much happier to be at La Pisa than I was when I booked my room two days ago. 48 hours ago I was still revelling in the adventure of everything; ordering food was largely down to luck and each night’s accommodation decided on a whim and the mood of the GPS. The outcome of my encounters with various people depended on their willingness to help – my effort at communication often played no part. Being at La Pisa seemed to cut short that adventure. I could have everything I desired, things were predictable again and conversation was easy. Two days ago that effortlessness seemed an intrusion to my adventure, but today it’s been an ideal way to end a perfect week. Tomorrow I will let somebody else make tea before riding back to Ebbo’s Curve and on to Santander.

Espinilla

I stop for fuel near Espinilla and get a decent thankful – the attendant knows his craft. Making use of the petrol station’s shade I decide to try a can of Kas Limon, a lemony drink that’s not too fizzy and hits the spot perfectly.

It’s hot down here on the plain, but not as hot as it has been coming through the westerly corner of the Parque Natural Saja Besaya – 33 degrees at one point. More free range horses and cattle, none pay me the slightest bit of attention as I trickle through what must be the longest 50 kmh zone in Spain, through curve after shady curve and over another mountain pass with great views.

Llavandes to Aniezo

I wake up late morning and make tea on the stove, which at first fires up OK but then cuts out and resists all attempts to ignite the seemingly inert gas. The jet is taken out and cleaned but to no avail. Its then that I notice the On and Off lettering on opposite sides of the neck of the pump, something I had seen before but had ignored at the time because there’s no obvious control nearby to which the inscriptions could possibly relate. This morning I have the bottle lying down with the Off label at the top, so I try turning it over to expose On. It lights first time, and I realize that the On and Off switch is simply a matter of turning the bottle this way or that. When in the Off position no fuel is picked up by the brass tube inside, making it a handy way to release excess pressure after cooking before unscrewing the pump and packing it away. It’s a big deal to me because until now this has always resulted in a spray of petrol coming out and soaking the bottle, my hands, and whatever is nearby. Live and learn. Starting to pack everything back into my panniers I find a stray bottle of San Miguel in the tent’s rear vestibule, and not wishing to risk a beery explosion en route I leave it outside the tent of the couple seen begging last night, who are nowhere to be found.

Evicting several hundred ants as I take down the tent and tarp shelter, I pack everything away onto the bike and proceed to the campsite bar for breakfast. Bocadillo con queso sounds like a safe bet, and the lady offers me a choice of [something] con queso o queso solo, so I take the [something] on the basis that it will probably be quite nice if it comes with cheese in a baguette. Turns out to be Cajun chicken which is delicious if a little gristly in places. I’m happy, as is the dog.

I post a few pictures to the blog as locals arrive to watch the MotoGP. Would love to stay and join them over a beer as it’s already getting quite warm, but I’m keen to make up for yesterday’s lack of riding and plan one last big loop around Asturias, Cantabria, and a little corner of Castilla y Leon. The 160 mile loop should take me about 6 hours, allowing for photo and water breaks. Paying the bill for my second night of camping turns out to be quite difficult, the young lad at the bar was there when I paid for the first night and thinks we’re square, the lady in charge is nowhere to be found. Eventually I’m served by an older gentleman who gets up from an adjacent table. I thought he was one of the customers but must have been wrong as he unlocks reception and gives me a receipt in exchange for 12 Euros. I’m off again.

Mirador de Llavandes

Wake up at 09:00, get a good shower. As a rule, I like any campsite which provides facilities for washing small companion animals. The men’s room at this one provides just such a contraption, rather like a bidet with fold-up metal grille, which is presumably useful in retaining the cat or dog undergoing treatment. A tap, mounted safely several feet above the porcelain device so as to be out of the way of thrashing claws and teeth, provides water via a high-pressure nozzle. They think of everything. My thoughts turn to laundry.

After brewing tea, I enquire about the possibility of using the lavadora, and following a conversation mostly lost in translation am provided with a small parcel of washing powder and a silver token, which I am to insert after carefully reading and heeding the instructions on the lid of an industrial washing machine lurking in a dark corner of the men’s washroom. I have to move the lawnmower aside first, and having studied the multi-lingual instructions (do not let your children play in or near the washing machine) I dump a week’s worth of fragrant underwear and T-shirts into the monstrous aperture. Some of it protests, but I’m quick with lid and token, and 25 minutes later am rewarded with clean clothes of roughly the same size as they were when I dropped them in.

On my way back to the tent last night I noticed the owners of the only other tent on the site cooking a meal for themselves by light of candle and head-torch. They’d borrowed a plastic table and two chairs from reception, and were busy over a small stove. There was no car or other transport to be seen. Decided then that I like them and will make an effort to impress them with my recently acquired command of the Spanish language if the opportunity presents itself. This morning they are nowhere to be seen, the meal and accessories tidied away, the plastic table bare. My self-service laundry costs 3.50, bungee line between tree and bike is free.

My breakfast is the walnut bread from last night’s super-meercat (contingency purchase along with curry noodles in case I don’t find anything else) and the last of the Iberian pork pate that’s been rattling around in my panniers for a fair few days now, as well as more tea. Unsure of what to do with myself for the day, I take a few more idle photos of the campsite and update the notebook. I need to stay near my tent in case the washing takes off in the strengthening winds.

11:45. Still no fixed plans or bright ideas, washing remains damp despite sunshine and wind. For something to do, I put up the tarp shelter, fixing it higher than usual using a tree next to my tent. I move the tent under the shelter onto some dryer ground and, as I learn later, a nest of ants. A flash of inspiration strikes, and I undo the inner part of the tent, letting it fall down and cover my sleeping bag and inflatable bed. This exposes the frame of aluminium poles, which lend themselves brilliantly to the suspension of damp socks an underpants, thus keeping them out of the wind and guaranteeing me at least some chance of clothes tomorrow. Honestly, sometimes I think it’s just me and Ray Mears. I head for the bar to partake of Iced Tea (1.50) and the free WiFi connection.

Dissatisfied with the prospect of spending an entire day doing nothing but laundry, I fire up the bike at 16:00 and ride to San Vincente, just 5km away on the coast. On the way I develop a craving for pizza, and spoil the tranquility of an empty restaurant with yet more butchery of the Spanish language. In keeping with the nature of my trip I order chorizo pizza, which turns out to be excellent. Munching my catch with a bottle of San Miguel (I’ve discovered that it’s a safer bet to name the brand than risk repeated mispronunciation of cerveza) I watch a local resident trying to stuff an absurdly large black bag of rubbish into one of a row of tiny bins across the street.

How selfish, think I, to take up all the available room in an entire bin just for yourself. Minutes later he returns with an even bigger bag, which he fights into the same bin with the assistance of a passer-by. It dawns on me that the receptacles are only the opening; all the rubbish actually ends up in a huge container under the street, hidden by the large metal plate on which the bins are fixed. How clever! Pizza comes to 8.50, the beer 1.30. I leave behind 10 Euros and a happy waitress -she can go back to the badly dubbed soap opera playing on a TV in the corner.

Wandering back through town towards the bike, I stop at a super-meercat on a whim in case anything catches my fancy for dinner. After last night’s 25 Euro gastronomic roulette I feel I should have a cheaper meal tonight, but nothing on the shelves inspires. I do notice though that in all Spanish supermarkets you can buy things from the frozen section in whichever quantity you desire; whitebait, clams, prawns, assorted vegetables and even chips are simply scooped from freezer compartments with the provided shovel, weighed, stickered, and paid for as though you are buying loose fruit. I also witness an older English lady attempting to transact in dairy products, and simply have to stay for the show. “I want to buy some cheese” she repeats thrice to the nonplussed Spanish deli counter operative, each time in a louder, shriller pitch. The server’s discomfort is obvious to his colleagues on the shop floor, who pretend to not hear his pleas for anyone that can translate the lady’s request of “something local to the region” and carry on unpacking boxes of sardines and olives. I’m sure I hear one sniggering.

Sometimes you meet people who make you question your faith in the future of the human race as a whole, and the white haired, retired brummie on the wrong side of the glass from three dozen different cheeses provided today’s exhibit A. Having been in Spain for four or five days in my entire life, even I would have come away clutching a smelly parcel had I uttered something like “queso tipicale Asturias por favor”. Were I an alien being, freshly materialized between the shelves of shrink-wrapped halibut and trays of pigs ears, I would have received all the cheese I could carry in my six arms if only I had pointed a spiny green finger at and one pile and made an enthusiastic clicking noise with my schnibnah. Unable to watch the full act for fear of intervention I went for a walk to the castle instead.

The castle was on a hill, I was wearing riding gear and carrying my helmet and camera in 25 degrees that felt like 30, so by the time I got there I wasn’t in the mood for paying to be let in and possibly witnessing more English Abroad. Instead I descended back to street level, and took a walk along a whole road lined with restaurants. The cheaper-looking ones were on the north side, spilling plastic tables and flapping tablecloths onto the pavement. I walked along the south side, for no reason other than the shade which was provided by the overhang of buildings above. This side too had tables and chairs on the pavement, but they were of the altogether sturdier variety, their occupants older and plainly not the kind of people who eat pizza, burgers, or anything on a stick. Most of the establishments had a fishy theme about their wares, which were always displayed either in a glass cabinet lined with ice or behind a refrigerated window. Although I like fish I did not recognize any of the whole, lifeless forms before me, some of which were quite large. I thought it odd that beside a tray of very surprised looking eel-like creatures stood a pyramid of asparagus parcels on their own little silver plate. Each parcel contained perhaps 5 sticks, 3 inches long and tied with green string. Some of them had a light green sack of goo coming out of one end. I drew closer, fascinated, and right before my eye one of the sticks sin sac moved slightly and ejected its load onto the bundle below. I was fumbling with my camera when the waiter came over to enquire if I wanted a table, and seeing my game just shot me a look of Don’t even think about it amigo, so I left without a picture. Thinking back on the whole affair I wish I had rallied a bit tried to get him to take a picture of me with the snotty asparagus, or at least learnt the creatures name, but there’s hindsight for you.

I aim for the campsite but take a random detour down a side-road and end up at a small seaside village. There’s a graveyard at one end, and I take a few snapshots of the walled enclosure with its tightly-packed murals and headstones before doing a loop around a rocky outcrop which the villagers had turned into a little retreat for themselves through the addition of tables, chairs, troughs of plants and – bizarrely – a blue and white striped lollipop pole bearing the name of a Bavarian lager. How nice it must be for the old folks to sit with their life-long friends, sipping beer or wine of an evening with the village on one side bathed in the last rays of the setting sun as it sets behind the surf on the other.

Back at the campsite, I try to write for a while on the terrace outside reception but am put off by the perpetual wailing of a baby, brought about by the barking of the receptionists dog, which clearly objects to the crying of the child. I think if feeding one to the other and killing two birds with one stone, as a car arrives carrying four lads and a very bat looking dog. Personally I think it’s unfair to breed such a small animal with such large ears, but it’s owner is quite taken by it and pulls it past the No Dogs sign into the bar. His companions stop him and point out the sign, and I see that he’s a futbol fan by his Real Madrid shirt and a hairstyle that you can only get away with if you have a Real Madrid shirt. Back home he’d be pulling a Staffie or a Pitbull, here he’s got something that looks like a cross between a Pug and Dumbo. They retire to a far corner of the terrace to drink beer and smoke pot without checking the wind direction. Everybody else on the terrace notices but plays along, letting them enjoy their joints and the illusion of subtlety alike. I retire to my tent for a second night in the company of frogs, but there’s a fiesta of some kind going on in the adjacent village and the amphibians are soon displaced by what can only be described as an Israeli tenor trying to break the world record for the most repetitive and drawn out wailing in one breath.

Bonar to Potes

Replete with food and fuel I leave on LE331 and head north-east to Embalse del Porma, a huge lake with a very impressive dam at one end. The well surfaced, empty road skirts the outside of the lake, passing through tunnels and over small viaducts where the sides become too steep to support a road unaided.

A bit further on, signs for road works warn of another gravelly stretch to come, but instead I am treated to virgin tarmac so black that I wonder if it’s there at all. Even the ever present free-range cows are too embarrassed to tarnish the surface as they so regularly do, and instead fertilise the many lay-bys provided to let bikers take photos and presumably relieve themselves, if the many crumpled tissues are anything to go by.

The road works never materialize, and instead I pop out at the top of another gigantic lake, the Embalse de Riano. Riano itself is a pretty little town that’s mushroomed into existence on one end of a bridge across the lake. I want to stop but the immaculately new church steeple and oh-so-new houses put me off almost as much as the many expensive cars in the car park, so I give it a miss.

Riding along the side of the lake I see many animal and vehicle tracks across what must have been a couple of square miles of dry, dusty earth that had once been underwater. In the distance is a camper van – perhaps I too could get down there? Already planning how I’m going to set up the camera to record a movie of me driving into frame from the horizon followed by a cloud of dust, I turn off the road at a gap in the barrier and down a steep dirt track just wide enough for a car. Only when I’m nearly upon it do I notice the barbed wire fence that the farmer must have put up in order to keep whatever was making the tracks in the sand from making smears on the road. Unable to lock the back wheel and slide myself into an easy turn (thanks ABS!) I instead execute a maneuver involving the side of the track, much shunting, and the eventual smell of clutch. I don’t know how that camper van got in there, but I wasn’t about to start pulling down any fences just for a couple of photos, so I let the bike cool down before carrying on.

The N621 leads north-east to Potes, taking me across the most spectacular twisty pass to date – Puerto de San Glorio. I must be nearing some kind of tourism center now as I see many English cars coming the other way. I count six Porsches (including a GT3 in full race trim) and two Aston Martins, all being driven enthusiastically and bringing back memories of fish-tailing lorries as they bear down on me through oncoming bends.

Although I want to stop near Potes for two nights, I press on to Amiezo where I’m hoping to end the week with a night at La Pisa, a rather special hotel run by John and Gwen which had been recommended to me be several people before I left the UK. I suppose it’s really a B&B, but to call it such puts me in mind of small, cold rooms and the kind of showers that you otherwise only get in caravans, so ‘hotel’ it is.

I am not impressed with Potes as I drive through. Multi-storey hotels are advertised with neon signs which a blind person would find excessive, and identical shops sell identical tourist tat to identical tourists. Many of them are eating at roadside restaurants which sport a Union Jack above a picture of something battered and fried in the window, and I actually see one slightly tubby reveler taking a picture of his wife, who was posing beside a plastic donkey outside an ‘antique’ shop. Just think Malaga with mountains, you won’t be far off.

Did I really want to spend two days here? Was it too late in the day to hoof it back down to Mirantes, or anywhere south for that matter? These were my thoughts as I rode the final dozen kilometers to Amiezo, a pretty rural village at the top of a gorge entirely devoid of neon signs and people in football shirts.

Gwen and John couldn’t have been more welcoming. Complimenting me on my Spanish once they’d gamely allowed me to stammer a few verses, the conversation drifts to life in the Picos and where to find the best roads. An older couple – who were on the same boat from Plymouth as I – joins us at the bar, having just returned from a walk which has given them either altitude sickness or radiation poisoning. They’re not sure, but she admits that next time she’ll think twice about leaving England in September without sun tan lotion. He comments on my bike, and congratulates me for not being one of the born-again Harley crowd. (“Look the same, dress the same, ride the same. Idiots – they’re bloody dangerous” and so on) They don’t recommend the cable car ride on Fuente De, which costs 14 Euros and will probably end in a cloud as it had for them a couple of days ago. I’m relieved to hear it, for although I had suspected it would be a bit touristy I was going to go along for a look.

I’m booked in for the 6^th however, which at 55 Euros will be the most expensive accommodation to date. To be fair though that includes dinner and breakfast, and John’s skills in the kitchen are reputed to be considerable. In any case, the menu changes daily and today’s edition features rabbit, which I like very much. Before moving to the Picos, John and Gwen used to come out here on camping holidays, so I take the opportunity to ask them for the best site. I was hoping to stay at Las Islas, just outside Potes on the road to Fuente De, but John recommends that I pass that one and ride for another kilometer or so, stopping at San Pelayo instead. It’ll be quiet, is further from the road, and they have not only a washing machine but also a drier. I finish my club sandwich and beer, eager to get set up soon, and head back through Potes on to Fuente De.

Passing the Las Islas campsite I see that John and Gwen were right, it really was close to the road and also quite full, so I gladly continue to San Pelayo. Once there I can’t believe my eyes – every square inch is packed with caravans, tents, mobile homes, and screeching, yapping children in brightly coloured beach towels. It’s so full that one person has even had to set up their tent underneath the large wooden sign listing all the site’s charms, right outside reception. None of the people looked like they were what I would call proper campers anyway. For me, camping is a chance to get away from the comforts of home and enjoy much simpler pleasures, like cooking basic food on a stove or an open fire, sitting around with other campers by torch or candlelight, or surrounding yourself with nature and marveling at the way you’re managing to get by without all the tools and trappings which you take for granted in your normal life. The people at San Pelayo were the other kind. Everything from the kitchen sink to the Sega Wee Station™ has been crammed into a huge MPV, to which they’ve invariably added a trailer and roofrack just so that each of their six noisy offspring can bring along bicycles, tennis rackets, canoes, their favourite pet, a ping-pong table and the DVD collection, as well as a dozen assorted musical instruments with which to while away the small hours. Parents stroll about the place in white slacks; he with a cream coloured Pringle jumper draped perpetually about his shoulders yet never actually worn, she with a different Louis Vuitton handbag for each hour of the day. I’m still reeling with the full horror of it all when a red-coat comes sauntering toward me from reception to enquire if I’d like to come in and set up my tent, or perhaps rent one of their static caravans? He’s well built and tanned, his hair slicked back to curls at the back of his head like a Brazilian footballer. He too wears white slacks and a pristine white polo shirt carrying the campsite’s logo on his breast. I decline his offer, saying I’m lost, which is closer to the truth than he’ll ever realize. This is what you get for taking campsite advice from somebody who owns a Volvo with a National Trust sticker in the windscreen.

There’s still daylight to be had and I’ve over half a tank of fuel, so I simply head north, straight out of the Picos. I’ll never find happiness at a campsite where an endless supply of tourists are guaranteed irrespective of service. Much better to search out a site that’s out of the way in some sleepy little village, miles away from any tourist attraction, where the owners actually have to work hard to earn repeat business through word of mouth and club recommendation.

The road I’m on is one of those recommended to me by the couple at La Pisa, and they were indeed right in describing it as being in a gorge where the low overhang of rock causes lorries to take whichever lane is furthest from the wall. This is sometimes the right-hand lane, sometimes the left, depending on which side of the river the road is currently running. Overtaking becomes a nightmare, cars moving in clumps lead invariably by a tourist or somebody who has hired a car with a manual gearbox thinking it’s an automatic. Lorries too become difficult to overtake, for they lurch erratically into the left lane whenever the driver feels that the rock ceiling over the right hand lane may be too low for his vehicle.

The gorge is so deep in places that it has developed its own weather, and the weather currently being served is drizzle with light fog. Add to that a heady mix of hairpin bends, single lane bridges and constant overtaking / no overtaking zones, and you’ve got exactly the kind of road that becomes a right pain in the backside when you’re trying to find a campsite that isn’t hell with a pool. The GPS comes up trumps, once I’m out of the gorge and have regained a signal. A site called Mirador de la Llavandes is just 5km away. Forgetting that this is again as the crow flies, it takes me half an hour to ride the actual 25km of twisty single lane inter-village roads, which are now rather slippery. I recognize one row of brightly coloured houses, and then the road itself as one I’ve taken at the start of this trip following my first night under canvas. I check the GPS again, and there are indeed half a dozen sites within an hour of here, even if you allow for optimistic crows.

I arrive somewhere around 20:00 or 21:00, and following the usual lo-siento-much- no-hable-Espanol-una-tiende-de-camping-por-favor-muchas-gracias to the lady at the bar she reopens the reception building opposite and takes my details. There are a couple of people at the bar and I ask if the site is busy, anticipating the worst, but she replies that there is only one camper van and two tents. She catches my murmur of relief and replies that no, it is not good, and I apologise for having put my foot in it. It’s her livelihood and I’m glad there are no customers, how stupid!

Having pitched my tent I adjourn to the bar / restaurant without the usual post-ride shower to see what’s on the menu, and am presented with the opportunity of making her some money. The food costs more than I expect, but is served fairly quickly and certainly tastes good. I start with chorizo sausage, which I was expecting to be a little like French saucisson. Instead I win a bowl of soupy-looking liquid – cider - in which floats a sausage in about half a dozen bite-sized pieces. Not the best cuts of meat (are sausages ever?) but it’s well cooked and beautifully spiced. For course number 1 I opt for guisantes salteados con jamon, which is oily fried peas with ham. I didn’t know what to expect for this, and wasn’t disappointed. Tasty, and unique. Course number 2 is nearly always meat of some kind, but the carne side of the menu started at 15 Euros for a basic steak, and I didn’t think that it would be all that great given the level of demand tonight, so I opted instead for the fish. I’d never heard of one called Dorada a la Plancha before, so rather than look it up in my Spanish phrase book I allowed myself to be surprised. It turned out to be a whole fish with quite a large head, cut open lengthways and slowly fried with garlic and onions. Delicious. Dinner comes to 25 Euros including 2 large San Miguel.

Full of fish, cider, chorizo, ham, peas and beer I return to my tent and brew tea. While getting undressed and into my sleeping bag I am treated to the opening lines of what later turns into a full concert, courtesy of the Cantabrian Beeping Frog. Now your CBF is a truly marvellous creature, with a far better ear for music than any other amphibian, which frankly couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Each member of the orchestra plays but a single note. The duration is always the same from frog to frog, but the pitch of the note unique to each specimen. I imagine it’s down to the animal’s size. Regardless, each musician knows the song being played, and his or her place in the rendition. Different beeps follow one another, coming from all over the campsite and always in the same order. This goes on for verse after verse, until once cheeky member of the group decides to emit a series of notes in quick succession, cutting short the next participant and plunging the whole ensemble into stunned silence. Song sheets are checked and adjusted during the impromptu interval, and the orchestra begins again from page one. Beats the hell out of counting sheep.

Mirantes to Bonar

I rise at 09:30 and take down the tent, much to the delight of a pair of Robins, who dart about the place and peck at insects uncovered by the removal of my ground sheet. Saying goodbye to Helena and Papa, I give her the bar of chocolate which hasn’t melted since I received it as a free gift from the supermarket some days ago. Next week they will pack up the campsite for the season and head back to Leon, where Helena returns to university.

I take the road back up the lake, then the LE473 to La Pola. A picture opportunity passes unrecorded as I slow down in Geras to let two nuns cross the road, their bright blue habits in perfect contrast to the sandy, sleepy streets. An equally unique road hazard also goes unrecorded some seconds later as I slalom around two sleeping and rather improbable St. Bernards. Those coats, in this heat? I’d be lying flat with my tongue hanging out too, somebody really should take heart and give them a shave.

The road climbs to Collada de Arralla, and I spot a small herd of horses on the carriageway ahead. The three adults see me coming and trot off in the other direction, one limping slightly, while two foals are caught on the other side of one of the galvanized crash barriers which the Spanish have littered about the countryside in recent years. I can see there’s a gap ahead and don’t want to cause the animals undue stress, so I take it easy for a few minutes until the gap in the barrier allows them the chance to scarper into the hills. One foal remains and looks at me as I approach. I stop and fumble with the camera, but he decides he’s had enough and runs off to join the rest of the group.

Taking the N630 north I head for Villamanin, passing two derelict petrol stations just as I’m getting low on fuel. The road is wide and there’s many lorries, again carrying aggregate. Villamanin turns to Camerones, which nestles in a magnificent gorge between more marble-cake hills.

I stop in Bonar for fuel and get the best tank full so far because I insist on doing it myself. It appears that the average Spaniard can’t be trusted with petrol pumps, possibly due to their incessant smoking or the way that some of them drive, and hence every petrol station is a fully serviced affair. Unfortunately the service seems to consist of jamming the nozzle into ones tank and locking it on the catch before wandering off to perform some vital function, and letting the filling cease automatically whenever the nozzle cuts out. This may work for cars, but my bike has been regularly left with a quarter tank of air where there should have been enough fuel for 60 miles. Today I have the nozzle, and squeeze in 20 liters of the finest sin plomo.

Also squeezed in are a large coffee and a bocadillo de queso, which would be a cheese baguette back home had it contained any butter. Not that it was lacking in the dairy department – the cheese was a cross between crumbly gruyere and emmental, and utterly delicious. Four Euros.

Mirantes de Luna

Having decided to spend another day at Mirantes, I left the campsite at 11:00 to find fuel at Magdalena and enjoy a day of riding without luggage. But first some breakfast, and I find a small bar on the edge of town. The scene is typical of a traveller’s dread as I enter the dimly lit bar from a street of bright sunshine; the large bartender with pot-marked features stops polishing glasses and looks me up and down, as do the dozen or so local workers at the bar. Lo siento, no hable Esponol, and the spell is broken. The bartender’s daughter appears, and he nudges her to try and get her to practice the English she must no doubt have learnt in school. I order whatever he wants to bring me for desayonu, and get coffee and a large pretzel-shaped piece of bread with knife and fork. The bread is semi-sweet and very filling, the coffee excellent. Sitting down at a table near the window in order to keep an eye on the bike, I overhear the daughter testing her father and some of the locals on English words. She’s pretty good, and soon starts playing English pop songs on her mobile to see if she can provoke a reaction. Breakfast is 1.30 Euros, the boost to my confidence priceless.

I leave west on the LE460, and after riding past several fun looking dirt tracks leading off the road I decide to try one. It’s not too hard, mostly gravel and dirt that has at some point in the past been used by 4x4 vehicles. I tick along in second gear, weary of my laptop and a bottle of water bouncing around merrily in the top-box. The track climbs near the top of a small mountain, with a steep, goat-sized footpath completing the ascent to a summit of lavender and bee hives.

The GS copes easily, and I’m treated to a pretty view of a nearby town before riding back down to the easier track. This time I remember to turn off the ABS. I’m not sure where I am, only that the LE460 is still visible on the GPS albeit a couple of km away. Whenever there’s a crossing I take the path that looks like it’s been used most recently, and before long emerge in an abandoned quarry at the foot of a valley. Just then the tracks narrows by virtue of a section that’s been washed away, and I’m forced to decide between riding the narrow looking remainder or turning around.


I leave the heroics for another day and head back for the road, suddenly passing lots of cota privado signs pointing whence I have come. I notice that many of the surrounding hills in this region have a wide, straight path going directly to the summit – clearly somebody with a bulldozer and time on his hands likes a challenge. Perhaps they’re building more wind farms here soon? Wild camping would be easy.

I take the road south-east to Benbibre and stop in the town square to enjoy half an hour on a shady bench without jacket and boots. Seeing me reading Michelin map #572 (my only one, which I have just exited at the bottom) a family approach and write down vague directions back to Santander in the back of my notebook. Leon, Burgos, Santander. Autopista. I want to explain that I have all week and am in no hurry, but they’re Being Helpful. I choose to ignore the directions and head north to on CL631 instead, arriving at Villablino and recognizing it as the town I’d crossed some days previous on the way to Somiedo. On the way out I am skillfully spat on by a third floor balcony dweller, and, not having the luxury of waving with both hands I spare him a single finger instead. Good shot though!

The road is OK but busy, dust (Slate? Coal?) from the many lorries that service adjacent quarries turns the carriageway black and in all probability slippery. Travelling east again, I take the CL626 as before but do not turn off to Somiedo, instead carrying on to Cabrillanes. Signs on bridges advertise the river Luna, and I am a little disappointed to learn that the region is named after a body of water rather than the surface of the moon which it loosely resembles.

The landscape is a geologist’s dream; low tundra and immense fields of horses and cattle rub shoulders with jagged peaks topped with an aquamarine sky. I pass an old church, surely derelict if the lack of roof is anything to go by, though one bell remains, as does the cord. I stop for more photos at Barrios de Luna, then head back to campsite where Papa is untangling rabbits.

I like Papa, he has a bright manner and is always asking how I am (I think) but also prone to long periods of just staring into the middle distance, no clue to betray the nature of his thoughts. Sometimes he stands at a window, looking out over the hills, but mostly he watches the small colour TV fixed high in a corner of the bar. A looping newsreel of about 40 minutes documents street prostitution in Madrid, the national problem with junk food and obesity, the launching of La Vida Loca – a film about gang warfare in South America, more violence in Palestine. I know he’s not really watching so much as just letting it all wash over him because the program is on its second identical loop, his expression the same as before. I want to reach out to Papa, to share his thoughts. I want to ask where Mama is – until now it’s just been him and the three sisters plus boyfriend / brother, but am prevented through lack of language. Maybe that’s for the best.

Dinner is served at 22:30, first the same soup as yesterday, then a plate of lamb and chips. I answer Helena’s enquiry for beverage of choice with vino tinto, and she brings me an entire bottle to add to the three large beers I’ve already consumed during my philanthropic studies. I only manage half the wine. The bill comes to 12 Euros, and on asking how much the wine will be am told it’s already included. The family eat together as before, with everybody rushing about and setting the table once Papa dismisses wailing Israeli crowds and thong-clad hookers. After the meal, the family plays cards and Helena sweeps the floor. Satisfied with the improved family scene I stagger to bed.

Somiedo to Mirantes de Luna

The view from the tent in the morning of September 2^nd was everything I imagined it to be – the sleepy town waking up as the sun rose behind my tent, illuminating the mountains on the other side gradually until the ever moving border between shade and warm sunlight bathes the town in a warm glow. Although the builders working on the roof of what would probably be another hotel next to the campsite were also up early, their noise wasn’t intrusive, merely a respectful tapping of slate and manual sawing of wood. Despite the morning chill, several of them were down to their shorts, the expected accessories of yellow vests and safety helmets probably still in their original wrappers in some locker. It occurred to me that had I pitched the tent a few feet further back, I would probably have remained hidden from most of the town. In any case, the morning was mine. I brewed tea and left it to cool in my annoyingly well insulated travel mug while I took down first the tarp shelter and then my tent. By the time I was finished it was already 12:00 (getting into the Spanish way of life nicely) and I went to the hotel in order to settle my bill for the campsite. Since the lack of common language between myself and the receptionist proved no problem at all, I decided to push my luck and order some breakfast (desayuno) which transpired to be an espresso and fresh bread. I wanted black coffee, and the only thing other than café con leche seemed to be espresso rather than the expected cup without milk. I love the taste of espresso despite being a decaffeinated soul, and following a visit to the campsite toilet block where I’d showered earlier I hit the road.


And what a road it turned out to be! The high pass over Puerto de Somiedo was signposted as being open by virtue of the kind of flip-flop open/closed sign often seen at alpine roads, which I took to be a sign that some serious climbing was about to begin. I wasn’t wrong; from memory the top of the pass was about 1300 meters, the only other living things in the small car park serving an information sign at the summit being the farmer’s cows, complete with brass bells and nose-licking disinterested stares. Small purple blooms sprouted without stalks between the cow dung, lending the early September afternoon a distinctly springtime feel.

The descent on the other side of the peak gave me a first taste of Spanish roadworks. The tarmac had literally been removed for the width of the entire carriageway for a stretch of perhaps a mile, leaving road users to negotiate 1:8 downhill hairpins covered in small round gravel. No big drama for the GS, though in retrospect I should have switched off the ABS.

Avoiding the motorway (AP66 heading south) I ended up following a dogleg route far longer than it needed have been, but was rewarded with the most spectacular vistas yet. The road from Ventosilla to Collada de Aralla meandered along the floor of a massive crater, surrounded by the kind of volcanic mountains that put me in mind of marble layer cake. In the middle is San Martin de la Tercia, a small, self-contained farming community specialising in cattle, horses, and a landscape comparable to a cross between Russian steppe and the moon, all underneath a deep blue sky criss-crossed with thin wisps of cloud and the occasional jet trail. The whole scene looked even more impressive as I climbed the hills on the other side of Casares de Arbas, and I found myself stopping every minute or so for more photos as the composition changed from one impossibly beautiful view to another. No matter – the ride is momentary, the pictures eternal.

A small tunnel brought me through the last of the hills to Aralla de Luna and a similar vista but with the addition of the snaking, somehow sparkling road I was about to ride. Getting fed up with stopping and retrieving the camera from my top-box each time nature chose to show off, I simply hung the G10 round my neck and be done with it. Another thing I was nearly done with was my tank of fuel, the gauge showing just 30 miles left. A quick tap on the Garmin told me that there was a Repsol garage just 3 miles to my right, so without checking the roads on the map I headed off. I should really have looked more closely though, for that 3 miles was measured as the crow flies, and it wasn’t until I started to follow the road back to Ventosilla that I checked to see where this garage was. I don’t remember passing one, and it appeared that the Repsol was a motorway service station which I would need to ride another 60 km to reach, despite being just the other side of the mountain. I don’t think so. Turning around and cursing the 10 miles wasted by my lack of forethought, I resolved to push on the remaining 5 miles to the campsite which I had again found on the Garmin, this time by the side of a lake.

And what a lake! The Embalse de los Barrios de Luna is a huge, elongated hole in the ground which, judging by the rings all around the sloping banks, had once been a good 200 feet higher. That must have been long ago however, as trees had taken root and grown tall in the silt banks, and locals had built low brick walls reminiscent of Lake District field boundaries on the shallower estuaries. I wonder what they contained?

After following the lakeside road for a while I arrived at the campsite, announced by an open gate and the flags of various European countries. Helena met me in reception and, speaking surprisingly good English, took a copy of my passport before handing me over to Papa, who spoke no English but made up for lack of common language with enthusiasm as he showed me around the campsite. Again, nobody else here unless you count the creamy coloured mongrel chained to a tree by the entrance, and the two small rabbits chained to their rose bushes in the flowerbed outside reception. During my tour I am shown a superb shaded spot on a level next to three caravans that looked like they hadn’t moved in years. On Papa’s recommendation (as far as I can make out) I pitch my tent here. The middle caravan turns out to be the home of either teenage brother and sister or boyfriend and girlfriend, I can’t tell which, but they’re later seen working the bar and restaurant and generally helping out.

Dinner isn’t available until 21:00 and it’s only 17:00, so I sit by the bar, find a power outlet, and catch up on the blog via several beers. Time flies, and when I realize it’s 22:00 I ask if it would be OK to get something to eat. Rather than asking for the menu, and causing a member of the family to open the kitchen for my sole benefit, I ask for something simple and after much protestation on the hosts part am served noodle and egg soup with bread. This turns out to be an excellent fly trap as I eat, the insects present in alarming numbers. The kitchen is then brought into full swing anyway, as the entire family push two tables together and have dinner in the bar.

My tent is besieged by flies and other assorted insects, and despite climbing into the tent inner through as small an opening as I can muster I bring a few of them with me, and spend a happy 10 minutes swatting at them with my gloves like a deranged French aristocrat. By then my head torch as drawn hundreds more into the void between my tent’s two layers, and as hopes of a quiet night by the lake are abandoned I reach for the resident ear plugs once more.

Arenal de Moris to Somiedo

In hindsight, my first campsite at Arenal de Moris on the north coast just east of Gijon wasn’t all that great. The owners had placed me at what turned out to be a busy intersection between the rest of the tents (few), the hired chalets (about a dozen) and the caravans (many). The Spanish gather to eat very late in the day, and at 20:00 the evening meal was announced by a car horn, which was being honked repetitively and enthusiastically by a small child. I wasn’t expecting this boisterous behaviour and wanted to comment, but the locals seemed to be delighted by the racket and I let it slide. My home cooking (to the delight of a gaggle of children) was OK but in secret I was a little disappointed by the tortellini con carne and tuna. Perhaps the makers of fast foods and ready meals in Spain have a secret agenda to encourage those who buy that sort of thing to get married and let somebody with more diverse culinary skills have free reign of the kitchen. Conspiracy theorists would blame the church.

I left as early as possible, keen to get away from the campsite and its proximity to the A8 motorway flyover which must have caused the owners much despair when it was constructed. I also wanted to make some justified noise of my own and hope the owners of yesterday’s honking child appreciated my washing of various pots and pans. From unzipping the sleeping bag to getting on the bike took a mere 45 minutes, most of which was spent fussing with the tarp shelter in front of the tent. What can I say, it looked like rain and I was keen to cook.

The coast to Gijon is very pretty, but after Gijon it turns industrial, and endless chimneys from recycling plants and factories belch smoke (and, in one case, fire) into the morning sky. I took the motorway with the intention of getting a few miles out of the way before dropping onto the smaller roads once I was awake. Traffic was very light, and I wasn’t expecting the grey-haired driver of one car in particular to start overtaking me when the lane he had chosen to do so plainly ended about 100 yards ahead as the motorway went from three lanes to two. I can only guess that his vision must have been defective, for once he’d noticed the impending lack of road he also failed to see the motorcyclist next to him. Saw it coming though, and made sure he was watching as I used sign language to demonstrate what I would like to do to his throat if I should catch him. He must have thought I was waving a greeting because he waved cheerfully back.

Suitably awake now, I left the motorway and continued west on what must have been the original main road before the A8 was built. It hugged the coastline closely, and for many stretches third gear was only a rumour as the bike lapped up one tight curve after another. Here and there the road passed small villages and the occasional town. Once thing many of these had in common were abandoned businesses such as restaurants and filling stations – another sign of the new motorway no doubt. Speaking of motorway, it has to be said that the Spanish are into their concrete flyovers in a big way. Construction never stops, new concrete pillars several hundred feet high dwarfing the already out-of-place looking viaducts and yet more flyovers. A civil engineer’s paradise. A conservationists nightmare.

I stopped at a bridge on one of the local roads to take a photo of just such a viaduct, and came upon the notion to look for fish in the river 60 feet below. I was prepared for minnows at best, and it wasn’t until I’d refocused my eyes that I was dozens of large, silver-sided fish feeding lazily from the shallow water. The smallest was a foot long with the larger ones being nearly twice that size, and there were so many that it would have been easy to roll up one’s trousers, wade out, and grab one. Not that I’d know what to do with all that fish anyway, but I did know that it would not enhance the interior of my luggage in this 30 degree heat.

I was headed for Navia, perhaps an hour east of Gijon and also on the northern coast, for no reason other than the way in which the AS12 grabbed me when I saw it on the map. Imagine taking the thin, knobbly purple thing which lives inside the back end of a mouse, and dropping it north to south onto a piece of paper. That’s the AS12; biker’s paradise. Smooth, perfect tarmac clings to the side of a valley, with the Arbon estuary at the bottom. One sublime, grin-inducing bend follows another, the perfect medicine for squared-off tyres and motorway-sick rider alike. On a whim I took a signpost for Castro de Pendia, thinking that a castle would make a fine place to eat the sandwich I had picked up in Navia as breakfast.

The single lane tarmac road the led down into the valley soon turned to dirt, until a Castro sign pointed to a footpath up the side of the hill. It didn’t say anything about bikes being prohibited and looked fairly easy going, even with all my luggage, so I decided to go for it and plead ignorance if challenged. After half a mile or so the path changed direction and began to look decidedly difficult, so I parked next to an old Renault 5 which had miraculously also made it up here. The Castro itself was a bit of a let-down; the only parts which could reasonably be called “building” were a foot high at best, and were being painstakingly rebuilt by two local enthusiasts. (Good job I left the bike where I did!) They should have it finished in another 200 years, so if you’re reading this in the future find yourself in the area do stop by.

The road carried on throwing bends and hairpins my way as though they were going out of fashion. One particularly sharp turn promised a great view from Mirador el San Esteban to anyone who decided to pull up on the gravel at the side of the tarmac, so I stopped and took a short walk onto the rocky precipice, dodging condom wrappers, tissues, and the occasional human turd along the way. Once there the view was splendid indeed, but I didn’t take many photos as the heat really was beginning to whip the flies into a frenzy, and I had a fairly good idea where they’d just dined.

Onwards ever south, the AS12 eventually changed to the AS14, which continued in similar fashion south-east, leading past a massive lake, complete with damn and power station at one end. The various identical concrete buildings (switch rooms? Stores? Mad scientist’s torture chambers?) were built on the side of the hill as if the fact that ground here was nearly vertical did nothing to deter the architect. All looked abandoned years ago, their empty windows staring out over the lake like the eyes of some unblinking monster. A quick drink of water, back into the hot jacket. Clickety-click, onwards. More snaking roads, this time along the bottom of the valley.

Having observed the Spanish Driver in his natural element, I’ve reached the conclusion that 90% of them are better drivers than us Brits. That’s to say they have better awareness of what’s in front of or behing them, leave more space for bikes to overtake or just bimble, and are actually well equipped themselves to deal with twisty roads and slower vehicles. That’s 90% - the other 10% are so far off the lunacy scale as to make you wonder what kind of medication is being pumped into the water / air supply of their padded cells.

I’d been following a small hatchback, generally enjoying the scenery and waiting for a place to overtake once opportunity presented itself. Whenever we approached a bend, I’d fall back a little, change down a gear, and prepare take a line which would let me see the road after the bend at the earliest opportunity. I’d done just that; fallen in line about 80 or 90 feet behind the hatchback, pulled in tight against the right-hand side of the road to get the best view through the approaching left-hander, when it became clear that the recovery truck coming quickly at us through said bend would not make it round with as much style as he’d hoped, if he made it at all. Tyres were already squealing as the cab of the lorry came into view, and I saw that it was quite a big one – smaller than a 7.5t and bigger than a transit, and that the rear end was beginning to take a much wider line than the front. Time slowed, and as the hatchback in front of me passed the lorry he was still travelling at over 40mph, albeit at a 45 degree angle to the road, most of which he was now taking up. I could see that by the time I’d reach him he’d be at 90 degrees and there wouldn’t be much room for a bike going the other way. What to do? Even if I stopped here he might still smash me to bits like a skittle. Although there was no major drop to my right it was far from what you’d call an easy run-off, and a swerve would probably involve foliage in the immediate and recovery in the subsequent future. The back end of the truck now bearing down on me like a pendulum was very open and no more than 4 foot high, so I could theoretically put my feet on my seat and prepare to launch upwards at the moment of impact, the truck only swiping my bike into oblivion as I completed what would be an ace stunt. In the end I did nothing, keeping my options open as I watched the sideways travelling lorry whizz past about 8 feet to my left in a cloud of tyre smoke and noise. Maybe I wouldn’t have time to do anything anyway, and all these contingency measures were just was goes through anybody’s mind when they’re about to have a head-on collision, who knows. By the time I’d reached the bend I was preparing for seconds earlier, the lorry had spiralled into oblivion in my left-hand mirror, and the hatchback and I continued as if nothing had ever happened. Maybe a little slower.

It was getting late, or at least late if you don’t yet know where you’re sleeping that night, and as I hadn’t seen any signs for camping by the time I’d reached Cangas del Narcea I thought I’d have a look at the tourist information office, which was signposted. And closed. Bugger. By a stroke of genius I remembered the camping waypoint database I’d downloaded onto my Garmin Zumo sat-nav and promptly forgotten about some months previous. Some kind (and probably very, very bored) soul had compiled a list of 19,000 European campsites and made them available in a format which the Garmin can digest, then uploaded them to UKGSer.com. The nearest one was at Somiedo, another hour south-east of Cangas.

Progress was good; more mountain roads, more tell-tale cow slop in both lanes. (I don’t know why, but although I accept that the locals will use the roads for driving their cattle to pasture, I always expect them to be going the same direction as me if their effluent is in my lane, and coming towards me if it’s in t’other.) Sure enough I came up behind a local farmer on his moped, who heard me approaching and waved his free arm for me to slow down. I did, and duly met his heard of 4 cows and 2 heifers just around the next bend. They were taking up the entire road between them, so I stopped and waited for the farmer to catch me up. He did, and all I could think of saying in reply to whatever he wanted me to know was hable ingles? He shook his head but made for me to drive on, so I cautiously rode towards the back of the herd. Who were ignoring me. Who had big, big horns. The farmer just pointed into the middle of the cows and motioned for me to carry on, so I did, and the herd parted like the red sea. Well, the red stream at any rate, there being only 6 of them.

Minutes up the road I came up behind another car travelling the same way, and given my near miss earlier and my close proximity to the day’s goal I thought I’d just sit behind him until we either arrived or he turned off. Out of nowhere comes the little red Citron, a boy racer’s dream that I remember seeing in the last town on the outskirts of Cangas. He overtakes me, makes to overtake the car in front of me, then realises there’s a bend ahead and that despite alloy wheels and comedy exhaust he’s only got a hairdryer for an engine. He pulls in sharply between me and the car in front, raising a hand in apology as his three adolescent passengers turn to gawp at me. (I wonder if he missed my number plate and thought I was police – not the first time that’s happened)

Just then the Garmin points me down a rough looking road into the tundra, as it has recently developed a habit of doing. Often the side road rejoins the one I’m on anyway a few hundred yards further on, making for a pointless detour. I didn’t have time to fiddle with the sat-nav and determine if it’s another pointless detour or a necessary turn, so I hang a left and give it a handful, glad to be away from the traffic and on the kind of road for which my bike was built. After two miles or so, the road ends in a T-junction with another, much larger road, and I turn left again. Seconds later, guess who’s behind me? Chuckling to myself, I let the Citroen overtake me again, before giving chase on an easy stretch with good visibility. He really must have thought I was Police as he pulls over into the next side road and looks at me again, but this time bewildered. I give him the thumbs-up and carry on, really laughing to myself now.

The campsite database turned out to be spot-on, and I arrived in Somiedo around 19:00 to find I was the only camper onsite. A notice in the window of the locked reception building pointed to the adjacent hotel, so presumably I was to check in there. Nobody spoke any English but we got by, them finding out what I wanted and me finding out that I could have any pitch I liked and that the super meercat closes in 3 minutes. Hastily checked in, I jump back onto the bike, completely missing the sign that says “super meercat – 50m” Up to one end of town, no sign of a shop. Down to the other end, still nothing. U-turn behind bus coming up the hill. Bus now crawling. Is he stopping? Hurry up, dammit, all I’ve had today is a sandwich and the shop’s about to close!

I eventually find the store, adjacent to the campsite and still open, the 17 year old in charge smoking a cigarette on the doorstep and talking on the phone. Smiles exchanged, I go inside and buy bread, pate (jar, re-sealable lid), chicken noodle soup, soap, and a liter bottle of San Miguel. Result! Back to the campsite and open choice for pitches. The site is built on a terrace principle at the edge of town, with 4 rows deep enough for 1 tent each climbing slowly up the hill. I choose the top row, not only for the view but because it looks too steep for a car to get up that far, thus hopefully guaranteeing me some privacy if anybody else turns up later. Nobody does, and as the sun goes down over the mountains at the far side of the valley I watch the lights in town turn on from my sleeping bag with a huge bottle of beer. Made it safe through another day.

Safe but tired, not sure where.

Today has been a day of superlatives. The most amazing roads I've ridden to date, the most spectacular scenery. The craziest Spanish driving, the nearest miss. The most idyllic campsite.

It's also been a very long day and I've just finished dinner, so I'm going to leave the laptop in my panniers and concentrate on the 1 liter bottle of San Miguel while the sun goes down over a village whose name I don't know and probably couldn't pronounce.

Blogger wasnt working yesterday as far as pictures are concerned, will try again tomorrow. Need to have a shorter day anyway, today was a bit much with riding from 0900 to 1900.

Cheers!

Sent from my HTC Touch Pro

Cantiella

The best way to describe the scene on the car deck of the Pont Aven is utter chaos, at least as far as the bikes are concerned. When we arrived everybody unloaded as soon as they pulled up, so it was a gradual process from the start of the 4 lines to the end, but this morning was truly a free-for-all. I didn’t even try to get to my GS, instead chatting to some seasoned travelers about what lay ahead.

Everybody knew it was going to be hot, but just how hot was not something I was prepared for. Pulling into the filling station right outside the ferry terminal (on another biker’s recommendation – top bloke!) my dashboard read 37 degrees C. After filling the bike, first order of the day was to get some shade in which to re-pack my luggage from the night on the boat. Gore-text riding gear can do nothing for the rivers of sweat running down the back of your legs and neck, and to say that the helmet and gloves were uncomfortable would be the understatement of the century.

I left in a westerly direction, using the motorway to get away from Santander pronto before dropping onto some small tracks that eventually turned to dirt, the single-lane dirt, then coming out again on a quiet road which hugged the coastline. Temperature dropped slightly to around 30 degrees, and even as low as 24 whenever I gained height. Aware that some water would be a good idea, I stopped at a super meercat which looked to be shut but was just coming out of the midday siesta. Found 2 large bottles of chilled agua, a mean lookin’ tuna pasta thing (which I’ll cook in a moment) and some tissues in case the tuna pasta turns out wilder than expected. Also hoping to replace the shower gel I left behind at Blackmore Farm I searched the one and only toiletries aisle several times, but all they had to offer in place of shower gel or indeed soap was a couple of cans of deodorant. I wonder if there is any truth to this “Spanish Shower” business? I’m afraid it’ll forever be a mystery, as my ignorance of Spanish was matched by the cashier’s lack of English, but she did give me a huge bar of white chocolate which seemed to be a free gift when you spent whatever it was that I was spending.

Rode 90-odd miles before coming to rest at a campsite near Cantiella, roughly 20 miles east of Gijon. The tent is up and it’s just becoming bearable again now that I’m out of the riding gear, showered, and have a bottle of cold beer in front of me. There’s a free wireless signal too, so I’m going to pop back after my tuna burn-up to embellish this and the two previous posts with some pictures. Wish me luck with that fire blanket!

Plymouth - Santander

The 103 mile ride from Goathurst to Plymouth was predictably slow and rather damp. Traffic on Somerset and Devon roads travels in lethargic clumps of 8-10 cars, all trying to get past the lead car, which in most cases was towing a caravan and / or being driven by somebody whom had spent their entire lives being rushed about and was now determined to make up for it. Endless 30 and 40 mph limit stretches with no oncoming traffic are followed by brief stints of national speed limit road, with either more oncoming traffic or mostly unecessary double white lines preventing any meaningful progress. The fact that most of the route lay inside cloud cover only added to the frustration.

Wanting to leave it until the last minute before filling up, I duly arrived at the continental ferry check-in with only 20 miles in my tank. Oh well, at least the bike will be easier to pick up off the deck of the ferry if the anticipated force 9 gale materialises throughout the night. After driving into the curiously smelling bow of the ship I transferred my sleeping mat and overnight back into my rucksack, locked everything else onto the bike, and went for the bar.

Kudos is due Brittany Ferries for not taking the opportunity to rape their captive audience alive over price - all prices are Sterling, pints are pulled at 2.90 and a steak dinner in the self-service restaurant / carvery was about 7.00, or 13.00 once you added a salad and half a bottle of Cotes du Rhone. After dinner I took a stroll to the posh restaurant at the back of the ship (I expect I should know whether this was the stern or the bow) where the food being served to those who had reserved a table looked absolutely divine, especially the langustines and crayfish, but then any seafood with antennae always does in my opinion.

The standard rate cabins I passed on the way to my budget reclining seat lounge looked fabulous, or at least compared to those of the Portsmouth - Bilbao ferry I took eight years ago. Back then, your basic 2 bed bunkroom was like the inside of a Formule 1 hotel, with everything formed from a single lump of septic looking formica. The rooms on the Pont Aven had wood panelling, mirrors, and actual carpet. The reclining seat lounge also impressed me as better than expected; about eight rows of chairs, 3 and 4 each side of central aisle, looked out onto deck via a large sliding patio door. There was plenty of space for luggage (read: snoring Welshmen in sleeping bags) and the carpet here too was thick and lush. The only drawback was that this room seemed to have been reserved as final resting place for any defective ceiling tiles, whose clattering in tune with the engine must have been viewed as a hazard to health in other parts of the vessel. Not to worry, I was the only occupant in a row of 4 seats, and since the owner of the leather jacket and bike boots in the adjacent seat had not presented himself by 21:00 I inflated my sleeping mat and took to the footwell. Closing thoughts for the day: earplugs are worth ten times their weight in gold, and Gore-Tex jackets with CE approved armour do not, despite their numerous other merits, lend themselves to service as pillows anywhere near as well as you seem to remember from previous excursions. (When the cashier at the breakfast counter the following morning spotted the deep imprint of a zip across my cheek he gave me a look similar to that of the old lady at Argos, when I asked her if the cordless baby monitor I was about to purchase would work from our garage)

Breakfast was a simple croissant and black coffee. The huge line of people waiting for their fry-ups was not the encouragement I needed to dive into the grease at this hour anyway, so I took to the deck and spent a while talking to a group of bikers (GS riders, natch) who do this run for 2 weeks every year. Apparently northern Spain can be quite wet, the mountains unexpectedly cold and foggy. They've never had any problems arriving at campsites without reservation, hotels / hostals are often as cheap as camping, and you can get by almost anywhere with a mixture of English and French. Encouragement indeed.

We're pulling in to Santander shortly, so I'm off to see if there's a 3G signal yet, upon which I'll post what you're reading now. If you've made it this far and are still with me - thank you, I hope the pictures and words over the coming days will make your patience worthwhile.

All aboard!

Well, here I am, aboard the good ship Pont Aven in Plymouth. We're not yet underway so I'm taking advantage of the still free 3G connection to let y'all know that the wedding was splendid and a fabulous time was had by all assembled. I'll post some pictures as soon as I find a decent WiFi uplink in Spain.

The engines are humming louder now and somebody has just yanked the fog-horn, so I'd best post this pronto and head for the bar. We're off!

Wedding at Halswell House

Now, where was I? Aah, yes ... The night at Blackmore Farm was comfortable and restful, the breakfast of Somerset Smokies divine. Ann and Ian Dyer gave me a small booklet which they'd put together to answer some of the questions they must be frequently asked about their property, and it made very interesting reading. From memory, (I don't have the booklet to hand right now) Blackmore Farm is featured in the Doomsday Book and the last private owners eventually moved on to Halswell House, where I was headed for Emily and Ben's wedding today.

The Halswell Estate is situated top it's own long, winding driveway from the village of Goathurst. The impressive square front was rebuilt following a fire, with the rear of the house being the original part of the extensive building. Today the Halswell Estate is having the arse run out of it by an institutional pension fund with maximum emphasis on profit at the expense of the character of the building. Large stains adorn the walls of many of the narrow wooden staircases which lead to the bedrooms. Our room (175.00 GBP per night) had no toiletries or bathmat, and a large nail banged crudely into the floor served as doorstop. The gorgeous beamed ceiling, for we were directly beneath the roof, and the truly authentic garderobe WC went some way towards the staff's inflexible attitude in only letting us into the rooms at 12:00 precisely, not a minute before. From what I could gather by various accents and the paper file by the clocking-in machine, most of the "senior" staff were South African and everybody else was Polish.

The other wedding guests started to arrive just after 12:00. Some came by taxi, most drove. Chris flew in with his Robinson R44 and landed it neatly in front of the house - probably the most stylish entrance made during the weekend. Once Nicky had arrived with my suit following an unexpectedly long drive from home that morning we changed and drove the remaining few miles to St. Michael's in Enmore for the service. I'm not at my most comfortable in church, seeing only hypocrisy and control wherever I turn, but the vicar - surely Jay Leno's twin brother - made up for this with a splendid good nature and ever-smiling outlook.

The car which was to bring the bride had broken down on the way to the hotel, so I made good the 30 minute delay by opening at random the prayer book in front of me. The parable told of a man who was a rich land owner, living in a large house in the centre of town. At his gates lived a beggar, whose daily subsistence comprised of the rich land owner's scraps. The book was at great pains to point out that the beggar suffered from sores, which dogs would travel far and wide to lick. To cut a long story short, when the land owner went to hell and the beggar to heaven, the land owner's pleadings for a drop of water from the beggars table with which to cool his infernal burns were answered with the justification "You had luxury for all your life, yet the beggar had none, so now the balance is restored for evermore". Being of a practical nature I obviously fail to grasp the deeper meaning of this; other than if you lie about all day and let others provide for you then you shall go to heaven, whereas if you and your family work for generations to ensure a comfortable life then you shall go to hell. (Furthermore, the writer of the tale was ignorant of the fact that canine saliva has antibacterial properties which prevent infection - relying only on the layman reader's sense of revulsion to add weight to his parable). Disappointed but not entirely surprised I closed the prayer book, and took instead the book of Anglican Hymns. It fell open at hymn number 666, and I was immensely tickled to learn that this was written by a chap called »Damian« Hurst. Balance restored.

The rest of the service placed emphasis on the commitment and beauty of marriage rather than turning into the expected "you're all going to hell" type sermon, culminating magnificently with Emily's sister Vicky playing a piece of classical violin with skill and emotion rarely witnessed outside a dedicated concert. Vicky, you made my day.

Back at the hotel we were seated in two oak-panelled rooms and served a menu that was very pleasant despite being rather more diction than cuisine. The speeches were good natured and sincere, with Emma's father scoring top marks in my opinion. Chris took anyone who was interested for rides in his helicopter, much to the chargrin of the hostess, who seemed convinced that only good fortune prevented the machine from barelling into the crowd and bursting into flames.

I chickened out and went to bed once the disco was underway and the first dance had been had. All I can say in my defence is that there's only so much Abba once can endure, and once all possibility of conversation has been sucessfully eliminated by the screeching Scandinavian ex-boy band you may as well turn in.

... and so it begins

Our dear friends Emily and Ben are to tie the knot at St Michael's Church in Enmore tomorrow. Nicky and I are fortunate enough to have been invited as guests of the wedding and the subsequent reception at Halswell House in Goathurst. This fits in rather well with my sailing from Plymouth on Sunday, so rather than offer myself to the demons of motorway traffic before the wedding I choose to ride to Somerset a day early and try my luck in finding accommodation. More of that later.

The ride, a straight line from West London to Bridgwater, typified everything there is about a true British Bank Holiday. Black clouds loomed in all directions as soon as I ended the first and only spell of motorway riding that I hope to endure on this trip; a 22 mile M4 yawn culminating on the exit to the A4 just past Reading. A word about my riding gear. I wear Cordura and Gore-Tex in favour over leather these days, because it is comfortable over a much larger temperature range, because it’s waterproof yet breathable, and because it dries much faster. The only drawback is that even though you are dry underneath, your clothes themselves remain sodden on the outside until they’re dried naturally – hanging them over a radiator or in front of a fire is forbidden for Gore-Tex. This is all well and good, but a bulky jacket and trousers make for uncomfortable bedfellows if you’re staying in a tent small enough to be carried easily on a bike.

Not that I was planning on camping tonight; a wet night or morning don’t make for a speedy campsite getaway, and I do have a wedding to go to the next day, but I was very much aware that it’s the late summer (hah!) Bank Holiday and ad-hoc budget accommodation would be in short supply. The weather, ever unsympathetic to my plans, took a turn for the worse and the strong winds we’ve enjoyed for the past day or so were joined by rains of truly biblical proportions. I stopped at a petrol station just as things kicked off in earnest and donned my trusty all-in-one plastic romper suit. Even if I have to sleep in a tent tonight, I’ll only have one item of wet clothing and that can spend the night in a plastic bag for all I care.

On I ploughed, a cross between the Michelin Man and some crazy S&M Tellytubby, through water that at times stood high enough on the road to hide the kerbstones both sides. As I travelled west it occurred to me that whomever rents out temporary traffic lights and plastic cones must give local authorities a special discount on public holidays – there is no other explanation. I did feel sorry for the drivers of mile after mile of stationary metal as I sloshed past with my hazards on.

Newbury gave way to Devizes, Trowbridge to Wells, Street to Horsey, until after about 3 hours of leaving home I squelched into Bridgwater, and started looking for the Admiral Blake, a local guest house I had earmarked on the strength of the one review that was to be found of any Bridgwater guest accommodation, or at least as far as Google Maps was concerned. Naturally I didn’t want to spoil the spontaneity and romance of my trip by actually phoning first and enquiring as to the availability of rooms – if all 14 advertised bedrooms were ultimately occupied prior to my arrival then I’d simply whip out the phone and try the nearest B&B – this is Somerset after all. But spontaneity and romance will only get you so far if you’re standing with your finger on the bell of a guest house in a town that looks as though most of its inhabitants have not long had their own shoes. I’m sorry; I try not to be judgemental of a place until I’ve spent some time there, but wow! No parking at all, the front door meeting pavement head-on for fear of falling knocker-first onto a dual carriageway, and a B&B sign whose bottom line almost pleadingly proclaims that contractors are welcome, though failing to make clear whether this would be as guests or as renovators. To be fair I doubt that even I would answer the door to a damp skinhead with a motorbike, so after the fourth ring I gave up and turned again to Google Maps on the trusty mobile, which so far had resisted all of my attempts to drown it. I called 6 B&Bs. All went to voicemail. Reasoning that I have a tent and good spirits I decided to ride to the nearest one and try my luck – if they’re full then perhaps they’d let me camp in their field.

As it turns out they were full, and there wouldn’t have been room in the “field” for my tent and my bike, but I could try asking at the Post Office on the Spaxton Road as they also have rooms. In any event there were further guest houses along the same road, so I should be able to find something. The Post Office was, predictably, full and didn’t even have a field (can’t think why) so I carried on in the hope of finding something before having to resort to calling the Premier Inn. I stopped to ask directions of a sweet old lady, who was out for a walk in the rain, and pointed me in the direction I had just come, informing me that it’s “the house after the white one on the right”. I duly turned around, and passed about 400 yards of alternating white and brick houses with no distinguishing features other than the lack of Bed and Breakfast signs. Oh well. I pulled over and consulted the insofar useless Google Maps again, picking at random the nearby Blackmore Farm B&B. This time I would phone. “You have a room? 45 pounds? I’ll be there in about 10 minutes” (The Premier Inn – shame on me – starts at 59 pounds midweek, and would in all likelihood be double that on a Bank Holiday weekend)

Blackmore Farm turned out to be the treat that made the whole day worthwhile. The 15th century grade 1 listed manor house stands atop an impressive driveway, with views across miles of rich pasture. Wisteria and other assorted creepers cover the walls either side of a thick oak door, which Rachel opened directly onto a dining room containing a single long table and 16 chairs. The stuffed head of a stag hangs at one end, flanked on either side by Cromwellian helmets and breast plates. Another fine example of taxidermy crowns a fireplace big enough to swallow my bike, while a complete suit of armour points suggestively at a bowl of fruit on the table in front of it. The two walls devoid of mounted forna are covered in tapestries. I’m still trying to catch my breath as I’m shown to my room; a generous double atop a fairytale staircase, with its own single bed annex and en-suite bathroom. The obligatory Russell Hobbs is joined on the antique dresser by fine bone china cups and saucers for two, a pichet of fresh water, a bottle of squash, brimming fruit bowl and plate of chocolates. An abandoned pair of brogues pine for their owner in the antique wardrobe, with only a bath robe and additional blankets for company. Bliss.

Moments later Ann brings me fresh towels and the breakfast menu, which I am to complete and leave on the table downstairs at my leisure. I opt for Somerset Smokies (toasted muffin with scrambled egg and smoked salmon), fresh grapefruit and croissants. After unloading the bare minimum of luggage from the bike parked under my window, I adjourn to the Malt Shovel Inn on Ann’s recommendation, just a short walk up the lane.

Low ceilings and tasteful traditional pub décor greet the weary traveler at the Malt Shovel, where Helen pulls me a pint of Butcombe Bitter, silver medal winner at the 2009 Great British Beer Festival. I’m early, and take a table in a cosy corner of the bar just as the heavens open again outside. Chicken liver pate and farmhouse toast arrives as Ella Fitzgerald notes the stormy weather, as does a second pint of Butcombe. A row of earthenware jugs wait patiently for their owners on hooks in a beam above the bar; Tim, Don, Jon, MG, IGG, RQ, BT, Shirley, Monkey Man and Monkey Man’s Missus.

A cricket trophy comprising of a ball nailed to a plaque and surrounded by engraved silver shields hints at happy summer afternoons and the sound of leather on wood. Brymore claimed victory of the inaugural match of 1983, with the trophy going back and forth between theirs and the Malt Shovel XI's year after year until 1993, the most recent shield and one bearing Brymore’s name. Yet the trophy rests at the Malt Shovel.

I want to ask what happened to Brymore but am distracted by the arrival of fresh Marlin steak on mixed leaf salad. The locals start trickling in. A middle-aged couple argue unenthusiastically at the bar (why can’t she ever make a decision?) before they’re joined by friends who steer the conversation to football – surely safe ground – and the merits of Chelsea versus Fulham. Outside it rains horizontally.

Introduction

I've only been in Spain once before on the bike. Back in 2001, about a dozen devotees of a certain model of Suzuki motorcycle rented a villa in southern France over a three week period. Keen to be different, Sash and I took the boat to Bilbao and then crossed the Pyrenees while everybody else rode down through France.

I've fond memories of that holiday and of our trip through northern Spain and into France; riding underneath ski lifts and past wild mountain ponies, through fragrant valleys and ancient, sun-baked villages. An impromptu stay at a clifftop hotel that had it's own rollercoaster. Roger trying to corral a deer in the grounds of our villa using only a towel. Sacha's snoring.

Eight years on and I'm still into motorcycles and travel, though sadly don't have as much time as I'd like to indulge in both. I've always wanted to go on an adventure rather than just a trip; to be brought into contact with local people rather than the local tourist industry, to start each day not knowing where it'll end. In short: without expectation. But with many other commitments and hobbies clamoring for a slice of my meagre annual leave, 10 days in Spain is about all I can manage at present.

My personal heroes are advocates of budget travel, or, more precisely, of the adventures you can have as a result of a controlled budget. As a nod in their direction I'll be trying to do this trip as cheaply as possible, but with a couple of caveats: namely my bike and my camping gear. I've purchased the best I could afford in both categories because I want long days of riding followed by comfortable nights of sleep, and because I've only got 10 days. Other than that I hope to be saving pennies wherever I can, and will try to capture on these pages some of what I see along the way.

The boat leaves Plymouth on Sunday 30th August.
Do check back and see how I'm getting on.