The Art of Long Distance Cycling

Fez is very likeable place. Im told the medina is 1000 years old has 9k shops/stalls dispersed through 1k streets, and the worlds oldest University, though I not sure how thats measured, as plenty of other places claim the title. The narrow streets are crowded all day long and there is something here for everyone, even the casual observer like myself, which is helpful cus you’re gonna get lost at some point, guaranteed. Fortunately, the locals are notable friendly, without the Egyptian levels of coercion. ‘No thankyou’ does tend to be accepted as no! Though the one time I did ask for assistance (nature calling) some random guy took me (and Aziz) to a very expensive organic health shop, buried down multiple alleyways. We’d been kidnapped and would have to pay the ransom to get out. You can be ‘relieved’ in more ways than one it would seem.

Like I say, the Medina is a compelling place though after a few days, you do get the sense that its been ‘curated’ to give the gullible tourist the kind of ‘exotic’ cultural experience the locals think that he/she wants and/or expects; a figurative hall of mirrors (as opposed to an actual hall which you can also see here) Nothing overtly dramatic, but at times it can feel like a Disney (Ali Baba) version of the bazaar. Though its trivial compared to Marrakesh, as Ill describe later.

I met Aziz in the cafe next to my Riad. He’s here to see the Tunisian football team in the AFCON tournament, which had just recently kicked-off. Plenty of his compatriots were here too, soaking up the pre-match atmosphere in advance of their first match against Nigeria, one of a favourites to win it all. Othman had offered me a ticket, though it seems actually getting hold of one was more difficult than anticipated. You couldnt simply turn-up, despite the match not being a sell-out, compounded by the match day rain. Official channels only for some reason.

Unfortunately for Aziz, the Nigerians lived up to the early billing and gave the Tunisians a bit of a run-around. Though the latter did score twice late-on to create some drama, they ultimately went down 3-2. I had to make-do watching in a tea-shop, from where so much of Moroccan, notably male, social life tends to reside. Indeed, whilst the absence of gender mixing is very evident, the principle of men going out and endlessly chatting-debating, face-to face over a coffee seems eminently civilised to me (or potentially tedious, depending on the company). Indeed, coffee shops in pre-war Paris and Vienna used to be cultural epicentres for artists and intellectuals. Now its shoppers (and their iphones) drinking £5 mochas in Starbucks.

After my exertions to get here, and the fact that the weather was by now closing in again, I extended my stay and hung around for a over a week. The cold and-or wet have been familiar ‘companions’ throughout, and whilst Meknes isnt so far, my masochism has its limits. Finally, the sun broke through again, and it was time to head out once more. However, it soon became apparent that I had a problem. Whilst casually walking round the medina a few days previous, I felt a twinge and a tightness in the left quad, and despite stretching was having trouble shifting it. The God of Irony gives you thousands of kms of injury-free travel, only to strike when you least expect it. So, the moment I hit the road out of Fez, it immediately tightened, like an upper ‘E’ string. Concerning and uncomfortable for sure, but not quite ‘Bohemian Rapsody’ debilitating, and I certainly wasnt prepared to sit it out in Fez any longer. I mean, how long does it take to ease muscle stress anyway? Needless to say, I preceded with the utmost care, more in the fashion of B.B.King, mindful that a muscle tear can sideline you for months. Images of Derek Redmond come to mind (look it up).

Fortunately, this ‘leg’ of the journey was relatively short, flat, even boring and despite the early discomfort, the muscle did warm-up somewhat, and I was able to reach Meknes without any further complications. Second port of call, a pharmacy, and some Deepheat; which has the added benefit of a strong but social-acceptable odour, even more overpowering than stale sweat. I might even use in future for that specific purpose. Furthermore, I’ve now got my own ‘warm-up and down’ exercises influenced by those over-50 Ti-Chi adds from You Tube (previously referenced). The sort of thing you’d see on morning TV, as the normally professional broadcaster embarasses themselves in front of the nation housewives. Its no fun getting old.

By comparison to Fez, Meknes is the neglected, bastard child. Just as much history and culture but far more rustic, gritty and muddy than its larger, more celebrated brother; William vs Harry, if you like. But that’s the principle source of its appeal. With fewer tourists, you can stroll the medina virtually unnoticed: no unsolicited, ‘where are you from?’ intrusions; little added tax on food; reduced begging. Far more oriented to local needs than the casual trinket hunters. Certainly, a more laid back experience. The one exception being the main square, where you can observe various forms of animal baiting, including; cobras, donkeys, monkeys and, even an ostrich. All very unedifying.

A further good reason to come to Meknes is the ancient Roman ruin and former regional capital of Volubolis, about 50km NE. I have seen it before, and whilst the nature of ruins is that they dont change much, I do like ancient ruins. They’re so evocative. Now, I could pretend that I took the longer scenic route to make the most of the experience. If only! Instead, I once again took the wrong ‘circular’ route and ended up doing a whole 50km more than required, into a strong headwind, and on a nominal day-off. I didnt even arrive at the site until 3pm. Having gone all in, I bought the ticket but was then refused entry at the gate because of the bike. Of course, no reason was given. At least, not one that would have made any sense. Rather, I would have to leave Helmut outside, in an unsecured car park. Akin to leaving your car with the keys in the ignition and a ‘Steal Me’ bumper sticker. Not going to happen. I returned to Meknes hungry, thirsty and unfulfilled, and not for the first time!

I also ‘celebrated’ Xmas and New Year in the city. Though given that Muslims dont do likewise, it was an outstanding non-event. Which suited me just fine. The last thing a solo cyclist needs to be carrying on a tour is a strong sense of nostalgia and home comforts. It will soon undermine the will, wont it.

Chefchaouen has an almost mythical status among travellers given its remote location, its enduring charm and of course, its striking colour. At 2000m plus above sea level, getting there only adds to its mystique.

Necessarily for a cyclist, its a real brute, with the climb into cloud-shrouded Zinat and beyond to Ben Hassan lasting 4+ hours, each significant promontory (and next target) being marked by its own mosque where I silently pray that this mountain has peaked.

The climb was occassionally joined by local children who took time out from fruit selling to critique my efforts; like the Roman centurion mocking Ben Hur as he strains over his oar. To be fair to them, the sight of a puce, middle-aged man giving himself a hernia ‘for fun’ is probably worth a laugh. Zinat was a sight to behold, not simply as an intermediate peak but because the weak winter sun was right then illuminating the half-submerged, cloud-shrouded town, the top of the minarets peering through like periscopes in the wash. Unfortunately, I missed the optimum photo op and simply couldnt find the will to return. After the town of Ben Hassan, there was a restbite of 40km of so before the final ‘6km’ climb into Chef itself. Guess which part of the profile that is.

The view into the valley tells its own story, with the Chef-related red portion, ‘conveniently’ situated as the very end of a long, chilly day in saddle.

The houses/hotels themselves are largely constructed of adobe (brick-mud combination). Perfect for summer but in the absense of ‘any’ heating whatsoever, ice cold at this time of year. The shocking blue while stunning to look at, only emphasises the chill factor. Between occasional ‘power strolls’ around the town, most of the time was spent eating Tajine and tea drinking simply to stay warm. To that effect, I also had my first hammam of the tour. I hardly needed to ‘sweat out’ my system any further, but for a couple hours at least, I was able to loll about in the kinds of temperatures Id actually been expecting, whilst being rubbed-down and vigorously exfoliated by a pensioner. Or maybe he was a teenager who’d spent too much time in a sauna, haha. Either way, it was profoundly relaxing, so I tipped him heavily (at least 2 quid).

To date, conversation has been in notable short supply. Having ploughed through Europe in the 90 days permitted, there was precious little time for meet and greet (with the notable exception of friends in Valencia and Seville). So to be greeted in Chef by a local, speaking perfect English was a pleasant surprise. We shared a sweet tea, light conversation and made a late, casual dinner engagement (so casual in fact, that he stood me up). Of course, it soon became apparent that most of the shop-keepers spoke a degree of ‘business’ English and numerous other languages besides, and when I bumped into my ‘new aquaintance’ again, he brushed our supposed rendez-vous aside and tried to sell me a ‘Moroccan’ woollen coat instead. They’re cosy, if touristy and hardly practical for a cyclist. Besides, I kinda resent being seen as little more than a tea and sales opportunity.

Despite the general lack of sun and warmth, I stayed in Chef for 5 whole days which is some testament to its visual appeal and aura, not so dissimilar to roaming ancient towns in the mountains at Delphi or Termessos (look them up). A very real sense of culture combined with one’s own puniness in the midst of the Gods (no matter how much ‘make-up’ you use).

The next stage to Fes is long and would have to be consumed in two stages. The first stage to Ouezzane (pronounced ‘Wahzan’) is around 80km and straighforward enough, given the perfect impetus by the long downhill out of Chef, which looked even more striking in the sunrise. For once, much of the route was characterised by long drags and lazy inclines lined by something resembling nature. It still wasnt the reassurely deep forest you’d expect this far into the remote countryside, but it made for a very relaxing and enjoyable stage. Just the kind your legs need after a few days of relative inactivity.

I had a late lunch in the sun and happened to find the cheapest and grottiest hostel available (miscellaneous furniture, no sheets, ingrained dirt and football supporters) with a communal toilet and shower; though obviously one person at any one time. That night Morocco were playing the Arab Cup final against Jordan in advance of the AFCON tournament, it was itself hosting the following week. All the coffee bars were full, Morocco lifted the trophy and everyone finally went to bed very happy; bar the caffeine-fuelled fans driving around town honking horns till the early hours. Which whatever you think is infinitely better than meeting the drunken English equivalent looking to their expunge their disappointment after the latest, crushing exit from whatever tournament they’ve stunk-out this time.

I was up and out before dawn (8am) after an awkward night of fig-driven restlessness. I love ’em but still havent figured out the operating margins between optimum fibre intake and Oppenheimer. Its not just the uncomfortable excess of gas but the odd residual and notably bitter taste they leave when consumed to excess. Not then ideal prep for the 141km to the city of Fes, the biggest single-day of effort so far, and I was not a little anxious, which itself was consuming lots of nervous energy. With the exception of the town of Jorf El Melha, the route is sparse, treeless, cold, expansive and very remote, stirring some very strong existential feelings of isolation and loneliness (more about that in a future post). You wouldnt wanna get caught out here after dusk.

This only added to my lingering sense of urgency and a stubborn refusal to stop for lunch even at 100km, around Selfat. Having unwittingly spent the last of my change on a coffee, I only had 200MAD notes (20 pounds each) which shopkeepers wouldnt take for a bottle of water. By 14.00, I was functioning on little more than adrenaline, but still feeling strong all considered. That was until 30km out when the hills to Fes really started. They werent Chef-style severe, but neither were they welcome given my levels of fatigue, hunger and dehydration. It wasnt long before I was seriously ‘bonking’ (yes, thats a cycling term. Dont Google it) and struggling with each and every turn of the pedals. Indeed, in this state every sore and ache is ‘concentrated’ with a predictable and compounding effect on your will and your mood. This was as tough as anything I’d experienced to date and I was getting increasingly frustrated, and even confused. Having mistaken the village of Douyet for the outskirts of Fes, I got off the bike with my head swimming and sat in dirt for 30 mins eating what remained of the figs just to avoid passing-out, or bursting into tears. For a little while there, Id lost it. I couldnt see straight and was staggering like a drunk. Not at all what Id anticipated that morning. Once I recovered somewhat, I returned to the road and entered Fes, struggling through the final kilometres and rush hour traffic to the old Medina only to face one final obstacle.

I’d visited the city some 15 years ago and was thrilled and overwhelmed by the novelity of the rabbit warren that is the old Medina. It hasnt changed so much, even if my own sense of anticipation had long since evaporated this time around. Indeed, walking my bike up and down the main alley (Talaa Sghira) trying to find my hotel was not helping. Fortunately, my host Othman had spotted me, guided me in and couldnt have been a more accommodating host in a proper Riad. I literally cant recall anything else of the evening after that.

Of course, you never want to get into that state of exhaustion if you can possibly help it but likewise, you dont your limits until youre pushed towards them, and Ive certainly learned something about that! Fescinating Im sure, but it wont happen again…

Its was a dull, wet and chilly morning that started the European leg in Oldenburg back in early September and its a similar one that brings it to an end in the Spanish port of Algeceras, some 4500km later. I had 90 days to get across the continent and in actual fact, have overstayed my welcome: there are 31 days in October. The boat loading and crossing is quick enough (2 hours) however, your papers must be checked by onboard Moroccan officials before disembarcation.

This is then followed by multiple document and vehicles checks at the official border. So Im parked alongside campervans when a policemen pulls me over, gives my top pannier a cursory tap and asks if I have a gun. Obviously, this is no time for comic relief (‘I didnt realise I needed one’) and Im finally waved across the border, some 5 hours after leaving the hotel. It occurred to me that had I intended to get involved with a local resistance movememt, surely a bicycle would make for a highly ineffective get-away vehicle. Having taken a further hour to find the coast road to Tangiers, in a tangle of massive infrastrusture projects (port extensions, motorway and a highland railway), I can finally get down to work. And it is a lot of work, afterall, continent collision and seperation leave as many hills to climb on this side of the divide as the Spanish side. Its apparently just 42km to my final destination (depending on which roadsign you chose to believe) but a vicious headwind is dragging progress down to a crawl. Not 15km from Tangiers and Im highly tempted to stop at the Hotel Tarifa, but resist (for the moment) and finally, round the headland that brings Tangiers into view. I was here 15 years ago, but naturally the city is so much bigger now (having swallowed up surrounding communities) and bar the small medina, virtually unrecognisable. All high rise businesses and new apartment blocks, though its lost little of its engaging atmosphere as despite the cool weather, the streets remain full of locals enjoying their sweet tea and conversation, not to mention the Arab (football) Cup coverage.

According to Google Maps, Ive arrived in the vincinity of my hotel but neither it, nor the street are actually marked. I pass a bank and take the opportunity to get some money but am distracted by a ‘helpful’ local in the process. I turn to see my card getting swallowed up by the machine and scream at it in frustration. Im anticipating endless delays to retrieve it, but my new ‘friend’ looks on bemused and simply points to the door of the bank. I get to speak to the manager, Yasim who not only returns my card (on the understanding that I dont punch the machine again) but he phones up my hotel and requests a member of staff to come and collect me. Alls well that ends well. Indeed, Im treated to a large and comfortable apartment with cooking facilities and a king-size bed for less than £20 a night. It may be the off-season and inevitably colder (colder than anticipated in fact), but the upside is that hotels here are largely empty and thereafter, only slightly more expensive than a campsite in Spain. Tip. Download meta-search engine ‘Cozy, Cozy’ to find cheap accommodation. Indeed, if Im not wrapped up warm in my Riad (a home with rooms off a sunlit central attrium converted into a hotel) much of the time will be spent wandering the bewildering souqs, in cafes, drinking the sickly sweet and totally addictive Moroccan tea or in restaurants, eating mostly coucous and tajine: a full meal for well under a tenner.

Despite the distances and intense effort of moving around, Morocco is the place to recharge the batteries before facing-down the desert to the south and Sub-saharan Africa beyond.

The next, non-ride to Tetuoan will stay with me forever. I’d had good weather for the 3 days in Tangiers but was committed to leaving on the 4th, despite the gloomy weather forecast. You gotta take the rough with the smooth and whilst it was raining, it resembled a dreary, grey mist rather than a torrential downpour. A scene seemingly drained of colour as a one would ring a sock. Beyond my waterproofs, I was getting damp but remained warm at my core thanks to the constant pedalling. The route suggested by Garmin was highly circuitous to avoid major highways and having no clue of progress, I hadnt booked any forward accommodation for the night, trusting to good fortune or at length, my tent. Unsurprisingly, there is a distinct dearth of cyclists here, even locals. Ive seen more donkeys to be honest, and passing through small towns and villages, people look upon me with a distinctly, unsettled curiosity. Who is this guy?…what is he doing here?..why is he riding a bike and why is he doing it in the rain? Nonetheless, a local guy did help me rejoin the road at Laqueleyla, the garmin route having literally disappeared in the village of El Menbar. I stopped for a coffee and noted customers watching one of those anodyne, ‘chill out’ videos of an Alpine village in the pouring rain. Bored of chilling out it was then switched to a single scene of birds flailing in a wire trap. I can only assume that the internet hasnt reached here yet. Meanwhile, the rain was beginning to ease a little and there wasnt much but beyond tormented birds to keep me here, even if my mood mirrored the damp and sombre landscape. A few miles down the road however, I passed a walker hunched against the rain with his backpack and staff; a sharp reminder of how fortunate I was to have transport and the anticipation of a hot shower and a bed ‘somewhere’ down the line.

Indeed by the new town of Cherafete, as desolate and charmless as any Tolkienesque lamdscape you’ll see, the rain had once again become heavy and the temptation to stop at the local hotel was over-whelming. Instead, I stopped for some lunch before deciding to move on, no matter. It was not even 13.00 by this stage and I wasnt gonna get any wetter. However, as I climbed and passed through, Lechba and finally, Ksir Sagir (close to the Port), it was turning 16.00 and still no accommodation. Isnt wasnt long before I found myself once again, on the same tortuous coast road of the previous week hoping for any ‘port in a storm’ but it wasnt until the Hotel Tarifa (as mentioned earlier) that I found my safe harbour i.e 9 hours of hard, sodden riding had brought me to within 15km of my starting point. Any sense of relief overwhelmed by one of gnawing frustration. All part of the process and ultimately washed away with a hot shower!..if that all sounds very dowmbeat, thats because it was. Bicycle touring is certainly not for the faint hearted

Fortunately, the following day was fine and clear and I was up early retracing my steps to Lechba before continuing on the road to Tetuoan marked by one particularly long, long climb of over 2 hours on an empty stomach.

I stopped at the first central hotel I could find. A room was available but the receptionist didnt seem that keen. He started spraying prefume around and without holding back, informed me that I stink. Well of course I do. My damp clothes are saturated with both rain and sweat only to be reified by the days windy conditions. Mortally embarrassed, I took another clothed shower and put on any fresh clothes available. My man appeared satisfied, though he wasnt to know that my room now resembled a laundry.

I stayed just the one night and rather than a hotel, I booked in Riad in the centre of the old Medina. A riad is a 2-3 storey building with a central attrium topped by a glass roof, the equivalent of a sitting room often ornately decorated with ceramic tiles, wall hangings and large lamps. Necessarily, each floor has rooms on each side of the square making for an ideal hotel but with a cosy, familial ambience. This feel is enhanced further by the unfailing warm welcome you recieve. I even got a room upgrade and a free breakfast (bread, pancakes, eggs, cheese and Morocco sweet tea). The view from the terrace above the medina was….how would you describe it?

As is typical in the Muslim world, the  medina is charactetised by ancient city walls, enclosing a maze of narrow streets with wooden roofs and hundreds if not thousands of lock-ups/small businesses selling anything from fruit and veg, to handmade sweets (saturated in sugar) to household utensils and even random bits of machines and electronics. Its charming, noisy, colorful, intense to the point of disorientating, like being thrown into a washing machine. A sense only exacerbated by the seasonal rain. Fortunately, Morrocan businessmen arent the pushy, ‘in-your-face’ type ala. Egypt or Turkey. You can barter, you can take or leave it and youre never far from a tea shop and temporary restbite, if it all gets too much. Though even this sanctuary has for this moment in time, been turned into a bearpit with Morocco hosting and favorites to win AFCON (the continental football tournament won by Cote D’Ivoire 2 years previously). Moroccan fans are very passionate and even more expectant.

Next. The blue town of Chefchaouen.

The next stop had a particular significance for me. I first came to Seville in 2003 for a month long, English Teaching course. It was very difficult time in my life but I was so utterly captivated by the place, the lifestyle and the warmth that I stayed for the next 5 years. Naturally then, Seville would be on my route south even if it required a modest westerly detour away from the coast. Moreover, I was finally leaving the sierra and could now start ‘eating-up’ some of the road. At least, that was the plan.

In the meantime, I stayed the night at Morón de la Frontera in a nice Airbnb, meeting the homeowner Alfredo just before turning in. I was up and out just after dawn and full of high expectation, only to be stopped short by my 2nd puncture of the trip. Thats around 3.5k km/hole, so no complaints.

Outside of major cities, roads in Spain are of wildly varying quality. There are even signs warning you of their ‘Mal Estado’!!! As ‘luck’ would have it, I was only a few minutes down the road and decided to return to Alfredo’s, not least because my stomach was beginning to complain. Despite all evidence to the contrary, (a happy meal and an empty bottle of wine), Alfredo had said he would be up by 9am. However, there was no response to the doorbell. So I simply repaired the tyre and recommenced, confident that the activity would also settle my system. Unfortunately, I wasnt in the saddle long enough to find out, as 2-mins down the road it happened again. Once again, no response to my calls which only heightened my stress and the downward pressure on my guts..I had to go, I had to go now, and go I did, in the undergrowth at the end of the street. No sooner was I done than a police car slowly rolled past me. That close to being caught ‘brown-handed’ so to speak. Yep. Thats the punchline.

But karma hadnt finished with me. The second puncture was only a centrimetre from the first, indicating something lodged in the tyre but no matter how close the inspection, I saw and felt nothing. So I put it down the coincidence, repaired the hole and started again. By this time, Id lost over 2 hours and become fixated with the state of the tyre. And with good reason. I was 20 minutes down the road passing Morón airbase when I felt the telltale ‘wobble’ and the front tyre deflate again. Thats all the evidence I needed. I completed the repair and put on the new, replacement tyre Id been carrying since Bremen for just such a scenario. Of course, if that didnt work then I be returning to s*** creek. Metaphorically speaking. This thought alone scrambled my mind for the next couple of hours. That and a vicious headwind accompanying me all the way to the city outskirts. All I needed now was a snakepit of busy, fast and broad highways into Seville to finish me off. Rather than entering the city on a wave of nostalgia, I was the tightly wound coil of pure frustration. I had an hour to find my hotel, clean up and meet my old friend Mark in the centre.

Fortunately, the city of Don Juan has a way of soothing the savage breast. It was Tuesday evening, still the cafes were bustling and the streets were saturated with the smell of incense, as I was saturated with the sense of warmth and the forementioned nostalgia. For me, there is no city with quite the charm and charisma of Seville on an autumn evening. Its essential Spain, and with Xmas just round, it felt just like home.

Mark and I had a great evening of stories to catch up on (17 years worth to be precise). I did much the same with Jeff, the following evening and at weekend, for a big Thanksgiving get together. The highlight here, other than the boat load of food was the talent contest including a beatboxing failure (that didnt get past the first beat), a press-up and a Sevillana (a local dance greeted with congenial groans by the foreign contingent)…as for that specific group, Mark, Jeff and I sang ‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps’ by The Beatles. Not exactly contemporary and certainly not a rabble rouser. Indeed, we were greeting (by the largely local audience) with eerie silence. Not that of politeness or even contempt but just utter bemusement. What is this? Music, talent, irony, a joke? Not content with one miss, Mark insisting on returning to recount a Shakespearean soliloquy from the Scottish play (another crowd pleaser) with much the same response. Perhaps they simply prefer Cervantes, though he could justifiably blame me for crashing my one and only line. All good, harmless fun, particularly after a skin full of Rioja. And besides, no-one was gonna beat the one actual talent present who had come to the party armed with her violin. I left the scene with my belly and my soul full and generous invitations to hang around for Xmas at least.

And I truly wanted to accept. However, govts contrive to clampdown on all pleasures other than their own, and Brexit means I can only stay in Europe for 90 days (in any single 6 month period) and I was within a week of that limit (no exceptions). Thanks Nigel Farage! And so with a heavy heart and panniers stacked full of happy memories, I cycled south unto the horizon, towards Jerez, Gibraltar, Morocco and beyond. As for the tyre, prolonged inspection revealed a shard of glass wedged in the thick tread, whose impact on the innertube only became apparent when weight was applied ie. each time I returned to the saddle. No need to buy another one.

As one of the horses of the cycling apocalypse, I was keen to avoid the heavy expected by the afternoon, so I wanted to get a move on towards Granada. With the mountains of the Seirra Nevada constantly looming over my left shoulder, the nature of the route ahead was foretold. Indeed, as I was entering the village of La Peza, a car stopping on the dual carriageway opposite. A woman poked her head out and explained:

‘Im a local nurse. Are you going to be alright to continue??’

The implication was obvious, and indeed, I was climbing for the next couple of hours to the peak at nearly 2000m. But that was the worst of it. From here, I more or less glided into Granada, thru a series of tight bends and vast panoramas. Despite one final steep climb to my hostel, I even managed to avoid the anticipated downpour

I have a particular fondness and nostalgia for Andalusia h

aving lived in the region in a previous incarnation. What strikes the visitor immediately is the  Muslim legacy of some 600 years (as opposed to my 5-year legacy). This is no more apparent than in Granada, a city dominated by the Alhambra Palace.

Apparently, a visit will set you 30 Euros and the waiting list is a month long. I was happy to settle for Mirador de Sant Miguel which I imagine would be particularly special at night.

Given the effort to get up here, you’d be surprised how many people limited themselves to a few selfies before heading straight back down again, past squat, cave dwellings wreaking of marujana.

I decided to stay an extra day in Bocairent so that I could get close up and personal. In the mornings, the air and the light up here are clear and fresh, giving a bright aura to the town. A perfect day for aimless wandering and losing yourself in a maze of narrow, medieval streets that will eventually lead you back to the church at the peak and the adjacent square at the historic centre. For me, walking these places is a delight; like opening an old suitcase to reveal ancient heirlooms and forgotten photographs. You never knew the scenes or the people directly, but there is a palpable sense of anticipation, cultural connection and recognition. A definitive highlight and yet, no-one I’ve met since has even heard of it. And to think if I’d arrived in the early afternoon, I may have simply given it an ‘impressed’ nod and moved on. So much of our lives is driven by nothing more than chance.

I knew the next few days were going to be intense, but I couldn’t put it off any longer. The high road to the coast at Alicante started the moment I left Bocairent and only got more extreme the further I rode.

That orange patch at around 90 kms started in the city of Alcoy. That period alone was an hour plus of unrelenting climbing. And yet, it is remarkable how more often than not, the body adapts to circumstances. My body was sore and aching before I even started. Progress to this point had been slow, but once a rhythm was established, adrenaline tends to take over. From here, progress and pressure is measured in yards and bends rather than km/hr but eventually, you’ll reach the summit.

Credit to the bike designers for such a wide gear ratio, including a very low selection that enables the steep climb without a dismount. Three major climbs had to be negotiated but inevitably, the view opens up and the world is spread out in front of you. Or more specifically, the plain leading to the coast at Alicante. Truly majestic

Even the descent was no walk in the park. A chill wind was coming in from the coast and was so strong at times, it virtually brought to the bike to a halt. Very disconcerting. Alicante itself is a popular resort, but with the exception of the main street, which is heavily decorated with palm trees, it holds no particular interest. However, if Id known what was ahead, I’d have lingered by the warm coast a little longer.

Instead, I turned inland towards the Sierra. At Murcia, I decided to stay in a hostel for a few days. Unfortunately, it was the weekend and the dorm was full of youngsters from out of town looking for a party. They weren’t especially interested in others, and needless to say, they returned in the early hours to wake us up with barely suppressed chatter and crisps. I kid you not. I say ‘us’ because the nature of hostels is also somewhat complex. While I presume they were designed for younger travellers who couldn’t afford hotels, the majority of beds are, in fact, occupied by middle-aged men often working hard, menial jobs who simply can’t afford local rents. Each had their own sad stories, as if to excuse their imposed lifestyle. Its humbling, but it certainly didnt disturb their sleep, as most snored the night away in blissful oblivion. Not me, needless to say.

The real sierra started outside of Lorca with notable and extended climbs into Velez Blanco in particular. Most of these ‘white’ towns are perch on the hillside and appear to have developed around a medieval crossroads defended by a fortress.

A place of extremes; the seirra is scorching in summer but often cold and damp this time of year. Imagine crossing a vast moorland. I largely have the road to myself and its deathly quiet bar, a few birds, and my own heavy breathing. Even the sparce villages appear deserted. Hence, the place often invokes a deep sense of isolation and melancholy. Actually, ‘heavy’ breathing through these emotions helps to manage them. That and the fact that ‘turning around’ just isn’t an option!!

There was no way I would make Baza from Lorca in a single day. So I stopped at Maria and had the entire hotel/former convent to myself. That was apart from the moment I stepped out of the shower stark naked to be confronted by a member of staff. Didn’t see her again. Apart from that, the place was cheap and perfectly comfortable, but while most religious iconography had been removed, it was still a bit ‘The Shining’ creepy, particularly at night.

On the map, the stage from Baza to Granada is greatly extended given the fact that I can’t use the motorway (A92). Instead, you have two humps of around 30km each. What isn’t clear is the precise nature of the terrain. I would have to start early if I were to reach my destination in daylight.

In reality, the hills were relentless and merciless and my ‘mission’ was not helped by taking the wrong route, not once but twice.  You surpass one ridge only to view the next series of peaks to come. Like navigating the tight plats in a woman’s hair.  Long before halfway, I’d been climbing for hours, and even the extended ridges were windswept and freezing. Little rest bite here. By the time I completed the first hump around the beautiful seirra at Bacor, I’d been 5 hours on route and was already shifting in my saddle. By now, I couldn’t trust myself or the bike. Occasionally, we were in harmony, flowing en route with good progress being made. More often than not, however, we were dragging as if the brakes had been partially applied. Needless to say, there was no consistent rhythm, and my legs ached and stiffened as if dangled in an ice bath. For all that, by the early afternoon the sun was sparking in the clean air, and the views were often spectacular, most obviously the deep ravine at Benamaurel, where my own progress was closely monitored by the resident Ibex. Also, the towns around here resemble cute hobbit villages. No insult intended, but starting at Orce, many of the houses are literally built into the hillside, with only the facade being man-made and a chimney appearing out of the turf roof. No doubt this is all very practical, and it appeared extremely warm and cozy, particularly for a frozen cyclist. Unfortunately, neither hotels nor bars were built this way, and there was no opportunity to take a look inside. What have the locals done with the walls?

There was no way I was making Granada tonight as intended. Indeed, I wasnt even sure I had the strength to get to the nearest significant town at Guadix. The hills had become less severe but with 14km remaining (the first signpost), my entire body was wracked with aches and pains. Even my feet hurt. But make it I did, to a nice hotel with a bath and a sensational view over the sierra. Yes, I had a long, long steaming bath…and yes, thats snow covered mountains in the background.

Granada would have to wait till tomorrow.

People will often tell you they love camping. An escape into nature, fresh forest air, food cooked on the stove and eaten under the stars. The reality, however, is often far different. For me, camping is no romantic idyll but, more often than not, a claustrophobic and uncomfortable trial, ironically, as a direct result of this idealised nature. This sentiment is only exacerbated after a night of rain. So it was on this day (26 Oct) that I ‘awoke’ (in a camp outside the village of Vilaromanes) to a wet mattress and damp clothes and sleeping bag. Rest had also eluded me, given the noisy presence of a group of youngsters celebrating (a birthday) to the tedious beat of reggaeton until the early hours. For me, there are no circumstances under which Reggaeton is tolerable, particularly this one.

I had experienced and ridden through a grim, cold dampness in Germany, but after weeks of travel, I simply wasn’t in the mood to pack a wet tent or don wet clothes on this particular morning. Fortunately, the sun returned that afternoon, and my mostly synthetic equipment soon dried out, though far too late for a dash to Barcelona, which would be delayed yet another day.

The sight of a new city and major waypoint on the route remains a source of inspiration, particularly when that city is as significant as Barcelona. Nonetheless, it’s too big, too congested, and simply not built for ease of travel. Every single traffic light at each and every junction seemed to be against me. Progress had been slow even before I realised that I’d already passed its (and possibly Spains) most iconic landmark and the only sight I wanted to (re)visit before escaping.

I first saw Gaudi’s masterpiece 25 years ago and was told that it remained decades from completion. I took an hour’s detour to find it but that was so worth it!! Whatever hasn’t been finished doesn’t subtract from its stunning impression, most certainly when lit up from behind, giving it a particularly vivid and ethereal presence. All places of religious worship are built to inspire a degree of awe and humility in the human soul, and if there are gates to heaven, the Sagrada Familia is what they’d look it.

By distinct contrast, Spain is no cycling heaven. Being constantly confronted by the long and muscular arms of the Pyrenees, a cyclist is inclined to remain on the coast. However, outside of the principal cities, there is only a limited number of cycle paths, meaning a lot of time is spent on the roads, some them serious regional arteries. For the most part, Spanish drivers are considerate and conscious of your vulnerability. The undulating route towards Tarragon is cut into the cliffs adjacent to the Med. It’s straight out of a luxury car ad but also demanding and slow and full of blind bends. Yet even here, motorists show remarkable patience and restraint in the presence of a suffering cyclist

Another potential drawback of camping is the varying quality of the site itself. The Spanish sites are at least 20% more expensive than the French equivalent, despite the fact that its off season and the area given over to the camper is usually gravel-covered and more suited to the van. Such was the case when I arrived at both Cases and then Puzol after tough, wind-saturated days in the saddle. At the latter in particular, where I was first overwhelmed by mosquitos and then kept awake by Halloween celebrations. The kids were mostly in bed by 11 pm, but that didn’t stop the parents continuing till the early hours of the morning.

As luck would have it, Puzol was the last stop before Valencia, where I had a hotel reservation for a few days. I could relax a while and catch up with my old friend Niall. The first time, we’ve done so in 20 years. The city itself is particularly noted for its architecture around the modernised port area. With the notable exception of the Aviary however, it all looked a little tired and dated to me and not a patch on the classic Baroque buildings that characterise the cities of this country. Maybe its just that many of the ideas first manifest in Valencia are now common place in Spain.

Naturally, I caught up with Niall in an Irish bar and but for the beard, I would have recognised him immediately. Instead, there was an awkward moment of hesitation between us until Niall smiled in confirmation. Of course, we had a lot to catch up on while also keeping abreast of the international rugby on TV. Niall is also a TEFL teacher and noted very similar professional issues to the ones I’ve encountered in Cote D’Ivoire. Our conclusion was that ‘deep’ learning and profit are simply not compatible in education, at least, not in our experience and context. An overriding interest in the bottom-line as opposed to authentic standards means only students from wealthy families can usually attend, and many of those simply lack motivation and interest, presumably because theyre somewhat indulged and their futures are already assured. Unlike the rugby, where to general consternation of the crowd, the Irish lost their contest while the English won theirs!! The rebel songs were no doubt sung with a little extra venom that night!

Naturally, Niall is a busy man, and we were only able to catch up once more before my departure. As the only committed bachelor amongst my small but valued coterie of friends, I see it as my particular responsibility to sustain my relationships, particularly as Im in neighbourhood. There’s no doubt that these things tend to matter more as you get older, increasingly world weiry and even isolated, given the nature of this trip. Indeed, I’m very grateful for Niall’s whole-hearted support of my little adventure. Even the highest levels of self-assurance are often built on sand, so it’s important to get the approval of people whose opinion you value. And the very best of luck to you, Niall.

So I needed to get back on the road before I got too comfortable. It is here at Valencia that I take the definitive turn right (from my perspective) and inland towards Alcoy and another confrontation with the highlands. Having called in with a bike mechanic in Alcira to make sure everything is tight after 2000+ km (it is!), I entered the orange gove region around Javita. So intense and widespread is the crop that you can literally taste it in the air. In conjunction with the wilting heat and effort, it is akin to cycling through marmalade.

That feeling of overwhelming heaviness was not helped by a French bikepacker, Thibaut, who, having exchanged some pleasantries, simply upped the gear and left me for dead, as if I were a kid on his tricycle. Indeed, by the time I passed Onteniente towards camp, my legs were certainly ‘on their last legs’. According to the map, I was within 5km of my destination at Bocairent. So close, and yet what I hadn’t accounted for were the contour lines of the map indicating a deep ravine between me and it. Physical fatigue is a given, but nothing quite compares to a long succession of inclines and bends just as the sun is setting. There is no comfort or relief here, only cold, lonely granite cliffs and the relentless turning of the crank. And afterall that, there was no guarantee that the camp would even be open.

Rarely have I felt so relieved to pitch up. Roger, the owner was both generous and welcoming and the view was so worth the effort. Indeed, Bocairent was a gem of a place even though no-one I’d met before or since has heard of it, and that includes Spaniards.

Roger himself is Dutch migrant who has been improving his home and the site over the preceding 30 years at the whims of the local council. Nonetheless, I can see the overwhelming attraction to this location. Bocairent is a medieval citadel perched on a hill. All narrow cobbled streets and original buildings with many of the ‘newer’ extentions supported on precarious looking brick stilts. There is clearly an effort going on to renovate the old town and presumably to raise its profile. However, its very quiet as this time of year and I can’t help wondering whether renovations are solely intended for the benefit of foreigners and tourists who inevitably abandon the town once the temperature drops below 30 degrees. Bocairent as an ornament on a grand granite shelf. Indeed, this entire region of Spain appears almost entirely given over to the needs and whims of tourists, with the notable exception of Barcelona that, by contrast, has declared an open contempt for them. And by them, I also mean me!!

You may remember Santiago from Mexico. He appeared in a previous post re. Avignon. Although we were heading in opposite directions at the time, he was returning by train to Barcelona for his flight home, and we had agreed to meet up today, Weds 22. By now, you’ll know that I didn’t make it despite my rush through Narbonne and Perpignan. Having passed over the Pyrenees, I made the mistake of heading to the coast rather than straight-on from Figueres to Gerona. As you’ll know, I went to Roses and wasn’t at all impressed with the scent. The next day, I left early in the direction of Gerona with the intention of turning left, leaving approximately 100km in 36 hours. Tough but very doable provided….provided everything went to plan. Trusting the compass, Helmut and I headed out of Roses, SW on cross-country gravel paths in the direction of the village of La Bomba, South of Gerona and onwards. Just outside of Ruimors, the feel of the bike changed. I initially considered the changing road surface, more in hope than expectation. In time, you develop a subtle feel for the bike. You’re alert to every click, squeak or rattle, even a strange ‘drip’ sound that still has me completely baffled (it disappeared with a reloading of the panniers). Anything other than taut rubber on tarmac in harmony with the gentle whir of a smooth turning gear will jar, no less than an out-of-tune instrument.

A few days back around the small French town of Sigean, I noted the creaking sound of an old cellar-door together with a persistent shifting forward of the right pannier. On closer inspection, the rear rack had lost a pivotal supporting bolt on its lower right-side. The load and the terrain will inevitably take its toll. A first fix and an easy one. I’m just relieved to have caught it before any major structural damage was caused and to have spare 4mm bolts available. To the curious onlookers in the village square, I was a Ferrari mechanic. I casually completed the necessary work, remounted, and moved on, only to have to retrace my steps, having once again lost my bearings and my sheen of cool.

So back to the outskirts of Ruimors and harder ride to the bike as if the road itself had turned to steel. I dismounted and necessarily gave the tyres the literal kick. Like a turning fruit, the rear had lost some of its usual firmness. I thought a slow puncture at worst. I reinflated and stopped for a coffee in the village, but before I even reached the dregs, the ‘fruit’ had turned to mush. Normally, puncture repair would be nothing but a minor inconvenience, but this is not a standard bike, as Erwin from Montpellier will readily tell you. It’s a pinion-belt drive rather than a chain and requires careful adjustment to maintain the correct operating tension. I took a deep breath and reminded myself to remain patient and calm no matter what: more speed and less haste. Firstly, remove all the baggage and invert the bike. Second, unscrew and remove the thru-bolt that passes through the entire rear axle, unlike standard bikes. Thirdly, press the tiny screw in the rear frame stantion to slacken the belt. Again, unlike standard chain drive machines. Fourth, take the belt off the main drive crank. Having removed the bolt and the belt, you can now remove the wheel. So far, so good. Now the anxious part. Before starting out, I had dark visions of a hot and frustrated self on some isolated roadside, attempting desperately to remove a heavy tyre from a stubborn rim. A cast-away trying to crack a nut with his bare hands. As it happens, that part was the easiest. I could almost do it with my bare hands. The inner tube repair was standard, though without a bucket of water, the hole ‘hide-and-seek’ required more rustic methods…good old-fashioned spit!! Worryingly, I couldn’t find the offending shard of metal or whatever lodged in the tyre, meaning my efforts at repair could be for nothing the minute I returned to the road. I patched the hole and reflated to check for further punctures. Nothing. I put the bike back together again, including the belt, which oddly returned to the original tension with no further adjustment required. I’ll have to look into that. The upshot was that I was back on the road within an hour or so, though zero interest from the locals this time round and truth be told, I wasn’t entirely convinced either. Like some neurotic neighbour pushing at a locked door, I spent the next hour feeling for a problem and redismounting to check my handiwork. Even the beautiful, tree-lined backroads (through St Miguel de las Fluvias) couldnt quite occupy me. It had been another long day in the sun, so I chose to head directly to Gerona and seek a cheap hostel in the absence of an obvious campsite. Long story short, I didn’t like the options, and so decided then and there to return the 30km to the coast at Lloret de Mar, a somewhat notorious resort popular with the Brits. Hotel rooms here in the off-season were going for just £25 a night. Had I had my wits about me this morning, I could simply have ridden from Roses to Lloret direct, saving myself a puncture as well as half a day’s cycling. But that would’ve been to give up on my rendez-vous with Santiago. By the time I actually reached Lloret, criss-crossing the main highway and ridge in the last 10km (got to earn it!), I’d been in the saddle for 10 hours and my crotch was shouting, if not screaming in discomfort. I arrived to find yet another self-checkin machine only this one didn’t recognise my booking reference. Indeed, it took nearly an hour of form filling and confirmations to get an authorisation code to my bedroom. To compare the ‘abstraction’ of online booking with the ‘real’ of hard cycling is to remain deeply sceptic of progress (Zizek, 2025). The room was neatly appointed and tastefully lit like a booth in an up-market nightclub.  Though it wasn’t until later that I realised what was being hidden. A single room with a 40′ TV suspended on the wall, giving an unparalleled view onto the world but without a single window and, necessarily, no view of the Med itself.

Like my room, there’s nothing ‘drastically’ wrong with Lloret de Mar. The beach is clean and well-maintained, the high street is full of decent restaurants and bars, and the old town is vaguely reminiscent of a more interesting past. Then, you look at the castle at the end of the beach and reflect on its significance. I have absolutely no doubt that it (and a small childs play park) is the only official public space on the entire front. And therein lies the hint of a problem. Tourist towns are transient enough without their entire heritage being demolished for private interest. Above each and every bar/restaurant without exception in a prime position on the beach is a hotel. All original charm has been almost entirely sacrificed for commercial gain. And it’s now so normalised that I dont suppose many even give it thought. Taken as a whole, Lloret is not ‘notorious’ for any interesting reasons. In reality, it’s an entirely typical, somewhat soulless experience with the notable exception of the castle itself. Maybe that’s why tourists inevitably drift to that end of the beach. At least something unique remains!

And Im still not in Barcelona.

The hardest few days of the tour, mentally and physically. After 6 weeks in the saddle, the honeymoon period is certainly over, as Ill explain. That’s not to say I have any less affection for Helmut or that the French landscape or architecture doesn’t retain its inspiration.

My arrival on the Mediterranean coast at Sete was another ‘shot-in-the-arm’, double-dosed by the natural beauty of the region, which is marked by wetlands and bird sanctuaries. Nothing denotes the tropics quite like the flamingo.

The next major waypoint was Narbonne. But not before getting lost once again in one of these national parks and giving Helmut the first rigorous test of his metal. Joints were rattling, heavy panniers were bouncing, and nerves were fraying. This was MTB country. This is alien terrain for fully-loaded expedition bike, and it will get the full treatment! I fully expected Helmut to squeal in protest as before. And yet nothing. We returned to the road after an hour of intense ‘rinsing’. I apologised, and we continued on to Narbonne. After 1k+ km, it seems Helmut is now settled, comfortable, and ‘ridden in’. Could I say the same?

Narbonne is yet another verdant bonanza with a gentile ambience centred around a languid canal that very much suits the barmy climate. However, I had made no plans for the evening and had only vague directions to a camp in the south. It was only by pure chance that I found it, and I even offered a kiss to the owner, in gratitude, having already resigned myself to wild-camping that night. He smiled and politely declined. Now, Im neither a hippy nor a churchgoer, but it’s notable how, once you’ve taken a leap of faith, ‘coincidences’ seem to pass more often. Or maybe we’re just more vulnerable and, thereafter, more sensitive to such events. Spend a few months far beyond your comfort zone, and you get to understand why; ‘if religion didn’t exist, we’d have to invent it’. Whichever, it seems to me that faith demands personal risk. You can’t sit back and expect positive change to simply show itself and then drag you along with it. Chances are you wouldn’t recognise her anyway. Rather, you must lead and then be initiated. You must jump first, ride the chaos, swallow the burning stones, heighten your sensibility, and patiently await a response ‘from the universe’ (or whatever) only to be recognised in retrospect. A camp may seem trivial from an armchair, but from a saddle when you’re tired and alone, it’s a garden of Eden. A few happy campers, a hot shower, a drink, a bit of vacuous chatter and precious peace of mind. Usually!!!

I was setting up my tent when Tristan and Leila arrived. After introductions, Tristan suggested wine and snacks to celebrate new friendships, leaving me alone with his companion. She immediately apologised for the bruising on her face (I hadn’t noticed) and dived straight in. Apparently, she had been beaten by her partner in Paris and was now in hiding, here in Narbonne. Clearly, these topics are highly sensitive. Im sympathic, of course, but I’ve also deeply suspicious of people who unprompted would give out so much; too much; too soon. I sensed a madness in her and not the gentile, eccentric form. I’ve seen it before, even in myself, and it’s deeply uncomfortable. So what better than beer and a couple of Côte De Rhones (which were extremely good) to make a delicate situation far worse.

It turns out that Tristan is an itinerant busker. He’s travelled extensively with his guitar and his cliched repetoire (‘House of the Rising Sun’) and only met Leila the previous day on the beach. ‘She talks too much, but thats OK’, he dramatically understated. A few glasses of wine, and she’s already way too much, including singing-improv, obligatory dancing, and references to serendipity. What price vacuous chatter now?

Apparently, it’s no coincidence that ‘like minds’ have come together at this precise time and place. Please spare me the ‘hippy’ mumbo-jumbo, calm down, and just enjoy the evening. Instead, it was becoming a ‘managed’ event as the barstool bore turned increasingly erratic and then affectionate with her ‘beau’. It all came to an abrupt end when the cyclists decided it was time for bed. I’d assumed Tristan had a plan, but no. He had made no promises to Leila and said as much. She was going to have to walk/shuffle to her hostel in Narbonne, at least an hour from the camp. I wasn’t at all comfortable with that, but by this stage, Leila was bordering on hysterical. A tiresome cocktail of shouting and crying, before finally, taking up a foetal position in the grass. I was trying to help her, even walk her to the city limits for a taxi, but by this stage, she was accusing us both of stealing 200 Euros and her ID card. Finally, she ‘threatened’ to walk out and meeting precisely no resistance she was gone, only to return for an encore and then leave for good. I half expected my bike to be in bits by the morning. Indeed, the entire spectacle felt reheated and contrived. A form of manipulation and profound mental illness. Needless to say, I went to my tent feeling a queasy combination of mild drunkeness, guilt, and shame. Tristan simply noted that sometimes you just have to ‘put yourself first’. Which is fine provided no else gets dragged into ‘your’ soap opera. By this stage, I was as suspicious of him as I was of her. It was a restless night, and I was happy to have escaped both of them come the morning. The universe may be speaking, but the precise form and content may not be immediately obvious.

It was another quiet and deathly still Sunday. But the wind was in my favour and despite my mild hang-over, good progress was made to Perpignan, though once again I was struggling to find a bike friendly route out of a city towards the SW and the Pyrenees. The Pyrenees! Just the thought of it was making me somewhat anxious. Was I ready? Was the bike ready? Could I cross in a day? Can you camp on the mountain? Then, as I exited the national park from Rivesaltes, a draining endurance test of its own, the questions gave way to the ‘awesome’ reality. There it was. A fearsome dark barrier stretching across the entire horizon. A timeless monument to natures blind power, clearly visible from over 50km+ away, mocking pitiful human frets and ambitions and even daring the cyclist to ‘have a go’!

First, I needed a good nights rest after the debacle of Narbonne, so I checked into a cheap hotel on arrival in Perpignan. And I mean, ‘I’ checked-in. What low-cost inevitably means is the eradication of even the most foundational service jobs: the human aspect that makes hotels bearable at all, so: no bar, no reception staff, continental breakfast only, a snacks machine and limited cleaning. This is progress? Meaning once again, converting a nominal bedroom into my personal laundry. You want to look your best for the border if not the hotel staff.

I was up early the next day and gorged myself in preparation for a long, long session in the saddle. My soul may not be full, but that wasnt gonna stop me eating the value of my hotel bill instead. I was out of there by 9am, but yet again, I made the mistake of switching on Garmin in search of a convenient cycle route out of the city. “Use the force, Luke. Trust your feelings’. An hour later, and with the aid of my trusty compass, I was finally on the ‘Toutes Les Directiones’ road which, despite its apparent meaninglessness, was slowly guiding me towards the Spanish border via the mountains.

It was a clawing, sun-drenched day that would only get hotter, but good progress was made right up to the foot of mountains at Le Boulou (literally, the work). Here, I made a small ritual sacrifice and bought a couple of homeless guys some food before moving onward and upward, only to be mocked by some motorists on entry. As if the mountain needs a surrogate.

As FDR inferred, reality is nowhere near as fearsome as fear itself. Of course, it was tough. The mountain gives up nothing to the casual cyclist bar the ‘hard-shoulder’. Nonetheless, the road had been built into a relatively ‘low’ ridge, and the climb (1km +) tended towards the very long as opposed to the very steep, as I’d experienced in the Ruhr.

Two hours or so later, Helmut and I were at the frontier town of El Portus and crossing into Spain. Another positive milestone, though I promised myself, a return to France in the future. She is as gracious and elegant as the Rhone Valley itself. Add to this the glittering gems of Metz, Dijon, Lyon, and Narbonne, not to mention the infinite number of charming towns and villages in supporting roles, and you can’t help falling in love. However, the campsites are closing for the winter, and like an errant partner, I’ve become dependent if somewhat disdainful.

I reached the first Spanish town of note, Figueres by mid afternoon and found a space in the park for lunch. This is what it feels like to be a vagrant. You might buy a ready-made tub of coucous or quinoa or maybe, fill your baguette with whatever you have to hand. For me, tuna or sardines for Simon, salted soya beans. All the while, passers-by look on curiously at best or rush on with complete distain, as if the full-loaded bike next to me were entirely invisible. I hardly need or seek their approval, but here on the pavement lies the essence of social alienation. Ignored by your own. Remounting said bike, I head for the coast at Roses, Catalunya about 30km away, where the camps are filled with ‘vagrants’ of a sort, only these ones drive expensive mobile homes and are therefore welcome. Speaking of class, Roses itself is like a mini Florida where expensive holiday homes back on to canals. A Mercedes on the drive and a yacht in the garden. You might even park your gin palace in a giant, glass-fronted hanger for the winter to allow all the other acquisitive men (with the standard chinoes-sweater combo) to admire it. A bouquet of plastic Roses if you like or gentrication rooted in shit..other metaphors are available. Either way, after the Pyrenees and 80km+ of riding, that’s about all I cared to note.

Niall, Santiago and I shared a breakfast including a mug of ‘Cowboy” coffee that is coffee unfiltered where the ‘sediment’ is presumed to sink to the bottom of the mug. Given the colour of Nialls mug and the ‘sand’ in my mouth, Im not totally convinced. 

And so it was time to move on to the city of Nimes, famous for something, but I hadn’t done my research at this stage. The cyclist path disappeared at the entrance to the town, but I had plenty of time to find a camp before returning for a better look. However, the only two campsites closest to town were already closed for the winter, despite the continuing gorgeous weather. I headed in the direction of Montepellier with every intention of returning to Nimes, if not today, then tomorrow. No campsite, no obvious savage site, and by now, I was 10-15km further on. Finally, at Aimargues, I found a bar and a place to sleep (seperately), but Nimes (and its glorious Roman colossium) will have to wait for another day, and just as well.  As I arrived in Montpellier, an annoying squeak started coming from Helmut’s belt. The apparent advantage of a Pinion bike like Helmut it that it requires minimal maintenance, the gears being enclosed within a sealed box of oil. Just wash down the belt to remove any dust effecting it’s efficient running. That didn’t help. Neither did the silicone lubricant I’d brought.  No need to panic, but it was loud and annoying, particularly under stress on the hills. Consider it yet another opportunity to explore the city whilst searching for a decent bike mechanic.

On first impression, Montpellier is a very odd city. Entering from the North East, the city appears supermodern, its architecture, trams and shopping malls. It wasnt entirely unpleasant, just out of keeping with expectation and certainly compared with what I’d seen to date. Indeed, it was just soulless by comparison. No bike shop yet, and I was tiring. I sat down on the pavement next to my squeaky bike and rested a while. A woman across from me said nothing. But sensing my general discomfort, she wished me ‘bon courage’ before leaving. That was nice and put things into perspective. This was never going to be easy or without issues. I took another look at the map and found Willie’s bike shop. Turns out, he was a Dutch immigrant who had worked in London as a broker and took very early retirement here to ride and work with bikes. Who better? To my consternation, he didn’t wanna touch it. He’d never worked on ‘Pinion’ bikes before. ‘Youve bought the most complex bike on the road’ he told me. Needless to say, that didn’t help. ‘Try wearing earplugs’. That didnt help either.

On the more constructive side, he suggested Santi’s shop not 10 minutes away. Apparently, he was more familiar with these kinds of machines. That was good enough. There’s no need to panic, just get Santi’s opinion first and then lose your s***.  In the meantime, what did I find? Only a maze of streets that comprise the old town I’d been expecting. I squeaked my way through the narrow streets with people moving conveniently aside as they heard me coming. Santi acknowledged that he was no expert but given the newness of the bike presumed that bolts simply needed tightening (after the first 1000km). I was more sceptical but…. Voila!! To my immense relief, it was 90% better. He suggested I return the next day to grease and retighten the gearbox bolts, and I readily agreed. I won’t be jumping on a train back to Oldenburg just yet. Indeed, the Pinion handbook later confirmed that belt squeaking was NOT an internal gearbox problem. My mind is put at ease, if not my legs. After 5 weeks of almost continuous cycling, it could well have been my joints that were squeaking. But the Med is so close, I sometimes think I can smell it on the air.