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.