| Submitted by: Ren Withnell , United Kingdom |
| Submission Date: 02 October 2005 |
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It seems somehow cleaner and friendlier than I remember it on my first visit. The beach is vast and clean, the waters deep blue, the town hall bright white and the grass seems so green. I ponder if this is all relative. Am I seeing this as nice after seeing so many drab dusty concrete towns throughout Spain? Is this nice because it marks the end of the foreign part of my trip? Is it simply because I have stopped to walk through at leisure and have time to notice the place properly? My answer comes soon enough.
As we walk out of town and the tourist area, the grey and brown concrete 5,6,7 storey buildings make their return. The hillside is covered with them, daunting and depressing. The cranes break up the skyline yet remain still, the same as every other crane in this country remains still. I feel I’m in a place of good intentions but nothing is ever finished. I’m in a place where property is something to shelter in, not to be proud of. A place where the sun is a problem not a relief. And the problem is heading over the horizon much to my relief.
Back at the site we sit in the cool evening air drinking and talking. More quotes from Hector Brocklebank, more dissection of the rally and the trip, more talk of bikes and repairs, and how much we all look forward to getting back to civilisation. Of course being Scottish this means civilisation is not to be found in Plymouth, or even the North-West. Civilisation for them begins at Gretna Green when they are in Scotland. I retire to bed.
Day 12
Today is a rest day. There is nothing left to do now except wait for the ferry tomorrow. The morning is spent washing, checking, showering, getting breakfast and talking. Susan and Sandra are going back into town to do the whole girly shopping thing, the rest wander up to the lighthouse for a nosey and I leave them to it. I need some time alone.
I sit for a while in the café and think. I’m almost home now, just one ferry and a mere 300 miles till I’m back home. I ask myself “Why do I feel like this?” The image I would like to project is that of the great traveller, a man of adventure and beholder of amazing experiences. I want to be like the Norwegian bloke I read about, I want pictures of myself in the Gobi desert, the Amazon jungle and the frozen Siberia. I’m looking to be someone I may never be.
I’ve done something I consider amazing. I’ve ridden my motorcycle 2,000 miles to a far off country, camped for 11 nights, been to a truly international rally and experienced a different way of life. I should be quite proud of myself. But at least 500 other people from Britain have done this. Some like the Scottish crew have travelled further than myself. Some people have travelled all the way through France and back. This has been a huge, enormous experience for myself but compared to everyone else I am merely another rally-goer. It all seems so pathetic, this has been a life changing experience for me but to most folks it’s another rally.
I have missed home. I miss English speaking petrol attendants, English cafes and English supermarkets that stock familiar food. I miss the green fields and quaint villages, the familiar currency, the cool weather, endless rows of terraced housing and motorway services. I’ve struggled with the culture of “Manyana” and the unfinished feel of this place. I’ve struggled with the heat. If I cannot handle Spain, a country that shares many similarities and cultures with my own, what chance have I of ever surviving somewhere like China or India?
Later I go for a walk to the Lighthouse. The scene before me is stunning, rock faces slide down into a frothing sea, endless clear blue skies and mountains rising in the distant heat haze. I walk along a small outcrop on a dusty path. There is an odd concrete construction that seems to have no purpose other than a place for the local vandals to write their stylised messages on. The wind is quite strong coming in from the sea that makes me feel pleasantly cool. I sit down on the grass and ponder some more.
Is it me? Am I really just a homeboy, am I destined to live my whole life back there in the North-West, only venturing out to places not too different from home? I know I’ve been concerned about the gf and I’m trying to use this to excuse myself. I know I’ve a lot of reflection to do when I get back home. I get up off my backside and try to appreciate the view and the cool sea breeze. It only takes a few minutes to wander back to the campsite. It’s hot back at the site due to the shelter from the breeze. I go to sleep in my tent porch again, it’s become a habit now. I make a pile of bike gear and prop myself up against this and sure enough things fade away.
Later on I catch up with the Scottish crew and we talk of what to do for this evening. George and Liz want to take it easy but Mel, Sandra, Bill and Susan fancy another trip into town for a curry or Chinese. I don’t fancy any of these options tonight, I think I’m ready for something familiar again. I decide I’ll ride into town and find another Burger King or McDonalds.
I ride into town and start searching for a McDonalds. I cannot find one but one thing does come as a surprise. I find I’m mixing it with the traffic here in the same madcap way the locals drive. Pedestrian crossings are more advisory than compulsory, traffic lights can occasionally be ignored, especially if you’re turning right and it’s clear, pedestrians are suicidal lemmings that you honk your horn at and road position is dependant on your mood. To think that only 10 days ago I was terrified, now I’m as ignorant and careless as the best of the Spanish lunatics.
Round the back of the town I find the rough areas. The multi-storey apartments rise up in a gloomy greyness that even the evening sun cannot cheer up. Dogs run across the road while weary owners shout relentlessly and hopelessly in their strange language. Cafes and bars are filling with a variety of people and pushchairs and youths smoke on street corners. I came to Spain to see how the Spanish live, and I don’t think I would like to live this way.
I get back into town and give up on my search. I know where the Pizza-Hut is so I head there and park up on the footpath. No-one else cares where they park here so I don’t feel any need to worry about it myself. Looking around I spot the Scottish crew up above me in a first floor window and they motion for me to join them. They are in Pizza-Hut but when I go in to find them they are nowhere to be seen. Back outside it takes me a while to realise they are in the Chinese restaurant next door. I feel quite stupid. Through the now open window I inform them I’m going to have Pizza and I’ll catch up with them after.
The menu has pictures so this ignorant English tourist can see what he wants and point to the picture when the waitress babbles something. I also manage to get a coke in my best Spanish, “Una cola por favor”. The pizza is good. The rest of the evening is spent back at the campsite talking some more and listening as several more bikes arrive to stop the night before the ferry tomorrow. I talk a while with a couple from South Wales who have pitched behind me. They are veterans of this trip but I take some comfort when they tell me it has been particularly hot this year and their group has had a few moments where fuses got too short.
Day 13
I wake around 0800 and smile to myself, this is the last time I’ll wake up in a tent, in a foreign country, in this mad heat and so far from home. I’m excited and glad I’ll be on my way back to the UK this afternoon. I climb out of my sleeping bag and laugh at how much it smells now. I stuff it into its compression bag for the last time. I stagger out the tent into the already rising heat of the day and notice the tent is dripping wet. There is no evidence of rain, this is dew from the cooler nights up here on the coast.
The Scottish crew are milling about and making similar packing noises. The morning is spent packing things. I make a point of watching Bill and Susan pack their tent as it is the same as mine and they always manage to get their tent into its tiny little bag when mine has been rolled loosely and bungeed onto the bike. They carefully remove the inner sheet, remove the poles and spread both the inner and flysheet out on the grass neatly. These are both folded precisely in half then half again, rolled up and firmly shoved into the bag. It all looks so easy.
I remove my poles but leave the inner still attached to the flysheet. I spread out the sheets and fold them sort of in half and sort of in half again, it’s much harder when there is only one of me. I roll these up in insert the poles and pegs. I place the bag under this enormous mound of polyester and start to stuff. I curse, struggle, curse, stuff then curse some more. Slowly, inch-by-inch the zip on the bag is closed whilst I sit and twist and stuff the tent. Finally I let out a yelp of joy as the zip slips closed on the last 3 inches. After 11 nights of camping and 11 mornings of packing and on my last night of camping, the ten is back in its little bag.
We eat breakfast, talk with some of the other bikers on site and load up the bikes. I prepare a plastic back containing the basics I will need on the ferry. I remember the garage decks will be locked whilst at sea, I also remember I will not have a cabin on this trip which is worrying me. Being the resident expert on navigation in the Santander area I lead the Scottish crew down to the ferry terminal about 1200. We arrive and there are already 30 – 40 bikes ahead of us in the queue. The sun is up, I’m wearing full riding gear and I’m beginning to sweat profusely again.
It’s going t be a long wait until we get aboard. Whilst stood there is spot the Hull crew arrive and go over to see how they are. It’s been a hard trip for them too. The Harley has had 3 punctures. Fortunately the owner has some kind of European breakdown cover but it has lead to delays and nightmare trips. The standard Triumph under its enormous load has popped its fork seals and overheated regularly. The customised Triumph has gaffer tape on it to ward off evil mechanical spirits. There have been arguments and short tempers. They are tired of the relentless heat, foreign ways and more than ready to go home.
Talking casually to some of the other bikers the mood is much the same. Everyone is tired and ready for home. I get the feeling those who tell me they have loved every minute and can’t wait till next year are trying to convince themselves. Finally the gates open and we pour onto the ferry. I park the bike, strap it down, get my plastic bag and leave most of my gear, including the helmet, on the bike.
This time I find an exit that has a lift! No more huge trips up long flights of stairs, just a short walk across the deck then up up and away in my beautiful mirrored lift. I find the reclining chairs on the top deck and let out a “humph!”. I have a black fake leather chair in a row of 4 and nowhere to store anything. Nowhere to lock away my kit or valuables, just a seat. It is hot outside as ever and I have my jacket, bike pants and boots on. I am brave and leave as much as I dare on the seat and go out on deck. I make a note to book a cabin both ways on any overnight crossings in the future, whatever the cost.
I walk around on deck for a while, go into the bars, look around the shop and try to kill time. I can’t settle. The ship leaves port at 1600 and I watch as Spain slowly fades into the mist. I think about what I’ve done. I think about how little old me, Ren Withnell, has ridden a 600cc motorcycle from Bolton in England to Faro in Portugal. Ren, the guy with no passport, the guy who thinks Birmingham is a long way away. But it all seems so hollow. I feel as though I have climbed Mount Everest yet I am among 500 other bikers who have all travelled as far. I take some comfort and kudos from the fact I did it alone. So far I have not met anyone else who was not riding in a group or with a partner.
I can’t settle. The mood on the ship is different. On the outward crossing there was a party atmosphere, now the air is filled with tiredness, frayed tempers and relief. |
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