43-45 EUROPE - PART 25
July – 27 August 20113 438 Kilometres - 52 Days
43
France (2)
1
901 Km – 23 Days
5
July - Budapest, Hungary – Basel, Switzerland - By train
I
left my comfortable hotel and headed to the station to board a train to Basel
and then pick up the bike path leading west from Basel to the Atlantic coast in
France. Unfortunately, my inexpensive ticket meant jumping on and off the train
to move the bike from one car to the next. It further meant I had only a seat,
which made sleeping virtually impossible.
6
July - Basel, Switzerland – Mulhouse, France - 50 km
Arriving
in Basel left me slightly confused and disorientated. The town is located at
the Swiss, French and German borders. Although located in Switzerland, it has
suburbs in both France and Germany. With the result, I wasn’t quite sure in
which country I found myself.
Basel
is a fascinating city with an old historic centre. Still, I was keen to get on
the bicycle and head west to the Atlantic coast. Thus, I hopped on the bike
path and ambled to Mulhouse, France. The ride was a short one next to the
Rheine, or rather the Rheine canal.
The
route was particularly picturesque, with a forest to the one side and a canal
with ducks on the other. The path was well marked, and arrival in Mulhouse was in
good time. My early arrival gave ample time to explore and pick up bread and cheese.
Then, off to the campsite where not only did they have Wi-Fi, but also sold pizzas.
Tired from a lack of sleep, I planned on crawling in early- not easy in a place
that stayed light until 9.30 p.m.
7
July - Mulhouse – L’Isle-sur-le Doubs - 80 km
I
ate the last of the bread and cheese and slowly loaded up, making it 10 a.m.
before getting underway. My chosen path followed the Veloroute 6 cycle path and
ran easterly alongside the Canal du Rhone. The path wasn’t as congested as the
Danube cycle path but still well-used and was shared with fellow cyclists,
runners and Nordic walkers. These paths were
the best thing since sliced bread.
The
canal was busy with barges and boathouses cruising the waterways. However, the
going seemed slow as numerous locks existed where boats had to wait in line.
Each lock had a “lockmaster”, with a house situated directly opposite the lock.
Most of these were picture pretty with lovely colourful gardens.
There
were hardly any stopping as dark clouds gathered and the weather soon came in. Unfortunately,
the dreary weather made for pulling into the next best campground. The tent was
barely up before the thunder and lightning started. Safely in the tent, I ate
the leftover bread and cheese but spotted a mobile pizza stand at the entrance
to the camp. As soon as the rain subsided, I made a beeline for the pizza stand
and scoffed half a pizza, saving the rest for breakfast.
8
July - L’Isle-sur-le Doubs – Ranchot - 110 km
I
woke to a misty Friday morning, but the mist soon cleared, and the day turned
into a beautiful, sunny one. Waiting for the tent to dry, I drank coffee and
ate the remaining pizza.
The
path continued along the Rheine canal, past rustic-looking settlements that
appeared uninhabited. No peep came from any of the houses. In contrast, the
channel was filled with houseboats, slowly moving up and down the canal.
Besancon
begged to be investigated as a colossal fort/citadel dominated the town. The
citadel occupies eleven hectares atop Mount Saint-Etienne. Situated high up on
a hill, the complex even had a tunnel running underneath. Pedalling through the
tunnel, I popped out on the other side, only to discover the fort even more
significant than anticipated. Although Besancon is quite a large town, it was
best to continue as it was still early.
An
unexpected sign indicated the distance of a mere 730 km to Nantes on the
Atlantic coast. Far closer than envisaged.
Armed
with that information, I felt I’d covered enough ground for the day and pitched
the tent at Rancho. Albeit a basic camp, the smell of the freshly mowed lawn
and the sound of the river made it heaven on earth. Unfortunately, finding food
proved harder than foreseen. The campground was situated in a remote area, and I
had to return to the previous village to find bread. Not a big deal, as the
distance was a meagre 1.5 kilometres.
9
July - Ranchot – Verdun-sur-le-Doubs - 105 km
Back
to my old sleeping habits, all but a few campers had already gone by the time I
emerged. They must have been in a great hurry.
The
day’s ride started with a short 25-kilometre amble to Dole, the birthplace of
Louis Pasteur, dating back to the Middle Ages. The Collegiale-Notre-Dame is likely
the most important building in town. Located in the centre of the old city,
the basilica can be seen from quite a distance away. Then, following a short
cycle through the
well-preserved historic centre of Dole, I returned to the bike
path en route to Seurre.
It
drizzled the best part of the day, and fed up with the dreary weather, a
campsite at pretty Verdun-sur-le-Doubs, lured me in. At 5 euros, it was by far
the cheapest encountered on the trip. The place even came with an English-speaking
lady at reception and Wi-Fi.
When
my tent was pitched, I was starving and rode to the mini-market to purchase bread,
cheese, chips, beer and coffee. The day was short but enjoyable as
Verdun-sur-le-Doubs was an old settlement with beautiful old buildings, narrow passages
and old stone bridges.
10
July - Verdun-sur-le-Doubs
Surfacing
to thunder and lightning made me stay the day. But, first, I had to do laundry,
and, as the camp was equipped with a washing machine and drier, I thought it an
excellent place to hang a day.
Verdun-sur-le-Doubs
is an ancient medieval city. In 843, the town became a border town. Thus, the
scene of many deadly struggles between Burgundy and France and between
Catholics and Protestants during the religious wars. The city lost its border
status at the end of the 17th century and finally experienced calm.
It
felt ever so French scooting around on my bicycle, drinking coffee at pavement
cafés and buying a baguette and camembert cheese from the village grocer. Before
returning to camp, I popped in at the supermarket to get gas for my stove,
washing powder to do much-needed laundry and salt for the bland food. My
panniers were getting heavier instead of lighter.
The
rain abated, and with the campsite on the river, one could watch houseboats
putt-putting by as serious-looking fishermen cast their lines. But, as usual, no
one caught anything.
I
was dying to pick up a little French as it’s such a beautiful-sounding language.
I tried throwing in the odd “Bonjour”, “Merci”, and “Au revoir”, but judging by
the expressions on people’s faces, they most likely thought I was swearing at
them.
11
July - Verdun-sur-le-Doubs – Paray-le-Monial - 132 km
The
next day became a beautiful sunny day. The good weather made me put foot and bike
to Paray without the usual coffee stops. Instead, the entire day was spent alongside
the canal. The path went up over the hills, but I stuck to country lanes,
making the way more manageable. This was a totally different area of France. Vineyards
abounded and gone were the forests of the previous days. Only once did I venture
off-road on a path the map indicated as “rough” but found no more than a grassy
jeep track. Clearly, “rough” in Europe doesn’t have the same connotation as in
Africa.
Still,
houseboats occurred in large numbers, and one even had a substantial South
African flag. I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to say hello, and they looked
as surprised as I was to find a fellow citizen in this part of France. We’d a
quick chat and then it was their turn to move through the lock.
I
crawled into Paray, hungry and tired. Fortunately, a mobile pizza stand operated
at the campsite gate. The pizza was one of the better ones - or I was starving.
The good weather allowed for sitting outside until the sun disappeared, at
around 10 p.m.
12
July - Paray-le-Monial – Nevers - 115 km
The
day dawned bright and sunny, and I made an early start in case the weather
turned. Biking
was along the banks of the Loire River, but the cycle path seemed to head over
the hills. I stuck to farm roads that followed the river and past
medieval-looking towns, which appeared deserted. Decize sported a campground,
but I only had coffee and pedalled on to Nevers as it was early and the weather
was good.
In
Nevers, the campsite was right on the Loire River with a view of the old town
and cathedral. A short walk into town revealed a Carrefour. I popped in, grabbed
a ready-made salad, two baguettes, more coffee and was set for an evening of
gorging myself.
What
an extraordinary place Nevers was. Its narrow, winding streets, old houses, and
cathedrals made it an excellent place to overnight.
13
July - Nevers – Cosne-Cours-sur-Loire - 90 km
It
was disappointing to wake to a dreary and icy morning. But, unfortunately, winter
was back, and I was slow in rising. With the result, it was 10 a.m. before setting
off heavy-heartedly into the drizzle. Scarcely an hour into the day, a cosy-looking
pub made a good enough coffee stop.
The
day dragged on as I’d my head down, pedalling into a slight headwind and a
constant drizzle. The weather felt and looked more like autumn than summer.
Cosne
allowed drawing money and buying a SIM card for the modem. The detour revealed a
suitable place to pitch the tent and thus indicated the end of the day’s ride. Finally,
the rain subsided, which allowed for sitting outside, enjoying my usual bread
and cheese.
14
July - Cosne-Cours-sur-Loire - Orleans - 124 km
I
didn’t expect the day to be quite as hard. But, unfortunately, the way led
straight into a headwind and I didn’t appreciate the gravelly sections in such
dire conditions.
Coffee
was in a commune, which, despite looking closed, fortunately, had one open pub.
Sully offered lunch at the castle, then back on the bicycle and into the wind. Resulting
in it being pretty late by the time I rolled into Orleans; mercifully, it
stayed light until late.
A
plate of French fries and a beer were needed before crawling in. Bastille Day,
the French National Day, was in full swing but no amount of fireworks was going
to keep me from my slumber. The poor people had to wait until 11 p.m. to start
the fireworks as the sun only set around 10 p.m. Thousands of euros must have
gone up in smoke that night.
15
July - Orleans – Chaumont-sur-Loire - 84 km
I emerged
to a lovely, sunny morning on the banks of the Loire River. I had no breakfast
as I was slack at shopping the previous day. Instead of packing up,
conversations with other campers meant the time was after ten before I headed downstream.
Twenty kilometres later, I discovered a picture-perfect settlement with a quaint
pastry shop.
The
day consisted of weaving through medieval-looking communities while sticking
close to the Loire River. This time I shopped and soon afterwards came upon a
conveniently located campground. Cycling into the wind the past few days left
me exhausted and best to do a short ride. Bastille Day celebrations were still
in full swing. We were treated to a fireworks display and the sound of bands, drifted
from across the river.
16
July - Chaumont-sur-Loire – Montsoreau - 110 km
Early
morning, I hurriedly
saddled up as it was already spitting. The day turned out blustery and cold as
I biked past Amboise, where people live in caves, which reminded me of Coober
Pedy in Australia. I further learned caves make excellent wine cellars.
Next,
the path led past impressive Tours, where I grabbed a quick coffee and then
back on the bike and into the howling wind and rain. What an utterly miserable
day. I was desperate to find a toilet, and on spotting a forest area, I quickly
squatted - only to find I’d placed myself squarely on a patch of stinging
nettles. Nevertheless, my ass was on fire, and I covered the last 15 kilometres
to camp in record time.
17
July - Montsoreau – La Possonniere - 78 km
Getting
out of the tent was with great reluctance, as the weather was freezing, windy
and overcast. My path led up hills, through vineyards, past impressive castles,
and back to the river.
Around
midday, the wind became even more fierce and almost blew me off my bicycle. I
became increasingly irritated, grinding into the wind, which drove a bitterly cold
rain into my face. Finally, sopping wet, I pulled my cap down low, put my head down
and battled on until La Possonniere, where a basic campsite signalled the end
of the day’s ride. Phew!
18/19
July - La Possonniere - Nantes - 92 km
I
slept well and only rose at around 8 a.m. With little change in the weather, I was
long-lipped but nonetheless packed up. Thirty kilometres down the drag, my
stomach told me it was breakfast time and I stopped at a café for coffee and a croissant.
Rounding a corner and spotting old castles and forts never failed to surprise. The
route was so pretty the dreary weather was soon forgotten and my lip went back
into place.
Nantes
was the last big city before leaving Veloroute 6, but searching for a place to
pitch the tent took some time. Two sites were indicated on the map, but neither
existed. This lack of camping left me no other option but to look for budget accommodation
in town. Sadly, none were found and, eventually, I weakened and settled for a reasonably
priced hotel and paid for two nights.
Nantes
is a vast city with all the items I was looking for. Amongst these was a
roadmap for the route south via the Atlantic coast to Spain. I did the usual
rest day tasks, sorted out my internet connection and did personal maintenance.
Still, it remained a pleasure to wander the narrow pedestrian lanes where
locals chatted and sipped coffee at sidewalk cafés.
20
July - Nantes – La Bernerie - 95 km
In
anticipation of a headwind, I was ready shortly before 8.30 a.m. The wind was nevertheless
the least of my problems as rain came gushing down the entire day. The path
followed the last stretch of the Loire River before it flowed
into the Atlantic Ocean, or Bay of Biscay, at St Nazaire. St Nazaire also
indicated the end of the Eurovelo 6 cycle path and from where the plan was to
head south. Regrettably, the weather was shite, and I just about had enough of
the dreadful weather.
Surprisingly,
a sign pointed to a cycleway known as the Vélocéan. It
was fun following the little arrows until reaching La Bernerie, where a rather
fancy campsite lured me in. I was soaked to the bone and happy to call it a
day. Trying to keep things dry while putting up a tent in bucketing rain was useless.
Before the flysheet was on, the entire tent was sopping wet. Once inside, I was
as happy as the proverbial pig with dry clothes and a steaming mug of coffee in
hand.
21
July - La Bernerie - Port Bourgenay - 113 km
There
was no chance of drying the tent or clothes in such miserable weather. So the
wet clothes were promptly stuffed into plastic bags before hitting the road.
Following
the path was slow going and frustrating, but avoided the hectic main roads. Although
scenic, the way was more suited to families with children on a day out. Truth
be told, cycling would have been a great deal quicker if I had taken the vehicle
route. Minor routes were small and narrow but still very busy, making cycling frustrating
for cyclists and motorists. I must, nevertheless, give it to the French: they
patiently sat behind cyclists on these minor roads, waiting to overtake. And
when they eventually got a chance to pass, they waved and gave the thumbs up.
The
path took me across the Vendee, down canals, through forests, while closely
following the coast. Then, past large and popular resort towns, until reaching
Port Bourgenay, which sported bargain camping. But rather than miss out on inexpensive
accommodation, I pulled in. The Vendee is a flat area where the highest point is
a mere 295m, and with a good tailwind and no rain, cycling was easy.
22
July - Port Bourgenay – La Rochelle - 107 km
The
sun came out for the first time in days and, at last, the tent could dry. It’s
not always easy to shop in a foreign country and what was purchased in good faith
as yoghurt, turned out, cream. Breakfast no doubt consisted of muesli and
cream.
My
first stop was at the seaside resort of La Tranche, which had a real holiday
feel with all kinds of stalls, merry-go-rounds, and wind-surfing shops. I
looked around but then made the mistake of following the cycle path, which
promptly disappeared and made me wonder where the hell I was. It must be
mentioned, that I had no smartphone or GPS at the time, solely a paper map.
Eventually,
I was back on a marked road and continued towards La Rochelle. By then, the
wind had picked up to near storm strength, my windbreaker roaring in the wind
like a Boeing 747. I’d every intention of continuing past La Rochelle but
weakened on spotting a campsite that didn’t look too pricey. However, the
reason for the discounted price soon became apparent.
The
site was right on the flight path of aircraft to and from the nearby airport.
What a noisy place. The campground owner was rather impressed by my “itinerary”
and kept repeating “impossible” in his lovely French accent. He then proceeded
to inform the entire grounds. All the attention made me feel like a celebrity -
photoshoot and all. This is something that has always left me embarrassed.
23
July - La Rochelle – Verdon-sur-mer - 113 km
I
had a relatively slow start but eventually got going. It took forever to clear
the city limits, but 20 kilometres later, my route finally spat me out on a
country lane. The
day was frustrating as it was a continuous search for minor roads. Much as predicted,
the wind was as strong as the previous day. I hated the idea but eventually opted
for the big, congested road and gunned it to Royan.
At
Royan, a ferry carted people across the windy bay to Verdon-sur-Mer, a short
ferry ride of about 30 minutes. Starving, just enough time remained for a quick
coffee and a bread roll before arriving at our destination. Once there, only
about eight or ten kilometres remained to a campsite.
24
July - Verdon-sur-Mer – Gulan Mestras - 121 km
Finding
myself on the Camino route was an unexpected but pleasant surprise. At first, I
believed it was a mistake, but the
signs were clear and soon one could see Camino accommodation advertised. The way
was crammed with families on a Sunday afternoon meander, and ”Moi” the only
daft one with a loaded bike.
I
chatted to one of the first cycle tourers since leaving Budapest - a French
chap on his first cycling holiday. Unfortunately, the rain came pouring down,
and there was little chance to swap war stories as we stayed huddled in our
tents. Fortunately, the camp had a basic store to buy bread and cheese (which
became supper) as well as biscuits for breakfast.
25
July - Gulan Mestras – Farm Bias - 91 km
By
11h00, there was still no sign that the rain would subside, leaving no option
but to face the weather. The day was thoroughly dismal as it never stopped
raining, and my route spat me out on a busy motorway. The traffic, combined with
low visibility, made me call it a day early.
My
chosen spot revealed more unhappy campers huddled together under a makeshift
shelter, packing up to return home. They had had enough of the terrible weather
and had nowhere to go with their active kids.
The
tent was pitched in a great hurry, but almost everything got wet before the
flysheet was up. What a good thing I’d stopped to replenish my dwindling food
supply. I lay in my tent, munching on sweets and crisps. By evening, I warmed
up the ready-to-eat meal I’d bought at Lidels earlier. Most campgrounds had
small shops where one could find something to eat, but this one had no such
facilities as it was located on a farm.
26/27
July - Farm, Bias – Capbreton - 91 km
After
donning my last dry clothes and downing a quick coffee, it was back on the road.
The show must go on, and there was no point in lying around. The idea of another
wet and rainy day wasn’t appealing, but what else was there to do? I mostly had
my head down as the rain pelted down the entire day. Midday, a supermarket appeared,
which made stocking up easy. Fed up with this rainy affair, the next available
camping spot had to do.
The
following morning, the sun almost came out, indicating time to use the camp
‘laverie’. The laundry made easy washing and drying of clothes that had been in
plastic bags a few days and smelled to high heaven. A quick trip into Centre
Ville revealed a map of Spain and a camera shop to purchase a memory card. The
general store provided an adapter to fit Europe’s strange power points. I
further posted memory cards home with photos from the past months.
44
Spain
967
Km – 16 Days
28
July - Capbreton, France – San Sebastian, Spain - 91 km
With
both tent and clothes dry, loading up was at leisure before pointing the bike in
the direction of the border. My chosen route stuck close to the coast and spat
me out in ritzy Biarritz. Still, the trail continued towards the border and reached
Spain without any fanfare. There was no sign, and one arrived without knowing
it.
There
was, however, no doubt that I found myself in Spain. The architecture wasn’t only
different but a new language and culture awaited. The landscape further became a
great deal hillier. San Sebastian was significantly larger than anticipated. Still,
signs indicating free Camino accommodation were clearly visible.
In
no time, I had a Pilgrim’s Passport (or ‘credentials’ as they call it), and a
whole new world opened to me. Unfortunately, the doors at the ‘Refugio’ closed
at 10 p.m. and by 10.30 p.m, the lights were out. Although pretty early, I
didn’t complain as it was free. Still, I had to get into the Camino way and
figure out when and where to eat. Fortunately, four bread rolls were left in my
panniers. Not much of a meal, but better than nothing.
29
July - San Sabastian – Mutriku - 58 km
We
were kicked out of the ‘Refugio’ at 8h00, and I opted for coffee and a croissant
while waiting for the bike shop to open. The gears on my bicycle needed
adjusting, but there seemed little they could do. At least I had the brake blocks
replaced in anticipation of the severe downhills.
Then
off to the computer shop to seek a SIM card for the modem. Hence it was midday
before departing the resort town of San Sebastián via cobbled streets. My route
took me along the Bay of Biscay, a picturesque but mountainous region.
The
day was windless and sunny as I churned my way up steep hills at a snail’s
pace, simply to fly down the other side like a kamikaze pilot. Holy crap, Spain
is hilly. There was more stopping than cycling, mainly to take in the unusual landscape.
I
pitched my tent at Mutriku as the map didn’t indicate other suitable places nearby.
It took huffing and puffing up a near-vertical hill to the campground. The place
was worth every sweaty pedal stroke as it came with excellent lawns and
stunning scenery.
I
sat in the sun studying the map, and it, quite frankly, scared the living
daylights out of me. Spain was far more mountainous than envisaged. I had no
intention of going back up the hill for food. I thus warmed up a rice dish I
had in my bag for ages, followed by coffee and chocolate biscuits for dessert.
30
July - Mutriku – Bilbao – 86 km
It
dawned bright and sunny as I prepared for a hilly ride. My route followed the
Camino route, not necessarily the easiest or shortest way, but I followed the
signs anyhow. The people encountered were friendly and greetings of “Hola” and “Welcome
to the Camino” were frequently heard as I passed people heading in the opposite
direction. Still, there was no sight of cycle tourers. There were nonetheless masses
of cyclists on road bikes powering up the hills. Spain must indeed have the
best hill climbers in the world. One was chatting on his mobile phone, going up
a steep hill.
My
path left the coast and turned inland over the mountains, passing through small
villages with ancient-looking churches high up on hills. Thank goodness for a granny
gear. I sometimes seriously doubt my choice of routes and, for that matter, my
sanity.
Bilbao
came as a pleasant surprise; not merely was the city massive but also jaw-droppingly
beautiful. However, the lack of campsites made settling for a pension in the
old town.
31
July - Bilboa
My
legs felt lame, my knees sore, and the town of Bilbao looked inviting enough to
take a break. Paying for two nights was a no-brainer before donning a backpack to
explore. Not only were there impressive old buildings and churches, but I
realised I was firmly entrenched in the land of sangria and tapas. Although
everything was firmly shut, as it was Sunday, it seemed pretty all right to
have a glass of wine at 10h00. Street artists were hard at work trying to earn
a living. Soon the cafés opened and people were outside sipping coffee or a
glass of wine.
A
pleasant surprise awaited as I had word from my friend Ed, who lived in the UK,
that he was heading in my direction by motorbike. So, I stayed an additional
day to meet up with him.
1
August - Bilbao
Ed
arrived around midday, and we’d loads to chat about. We walked the narrow lanes
of the old city and talked for hours on end about the good old days over a
bottle or two of red wine.
2
August - Bilbao – Laredo – 50 km
The
next day, time came to move along, and after coffee and cornflakes, which Ed
had in his panniers, we got back on our bikes. He lent me his GPS, and I
followed the voice directions out of the city. However, it soon became apparent
the device wanted me to go in a different direction. I ignored the lady’s
friendly voice and followed my nose.
Having
company was rather pleasant, albeit by motorbike. I continued along the Camino
route, stopping at small settlements and soon caught up with Ed, as he’d
already uncovered a camping spot. It was scarcely midday, but he must have assumed
the hills were sharper than they really were. Nevertheless, I was pleased with
the short day and not having to negotiate more hills. Unfortunately, it started
raining, which left no option but to retreat to our tents.
3
August - Laredo – Santillana Del Mar – 88 km
I pedalled
out of camp ahead of Ed, who soon caught up, armed with bread and jam. After
our roadside breakfast, we continued at our own pace. I could count on finding
him at scenic spots admiring the vistas. We missed the city of Santander and followed
a minor road adjacent to the coast. Ed went to find camping and soon sent an SMS
announcing he’d come across a site at Santillana Del Mar. It took me a while to
get there as the way was pretty hilly. En route, I encountered several friendly
walkers and cyclists following the Camino.
Tracking
down Ed was pretty easy. Afterwards, we wandered into town to the
“supermarcado” on the hunt for food and to admire the old buildings and crooked
cobblestone streets.
4
August - Santillana Del Mar – Llanes – 60 km
We
surfaced to a brilliantly sunny morning, and I instantly knew the day would be a
stinker, from one extreme to the next. The road was no less hilly than the
previous days, which could be expected as we were along
Spain’s famous Costa Verde. The Costa Verde conjured up romantic images, but
there was nothing romantic about wheezing up hills in the sweltering heat. The
area was nonetheless stunning, with one picturesque hamlet after the other.
People were in a holiday mood, and several called me to stop and have a beer;
fortunately, I thought better of it.
It
became a short day of riding, something I was pleased about as it gave me plenty
of time to do necessary housekeeping. Ed is a keen photographer and we sauntered
around town, allowing him to take endless pictures. In the end, I found a
tranquil bay to update my diary and watch the sunset over the bay.
5
August - Llanes – Nava - app 80 km
Waking
to a rainy morning came as a surprise. There was, however, little one could
do but saddle up as quickly as possible. Thus, breakfast was a quick affair and
consisted of cornflakes and coffee before getting underway.
It
drizzled on and off all day, and as my map was covered, I never bothered taking
it out. Therefore, it was no surprise that I took a wrong turn somewhere during
the day. However, this was no disaster as the ride was stunning and adjacent to
a river. The area had a festive vibe as a canoe race was in progress with
hundreds of participants. The river was lined with people and music and food
stalls abounded. Spectators cheered me on as I made my way upriver. The mistake
solved my problem of whether to continue via the coast or head inland. Informing
Ed of my decision, we arranged to meet at Nava.
6
August - Nava – Salas – 85 km
Breakfast
consisted of croissants and coffee before departing our cosy accommodation. A relatively
easy cycle led to Oviedo. Unfortunately, road signs were rather inadequate.
It took pedalling around for what felt like forever before eventually making my
way out of town.
I
felt frustrated, having wasted so much time in the city, and I didn’t
appreciate the strong and gusty wind encountered. The hills became steeper and
dark clouds soon gathered. Eventually, we called it a day and settled for a room
in Salas.
The
little town of Salas was fascinating, with cobbled streets and a quaint old
church right in the centre. Villagers sipping coffee or enjoying wine at
sidewalk cafes lend a pleasant community atmosphere.
7
August - Salas – Pola de Allande - 55 km
The
stretch between Salas and Pola de Allande provided
fantastic riding. We decided on a short distance as this was Ed’s last day. The
road snaked up gentle hills and, although hilly, the climbs were reasonably straightforward.
Fortunately, the mountainous terrain indicated on the map turned out far more
manageable than expected. The gradient wasn’t as sharp as predicted and cycling
was a pleasure, although slow going. Still, I was happy to spot historic Pola
de Allande, way down in the valley, surrounded
by the Cantabrian Mountains, instead of up a steep hill.
8
August - Pola de Allande – Fonsagrada – 70 km
I
said goodbye to Ed, who sadly had to return to London and work. The road went
up a pass and the map indicated a
tough climb. Following an hour and a half of gasping my way to the top, I sped
downhill at breakneck speed, only to find a steady climb waiting. This set the
trend for the remainder of the day. Lunch was at a dam, after which a steep
climb led to Grandas. Once there, an hour or so was spent watching a festival before
continuing to Fonsagrada.
Although
wind farms are a fantastic concept, I wasn’t all excited spotting them cycling.
They inevitably meant a notoriously windy area and in this area, they seemed
located at the highest points. Thus, the road climbed steeply to the turbines
before descending equally sharply into the valley.
The
more the road climbed, the smaller and more rural the communities became. I barely
encountered anyone, and it was eerily quiet. The only people spotted were a
lonely hiker singing at the top of his lungs and later an elderly farmer
herding cattle.
Although
I envisioned continuing a further 20 kilometres, my legs felt tired. It came as
no surprise to find Fonsagrada situated up a two-kilometre climb. Once there,
uncovering a room was easy, and so was the walk to the supermarket. Despite it
being early, I was done for the day.
9
August - Fonsagrada – Lugo – 59 km
The
day started much as envisaged, and the route descended into the valley. The
weather was icy and I was happy it wasn’t winter. Road signs warned motorists
of heavy snowfalls and, judging by the snow poles, these warnings were just. A
steady climb led to more wind farms, from where one could see an enormous
valley below.
Concerned
about my bicycle’s front hub, I hoped it would hang in until Lugo. Despite my
concern, it was fantastic biking and I felt sorry to reach the end. Lugo was a
pleasant surprise and revealed ancient Roman walls built between the 3rd
and 4th centuries.
My
pension in Lugo was adjacent to a bike shop where they replaced the cones. Replacing
the hub would have been preferable but they couldn’t or didn’t want to. So, instead,
they tried selling me the entire wheel, complete with rim, spokes and hub. They
already overcharged me for the cones, as 30 euros felt like a tad of a rip-off.
At least the owner of the pension was super welcoming. He carried my bags and
bicycle upstairs and offered me the use of his kitchen and washing machine
(which I didn’t use but, in hindsight, should’ve).
10
August - Lugo – Santiago de Compostela – 105 km
I
had a relatively slow start to the day and first biked through the walled city
before getting on the road to Santiago. It turned out one of the more leisurely
days as the way descended until reaching a valley where it was much warmer. The
berry season was practically over, but there were still plenty of good ones around,
which were by then very sweet.
Sixty-five
kilometres from Santiago, my path joined the famous French Camino route. At first,
the hordes of people came as a surprise as there were masses of walkers,
cyclists and even people on horseback. The settlements became larger, all with
lively touristy trades and one could find all kinds of “Camino” trinkets. That
said, it only took a few kilometres to get used to the people. Being part of
this large group of pilgrims en route to Santiago felt quite appropriate. Whilst
nearly on my final leg to Santiago, pilgrim walkers still had a two-day walk
ahead of them. I was delighted to find a campsite outside the city centre. Although
thrilled to reach the end of this well-known route, I was equally pleased this
wasn’t the end of my journey as quite a way remained to Lisbon.
11
August - Santiago de Compostela
Albeit
envisioning a day of R&R, sightseeing and routine rest day tasks left me
more exhausted than cycling. However, the town allowed brushing up on my
knowledge of the Camino. Embarrassingly enough, I’d been cycling along the
“Northern route” and part of the “Original route”, and even parts of the
“French route”, but still didn’t quite know what the Camino was about. Luckily,
there was enough literature around town to fill in the gaps. Seeing I was
firmly entrenched in the Camino way, it made sense to follow the “Portuguese way”
to Lisbon.
12
August - Santiago de Compastela – Redondela – 80 km
The
camp was a popular one with several other hikers and cyclists. We chatted until
all was ready to head off in their respective directions. As a result, the time
was shortly before 11.30 before finally cycling out of Santiago.
The
route became even more exciting. The tiny hamlets
took on a different look and feel; they all seemingly had small patches of vineyards.
Old churches and statues were still in abundance, and recent mowing of lawns
left a smell of wild aniseed. I thought myself lucky out on the bike on such a pleasant
day.
My
path took me to Pontevedra, where the plan was to overnight, but hardly midday,
I pedalled onto Redondela. A budget-looking hotel got my attention, and as the
owner offered me a room with a sea view at 25 euros, I thanked him and settled
in.
45
Portugal
570
Km – 10 Days
13
August - Redondela, Spain – Viana do Castelo, Portugal - 95 km
There
remained a meagre 35 kilometres to Tui and the Portuguese border. The weather
was excellent: pleasantly hot and with a tailwind. Following coffee in Tui, the
road crossed the river and entered Portugal. As always, I was bursting with excitement
to see what this new country would bring.
The
first town I encountered was Valença, and my impression of Portugal will forever
be one of cobbled streets. My route continued beside the ocean and I was again amazed
to experience a whole new culture simply by crossing a river. The heat must have
made me thirsty as spotting juicy peaches, I bagged a few. Not much further, I flopped
down under a tree and scoffed the whole lot.
The
N13, a brand-new road, was a pleasure to cycle as it came with a lovely wide
shoulder. Viana do Castelo was home to an old fort, a historic centre, and old
churches. Encountering a lively festival made me call it a day.
Across
the river was an unusual campsite, more like a farm with plenty of animals. The
showers were converted horse stables and were huge. One could have quite a
party in there.
14
August Viana do Castelo – Porto - 70 km
The
previous night the fireworks continued until 3 a.m. I only woke at 8 a.m. and discovered
the place quiet as a mouse, making me wonder if there was a time change.
The
day started promising but soon a fine drizzle
set in. Sunday markets were in full swing, and the narrow coastal road was jam-packed
with what appeared city slickers in their fancy convertibles. All seemingly out
to buy fresh, home-grown veggies from the countryside.
I
had my first flat tyre in Europe. Fixing a flat tyre always leaves me covered
in grease.
In
Porto, signboards pointed to “Centro”, and I was blown by the scene that
greeted me. The town had been declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO, and
rightly so. I further learned it’s the birthplace of port wine and thus the
name Porto—time to sample the good stuff. Travelling without a guidebook can be
pretty exciting as everything comes as a surprise.
15
August - Porto
Porto
warranted a day of exploring, as the town offered a multitude of attractions. The
historic railway station was still in full use, and walls were lined with tiled
panels depicting Portugal’s early history.
A
trip to the harbour revealed narrow alleyways flooded with the smell and smoke
of fish barbeques. The day’s fresh catch was on the coals and ready to be devoured.
Seagulls, no doubt, knew what was on offer as thousands were hovering over the
area.
Not
much further, fishermen were casting their lines; most seemed unlucky, although
one could see fish swimming in the ocean. Being a sunny public holiday, beaches
were crammed with holidaymakers.
While
browsing my pictures, I realised one could get the wrong idea about Portugal.
Portugal is a modern country with an abundance of modern buildings designed by
famous local and foreign architects. Still, I’m more taken with the old
buildings and hardly ever take pictures of the everyday stuff. They don’t seem
interesting to me. The same goes for the smoky fish BBQ in the back alleys:
they are far more fascinating than the glitzy restaurants in the city centre.
16
August - Porto – Ilhavo - 88 km
Breakfast
was at the hotel, followed by an easy day’s ride past Valadares and Espinho’s
excellent beaches. Being a long weekend due to Assumption Day celebrations, people
were out cycling and running. This, however, remained the Atlantic Ocean, with
water temperatures hovering between 15-17°C – I never saw anyone running into
the ocean. Instead, bathers entered rather gradually.
Aveiro
was reached around midday and came with countless canals, colourful boats, and
old churches. Sadly, the place was very touristy without any camping
facilities. The nearest campsite was a further 10 kilometres away, and best to
continue to Ilhavo. Still, I couldn’t find any camping, merely a costly hotel. I
succumbed to temptation and enjoyed a bath, TV and a room with a balcony.
17
August - Ilhavo – Coimbra - 65 km
Included
in the hefty room rate was a lovely breakfast spread. I operated in low gear as
only a short pedal
remained to Coimbra. A friendly cyclist caught up and shared plenty of
information regarding the area. We even stopped and raided a fig tree, which he
seemed pretty happy to do. Maybe it’s no big deal in Portugal.
When
people say, “You can come shower at my place”, I think it’s time for a good
scrubbing and laundry. Once in Coimbra, I took a room for the shower as the
campsite was quite far out of town. No time was wasted in investigating the
well-known city of Coimbra.
Coimbra
has a history dating back to the Middle Ages and thus offers many exciting
sights. Even more famous is the University, situated high up on a hill and
surrounded by narrow cobblestone lanes with niches and steep staircases.
18-19
August - Coimbra – Nazare - 100 km
Of
course, I had breakfast at the hotel and then set out toward Nazare. The day
was uneventful as I’d been spoilt with stunning vistas by then. What would
typically be considered an excellent ride was described as “uneventful”.
As
usual, I dreaded getting to my destination and was going slower and slower to
avoid the inevitable. In addition, it was hard to deal with feeling lethargic
after feeling particularly strong (both mentally and physically) the past few
months.
The
following day my energy returned, but I stayed one more day. It’s impressive
how one can do absolutely nothing an entire day. Although a lovely site, the
flies bothered me endlessly. I thus explored the area by bicycle to escape the
pursuing flies. Unfortunately, the weather was too hazy to take pictures, and I
returned to my fly-infested site.
20
August - Nazare - Obidas - 42 km
Back
on the bike the road followed the coast towards Lisbon. Again, the chap I met three
days previously, this time in a
car, stopped for a quick chat.
The
day’s first stop was at Caldas da Rainha where I nearly stayed as it was
immensely picturesque. The Saturday market was in full swing and the cobbled
alleys, where people sat at sidewalk cafes, looked inviting. I continued, a
good thing too, as soon the ancient walled city of Obidos appeared high up on a
hill. I couldn’t cycle past without stopping and again booked into a rather pricy
room.
My
efforts were well rewarded as the city has a history dating to BC and has
changed hands innumerable times over the years. Today, it’s considered one of
the seven wonders of Portugal, and rightly so. I trundled around snapping gazillion
pictures, ate small “milk tarts”, and drank liqueur from small chocolate cups.
21
August - Obidas – Ericeira - 60 km
I
didn’t anticipate the day to be quite as hard. Not only was it hilly, but worse
still, it came with a howling headwind. At least the views were unsurpassed,
but such stunning vistas seldom come without climbing a few hills.
Due to the wind, camping was
early at Ericeira, a good site with all the necessary facilities.
22 August - Ericeira –
Cascais - 50 km
Loading up was in a fine
drizzle for the final stretch into Cascais. The road led past beautiful Sintra,
situated on the Portuguese Riviera and dominated by the Pena Palace. Finally, the
road spat me out in Cascais, the end of my European tour and where my friend
Carlos lived.
I’ve
known Carlos since working together at Syfrets Trust in Cape Town, South Africa,
many moons ago. During my visit, Carlos, his wife, Melody, and her two beautiful
daughters, lived in Cascais. They had a lovely home high up on a hill
overlooking the coast. I was shown a large comfortable room where I could
spread out (what luxury).
That evening, Carlos, in
true South African style, lit a fire, and we’d an authentic South African braai
with boerewors made by a South African who lived in Portugal.
The next day, we took the
bicycle to a bike shop, where they put it in a box for the return flight to Rio
on the 27th, which gave me four days of R&R in Cascais.
