Seville and the Rock!

Bajar to Salamanca was a really nice run. Finally it was really warm, with the temperature sitting around 20 degrees and the scattered cloud gave way to blue skies. I had debated swinging west of Seville, but as I had pushed so hard on the previous couple of days and I had time I decided to have an early lunch. This would then give me plenty of time to stop at Rhonda before winding over the final hills to Gibraltar. With this in mind I was in a great mood. Xavier Rudd was full blast on the IPod, the sun was shining and I was stuffed to bursting point with tasty Spanish food and coffee. Just the last 2 days to go - surely nothing can stop me now.

Oh really... I have genuinely never sworn so many times in my life. Seville was one of those old cities that town planners decided to modernise in a hurry. A really big hurry. Therefore they neglected to think that anyone would want to enter Seville on any other transport apart from in their car or on their motorbike. So they built an enormous ring road round the city and linked up the other nearby towns on this 'superhighway'. The problem is that cycling is prohibited on these roads, so instead of replacing the original roads so cyclists and other traffic can actually go somewhere, cyclists are either penned in Seville, or fenced out.

The answer was to cycle under the ringroad and down an earth track. This then took me past a Roma camp, an unofficial rubbish dump and over the river to the outskirts of town. Not the best entry I had to date. The elongated process of getting in to the city was, in hindsight the easy bit. I had my Lunch and tried to leave. I spent the next 4 hours following signs, the map and asking people for directions but continually had to stop when the road turned into a motorway. I was hot, tired and losing my sense of humour. All I could think about way the prospect of not making it. Defeated, not by the sheer physicality of the challenge but by the Spanish town planning department.

After pausing for a snack and a cold coke, it dawned on me that there was only one way out. It was however the wrong way and would mean some replanning of the final day. I calculated that an extra 30km would enable me to swing south out of the city and then I would have to head west to pick up the route over the national park. Putting my immense frustrations behind me I followed the road south and really pushed on. By now intense fatigue was already sinking in to my legs and I continually topped up with energy gels and carbohydrate drinks. I had a hard afternoon constantly urging myself on, and trying to up the pace. It paid off, and I reached the edge of the National Park just 100km from Gibraltar as the sun set and found my final nights accommodation.

The final day! Dragging myself out of bed for the final pre dawn start was still tough. I wondered over to pick up my kit and in a zombie like haze put it on, ate my cereal bars, filled up my water bottles and left. The first thing I encountered was a taste of what was to come. A 2km long climb into wind. I comforted myself with the knowledge that I only had to cover 100km and every metre was bringing me closer to the finish line. This was great in theory, but theory is often very different in practice. Spanish road maps are certainly not detailed enough to show the sheer amount of switchbacks and endless loops that are required to climb and descend huge peaks so my '100 km' very quickly grew in length. It was after I had cycled 40 kms that I realised on the map I had barley done 21 kms, and I was not yet on the steepest part of the route. This low point really got me. Stopping to eat the remaining food in my panniers and finishing the second of my 3 water bottles of water to reduce weight I reflected on the tough points so far and decided that whatever happened today, it's got to be more enjoyable than Northern Spain. Keeping this thought in my head I slowly used this to drive me forwards.

As I entered the national park the scenery started to get more rugged, and the roads looked more like alpine roads. On every climb I anxiously waited to find out if the road would drop back into the next valley, or handrail the hill. Inevitably the roads followed the paths of least resistance and always seemed to drop into the valleys in short stages meaning that it was hard to use the hills to best effect. As I pushed further in I undertook 2 massive climbs, firstly up to 800m before dropping back down to 300m, and then I had to return to 1,200m. Knowing that these were the toughest sections left meant that I actually enjoyed then, even if the countless false summits were a little wearing. Approaching the final section I pushed into the cloud and felt a million miles from southern Spain. I was cold, wet and could only see 30m at most. I donned my florescent jacket, strapped on my helmet, switched on my bike lights and prepared for the decent. This was what I had waited for. Having climbed all day, and had short bursts of downhill, I finally got to enjoy the hours of sweat and pain. I flew down the hill and piloted the bike round hairpins with sheer drops and over cracked, slippy tarmac. Riding on the limits of a tourer with panniers, I tore past the abandoned huts and road signs, praying that the final stretch to Gibraltar would be more of the same.

The final road to Gibraltar is strange in that as the Spanish don't like to recognise 'Our Rock', they don't put up any signs for it. So I just had to carry on and rely on a bit of guesswork and luck to make it there. The final kms dragged but I was so excited by the prospect of seeing my Father and Jill and having a comfy seat and some food that I could relish and enjoy that it was not too painful. As I got to the last 5km the road turned into another autovida and with the help of some Spanish hoodies, found myself riding next to the beach. It's amazing that I had already taken in the channel, the atlantic and now the Med all under my own steam in such a short period of time. The route took my through a Spanish power station and then finally through La Lina where I saw the first sign for Gibraltar approximately 1km from the boarder that simply asked drivers to take the right hand lane for Gibraltar customs...

I stopped short and rang my Father. It was now 1845 and just dark. Both he and Jill came out to meet me with some really nice Gibraltar customs officers who were amazed by the challenge. We got some pictures and the boarder, and crossed the finish line some 16 days and 1 evening since I left from outside my work in central London on foot. I was completely exhausted and barley able to walk, however the smile on my face told its own story. Despite the terrain, elements and loneliness I had battled on and made it, and I was pretty damn happy about that.

Salamanca and Bejar

Entering Salamanca was a bit of a disappointment. Why, well I can't really explain it. i had for some inexplicable reason thought that as it was my Company name at Sandhurst and the scene of some famous battles, I would be over awed as I entered into the city through some fortress like stone walls or see it rising from the ground as I approached trembling under it's sheer size and magnificence. Of course had I approached it from the South, this would have happened. From the North, the road runs through stereotypical Spanish city outskirt buildings, such as car showrooms, large garages and new cheap housing. As I continued through, I could sense the spirit of the old Salamanca holding on. The proud bull stood on the roundabout at the edge of the old city limits, and then the old city walls and cobbles appeared on my left with huge thick building vying for supremacy behind. Dismounting from my bike I walked down the cobbled hill stretching off my stiff legs and struggled to stop the laden bike from escaping down the hill into the groups of students, who were without exception dressed for an arctic expedition. I would like to point out that I hate the cold and have used up the vast majority of my 'cold resistance' in the Army whilst on Welsh hills in the winter surrounded by snow/rain/sleet/wind. However these guys made me look like a eskimo who revels in the cold. It was about 11 degrees, sunny and they were togged up for an arctic blizzard! I got my camera ready and did a quick 'cycle by' snapping away at the interesting buildings before stopping for lunch. Improvising hard at the girl behind the mountain of tapas, I managed to secure a menu and order the Menu Del Dia. Hunger must have set it as I unflinchingly ordered a starter of paella and an unknown, but tasty, cut of meat that came with chips. My menu guesswork was starting to pay off.

The exit out of Salamanca was great, and the view to the city from the south far better. I took a final glance at the towering walls and continue on the road to Bejar. After 10 minutes I was back to what seemed like the exact road I had just left. After a fairly punishing afternoon session broken up by power bars and sugary coffee I saw the next set of hills start to approach. They were much higher and more menacing than the others on the central plain. Checking the map and seeing the relative size compared to the others in the area it soon became clear. They were the largest. The main autovida (motorway) that I had been following started to drift off after the next village and according to the map I had to take the old roads round, over and across the hills. Firstly though I had the pleasure of travelling through a village set up exclusively for the production and sale of iberico ham. The smell was divine (except the 2 slaughterhouses on the edge of the village) and I enjoyed seeing all of the shops selling rows and rows of hanging pig legs complete with trotters. I stopped and bought a couple of (very large) slices of iberico before readying myself for the climb ahead. The approach to Bejar was fine. A meandering road that followed the foot of the hill. Ominously the road then dived down to the right of the hill and in the opposite direction. After double checking the map and saying a small prayer, I followed on hoping that I would not have to climb back up... The road quickly became more of a track, and potholes started to appear more frequently. The bike shook violently and I had to stop at 20 minute intervals to tighten and check the various screws holding the panniers and mudguards on. The traffic became non-existent and the only people I did see were pottering about. Strangely they were almost all exclusively old, female and nowhere near either an obvious starting point or an end point as there was literally nothing bar the odd animal for at least 5 kms. Either old Spanish women are mad, have very mean husbands or are among the fittest on the planet. The jury is still out on that one...
The road finally began to climb and I rapidly headed up towards the highest peaks. Looking back I could clearly see the plain that I had just covered. There is nothing more satisfying that looking out and seeing the progress that you have achieved. I then made the mistake of looking forward and understanding the effort required to progress over the coming hills into Bejar. As I climbed the remote villages became more and more medieval. Suddenly there were chickens roaming on the verges and donkeys tied up to 1st floor shutters. The pace of life was clearly a little different from the rest of spain, and I wondered if they actually got round to eating. Given that the 'normal' Spanish don't eat until 9pm when on earth did these guys sit down. Do they start their supper at breakfast time? It was all rather confusing. With these big thoughts in my head I climbed the last of the long winding hills and began the invigorating decent into Bejar.

The road to Salamanca

I kept thinking back to my trip down the west coast with Andrew and remembering how much we ate. It occurred to me that I was falling well short of the required daily calorie consumption. Even with cereal bars first thing, spanish pastries and coffee at 10am, 2 carbohydrate drinks and various energy bars during the day and 3 courses for both lunch and supper I was not consuming enough. My body had been surviving on it's own reserves of fat and muscle to supplement itself and I couldn't keep this up. The question was how could I eat the equivalent of a 5 egg omelette every day when the only places I past were rural bars selling iberico ham and cheese burrios? Deciding to change tactics I ordered a ham and cheese roll and a cafe con leche, poured 3 sugars into the coffee and despatched them in record time and left. This was a little unsettling for the Spanish workmen on their 1 hour morning 'coffee break', but I had a plan. Cereal bars were to be followed by 2 'breakfast' rolls. That was the answer...

My next focus was to traverse the central plain and make it to Salamanca. The impending visit was to be a particular highlight as I undertook my Sandhurst training in 'Salamanca Company' and had never seen the city. I was also looking forward to making it over the heights of Bejar before dropping down to Seville. Looking at the relief on the map and the average temperature of Seville, I stick my finger in the air and decided that as soon as I passed Bejar it would get really warm. This was a fantastic focus, and within 5 minutes I was sure that it must be true. The central plain was unremarkable. It mainly consisted of desert punctuated by the odd field and some very lonely looking trees. A westerly wind blew in gusts. Having started offshore it had picked up the cold temperature of the atlantic off western Portugal before pestering me as it continued to Madrid and beyond. I could visualise the storm battering the coast in the same way that the Atlantic onshores pound the North Devon coast for most of the winter months. Remembering how the wind managed to blow out all of the beaches except the most sheltered semi 'secret' spots along the coast, and cover everything inland in sand. With this in my mind I resigned myself to the fact that there would be little, if any shelter from the wind all day. I was right and for the rest of the day it managed to slow my speed by 3-4 mph leaving me pushing hard to stay at 16-17 mph.

I passed through several small non-descript semi deserted villages before I stumbled on what can only be described as a scene from a horror movie. As I approached the village there was tumbleweed blowing across the ploughed field and skipping across the road. I slowed as I gently climbed a small hill and then freewheeled into a village. Passing abandoned houses on the outskirts the most recent signs of life were decaying objects outside the front of the houses from 20 years ago. The odd property that was occupied stood out a mile off with only 5 years of sun bleached white wash walls and curtains nestling between two other terraced houses with no windows and parts of the external walls missing. As I continued down the single road I continued to look for signs of life and, unrealistically, any kind of shop. Unsuccessful, I turned the corner at the bottom of the street and was confronted by a very strange sight. 50 scarecrows lined the side of the road to my right. The gusting wind brought them alive in a manic urgent manner, as they strained towards me. I passed them before stopping and reaching for my camera inside my pannier. Having taken some pictures, the zoom revealed the lifelike creations in their full weird detail.. I started to question the sheer isolation and particular desolation of the village. Walking back to my bike I kept checking over my shoulder, before speedily throwing my camera in my pannier and leaving at pace.