7000 miles, 5 weeks, one rider, one bike, one Europe.
Discussion
Again, thank you for the kind words and patience.
Was my last post really in January? Dear lord. Apologies. You'd be surprised how long decent posts take.
Following hot on the heels of the last one, this one's a bit boring but it gets better (I think).
Day 5
Waking up to blazing sunshine, you can really feel the difference in temperature as you head south. Before leaving the campsite, the English bloke who overcharged me the night before clearly has a change of heart and returns €10 to me, saying that he realised that he had overcharged me. You don’t say. But a welcome refund nonetheless! My lamentable ‘dinner’ of tinned mackerel, kidney beans and baguette the night before clearly pulled his heart strings.
Lazy morning
After a lazy morning enjoying the sun, I head down to Bordeaux. It’s a maze to get into from the north, so I take the scenic route and end up coming in via the expansive industrial port. It’s always good to see a different side to the city!
Priority number one is sorting out my front tyre. The piece of metal that was in my tyre on Day 0 is still stubbornly clinging on and is now making itself more and more apparent. Perhaps it’s time to get it looked at.
Happily, I manage to hunt out a bike shop on the industrial estate. Even more happily, the helpful guy in the shop manages to get the metal out without it losing air, and won’t even take money for it. Happy days. Lucky escape.
Heading into central Bordeaux is a trip down memory lane. It’s the first time I’ve been back since I spent two weeks there in 2011, and it hasn’t changed.
After a quick lunch of fish pie and my old favourite of diabolo menthe in the café by Place Jean Jaurès, I head south, aiming for Spain.
As you head towards the Pyrenees, it’s a liberating ride through the winding roads pinewoods of Gascogne Ragional Natural Park, typical of the Gironde region. The roads are smooth, well-sighted and empty. And nothing but pinewoods as far as the eye can see. No police cars, no traffic, just empty roads. Five days in, I’m starting to get into my groove.
Shame about the other drivers. That evening, as the sun is starting to set, I settle in behind a caravan, itself following a car which is making especially slow progress on a particularly twisty section of road. As the road ahead opens up, I check behind me, indicate and move out to overtake. Just as I am halfway along the length of the caravan, the caravanist decides that he too wants to overtake at that very moment and occupy the same piece of tarmac as me, despite having a very loud and very visible bike in his mirrors. Cue a bit of a brown trouser moment. Mutual gesticulation indicates that we each hold the other to blame. I’m not entirely sure where I’m meant to have gone wrong, but never mind.
Eventually, as the sun starts to set, I decide to call it a night around Labenne, and set off in search of a campsite. They all seem to be full of guests and full of water parks. Not really what I am looking for. Eventually, I head south towards Bayonne and find a quiet campsite that has capacity. A quick walk down to the beach turns into a four mile round trek as I steadily realise that the arrow-straight road towards the sand dunes makes the sea look deceptively close.
Dinner is again the tediously familiar staple of a ham and laughing cow baguette – eaten while watching the sun set. Quick swim in the very, very rough sea (surprisingly warm) later and it’s time for bed, with the only sound the incessant humming of mosquitoes trying to join me in my tent. Not much time for sleep though, I need to make up time tomorrow.
Was my last post really in January? Dear lord. Apologies. You'd be surprised how long decent posts take.
Following hot on the heels of the last one, this one's a bit boring but it gets better (I think).
Day 5
Waking up to blazing sunshine, you can really feel the difference in temperature as you head south. Before leaving the campsite, the English bloke who overcharged me the night before clearly has a change of heart and returns €10 to me, saying that he realised that he had overcharged me. You don’t say. But a welcome refund nonetheless! My lamentable ‘dinner’ of tinned mackerel, kidney beans and baguette the night before clearly pulled his heart strings.
Lazy morning
After a lazy morning enjoying the sun, I head down to Bordeaux. It’s a maze to get into from the north, so I take the scenic route and end up coming in via the expansive industrial port. It’s always good to see a different side to the city!
Priority number one is sorting out my front tyre. The piece of metal that was in my tyre on Day 0 is still stubbornly clinging on and is now making itself more and more apparent. Perhaps it’s time to get it looked at.
Happily, I manage to hunt out a bike shop on the industrial estate. Even more happily, the helpful guy in the shop manages to get the metal out without it losing air, and won’t even take money for it. Happy days. Lucky escape.
Heading into central Bordeaux is a trip down memory lane. It’s the first time I’ve been back since I spent two weeks there in 2011, and it hasn’t changed.
After a quick lunch of fish pie and my old favourite of diabolo menthe in the café by Place Jean Jaurès, I head south, aiming for Spain.
As you head towards the Pyrenees, it’s a liberating ride through the winding roads pinewoods of Gascogne Ragional Natural Park, typical of the Gironde region. The roads are smooth, well-sighted and empty. And nothing but pinewoods as far as the eye can see. No police cars, no traffic, just empty roads. Five days in, I’m starting to get into my groove.
Shame about the other drivers. That evening, as the sun is starting to set, I settle in behind a caravan, itself following a car which is making especially slow progress on a particularly twisty section of road. As the road ahead opens up, I check behind me, indicate and move out to overtake. Just as I am halfway along the length of the caravan, the caravanist decides that he too wants to overtake at that very moment and occupy the same piece of tarmac as me, despite having a very loud and very visible bike in his mirrors. Cue a bit of a brown trouser moment. Mutual gesticulation indicates that we each hold the other to blame. I’m not entirely sure where I’m meant to have gone wrong, but never mind.
Eventually, as the sun starts to set, I decide to call it a night around Labenne, and set off in search of a campsite. They all seem to be full of guests and full of water parks. Not really what I am looking for. Eventually, I head south towards Bayonne and find a quiet campsite that has capacity. A quick walk down to the beach turns into a four mile round trek as I steadily realise that the arrow-straight road towards the sand dunes makes the sea look deceptively close.
Dinner is again the tediously familiar staple of a ham and laughing cow baguette – eaten while watching the sun set. Quick swim in the very, very rough sea (surprisingly warm) later and it’s time for bed, with the only sound the incessant humming of mosquitoes trying to join me in my tent. Not much time for sleep though, I need to make up time tomorrow.
Edited by Deranged Granny on Saturday 27th April 16:10
Spuffington said:
Brilliant!
Thanks for that update. Having blogged my trip around NW Scotland in the motorhome, I know how much time it takes to convert thoughts, memories and stories to "paper" and include enough photos to keep people interested.
Looks like an epic trip. Look forward to more!
+1Thanks for that update. Having blogged my trip around NW Scotland in the motorhome, I know how much time it takes to convert thoughts, memories and stories to "paper" and include enough photos to keep people interested.
Looks like an epic trip. Look forward to more!
Deranged Granny said:
Shame about the other drivers. That evening, as the sun is starting to set, I settle in behind a caravan, itself following a car which is making especially slow progress on a particularly twisty section of road. As the road ahead opens up, I check behind me, indicate and move out to overtake. Just as I am halfway along the length of the caravan, the caravanist decides that he too wants to overtake at that very moment and occupy the same piece of tarmac as me, despite having a very loud and very visible bike in his mirrors. Cue a bit of a brown trouser moment. Mutual gesticulation indicates that we each hold the other to blame. I’m not entirely sure where I’m meant to have gone wrong, but never mind.
I often says to who want to hear it: in France it's the vehicle closest to the obstacle that has priority to overtake so provided caravan man used his indicator he wouldn't have totally been in the wrong if he'd knocked you out. He'd stil have been in trouble a bit but there's a sense of entitlement about this rule in France that makes it a bit of 'carte blanche' when overtaking.Same goes for motorways; if you're barelling down the fast lane at 160kph and some bloke decides to pull out 150m ahead of you because he's coming up behind a truck, he's fully in his right.
Beware of that rule which has evolved to now allow for faster vehicle and 'making sure you are not being overtaken already
' but drivers still take it at face valueEdited by J B L on Wednesday 3rd May 12:48
J B L said:
I often says to who want to hear it: in France it's the vehicle closest to the obstacle that has priority to overtake so provided caravan man used his indicator he wouldn't have totally been in the wrong if he'd knocked you out. He'd stil have been in trouble a bit but there's a sense of entitlement about this rule in France that makes it a bit of 'carte blanche' when overtaking.
Same goes for motorways; if you're barelling down the fast lane at 160kph and some bloke decides to pull out 150m ahead of you because he's coming up behind a truck, he's fully in his right.
Beware of that rule.
Bloody hell, stupid rule.Same goes for motorways; if you're barelling down the fast lane at 160kph and some bloke decides to pull out 150m ahead of you because he's coming up behind a truck, he's fully in his right.
Beware of that rule.
excellent .. I'm looking forward to the next installment in September 
Since you asked...
Day 6
Conscious that I need to be in Lisbon tomorrow for a planned week-long stay, I rise and hit the road early.
First stop is Bayonne. It’s a great little town with an interesting mix of architecture set alongside the river, but I quickly pass on through to Biarritz, which is a stereotypical French seaside town.
Bayonne
Biarritz is almost a mini Monaco, just slightly more grounded, with an air of authentic elegance that Monaco lacks. I ride up to the top of the hill to the north of the main bay, overlooking the whole town.
Biarritz
After a nice chat with a Frenchwoman curious as to what I am doing on my bike so far from home, and a quick pit stop in a Carrefour for supplies and a car park baguette lunch, I carry on across the border into Spain.
France
Spain
It seems significant to be crossing a Schengen border on the day that the UK goes to the polls to vote on its membership of the EU. Crossing over into Irun, in the most apolitical way, you really can see how membership of the EU means something entirely different to those on the continent. I must have seen over 10 nationalities of cars in a two mile stretch near the border. I suppose that is to be expected when you are not separated from everyone else by 20 miles of sea.
From there I bear west towards San Sebastian, then Bilbao. By this stage however, it is 35 degrees and riding around the city centre at walking pace in my black jacket, jeans and helmet is akin to torture. I stop in and have a quick look around the area by the Guggenheim Museum and have a drink, but I need to keep moving and keep up the pace to get to Lisbon on time, as planned. It’s a shame, as I would have liked to have spent longer in Bilbao. But then the point of the trip, aside from riding good roads, is to see and explore all the different areas in Europe so that I know which ones to come back to and enjoy properly. Bilbao is definitely on the list.
Guggenheiming
Next, it’s south-south west towards the Picos d’Europa, to spend less than half a day in a region you could easily spend a week exploring!
Passing through towns in the middle of nowhere on the way to the mountains, there’s always an old-timer sitting on a bench by the main road through the town, ready to stare out anybody who dares to cross through their patch. And then there are the kids in a town outside Reinosa, who hear me coming at speed down the dead straight road towards their town and egg me on to go even faster. They love bikes in Spain.
Bag falling off bike. Don't care. View too nice.
It’s interesting to note the difference between Spanish and French drivers’ reactions to bikes. In France they virtually leap out of your way to let you by, as long as they are in a French make of car, for some reason. French in German cars seem to be the worst - actively hostile towards all other road users. Whereas the Spanish all seem to drive white SEATs and couldn’t give a damn about what is around them. But at least they are consistent.
The roads leading up to the mountains are divine, by far the best I have ever ridden. Cutting through the valleys, it’s just switchback after switchback, smooth roads and amazing views. This trip just gets better and better.
Stop fracking
I catch up with a brace of English bikers on BMW GSs, and have a quick play before carrying on westwards and heading halfway up a Pico in the sunshine, not far from Reinosa.
Again, too many roads and too little time, so I take a quick break and take in the smells and sounds of the Picos – it’s almost Alpine in nature, with the sounds of cowbells echoing through the mountains. It’s like something out of a Swiss chocolate bar advert, yet I am in Spain. Not what I had expected!
Not Switzerland
After my pit stop, I head south in search of a campsite in which to bed down for the night. But no such luck. It is just miles and miles of protected land devoted to bull farms. There’s only the weediest piece of string demarking the reserve, but tempting though a free campsite is, funnily enough, the presence of bulls does do something to put me off spending the night there.
Continuing south as the evening marches on, passing to the west of Burgos, I get to just north of Valladolid before I really, really have to call it a day. The sun has now dropped far below the horizon and light is running out fast - properly fast in that uniquely summertime way where you go from full daylight to total night time in what feels like fifteen minutes. And I haven’t seen a campsite in the last 12 hours of riding. Not very promising.
Eventually, I hunt out a relatively isolated farm access track that heads off the main road into the middle of nowhere in a massive field full of ant holes and thistles. But, it looks like it leads nowhere and is out of the way. Perfect.
As the mosquitoes start to gather for dinner, I start to set up camp, trying to find a patch that is neither a) covered in thorns, nor b) covered in thousands upon thousands of enormous ants.
Well, you try pitching a tent on thistles and solid granite
Camp finally set up, I zip myself into the tent up to my neck, and stick my head out to the mosquito-ravaged skies and offer my face up for sacrifice in exchange for a view of the most amazingly clear and stark view of the stars that I have ever seen. Aside from a distant wind farm, there’s not a manmade light to be seen for miles around, and total silence except for the passing of cars on a distant road. Oh, and the unexplained bizarre sonar-like beep that keeps echoing loudly around the deserted hills with unsettling regularity, with no identifiable source. Very creepy.
Room with a view
Apart from that, it’s all gravy, and I put up with the mosquito/star show until I can take the bites no more, and head to bed so I can have an early night and once again, get up before anyone notices.
Day 6
Conscious that I need to be in Lisbon tomorrow for a planned week-long stay, I rise and hit the road early.
First stop is Bayonne. It’s a great little town with an interesting mix of architecture set alongside the river, but I quickly pass on through to Biarritz, which is a stereotypical French seaside town.
Bayonne
Biarritz is almost a mini Monaco, just slightly more grounded, with an air of authentic elegance that Monaco lacks. I ride up to the top of the hill to the north of the main bay, overlooking the whole town.
Biarritz
After a nice chat with a Frenchwoman curious as to what I am doing on my bike so far from home, and a quick pit stop in a Carrefour for supplies and a car park baguette lunch, I carry on across the border into Spain.
France
Spain
It seems significant to be crossing a Schengen border on the day that the UK goes to the polls to vote on its membership of the EU. Crossing over into Irun, in the most apolitical way, you really can see how membership of the EU means something entirely different to those on the continent. I must have seen over 10 nationalities of cars in a two mile stretch near the border. I suppose that is to be expected when you are not separated from everyone else by 20 miles of sea.
From there I bear west towards San Sebastian, then Bilbao. By this stage however, it is 35 degrees and riding around the city centre at walking pace in my black jacket, jeans and helmet is akin to torture. I stop in and have a quick look around the area by the Guggenheim Museum and have a drink, but I need to keep moving and keep up the pace to get to Lisbon on time, as planned. It’s a shame, as I would have liked to have spent longer in Bilbao. But then the point of the trip, aside from riding good roads, is to see and explore all the different areas in Europe so that I know which ones to come back to and enjoy properly. Bilbao is definitely on the list.
Guggenheiming
Next, it’s south-south west towards the Picos d’Europa, to spend less than half a day in a region you could easily spend a week exploring!
Passing through towns in the middle of nowhere on the way to the mountains, there’s always an old-timer sitting on a bench by the main road through the town, ready to stare out anybody who dares to cross through their patch. And then there are the kids in a town outside Reinosa, who hear me coming at speed down the dead straight road towards their town and egg me on to go even faster. They love bikes in Spain.
Bag falling off bike. Don't care. View too nice.
It’s interesting to note the difference between Spanish and French drivers’ reactions to bikes. In France they virtually leap out of your way to let you by, as long as they are in a French make of car, for some reason. French in German cars seem to be the worst - actively hostile towards all other road users. Whereas the Spanish all seem to drive white SEATs and couldn’t give a damn about what is around them. But at least they are consistent.
The roads leading up to the mountains are divine, by far the best I have ever ridden. Cutting through the valleys, it’s just switchback after switchback, smooth roads and amazing views. This trip just gets better and better.
Stop fracking
I catch up with a brace of English bikers on BMW GSs, and have a quick play before carrying on westwards and heading halfway up a Pico in the sunshine, not far from Reinosa.
Again, too many roads and too little time, so I take a quick break and take in the smells and sounds of the Picos – it’s almost Alpine in nature, with the sounds of cowbells echoing through the mountains. It’s like something out of a Swiss chocolate bar advert, yet I am in Spain. Not what I had expected!
Not Switzerland
After my pit stop, I head south in search of a campsite in which to bed down for the night. But no such luck. It is just miles and miles of protected land devoted to bull farms. There’s only the weediest piece of string demarking the reserve, but tempting though a free campsite is, funnily enough, the presence of bulls does do something to put me off spending the night there.
Continuing south as the evening marches on, passing to the west of Burgos, I get to just north of Valladolid before I really, really have to call it a day. The sun has now dropped far below the horizon and light is running out fast - properly fast in that uniquely summertime way where you go from full daylight to total night time in what feels like fifteen minutes. And I haven’t seen a campsite in the last 12 hours of riding. Not very promising.
Eventually, I hunt out a relatively isolated farm access track that heads off the main road into the middle of nowhere in a massive field full of ant holes and thistles. But, it looks like it leads nowhere and is out of the way. Perfect.
As the mosquitoes start to gather for dinner, I start to set up camp, trying to find a patch that is neither a) covered in thorns, nor b) covered in thousands upon thousands of enormous ants.
Well, you try pitching a tent on thistles and solid granite
Camp finally set up, I zip myself into the tent up to my neck, and stick my head out to the mosquito-ravaged skies and offer my face up for sacrifice in exchange for a view of the most amazingly clear and stark view of the stars that I have ever seen. Aside from a distant wind farm, there’s not a manmade light to be seen for miles around, and total silence except for the passing of cars on a distant road. Oh, and the unexplained bizarre sonar-like beep that keeps echoing loudly around the deserted hills with unsettling regularity, with no identifiable source. Very creepy.
Room with a view
Apart from that, it’s all gravy, and I put up with the mosquito/star show until I can take the bites no more, and head to bed so I can have an early night and once again, get up before anyone notices.
Edited by Deranged Granny on Thursday 4th May 10:33
Edited by Deranged Granny on Saturday 27th April 16:09
... well done .. I'm sure it takes ages to do and from where I'm sat its well worth it .. 
The strange beep could be some kind of owl, we had something similar when staying at a very isolated finca in Mallorca. It's a great looking trip, shame you missed San Sebastian and the fantastic food it has to offer, but you'd probably have had a baguette and some tinned fish in an industrial estate car park anyway 
Day 7
It’s another morning in paradise. Solid blue skies, and already warm at 7:00.
Suddenly feeling far more exposed in daylight despite my relatively camouflaged tent, I rush to pack up camp before a farmer comes along with a shotgun.
Not a bad view to wake up to
Literally the moment that I put the last bag on the bike, I notice a 4x4 approaching in the distance. Bugger. Of course. In the middle of nowhere where the nearest road, half a mile away, has no more than ten cars passing every hour. And there’s a 4x4 coming straight towards me.
Fortunately, it’s not a farmer with a shotgun, but unfortunately, it is the police. They pull up alongside the bike as I busy myself with the suddenly all-consuming task of sorting my bags and dare not look up. They don’t move. Resigned to my fate, I look up with the most innocent smile you have ever seen.
“Holaaa”
“Did you camp here?” they ask in Spanish.
“Sorry, English”.
Noting my UK numberplate, they ask again in decent English. Ah.
I look to where he has pointed, at the distinctly flattened patch of grass where a tent had clearly been pitched just a moment earlier.
“I am packing my luggage” I reply. Not a lie.
“Last night, did you camp here?”
The net feels like it is closing. Stick to the story. “I am just sorting out my bags”, I reply, truthfully.
“Hmm...” comes the sceptical reply from the non-believer.
But, happily, the draw of their Ford Maverick’s air-conditioned interior is clearly too strong, or they just can’t be arsed, and they wish me well and continue to bumble along down the track. Phew.
Rejuvenated by my lucky start to the day, and having run out of water the night before, dying of thirst, I head back down to the main road, and onwards south, with no idea where I am.
A gentle lazy ride through some enormous wind farms and eventually I arrive in a small town, Ampudia.
First, I buy the petrol station’s entire stock of water, before noticing the castle overlooking the tower – the inventively named Castillo de Ampudia. Apparently dating from the 1460s, I am reliably informed by Wikipedia that this is the finest example of a Palentino castle going. It looked pretty cool. Who am I to disagree?
They like their windfarms
From that, I work out that I am just north of Valladolid and roughly on track.
Next, it’s on to Zamora, and towards the border with Portugal somewhere over the Duoro river. By midday, this is bordering on the hottest weather I have ever experienced. All the readings on thermometers start with a 4. Eventually I have to give up, and swap the leather jacket for a t shirt and jeans for shorts. This offers scant respite.
Out of scientific curiosity, I max the bike on a dead straight. Nope, even at that speed, I am still too hot. It’s no good. The only other difference apart from the blurriness of the scenery is that the bugs hurt a lot more than they do at 60.
Eventually I get to the border with Portugal – on the other side of the valley.
To get there, it’s a steep descent down the winding road to the valley floor, across the dividing Duoro river, and back up into Portugal.
The moment that I stopped to take this was possibly the hottest that I have ever been.
Portugal, from Spain
After a cheeky bit of freewheeling down the valley, you’re in Portugal, and instantly, what a difference. The roads are transformed, and for the third successive day, the best I have ever ridden. Race-track smooth and deserted, I push the bike harder and harder, trying to make up time to get to the pre-booked hostel in Lisbon on time to meet a friend.
Billiard table smooth
What it's all about
So long for now, Spain, it's been a pleasure
I make great progress, but eventually I have to admit defeat and for the first proper stint outside of the UK, join the dreaded motorway. 300km to do in an hour and a half.
It’s a long, long slog southwest, but I can’t see many speed cameras, and sitting at full throttle the entire time does take troublesome self-restraint out of the equation.
Chasing the setting sun, I eventually work my way into the city. Or at least, I think I do. Having faithfully followed all the signs to the Centro da cidade, I eventually end up outside the Sport Lisboa e Benfica football stadium. Seemingly on match night. Bugger.
Realising that I am in fact nowhere near the centre and utterly lost, I ask a taxi driver for directions. He answers the call to arms with exceptional generosity and utters the immortal words “Follow me”. Right you are.
Cue what can only be described as a scene from Ronin, as I faithfully follow his liberal interpretation of traffic laws, as he gives me a tail all the way right into the heart of the city. I just about keep up with his Skoda and he pulls up on the Avenida da Liberdade, refusing all offers of money, before heading off for his next fare. What. A. Legend.
After a bit of hunting around the cobbled streets, I eventually track down the hostel.
After all that, let’s just say I wasn’t as late as I should have been.
Time to start my week-long break in Lisbon and Sintra!
It’s another morning in paradise. Solid blue skies, and already warm at 7:00.
Suddenly feeling far more exposed in daylight despite my relatively camouflaged tent, I rush to pack up camp before a farmer comes along with a shotgun.
Not a bad view to wake up to
Literally the moment that I put the last bag on the bike, I notice a 4x4 approaching in the distance. Bugger. Of course. In the middle of nowhere where the nearest road, half a mile away, has no more than ten cars passing every hour. And there’s a 4x4 coming straight towards me.
Fortunately, it’s not a farmer with a shotgun, but unfortunately, it is the police. They pull up alongside the bike as I busy myself with the suddenly all-consuming task of sorting my bags and dare not look up. They don’t move. Resigned to my fate, I look up with the most innocent smile you have ever seen.
“Holaaa”
“Did you camp here?” they ask in Spanish.
“Sorry, English”.
Noting my UK numberplate, they ask again in decent English. Ah.
I look to where he has pointed, at the distinctly flattened patch of grass where a tent had clearly been pitched just a moment earlier.
“I am packing my luggage” I reply. Not a lie.
“Last night, did you camp here?”
The net feels like it is closing. Stick to the story. “I am just sorting out my bags”, I reply, truthfully.
“Hmm...” comes the sceptical reply from the non-believer.
But, happily, the draw of their Ford Maverick’s air-conditioned interior is clearly too strong, or they just can’t be arsed, and they wish me well and continue to bumble along down the track. Phew.
Rejuvenated by my lucky start to the day, and having run out of water the night before, dying of thirst, I head back down to the main road, and onwards south, with no idea where I am.
A gentle lazy ride through some enormous wind farms and eventually I arrive in a small town, Ampudia.
First, I buy the petrol station’s entire stock of water, before noticing the castle overlooking the tower – the inventively named Castillo de Ampudia. Apparently dating from the 1460s, I am reliably informed by Wikipedia that this is the finest example of a Palentino castle going. It looked pretty cool. Who am I to disagree?
They like their windfarms
From that, I work out that I am just north of Valladolid and roughly on track.
Next, it’s on to Zamora, and towards the border with Portugal somewhere over the Duoro river. By midday, this is bordering on the hottest weather I have ever experienced. All the readings on thermometers start with a 4. Eventually I have to give up, and swap the leather jacket for a t shirt and jeans for shorts. This offers scant respite.
Out of scientific curiosity, I max the bike on a dead straight. Nope, even at that speed, I am still too hot. It’s no good. The only other difference apart from the blurriness of the scenery is that the bugs hurt a lot more than they do at 60.
Eventually I get to the border with Portugal – on the other side of the valley.
To get there, it’s a steep descent down the winding road to the valley floor, across the dividing Duoro river, and back up into Portugal.
The moment that I stopped to take this was possibly the hottest that I have ever been.
Portugal, from Spain
After a cheeky bit of freewheeling down the valley, you’re in Portugal, and instantly, what a difference. The roads are transformed, and for the third successive day, the best I have ever ridden. Race-track smooth and deserted, I push the bike harder and harder, trying to make up time to get to the pre-booked hostel in Lisbon on time to meet a friend.
Billiard table smooth
What it's all about
So long for now, Spain, it's been a pleasure
I make great progress, but eventually I have to admit defeat and for the first proper stint outside of the UK, join the dreaded motorway. 300km to do in an hour and a half.
It’s a long, long slog southwest, but I can’t see many speed cameras, and sitting at full throttle the entire time does take troublesome self-restraint out of the equation.
Chasing the setting sun, I eventually work my way into the city. Or at least, I think I do. Having faithfully followed all the signs to the Centro da cidade, I eventually end up outside the Sport Lisboa e Benfica football stadium. Seemingly on match night. Bugger.
Realising that I am in fact nowhere near the centre and utterly lost, I ask a taxi driver for directions. He answers the call to arms with exceptional generosity and utters the immortal words “Follow me”. Right you are.
Cue what can only be described as a scene from Ronin, as I faithfully follow his liberal interpretation of traffic laws, as he gives me a tail all the way right into the heart of the city. I just about keep up with his Skoda and he pulls up on the Avenida da Liberdade, refusing all offers of money, before heading off for his next fare. What. A. Legend.
After a bit of hunting around the cobbled streets, I eventually track down the hostel.
After all that, let’s just say I wasn’t as late as I should have been.
Time to start my week-long break in Lisbon and Sintra!
Edited by Deranged Granny on Saturday 27th April 16:07
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