Vuelta a Espana

Santander to Tenerife, mostly following the Via de la Plata. This is the longest of the pilgrim routes in Spain, it runs from Seville in Andalucia, running northwards through the provinces of Extremadura and Castilla y Leon to Salamanca and Zamora, although me being an awkward sod did it the 'wrong' way - north to south. A three-week ride to Cadiz then a week off in Teneriffe. Fly back home.

Day One/Two

The grand adventure began with a satisfying pedal to Leicester, a blur of familiar streets fading into the distance. From there, it was train travel: Birmingham, then the long haul to Plymouth, the rhythmic clatter of the rails a soundtrack to my anticipation. Chester House B &B proved a haven for a touring cyclist – highly recommended!
Plymouth, with its salty air and maritime history, held me captive for a day. I explored the harbour, the cries of gulls mingling with the creak of masts, and took a lazy, laid-back ride along the waterfront. The ferry boarding was smooth, a small gathering of cyclists comparing routes on the car deck. Most were heading east or west, while I was the lone soul venturing south. My cabin, a cosy cell, made me wonder how two people could possibly share the space.

Day Three: Santander's Snares Me!

The Spanish sun beat down with a noticeable intensity. Cycle blogs warned of Santander's chaotic outskirts, recommending the FEVE train out into the countryside. But fate, in the form of a train strike, had other plans. So, with a deep breath and a surge of adrenaline, I tackled the city on two wheels. The blogs were right. It was a chaotic mess. Road signs mocked me, pointing only towards the motorway. Santander's industrial suburbs became a labyrinth, a frustrating maze of concrete and exhaust fumes. By 8 pm, I finally limped into Santillana del Mar, a full day behind schedule.
The camp-site, impersonal and vast, felt empty. My stomach rumbled, and I made the mistake of ordering the most expensive item on the menu at the on-site restaurant: fish paella. It arrived, a culinary tragedy – microwaved to the consistency of concrete. And as if to add insult to injury, the rain began to fall, a steady drizzle against the backdrop of the dark, cloud-shrouded mountains looming in the distance. Those mountains, my next challenge, seemed to mock my weary state.

Day Four: Fire and Frustration

The next day dawned with a welcome warmth, a perfect temperature for cycling. Miraculously, I managed to navigate without getting lost. The coastal route was stunning, a good condition cycle path winding through picturesque seaside villages. Turning inland at Unquira, I followed a quiet road that snaked its way into the mountains. The climb was steady, a gradual ascent alongside a rushing river, the deep gorges on either side a breathtaking 300 meters high.
As I neared Potes, what I thought was mist-shrouded mountains revealed their secret: they were ablaze. A dramatic scene unfolded – helicopters, like giant dragonflies, buzzed overhead, carrying canvas bags of water to battle the inferno. I wondered if I was going to get through, traffic was non-existent.
I did eventually get to Potes without being set alight or water-bombed, it was a tempting stop, but arriving at 3 pm meant I felt compelled to continue. The map hinted at sparse villages ahead, so I stocked up on supplies and set off. Only 10 kilometres later, the road steepened dramatically, becoming a gruelling climb. La Vega, my intended destination, offered no respite: the camp-site was closed, the hostel was close and the local inn was full.
With no other option, I pressed on, now walking my bike up the switch backing road, the gradient a punishing 1 in 4. Mist and drizzle added to the misery. The next village was deserted, a ghost town. Finally, I resigned myself to a night of wild camping. There are warnings of brown bears in 'these parts' I did consider camping in the local walled cemetry but concluded if I could climb over a wall then so can a bear. A secluded spot among the trees, just off the quiet road was eventually my choice. A hot meal and the promise of sleep were my only comforts as I settled down for the night.

The Picos de Europa

They form part of the Cordillera Cantabrica, a long chain of mountains running between the Pyrenees to the east and Galicia to the west. They take their name from being the first land seen by sailors returning from the Americas - the "peaks of Europe" - announcing that they were almost home. Most of the range lies within the Picos de Europa National Park (Spain's oldest national park) which straddles the boundaries of the three autonomous regions of Asturias, Cantabria, and Castilla y León.

Day Five: Triumph and Tribulation

The mountain loomed, a relentless series of switchbacks disappearing into a curtain of fine, persistent drizzle. Warmish, yes, but my waterproofs were a double-edged sword – trapping the rain in as much as keeping it out. I trudged on, bike in hand, the road unfolding only to the next bend. Hours blurred into a monotonous cycle of fifty meters ridden, fifty meters walked. My water bottle mocked me with its emptiness. Desperate, I resorted to collecting rainwater in the folds of my pannier covers, a meager, gritty refreshment. Even more desperate, I boiled stream water and stirred in some energy powder. Nectar! Though the thought of the goats and cows grazing in the surrounding fields – their bells a constant, distant clang – made me a little queasy. The goats scattered at my approach, but the cows, they were huge! They simply stared with mild amusement, forcing me to physically shove them aside. This climb was brutal. And the worst part? The fog was a suffocating blanket. Behind me, the world had vanished. Ahead, nothing. Just the next bend, the next false summit. I had no sense of progress, no perspective.
Then, at last, around four in the afternoon, I crested the summit. 1609 meters! Higher than Ben Nevis! And it was as if an invisible line had been drawn across the mountain. One side: the dreary drizzle I'd battled all day. The other: brilliant sunshine, a sky washed clean, and a view that stole my breath. Astounding. But the relief was short-lived. I was shivering uncontrollably, soaked to the bone, and the downhill ride threatened to strip the heat from my already-chilled body. A village nestled below offered salvation, but the descent worried me. Get some layers on, and finally, after what felt like an eternity of uphill struggle, I was going down. This mountain owed me one! A new mantra formed in my mind: Never leave a village without first replenishing water bottles.
Twenty minutes of glorious, sun-drenched downhill, the wind whipping at my face, and I rolled into the village. The first building I saw, the San Glorio Hotel, was my destination. A three-star restaurant? I deserved it. The four-course meal was divine, but nothing tasted as good as the litre of bottled water and the grande cerveza. Could this be real? Just hours ago, I'd been boiling ditch water. Now, I was feasting on fish soup, cod in cheese sauce, and roasted vegetables.
Emerging from the hotel, my core temperature had returned to normal, and the warmth of the sun enveloped me. This was it. This was the Spain I'd dreamed of. Magnificent scenery, quiet roads, a glorious downhill run. My wet gear hung over the panniers, drying in the afternoon sun. Off I went at glorious, oh, glorious speed on this long, long downhill. What could be better?
And then, bang. My bike hit a rock in the middle of the road. A puncture. Of course, it was the rear tyre. Eager to continue my blissful descent, I skipped the repair and simply swapped the tube. A decision I would soon regret.
That night, in Boca de Huergano, I found the perfect place: a £30 room in a hostel, en suite, with breakfast. One thing I was noticing, though, was the lack of spoken English. The same at the Hotel Gloria, the same here. But the comfortable bed was a welcome relief. But it was lying in the bath that I remember the most.

Day Six: Sahaguin and Solitude

The day began with the landscape opening up, following a tumbling river. But the easy riding was short-lived, soon giving way to a series of twisting climbs and descents through high, rocky hills. Large, dammed lakes dotted the landscape, many alarmingly low, shrouded in a persistent, low-hanging fog. After crossing a substantial hydro dam, I reached Cisterina, a bustling town with a new bypass. With Sahagún still 40 kilometres distant, I stocked up on supplies and went back the way I had just come to the by-pass junction (that’s where the road sign was for Sahaguin), then much to my disgust, discovered that the other end of this long uphill bypass was less than a kilometre from where I'd been shopping. A frustrating pointless detour.
By midday, the temperature had climbed to 30 degrees. After a particularly gruelling ascent, I sought refuge in a bus shelter, escaping the worst of the midday heat. The roads here carried more traffic and required constant vigilance. Steep ditches replaced gutters, and a moment's inattention could send a tired cyclist careening off-road.
Finally, around seven in the evening, I rolled into Sahagún, a historic town on the Santiago de Compostela pilgrim route. The town beckoned with its ruined churches and Roman architecture, but my immediate priority was finding my lodging a Compostela hostel. My lack of a Credencial (pilgrim's passport) and my counter-directional travel seemed to grant me a peculiar kind of privilege: a private room instead of a bunk in the massive, three-to-four-story dormitory with over 100 beds. A definite worthwhile upgrade for a few extra Euros. Washing and drying my tent occupied me until dinner: fresh bread, olive oil, and a jar of sardines enjoyed in the warm evening sun of the hostel courtyard.
My fellow guests, while not unfriendly, were subdued and introspective. The solo walkers, mostly women, seemed deeply engaged in confessional, extensive scibblings in the diaries. A group of older Irish Catholics were on a partial pilgrimage, taking mini-bus transport through the less scenic sections, a mode of travel they'd be using again the next day, which didn't bode well for me as I was going the same way. Then there were the cyclists – not touring cyclists, but rather racers on expensive mountain bikes, traveling light and fast. I felt a distinct disconnect from all of them, a sense of being an outsider in their shared experience.

...and nowhere to prop your bike up!