Down the ferry ramp with the motorbikes and the heavy goods vehicles, stamped through immigration and into an early morning Spain. It takes mere moments. Deposited into warm sunshine, near-deserted Saturday streets and a strong wind that rattles the palm tree fronds. Desiccated autumnal leaves race each other along the pavement as if chasing a rumour to the next Black Friday sale. They at least have an idea of where they need to go, which is more than we have.
Truthfully we have not planned on anything. No route, no accommodation, just that commitment to be in central Madrid in four weeks’ time.
There’s a form of time freedom that is invigorating, whilst tinged with a frisson of angst, which over time has become our modus operandi. Logistical planning smothers spontaneity.
So first stop is a bench in the sun to plan a city escape. We could, of course, book into an hotel, only check-in, inevitably, will be late afternoon, so killing time with our tethering anchor of bicycles is less than convenient. We would be no different to that frustration of wheeled-suitcases, a grumble of trundle-carts, who suddenly materialise post-checkout-time on Princes Street, only to echo-rumble the cobbles down in the canyons of the Old Town.
There’s three general directions on offer and as we’ve cycled from west to east along the coastline previously, that leaves ‘south’. South and uphill. A brief and basic perusal of Spanish physical geography shows a verdant flat(ish) coast bordered by a brown scrabble of hills, morphing to the purple of the high tops and on to the arid tans and duns of the central plateau.
It’s time to resurrect whose climbing legs last tested in southern Norway. The routing app prophesies over two thousand metres of ascent which does not quite correlate with the fact that much of the route will be on an old rail bed. Steam locomotives don’t climb much beyond 4% gradients, yet the profile graph shows a maximum of 21%. The answer will eventually become apparent.
A ‘Camino Natural’, that goes by the style ‘Santander-Mediteraneo’ which the remnant trackside distance posts suggest that it was intended to run for around 400km. It was a ‘works-in-progress’ that was never truly completed. Now it’s a phoenix project, a resurrection that will delivery us nearly traffic-free to the city of Burgos in a few days time.
The city escape is easy and we find ourselves on the intended rail bed, albeit into a strong headwind. Stopping for lunch we consider our overnight options, which turn out to be marginal. Still we push on; we do have the emergency of the tent as a final solution. However a room in an hotel would be preferable… there seems to be a selection in the next town, thereafter nothing. It’s siesta, the streets deserted, all is closed; is that for lunch, the season or permanent… it’s never clear. There’s a ‘phone number on the reception door but nobody answers. So the logistician cum Navigator interrogates the booking app, securing a room 8km back the way. Downhill, tailwind we make very short work of it, to find the silent establishment’s door adorned with twenty years worth of Michelin guide recommendations and a ‘phone contact. No answer. No answer. Again, no answer. With the sun setting, eventually a connection is made and we’re advised that the place isn’t opening tonight, despite the restaurant tables being set with linen and glasses, and despite our confirmed booking. So it’s a further 5 kilometres further downhill, all the way back past that lunch stop, to a beautiful old parador…. that’s open.
Logistical planning smothers spontaneity….. sometimes it does not.
Next morning we recoup that squandered distance and take on the climb; at its best: 600 metres of ascent in 6kms, into a headwind. As to how the trains negotiated the hilly impediment, it was blindingly obvious: it went through a tunnel…. seven kilometres of tunnel. But, it never did.
Postscript: whist we were battling the gradient and that wind, the Spanish mainland was recording a new wind speed record. Just to our west in the Picos de Europa a gust of 236kph was recorded.
