Spain to Norway on a Bike Called Reggie
Page 1
SPAIN TO NORWAY ON A BIKE CALLED REGGIE
Copyright © Andrew P. Sykes, 2017
Cover artwork by Andy Mitchell: custard4gravy@btinternet.com
Inside cover photos by Andrew P. Sykes
All rights reserved.
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To Dad, for teaching me how to ride a bike.
CONTENTS
Prologue
Part 1: Spain
The First Degree
The Second Degree
The Third Degree
The Fourth Degree
The Fifth Degree
The Sixth Degree
The Seventh Degree
Part 2: France
The Eighth Degree
The Ninth Degree
The Tenth Degree
The Eleventh Degree
The Twelth Degree
The Thirteenth Degree
The Fourteenth Degree
Part 3: Belgium, the Netherlands and Germany
The Fifteenth Degree
The Sixteenth Degree
The Seventeenth Degree
The Eighteenth Degree
The Nineteenth Degree (1)
Part 4: Denmark and Sweden
The Nineteenth Degree (2)
The Twentieth Degree
The Twenty-first Degree
The Twenty-second Degree
The Twenty-third Degree
Part 5: Norway
The Twenty-fourth Degree
The Twenty-fifth Degree
The Twenty-sixth Degree
The Twenty-seventh Degree
The Twenty-eighth Degree
The Twenty-ninth Degree
The Thirtieth Degree
The Thirty-first Degree
The Thirty-second Degree
The Thirty-third Degree
The Thirty-fourth Degree
The Thirty-fifth Degree
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Photos
Not all those who wander are lost.
J. R. R. Tolkien
(as graffitied on a wall in Salamanca, Spain)
PROLOGUE
It was Thursday 9 April 2015 and I was standing on the edge of the Isla de las Palomas, less than a kilometre to the south of Tarifa, in southern Spain. For a few moments, my body was host to the southernmost human heart on the continental mainland of Europe. I was Europe's most southerly man. The plan was to cycle from this southernmost point of Europe to the northernmost point at Nordkapp, in Norway, 71 degrees, 10 minutes and 21 seconds (or, to keep things brief, 71°10'21'') north of the equator. It would be a journey of just over 35 degrees.
In December 2014 I had said goodbye to my teaching colleagues for the final time. 'Teacher quits to cycle 5,000 miles on a bike called Reggie' was the announcement blazoned across an inside page of the local newspaper. At least if my cycling endeavour were to end prematurely, I would have moved on to pastures new and the readers of the Henley Standard could live the rest of their lives in blissful ignorance of my failings. I packed up my belongings and headed north to the county of my birth, Yorkshire, where, for several weeks, I procrastinated.
A long cycle from A to B in Europe wasn't complicated to plan. I needed to travel through seven countries: Spain, France, Belgium, Germany, Denmark, Sweden and Norway. As I had done on my previous continental cycles, I would be following routes on the EuroVelo network, this time a combination of EuroVelos 1 and 3. Equipment-wise, I had most of what I needed from previous trips, including my bicycle, Reggie: a Ridgeback Panorama World purchased five years earlier for Crossing Europe on a Bike Called Reggie (a journey from southern England to southern Italy). The Robens Osprey 2 tent had, despite its slightly sagging back end (it wasn't alone on that score), served me well in Along the Med on a Bike Called Reggie (a second journey from southern Greece to southern Portugal) and would hopefully do the same again. I had upgraded my panniers but most of the equipment was tried and tested. I was ready.
On Wednesday 25 February, six weeks before my planned departure from Tarifa, I flew to Malaga, Spain. The final piece in the jigsaw that was 'Career Break 2015' (which deserved to be the name of an Ironman triathlon) was to learn some Spanish. Although a secondary school teacher of languages, I spoke only French. By basing myself in the Andalusian city of Cádiz, where I had enrolled onto a five-week Spanish language course, I would hopefully be able to plug this gap in my CV – and have a nice time doing so.
Alongside the learning, there was plenty of time to explore. One weekend, along with three fellow students, I embarked upon a short road trip of Andalusia: Arcos de la Frontera, Grazalema, Zahara, Vejer de la Frontera and the surfing paradise of Tarifa. Much to my annoyance, I discovered that my intended point of departure – the southernmost point of Isla de las Palomas, or 'dove island', near Tarifa – was inaccessible to all but the Guardia Civil, the military police who had a base there. I wondered what the peace-loving doves made of that.
The Isla de las Palomas had clearly been erroneously named: not only did I not spot any doves, but it also was most definitely not an island as I understood it. Perhaps prior to 1808 it had been. That was when a broad causeway had been built, linking it to the continent. In 2015 after more than 200 years of continuous connection to the mainland, I think it is safe to say that it was no longer a proper island. A sign at the point where the causeway met the 'island' informed visitors seeking the southernmost point of the continent that they had found their destination. But they hadn't. There remained half a kilometre of rocky land beyond the closed gates of the military base.
Not being permitted to set off on my quest from the real southernmost point of Europe had perturbed me. The teachers back at the school suggested I ring the tourist office in Tarifa to see if there were any possibilities of being let in.
'¿Hablas inglés?' I enquired.
The woman on the other end of the phone did but there was to be bad news as well as good. Yes, organised visits were permitted but they didn't coincide with my planned departure date of Thursday 9 April. Was I prepared to hang around until the following week? She suggested, somewhat sceptically, that I should contact the Guardia Civil directly.
'Estimada Guardia Civil de Tarifa...'
It sounded like grovelling but the teachers assured me it was just the formal way to do these things in writing.
A week later, a response arrived. Much to my relief, it wasn
't a 'no' – more a 'quizás' or 'perhaps'. I was instructed to seek permission from the Parque Natural del Estrecho.
'Estimado Parque Natural del Estrecho…'
I was learning to grovel quite well.
Four more days passed. Then, an email arrived.
'According to decree 308/2002 of December 23 2002 approving the Management Plan of Natural Resources…'
It appeared that I was in.
There were, however, conditions. In order not to infringe decree 308/2002 (etc.), it would be necessary for me to 'realise a project aimed at promoting environmental understanding and education'.
So, here we are at the very start of our journey across the European land mass from the southernmost point – the real one – to the northernmost point. As you read, please bear in mind that in addition to this being a book about travelling, cycling, geography, history, politics and no doubt a few more topics thrown in for good measure, I am under legal obligation – by order of decree 308/2002 – to promote environmental understanding and education. So, once you've finished reading this book, please make sure you recycle it. Thanks.
PART 1
SPAIN
THE FIRST DEGREE
36°–37° NORTH
9–11 April
Reggie had been couriered to Spain and spent six weeks in the underground garage of my Uncle Ron's flat near the coastal town of Estepona, 80 km north-east of Tarifa. The bike – dismantled, transported by van, plane and van again, and then left unloved for a month and a half in a darkened room – needed a good service. Quite what damage such an environment could inflict upon a bicycle, I wasn't sure. Yep Bikes in San Pedro and the shop's German owner, Roman, provided a first-class bike checkup, plus a bright orange T-shirt to alleviate my uncle's concern for my well-being on the streets of the Costa del Sol. The road I needed to cycle along to get to Tarifa – the N-340 – was widely considered to be one of the most treacherous in Spain. At least in my vivid Yep Bikes attire, the speeding, reckless and drunk drivers of the 'road of death' would have no problem in aiming at their target.
On Easter Monday I waved goodbye to Ron and his wife Bea and teetered down the road leading to the N-340, trying to readjust to cycling again on a bike loaded with four heavy panniers. I hadn't done this since the previous summer and it was a skill that took time to reacquire. But reacquire it I did and, via an overnight stop in Gibraltar and after 100 km of cycling, I survived without being maimed or indeed killed on the 'road of death'. Following a long, steady climb south and against a ferocious wind, I found my first campsite – the Río Jara – near Tarifa.
The instructions from the Guardia Civil were to present my credentials at 10 a.m. at the entrance to the Isla de las Palomas, wait to be allowed in and then be escorted to the southern tip of the 'island'. After a healthy breakfast of fresh fruit and unbuttered toast, I made my way to the southern end of the causeway. There was, alas, no one there to whom I could present my credentials. A doorbell? Not that I could see. On a wall on the other side of the gate was a camera so I waved in its direction in an exaggerated fashion.
Nothing happened. No one came to investigate why I was standing there. No warning shots were fired.
After I'd been loitering for a few minutes, an unmarked 4 x 4 vehicle approached the gate along the causeway. Inside were four men. The driver wound down his window and said something I interpreted to be a stern warning to clear off.
'¿Hablas inglés?' I enquired, as I proffered him my printed credentials. 'I'm on a mission to promote environmental understanding and education,' I might have added if I hadn't been pretty sure that he was some kind of Spanish secret agent.
After a few moments he smiled broadly and said, in what was approaching Received Pronunciation English: 'Where are you cycling?'
'To Nordkapp in Norway – the northernmost point of Europe.'
'Seriously?'
The man clearly saw in me a kindred secret agent in the waiting.
'Follow me. When you get to the guard's building, show him your paper. And have a good trip.'
With that he was gone to do secret agent things. I was in and the long journey to the southernmost point of Europe was at an end. All that remained was for me to cycle the 7,500 km to Nordkapp.
—
Continental Europe's southernmost beating heart was now thumping a little faster in anticipation of what was to come; a blank canvas of events that had yet to take place lay ahead of me.
Initially, I would be turning my back on the Costa del Sol and cycling northwest along the Costa de la Luz to Cádiz, from where I would head inland to Seville. From there, I intended to follow a pilgrimage path across Spain called the Vía de la Plata, and then turn east and continue along the route of the Camino de Santiago, albeit in reverse, until I arrived in France.
The weather was decidedly average. It had been raining for much of the morning and the temperature necessitated three layers of clothing underneath my waterproof jacket. The wind was blowing but, for the first time since leaving my uncle's flat in Estepona two days previously, it was doing so in the direction I was travelling.
Prior to my arrival in this corner of Spain, I had envisaged the landscape to be bare, flat, colourless and windswept. It was certainly windswept but far from bare, flat and colourless. Most of the hillsides were covered in pine trees that resembled large, upturned sticks of broccoli. More concerning from the perspective of a cyclist were the cactus plants that appeared sporadically and their thousands of sharp needles. I prayed that none would end up in Reggie's new tyres. A pesky cactus needle on day one was most certainly not part of my plans so, as there was little traffic, I positioned the bike in the centre of the road, continued to cycle and hoped for the best.
The wilderness of the Costa de la Luz, compared to the urban sprawl of the Costa del Sol, was a delight. Where development had taken place to cater for the needs of holidaymakers, it had been done without necessitating the building of tower blocks, the concreting over of every available patch of land or the opening of English-style pubs. Even the small industrial town of Barbate where the fishing industry had strewn its onshore infrastructure along the Avenue Generalísimo – Franco liked to spend his holidays in the town – didn't detract from the overall impression of a place where nature thrived.
The main historical highlight of this first day on the bike should have been a visit to the lighthouse at the Cabo de Trafalgar, the Cape of Trafalgar. It was near here that, in October 1805, and after a five-hour battle, the Royal Navy destroyed the Franco-Spanish fleet. It was one of the key battles of the Napoleonic Wars and dealt a severe blow to the French Emperor's ambitions to conquer the whole of Europe. The Battle of Trafalgar was an evenly matched affair: 27 ships on the British side against 33 French and Spanish vessels but by the end of the skirmish, 18 of those 33 had been destroyed and 3,000 of their sailors killed. The British didn't lose a single ship. Admiral Lord Nelson was one of 'only' 500 British casualties and his final words after having been shot on the deck of HMS Victory were, 'Thank God I have done my duty.' He was promptly stuffed in a barrel of brandy for the journey back home. The parting words of the other 499 British sailors don't seem to have been recorded but I'm guessing they were along the lines of 'Ouch!', 'Bugger!' or 'I knew I should have ducked!' My own parting words as I cycled away from the Cabo de Trafalgar were: 'I knew I should have come on a less windy day,' as it proved impossible to push poor Reggie through the sand that had been blown across the road to the lighthouse. Somewhat disappointed at not being able to gaze out to sea to the point where Nelson had got in a metaphoric – as well as literal – pickle, I continued north.
I planned to camp whenever possible. The second-best option would be a hostel and then a hotel. In addition, I was going to seek out WarmShowers hosts. The touring cyclist community's answer to CouchSurfing, WarmShowers had been of good use in the past and prior to setting off from Tarifa, I had attempted to contact half a dozen potential hosts in southern Spain and along the Vía de la
Plata. So far there had been no positive responses but it was early days and I remained confident that Spanish hospitality would come to the fore. Apart from being a cheap means of finding somewhere to sleep, it was, above all, an excellent way to interact with the locals. I needn't have been overly concerned about that aspect of the trip, however, as I was about to meet hundreds of 'locals' at Camping Fuente del Gallo, a two-star establishment just north of Conil de la Frontera.
Unsurprisingly for the start of April, campers were thin on the ground and consisted of a few elderly couples sitting snugly in the heat of the sealed awnings of their caravans or mobile homes. It was that time of year when, as soon as the sun set, the temperature fell rapidly so I was eager to get the tent erected and shuffle off to the warm restaurant. My main concern was to pick a patch of empty ground – there was plenty of it – far enough from the handful of other campers so as not to hear them snore but near enough for them to hear me scream should I be attacked during the night. Despite having spent many nights in a tent, I had yet to feel completely at ease when camping alone. But was I? I should have paid more attention to the ground upon which I pitched the tent. The local population that I was about to meet in their hundreds had just arrived: ants. In fairness, I had gatecrashed their party, but I groaned as I grew increasingly aware of the extent of the ant city underneath my tent. I quickly placed everything inside, pulled up the zip and fled the scene.