| Submitted by: Ren Withnell , United Kingdom |
| Submission Date: 02 October 2005 |
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I’ve been constantly thinking of the gf and her mother. I want to be there for the gf if anything should happen to her mother. I know what it is like to loose someone close and would not like her to go through that alone.
I’m missing things I take for granted back home. I miss going into shops and understanding what is written on packets and tins. I miss cafes and petrol stations where I can pay for things in a currency I understand with coins I am familiar with. I miss green fields. I miss the cool British weather. I surprise myself by not missing the Internet or TV and I don’t miss British traffic. I don’t miss sleeping in my bed, I have been remarkably comfortable in my tent on my roll and in my sleeping bag. For all the good things about this trip I have had enough now. I am ready for home and there are another 3 nights of camping and 1 night on the ferry before I am home.
I get up and do the morning things that are becoming routine now. Wash some clothes in the sinks, hang them on the tent or the bike, have another shower, search for breakfast, struggle to speak Spanish and eat something quite dull, spend ages getting sand out the tent then out of all my orifices and then think of something to do. The Scottish crew are going to walk into Santa Martes des Tormes. I shall join them.
The walk into town is easy, about half a mile. Santa Martes is a town in its own right but as part of the suburbs of Salamanca. The road in has several large houses in tiptop condition with manicured lawns and gravel driveways. Next to each mini mansion is a ramshackle run down shell of a house with rubble in amongst the dry grass of the garden. It is such a contrast from the fantastic to the drastic. The town has the now common 5,6,7 storey buildings that all Spanish towns have. These are drab concrete or brick but in a respectable state of repair. The shops are small compared to UK towns but in a good condition.
George and Liz seem to be able to use only Banco Telefonica cash machines while the rest of us happily insert our bankcards into any old ATM and retrieve the strange money they use here. My ATM tells me my exchange rate will be this and that and tries to sell me insurance all in perfect English. We wander round the shops and laugh as George points out Hector Brocklebank has been “Straight through!!” leaving a fish consignment “Up the back passage” of the local fishmonger. Whilst in a supermarket searching for tins of something edible I notice the girls being sneaky. It turns out it’s Mel’s birthday and they are getting him a surprise.
Back at the campsite we unload and snack on our purchases. There is a pool on site as part of the hotel and the poor people on the campsite are allowed into the pool area for a small fee, and we do this. I never thought I would do the holiday thing of lounging round a pool, sunbathing and taking the occasional dip, but that is exactly what I did. Lying there on a big plastic sunbed, making sure my white bits are getting some sun, turning over to burn the rest of me and moving with the sun for best effect. I’m supposed to be some kind of wild man, travelling across vast plains and exploring new cultures. I’m not supposed to be doing the ultimate British holiday hobby, burning myself to a nice tender pink. I feel I’ve let myself down, but stuff it, it’s nice to relax and chill for the afternoon.
This is actually a little more like I expected being in Spain to be. The pool is clean, the area round the pool is pristine and the grass is lush green. There are a variety of holidaymakers lounging around in shorts and bikinis. And some of them are rather attractive. The Scottish crew point out a few younger ladies to me, but I’ve got my eye on a strawberry blonde woman in her early 40’s. I am disappointed when I hear her talking to her daughter in Spanish, there’s no hope of me even talking to her. I sit a while with my shades on and letch. This only makes me miss the gf even more.
I return to the tent later in the afternoon for another hot, sweaty sleep. I can see why the locals have the siesta, it’s too hot to even think by 2 or 3 in the afternoon. I wake and go for yet another shower. I don’t even bother to dry myself, I just walk out with my shorts on. There’s not much to do. I sit with the Scottish crew and drink coke, smoke cigarettes and talk. We eat tea on the campsite, talk, other bikers are starting to turn up now. The evening runs as you would expect with nothing exciting to report. It is nice to be in company and I am starting to know the Scottish crew well enough to not feel like a total outsider.
Day 11
I wake up early enough to notice how quiet it is again. We’d agreed last night to set off fairly early to avoid the worst of the afternoon heat. I get up and put my shorts on and take a look around outside. It’s going to be yet another clear hot sunny day, I’m almost bored with good weather now it’s so predictable. As I start the now familiar routine of putting things into bags in a certain order the Scottish crew are getting up and doing the same. Bags are packed, tents carefully folded, bungees pulled taught over luggage and checks made to ensure nothing will escape. For a moment I think I may actually miss doing this, putting my home into a bag and strapping it to a bike.
We pay our bill and get our respective passport returned to us, then hit the road around 0900. I’m a little concerned. Today’s ride should be a mere walk in the park after Sundays 450-mile trek. But the Scottish crew ride for 80 miles at a time. I’m now quite used to 30 to 50 miles between stops and the discomfort from the Revere ensures I have to do this.
The ride starts off fine and we make simple easy progress. George is leading on his modern Triumph with a shock minus it’s damping due to a big pothole at the start of the trip. I notice it is running somewhat rich, which is the reason why they stop every 80 miles, it has drunk all it’s fuel. Speeds are similar to my own save through the tighter bends and rougher sections otherwise Liz on the back of the Triumph would be seasick.
As we roll along the countryside starts to change from scrubland desert to dry farmland. The views remind me of the south downs of England but basked in sun and every crop is golden brown not lush green. It is nice to see something other than hard grass and mean-looking bushes. It is also noticeable that there is more life here. Tractors in fields, cars on the road, kids in the towns and more of the omnipresent cranes. My backside is going numb now, and if they do stop every 80 miles I’ve still got another 40 to do.
I’m no longer looking at the scenery now, I’m watching each mile pass slowly on the odometer. My mind is washing between anger, pain, peace, distraction and curses. Some folks tell me their backside goes numb. I’d kill for numb. Numb means no pain. Numb is easy. No, I get an ache that grows into a feeling my arse is in a vice being squeezed ever harder. My dodgy knee screams until I move. My feet feel like I’ve been stood on them for 4 weeks solid. I fidget endlessly, each time I feel fine for 30 seconds then the pain comes right back in. I sit up, hunch down, stretch my legs out, move my arse backwards and forwards and sideways, pull funny faces and still nothing works. Either this bike is all wrong or I am all wrong.
Finally with 78 miles on the clock we pull into a petrol station. I get off and smile weakly at the rest of my travelling companions. They are all a tiny bit stiff and ready for a stretch but I don’t get the impression any of them feel like I do. Everyone fills up and we stand in the sun drinking water and chatting. I’m ready for a 3 smoke, 2 toilet visit and big drink kind of stop but no sooner have I lit my cigarette they are all putting on their helmets and waiting for me. I complain but this falls on deaf ears as they wish to be getting on with it before it gets too hot. Too hot?!?! It’s been too blinking hot since I left Liverpool 11 days ago, what difference is 20 minutes going to make. I keep these thoughts to myself, I do not wish to be seen as weak.
We set off again into the dry farmland. The entire situation repeats itself again like some kind of horrific groundhog day, feel ok, get a bit stiff, get worse, curse, cry, whimper then eventually stop. At least this time I’m 160 miles into the journey. I deliberately dither and procrastinate to ensure I can at least get back n the bike. This time we are into the hills of Northern Spain and the scenery changes into valleys and mountains and trees. Real trees, green trees, forests of them. If only my arse was not so painful I would really enjoy this.
We pull off looking for food. The first town seems to offer no refreshment, back onto the main road. The second stop is open and ready, just not for us. We are told we would have an hours wait, we suspect they are either waiting for a coach party or the workers on the road we can see being built. We are back out of the tunnels and bridges of the mountains before we finally find somewhere to eat.
This place looks quite posh but I still eat the stringy ham on hard bread sandwich. One of the girls comes out with nice soft bread with nice boiled ham between. I ask her what she asked for to get that. “Er…ham sandwich?” Arrrggghh!! It seems “bocadillo” is the hard things I’ve been eating, “sandwich” means you get nice soft bread like I would expect back home. And “Jamon” means the stringy cured ham, “ham” means ham like I find in packets in Tesco back home. Curse that effing Spanish phrase book, it never told me that. I would kick myself but my dodgy leg won’t let me.
Do you remember from Day 3 when I got off the ferry and did not dare to turn left? I ended up at a campsite in the outskirts of Santander called Cabo Mayor before I had built up enough courage to follow signs and make left turns. Well this is coming back to haunt me now. I had told the Scottish crew of my stupidity and now it seems I am to lead us into Santander and the campsite I am now considered an expert in Santander campsite navigation through being a big wet scaredy-cat.
It does not take long to gat into Santander, but I have no idea where to start. The only logical thing to do is follow the signs for the ferry, then carry on as I did last time, going either straight ahead or right. The ferry terminal is well signposted and sure enough I’m back on the big scary dual carriageway. I follow the road, staying close to the right like I did last time. Each turning is a right or straight on up the hillside. Sure enough I soon find the campsite and take a moment to bask in my own smugness.
We book in a pitch tent on a patch of lush green grass with soil soft enough to get tent pegs into. All the usual things happen, washing, bike checking, drinking yet more water, talking and generally settling in. The site has the same good standard of facilities as the other sites I’ve stopped at and I take another long shower to wash off the day’s sweat and pain. Later we all decide to venture into Santander by taxi for something to eat and a good look around.
2 taxis have come to collect 7 people, but we get separated and a long wait ensues whilst we gather ourselves together. Everyone has an opinion what he or she would like to eat. I’m looking for a McDonalds, the Scottish crew cannot decide between curry, English, Chinese or Indian. We wander aimlessly until a waiter jumps out from a bar and hurriedly tells us what is on offer in perfect English. I think we all have had enough of struggling to speak Spanish so we sit down to be served in a familiar tongue. The food is English and somewhat basic. We eat our average meal and pay above average prices.
As we head back to the site there are myriads of tourists milling about and getting in the way. Amongst the stalls and cafes I can see several Spanish people dressed in Victorian costume. I laugh to myself, I am still over 1000 miles from home in a strange country and I come across traditional English dress. I can only assume this is some kind of entertainment but I feel like I’m being mocked for my un-cosmopolitan dislike of all things Spanish. I want to go home.
The town is pleasant enough. |
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