The Loire, the Vendee, and the Long Road to Lisbon - A Cyclist’s Pilgrimage
43-45 EUROPE - PART 25
July – 27 August 20113,438 Kilometres - 52 Days
The Loire, the Vendee, and the Long Road to Lisbon - A Cyclist’s Pilgrimage
FLIP-BOOK
Prologue
There are
journeys that begin with a map, and others that begin with a feeling. Leaving
Budapest, I wasn’t chasing a destination so much as a direction — westward,
toward the Atlantic, toward a horizon I couldn’t yet name. The train rattled
through the night, and by the time I stepped onto the platform in Basel, I felt
suspended between worlds: the one I had just lived, and the one waiting to
unfold beneath my wheels.
Budapest to Basel (By Train)
My last morning in Budapest began with clean laundry
and a final wander through Budapest’s markets, the city humming with its usual
confident energy. PC walked beside me, newly reunited with his passport, and
together we threaded through the familiar streets one last time. Back in my
room, I performed the ritual I knew so well: folding, sorting, tucking memories
into panniers as if they were talismans.
The train to Basel was a patchwork of improvisation —
it took jumping on and off to manoeuvre my bike from one train car to another like
a circus performer, and trying to sleep upright while the train clattered
through the dark. It wasn’t restful, but it was movement, and movement was
enough. Somewhere between Hungary and Switzerland, I felt the quiet certainty
that the road ahead — whatever shape it took — would change me again.
CHAPTER 1: FRANCE
1,901 Km – 23 Days
Basel to Mulhouse (50 km)
Basel greeted me with a kind of cheerful confusion.
Three countries meet here, and stepping out of the station felt like walking
into a cultural crossroads with no signposts. I wasn’t entirely sure which
nation I was standing in, but the city’s charm was unmistakable — cobbled
lanes, elegant facades, and a sense of order that made me want to linger.
But the canal was calling.
I slipped onto the path along the Rhine Canal, where
forests leaned toward the water and ducks paddled with enviable calm. The route
was so well marked it felt like being gently guided by an invisible hand. I
reached Mulhouse earlier than expected, wandered its streets, and stocked up on
bread and cheese — the cyclist’s holy sacrament.
The campsite was a small delight: Wi‑Fi, hot showers,
and a pizza stand that felt like a gift from the pizza gods. After the
sleepless train night, I crawled into my tent long before the sun finally
surrendered at 9:30 p.m., grateful for stillness.
Mulhouse to L’Isle-sur-le-Doubs
(80 km)
Morning in Mulhouse arrived with soft light and the
last of my bread and cheese. I packed quickly, eager to return to the bike path
that felt like a secret whispered only to cyclists. Unlike the Danube’s busy
caravan of riders, this canal route was quiet, intimate, almost meditative.
Barges drifted by like slow-moving dreams.
Lockmasters’ cottages appeared at intervals, each one framed by gardens so
charming they looked painted into place. But the locks themselves were less
poetic — boats queued, engines idling.
By afternoon, the sky darkened. Thunder rolled across
the valley, urging me to hurry. I pitched my tent near L’Isle-sur-le-Doubs
just as the first heavy drops fell, then sat inside listening
to the storm drum on the flysheet. Dinner was my bread and cheese — until the
rain eased and the scent of pizza lured me out. I dashed through puddles,
bought a steaming pizza, devoured half, and saved the rest for breakfast. A
small triumph in a day shaped by weather and water.
L’Isle-sur-le-Doubs to Ranchot
(110 km)
The morning mist felt like stepping into a dream. I
lingered over coffee and cold pizza while waiting for my tent to dry, then set
off along the canal once more. The settlements I passed were eerily still —
shutters closed, no movement, as if the entire region had pressed pause.
Besançon rose ahead of me like a revelation. Its
citadel — eleven hectares of stone and history — perched above the town with
quiet authority. A tunnel beneath the fortress carried me through the mountain,
and emerging on the other side felt like stepping into another century.
A sign told me Nantes was only 730 kilometres away.
Somehow, that number made the Atlantic feel close enough to touch.
I found a small campsite in Ranchot, nothing fancy but
fragrant with freshly cut grass. Dinner required a ride to the nearest village
for bread — a small price for the pleasure of eating beside the river as
evening settled around me.
Ranchot to Verdun‑sur‑le‑Doubs
(105 km)
Morning in Ranchot arrived soft and quiet, the kind of
stillness that makes you wonder if you overslept the world. Most of the other
campers had already vanished, their tents flattened, their cars long gone. I
lingered, unhurried, letting the day unfold at its own pace.
The ride to Dole was a gentle warm-up, twenty-five
kilometres of easy pedalling along the canal. Louis Pasteur’s birthplace
revealed itself in a cluster of medieval streets and the proud silhouette of
the Collegiale‑Notre‑Dame. I wandered briefly, absorbing the hush of old stone
and the faint scent of river water, then slipped back onto the path.
Rain arrived like an uninvited guest — not dramatic,
just persistent, a steady drizzle that blurred the edges of the day. By the
time I reached Verdun-sur-le-Doubs, I was damp, hungry, and ready for shelter.
The campsite was a small miracle: five euros, a friendly woman at reception who
spoke English, and Wi‑Fi that felt like a luxury.
I rode into town for supplies — bread, cheese, chips,
beer, coffee — the essentials of a cyclist’s pantry. Verdun revealed itself in
narrow alleys, stone bridges, and the quiet dignity of a place that has endured
centuries of conflict and emerged from them all. Back at camp, I ate under a
grey sky, grateful for warmth, food, and the simple comfort of being still.
Verdun-sur-le-Doubs (Rest Day)
Thunder woke me before dawn, the sky cracking open in
bright flashes. It was clear I wasn’t going anywhere. Rest days have a way of
choosing themselves.
With the storm rumbling overhead, I surrendered to
practicality: laundry, repairs, reorganising the panniers that had slowly
devolved into chaos. Verdun‑sur‑le‑Doubs, once a medieval border town, felt
like the right place to pause — a place shaped by battles long past, now
softened by time and river light.
I cycled into town between showers, practising my
tentative French. “Bonjour,” “Merci,” “Au revoir.” Judging by the amused
expressions I received, my pronunciation hovered somewhere between earnest and
alarming. Still, the ritual of buying a baguette and camembert made me feel
momentarily local.
By afternoon, the rain eased. I sat by the river
watching houseboats drift past, and fishermen stared intently at the water that
refused to yield a single fish. My panniers were heavier with supplies, but my
spirit felt lighter. Sometimes a day of stillness is its own kind of progress.
Verdun‑sur‑le‑Doubs
to Paray‑le‑Monial (132 km)
Sun returned with a vengeance — bright, warm, and full
of promise. I set off from Verdun‑sur‑le‑Doubs for Paray‑le‑Monial, about 130
kilometres down the path,
early, skipping my usual coffee stop, letting the canal guide
me through a landscape that shifted subtly from forests to vineyards.
The hills rolled gently, and I chose the country lanes
over the official cycle path, craving the quiet rhythm of rural France. At one
point, a grassy jeep track tempted me with a sign marked “rough.” It turned out
to be more playful than punishing, a soft detour through fields humming with
summer.
Houseboats dotted the canal, and then — a flash of
home. A South African flag fluttered from one of the decks. I braked
instinctively, calling out a greeting. The couple aboard looked as surprised as
I felt. We exchanged a few warm words before the lock carried them onward,
leaving me smiling at the unexpected connection.
By the time I reached Paray‑le‑Monial, hunger had
hollowed me out. A mobile pizza stand waited at the campsite entrance like a
beacon. I devoured a pizza that may have been ordinary or extraordinary —
hunger is the best seasoning — and sat outside my tent as the sky held its
light until nearly 10 p.m.
Paray‑le‑Monial to Nevers (115
km)
The day began golden, the sun low and generous. I
followed the Loire, choosing the farm roads that hugged the river rather than
the official route. Medieval towns appeared like mirages — beautiful, silent,
almost deserted, as if the inhabitants had stepped out for a century or two.
Decize tempted me with its peaceful campground, but I
resisted, stopping only for coffee before pushing on. Nevers rewarded the
effort. The campground sat perfectly along the riverbank, offering a postcard
view of the old town and its cathedral rising above the water.
I wandered into town, weaving through narrow streets
until a Carrefour appeared like a modern oasis. I stocked up on a ready-made
salad, fresh baguettes, and more coffee — always more coffee. Nevers felt like
a place suspended between eras, its ancient houses leaning gently toward the
present. I slept with the sound of the river just beyond my tent.
Nevers to Cosne‑Cours‑sur‑Loire
(90 km)
Grey skies greeted me, heavy and cold, the kind of
morning that makes you want to burrow deeper into your sleeping bag. I finally
forced myself onto the bike around 10 a.m., pedalling into a drizzle that felt
more like November than July.
An hour later, salvation appeared in the form of a
small pub. I ducked inside for coffee, warming my hands around the cup while
watching the rain streak the windows. The rest of the day was a quiet battle —
against wind, against dampness, against the creeping fatigue that comes from
too many grey days in a row.
Cosne offered practical comforts: cash from an ATM, a
SIM card for my modem, and a campsite where the rain finally relented. I ate my
bread and cheese outside, grateful for the simple pleasure of dry air.
Cosne-Cours-sur-Loire to Orléans
(124 km)
Bastille Day began with a headwind that felt personal.
Gravel sections slowed me further, and I found refuge in a solitary pub for
coffee before continuing on. Lunch at the castle in Sully was a brief, sunlit
pause before the wind resumed its relentless push.
By the time I reached Orléans, the sky was streaked
with the colours of evening. I treated myself to French fries and a beer, then
settled into the campsite as the city prepared for its celebrations. Fireworks
erupted around 11 p.m., shaking the ground with each explosion. I drifted to
sleep imagining the sky lit with colour, each burst a reminder that summer had
officially begun.
Orléans to Chaumont-sur-Loire (84
km)
Sun returned, bright and warm, reflecting off the
Loire like scattered gold. I skipped breakfast — a consequence of too much
chatting the night before — and didn’t roll out until after 10. Twenty
kilometres later, a pastry shop appeared like a blessing. I devoured something
flaky and sweet, feeling instantly revived.
The villages along the Loire felt timeless, their
medieval facades softened by centuries of weather and river light. I stocked up
on supplies and stopped early at a conveniently placed campground. The wind had
worn me down over the past days, and rest felt like the wiser choice.
That night, fireworks continued across the river —
Bastille Day’s echo — accompanied by distant music. I lay in my tent listening
to the celebration drift across the water.
Chaumont-sur-Loire to Montsoreau
(110 km)
Rain returned with a vengeance. I packed in a frenzy,
stuffing wet gear into bags as the drizzle thickened into a cold, needling
wind. The day was a long, shivering push through weather that felt determined
to test me.
Amboise appeared briefly, its cave‑homes tucked into
cliffs like something out of another world. Tours offered a warm cup of coffee,
a brief reprieve before the storm resumed. At one point, desperate for a
restroom, I ducked into a wooded area — only to sit directly on stinging
nettles. The shock was instant and fiery. I yelped, leapt up, and pedalled the
last fifteen kilometres with a speed born of indignation.
Reaching the campsite felt like crossing a finish
line. I peeled off my wet layers and collapsed.
Montsoreau to La Possonnière (78
km)
Morning arrived reluctantly, wrapped in cold wind and
low clouds that made the world feel muted. Crawling out of my sleeping bag took
resolve I wasn’t sure I had. The Loire Valley unfolded in rolling hills and
vineyards, castles perched like watchful sentinels above the river. Under
different skies, it might have felt romantic. Today, it felt like a test.
By midday, the wind had turned feral. Gusts slammed
into me sideways, forcing me to grip the handlebars with both hands as rain
stung my face. Each kilometre felt earned through sheer stubbornness. I pulled
my cap low, narrowed my focus to the few metres ahead, and pushed on.
Reaching La Possonnière felt like stumbling into a sanctuary.
The campsite was basic, but it offered what I needed most: a place to peel off
my soaked layers and breathe. I crawled into my tent, listening to the wind
batter the flysheet, grateful simply to be horizontal and dry.
La Possonnière to Nantes (92 km)
I woke feeling unexpectedly refreshed, as if the storm
had wrung something out of me. The sky remained dull, but my spirits had
lifted. Thirty kilometres in, hunger demanded attention, and I stopped at a
café for a croissant and coffee — a small ritual that restored both warmth and
optimism.
Then, as if on cue, the landscape shifted. Castles and
forts rose from the horizon, their silhouettes dramatic against the grey sky.
The Loire Valley, even under cloud, had a way of surprising me into awe.
Nantes, the last major city before leaving the
Veloroute 6, proved elusive. The map promised two campsites; reality offered
none. After circling the outskirts in growing frustration, I surrendered and
booked a hotel — a rare indulgence, but a necessary one.
The city buzzed with life. I wandered its pedestrian
lanes, watched locals linger over coffee, and found a map for the next stage of
my journey: south along the Atlantic coast toward Spain. I washed clothes,
sorted gear, fixed my internet connection, and tended to the small maintenance
tasks that accumulate on the road. Two nights in Nantes felt like a reset — a
chance to breathe before the coastline called.
Nantes to La Bernerie (95 km)
I set off early, bracing for wind but instead met with
relentless rain. It followed me like a shadow, soaking through layers, dripping
from my helmet, turning the world into a blurred watercolour.
The path traced the final stretch of the Loire,
leading me to St. Nazaire, where the river meets the Atlantic. The bike path
ended here — a quiet milestone, marked only by the sudden vastness of the sea.
A sign for the Vélocéan cycleway appeared through the
rain, its small arrows promising a new direction. I followed them, drenched but
curious, until I reached La Bernerie.
The campsite was quirky, a little rough around the
edges, but it offered refuge. Setting up my tent in the downpour was a comedy
of errors — everything soaked before the flysheet was even on. Once inside, I
made coffee, changed into dry clothes, and felt a wave of contentment wash over
me. Warm, sheltered, caffeinated — sometimes that’s all a person needs.
La Bernerie to Port Bourgenay
(113 km)
The day began with the same dreary skies and the same
impossible task: drying anything. I stuffed my wet gear into plastic bags and
set off, determined to make progress despite the weather.
The Vendee’s cycle paths were scenic but slow, crowded
with families enjoying their holidays. I felt like an interloper among their
leisurely rides. When I switched to the roads, I braced for impatience — but
the French drivers surprised me. They waited, waved, and passed with kindness.
Their small gestures softened the day.
The route wound through canals and coastal forests,
then into lively resort towns buzzing with summer energy. By the time I reached
Port Bourgenay, the sun had finally broken through, and a tailwind pushed me
along as if offering an apology for the past week.
The campsite was affordable, the terrain flat, and for
the first time in days, I felt the freedom of easy cycling. The Vendee had its
own rhythm — gentle, forgiving, quietly joyful.
Port Bourgenay to La Rochelle
(107 km)
Sunlight returned in full force, warm and generous. I
spread my tent out to dry, revelling in the simple pleasure of warmth.
Breakfast was an unexpected delight — what I thought was yoghurt turned out to
be cream, turning my muesli into a decadent treat.
La Tranche was my first stop, a lively seaside resort
bursting with colour and noise. I wandered among stalls and merry-go-rounds,
absorbing the holiday atmosphere before accidentally veering onto a cycle path
that led nowhere. With no GPS or smartphone, I relied on my paper map and
intuition—a combination that eventually brought me back to the right road.
The wind picked up as I approached La Rochelle,
whipping my windbreaker into a flag behind me. I intended to ride past the
city, but a charming, inexpensive campsite tempted me to stop.
The charm came with a catch: it sat directly under the
airport’s flight path. Planes roared overhead, rattling my nerves. The owner,
delighted by my “impossible” itinerary, announced my journey to everyone within
earshot. Suddenly, I was the centre of attention — hot, sweaty, and very much
not in the mood for a photoshoot. Still, their enthusiasm was infectious, and I
ended the day amused despite myself.
La Rochelle to Verdon-sur-Mer
(113 km)
I started sluggishly, weaving through the city’s busy
streets until I finally escaped onto a quiet country lane. The wind was as
fierce as the day before, pushing against me with stubborn persistence.
Eventually, I surrendered to practicality and took the
highway — noisy, chaotic, but fast. Royan appeared like a reward, and from
there a ferry carried me across the choppy bay to Verdon-sur-Mer. The thirty-minute
crossing felt like a small adventure within the larger one.
On the other side, I grabbed a quick coffee and bread
roll before cycling the last few kilometres to the campsite. The day had been
long, windy, and loud, but the promise of rest made everything soften.
Verdon‑sur‑Mer to Gujan‑Mestras
(121 km)
The day began with a surprise: the Camino route. At
first, I thought I’d taken a wrong turn — the signs felt too symbolic, too
storied. But soon the scallop shells and yellow arrows confirmed it. I was
riding along a pilgrimage path, surrounded by families on Sunday outings, while
I pedalled with my fully loaded bike, feeling both out of place and oddly
connected.
At the campsite, I met a Frenchman on his first
cycling holiday — one of the few cycle tourists I’d encountered since leaving
my group. We swapped stories until the sky opened and rain poured down, sending
us scrambling to our tents.
The campsite’s tiny store saved dinner: bread, cheese,
and biscuits for breakfast. Simple, comforting, enough.
Gujan‑Mestras to Farm Camp, Bias
(91 km)
Rain hammered the tent all morning. By 11 a.m., I
accepted defeat and packed up anyway, stepping into a world soaked and grey.
The day was miserable — heavy rain, busy roads, poor visibility. Eventually, I
found myself on a motorway, cars hissing past in sheets of spray.
I stopped early at a farm campsite, where a group of
equally bedraggled campers huddled under a makeshift shelter, their children
restless and their patience frayed. The atmosphere was bleak, but shared misery
has its own camaraderie.
I pitched my tent in record time, nearly soaked
through by the end. Thankfully, I’d stocked up earlier: sweets, crisps, and a ready-to-eat
meal from Lidl. The campsite had no amenities, but inside my tent, warm food
and dry clothes felt like luxury.
Farm Camp, Bias to Capbreton (91
km)
In the morning, I put on my last dry clothes, brewed a
strong coffee, and set off. The rain continued, but staying put wasn’t an
option. I lowered my head and pedalled through it, each kilometre a small act
of defiance.
Around midday, the rain eased long enough for me to
find a supermarket. I stocked up, knowing I’d stop at the next available
campsite.
Morning brought a hint of sunshine — enough to wash my
clothes in the camp laundry and let them dry without fear of another downpour.
A trip into Centre Ville yielded treasures: a map of
Spain, a new memory card for my camera, and an adapter for the campsite’s power
points. I sent home memory cards filled with months of photos, feeling a wave
of nostalgia as I sealed them. Each image was a fragment of the journey — proof
that I had lived these days fully.
CHAPTER 2: SPAIN
967 Km – 16 Days
Prologue
Borders
are strange things. On maps they look sharp, decisive. In real life, they blur.
One moment I was pedalling through the polished glamour of Biarritz; the next,
the architecture changed, the language shifted, and Spain rose around me like a
new chapter already in motion. No fanfare, no signpost — just a quiet crossing
into a country that would ask me to climb again.
Capbreton
to San Sebastián (91 km)
The
morning broke bright and forgiving, my tent finally dry, my clothes no longer
clinging with the memory of yesterday’s storms. Packing up felt almost
celebratory. I pointed my bike toward the border with the kind of optimism that
only a sun-washed dawn can conjure.
The
road curled along the coastline like a ribbon tossed carelessly by the wind.
Biarritz shimmered as I passed through — glamorous, polished, almost too
beautiful to be real — but I didn’t linger. Spain was calling, and I was eager
to answer.
The
border itself was a whisper rather than a proclamation. One moment, France; the
next, Spain — as if the land had simply inhaled and exhaled in a different
language. Colours shifted. Architecture thickened. The air buzzed with a new
cadence. Hills rose abruptly, as though Spain wanted to test my resolve from
the very first pedal stroke.
San
Sebastián arrived in a rush of noise and movement, far larger and livelier than
I’d imagined. Yet amid the bustle, a small sign pointed toward free Camino
accommodation — a beacon for the weary and the hopeful. Within minutes, I had
my credentials, my Pilgrim’s Passport, and with it, the sense that a new
chapter had quietly opened beneath my wheels.
The
Refugio closed its doors at ten, lights out by half past. The sudden hush felt
almost monastic. I lay in the dark, amused at how quickly I’d been absorbed
into the Camino rhythm — early to bed, early to rise, and grateful for whatever
shelter the day offered. Dinner was four slightly stale bread rolls from my
panniers, but after the long ride, they tasted almost luxurious.
Spain
had welcomed me with hills, heat, and humble hospitality. I drifted to sleep
feeling that something ancient had taken me by the hand.
San
Sebastián to Mutriku (58 km)
Morning
arrived with a gentle shove rather than a whisper. At precisely eight o’clock,
the Refugio volunteers ushered us out the door with the brisk efficiency of
people who have done this a thousand times. I blinked into the early light,
still half‑asleep, and sought refuge in a café where a croissant and coffee
restored my will to live. And that was the first and last time I used a Camino
Refugio - too many rules for my wayward personality. I laughed at myself
peddling away.
My
bicycle, however, had other opinions. The gears protested, the chain sulked,
and the bike mechanic could only offer a sympathetic shrug before replacing my
brake blocks — a small mercy considering the descents Spain had in store.
By
midday, SIM card secured and cobblestones conquered, I finally escaped San
Sebastián’s charming grip. The Bay of Biscay unfurled beside me, a jagged
coastline of cliffs and green folds that rose and fell like the breath of some
ancient creature. The sun shone with theatrical brilliance, and the wind, for
once, behaved itself. The climbs were steep enough to make me question my life
choices, but the descents — oh, the descents—sent me flying like a kamikaze
pilot with questionable judgment and excellent brakes.
Spain,
I quickly learned, is not a country that believes in flat roads. I stopped more
often than I cycled, partly to catch my breath, partly because the landscape
demanded admiration. Every bend revealed something new: a cliffside village, a
church perched improbably on a hill, a valley that looked painted rather than
grown.
By
late afternoon, I reached Mutriku — or rather, I reached the bottom of the hill
beneath Mutriku. The campground sat somewhere near the stratosphere, and the
climb up felt like a pilgrimage of its own. But the reward was worth every
sweaty pedal stroke: lush lawns, sweeping views, and a serenity that wrapped
itself around me like a warm blanket.
I
sat in the sun with my map, tracing the road ahead. Spain, it seemed, was a
labyrinth of mountains masquerading as a country. The thought sent a shiver
through me. Dinner was a rice dish that had been ageing gracefully in my
panniers, followed by chocolate biscuits and a cup of coffee — a humble feast,
but perfect in its own way.
As
the light softened and the hills glowed gold, I felt the quiet satisfaction of
a day well earned. The road had challenged me, but it had also given me beauty
in return.
Mutriku
to Bilbao (86 km)
Morning
rose bright and sharp, the kind of light that makes even steep hills look
innocent. I followed the Camino signs out of Mutriku, letting them lead me into
a world of rolling green and quiet villages perched on improbable slopes.
Walkers greeted me with warm holas, while sleek road cyclists flew past as if
gravity were merely a suggestion. One even chatted on his mobile while climbing
— a level of athletic arrogance I could only admire from a distance.
The
road wound inland, climbing through forests and stone hamlets, each church
standing like a sentinel over centuries of pilgrims. My granny gear earned its
keep. More than once, I questioned my sanity, but the mountains answered with
views that silenced every complaint.
By
the time I rolled into Bilbao, my legs felt like overcooked noodles, and my
knees were staging a quiet rebellion. The city’s promise—its art, its food, its
sheer Basque charisma—was far too tempting to resist. Two nights felt like the
bare minimum. I dropped my bags and wandered out, swept up immediately by the
elegance of old stone buildings and churches that seemed to glow in the morning
light.
It
was Sunday, which meant shutters drawn and streets hushed, but apparently that
didn’t apply to wine. At ten in the morning, locals were already swirling
glasses of red as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Street
artists filled the square with colour and music, while café-goers lingered over
their coffee-and-wine breakfasts. I happily joined the ritual.
Then
my phone buzzed. Ed—my friend from the UK—was on his motorbike and heading my
way. The timing felt like a gift. I immediately booked an extra night.
Bilbao
Ed
arrived at midday, and the moment he swung off his bike, it was as if no time
had passed at all. We slipped easily back into our old rhythm, wandering the
narrow lanes of the old town, swapping stories, laughing too loudly, and
sharing a bottle (or two) of Rioja. Bilbao felt even warmer with a friend
beside me.
Bilbao
to Laredo Camping – 50 km
Morning
came with the soft clatter of panniers and the smell of instant coffee. Ed
produced cornflakes from his seemingly bottomless bags, and after breakfast we
set off—me on my bicycle, him on his motorbike, a mismatched but cheerful duo.
He
lent me his GPS, though the device seemed determined to send me on a pilgrimage
of its own. After a few kilometres of arguing with the chirpy digital voice, I
abandoned her entirely and trusted my instincts instead. It seemed I couldn’t
even follow instructions from a GPS.
Ed,
had already scouted a campsite by the time I caught up. It was barely midday,
but he suspected more challenging hills ahead and decided to call it early. I
didn’t protest. The sky soon darkened, and rain began to fall in steady sheets.
We retreated to our tents, listening to the soft percussion of raindrops as we
swapped stories through the canvas. Adventure could wait; for now, we were dry,
fed, and content.
Laredo
Camping to Santillana del Mar – 88 km
I
left camp buzzing with energy, pedalling ahead until Ed caught up, triumphantly
holding bread and jam like a breakfast hero. We ate by the roadside, sun
warming our backs, the morning fresh and full of promise.
We
skipped Santander’s bustle in favour of a quiet coastal road that clung to the
sea. The views were spectacular—cliffs, waves, and endless blue. Somewhere
along the way, Ed texted to say he’d found a campsite in Santillana del Mar.
The hills between us were steep, but the scenery softened the effort. Camino
walkers and cyclists passed with cheerful greetings, each exchange a tiny spark
of camaraderie.
Finding
Ed was easy. Together we wandered the cobblestone streets, admiring medieval
buildings and stocking up at the supermercado for a well-earned feast.
Santillana
del Mar to Llanes – 60 km
The
morning sun was already fierce when we set off, confirming my suspicion that
the day would be a scorcher. The Costa Verde lived up to its name—lush,
dramatic, and relentlessly hilly. Romantic, yes, but only if you weren’t the
one sweating up its inclines.
Holidaymakers
lounged outside bars, calling out, “Stop for a beer!” with enviable enthusiasm.
Tempting, but I kept pedalling. Thankfully, the ride was shorter than expected.
I tackled laundry while Ed roamed with his camera, capturing Llanes from every
angle.
Later,
I found a quiet bay where I sat with my diary, watching the sun melt into the
sea in a blaze of gold and rose. A perfect ending to a demanding day.
Llanes
to Nava – ~80 km
Rain
greeted us at dawn, a rude surprise after the previous day’s heat. We packed
quickly, gulped down cornflakes and coffee, and set off into the drizzle.
My
map soon turned to papier-mâché, and somewhere along the way I took a wrong
turn. But the mistake became a gift: the road followed a lively river where a
canoe race was underway. Music blared, food stalls perfumed the air, and
spectators cheered as I cycled past, as if I were part of the event. Their
energy lifted me.
The
detour settled my internal debate about staying on the coast or heading inland.
Inland it was. I messaged Ed, and we agreed to meet in Nava. Sometimes the best
decisions are the accidental ones.
Nava
to Salas – 85 km
We
started the day with croissants and steaming coffee—simple, perfect fuel. The
ride toward Oviedo should have been straightforward, but the city had other
ideas. Its streets twisted and tangled, and the road signs seemed designed to
confuse. I circled the city more times than I care to admit, frustration
mounting as the wind picked up and the clouds darkened.
By
the time I escaped Oviedo’s maze, I was exhausted. Later Ed phoned and
mentioned he was in Sala, perched like a quiet gem among the hills, and I was
happy to surrender to its charm, where we checked into a small room.
The
town was delightful—cobblestones, an old church, and locals sipping wine and
coffee at sidewalk cafés. After the chaos of the day, Salas felt like a balm.
Salas
to Pola de Allande – 55 km
For
Ed’s final day, we chose a shorter ride, and it turned out to be one of the
most beautiful stretches yet. The road wound gently through rolling hills, the
climbs steady but kind. The mountains, which had looked intimidating on the
map, revealed themselves to be far more welcoming.
Each
ascent felt like a small triumph, and the descent into Pola de Allande was pure
joy. The village lay nestled in a peaceful valley, a soft landing after days of
effort. It was the perfect place to celebrate Ed’s last day on the road—quiet,
scenic, and full of that unmistakable Camino spirit.
Pola
de Allande to Fonsagrada (70 km)
Ed
rode off toward London, and the silence he left behind felt heavier than my
panniers. I turned toward the mountains, where the road rose sharply into a
rugged pass. For an hour and a half I climbed, lungs burning, legs protesting,
but the summit opened like a doorway into wind and sky.
The
day became a rhythm of ascents and plunging descents — a rollercoaster carved
into the earth. I lunched beside a dam shimmering in the sun, then pushed
upward again toward Grandas, where a festival burst unexpectedly into music and
colour. I lingered just long enough to feel part of it.
Wind
turbines appeared on the horizon, tall and indifferent, signalling the fierce
gusts waiting at the top. I climbed into their domain, then dropped into a lush
valley where villages grew smaller and quieter, as if retreating from the
world.
By
the time I reached Fonsagrada — perched atop a final, punishing climb — my legs
staged a full rebellion. I found a room, bought supplies, and surrendered to
exhaustion long before sunset.
Lugo
to Santiago de Compostela (105 km)
Lugo’s
ancient walls watched me roll out slowly, as if reluctant to let me go. The
morning unfolded into one of the gentlest, most luminous days of the journey.
The valley softened around me, the sun warm but forgiving, the road kind enough
to let me breathe.
Berry
season was fading, but I still found sweet remnants along the way. Sixty-five
kilometres from Santiago, I merged with the French route and was suddenly
surrounded by walkers, cyclists, even horses, all moving with the same quiet
determination. Shops overflowed with Camino trinkets, and the air buzzed with
shared purpose.
The
crowds overwhelmed me at first, then comforted me. We were all heading toward
the same ancient destination, each carrying our own reasons. I reached Santiago
by late afternoon, found a campsite just outside the centre, and felt the
strange exhilaration of finishing something vast — while knowing my journey was
far from over.
Santiago
de Compostela
I
had planned a day of rest, but Santiago swept me into its history with the
force of a tide. I wandered its streets, reading everything I could about the
Camino, embarrassed by how little I’d understood despite cycling its routes.
By
evening, the city had woven itself into me. Continuing along the Portuguese Way
felt not just logical, but necessary — as if the road itself had whispered the
next step.
Santiago
to Redondela (80 km)
The
campsite buzzed with pilgrims swapping stories, and I lingered longer than
planned. By the time I left, the sun was high and the day already humming with
heat.
The
road carried me through villages scented with wild aniseed, past vineyards
glowing in the light, past statues and churches that seemed to watch over the
passing pilgrims. I reached Pontevedra early but kept going, carried by
momentum and curiosity.
Redondela
appeared before midday, and a faded hotel offered me a room with a sea view for
twenty‑five euros. I accepted instantly. Some gifts don’t need thinking over.
CHAPTER 3: PORTUGAL
570 Km in 10 Days
Prologue
Portugal greeted me not with
fanfare but with a shift in light. The air thickened with salt and eucalyptus.
The villages glowed white against the hills. The road bent toward the ocean as
if it, too, had been waiting for this moment. I didn’t know what Portugal would
ask of me — only that it would ask something. Every country had. Every stretch
of road had. But as I pedalled south, I felt a quiet anticipation rising in me,
a sense that this coastline, this language, this light would mark a new turning
in the journey.
Redondela
to Viana do Castelo (95 km)
The
morning opened warm and generous, the kind of day that seems to lean forward
and whisper, Go on then — something new is waiting. Only thirty-five kilometres
separated me from Portugal, and the tailwind nudged me along as if eager to see
me cross.
Tui
offered a final Spanish coffee, rich and comforting, before I rolled across the
river into Portugal — a crossing so simple it felt almost ceremonial. Valença
greeted me with cobbled streets that seemed to echo with centuries of
footsteps. The coastline beyond was a dream: wide shoulders, smooth tarmac, and
the Atlantic breathing beside me like a steady companion.
Peaches
from a roadside stall became my lunch — sun-ripened, sweet, devoured in the
shade of a tree. By the time I reached Viana do Castelo, the town was alive
with festival energy, music drifting through the streets like confetti.
The
campsite felt more like a whimsical farm, complete with wandering animals and
showers housed in old horse stables. I laughed out loud at the absurd charm of
it all. Portugal had welcomed me with warmth, fruit, and a sense of play.
Viana
do Castelo to Porto (70 km)
Fireworks
had crackled until three in the morning, leaving the campsite wrapped in a
strange, post-celebration hush. I woke to drizzle and grey skies, the world
softened at the edges.
Sunday
markets spilt onto the narrow coastal roads, cars inching forward as city folk
hunted for fresh vegetables. The air smelled of earth and rain. Somewhere along
the way, I earned my first flat tyre in Europe — a greasy badge of honour that
left my hands blackened and my patience tested.
Porto
rose before me like a revelation. The city shimmered with history, its tiled
facades and steep alleys tumbling toward the river. I learned it was the
birthplace of Port wine, which felt like destiny. Travelling without a
guidebook meant every discovery was a surprise, and Porto was the best kind —
unexpected, layered, intoxicating.
Porto
I
spent the day wandering Porto’s heart, letting the city reveal itself piece by
piece. The railway station dazzled with its blue‑and‑white tiles, each panel a
story. The harbour was alive with the scent of fish grilling over open flames,
seagulls circling like opportunistic thieves.
Holidaymakers
crowded the beaches, chasing the sun. Fishermen cast their lines with patient
hope, though the ocean seemed in no mood to share. As I scrolled through my
photos, I realised how Portugal straddled two worlds — modern architecture
rising beside crumbling, soulful buildings. And though the new was impressive,
it was the old that tugged at me.
Porto
to Ílhavo (88 km)
Breakfast
at the hotel felt like a feast, and I set off along the beaches of Valadares
and Espinho, where locals jogged and cycled in holiday spirits. The Atlantic
remained icy, its waters a stubborn 15–17°C, daring only the bravest to enter.
Aveiro
appeared at midday, all canals and colourful boats, but it was overflowing with
tourists and devoid of campsites. So I pushed on to Ílhavo, where the only
options were expensive hotels. I surrendered to comfort — a hot bath, a balcony
view, and the quiet luxury of clean sheets. Sometimes indulgence is its own
kind of pilgrimage.
Ílhavo
to Coimbra (65 km)
The
hotel breakfast was extravagant enough to fuel me for days. With only a short
ride ahead, I pedalled lazily, letting the morning unfold. A friendly cyclist
joined me for a stretch, chatting easily before we stopped to raid a fig tree —
a small, sweet rebellion.
Coimbra
rose steeply from the river, its medieval heart perched high above. I booked a
room quickly — the campsite was too far from the city’s pulse — and set out to
explore. Cobblestone lanes twisted upward toward the ancient university, each
turn revealing another pocket of history. Coimbra felt like a city built on
stories.
Coimbra
to Nazaré (100 km)
The
ride to Nazaré felt strangely muted, as if the road had slipped into a quieter
register. Beautiful, yes — but after weeks of dramatic landscapes, my senses
had grown greedy. I arrived with a mix of relief and reluctance, slowing down
as if my body knew the chapter was nearing its end.
The
next day I did nothing, gloriously. The campsite buzzed with flies, driving me
out for a ride, but the haze made photography pointless. Eventually, I
returned, resigned to sharing my afternoon with the persistent little pests.
Nazaré
- Óbidos - 42 km
Back
on the bike, I felt the exhilaration of the open road as it wound its way along
the stunning coastline toward Lisbon. To my surprise, the same guy I had met
three days earlier stopped again, this time in a car, and we shared a quick
chat amidst the salty air and crashing waves.
My
first stop of the day was Caldas da Rainha, and I was almost tempted to call it
a day right there. The town was a visual feast, bursting with colours and life,
especially with the Saturday market buzzing in full swing. Cobblestone alleys
were lined with charming cafes where locals enjoyed their meals under the warm
sun, and the whole scene was inviting. But I pressed on, and I was glad I
did—the majestic walled city of Óbidos soon appeared, perched high on a hill
like a fairytale fortress.
There
was no way I could pass this enchanting place without stopping. I treated
myself to a rather upscale room that felt worth every cent. As I strolled
through the narrow streets, I was captivated by the rich history that dates
back to BC, and by the city's having changed hands countless times over the
centuries. It's no wonder that Óbidos is celebrated as one of the seven wonders
of Portugal! I lost track of time snapping an endless array of photos,
indulging in delectable "egg tarts," and savouring liqueur from
delicate chocolate cups. This day was a feast for the senses, and every moment
felt like I was living inside a postcard.
Óbidos
to Ericeira (60 km)
The
hills rose sharply, and a fierce headwind pushed against me with theatrical
determination. Yet every climb revealed another breathtaking view — cliffs,
ocean, villages clinging to the land like stories refusing to fade.
By
early afternoon, I surrendered to Ericeira, where a well-equipped campsite
offered refuge. The wind howled outside, but inside my tent, everything felt
still.
Ericeira
to Cascais (50 km)
The
road into Cascais welcomed me with a fine, silvery drizzle — a gentle reminder
that not every ending arrives wrapped in sunshine. The air was soft, the world
washed in a muted glow, and the ride carried me past the fairytale hills of
Sintra. The Pena Palace rose above the mist like something imagined rather than
built, its colours muted by the weather but no less majestic. It felt like a
fitting final landmark — whimsical, improbable, perched between earth and sky.
As
the drizzle eased, I wound through the last stretch of coastal road and rolled
into Cascais, the place where my European journey would come to rest. Waiting
there was something even more precious than a destination: an old friend.
Carlos
and I go back decades, to our days at Syfrets Trust in Cape Town. Seeing him
again felt like opening a door to a part of myself I hadn’t visited in years.
His wife, Melody, and her two beautiful daughters welcomed me into their home
perched high on a hill, the kind of place where the coastline unfurls beneath
you like a painted horizon. The room they prepared for me was spacious and warm
— a luxury after weeks of tents, damp clothes, and the constant choreography of
living out of panniers. For the first time in a long while, I could spread out,
breathe, and simply be.
That
evening, Carlos lit a fire for a true South African braai — a taste of home
carried across continents. We savoured boerewors made by another South African
who had settled in Portugal, the familiar flavours grounding me in a way I
hadn’t realised I needed. The smoke curled into the night air, mingling with
laughter, stories, and the quiet comfort of old friendship.
The
next morning, Carlos drove me and my bicycle to a local shop where it was
expertly packed for its next adventure — a flight to Rio. With the bike safely
stowed, I allowed myself a few blissful days of rest in Cascais. I wandered the
waterfront, lingered over coffee, let the Atlantic breeze wash over me,
strolled around the narrow lanes of Lisbon and felt the accumulated fatigue of
Europe slowly dissolve.
Then
came the news that lifted my heart: my sister Amanda would be joining me in
Brazil. The thought of sharing the next chapter with her filled me with renewed
excitement and lifted my heart. Europe had been extraordinary — challenging,
beautiful, transformative — and I felt myself arriving at its end not depleted,
but invigorated.
Before
I left, I stood for a moment at Carlos’s home, looking out over the coastline.
Gratitude rose in me like a tide. His generosity — the meals, the laughter, the
space to rest, the lift to the airport — had been a gift I could never have
anticipated but deeply needed. I genuinely don’t know how I would have managed
without him.
Landscapes
shape some journeys. Others are shaped by people.
This
ending was shaped by both.
