Off I go to descend the endless staircase down to the bike, arms full of clothes and helmet. Everyone else is doing the same and it's slow going, which is some relief as I have time to catch my breath. Down in the garage everyone is waiting, including the Scottish crew and several other now familiar faces. It's warm down there and I'm aware there will be a long wait if the loading time is anything to go by.
I talk with the Scottish crew, then sit and wait, then talk some more, then go back on deck for a smoke, then go back and wait. Suddenly all hell breaks loose and bike engines start to roar. At the back the order must have been given to disembark. I get up, kit up and put my belongings onto the bike, as best I can in the cramped space. I start to undo the strap but I'm really struggling to release the dam thing. Eventually some big fella gives something a hard wrench and my bike is free from its bonds. It takes another few minutes until enough bikes have left so that I can manoeuvre my bike around. I ride up the ramp past lorries and into...yes another queue. This time it's not hot like the UK, it's sweltering, draining, numbing heat. Some casually uniformed guy checks my passport briefly and waves me through.
I'm thinking "Keep to the right...keep to the right...keep to the right" but I need to collect myself and check everything is strapped to the bike properly. I stop outside the terminal offices and dismount. There is a young couple there, taking pictures of the bikes. As I take my helmet off they say "Hello" in a Spanish accent. They have come here to see the bikes coming off the ferry, they love our "Eengleesh" bikes. I compliment them on their English and admire the girl who is pretty, whilst checking the bike. So far so good, the locals seem friendly.
Out of the terminal, onto a roundabout. The map I bought this morning tells me I need to head for Torrelavega, shouldn't be too hard, there should be signs. HOLY COW!!! Everyone is driving on the wrong side of the road!!! OK, I know they do this here but to actually see it, to ride in it and be part of it is madness. I go into panic mode, big time. Slowly slowly slowly, relax Ren it's ok, just the same as home but the wrong way round. Whoa, what does that sign mean, does he have right of way, is that a crossing or spilt paint and where are the signs for Torrelavega? I carry on along a dual carriageway but this is a town and very busy. I keep to the right, riding like I'm on a pushbike not a 110mph motorbike. I just keep on going, forward forward forward. Then a turn, I go right as it seems safer, forward forward forward, turn right, it's easier, forward forward forward. I have no idea where I am going now, I just want to get out of this busy traffic and learn to ride again somewhere quiet and serene. Eventually I'm in the suburbs, out of town, and now in a dead end. Did I mention it is very hot?
I park up and get myself a shaky smoke. Looking around I'm near a lighthouse and a campsite called Cabo Mayor. I consult may map, but the scale is useless for street level. It's a dead end so I've got to turn round, and I know I want to be heading inland for the 611 signposted Torrelavega, or Salamanca, or Reinosa. I've been turning right with the sea to my right. Now I can turn right which will take me inland, phew. I ride back from whence I came and spot a sign for Torrelavega. I follow these on the quieter roads round the back of town and though still frightened I'm actually making progress now. Soon I'm on the dual carriageway with blue signs telling me I'm on the right road. I breathe a big sigh of relief.
I know the speed signs are in kmh, but the Spanish seem to read them as mph. 50kmh is about 30mph, but they will do 40 or 50mph. Out on the Autovista the limit is 120kmh, about 75mph, but lorries travel about 70mph and everyone else is doing at least 80mph. I roll up to 80mph and I still feel like I'm going slowly. There are other bikers on this road, all British. Some travelling sedately as I pass them, some fly past me like I'm stood still. I relax a little and settle down, and the thoughts start to flood in again. I'm amazed I'm here at all, I'm such a travel wimp yet here I am, over a thousand miles from home in a foreign country riding on the wrong side of the road in the scorching sun. Is everything ok, is the bike ok, is my load secure and have I got fuel? All seems well, which worries me more for I am the eternal pessimist.
Then one thing does go wrong. When I bought the bike I had noticed it must have been dropped, but most bikes with 29,000 miles on them have. The glass and shroud on the speedo is held on with what looks like silicon or a big glob of glue. This never worried me, it does not matter what it looks like as long as it works. Then at 80mph the glass starts to flap a little in the wind. I suspect the heat is too much for the glob of whatever. I reach forward and pull off the glass and it's metal retaining ring and tuck it into my tank bag, without even slowing down. There's no glass on the speedo now but it works fine and will not stop me continuing. I'm thankful it's not more serious, but I ponder what effect this may have on the speedo with dust getting in, or the possibility of rain.
The Autovista takes me through some excellent tunnels. The Spanish do not go round hills it seems, but over valleys on huge bridges and through hills on long cool dark tunnels. The tunnels do present a problem though. Sunglasses are necessary if you wish to see anything in the bright sunlight but entering a dark shady tunnel renders me almost blind. In one long tunnel I have to open my visor end roll my sunglasses to the end of my nose and peer over the top to see anything. The scenery is like being in the Lake District but the hills are steeper and the ground is khaki brown covered in dried out clumps of grass and bushes. Some areas are heavily wooded giving a refreshing change of colour and a slightly cooler feel in the air.
Torrelavega is bypassed as I follow the signs for Reinosa. The road is part dual carriageway and part countryside road. It becomes obvious this road is in development, those bits completed are straight smart motorway and then you turn off onto normal lanes, but the new road still being made is visible in the valleys. It only takes an hour or so to come out of the mountains into undulating farmland. The scene is now golden brown fields full of hay mixed with the odd colourful patch of sunflower or some other green crop. Some fields are bright green, and you can see why. Massive frames stretch the width of the field, presumably dragged along its length whilst water is sprayed from the frame to irrigate the dry land. It makes for quite a contrast. Did I mention it is very hot?
It's hot. Moving along the road at 80mph is quite bearable, the wind takes away the excess heat nicely but I am aware this must be the hottest climate I've ridden in. Somewhere along the way I decide it's time for a break and pull off the dual carriageway into a tiny village, no more than a small new church and a road of houses in amongst the scrubland. I stop in the shade of a house to drink and take in the strange atmosphere. I think to myself this is not what I would call beautiful, not in the sense I'm used to, not in the Cotswold sense of green lawns with blooming flowerbeds and quaint cottages. It's dry, arid and somehow incomplete. The church is bright and new but the surrounding land is full of stones and rubble and dry clumps of grass. I feel somehow let down. Everyone talked of how wonderful Spain is back home, full of magnificent views and pretty senoritas smiling at you in the warm sun. It's hot, sticky, dusty and untidy, and the only life I can see is a scruffy old farmer looking at his rusty tractor with contempt.
Back on the road again it's more of the same, dry fields, scrubland and small villages. I need fuel and the sign ahead shows me a petrol pump, a cup, a knife and fork and what looks like an engineers measuring device. I assume this means fuel, cafe, food and perhaps some sort of garage. Again I pull off, expecting services like we have in the UK, an area next to the motorway in which everything is contained. Again I am proven wrong. I'm in another village, a bit larger this time but equally as dry, dusty and incomplete. I notice a petrol station ahead and pull in. There are several other British bikers there, all filling up with fuel for the bike and water for the body. I do the same, then go to pay. I've got my little phrase book and I've been learning the basics of the lingo, I'm feeling quite confident I can get through this. The assistant says "Fe ta fe che kek che fe sadro petfe..." or something like that, what ever it was it made no sense. I point to my bike, and put 10 euros on the counter. I check my change, it's ok so he must have got the correct pump and I thank him, "Gracias". OK, I can't speak Spanish, oh pooh.
The road winds for a while, then goes straight on the new bits, then winds again. I stop every 30 to 50 miles for a drink or fuel or both. I sample a cafe where some other Brit bikers are. I order, in my best Spanish, "Una bocadillo jamon". After the puzzled looks I point to the sandwiches on the counter. "Ah, una bocadillo jamon!", is that not what I just said? The sandwich has very hard bread, like French bread but tougher and the ham is cured which is very tough and stringy. The whole experience was not pleasant, but it was food. I go to order a cup of tea, "Una tassa tay". Again funny looks, then he finally gets it and says "Ah, una tassa tay!". I think that is what I just said, but perhaps I didn't get the excited accent quite right. Urgh. The tea is served in a tiny cup with no milk, just a sachet of sugar. How damn uncivilised. This country is hot, sticky, untidy, unfinished and they can't make a proper cup of tea.
The road winds on and on. The landscape contains no more farmland now, just scrubland. I figure I must be in the desert now, it sure is hot enough. When stopped I sweat heavily into the thermals, but it's not too sticky, when I get on the bike again the air blows away the sweat making me almost cold for the first 5 minutes, quite remarkable. I'm heading for Salamanca. I'd planned this from my map viewing and everyone else on the ferry seemed to be heading there. 230 miles from Santander I'm in Salamanca. On the map Salamanca looks like a small town, it's not, it's a sprawling city. In town I wonder how on earth I'm supposed to find a campsite, but chance plays me a top card for once. Whilst stopped at some traffic lights a BMW pulls up next to me and a tall fella asks me where I'm going, in plain English. I tell him I'm looking for a campsite and he simply says "follow me". I do, noting he's another Brit biker from his registration plate. We make our way through the city onto roads full of roundabouts and industrial units. On one of these roundabouts I spot the 3 bikes of the Scottish crew, looking lost and confused. I wave them to follow me, and remarkably they do! The BMW rider leads us into an outlying suburb called Santa Marta de Tormes, then a right turn takes us into a hotel carpark with the site at the far corner. Did I mention it is very hot?
I graciously thank the BMW rider and the Scottish crew ask me how I know about this place. I'm tempted to boast of some great local insight I have but admit to following the other chap. We book in, and the first surprise is the counter clerk takes my passport from me and gives me a ticket instead, but no payment. It strikes me as odd that rather than take payment first he keeps my passport to stop me running off without paying. It's a strange place is this Spain.
The campsite is fine and spaced out, so I find a pitch near the toilet block. I get my tent off the bike and start to pitch. The ground is solid. I try banging in tent pegs with one of my tools, it's not easy. I comment to a biker nearby who offers me his hammer, I decline but ask if he has a suitable drill. The pegs are left barely in the ground and I pray there is no wind. The showers have clean cubicles and are perfectly fine but there is nowhere to keep things dry within the cubicle. |
