Vuelta a Espana

Day Seven: Windy and Weary

With the 'flat,' desert-like plains of Spain stretching before me, I'd planned to make up time, racking up high mileage today and attempting to get back on schedule. Zamora was the goal, but the plains had other ideas. The road, a ribbon of asphalt barely undulating across the vast, open fields, seemed to stretch to infinity. But it wasn't the distance that defeated me; it was the wind. A relentless, head-on gale. thats what done me in!
By 7 pm, exhaustion had become a physical weight. I dismounted for a break, intending to get back on the bike, but my body refused. I was simply too tired. Fortuitously, a ruined barn stood beside the road, offering a sliver of shelter from the wind. I pitched my tent in the lee, a much welcomed, near perfect haven. By nine, I'd checked in with 'wife control,' devoured a quick boil-in-the-bag meal, and crawled into my sleeping bag. Sleep claimed me almost instantly.

Day Eight: Zamora tomorra'.

The best-laid plans of cyclists... In hot countries, the smart move is to rise early and put some kilometres behind you before the sun climbs too high. I, however, awoke to the inside of my tent feeling like an oven. It was past nine o'clock! So much for an early start. Muttering about sleeping in, I packed up quickly and headed off, only to discover the rear tyre was flat. The area was covered with low scrub/weed with sharp thorns, despite being as careful as possible - fate took a hold. And of course, the road offered nowhere to even lean my bike. So, I walked it to the next village, my needs were simple: shade, water, and a place to fix the bike.
Miraculously, the village delivered. A small football pitch in a park was being watered, and next to it, a pelota court. Two towering walls where players took turns slamming a ball (outdoor squash, essentially). A young lad practicing showed me the location of a hidden water tap at the park entrance. But this was the day's only stroke of good fortune.
I quickly (too quickly) repaired the tube before putting it back on. It proved to be riddled with punctures – five in total! I'd ride a few kilometres, and pssst -bump -bump —another flat. Exasperated, I tried patching the other tube I had (punctured on the downhill -Picos, one) but the hole was right next to the valve, and the patch refused to stick. Constantly pumping, the oppressive heat, the lack of a place to lean the bike, it was a mounting nightmare. My schedule was now completely out the window. Surprisingly, this realization brought a strange sense of calm. It was simply something to be endured. I also knew by now I needed a new tyre; riding on the semi-flat had damaged the sidewall.
Zamora was still a long 30 kilometres away, and worse, it was a large city. The suburbs and industrial estates seemed to stretch on endlessly. Eventually, I limped into one of those out-of-town shopping areas: vast parking lots surrounded by the usual suspects, McDonald's, furniture stores with 'permanent sales,' every kind of shop imaginable except a bike shop.
McDonald's beckoned. Outside, four teenagers on BMX bikes were gathered, one with a flat tyre. Before I could speak, they addressed me (in a language we didn't share). We quickly established they needed a pump, but mine wasn't compatible with their BMX valves. I asked about Decathlon (billboards on the way into Zamora had advertised one), and they said they were now headed there too. And so, this unlikely convoy set off in search of cycling salvation. Amazingly, it was only two kilometres away.
At Decathlon, I stocked up: a new tyre, two inner tubes, and some discounted cycling clothes. With everything in working order again, a wave of relief washed over me. Now, the next challenge: finding a place to sleep.

The old town of Zamora crowned a hill, the church a proud beacon visible from afar. I knew a pilgrim hostel was somewhere nearby, but finding it proved a challenge. I wandered the labyrinthine, narrow streets of the old town, searching in vain for a sign. A busker playing flamenco guitar became a recurring figure in my quest; on my seventh pass, I found him taking a break. Despite the language barrier, I asked about the hostel. He couldn't speak English, but he drew me a map and miraculously, it led me straight to the perfect place. The hostel occupied a large block of flats, and even better, they allowed me to keep my bike in my room. Another excellent find with a comfy bed and a shower.
Later, I ventured out into the ancient town of Zamora on a Friday night. The main square throbbed with life; a small festival was in full swing. Cider sellers, with practiced flair, poured their drinks from bottles held high above their heads, the liquid arcing into glasses held down by their waists. The crowd was a kaleidoscope of strangely dressed people, many in medieval costumes. The air also buzzed with the skirl of a peculiar version of the bagpipes. As evening deepened, a procession to the church passed by, an oddly medieval spectacle.

Day Nine: And a well earned 'rest day'.

I awoke to the drumming of heavy rain. Ironically, the region had been in drought until my arrival. Reluctantly, I packed my gear and set off south, the journey out of Zamora a familiar struggle: roads leading only to motorways and underpasses. Finally, after a long, uphill climb, I broke free into the countryside, only to see the road vanishing into a wall of black, ominous rain. This was too exposed; I wasn't going to battle that. I turned back to the old town, deciding a bus to Salamanca was the better option. Six Euros (bike included) later, I was comfortably seated, watching the wind and rain lash against the bus windows. A distinct advantage: I'd bypassed yet again the ubiquitous suburban industrial wasteland that encircles all large cities.
Salamanca, an ancient university town, immediately impressed me. The main historic district was pedestrianised, bustling with tourists, a welcome sight, as it suggested fewer language barriers. I checked into the Hostel Revolution, a mere 50 meters from the main square. My room, complete with a balcony, had every amenity imaginable, and there was even a communal kitchen downstairs. Five stars. It ticked all the boxes.
A brief stroll around the town confirmed my suspicions: Salamanca was a gem. Despite the bus ride now nudging me back on schedule, I decided to stay another day, dedicating tomorrow to exploring this beautiful city. Schedules be damned.

Day Ten: Salamanca's Charm and a storm.

A day of rest was in order. Six days of cycling warranted a break, and I spent a pleasant day exploring Salamanca's town centre. I climbed the tower of the main church and indulged in the usual tourist activities. The weather, however, was shifting, turning showery. 'wife control' had warned me of impending doom and gloom heading toward Southern Spain. The news that night confirmed it: heavy rain and strong winds were forecast for the next day. Despite my fondness for Salamanca and the ominous weather prediction, I decided to move on to Béjar. The compromise? I'd take the bus.

Day Eleven: Béjar's Brusque Welcome

The weather forecast proved accurate, unfortunately. A heavy drizzle, cold, and wind made for an unappealing start. So, it was indeed a bus ride to Béjar. The journey, which should have taken an hour, was interrupted by a bus breakdown. After a 40-minute wait for a replacement, we finally arrived in Béjar just after 3 p.m. The rain had stopped by then, so I decided to cycle out of town, attempting to salvage some kilometres before evening. This proved less successful than hoped. I ended up on the hard shoulder of a motorway, forced to turn back into oncoming traffic. Eventually, I found the correct road, just as the heavens opened, unleashing a torrential downpour. I gave up and turned back, all the way uphill to Béjar.
Béjar wasn't the most charming town, and the atrocious weather certainly didn't help its case. I finally found a room in a bar/hotel, a hefty 60 Euros, a big hit for my budget. The owners promptly closed up for the night, leaving me alone in the entire building. They did, however, provide me with a key to the back door. The room itself was quite nice, even with a chocolate on my pillow. I settled in with some provisions and watched news reports of riots in Madrid. During the night, the metal shutters rattled and banged, and I could hear things being tossed about in the street. A major storm was raging outside. I hoped it would blow itself out. I made a firm decision: enough with the buses. Tomorrow, come what may, it was bike time.

Salamanca is a town I would go back to