Again undressing the sweet fruity smell mixed with old socks is overwhelming and the shower comes as a great relief. I note there is a room for washing with sinks that have a small ridged area at the front for scrubbing your clothes. I wash my thermals and socks with my soap bar and hang them on the bike to dry.
As the evening draws on more and more bikers arrive and the site is quite full. The party atmosphere is here and we all sit outside the cafe come bar eating and drinking. I talk with a couple from St Helens, near where the gf lives, the Scottish crew and a bunch of lads from West Bromwich. The talk is mostly of the heat, the trip and the next day. Most people seem to be heading for the city of Merida, another 200 to 250 miles south. But I don't want to go to Merida.
I know of Merida. About a year and a half ago I was working on a website for a guy I knew. He owns a house there, and he'd got plans to let out some rooms and take visitors round the area. I'd fixed his laptop for him one day and left my girlfriend at the time, Cath, to take it to him. I kissed Cath goodbye and went round to his house. That was the last time I saw Cath alive. Just hearing the word "Merida" made me think of that last time I saw Cath. It does not hurt quite like it first did, but it still makes me feel uncomfortable.
Badajoz seemed to be the more logical route. Talking to one wise old biker who'd done this trip several times before, he suggested there may be no camping in Badajoz. Nah, everyone back home tells me the roads are lined with campsites right throughout Spain. I'll be ok. The night started to cool down and some of the bikers were getting more and more drunk, so I retired to my tent. Again sleep came quite quickly.
Day 4
I awoke around 8, surprisingly late as normally when camping I wake up early. I decamp and load the bike then go to retrieve my passport. The cost is acceptable, about 12 euros or 8 pounds. I wave goodbye to those bikers eating their breakfast, I'm fairly certain I wont see any of them tonight, I'll be in Badajoz and they will be in Merida. Again the land opens out to scrubland. dry grasses, small spiny shrubs and trees. Lots of trees, not nice green lush trees but short stout and mean looking trees, all twisted and angular. Though not in neat rows these must be agricultural as there are fences and other signs of order among them. I think of a friend back in the UK who would be able to tell me all about which trees they were and what soil they need and how long they live. Me, I know nothing about them except they are the only sign of human life here.
The road to Badajoz is quite boring really. But it's hot. Whilst doing 80 along a single carriageway road I'm being overtaken by the local trucks and cars. They don't mess about round here. As the vehicle passes you the heat from the engine is like a hairdryer blast. You can't follow lorries too close while waiting to overtake, the air is unbreathable. Out in the open areas you think it's hot but then a blast of superheated air blows over you, it's like opening the oven to check the Sunday roast. It only lasts a few seconds, then it's simply hot until the next one. I'm pleased with how well I am coping with all this heat. But it is causing 2 problems. My feet are sore, my boots are causing them to sweat and this is making them feel like I've been stood for hours. My arse is in agony. The sweat cannot get through the seat so a pool of sweat is forming down there and it's giving me some form of nappy rash or something.
Again with stopping every 30 to 50 miles for fuel or drinks and the odd cafe for more crap tea and sandwiches, Badajoz does not come into view fast enough. I am tired and drained and it's mid-afternoon, the hottest time. The city is another big one, scary with its strange lights and odd road markings, drivers who just don't follow rules and speed far in excess of posted limits. All I need to do is find someone to ask where the nearest campsite is and this hell will be over. I spot a local guy on a Dominator 650 and flag him down. Again in my best Spanish I ask for a campsite. "No camping aqui, Merida, Merida camping, no aqui." I sit on the bike for a moment, dumbfounded. I try to make sure of what he is saying but my Spanish is not up to it, and he rides off. Did I mention it is very hot?
No, I ain't going to Merida, that's final. There's got to be some sort of campsite around here, there simply HAS to be. I head south out of the city, picking up signs for Jerez de los Cabelleros. I stop for fuel a few miles into the desert and ask for camping. YIPEE!!, 5 km down the road is camping. My mood totally changes, I'm elated now not stressed and angry, I'm riding all nice and sweet not hard and aggressive. I find a town, this must be it. Nothing. Hotels yes but no campsite signs. I stop at a cafe and ask, no camping here. I now suspect that "camping" and "campar" must be different words, one for tents etc and one for sleeping or something like that. I'm back down now, hard. I consider a hotel, but I want to camp. Will I get ripped off in a hotel, how much will it cost, will I be able to get bottled water? No, I'll carry on a few more miles and find a site.
After Badajoz my next destination was to be Huelva on the Atlantic coast, so I followed signs for Huelva. It seems there is at least another 180 miles to go until I get to Huelva, I can't go that far. I stop at the next few towns and ask for camping, nothing. I'm sore, tired and very very annoyed with myself. I want to go home to a nice cool country with a language I understand, water I can drink from the tap, shops with names I recognise and countryside that is green, not arid and dusty. The heat is painful now. After Jerez de los Cabelleros reports no camping, I give up...I'm going straight to Huelva. It's on the coast and I'd read somewhere that there are campsites all along the coast. Only another 130 miles to go. I want to cry.
Then the road chages. No more straights with gentle bends, I'm in the hills. This is not a road, it's a roller-coaster! Sweeping left followed by sweeping right, uphill then crank over to the right again into a sharp left with a drop to the side. Over a hill, down into a right then right then left and hard right. Clear road, bank it over, tip it in, feel the tyres squirm for grip then flick it over to the other side. Good view round this one, lean lean lean, hup we go, over the crest, wow, more! This goes on for 80 miles. Not just a few miles of good bends, 80 long miles of turns, corners, switchbacks and sweeping gradients. I know, really truly know I should be loving every single moment of this, but I'm not. All I want to do I get off this bloody bike, out of this bloody heat and to lie down and cry. Cry for home, cry for my friends, cry for cool air, cry for rain, cry to see my gf again, just cry.
Huelva is here. It's another city, like all the cities in Spain. Hard concrete flats, strange road signs and faded road paint. But it holds hope, hope of a reprieve from the bike and the sun. I flag down a woman in uniform, some sort of traffic warden I think, but she's pretty. Camping? No camping. I'm not having that, there's got to be camping. My heart is sinking like a stone again. From what I can work out between her bad English and my worse Spanish is that I need to get out of town. So I consult my now battered map.
I follow the road towards Faro for a few miles, almost fearing I may end up going straight there. Then I head coastward. I spot a sign!! A sign for camping!! 360 miles of god-forsaken burning road and I spot a sign!!! Then the bike goes onto reserve. I need fuel. Another sign for fuel!!! This must be my luck after the storm. I follow the signs into Puerto Umbria, but no fuel. I ride round the town, cursing the bloody foreigners and their lying signs, cursing their scruffy towns and rubble-filled wastelands, cursing their stupid sun and daft road markings. I've really lost it now. So far I'd managed to hold onto reason and my remaining last drops of humour but now they are gone. I'm shouting English curses at the top of my voice through my helmet. Anyone looking at me gets my best evil stare. I stop to politely ask "Donde esta gasolina por favor?", when the chuffing lazy Spaniard grudgingly points up the road then looks away I dump the clutch so hard I wheelie a little, no mean feat on an NTV 600 revere. Did I mention it is very hot?
I find myself eventually back at the fuel sign. This time I follow the sign slowly, there's another sign, tiny, inches high, pointing down a road I'd not been down. I almost cry with relief as I see the price board of a fuel station coming into view out of the trees. I stop and fuel up. The attendant speaks a little English so I ask if there is any hope at all of ever finding a campsite within 500 miles of this station? He does not understand my bitter sarcastic comment so I ask if there is camping aqui? Yep, sure is, only 2 km down this road. Outside I don't know whether I'm happy or not. I dare not get my hopes up only to have them dashed again, and by now I believe every Spanish person is trained to lie to anyone remotely English, even the signs change when English eyes look at them. I go down the road and to my amazement, there is a campsite.
Not just a campsite, it's the most beautiful campsite in the world at this moment. The girl in the counter speaks a little English, checking in is easy and this time I get to keep my passport, and the pitch is sandy so I can get my pegs in. I pitch about 2030 and think I'm going to collapse, but to my surprise my mood is back up and I'm feeling more alive. I walk around the site to get a feel for the place. There are clean toilets and showers, a basic food shop, cafe and a bar. I take a quick shower and change into fresh clothes which helps me on the road to normality.
Back at the tent I prepare some soup I brought with me from the UK and start to eat. A blonde girl walks past the tent and smiles whilst saying "Ola" I reply "Ola" back, but dare not go any further as I now believe my Spanish is worse than appalling. Later I see her with some friends and I say "Ola" but now I hear the group talking in German. I say "Du bist deutshe?" and a bloke replies "Ya, but you are English yes?". It transpires there are 5 of them, a husband and wife, 2 girls and one man. The man speaks almost perfect English with a distinctive German accent, the rest speak enough English to get by. I spend a while talking with them and they make me feel most welcome. I also meet 2 younger lads from Poland and Ireland who are working in Spain doing driveways. The night is getting late and my high-school German is becoming embarrassing compared to the German's easy English, so I retire to bed.
Day 5
Ah, sweet bliss. Rest day. My intention had been to arrive at Huelva on Wednesday so I am one day early. This means no riding today and after the ride yesterday I am relieved. I wake having slept well and stagger out of my tent and wonder what to do with my day. The sky has a hazy look to it this morning and a covering of clouds is keeping the sun at bay. It's still warm enough to wear my shorts so I walk to the cafe and scare some old ladies with my bright white legs. The girls behind the counter speak a little English and in a strange mix of Spanglish I manage to order some toast. The toast comes but it's a large French bread bun cut in half, toasted and served with a carton of jam and a carton of butter. I spread the butter and jam in thick layers onto my toast and cautiously take a bite. It's absolutely fantastic! Best thing I've tasted on this trip and I stuff it into my mouth like I've not eaten for ages. Needless to say the tea served with this delightful toast was down to the usual poor standard in Spain. Did I mention it is very hot?
I go for my shower. I take a long shower. I stand there feeling the water washing over my back then my face. I take time to think about what I'm doing here washing myself with Spanish water on a Spanish campsite on the Atlantic coast almost 2000 miles from my little house back home. I think of the gf and wonder how is she doing. |
