Spain to Norway on a Bike Called Reggie

by Andrew P. Sykes

  Not only did I have to cope with no longer seeing Dirk – he'd been good company but I soon got over it – but my long-term relationship with the N-630 was about to hit the rocks. It was a parting of ways that was entirely predictable, as the Ruta de la Plata highway continued north towards the coast and I turned east towards France along the N-610. The N-630 had been quiet and the landscape surrounding it impressive. The N-610 was very different: kilometre after kilometre of the same view of tarmac and fields. No big hills to climb or descents to enjoy – just one long, cold, drizzle-infused trudge into a headwind, alongside speeding cars and articulated trucks. Those wonderful Spanish signs celebrated each diabolical kilometre: 80, 70, 60, 50… minor excitement when I discovered the Museo del Queso (that's cheese) in Villalón de Campos, but it was closed… 40, 30… a canal… 20, 10… Palencia. A Mercedes day of cycling if ever there was one.

  My destination did, however, promise excitement. WarmShowers, the accommodation social network for cyclists, had finally given me the chance of staying with a local. Of the ten requests so far sent, three had replied negatively and six hadn't responded, but finally I had received positive news. Juan, an English teacher in a local primary school, had offered me a bed for the night.

  Talking of school, the drizzle had now graduated from college and become a full-blown heavy downpour with rumbles of thunder in the distance. I took cover in a bar opposite the cathedral in the centre of Palencia to wait, a little nervously, for Juan to come and pick me up.

  The next two days were to provide me with the perfect antidote to the Mercedes day of cycling I had just experienced: welcoming people, fabulous countryside, interesting towns and a couple of nights of quality accommodation. When he arrived to meet me, I could see that Juan fitted the cycling stereotype much better than I did: tall and thin with a Bradley Wiggins beard. He lived alone in a centrally located flat, where he put together a simple but delicious meal of cured ham and bread. As we ate, we discussed our respective adventures on two wheels. A fellow teacher, he too had the opportunity of using the long summer holidays to venture a little further afield and for a longer period of time than many, and he harboured ambitions of one day travelling around the world. Alas, his most recent long-distance trip – cycling home from the north of France – had ended somewhat abruptly in Brittany following an accident with a car that resulted in a broken wrist. It was a reminder of just how easily great plans could be turned on their heads, and I prayed that between now and the end of my own trip I wouldn't succumb to a similar fate. It was one of those thoughts that was worth the effort of trying to forget.

  Later in the evening we headed out to meet up with his friends. Juan was the only member of our small group who spoke both fluent Spanish and English but, oiled with a few beers, the conversation flowed surprisingly well. The five Spanish thirty-somethings around the table – three women and two men – expressed admiration at me having cycled from Tarifa to the north of Spain. I played down my 'achievement' but smiled with just a hint of pride. Eventually, the mental exhaustion of concentrating on every word uttered finally got the better of all except Juan and we headed home.

  The following day was a bank holiday in Castilla y León so, as an employee of the state, Juan had a day off. He proposed that he escort me for the first part of the journey towards Burgos – an offer I gladly accepted – and we set off towards the hills.

  The only direct road from Palencia to Burgos was the A62 autovía. Had I not been cycling with Juan, I may have followed the vía de servicio, a side road for unauthorised traffic that most Spanish motorways seemed to have. But local knowledge was about to pay dividends in abundance, as Juan guided me into open countryside far from any traffic. The views were similar to those of the previous day but without the rain, wind, cars and lorries, and with a bright sun illuminating the immense carpet of crops, I could have been cycling on a different continent.

  After about 25 km of steady climbing, we arrived in the pretty village of Astudillo for mid-morning coffee. We chatted as we sipped our espressos in the peaceful main square; a few young children were running around the pruned trees, three white-haired old men and a dog were sitting on one of the benches, chewing over life (or a bone in the case of the dog), and the sun was popping in and out from behind the clouds... Perfect. Had I reached such a level of contentment with cycling since leaving Tarifa? I doubted it.

  North of Astudillo, I continued my cycle alone but near the small rural town of Castrojeriz I began to encounter pilgrims walking to Santiago de Compostela along the route of the Camino de Santiago.

  '¡Buen camino!'

  '¡Buen camino!'

  It was a Thursday afternoon in late April. Not, I would have thought, the busiest time of the year for pilgrims, but over the course of the next 30 minutes I encountered perhaps 50 walkers. That meant a lot of 'buen caminos'. After so many days spent ruling the road as a lone cyclist, it was all a bit bewildering. I imagined that by embarking upon a pilgrimage you might be hoping for peace and solitude. Little chance of that happening on the Camino de Santiago. You'd have found more solitude on a stroll around Piccadilly Circus.

  In fairness, it was a novelty to have the company, albeit fleeting, as our paths crossed. Most did respond to 'buen camino' but some didn't. I wondered about the pilgrims' motivations for taking on such a physically demanding challenge. Why were they there? What were they thinking about? Was it living up to their expectations? What I was sure about, however, was that every single one of them was wondering: 'Does that bloke know that he's cycling in the wrong direction?'

  —

  Plan A involved campsite A, about 20 km to the west of Burgos, but it was too close to the motorway on one side and a large construction site for the new Burgos to Valladolid high speed train line on the other. I opted for plan B instead, without knowing if campsite B existed. Fortunately, it did, and it was called Camping Fuentes Blancas, located a short cycle from the centre of Burgos. It was my kind of site: municipal (i.e. cheap), friendly, no hedges preventing casual fraternisation with potentially interesting neighbours and no riff-raff.

  Indeed, my near neighbour was about as far from riff-raff as you could get without feeling obliged to bow your head. His name was Peter and he was travelling with his wife Linda in a modern VW camper. It was a palace on wheels that had transported Peter – a former 'Controller of European Services' at the BBC World Service – and Linda to most parts of Europe. He was a linguist, and his knowledge of the world and its languages made him not only good company, but also a useful source of practical information about my onward journey across the continent. He also had words of advice about my next few days in Spain.

  'Whatever you do, don't stay at Camping Bañares. It's terrible,' he explained the following morning. 'The campsite in Logroño is great, but avoid Camping Bañares at all cost – screaming kids everywhere…'

  By the time I left Burgos – the impressive historic buildings of the city centre were too good to simply ignore – it was already approaching midday and the possibility of cycling as far as Logroño, over 100 km away, was remote. It was, however, good cycling country: a gentle climb to the Puerto de la Pedraja at 1,150 metres before a long, almost continuous descent towards the small region of La Rioja.

  The first town in La Rioja was Santo Domingo de la Calzada. Its narrow streets were full of the pilgrims that I had been continuing to encounter all day, as the walkers' path ran parallel to the road. There were numerous hostels in the centre and even a Parador hotel; I was tempted, but the previous night in the tent had been my first for over 11 days and it had rekindled my enthusiasm for camping. I decided to push on a further 5 km to Camping Bañares. It couldn't be that bad, could it?

  It resembled a mini city, with roads, junctions and not just hedges marking out each pitch, but high fences. These had, by all appearances, been constructed by the absent residents of the mobile homes that dominated the site. I was left with a small patch of rough ground next to the wash block. The staff w
ere friendly enough but I was soon regretting not taking the plunge, digging into my pocket and luxuriating for one night at least back at the Parador in Santo Domingo de la Calzada.

  The countryside of La Rioja was gorgeous. With mountains forming an ever-present but distant backdrop, the valleys through which I was cycling were home to some of the most picturesque views I had yet to encounter in Spain. The cultivation of grapes dominated the landscape in a way that the rearing of pigs hadn't dominated back in Extremadura. Lines of vines crossed the gentle inclines of most of the fields of red earth. For a country that was the third largest producer of wine in the world, I found it curious that it was only here, in the north-eastern corner of Spain, after more than 1,000 km of travel that I had seen my first vine.

  It was now the weekend – Saturday to be precise – and I was seeing many more cycling pilgrims along the Camino. They were just as diverse as their walking counterparts. I chatted to a couple of retired Belgian cyclists. Like me, they were sticking to the roads but a few kilometres further along, two young Germans explained that they were happy to remain loyal to the official route despite its uneven surface. Perhaps it was an age thing. Or, indeed, a German one.

  Just as Peter had promised, Camping La Playa in Logroño was a much better site. I spent the evening contemplating my three remaining days in Spain which would form a cycling-Pamplonacycling sandwich. East of Logroño there was no mistaking that the Pyrenees were fast approaching. During the day, I sweated through three significant ascents and numerous minor ones, climbing in total over 1,000 metres into the sky. The rewards were ever-moreinspiring views of green valleys, distant outcrops of rock, and small towns and villages clinging to the edges of the riverbanks. The climbs and the views were intrinsically linked: without one there wouldn't have been the other, and I had no complaints whatsoever.

  The final ascent of the day was a crawl of over 300 metres to the top of one of the hills surrounding Pamplona, the Alto de Perdón. I was congratulated on hauling myself to the top by two Spanish cyclists who were out for a Sunday afternoon spin. Our conversation, translated, went roughly as follows:

  Spanish cyclist 1: 'Where have you come from?'

  Me: 'Tarifa.'

  SC1: 'Goodness. That's impressive. I must shake your hand.'

  Spanish cyclist 2: [Who had just arrived at the top of the hill and been given the low-down on my efforts in high-speed Spanish by his mate] 'I must shake your hand too.' [Which he did.]

  [Assorted chit-chat followed about our respective cycling endeavours.]

  SC1: 'Don't forget to wear your helmet.'

  SC2: 'If the Guardia Civil catch you not wearing it, they will fine you €200.'

  Me: 'Well, I've been passed by lots of Guardia Civil cars and they haven't yet stopped to fine me.'

  SC1: [Now bent double, laughing and pointing in the direction of SC2] 'Ha! He's a Guardia Civil officer!'

  SC2: 'Well, err…'

  Me: 'Err…'

  I was reminded of a conversation that I had had with Roman, the German guy who ran the bike shop in San Pedro, near my uncle's apartment. He had explained that the wearing of helmets was compulsory in the countryside, but not in urban areas. However, there were three exemptions to this rule. Firstly, you didn't need to wear your helmet 'during periods of excessive heat'. No one could describe Sunday 26 April 2015 in north-eastern Spain as being in the middle of one of those. Exemption two: if you are a professional cyclist. My speed alone would have made that a hard one to plead in mitigation. Exemption three: on steep hills. The climb to the Alto de Perdón was certainly that – I was off the hook.

  —

  Despite the rain, the dark charm of Pamplona, capital city of Navarra, was evident. Or should I say Nafarroa? Or even Navarre? But isn't this the Basque Country? Or Euskal Herria? Hang on, you said Pamplona? Shouldn't that be Iruña? And what about the bit over the border in France? Isn't that the Basque Country – le Pays Basque – as well?

  The Basque Country, or Euskal Herria, extends over 21,000 km2, half of which is the Chartered Community of Navarre. Ninety per cent of the population live in the part of the Basque Country situated in the Spanish state and the rest in France. The Basque Country is divided into the 'historical territories' of Araba, Biscay, Gipuzkoa, Lapurdi, Navarre, Lower Navarre and Zuberoa. Today the territories in the Spanish state are divided into two self-governing administrative regions: Navarre and the Basque Country (Euskadi). The territories north of the Pyrenees are within the French département of the Pyrénées-Atlantiques. Let's not mention the Treviño enclave…

  There was much evidence of the region's semi-autonomous status. Many buildings sported pro-Basque graffiti, Basque flags were draped from countless windows and the Basque language was ubiquitous, used in parallel with (and often instead of) Spanish. The Basque Country may not have achieved full independence from the Spanish and French states but, from the evidence to be seen in its capital, here was a region wallowing in almost full autonomy.

  After a night in a dry and warm hotel, I was back in the main square, preparing for a day of exploration – my second day of rest of the trip.

  Salamanca had had its croaking frogs; Pamplona had its raging bulls. They were decidedly quieter than their reptilian counterparts further south, however, only to be seen on posters, in souvenir shops and, strikingly, in one spectacular statue situated along a rather anonymous shopping street near the bull ring. The Monumento al Encierro depicted in frozen and bloodless detail the infamous running of the bulls that takes place every July. At 8 a.m. each morning from the 7 to the 14 of July, six bulls charge along the fenced-off 800 m course through the city centre towards the bull ring. Locals and tourists who are brave (or stupid) enough to run with the animals have only a rolled-up newspaper with which to defend themselves. My suggestion would be to go for a Sunday broadsheet rather than a tabloid.

  The running of the bulls is not unique to Pamplona, of course, and it will come as little surprise to discover that every year many men (for it is men who seem to participate most frequently) are killed taking part in it. In Pamplona, 15 lives have been lost in the last 100 years. Across Spain, 2015 was one of the deadliest years on record, with ten people being killed, including four people over the course of just one weekend in August. One of the ten people to lose their lives was too busy filming the event on his mobile phone to notice that a bull was about to gore him in the neck from behind.

  It seemed unlikely that something so close to the Spanish heart – occasionally all too literally – would ever be banished from the kingdom but austerity may be giving a helping hand to those who want to see it outlawed. Cash-strapped local authorities are beginning to prioritise funding schools over bloody bull festivals. You can see their point.

  I wasn't sorry to have arrived in Pamplona nearly three months too early to witness any running; the evocative statue would suffice for me. I was happier getting up close and personal with the pilgrims who were walking along the Camino and for whom Pamplona was their first major stop. Usually in small groups of three or four, they were easy to identify with their sticks, rucksacks and brightly coloured waterproof jackets. At this point of their own adventures they were still visibly enthusiastic about what was to come along the road to Santiago. The following morning – my final morning in Spain – I continued to pass them as I approached the fortythird degree of latitude. It was only 10 km from the border with France and 1 km south of the first Spanish stop on the Camino, Roncesvalles.

  It was a steady climb from Pamplona at 450 metres towards Roncesvalles at 900 metres, but there were many small cafés along the route through the foothills of the mountains. I made the most of their facilities when hunger got the better of me and chatted with a few of the pilgrims. They had a long way to travel to their destination but so did I. As I cycled those final few Spanish kilometres, I spent most of my time reflecting upon my months in Spain: Cádiz, my uncle's place in Estepona, the cycle through Andalusia, Seville, the Vía de la Plata, Salamanca,
German Dirk, Spanish Juan, English Peter, frogs, bulls, pilgrims… It had all gone pretty well. And then I thought about what was to come, not in the medium to long term, but in the very short term; I still had to cross the Pyrenees.

  PART 2

  FRANCE

  THE EIGHTH DEGREE

  43°–44° NORTH

  28–30 April

  I paused for lunch at Roncesvalles, my final destination in Spain. Imagining it to be a sizeable town, I was surprised to find it small, quiet and isolated. One building dominated the village: the Real Colegiata de Santa María de Roncesvalles, a former hospital for pilgrims, around which a cluster of other pilgrim-serving enterprises had been established, including a couple of hotels and a hostal, Casa Sabina, which also served food. I sat outside the building, ordered a sandwich and contemplated the climb to come.

  Fifteen minutes later I remounted and started the long crawl over the Pyrenees in the direction of the French border and the town of Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port. In front of me was the Michelin map booklet of the Camino de Santiago, which broke down the walking route into 34 stages, each of approximately 25 km. Above each map was a height profile of the stage. I noted that between Roncesvalles and the highest point of the first day of the walk, I needed to ascend a further 500 metres.