Day Twelve: A Change of Plans

Today's ride was glorious, ticking all the boxes: scenic, twisty, and blissfully downhill (at least for the first part). The weather steadily improved, reaching a pleasant 25 degrees. The 60-kilometer route from Béjar to Plasencia mostly followed the A66 motorway, criss-crossing the Vía de la Plata footpath. Navigation was a breeze; the road was essentially straight. The approach to Plasencia, however, involved another uphill slog, made even more challenging by the now intense heat. I arrived around 4 pm, facing a familiar dilemma: stay or push on? I was now three days behind schedule, and knowing the next leg to Mérida would be difficult (mostly desert and off-road), I was tempted to tackle it in one go tomorrow.
I wandered around Plasencia for hours, unable to find suitable accommodation that wasn't a multi-story hotel (of which there were plenty). By 7 pm, I was still undecided, a nagging guilt pulling me toward continuing. Then, I stumbled upon the bus station. Fatal mistake. I was on 'it' before I knew it, embarking on a four-hour ride to Seville.
The journey itself had been surprisingly pleasant, punctuated by extremely heavy rain. The bus at times riding through flooded sections of road. My first impression of Seville, however, was less than ideal. Apart from it still raining, I was stranded at a bus station at 11 at night, with no idea where I was in relation to the city centre. Fortuitously, I stumbled upon a cheap hotel/hostel just down the street. The room was tiny and windowless, save for a tiny louvred slot in the wall. It would suffice for the night; I'd find somewhere better tomorrow. During the night, I was serenaded by the sound of torrential rain gushing from a broken gutter.

Day Thirteen: Seville – Rain, Revelations, and Regret

My first full day in Seville began with a quest for breakfast. A quick walk around the neighborhood confirmed I wasn't exactly in the heart of the tourist district. The area was dotted with 24-hour ethnic shops and had a vibrant, if slightly gritty, energy. More importantly, I felt comfortable walking around. Back in my windowless room (or 'cell, as it felt), I watched the morning news. Southern Spain had been battered by the previous days storms; ten people were dead, and images of cars and houses swept away in Malaga (only about 100 kilometres away) filled the screen. Spanish TV also showed something the BBC would likely never air: thousands of dead pigs, piled in the mud where the floods had ravaged their farms. The local news mentioned Seville's own misfortune: its first rain in six months.
Seville is a magnificent city, and its old quarter deserved a full day of exploration. I spent considerable time in Seville Cathedral, primarily seeking refuge from the now-persistent rain. Unfortunately, every other tourist in Seville had the same idea. The rain didn't let up all day. The decision to stay put in my tiny, windowless room was an easy one. I made a half-hearted attempt to find other lodgings but ultimately resigned myself to my 'cell'. I spent the evening watching bullfighting on television. It had recently returned to the airwaves after a period of being banned, and I found it strangely compelling. Just as the final, fatal stab was about to be delivered, the broadcast cut back to the studio for the 'experts' commentary. I, like most civilised people dislike bullfighting, and the matador's arrogance really grated on me. I found myself hoping the bull would inflict some damage on the smug S.O.B.

Day Fourteen: Seville to Cádiz – By Rail

I peered out the corridor window, confirming my fears: it was indeed raining, and still quite heavily. Despite the weather, I was determined to leave this windowless hotel room. Continuing on to Cádiz by bike was out of the question. Instead, I decided to explore Seville's parks and outlying areas of interest, then find new accommodation.
Out on the street, the rain wasn't quite as intense as the previous day, but I was soon soaked. I cycled through Seville's more affluent districts, with their grand houses lining palm-tree-lined streets. Today, however, these streets were flooded, the water reaching about 10-15 centimetres deep, especially at intersections. The problem seemed to be leaves clogging the drains. I found cycling easier than driving; cars were struggling, while I navigated the flooded streets with relative ease. I cycled out to the motorway junction where my road south began, only to find it clearly impassable. It followed an old railway track and was flooded to an unknown depth.
What to do? The answer was simple: train. A comfortable two-hour journey to Cádiz was far more appealing than a minimum of three days cycling, especially considering the conditions. During the train ride, I followed my planned cycling route on the map. It was a huge relief to see I'd made the right decision; all the low-lying areas were submerged.
I arrived in Cádiz around 6 pm. and immediately began exploring the old quarter, searching for a suitable hostel. This was to be my base for the next four days — until Tuesday's ferry to the Canary Islands, so I wanted to find the right place. I eventually settled on the Hotel Sol. It was perfect. While there wasn't a dedicated bike shed, they kindly offered to store my bicycle in the office behind the reception desk. My room had all the necessary facilities, and even a window, albeit one facing the interior corridor. The central hall was the building's main feature: a large, open area beautifully marbled and topped with a glass dome. And the heat! 34 degrees Celsius. Thankfully, a huge (and noisy) fan spun recklessly above the bed, promising some relief from the sweltering temperature.

Day Fifteen: Cádiz Exploration

I dedicated the entire day to exploring Cádiz. My first stop was however, the main office of Accord Ferries, only to discover it wouldn't open until Monday. With ferry arrangements on hold, I spent the rest of the day walking and cycling around the city, becoming intimately acquainted with Cádiz's old town.

Day Sixteen: A Cádiz Cycling Race

Today was spent entirely on the bike. I took a short ferry to Puerto Real across the bay and then cycled back to Cádiz. It was a memorable ride. First, I stumbled upon a massive 'Family Bike event' finishing at the local Carrefour parking lot. There must have been at least two thousand cyclists there. Later, while cycling back to Cádiz across the mud flats on the dual carriageway, traffic came to a sudden halt, brought to a standstill by a police motorcyclist. It quickly became clear why: a large bike race was underway. I found myself right at the front of the junction. After the race has gone through (and before the support caravan). The police officer waved me to follow the peleton! I joined in and tore after them. I could see people in the cars on the other side pointing at me as I peddled furiously, panniers flapping wildly. An old bloke on a bike, head down, giving it everything. I eventually caught up with the pack on the outskirts of Cádiz, Surprised, by my efforts are you! Well actually, they were already heading back the other way. I stopped and jokingly shouted at them for not waiting! Despite my mock protest, they simply sped up.

Day Seventeen and its not good news.

Down at the Ferry Office for my ticket to Tenerife
“Una billete, Santa Cruz Tenerife, bicicleta , por favour”.
“The ferry is full”, says the man behind the glass.
“NO! Ow! What!, Eh!”
“. . . . It is full señor”

The ferry was full. The ferry that runs only on Tuesdays. The ferry I had travelled 14 days for!

I am now on a list. After picking me up of the floor, I learned that showing up on the day of travel (tomorrow) might bag a 'no-show' ticket.

Day Eighteen: The Waiting Game

So, here I am, seven hours before sailing, the air conditioning and decent toilets a welcome distraction, but this is for sure going to be a long day
Let's assess the walk-on competition hanging about the ticket office. Thankfully, most are luggage free, suggesting they have cars, no threat to me, and therefore spared from my evil eye. My rivals are:
Numero Uno. A short, thin Moroccan man in a faded floral shirt, constantly hovering by the counter window.
Numro Dos. Two 'determined' female American backpackers, one blonde, the other mostly hangs about outside and occasionally slithers in and whispers conspiritory to her friend throughout the day. They've made their desperation clear to the 'bland' nonchalant man behind the glass. This once-a-week ferry has a possibility of 'bigly' disrupting their plans. Their persistent enquiries seem to be pushing them further down the imaginary passenger list. Charm and feminine wiles are not working here; I imagine the ticket man would love to ignore their inevitable tantrums and scoff at any threats of intervention with the likes of "do you know who I am?" or "my Daddy's big in defence".
Numro Tres. An aging 'Hells Angel', male, 50s, big belly, balding. The tell-tale signs are the clean clothes and the leather jacket with "Gran Canaria Chapter Hells Angels" emblazoned on the back. A fraud, a pretend tough guy playing biker with in his third mid-life crisis. He's adopted the same quiet approach as me. His Canary Islands residency might give him priority, though. Yes, it's the quiet ones you have to watch.
Numro Quatro. Jesus. Much to my surprise (and likely that of the Western Christian population), Jesus is Black, very Black, and not from Nazareth, but Senegal. And yes, that's his name; his surname was impressively long. He arrived in a wonderfully battered Citroen van with "Senegal Crafts - Canary Isles" hand-painted on the side. Jesus, as expected, is cheerful and friendly, the only one who's spoken to me. He and his van have tickets; it's his two African companions lurking in the background who are ticketless. I was tempted to ask him about my chances, but I couldn't bring myself to intrude on his good nature. I played the seasoned traveller, feigning only minor concern about "getting out of town."
It's getting late. What seems like hundreds have come and gone, collecting tickets. As 4 o'clock approaches, a deathly hush falls over the waiting area. All eyes are on the man behind the glass. He calls the Moroccan over, he doesn’t need to come far as he's been practically glued to the counter. He produces a worn stack of documents from his back pocket.
We're all gathered around the window now. I hear a murmur, something that sounds like my name. Yes!
I desperately want to give the "mighty US of A contingent" the finger, but not until the tickets are in my hand. Then, the questions: How will I pay? I want to say, "Anyway you like—cash, credit card. Fancy a nice bike? Or perhaps a bag of oranges?" I settle on my Fairfx card. A few clicks on the computer, and then the words:
"Ah, I am afraid, Señor, a problemo...",
A voice echoes in my head: "Nooooo!"
I listen. There's only one berth available, and it's in a four-berth cabin. I resist the urge to shout, 'Call that a problem!!'
The tickets are in my sweaty hands. I head for the ferry queue, adopting my best 'unruffled' demeanour, and am directed to the usual group of German motorcyclists which is just next to the 'proper' bike boarding area. Everywhere in the world there are German bikers waiting for a ferry. The only other proper cyclist in the queue has a trailer with a little mongrel dog inside. It's a young lad named Jamal. His English is limited, but we quickly bond over our shared touring experiences.
But my mind remains unsettled. Who will I be sharing with? Probably a cabin full of Turkish lorry drivers. I picture myself crashing open the door, panniers and bag of oranges in hand, to find them all smoking Camel cigarettes, sitting in sweaty vests, a well-worn deck of cards on a small pile of crumpled notes. The largest man will be cleaning his fingernails with a flick knife.
"Missee Thatcha," he'll say. "She good ladyee, eh, Misteer Englishman, you like?"
I'll whimper, "I'm not English, I'm Scottish."
"You come, stay me in Turkey land."
"Is Turkey like Scotland? Does it rain and have midges and haggis?"
"You taka pissa, mister Englishman. I'll slitta your throat in the night."
As is only right and proper after my four-day ordeal, I'm the last person on board. My cabin is empty, just me and my imagination. After what seems like ages, the door opens. It's my companion for the next three days: Jamal, the dog/biker. We exchange relieved smiles.

ORANGES ARE THE ONLY FRUIT

I should explain the large bag of oranges. My day at the ferry office wasn't just spent waiting. Once I was 'listed' and sitting there, it dawned on me that if I did get on board, I'd be reliant on the (obviously expensive, to me) ferry cafe/restaurant. So, I bought some provisions. This presented a quandary. My backup plan was to return to Seville and fly to Tenerife, so I didn't want to overstock. On the other hand, I needed three days' worth of food and it had to fit on my bike. In the end, my provisions consisted of a two-liter carton of Spanish wine, about 30 oranges, a large bag of mixed nuts, peanut butter, and dry biscuits (I know how to live!).
An eclectic dietary collection, and an immediate realisation, once on board, that I'd overdone it. Not just the ten-oranges-a-day challenge, but it was all unnecessary (except the wine, of course). I knew, but had completely forgotten, that the ferry ticket price included meals!
The ferry was a melting pot. There were the very wealthy (I spoke to a couple of Scandinavians taking their Volvo’s over for the winter), the old hippie contingent (the largest group, around 30, who seemed to spend the entire journey asleep on deck), and the Africans (I'd guess about half the passengers). I later learned that the onboard food policy was designed to discourage people like me from bringing food and cooking on deck or in the cabins.
One final ferry anecdote: the time. Throughout the three-day journey, the cafe opened exactly an hour later than adverised. Annoying, but mañana and all that. It wasn't until we were approaching Tenerife that I realized the clocks had gone back an hour. I'd assumed the Canary Islands were on Spanish (European) time, but they're not! I'd crossed a time zone without warning, which was surprisingly unsettling.
Anyway, the ferry was an 'experience'. A great journey, with sightings of dolphins, whales (waterspouts only), and flying fish. But I was weary of being cooped up for so long and relieved to disembark in Tenerife. I was met by friends and a large car whisked me and my bike away to my 'rest home' for the next week.

Eil Fin