—
Casting my eyes skywards, there was much ornithological action to attract my gaze. Birds of prey circled above, hovered for a few moments and then swooped to seize their victims. Swallows darted in front of the bike almost as if they were clearing a path for me through an invisible crowd of people. Storks peered down from their lofty positions on top of electricity pylons where they had made their nests. The landscape reminded me of the Yorkshire Dales in the early months of summer: vibrant green grass, colourful flowers, drystone walls, cattle and sheep… The final third of the cycle from Mérida to Cáceres was the prettiest since leaving Seville.
As I approached Cáceres, I was joined by a lean, Lycra-clad cyclist. He was Spanish and his name was Santiago. Over the next few kilometres we chatted, in Spanish, about cycling, Spain and each other in a way that I had failed to do with John. Cáceres was much bigger and busier than I had expected, with wide boulevards lined by seven-storey apartment blocks and offices. Santiago continued to cycle with me until the junction where he could point me in the direction of Camping Cáceres, which was down a hill a few kilometres to the north of the town.
The further down the hill I cycled, the less enthusiastic I felt about camping. I had been staying in town centre hostals and hotels for several days by now and was very much appreciating the proximity of bars, restaurants and nightclubs. Admittedly, I had yet to visit any downtown Spanish discos but it was good to know that they were there should I feel the urge to dance the night away.
As a consequence, it was always going to be a hard sell for Camping Cáceres. The young woman on reception was keen to tell me about each pitch having its own individual toilet shed but it would cost me €21 (there was no option of ignoring it and making use of a nearby bush). So I was soon pedalling back into the centre to the Hotel Iberia where, for only a few extra euros, there was no mention of having to crap in a wooden box.
I found a laundrette and an hour or so later took great joy in pulling on my freshly laundered clothes while they were still warm. It is an underrated pleasure of being a touring cyclist and as I wandered into the old town of Cáceres, I glowed, ever so slightly. What I had seen of the place so far was nice and modern but as I approached the Plaza Mayor in the old town, I was taken aback to notice before me a long, open square of white buildings to my left and the pale, red stone of something decidedly medieval to my right. The sky had now darkened to a beautiful deep blue and at the base of the white buildings were the awnings of restaurants, illuminated from above. It made for a perfectly harmonious southern European scene and I suspected that I might have stumbled upon a highlight of the trip.
After finding something to eat, I didn't have much time or inclination to explore but the following morning I was back in the square, this time with Reggie in tow.
A long flight of steps connected the Plaza Mayor with the elevated cluster of buildings where the main attractions of the Ciudad Monumental were to be found. I paused at the bottom of the steps to read my guidebook, while at the same time wonder how I was going to drag a fully laden touring bike to the top. Fortunately, a long cobbled ramp hidden behind a row of bars and restaurants came to our rescue. Once inside the Ciudad, we wandered and I admired the almost-too-pristine buildings that made up the sides of each of four interlocking small squares. Apart from the odd delivery van, they were free from traffic and the buildings unblemished by modern-day shop fronts. They were a mixture of churches and government offices; the former clearly identifiable by their grand entrances and towers, the latter by a set of three flags – region, state and European – fluttering above the doorways. It came as no surprise to discover that the Ciudad Monumental had been designated as a World Heritage Site.
Back on the N-630, a sign told me that Salamanca was 197 km away. The 'official' cycling route of the Vía de la Plata split the journey into three stages, with stopovers in Carcaboso and Béjar, but the N-630 took a more direct route away from Carcaboso and through Plasencia. It was Friday and I reckoned that I could get to Salamanca by Saturday evening. The incentive for doing so was my first proper rest day on Sunday.
A new high-speed railway – the Línea de Alta Velocidad MadridExtremadura-Frontera Portuguesa – was taking shape north of Cáceres. Long and straight, it cut through the undulating landscape without mercy, and gracefully spanned rivers and reservoirs across half-completed high bridges. How strange that these unnatural, man-made constructions of steel and concrete could fit so harmoniously into an otherwise untouched piece of countryside.
More feats of great engineering were on the cards for later in the day but this time on a more personal level. As I approached the small town of Grimaldo, I noticed a wobble. Was it last night's pizza lying heavily in my stomach? The road surface wasn't great so I initially dismissed any fears that something could be amiss with Reggie (or indeed me). I pulled into a service station to buy peanuts but had to make do with an 'energy' bar which required more calories to be expended in opening the watertight wrapping than those gained in consuming the contents. A little dejected by my failure to top up the fuel tanks, I cycled across the forecourt of the garage. The front of the bike was very springy. Too springy? Yes. I stopped and squeezed the front tyre. It was not good news: I had a puncture.
I leaned Reggie against the wall of the service station in an area that was clear of refuse. My technical skills were limited. Even the challenge of changing an inner tube made my heart sink, but I knew that one of the keys to success in the procedure that I was about to perform would be in remembering how I dismantled everything, so I could put the bike back together again. I found the box of tools, laid them out on the bare patch of ground and carefully started to remove the wheel. This was not mechanics; this was surgery. I released the brakes, deflated the tyre and manoeuvred the hub of the wheel away from the forks and through the narrow pannier rack. Stage 1 was complete. I proceeded to insert the levers between the tyre and the rim, and ease it away from the metal…
Ten minutes later I stood back and admired my handiwork.
'Nurse, I think he will live.'
Patients can stay in bed for a week and recuperate. No such luck for Reggie. I was anxious that, although I had checked very carefully for anything inside the tyre that could have caused the deflation, I had found nothing. I inspected the operating theatre floor to ensure that we had everything; it was just as empty as when I had started. Very tentatively, I started to cycle down the road.
After 15 km, with a tyre that was still as hard as when I had pumped it up at the service station, I approached the outskirts of Plasencia. I had, it appeared, successfully managed to repair my bike without any outside intervention. Perhaps there was a God after all.
THE FIFTH DEGREE
40°–41° NORTH
17–20 April
With the existence (or not) of God on my mind, I cycled through the southern suburbs of Plasencia, past the optimistically named Funexpress funeral parlour and into the centre of the old town where, somewhat to my surprise, I met Jesus. Kind of.
I had reserved a room at the Albergue Santa Ana, a short walk from the main square. I was looking forward to meeting a few other travellers – religiously motivated or not – in the relaxed environment that the photograph I had seen online suggested would be a world away from the large youth hostel back in Jerez. Upon arrival, the two-storey albergue looked promising, except for one thing: it was closed. The door was locked but, behind heavy metal bars, one window was open. Although it was dark inside and there was no activity, the open window suggested that the albergue was only shut until someone returned rather than until the summer. I waited, stretching out on a convenient and unexpectedly comfortable concrete bench outside the door.
After ten minutes of dozing, I noticed that a young man had appeared. He was on a bike, albeit one that had seen better days, probably in the mid-to-late 1980s. He had a large, rolled-up sleeping bag on the back of the bike and a couple of well-worn panniers. I sat up from my horizontal position and
he turned to face me. His clothes were tatty, his skin was a shade of reddening mahogany and his scruffy beard was only outdone by his unkempt hair.
Jesus, I thought, unsure as to whether to add an exclamation or question mark. The man in front of me could have easily passed for a young Robert Powell in his Nazareth days.
When he spoke, his voice was soft. His name was Marcos and he was from South America but his functional English and my functional Spanish kept conversation to a minimum. Unlike me, Marcos wasn't willing to wait to see if anyone turned up to open the albergue, so after a few minutes he was off. He mentioned meeting up with a friend further north and seemed confident of finding alternative accommodation before darkness fell. I returned to my horizontal resting position, unsure as to whether I had just experienced the Second Coming or not.
I was reluctant to make alternative arrangements for the night, as I had already paid my €17 to the hostel online. My patience eventually paid off. A rather apologetic man arrived in a car, unlocked the door and gave me instructions. Despite my high hopes of sharing bread and fish soup with some other travellers along the Vía de la Plata, I would have the place to myself. Even the guy with the key wouldn't be spending the night at the albergue. He left me to choose my own bed in the 12-bunk dormitory and fend for myself.
The ride to Salamanca would be a long one so I was up early. I crept around the hostel in a manner that implied the light-sleeping society of Spain had arrived for their annual conference. They hadn't. I estimated that the cycling day would be one of around 130 km, eclipsing the 102 km between Seville and Monesterio by quite some margin. What's more, the route profile suggested that there was some serious climbing to be done and, only a kilometre out of Plasencia, that became more than apparent. I paused for a few moments to look across the valley that had opened up beneath me. Sandwiched between a cloudless blue sky and the green of the trees that blanketed the wide plain was the thin slither of a distant range of mountains.
What I could see was the southern flank of the Sistema Central, the rather prosaically named swathe of mountains that mark a 500 km line across the Iberian Peninsula where the south-east stops and the north-west begins. To get to Salamanca, I would have to climb them.
Again, it was turning out to be a cold day. Having consulted the forecast before leaving Plasencia, I was wrapped up, as were the many other cyclists who had hit the N-630 that Saturday morning. Most exchanged a cheery 'hola' or even 'buen camino' as they passed me at speed. Unlike me, they were not carrying any weight on their bicycles and not much on their bodies either. Near a small town called Hervás, just as I was beginning to feel the vertical effects of the Sistema Central, I paused for a drink and was joined by one of the SMAMILs (Spanish middle-aged man in Lycra). The topic of conversation was topography, and we 'chatted' easily by supplementing our altitude-themed exchange with hand gestures and a fair amount of incredulous intonation.
As our voices repeatedly raised and lowered in tone, and our hands etched out the contours of the land, it was clear that the period of significant climbing was about to start. My fellow cyclist, glancing down at the four panniers, was full of admiration for what I was about to attempt. When I mentioned that I intended to continue as far as Salamanca, the level of adulation went up a notch. Was I about to bite off more than I could chew?
My newly acquired fan wished me luck and sped off up the road. I set off at a more sedate pace, edging onwards both vertically and horizontally. My slow progress gave me the opportunity to admire the view, which was gradually changing back into one of winter. The trees were now predominantly bare of leaves and snow still capped some of the higher peaks. Altitude was clearly the major factor but latitude also played a role. I was moving away from Andalusia and its gentle maritime spring climate. Indeed, it struck me that although I may not have been as speedy as most of the other cyclists on the road, I was still progressing north more quickly than the season. That, at least, put a smile on my face.
Towards the end of the long climb, the wind picked up considerably but crucially it was heading in the same general direction as Reggie and me. The summit – the Puerto de Vallejera – was announced by a sign telling me that I had climbed to 1,202 metres. Although this was good news, I was still only halfway to Salamanca and from what I could see in the distance, I doubted it would be downhill all the way. It wasn't.
I was now in the region of Castilla y León and, for a period, the local authorities had adopted a much more casual approach to the upkeep of the N-630. On several occasions it morphed from the deserted major highway I had become accustomed to, into an inconsequential minor and much neglected back road. Gone were those wonderfully clear distance markers and, at times, I felt decidedly lost. I had been following the road since leaving Seville a week earlier and the realisation that it was no longer there was disconcerting to say the least. Gone were the elongated and carefree periods of gazing at the countryside; I was again required to think about where I was going.
The appearance of the pig-dominated town of Guijuelo prompted the region of Castilla y León to start using the N-630 signs again. And when I say 'pig-dominated', I mean just that. Almost without exception, the businesses along the N-630 had some role in the rearing, slaughtering or selling of pigs. Even those that didn't were keen to associate themselves with their four-trottered friends by incorporating into their name or logo something linking them to the not-so-humble pig. They all had their snouts in the trough. On the northern side of the town, distressed squeals emanated from a large concrete building and I sensed that a few more Iberian pork joints were about to start the ageing process.
My eventful day of cycling was not yet at an end. Following a final climb back up to nearly 1,000 metres, the remaining 25 km of the ride to Salamanca were predominantly downhill. The deep blue and cloudless sky of the morning and early afternoon had been replaced by a foreboding bank of black cloud to the north. I noticed a few forks of lightning linking the land to the sky but was not overly concerned, as the wind was still pushing me, and presumably the clouds, further north. Then, abruptly, the direction of the wind changed and within minutes the storm was no longer a distant thing to admire; it was overhead and I was in trouble.
Cycling in the rain could be tolerated, dare I say even enjoyed. Cycling through a storm of forked lightning was not going to be so enjoyable but with Salamanca so relatively close I was reluctant to stop cycling and seek shelter. I paused to put on my waterproof (alas not lightning-proof) jacket and headed into the storm. The open countryside offered little protection should I have chosen to stop; surely it was safer on the open road rather than under one of the few trees. My childhood had taught me that, as well as accepting sweets from strange men, standing under a tree in a storm was to be avoided at all costs. Better off on a bike with rubber tyres, hopefully.
The rain was now approaching a horizontal angle and so was most of my body, as I ploughed through the wall of water. It was also cold. Not the crisp, breathe-in-and-fill-your-lungs-with-gallons-of-freshness cold but painful, numbing, soaking wet cold. A combination of it being late afternoon and the black clouds above my head made it sufficiently dark for me to reach for my bike lights for the first time since leaving Tarifa. For the next 20 km I pedalled, without stopping, until I reached the safety of the centre of Salamanca.
The magnificent Plaza Mayor, the hub of Salamancan life, didn't look so magnificent through the prism of a dark, rainy evening – and even less so from the perspective of a cold, wet cyclist whose only desire was to thaw under a hot shower. Finding a hotel wasn't a problem, and within 15 minutes of arriving in the city I had (brace yourself) stripped naked and was standing in a bath waiting to be drenched in a good way.
Another five minutes later and I was standing (fully clothed) back at the reception desk.
'I'm sorry sir but we don't have any other rooms. The shower will be repaired in the morning.'
My second choice of hotel, the Estrella Albatros, not only had vacant rooms but also
showers that functioned, and warmth could return to my numbed body.
The magnificent Plaza Mayor (remember, that hub of Salamancan life) did look much more magnificent through the prism of a bright Sunday morning. Even more so from the perspective of a cyclist who had now thawed, dried out and benefitted from a good night's sleep. I found a bar in one corner of the plaza and filled in my diary, noting down the statistics of the previous day's cycling. The ride from Plasencia to Salamanca had been 133 km, bringing the total for the ten days of cycling from Tarifa to 754 km, or an average of 75.4 km per day. My late afternoon of toil and suffering had been worth it and the goal of completing the 7,500 km to Nordkapp in 100 days seemed a little more attainable. I deserved a day off and I was about to benefit from one.
Salamanca was full of frogs. Handbags, T-shirts, postcards, mugs, paperweights… Anything that your average tourist could possibly purchase was embellished with one. The street vendors were selling plastic ones with remarkably authentic croaks for only €2. But why? Walk down the Calle Libreros along one edge of the main building of the Universidad de Salamanca until you arrive at two red doors and you might find out the answer. Top tip: bring your binoculars.
Spain to Norway on a Bike Called Reggie Page 4
