Western France and Northern Spain, Sept. 2010

[FJR-UK]

Prologue

I had been toying with the idea of a trip around the Baltic for something completely different. But, my wife longed for another visit to Spain. I had two years of Spanish in school, and as bad as my Spanish is, it still makes a big difference to our visit. We have more fun in Spain, because I can ask questions and we’re willing to venture into places were English is not spoken.



Our last trip to the Costa Verde was 20 years ago. We thought we’d revisit a couple of our favourite places (Llanes, Luarca) as well as stopping in towns we hadn’t had time for before (San Sebastian, Oviedo, La Coruña). And, we wanted to see more of Brittany, so a three-week trip was planned. And, I mean PLANNED.

Our traditional modus operandi has been to roll into our destination before 5 pm, then find a place to stay. This allows for a certain flexibility, but we had been disappointed in the past by full hotels. In particular, we had wanted to stay in Chartres, but had to move on to Dreux (which was also full) and finally Evreux before finding a place to stay, late and tired.

This time, with the help of the internet, I spent three months organising our trip. Every hotel was booked in advance, located on Google maps (even Street View) and itineraries printed for my tank bag. Google maps were printed with restaurant locations marked on them. In addition to Google, I relied heavily on the Michelin, Trip Advisor and Rough Guide sites.

My new FJR had just 1,200 miles on it. I changed the oil and washed and waxed it.

London had been enjoying two weeks of blazing sun when I checked the forecast for the first three days of our trip.

Rain.

[FJR-UK]

Day One. London to Vernon. 6 September 2010. 305 miles.

Packing the night before and setting the alarm for 0430 allowed us to be on the road to Folkestone and the Channel Tunnel terminal by 0500. It was a dark, cool ride down the M20, but a pleasure to breeze through south London with so little traffic. We got through check-in with enough time to spare to allow our first continental breakfast. Surprisingly, the cappucino was pretty good.

As usual, the bikers were the last on the train and shared a carriage together. We were with a group of five forty-something Harley riders heading to eastern Austria for a biker’s meet they attend every year. The bikes ranged from full dressers with sat nav and chromium GB logos on the rear fender to a turbo-charged Fat Bob.


Le Shuttle 0700

Our destination was Vernon by lunchtime. We’ve been to France via the tunnel so many times, it’s a challenge to keep finding new first night stops. We’d never been to Giverny to see Monet’s garden and Joanna (the gorgeous blonde I travel with) is a keen gardener.

To get there with time left to view the garden required the Autoroute, so A16/A28 to exit 10 would still give us a bit of countryside to view. At Forges-les-Eaux I got lost.

My sat nav is a small compass I have taped to the map pocket on my tank bag. I print out the route with mileage between turns and it usually works pretty well. But, I missed my right on the D921 and had to stop for my first look at the map.

In the small town of La Feuillie, we stopped for petrol and coffee. The lady that ran the shop carefully filled my tank, then made our coffee. We relaxed in the sun and realised for the first time that we were in France.

In Lyon-la-Forét, we stopped for our first photograph.

I’ve been reading trip reports on this site for years. Orson really does set the standard. Fantastic shots, always with the bike in the shot and a fantastic, winding road in the background. Well, I tried on this trip. Honest. But... failed again.

Notarian, too. How do they do it? Do they actually turn around and go back for the shot? With a fully-loaded FJR and my wife on the back, it takes me a lot more than a whim to bother with an unnecessary u-turn! When the scenery turned nice, I’d try to sneak up on a shot, slowing... slowing... Nope! Past it! So, this is what you get:


Lyon-la-Forét

Actually, this looked like a pretty nice area for a stopover. It is surrounded by forest and rolling hills and Rouen is not far away if you need some culture. We contined on down to Les Andelys.

I went out of my way to travel through Les Andelys, because I read that the view of Richard the Lionheart’s Chateau Gaillard overlooking the river Seine was one of the touring highpoints of the area. A little white ruin on a hill is what I saw. Trashed 400 years ago during religious wars. And scaffolding.

We got to Vernon in good time. I crossed the bridge and drove directly to the hotel, knowing just what it looked like from Google’s Street View. Amazing.

Google also showed me that the train station was quite nearby the Hotel d’Evreux (€69.20 b&b). My excellent plan was to walk to the train station where there was sure to be a taxi rank and take a cab across the river to Giverny. Indeed, there was a clearly marked taxi rank in front of the station. But, no taxis.

We started walking, keeping an eye out for a taxi. I saw two. They were parked with no one in the vehicle. Clearly, all Vernon taxi drivers were taking lunch. We ended up walking to Giverny.

Turns out, it was a lovely walk, specially created to keep the Monet tourists off the highway. And there were plenty of us, even on a Monday in September. We got to the town in about an hour. I said lunch has to come first and, conveniently, a woman running an art gallery advised us that the best place to eat was the Ancien Hotel Baudy. She wasn’t wrong.

It wasn’t cheap, though.

I’m a 63-year-old with late onset diabetes and heart disease. I knew before the start of this trip that I had another angiogram to look forward to when we returned to London. I have already had a two-artery, five-stent angioplasty. I made up my mind before this trip started that I was not going to look at the right-hand column of the menu. Old habits are hard to break. I thought a €13.60 omelette had better be good...

Well, it was the best damn omelette I’ve ever eaten. It was stuffed with confit of duck and potatos and mushrooms and who knows what else. It was delicious! And the Cotes du Rhone was excellent, too. We were off to a flying start.

I was ready to face Monet. The whole town was geared to Monet and art, and very tourist-oriented. Every other doorway was another gallery.


Notice this guy’s sign is in English.


Behind the Hotel Baudy (which wasn’t a hotel at all, but a restaurant, just like the Hotel de Ville is not a place where you can get a room, unless you’re the mayor) was a studio, which looked like a set-up to me rather than a working studio. But, hey, if it’s free, it’s for me.

Monet’s garden wasn’t free. And, except for the pond with all the famous water lilies, a bit of a disappointment. I wouldn’t like to go there on an August Saturday. The crowds! Anyway, I owe you one shot:



We walked back through Giverny. It was a lovely looking village. All ivy-covered stone houses. You could see why Monet would choose to live there. We stepped over a discarded Edith Piaf CD and headed down toward the Seine. It was overcast and rain was on the way. Wildflowers had been planted along the river banks and the whole way back to the bridge there was just the two of us. A zig-zagging walk through Vernon took us past lots of lace curtains and window boxes.




Notre Dame. Ancient stained glass next to modern in windows that had been blown out during WWII.

I’m guessing Vernon is a pretty sleepy town at the best of times, and on Monday it was dead. All the restaurants that I fancied were closed, including our hotel restaurant. We settled on a brasserie, but were told they were closing. The only place open in town was the pizza joint up the road, we were told. It was starting to rain.

All through my pizza, I was remembering how good that confit of duck omelette had been.

[FJR-UK]

Day Two. Vernon to Saint-Malo. 7 September. 234 miles.

It rained heavily all night, but the sun was starting to break through Tuesday morning. The best thing about the Hotel d’Evreux was that I could see my bike through our room window. I could see I would likely need to take a towel to the seat. The hotel breakfast was standard fare and we quickly set off in the morning haze.

The green fields and chateaus were behind us quickly and rush hour in Évreux engulfed us. Conches-en-Ouche was not appearing on the road signs, so I guessed we wanted Caen and my compass confirmed the notion. As we approached 32 miles, I looked up and noticed a small signpost to “Les Conches”. The system was working and we were soon heading for Argentan.

In the forests southwest of Évreux, I had my first close call. We were moving along pretty quickly and I missed a badly signposted turn. At the next intersection, I pulled a u-turn. I had been the only other vehicle on the road, but as I accelerated back onto the highway, my rear view mirrors were full of Range Rover. I kept right, dropped a gear and accelerated as hard as I could. I got the obligatory honk and waved an apology, but reminded myself to be a bit more circumspect in future. Where the heck had he come from?

We arrived in Argentan in one piece.

As would be prove to be the norm, I missed the bypass and rode through the centre of town. It was time to stop for coffee, anyway.

The name rang a bell. Saving Private Ryan? Some war movie, anyway. I looked it up when I got home and this is what I found:


G.I.s with a Panther tank in Argentan

This is where we had our coffee:

Saint Germain marketplace

Argentan was bombed heavily on two separate occasions. This is from a doorway on the outside of the church:


As usual, we had driven around the bollards and parked in the marketplace. The beauty of touring in France and Spain (and Italy, but not on this occasion) is that you can park a motorcycle virtually anywhere. So, parking it in the market within sight of a cafe was a blessing, as you could just leave everything piled on the bike. The FJR (which hasn’t as yet earned a nickname) is just out of shot to the left.

We were in Domfront by lunchtime. I had street-viewed the town, predicting the time we would arrive. It looked like a dour working-class town. But, we parked on the main drag, then walked up the hill into the old town. It was nice. We had clear views of the surrounding countryside, a nice old castle ruin to visit, a look at the concrete church and my first tartine in Le Bistro St Julien.

A tartine is essentially an open-face grilled cheese sandwich with your choice of additions grilled on top of it. Mine had local ham, mushrooms, black pudding and onions with salad on the side. It was all I could eat. I also had my first Norman cider. It came in a ceramic bowl, rather than a glass and was delicious. Also, not too alcoholic.


Saint Julien, a 14th century church that was replaced in 1926 by a concrete structure.


The restaurant opposite. You can’t smoke in a French restaurant. The waitresses are standing outside for a smoke in the sun.


Le Bistro St. Julien, sharing the name of the street and the church, and specialising in tartines.

We were sitting outside in the sun. I was starting to get too hot in my black t-shirt and jeans when the sun disappeared behind a cloud and it got cold. Hmmm, better hot than cold, I thought.

We were back on the bike for the final stretch to Saint-Malo. The scenery was quite pleasant, and the farm villages had some pretty impressive buildings. But the run into our destination was spoilt by rain. I found an oak tree overhanging the roadside and we got our waterproofs on. Every RV and articulated lorry that I had passed during the last hour got by us again. The rain got heavier and so did the traffic as we entered the town.

My study paid off as I rode into the old town, left, right, right and stopped in front of the Hotel Quic en Groigne.

I needed a beer, so we were quickly unpacked, changed and back on the street – exploring under our umbrellas.

This town has more bars and restaurants than any other place I can think of. All of them busy.


Last shot of the night. I was holding an umbrella and trying to steady the camera in the wind and rain, so, blurry. We liked Saint-Malo.

Tipping in France (or, making a very short story really long)

Why do all that research on restaurants if you don’t use it? We stumbled upon our first choice, Le Bistro de Jean, which looked full. It was, but the nice woman said we could come tomorrow night. We made a reservation and set off to find a place that could take us on this Tuesday night. Inkjet maps are not the best idea on a rainy night. Mine got more and more blurry as the second, then the third restaurant we tracked down turned out to be closed.

Finally, L’Entre Deux Verres took us in. It was an agreeable place, but very busy and we waited quite a while before food finally ended up on our table. It was worth the wait. I had more oysters, which were lovely, but the lamb and bean cocotte that came in a marmite pot (these are all new words to me, too) was delicious. The glass of Beaujolais Village was so delicious, I had three and asked to see the bottle.

We finally get to the point:

When the bill came, I asked if service was included, because I definitely want to leave a tip. Sometimes the bill or the menu will say if service is included, but not here. The waiter said, no, service was not included on the bill. I left the man €10, about 12.5%

Two days later, in Quimper, I asked the waiter if service was included. He took pains to explain to me that, in France, no matter where you go, service is ALWAYS included. He said if you liked the service, a mention and a thank you would be appreciated. Which sort of takes the edge off my recommendation for L’Entre Deux Verres.

[FJR-UK]

Day Three. Saint-Malo.

20 years ago, we caught a ferry from Saint-Malo to Portsmouth and spent a few hours in the old town. We thought it worth revisiting, so planned for two nights in the Hotel Quic en Groigne. We were assured a newly modernised double room, so imagine my surprise when the very nice receptionist walked us to the back of the hotel, past the breakfast room and out the back to show us Cabin No. 3.


Cabin No. 3, Hotel Quic en Groigne, Saint-Malo and the gorgeous blonde I travel with.

I wondered to myself if this is where they hid the bikers? (I had asked for a parking place for a moto when I booked the room.) Well, it turned out to be one of the best rooms of the trip. No sexual athletes in the room next door, because there was no next door. (I have no idea what happened to Cabins No. 1 & 2.) And the tin roof was fun during the nightly downpour. The bed was new and huge. The bathroom was brand new, the shower was powerful and the drains worked. Very un-French.

The garage where I parked the bike also caused momentary concern. It was under the hotel. The ramp down had to be a 45° drop with not much room for turning at the bottom, but caused no problem in the end. Launching myself up and out of the garage into a sea of pedestrians when we left turned out not to be the drama I had anticipated.

It was a perfect place to stay in the quiet end of the old town. And, after a night of pouring rain, Tuesday morning was sunny. We found a cafe for breakfast.

French music.

Every cafe plays music, usually louder than is absolutely necessary and definitely at all times. The French seem to have a fondness for electronic dance music that features manufactured sounds that mimic cute animals noises, then loop the shit out of them. I can imagine that the videos feature very attractive, gamine Carla Bruni lookalikes in very little clothing. The pap we were forced to listen to made me long for the Joe Le Taxi days.

The cafe was also typical in that there was one person running the whole place – a problem if the place was packed. Our guy had to run from the shop twice to buy bread and something else from his neighbours. He was very pleasant, and the orange juice and croissants were freshly made.

We explored the harbour. You have a ferry port, a yacht harbour and moorings for a fishing fleet. On the other side of the sea wall, we found what I will call a groin (a low wall or sturdy timber barrier built out into the sea from a beach to check erosion and drifting).


Saint-Malo Harbour


Sea wall groin and the gorgeous blonde I travel with


Sea wall groin, Saint-Malo

We walked back along the beach from the harbour to the town and explored the fort that was approachable when the tide is out. Reentering the town, I could not pass a stand on the sea wall that was offering oysters. Cancale is a couple miles to the east of Saint-Malo and is where the local oysters come from.


Cancale oysters

The coffee was undrinkable, the bread stale and the wine dank. The oysters were wonderful.

We took another circuit of the town walls. It was a beautiful, if blustery day. An American woman, taking photos of the old town, announced to anyone within earshot, “Everything is so freaking CUTE!” I could not disagree. Saint-Malo is a nice place. We watched a ferry set sail, noticed that the tidal swimming pool had been refilled.


Tidal swimming pool

It was lunchtime. We decided on, what else, seafood.


Typical Saint-Malo seafood restaurant


and through the 12x zoom on my Panasonic DMC-TZ7

I already had oysters, so we went for a tiered plate of crab, langostines and prawns. Jo had a couple glasses of Alsatian riesling and I stuck to dry Normandy cider, which went really well with the shellfish. We were in pig heaven, stuffing ourselves and baking in the sun.

A walk was called for and we found the cathedral.


Cathédrale Saint-Vincent de Saint-Malo

And walked by the swimming pool, which was busy now.





We’d enjoyed a beautiful, sunny day, but noticed the weather was closing in. By dinner time, we were carrying umbrellas again.

Dinner at the Bistro de Jean was worthy of a place you cannot get into without a reservation. Our hostess was happy to help me with my French, explained the specials in English and I proceeded to order too much.

The main course was a local sausage. It was huge and delicious but after the huge lunch I was struggling. This was going to continue to be a problem for me on this trip. I wanted to try everything. I ended up leaving half my food on more than one occasion.

Overdoing it led to another of our problems on this trip: snoring.

Joanna was not very happy with me the next morning...

[FJR-UK]

Day Four. Saint-Malo to Quimper. 129 miles.

The rain was coming down so heavily on Wednesday morning, I tried to take a picture of it out my cabin window. But, by the time we’d finished breakfast in the hotel, the rain had stopped. Still, we set off for Quimper in our waterproofs.

The bike purred in the cool air and we were soon lost somewhere south of Saint-Malo.

How had this happened? I’d studied the map before we left and followed the signs to Dinard. But, I confused Dinard and Dinan and ended up heading south earlier than I should have. We ended up doing more miles on the N176 instead of the rural miles that I’d planned for Joanna’s benefit. She doesn’t like the motorway, and who could blame her.

After a dull 83 miles through rolling countryside, we ended up having our coffee stop in Rostrenen. I couldn’t help but notice the relatively high number of alternative-looking types in the town. I wondered if it had anything to do with the music scene? I had read that there was a thriving traditional music industry in Brittany. So were all these people musicians, or was there a hippy commune outside of town? A long-haired biker sat down next to me. Conversation was difficult/brief but I learned he’d just returned from the Alps and the Pyrenees. Lots of rain, he said. Not encouraging, I thought.

We had time to kill before we could check into the Hotel Dupleix in Quimper at 3 pm earliest and not a lot of miles to cover today. We were encouraged to take a side trip to the fifteenth century Locronan by the Rough Guide. It is supposed to be one of the most beautiful rural villages in France. Roman Polanski covered the village’s streets in dirt to create an English village for the film Tess.

We parked up next to a Harley on the outskirts and walked into the village after finally stripping off our waterproofs for the day. The village was now a monument to tourism and twee was the only word that sprang to mind. We had a galette in the pictured restaurant. Normandy is famous for crepes (sweet) and galettes (savory). Ours came neatly folded into a square, made of whole wheat flower and containing basically a ham and egg breakfast in a pancake. It was good.


Locronan, Brittany


Locronan. It was warming up.

Still with time to kill and needing petrol, we headed west to Douarnenez, a harbour town. It was a nice ride through lovely countryside in the sun. The town was pleasant enough, but our feet never touched the ground until we found a petrol station.

So, in a lousy petrol station, on day 4 of a 22-day trip, my main credit card was refused.

I was once in a fancy restaurant in Orvieto with not enough cash to pay for our meal. I had three credit cards refused before the fourth finally coughed up. So I was not lacking for plastic on this trip. But I had made sure to notify all my credit card companies and banks that I would be abroad. I paid cash.

We got to Hotel Dupleix, Quimper, at 3 pm. I was offered garage parking, but as they didn’t mind that I’d parked in front of their entrance, I left the bike there. We had our first decent hotel room view of the trip.


Cathédrale Saint-Corentin de Quimper (and the FJR) from our hotel window


Cathédrale Saint-Corentin de Quimper


Cathédrale Saint-Corentin de Quimper


Quimper Old Town


Cathedral Square, the Museum of Fine Arts and a very nice Jules Verne carousel.

The old town was clustered at the base of the cathedral, intersected by canals. Quimper makes a large feature of flower boxes everywhere and the attractive centre was very busy. We enjoyed a drink in the cathedral square and did some people watching, then went to find a restaurant.

The best sounding place from my research turned out to be no longer there. Back and forth we walked before finally deciding that L’Jardin de l’Odet was now a pizza joint. We walked back to Restaurant Erwan (which appears on Google maps) but decided it was too early to eat, so popped in to the bar across the street for a couple.

Turned out to be an Irish pub. We immediately noticed what a wonderful change the music was from the electronic French “music” we’d been listening to for the past three days. And Brittany shares the Celtic music history of Ireland and Galicia in Spain. The instruments and music are very similar. So, we were in an Irish pub listening to Breton music. Nice.

I started with a local cider, but notice a couple of locals nursing their pints of Guinness. I ordered a Guinness, which was poured correctly and arrived at my table some time later. It didn’t taste as good as London Guinness and I found out why the locals were taking so long over their pints. €5.50.

Dinner in the Restaurant Erwan was very good. The decor was diabolical. Orange? Lots of garish orange? We didn’t comment on the original artwork, either, in case they had been painted by a friend of our very excellent waiter. This was the chap that explained French tipping etiquette to me. Definitely eat in the Erwan, but wear dark sunglasses.

We took a stroll through a super little garden behind the theatre, watched the huge grey mullet in the canal (not good for eating said our waiter) and enjoyed a beautiful sunset before hitting the sack.

[FJR-UK]

Day Five. Quimper to La Rochelle. 10 September. 288 miles.

Breakfast in the Hotel Dupleix proved why the reason I only have breakfast in a hotel is if we want to make a fast getaway and it’s inconvenient to go out. I’ll bet they don’t drink their own coffee. The dispensing machines are... well, enough said.

We were very quickly out of town and on the N165 heading southeast. I hoped Joanna would not notice the signs to Carnac. I mean, once you’ve hugged the monoliths at Stonehenge... besides, I’d seen pictures on the internet.

We were at Nantes by coffee time, so I plowed on into town. I knew there was an old town/cathedral near the river, so we followed the river to a likely spot. I circled the one way systems a couple of times before I decided on a cafe. We parked ten feet from our table. You’ve got to love motorcycles.

Coffee finished, we left town and realised we’d missed the best part. Oh, well. Nantes was never going to be more than a pit stop. I wanted to get back to La Rochelle.

Jo and I had spent a wonderful evening there many years ago. A plateau de fruits de mer by at the harbour side while we watched a sailboat fashion show to the electronic strains of Jean Michel Jarre. Spotlights picked up each yacht, catamaran and trimaran as it entered through the harbour walls, did a pirouette and sailed out. The French know how to do a fashion show.

I planned for two nights in a nice, quiet hotel. Too many holiday nights have been spoiled by shouts from the street below. On Google maps, I found a likely place on the other side of a park from the old town and paid the price three months in advance. Checking the hotel’s website the day before we left London, I saw that we’d saved about €60.

With a nice park in front of the hotel, they put us in a room overlooking the car park. Well, it wasn’t the worst view we’d have on this trip and at least I got a good look at my bike. And, it was very quiet a night. Even with air conditioning, my wife insists on sleeping with the window open. “Ooo... stuffy!”


View from our room in the Novotel, La Rochelle.

It was a nice room. We were getting used to this. The last night of our previous trip to Dubrovnik, we stayed in a four-star hotel in Dijon. His and her’s white terrycloth bathrobes were a nice touch. I thought, why wait until the last night? Like I said, one could get used to this.

We decided to avail ourselves of the hotel laundry. We will wash underwear (I even pack a tiny clothes line and pegs) but jeans are a problem and I’d been wearing my bike gear since Monday. We sent a couple pairs of jeans, t-shirts and a dress shirt. €24. Hey, the high life ain’t cheap!

Changed and refreshed, we hit La Rochelle. Having to walk through the park to get into the old town turned out to be a nice touch. The town, itself, was not as glamorous as I’d remembered, hence this is my first photo:


Bronze on the harbour wall, La Rochelle

The town was, however, very lively and fun. I’d made sure to arrange a Friday and Saturday night there and we went in search of a restaurant I’d read about on the beach. They were booked for Friday and Saturday night, but we could have Saturday lunch. Done!

There was some sort of French television shindig going on around the harbour. Two of the places on my list were closed for private parties. Marquees had been set up along the harbour with groups of fans clamouring for autographs. It was party time.

We went in search of a fourth choice. Les Flots on the harbour had a table outside for us. It was getting quite cool, but the heat lamps worked well. Our meal was excellent, but Les Flots was truely taking the piss with their wine list. I didn’t see anything for less than €25 and prices shot up astronomically from there. I told the sommelier what we were eating and asked for a recommendation between €30-€40. He sold me a Colombard at the top of my range that was decidedly average. Oh, well, the brochette of veal sweetbreads with local langoustines was excellent.

Walking off dinner took us into the bustling bar area north of the harbour. I have no idea which bar we were in, but it was packed with locals and one of the earthier types started chatting up Joanna. He offered her something from a bottle he had in a bag, which (to my amazement) she drank. My wife was rolling. Jo said buy the man a drink, so I offered him a fiver. To my surprise, he returned from the bar with my change. I really was just a spectator here.

Anyway, we escaped with our lives and Jo finally decided she was ready for bed. We slept the sleep of the dead.

[FJR-UK]

Day Six. La Rochelle. 11 September.

We were a little bit worse for wear Saturday morning as we set out for another day of fun.

Exploring away from the harbour for the first time, we stumbled into Cathédrale Saint-Louis de la Rochelle and had breakfast in a little family-run cafe, the bashful son serving us on a non-school day.


Cathédral Saint-Louis de la Rochelle

Then, we found one of the trip’s high points for me, the Saturday market. There was a large indoor market surrounded by temporary outdoor market stalls. The range and quality of produce was a marvelous sight. It made our local supermarket look like a corner shop. Local cheeses, sausages and fruit and vegetables I’d never seen before, like flat peaches. Cuts of meat and types of fresh fish you would never see in a British market. It was certainly whetting my appetite for lunch.


Saturday market, La Rochelle







It was getting quite hot, so we made a detour back to the hotel on the way to the restaurant to change into something more suitable.

When I made the reservation the night before, I was wearing the finest apparel that motorcycle touring allows. Now, as I stood before the maitre’d of the Restaurant Richard et Christopher Coutanceau, I had on my loudest Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. “I hope I’m not over dressed,” I asked the man. He was not that amused by my irony. “I suppose as it’s lunchtime...” he said. (I was not that bothered, frankly. I figured that if they turned us away, they’d be saving me a lot of money.)

Anyway, when I was sat at the table with the table cloth covering my partial nudity, I felt not too out of place. This was a very posh place. They handed us English menus. We paused for a second to admire the panoramic view of La Rochelle harbour and take in the rest of the restaurant.

One large table was a party of television people, we guessed. They were passing around a MacBook Air and having a Skype conversation with the face we could see on the screen. They were a bit loud. Between us and the sea sat a foursome. The older chap knew his wine and was giving the younger chap the benefit of his vast knowledge. Another foursome featured husband and wife and mom and pop. Pop was a dead ringer for Judd Hirsch. To our left sat a very posh, elderly couple. She had some sort of lap dog making a fuss at her feet. We never saw it.

Service was professional and brusque. I turned down the wine list, saying we had too much to drink the night before, thereby saving us a fortune, and we ordered from the cheapest menu. €55. I had not yet tired of oysters, having gone the summer without one. This is what I got:


Medley d’huitres, Restaurant Coutanceau

They were probably from the Ile de Ré oyster beds, five miles to the west. There were little clams and small shrimps hidden in the froth. Pretentious? You bet! Delicious? Yeah. My glass of white was very carefully poured at the table, lest I get one drop more than 125 ml (€8). It, too, was delicious.


Not pretty, but delicious, meat and veg

I swooned over my steak as I watched the drama unfold at the wine connoisseur’s table. They all had red wine glasses the size of goldfish bowls in front of them. The older chap called for the sommelier. They had a lengthy discussion and another bottle of red was produced. New table, new glasses, new bottle cradle. Bottle uncorked and allowed to breath. Satisfied, the old bottle was taken away. I was dying to have a taste of the discarded wine and know what it cost. My glass of red was very nice.

Unfortunately, Joanna was not enjoying herself as much as I was. She said her food was very nice, but she was uncomfortable with the ambiance. A bit overwhelming, sitting among these wealthy French people and besuited staff.

We took a long walk along the shoreline, checking out the nude sunbathers. Well, I was. I mean, what are dark sunglasses for? Exhausted, we headed back to the Novotel for a nap.

Dinner at Chez Fred was an anticlimax. It was a bit disappointing and we were tired. Too much fun, too much food. We were going to have to learn to pace ourselves. I even took a blood sugar reading to see how much damage I was doing to myself. I was relieved to see a normal result. All the walking was doing me a favour.

I was looking forward to getting on the bike again.


La Rochelle towers from the aquarium.


La Rochelle, Quai Duperré

[FJR-UK]

Day Seven. La Rochelle to San Sebastian. 12 September. 265 miles.

I stopped to pay my bill on the way out of the Novotel La Rochelle. Even though I had prepaid for my room, it cost me €54.70 to leave. Laundry, breakfast and an ill-advised stop at the bar on Friday night. Nevermind, we were on our way to sunny Spain!

First, we had to negotiate a few autoroute toll plazas. What a palaver. Jo and I were getting into a routine: I would roll up to the pay window and hit the kill switch, leaving the bike in gear while Jo handed the ticket to the collector. I remove my gloves and hand them to Jo, fish the money out of my wallet, put the change back in my pocket, fire the bike up and head to the curb to rearrange everything so as not to hold up the traffic behind me. It was a nuisance, but worked pretty well. It was much more difficult in rainy weather wearing waterproofs. Man, what a pain that is, having to shove wet fingers back into gloves...

One toll plaza in near Bordeaux we had to go through twice. I would look for the symbol that showed a toll booth attendant, rather than a credit card or automatic change machine. Bikes pay less than cars, but unless you get an attendant, how do they know? At Bordeaux, there is no attendant. Cards only. And the sign on the toll booth says “Cars. Bordeaux. €33.” WTF?! And you get no receipt, so I had no clue what I had just paid. I had to look at my statement when I got back home to find I’d paid £6.14.

Anyway, we didn’t quite get to Spain before it was time for lunch and we were near Bayonne.

Disappointly, we had to park almost 30 feet away from our table on this occasion:


Parking in Bayonne.

After a delicious salade gourmande and a petit Kronnenbourg we were soon crossing the border. We had spent a lunch hour in San Sebastian 20 years ago and were determined to return. I planned for two nights in the Hotel Amara Plaza, rivaling La Rochelle as the most expensive stop on our trip.

We rode straight to it and were quickly ensconced in air-conditioned luxury. And what a view!


The view from our hotel room, San Sebastian.

Actually, it wasn’t that bad. You could see the river and a bunch of building sites. The best thing about the hotel, aside from the tranquil luxury, was that it afforded us a much needed walk to and from the fun bits. We were soon exploring along with the other tourists on this Sunday afternoon.


Looking toward Mount Urgull, San Sebastian

We were heading to the Old Quarter and the lure of the pintxo (tapas) bars. I was fully expecting this to be the high point of our trip. Instead, we found the low point.

ETA, the Basque separatist group had just declared a cease fire and were planning to engage in political action rather than militant action. Basque groups from all over the region had decended upon the old town in their colours and were having a piss up in the streets. This photo does not begin to show how congested the streets were.


Calle Mayor, San Sebastian

What you can’t see in the photo is the ground, which was COVERED in litter. Plastic bags, discarded food containers, broken glass (and me in flip-flops). They had been having fun all day and turned the charming old quarter into a SHIT HOLE. We made a bee-line for the river to get the heck outta Dodge. The area we were heading into was called, ominously, Gros.

Well, Gros was cleaner, but the weather that had been deteriorating all day finally burst into a thunder shower and further dampened my spirits. I was not a happy camper. Plus, I could not locate Alona Berri, the number one pintxos bar on my list. In fact, hardly anything was open on this Sunday.

We found a working class, neighbourhood bar and they had nice looking tapas spread the length of the bar. Now we’re talking. Thinking this was our lot for the night, we had more to eat than we should, watching Independence Day on the telly behind the bar. Venturing back outside, we saw that the town was starting to open up! Places that had been shuttered a moment before were now glowing in neon. We’d stuffed ourselves only to find that the top places were only feet away from us. Hmmm...

Bar Bergara across the street had very attractive-looking inventions on their counter. You might even say, irresistable. And I started getting into the red wine, where previously I had been sticking to beer. I never had a bad drop of red in Spain. And the price was generally cheaper than France.

Having learned our lesson in La Rochelle, we called it a night before we got too greedy and took the long walk back to our hotel in the rain.

[FJR-UK]

Day Eight. San Sebastian. Monday

Monday morning, we walked to the street via the hotel cafeteria. Somehow, the smoke was easier to tolerate in the evening than first thing in the morning. Everybody smokes. Everywhere. It’s like watching Mad Men. Even France makes you stand on the street if you need a cigarette. Oh, well, when in Spain. In the old town the day before, we’d bought ourselves a couple of cigars, just waiting for the opportune time to smoke them. Not yet...

On the Playa de la Concha, we found a cafe overlooking the beach. Tractors had cleaned and dragged the beach overnight. It looked beautiful. Several people were having a morning swim as we watched from our table. I asked the enthusiastic Spanish waitress for revueltos (scrambled eggs). She recommended a dish she said was very nice and brought me a typical English fry up.


Breakfast on the Playa de la Concha, San Sebastian

Then we were off for an afternoon of culture. Joanna wanted to go to the Museo Chillida-Leku. Eduardo Chillida was a Spanish sculptor who had an entire park laid out on the outskirts of San Sebastian. We just had to figure out how to get there. A cabbie at the hotel said it would be about €20. Jo wanted to take the bus. Which bus? What direction? When do we get off? Will the driver take cash? Jeeze, I can really work myself up into a state. In the end, it was easy and cost €2.70, which was a bargain considering the length of the trip.

The museum was wonderful, helped no end by the gorgeous day we were enjoying. Chillida spaced out his sculptures over a few acres of hilly, grassy countryside and put the smaller stuff in a beautiful house in the middle of the grounds. You were actually encouraged to touch the work outside. They said it helped the metal age. Photographing the large pieces, you could create art of your own. It was a very nice experience, and I’m not big on museums.


Museo Chillida-Leku


Outside


Inside


Museo Chillida-Leku Gallery


Playa de la Concha looking toward the Town Hall (left), San Sebastian


There has never been a reported case of skin cancer in San Sebastian

The bus dropped us off in town where we started and we walked toward the old quarter. It was lunchtime, and I wanted to see if the pintxo bar centre had been cleaned up from yesterday’s festivities. Well, it was spotless. Kudos to the city cleaning crews. You could not find a fag end on the pavement. Confidence restored, we found Bar La Cepa. You have to be looking for this place. It’s attractiveness is not going to draw you in.


Bar La Cepa (left), San Sebastian

Jo does not eat red meat, so I got myself a 1/2 portion of Jabugo ham and we shared pimientos de Gernika and a Spanish tortilla made with bacalao (salt cod). Everything was delicious. I asked the waitress what a speciality of the house might be and she recommended something I couldn’t understand. ‘Ees berry good!” Okay, bring it on! I thought. “Bueno!” I said.

It turned out to be huge wild mushrooms, sliced and sauted in garlic. They were absolutely delicious. The friendly French woman next to us had big eyes for our mushrooms, so Jo offered her a taste. Delicious, she agreed. They were sort of slimey in a Chinese manner. Wonderful. The thrill lost a little edge when I got the bill. The hongos a la plancha were €20. Wow!

We walked off the bill strolling around Mount Urgull and headed back to the hotel for a nap to get ready for our last night in pintxos heaven. This was one of the mistakes I made in my trip planning. I should have allowed at least three nights in San Sebastian and included a weekend. I would, however, have to find a cheaper place to stay. I could do a week here, easy. Bring lots of sun block and get some use out of the beaches. Limit myself to one pintxo per bar... no, that’s impossible.

Anyway, we went back to Gros for our last night, because Jo had a bridge she fancied walking across. Hey, as good a reason as any! There were lots of others out for their evening promenade as we made our way to the beach.


Evening promenade, Gros, San Sebastian

We watched the surfers in the setting sun.


Gros, San Sebastian

And we had our best meal in San Sebastian in Mil Catas. This place won the last pintxos championship for one of their creations. In fact, when doing my research, I had noticed a chap on the internet who offered guided tours of the pintxo bars in San Sebastian. He was at Mil Catas, dropping off a group of tourists on their final stop.

The best thing we had, and everything was first class, was a tomato salad. It was like I had never tasted a tomato before. What is the rubbish we buy in the supermarket? I had razor clams, ox tail, something that translates as ‘Roasted egg yolk and crisps Irati’ that was a little bit of heaven, scallops and langostines. Everything was treated in a special way, nothing was obvious, but nothing was pretentious, either. Just bloody good.

If I could return to just one place, it would be Mil Catas.

[FJR-UK]

Day Nine. San Sebastian to Las Arenas de Cabrales. 189 miles.

We had breakfast in the hotel cafeteria, much cheaper than eating in the hotel breakfast room and the orange juice was still fresh squeezed. Wondering if I could squeeze past the barrier in the underground car park proved moot when I found parking included on my hotel bill. I brought the bike up to the hotel entrance and we were packed and on the motorway in no time, headed toward the Picos de Europa.

We had 143 miles of slab to do before we got to the nice bit. Cabezon de la Sal was just off the A8 and we looked for a likely spot for lunch. Giving the Irish bar a miss, we settled on an authentic-looking place. We sat in the sun on the terrace, the first customers. I explained to the lad that we wanted to eat. Much discussion in bad English and even worse Spanish ensued until he could make me understand that until 1:30, we had to eat inside. It was 1 pm, so inside we trooped.

The music was too loud and there were televisions on every wall. We found the quietest corner we could and the waitress eventually discovered us. She was great, running the place by herself. She pushed another table over to us when she realised we’d taken up all the space with our gear. Then, piled way too much food on our table. (Top tip: if you like the same food as your partner in Spain, just order for one as there’s plenty for two on the plate.) Unfortunately, Jo and I eat different things. I left half my pulpo a la Gallega.

Back on the road, the scenery started to get interesting. The Picos are not very high compared to other European ranges, but dramatic nevertheless. We were headed for Carmona, a small village where we’d enjoyed a wonderful meal in a beautiful old hotel smack dab in the middle of nowhere.

We reached Carmona and didn’t really recognise the place. We even back tracked to San Pedro to see if that was the place we’d been, but the cobbles, inclines and deadends defeated me and we retreated back to the CA-182. I asked for cider in the Posada El Puente (Carmona) and was disappointed when it came in a store bottle instead of being “the real thing”.

Back on the road and remembering the quest for a “proper biking photograph” I stopped for a couple of feeble attempts:


CA-182 near Carmona, Picos de Europa


CA-182 (before Carmona) and the bikey girl I travel with

All of this made a very pleasant change from the city life we’d enjoyed up until now. Still, I was glad I chose the larger Las Arenas de Cabrales to spend three nights in and not Carmona. I guess I’m just a city boy at heart. We were in our room in Hotel Naranjo de Bulnes and showered by 3 pm.


The view from our room, Las Arenas de Cabrales.

We went to check out the town. There was a small square off the town’s main drag where you could sit quietly. We sat outside the Sidrería Calluenga and ordered the regional specialities: sidra y queso de Cabrales. Cabrales cheese is made from a combination of cow and goat milk and aged in the local limestone caves. It is a very pungent, tangy blue cheese. A little goes a long way, and we got a brick of it.

The local cider was €2 for a 750 ml bottle. At first, it seems a bargain. However, in order to avoid a stunning headache the next day, you must “break” the cider. To do this, you hold a large glass at arm’s length down by your knee at a 45° angle. Then, you hold the bottle as high as you dare and start to pour. The cider hits the inside of the glass and is aerated so that it’s drinkable. Even waiters that do it for you tend to leave much of the contents of the bottle on the ground.

The table next to me had a contraption on top of the bottle that spritzed the cider into a glass, saving the aggro. Less authentic, maybe, but you got a lot more in your glass!

The sidra was real pucker up gear, very tart. Okay, I can check sidra y queso de Cabrales off my list.

Riding into town along the AS-114, we followed the River Cares. It’s a beautiful ride, the temptation being to enjoy the bends instead of sightseeing. We noticed a cafe on the river just before reaching Arenas and decided to walk back to it. But, as we left town, walking along the highway became more and more risky, especially as it was getting darker.

After maybe three miles, we gave up and stopped into a family-oriented place on the outskirts of Arenas. We got smiles, beers and free tapas. The children were playing in the adjacent field. We probably should have stayed longer, but I wanted to get back into town before dark.

Dinner was in a busy restaurant on the main drag. The bar was watching football and the tables were busy with card players. Jo had roasted peppers covered with slices of manchego cheese and I had thin strips of veal with gravy and fried potatos. Delicious and to bed.

[FJR-UK]

Day Ten. Las Arenas de Cabrales. Wednesday.

Wednesday was shaping up to be a beautiful day. We did one of the side trips on my list for our stay in Arenas. We rode up the AS-264 to Poncebos, where you park and take the new funicular up the mountain to Bulnes.


AS-264 to Poncebos. Obligatory bike shot


And just over the guard rail

Bulnes is a tiny hamlet of 20 inhabitants. In 2001, a funicular was completed, so instead of a 2.5 hour slog up the mountain, you could ride through a 2.2 kilometer tunnel up 400 meters in 7 minutes. Suddenly, Bulnes was full of young families and pensioners, including Joanna and I. The idea was to ride the funicular up the mountain, then walk down. A lot of people have the same idea, hence the fare structure: €15.80 one way, €18.90 return.

This turned out to be the single best day of the trip.

When we reached the car park at Poncebos, cars were being turned away. Full at 10:30 on a chilly Wednesday morning. But right in front, there was an empty motorcycle bay. We got stripped for action, filling our previously empty panniers with gear, and joined the queue for the ride up.

As we waited for the funicular, we realised we were freezing and hoped the day would warm up quick.

A lot of fuss was made by environmentalists before the funicular was finished. But, you wouldn’t know the funicular was there, except for the terminals at the top and bottom of the run. This is the view you got:


The view from the Poncebos to Bulnes Funicular

The main transformation was Bulnes, which was now a tourist hot spot. Bored girls sitting in giftshops and bored girls waiting on tables, where before there had been hardy mountaineers huddled over tins of Sterno.


The walk from the funicular to the village. I’m guessing these three bought roundtrip tickets.


The Bar Bulnes (white umbrellas), Bulnes hamlet

Well, for a city guy who was facing angioplasty upon his return to reality, I thought Bulnes was perfect. We had an hour to kill before lunch, so we walked out of the village towards the trail to the Jou de Cabrones Refuge. We followed an Alsatian up the path that looked just like our dear departed Bess and found a couple Spaniards listening to an old guy who they said was a native of Bulnes.


A native of Bulnes

I missed much, but could understand that he was telling them that the ruined fort/church in Bulnes had been there longer than the harbour villages on the coast. And he said something about the war, which I took to mean the Civil War. Mainly, I wondered what it must be like to be walking up and down that mountain for 70+ years.

We caught up again with the Spanish couple, who were sharing a laugh over the Cabrones Refuge sign. I could see the man was pleased that I knew what the joke was about, but I was more interested in the map bug:


The Jou de Cabrones Refuge map bug (more later)


The route home, but after lunch


Lunch in Bar Bulnes

Walking back to Bar Bulnes, I noticed cows and snails. They were on the menu, so that’s what I had: a filet of veal, pan-fried with potatos, and caracoles, snails cooked in oil and paprika. Dipping the veal in the snail juice made for a delicious mouthful. I felt sorry for Joanna with her mountainous plateful of patatas bravas, but she won’t eat veal or snails.


Walking off lunch

We really needed the walk back down the mountain. I won’t boor you with the hundreds of photos I took. I even took a photo of the signpost, which said the walk to Poncebos would take one hour. It took us two and a half, but we stopped often to admire the scenery, the animal life and and the variety of flowers. I’ll just show you these, which are either seed bugs or fire bugs, but not the same as the map bug.


Fire bugs? Seed bugs?

The walk turned out to be fairly strenuous. There were quite a few uphill climbs in what was meant to be a descent.  I was extremely pleased to see the bar they had thoughtfully built at our destination.


The car park overflow.

I took the long way home as we continued to enjoy the fine day. We rode east to Sotres, then turned around when the road became a track.


Near Sotres, Picos de Europa

We were back in Las Arenas by 6 pm. We parked the bike, walked to the hotel and it started to rain.

[FJR-UK]

Day Eleven. Las Arenas to Llanes and Ribadesella.


The view from our room
Notice the angle of the window above. This was the reason that I got doused with water at 4 am. It started raining heavily and I was laying beneath the open window. Rude! I spent the rest of the night trying to avoid the wet patch.

The view that greeted us in the morning caused mixed emotions. While we weren’t too thrilled about the day’s prospects, we were grateful that we’d chosen yesterday to go up the mountain, which we could no longer see.


View from our room. Not a day for mountain climbing

We went out for breakfast and it looked like the day might be brightening, so we decided to take a trip to Llanes, one of our favourite, picturesque harbour towns from 20 years ago.

This was another item to check off our list of things to do on this trip. Last night, I’d checked off another: fabada. This is a regional speciality and I had enjoyed a fabulous version of it on my last trip. We tried a different restaurant than the previous night, opting for the one across the street. Two sisters and a husband seemed to be running the place and the service and atmosphere were wonderful. The fabada was not. Could have been from a tin. Didn’t even keep the receipt, so I can’t warn you off the place. Oh, well.

Llanes was another disappointment. After a 23-mile ride along wet roads in patchy fog and light rain through what would have otherwise been excellent scenery, we rode into the construction zone that used to be Llanes. The roads were dug up or barricaded, deviations almost everywhere and there was no water in the harbour. It was being rebuilt. Still, there were large groups of wandering tourists struggling to stay out of the roads while searching for the holiday they had booked from a glossy brochure.

I put a foot down long enough to take a photograph of a vacant sandy beach, then we got the heck outta town. Ribadesella was another 20 miles along the coast to the west. Llanes may well be worth visiting in another 20 years.

Ribadesella was much better. We rode along the harbour’s edge to a dead end parking area and stripped off our waterproofs. Then we followed a path leading to a fort overlooking the harbour and overcast views out to sea.


Ribadesella, Asturias

We walked the length of the harbour (to the bridge you can see in the photo above) working up an appetite in the process.


Ribadesella Harbour

The harbour was lined with restaurants, cafes and bars, all serving fresh fish. In the end, we chose the first restaurant we’d seen, closest to the bike. It may well have been the most expensive restaurant on the seafront. I checked another item off my list: navajas (razor clams).


Langostino y navajas, Ribadesella

Jo had merluza, filets of hake in a parsley sauce with langostines. Our meals were excellent, so I paid the bill happily. We were in a pretty cheerful mood as we got back into all our gear and headed back into the mountains. In Covadonga, we stopped to walk across their famous Roman bridge.


Roman bridge, Covadonga

The western end of the AS-114 was more built-up and got more scenic as we neared Las Arenas. The rain was holding off and the roads were dry, so stopping for photographs seemed like a good idea, but as usual I was travelling too fast to stop for the best shots.


AS-114 and another failed Orson-wannabe bike shot

It occurred to me to ride past Arenas to the bar we’d failed to walk to on our first night in town. We found it just after five miles past Arenas. It was as pretty as I figured it would be, but a sunny day would have been much better. In fact, the waitress had to open the terrace for us and we were the only customers.


Rio Cares, five+ miles east of Las Arenas de Cabrales

I nursed my San Miguel Especial and Jo picked walnuts from the tree overhanging our table, cracking them with my beer bottle. We listened to some plaintive yowling coming from across the river and finally spotted the dog it was coming from.


A Picos de Europa working perro.

The dog could have walked across a footbridge to the bar, if it wanted to, but it seemed to be in charge of a small herd of goats. A black straggler seemed to be the cause of the dog’s grief. As the dog kept trying to keep the goat with the rest of the herd, the goat kept trying to butt the dog.

If I hadn’t been on the bike, I’d still be drinking San Miguels and watching that dog.

We returned to our hotel and, as happened the night before, it started to rain. So for dinner, we opted for the nearest place, The Restaurante Cares, almost opposite the hotel. If we’d tried it on the first night, we might not have gone anyplace else. Again, the wine was a bargain and delicious. Bottles were so cheap, we ordered one when we really only needed a glass. The red went nice with my steak and cabrales sauce. The place was almost full, all the televisions were showing football or the news.

I slept so soundly, I don’t know if it rained all night.

[FJR-UK]

Day Twelve. Las Arenas de Cabrales to Oviedo. 139 miles.

It was still raining when we woke in the morning. The effort of packing the bike while in my waterproofs had me soaked inside before we even set off.

The plan had been to ride to Covadonga and make a left turn up to Riaño, then over the mountains to Oviedo. The mountains to the south were invisible in the cloud. As I negotiated the curves in the rain and fog, lifting my visor to keep it from misting up, I came up with Plan B. We headed north to the slab. 64 miles later, we arrived in Oviedo. It was only 10:30 am.

We were arriving from the northeast when all my planning had me coming in from the south. However, four-star hotels are well sign posted in France and Spain and I soon saw signs to the Hotel Barcelo Oviedo Cervantes. Traffic was snarled and the local bikey boys were zipping past me as I sat in traffic. A policeman on an FJR passed me to write the double-parked delivery van a ticket.

I was being entertained by the drama and I didn’t want to put Joanna in any danger, so I sat in the traffic. Besides, I didn’t know if the hotel would take us in so early. Many hotels won’t let you check in until 2 pm. Could I sit in traffic for three hours?

A few minutes later, we were parked in the hotel’s loading zone and I walked, dripping wet, into the lobby. They receive me graciously and we were soon in our luxury room. Black and chrome, it looked like a pimp’s boudoir. A walk-in shower room with half a dozen different spigots. A separate room for the toilet and bidet. His and her sinks. Two queen-sized beds. I could really get used to this. By noon we were on the street.

Oviedo is a nice town. Campo de San Francisco, a large central park, was between us and the old town. This was intentional. I have had enough of hotels in the heart of tourist areas. It tends to be noisy when I’m trying to sleep. I’d rather walk a mile or two away for a peaceful night. The Barcelo Cervantes was perfect.

I’d asked for restaurant recommendations and GAW came through with a winner: the Bocamar was a short walk from our hotel and we headed there for our first meal in Oviedo. We made the mistake of trying to sit at the wrong table and a waiter come on like a lion tamer. In the end, he turned out to be a really nice guy.

I did a quick tour of the counter to see what was on display. I spoke to our waiter in Spanish and pointed to the plate on top of the counter. Six of those, please. They turned out to be tiger prawns, grilled with olive oil and sea salt, so when you peel them the flesh is covered in salt from your hands. Lemon juice, delicious. (I had a little weep over the bill later – the six langostinos tigras came to €33.30!)


Langostinos tigras, Bocamar, Oviedo

But, wine was cheap. A glass of cava was €3.60, a white ruedo was €2 and delicious. I really enjoyed the Spanish whites I tried, usually quite young ones. Anyway, full marks to the Bocamar. My only caveat applies to most Spanish restaurants: everybody smokes.


Everybody in the Bocamar was smoking. Even the waiter had one going on the bar.

Our waiter was pleased that I liked his wine recommendation and started speaking to us in English. This surprised me, as the last time we were in northern Spain, English was very uncommon. When the bill came, I asked what would be an appropriate tip for good service. He told me that service is always included on the bill in Spain. I left him a couple euros, enough to buy a glass of his favourite wine.


Oviedo. Sculpture is everywhere in Spanish towns

As we headed toward the old town, it started spitting with rain. We decided indoor pursuits were the order of the day and we set out for the cathedral. We passed by an inviting-looking bar and I was reminded that I was thirsty. As I drank my beer, I was fascinated to watch the waiter pouring sidra for his customers. Standing a distance away from their table, he held the large glass down by his knee and the bottle as high over his head as he could reach. He watched some spot on the wall in the distance and seemed to listen for the sound of liquid hitting glass, moving the glass quickly rather than the bottle. He would pour no more than an inch or two into the glass.

As we were leaving, I noticed damp spots on the wooden floor near many of the tables and I wondered about the waiter’s left trouser leg.

In the cathedral square, we made a discovery. Oviedo was in the midst of a month-long music celebration. We found out there were three central squares that featured different music from 8 pm to midnight. There was a band on stage doing a sound check and they were pretty damn good. We resolved to return in the evening.


Catedral de San Salvador de Oviedo


Altar detail. Catedral de San Salvador de Oviedo

As we walked about a couple things caught my attention: there were brass scallop shells on the pavement, which we realised were marking the Pilgrim’s Trail to Santiago de Compostela. So, Oviedo’s cathedral was on the route. Also I wondered why, if motorcycles were permitted to park pretty much anywhere they wanted, how come so much space was devoted to motorcycle parking.


Official bike parking and the Pilgrim Trail

As it was Friday night, I figured we’d better see about booking a restaurant, and I had spotted the Casa Fermin, which came highly recommended. The only time we could get in was Saturday lunch, so we reserved a table and went looking for something else. We got turned away from two more places before we lucked into La Mar del Medio. We had to sit in the smokey bar area, but had a good feeling about the place.

A very nice meal was marred by our waitress pretending confusion and trading me up from a €9 scrambled egg dish to €21 salmonettes, even though I spoke Spanish and pointed to what I wanted on the menu. Jo was having such a good time that she begged me not to make a fuss, so I ate as much of the tasty but boney fish as I wanted and left the other half.

Walking home via the cathedral, we came upon a boy band on the main music stage we had seen earlier. They were quite good, we even went home whistling one of their melodies. The steady rain was keeping the size of the crowd down, but had not dampened the spirits of the screaming girls at the front of the stage. The rain convinced us we’d had enough fun for one night and we walked the mile back to our hotel.

[FJR-UK]

Day Thirteen. Oviedo. Saturday.

Saturday morning, the sky was blue, the Pope was in Westminster and the Cafeteria La Paloma was marked on my map. I had my jacket zipped up against the cold as we went for our first breakfast in Oviedo.

The huge u-shaped counter featured a giant barrel of vermouth and the place was busy. One wirey gent my age was taking care of the whole place. “Digame!” he shouted. I imagined winces from the other patrons at the sound of my Spanish, but I got what I ordered. Scrambled eggs. Revueltos. Why are Spanish scrambled eggs so much better than English?

Back in the old town, the cathedral square was wet – not from rain, but from being hosed down the night before. As usual, the place was litter-free after the previous night’s party thanks to the city’s cleaning crew.


The cathedral flanked by the sound stage

Jo and I started off the day with a little culture, and I was delighted to see that the fine arts museum offered free entry. We were first through the door and it was great to have the place to ourselves. Well, just us and the guards, who never let us out of their sight. I was grateful when more people arrived, so the guards could divide their time a bit.


Museo de Bellas Artes de Asturias, Oviedo


Museo de Bellas Artes de Asturias, Oviedo


Clearly, the guards didn’t mind if you took photos

Wandering back to the main square, we passed a very vocal lad still servicing his Friday night buzz. He was determined to be in my photograph, too.


Period architecture with contemporary detail

A wedding party was assembled in front of the church and the ladies were looking good.


Wedding party fashion

In the other corner of the square, a group of folk dancers were entertaining the gathering crowd. The instruments were very celtic: a bodrum-tambourine thingie and a bagpipe. The ladies were using castenets, which I’d previously thought were confined to flamenco. The tambourine players made a distictive, juddering sound by dragging their fingertips across the drum head while they were singing. They stopped and moved on far too soon.


Folk dancing in the Plaza Mayor

The indoor Saturday market was in full swing. As in La Rochelle, I was amazed by the variety and quality of the produce. Maybe, I should just spend more time in Borough Market (London) and less in our local Sainsburys.


Saturday market

By now, I’d worked up my appetite for Casa Fermin. We were seated in a very attractive and very empty dining room. The manageress and waitress were very friendly and seemed to be delighted with my version of their language. No English was spoken, although I’m sure it could be if I insisted.

Our mixed salad came and still there were no other diners. Why were we the only customers, I asked. Too early, she said. In Oviedo, lunch starts at 2:30 pm or later. As we were the only ones there, I got my camera out.


Saturday market on a plate.

My filet steak with foie gras and truffle sauce arrived. I knew immediately that I was not going to be able to eat it all, and then tasted the most fabulous meat. Joanna said her tuna loin, served almost raw, was completely delicious. People began to arrive as though the gates had just opened and the place began to have the reserved buzz that it deserved.

I could not leave the steak. For the first time in years, I asked (in the most convoluted way imaginable) for a doggie bag. No problem.

We went back to the hotel for a rest and to stick my meat in the fridge. I thought we’d better not waste this sunny day, so changing into walking clothes, we hit the street. Our destination was Monte Naranco, a few miles to the north, to see the church Santa María del Naranco, orginally built as a hunting lodge in 852 (it says here).

We waited on a one way street for the No. 3. One came by, but the destination was wrong. Did the right bus even come down this street? We waited what seemed like an eternity, watching plenty of the wrong busses pass by. I flagged down a cab. Turned out the fare was only about five quid.


View of Oviedo cathedral from Monte Naranco

It turned out to be a good choice. The cabbie wasn’t happy when I unintentionally stiffed him on the tip, but the area was very nice to walk around and the walk back down the hill was much more pleasant than a walk up the hill.


Santa María del Naranco and the gorgeous blonde I travel with


Your correspondent

We got back to the hotel and I was exhausted. I apologised to Joanna, but Saturday night in Oviedo was going to have to go on without me. We nibbled on nuts, crisps and leftover steak. I was done for the day.


Out of energy

[FJR-UK]

Day Fourteen. Oviedo. Sunday.

I was completely refreshed in the morning and pleased to see another sunny day. We went out for breakfast and saw that the city was setting up for some sort of festivities. Our waiter told us the parade started at 1 pm.

But, we would not be around for that. A bike ride to Luarca was on my list. Hopefully, Luarca would not be the disappointment that Llanes was. It wasn’t.

The ride from Oviedo wasn’t as dramatic as riding around the Picos had been. The towns were larger and the roads busier. But Luarca was lovely and we found an excellent restaurant with tables at the water’s edge.


Easy parking on the harbourside, Luarca

Clam soup was on the list of specialities of the house, so that’s what I had. Inside, Casey Stoner was winning the Aragon MotoGP.

Lunch over, we took a ride up the coast. I caught sight of a likely beach just before Cudillero and we negotiated the tricky u-turn off the highway, the pot-holed access road, the single-lane gravel track and the plastic-carpeted car park before taking the long walk along the boardwalk to the beach.


Boardwalk to unknown beach near Cudillero


Sheltering from the rather stiff breeze

Now I started to notice a problem that had been growing in my consciousness since San Sebastian. Spain is dirty because the Spanish are litterbugs. And this is coming from a Londoner.

In the cities, cleaning crews clean up after la gente have gone home. In the bars, everything gets dropped on the floor, someone sweeps up. But, in the countryside, no one cleans up after people drop everything and anything on the side of the road, in the bushes ... everywhere. You have to be careful where you step, because the countryside is also used as a toilet, with only scraps of paper to give clues to the location.


Unknown beach near Cudillero


It’s not all bad...

When we got back to the car park, we experienced a near disaster. The bike’s sidestand had penetrated the mesh of the plastic carpet laid to prevent cars sinking into the sand.


What a mesh

Jo and I could not stand the bike upright as much as we tried. I thought if we both pushed as hard as we might from the left side, the bike would most probably just fall on the right.

In a car park with just one other party parked, a family happened by and the gentleman said something to me, grabbed the back of the bike and lifted. The side stand popped through the mesh. Like he’d done it a million times. ¡Muchas gracias, señor! We were off. I was exhausted. Again.

As we entered Oviedo, we were enveloped by a swarm of ... it took a while to identify them ... Italians! Touring bikes, sport bikes, Monstros – single riders and two-up, there must have been 30 of them. They were honking greetings at me, cheery waves and quickly becoming a menace! It was mayhem. Tail lights flashing, front wheels in the air, couples on the hard shoulder, no one seemed to know where they were going!

It reminded me why I like to ride alone, and I was grateful when our paths diverged.

Back in Oviedo, it was fiesta time and all the streets were barricaded. Before we set off, I asked the receptionist if there would be a problem accessing the hotel during the parade. “No, sir.” She didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. There were police at every barricade.

However, the end of the one-way street that our hotel was on was open. So, taking a deep breath, I ran the two blocks to the hotel the wrong way up the street. Job done.

We got changed and went to see what all the fuss was about.


Parade floats and singing girls in traditional dress...


... just past the Hotel Barcelo Oviedo Cervantes

We walked through the park, which had a zillion entertainments set up for kids.


Breaking the cider, just like dad


Nice dress


Town detail

We knocked around until the music started, then checked out all three stages. The main stage featured an operatic singer with an amazing voice. But I got thirsty, so we went walkabout and found the jazz stage and a table. This was more like it! Jo and I got out the cigars I’d been saving for such an occasion since San Sebastian and the friendly waiter just kept bringing the wine.


The jazz stage, 9 pm

An hour later, it was time to move on. Remembering the location of the rock stage, we walked the few blocks. It was amazing to me that even in such close proximity, there was no sound cross-over between the stages. And I mean the rock stage was LOUD.


The rock stage. Is that a PRS?

These guys really had our ears pinned back. The dog at my feet was looking at me and I was reading its mind: “Why? Why do you do this to yourselves?” The band were quite good, we thought. At least we stood and suffered much more of the hurricane of sound than was wise, I’m sure. Thrash metal? Industrial metal? Melted eardrum metal?

We stayed until midnight when the band had to stop. Wow. We realized we were hungry, but on Sunday midnight most places had stopped serving. We stopped in a jolly bar which featured laughter, televisions and cider. I had the best damn ham sandwich and Jo had cheese.

Good night.

[FJR-UK]

Day Fifteen. Oviedo to La Coruña. 200 miles.

This was another day I’d planned with alternate routes, depending on the weather. It was a beautiful day, so, after breakfast in La Paloma, we took the longer mountain route to Lugo.

On the outskirts of town, I stopped for petrol and, as is usual, reset one of the trip odometers. This was fortuitous, as at exactly 19 miles I was alert enough to spot the tiniest of signposts to the SL9 and Doriga. This track took us through some beautiful countryside. Then, we popped over the crest of a rise and way below us sat a lush green valley riddled with a spaghetti of highways, cloverleafs and bypasses so new that they don’t even show on Google’s satellite view yet.

This set another note for us. Spain wants to become an industrial nation and is quickly sacrificing its natural beauty to achieve that end. Shortly after leaving Oviedo on the N634, we passed through a noxious, dense fog which was being created by some sort of refining plant in the bottom of a pretty densely populated river valley. I would have expected to see protesters with placards saying “Give us back our air”, but there were none.

Anyway, we were now on the AS15, which followed a river through lush green countryside. It was beautiful and the road was new with just-painted markings. I was sightseeing at something less than the speed limit when my mirrors were filled with Peugeot 207. The driver could not pass, as the curves were many and blind. I was looking for a place to pull over and let him pass, as he was riding my ass, but I never got the chance.

From out of nowhere, an SUV overtook the both of us. Mr Peugeot was not going to stand for that and he set off after the SUV. Threat gone, Jo and I resumed our sightseeing.

Ten minutes later, I was queuing behind Mr Peugeot, Mr SUV and a huge gravel lorry. Everybody behaved themselves because queuing behind me was Mr Guarda Civil. This was perfect! I backed off to give Mr Peugeot plenty of room and admired the scenery all the way to the AS14. The lorry and I turned right, everybody else went straight on. I passed the lorry immediately as we headed up the hill and we had Spain to ourselves until coffee time.


No big city opulence on the AS-14

The owner had one regular at the bar and they both seemed bemused to see a touring biker in their company. He made us a very nice shot of espresso and we sat in the sun and enjoyed the quiet.

The road rose and the vegetation got more scrubby, dramatic but not very photogenic.


AS-14 before Grandas de Salime reservoir


And one of the greener bits

I’d made a list of likely restaurants in Lugo, but we got hungry before we got there. It was lunchtime and we were at the Salime Reservoir, near Grandas de Salime. There was a hotel/bar/restaurant overlooking the dam that looked perfect. Well, it was the only place. The few patrons were keeping cool inside, so Jo and I had the terrace to ourselves. It was downright hot, but after being cold for much of the previous few days, we chose a table in the sun and wondered at the view. It was like being on Mars, it was so alien to us.

Our waiter was, I guess, the son. He was about 20, a bit cross-eyed and crab-like when he walked. I suppose that’s why he was still living in this place. At first, I could see he was annoyed at having to serve us on the terrace when there were perfectly good tables inside. But, we chatted a bit about learning our foreign language in school and he eventually tried out a bit of his English on us.

When we exclaimed at the size of the portions, he explained (I think) that the closer you get to Portugal, the larger the portions. I ended up leaving half of my very nice bacalao fish soup. I probably shouldn’t have had the second beer, but I figured I probably sweat it out in five minutes. We finally had to drag our table into the shade, it got so hot.


The view from our table on the Salime Reservoir


The very attentive house dog. Management finally stopped trying to keep him away from our table after Jo fed him scraps.

Out of the mountains now, and giving Lugo a miss, we screamed into La Coruña. I stopped at the motorway services on the outskirts and when I presented my credit card to the cashier, she demanded to see my passport. I paid cash. La Coruña was going to be a tough town, I thought.

Traffic in Coruña was very hectic and I didn’t like to take my eyes off the combatants any more than absolutely necessary. I blame this on why I made a few wrong turns getting to the Hotel Zenit Coruña, but we found it without too much drama. Again, I paid for off-street parking and had a bit of an adventure finding that, having to drive four blocks in order to park directly under the hotel. However, we were soon in our room with a view of the office workers opposite, and in no time at all had our feet in the water for the first time on this trip.


Riazor Beach, La Coruña. The water was cold, mister

I had done a Google street view of the area around our hotel and wasn’t expecting much, so I wasn’t disappointed. Of all the cities we visited on this trip La Coruña seemed to have the least joie de vivre. Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe things would have been different on a Friday/Saturday rather than a Monday/Tuesday, but I don’t think we’ll be returning to find out. Sorry.

That’s not to say there weren’t some wonderful things to see and, um, eat.

After getting lost and having to ask directions to Plaza de Maria Pita, we stumbled upon a lovely little square for my first beer in Coruña. The square with the park in the middle was tranquil, the evening cool.


Some old guys hanging out over the entry to the Iglesia de Santa Maria del Campo


Some old guy hanging out over the Plazuela de Santa Bárbara


Municipal building, Plaza de Maria Pita, La Coruña

We went in search of our evening meal. Calle de la Franja, just off Maria Pita was one restaurant after another. We walked the length and back, settling on the Meson do Pulpo. We had an excellent meal, drinking one of the young, white local Albariños I’d grown fond of. Empanada, pimientos de Padron, the freshest deep-fried baby squids I’ve ever tasted and, for desert, a fresh local cheese. Simple, yet fantastic.


Meson do Pulpo, La Coruña

The Hotel Zenit Coruña was the first hotel of the trip we couldn’t sleep in with the window open, but the glazing worked and we got a good night’s sleep.

[FJR-UK]

Day Sixteen. La Coruña. Tueday.

Once again avoiding a hotel breakfast, we strolled a couple blocks in the direction of the old town and found a cafe with hams hanging over the bar. He didn’t do eggs, so I had a ham sandwich, maybe the best one ever. Fantastic ham, which I would expect in a place hung with ham. Once again I felt sorry for Joanna and her reluctance to eat meat.

The neighbourhood was typical of La Coruña, a city past its prime and in a state of decay. Graffiti was everywhere, some of it pretty interesting, and old buildings fell to ruin.


Old guy keeping an eye on you


Your correspondent in La Coruña


Seen better days

On our walk to the Torre de Hercules, a 1900-year-old, still-functioning Roman lighthouse, took us first past the Museo de Bellas Artes. Again, we had the place to ourselves. While Jo spent most of her time in the room with the Goya etchings, I took photos of the rather nice building.


Museo de Bellas Artes, La Coruña


There seemed to be something cruel or horrible going on in each one of these paintings, including the hanging of an English priest (fourth from left).


The guards seemed pleased I was shooting the building rather than the paintings...


... but I got one of those, too.

We continued our walk in the ever increasing heat, past newly groomed beaches and around the headland. I didn’t want to pay to suffer the climb up the tower, so we listened to a Spanish piper, instead.


Torre de Hercules, La Coruña

It was that hot that I bought a couple bottles of cold water while we waited for the street car to take us around to the Restaurant Domus for lunch and a nice view of the town.


Street car to the Restaurant Domus


Restaurant Domus


City beach

Duck, veal, salad and Albariño in air-conditioned luxury. Once again, we dined alone, leaving when the first of the Spaniards arrived at 2:30 pm.

We walked off lunch by checking out the new part of town near the Parque de Santa Margarita after strolling past the harbour and the fabled (and really disappointing) City of Glass, the row of buildings facing the harbour.


Not sky behind this building


Parque de Santa Margarita to the left

I needed a nap, so we hot-footed it back to the hotel and only re-emerged for dinner. In a stunning lack of adventure, we went back to the Calle de Franja and chose another of the many restaurants there. The dining room in the back of the bar was pretty spartan, the guy next to us was chain-smoking as he ate and the tv’s were pretty loud, but the meal was delicious – pulpo a la Gallega, tortilla and Albariño.

One last lap around the deserted Plaza de Maria Pita and we’d had enough.

[FJR-UK]

Day Seventeen. La Coruña to León.

We lay in bed listening the the woman in the next room. Dithering. High heels on marble floors. Back and forth, back and forth... well, we wanted an early start anyway.

The breakfast room in the Zenit Coruña was busy. We did a tour of the buffet counter and then left to go to the cafe next door, saving about €18 and getting a better view. Then we were on the autovia to León.

Watching television in San Sebastian we had seen that miners were striking and worse in Ponferrada. They had barricaded the main A6 autovia and set fire to the barricades. This is were we were headed today, a week later. Fingers crossed.

I had to stop before Lugo and get into my waterproofs, even though it was not raining. It was cold. There, that’s better. We got off the motorway as planned at Ponferrada on the CL-631. It was gray. I was reminded of Wales coal mining country. Then, not much further up the road, we saw the coal mine head and the heaps of coal. Then we saw the miners in, I’m guessing, Palacios del Sil.

They and their wives were marching and massing just outside the town and I think we got through just before the action started.

Miles down the road, the terrain got more agricultural. We stopped in (I guess) Cabrillanes at a posada for lunch.


Lunch in the posada, Cabrillanes?

Sitting next to us was an English couple. They had to be since it was only 1:30 pm and we were the only diners in the place. We said hello and remarked that it had been a while since hearing an English voice. They, too, were on their way to León, but we never saw them again.


CL-623 to Los Barrios de Luna


Ermita de Pruneda, CL-623. You can just make out my bike ...


... parked right next to the dump


The scenery was some of the most beautiful on the trip. CL-632

At the Barrios de Luna Reservoir, I made the decision to take the AP-66 into León instead of meandering all the way to town on the CL-632. The choice saved me an hour and cost me €13. That’s one expensive stretch of road! Still, I was anxious to see our hotel for the night – our one and only Parador of the trip.

And, what a place! If you ever want to stay in a museum, stay in the Hostal de San Marcos, León. I like to take a photo out the window of every hotel I stay in. I have never taken so many pictures of the hotel, itself.


Hostal de San Marcos, León


I’ll spare you the other 20 shots


He was sitting in front of the hostal, which is on the Pilgrim’s Trail to Santiago. I know what this guy feels like!

I had read good things about the tapas in the old town. We were out of pintxo territory now, and now heading back into tapas territory. After La Coruña, I found León to be quite uplifting. This was a vibrant city and I cheered up as we sought our first refreshment of the day: cava for Joanna, an Anís de Chinchón for Jerry – don’t spare the hielo.


Refreshment in the old town

We walked through the barrio, then down the main shopping drag toward the cathedral, observing and being observed by the cafe society as we passed.

The Catedral de León was the most amazing building on our whole trip, and my poxey fotos can’t do it justice. León really is worth a visit and I should have allowed a couple nights there, at least.


Catedral de León


Catedral de León


Catedral de León


Catedral de León

Not far from the cathedral, we found a proper Spanish Plaza Mayor, too.


Plaza Mayor, León

This was a great place for relaxing and people watching. Whole families were enjoying the evening. Plenty of kids were playing in the square. Free tapas. We sat until it started to get cold, then walked to warm ourselves up. I looked for restaurants on my list, but my Google map printout was not detailed enough and the old town was a real rabbit warren of streets.

We finally found a likely square and did an eeny-meeny. The meal was a disappointment. Not bad, just not up to the standard we’d grown to expect. So, come to León for atmosphere, but eat chiparones in La Coruña.


The view from our hotel room terrace showed my bike was where I left it ...


... and the moon was full.

[FJR-UK]

Day Eighteen. León to Logroño. 232 miles.

Today officially began our home stretch. Until now, we had spent two or three nights in every town except Vernon and Quimper. Now, we were packing every morning and moving on. If it’s Thursday, it must be Logroño.

In order to facilitate an early departure, we took breakfast in the parador’s dining room. It was huge and it was busy. The gentleman in the black Armani suit took my room number (me in my Ace Cafe t-shirt and black jeans) and we set about exploring the wonders of a parador buffet breakfast.

The place was busy and full of rich people. Nevermind, I filled my plate. There was an amazing variety of different things to choose from and you know what? Every one of them was mediocre. Ham, sausage, tortilla – all decidely average. Orange juice was not fresh squeezed. The melon was hard. What a disappointment. This little lot for two came to €40.37. Unbelievable.

Well, at least our room was very nice, but next time we stay in León, it will be somewhere else.

León must have set the record for number of roundabouts on the route out of town and I think we caught every single red light. Eventually, we were on the autovia and I was again wearing my waterproofs against the cold. At the filling station south of Burgos an hour and a half later, I finally took them off. We were now heading south on the N234 to do a little mountain work before hitting Tapas Town.

I had read about The Trail of the Elephants in Logroño, so-called because that’s how you walk by the end of the evening after visiting as many of the 50 tapas bars as you could in a very small area of the medieval old town. But that was later. Now, we were having coffee in Salas de los Infantes.

We sat outside with our coffees and kept an eye on the bike across the street. We and it were attracting a lot of attention from the locals. I don’t know why, quite a few touring bikes passed as we sat there, and we were headed to a national park region.


Sierra de la Demanda


Sierra de la Demanda


Let no beauty spot go unlittered...

We were enjoying the scenery, but I was taking some punishment. We had enjoyed some pretty fabulous roads on this trip, but this was not one of them. Bring a motocross bike or a softly sprung tourer. Sports bikers would be severely punished.

We rounded a corner and my jaw dropped. This was the Mansilla Reservoir. I have since read that Mansilla de la Sierra was rebuilt some 300 meters up the hill and the old town flooded by the dam. Every September and October, the locals get to see where they used to live. I wonder what that feels like? Made me feel guilty taking a shower.


Mansilla de la Sierra old town.

After the reservoir, the scenery started getting more attractive, the river wider. We stopped at a village called Venta de Viniegra for lunch at the hotel. The dining room was busy, which was a surprise as we were getting used to dining alone at lunch. But, a van came to collect many of the patrons, so I guess they were workers on a lunch hour. A few of them looked like indios from Mexico. I wondered if they were miners?


Venta de Viniegra

After lunch, an amazing thing happened. Somebody repaired the road! The entire trip out of La Demanda was on a road so conducive to speed, that I had to turn around to take a photo of Las Cuevas.


Las Cuevas, Sierra de la Demanda, LR-113

We weren’t far now from Logroño. Leaving the beauty of La Demanda behind, we quickly got into urban and industrial Rioja wine country. I was looking forward to this – as soon as I could find the damn hotel!

I had more trouble finding this place than any other on the trip. First, I overshot my turnoff into town, so I was coming in from the east instead of the west. I recognised nothing from my Google research. Stopping to look at my printout did me no favours. I couldn’t get my bearings, even after studying the map and compass. The hotel was even signposted, but suggested I drive down through a heavily congested pedestrian precinct.

I was getting so perturbed, I almost failed to notice the blood-red water flowing from the town’s water fountains. Apparently, it was the end of Rioja Wine Week in Logroño and the fountains were coloured to suit. I did three laps of exactly the same circuit before plowing though the pedestians on 11th of June Street. Fierce glares would have greeted me in London, but these people just gathered their children and parted like it was a common experience. There was the hotel.

We unloaded and I went to park in a public parking lot a 100 meters away. I was finally bridling at paying for hotel parking and the motorcycle bay here was free.

Our room in the Hotel Portales was dark and smaller than we were getting used to, with a view to an air shaft, but the location couldn’t be more convenient for our evening’s entertainment. We stepped out into a fiesta atmosphere. The first square we came to had a band playing Spanish rockabilly. Good, too, but I thought we should do some sightseeing before it got too dark to take photos.


Upmarket graffiti in Logroño


Calle del Marqués de San Nicolás


Iglesia de Santa María de Palacio


Altar detail

Photos taken, we went to find the tapas trail. At first I was disappointed. This couldn’t be the place I’d been reading about. Could it? All the top places on my list were shut. Most places were shuttered. I studied my map to make sure we were in the right place. Finally, thirst forced me to sit and people watch.

About 7:30 pm shutters began to open and neon lights spark into life. I had worried needlessly, the action was about to start.

The first place we tried had so many tempting things on the bar, it took great restraint to just have two tapas each. Each tapa came with an accompanying glass of wine – a small glass to be sure, but filled with delicious Rioja. This bar had a price list on the wall that must have had a bottle from every vineyard in the Rioja region, priced from €0.50 to €2.40 top whack.

We had to force ourselves to leave and try someplace else.

With so many tapas bars confined to such a small area, each place specialises in one or two items.


Bar Ángel, 12 Calle del Laurel.

This place was one of our favourites. They served a two-inch high stack of mushrooms, skewered on a toothpick with a shrimp on top. I can’t tell you how delicious it was. They all got grilled and served at once. We waited patiently with the rest of the crowd for the next batch to be ready.

Most bars had space for standing inside and a service window on the street. Very few had tables. The idea was you kept moving on to the next place.

The alleys quickly filled with like-minded people. It got quite loud and very crowded. The side-by-side baby pushchairs were real traffic cloggers. By 10:30, we’d had enough. The glasses of Rioja really add up quick when you’re getting a glass with each happy meal.

We bailed out early and enjoyed some the the music tents before calling it quits for the night.

You’d need a week in Logroño, and a lot more stamina than I have, to fully explore this tapas mecca.

[FJR-UK]

Day Nineteen. Logroño to Saint-Emilion. 264 miles.

(Sing) On the road again!

My head was surprisingly clear this morning. I had planned on breakfast in the hotel, since we would need to get an early start today. We had the Pyrenees to cross and a very complex route through the French countryside to negotiate today. A long day, even if it wasn’t that many miles.

So, I was pleased to find out that I could order eggs from the nice lady overseeing the hotel breakfast room this morning. She also had to teach me how to use the coffee machine. I’d not seen one like this before: you had to choose a coffee lozenge (Colombian for me) then stick it in a slot before pressing a button. I’d been trying to rip it open, thinking it was instant.

For all that, it made yet another lousy cup of hotel coffee. But, my eggs were excellent, so that cheered me up. There was no cheering up Joanna, who would be happy never to eat another breakfast in a hotel.

I could see it was wet outside, so I took a towel when I went to collect the bike. It was bone dry. In Logroño, they even hose down the streets after the crowds have gone home. I managed to rescue my bike from the guy hosing down the car park.

Following signs to Pamplona, I managed to pick up the N-111 instead of the A-12, so the first few miles out of Logroño were scenic and sedate. We passed dozens of pilgrims making their trek to Santiago, young and old with back packs and walking sticks.

At the entrance to the A-12, we saw a policeman with his trophy for the day – he’d stopped a young guy in an Audi R8. At what speed? I wondered. We kept to the speed limit and were soon skirting counter-clockwise around Pamplona, where I made my major mistake of the day.

Following signs to France, I managed to miss the desired N-135 and found myself on the N-121a, instead. When the road forked (121a? 121b?) I went with a. It started to rain and I stopped to put on my waterproofs and finally have a look at the map. Whoa! I’d invested way too many miles in this route to correct, so I decided toll roads were the new plan.

The rain started pounding down. The traffic came to a halt. I filtered through the stopped cages and juggernauts until my path was blocked, then down the wrong side of the double yellow until I came to the head of the traffic. Two juggernauts stood side-by-side. I decided it was a Spanish road protest and, watching the Guarda Civil on the far side of the road standing by his vehicle very closely, I proceeded ever so cautiously to leave the queue behind.

Excellent! I increased my speed, crested the hill and saw what the problem was: two juggernauts had collided and overturned, spilling their loads and contents of their cabs across the road. Only one lane on my side of the road was available and juggernauts were headed toward me in it.

I braked as hard as I dare in the pouring rain, noticing the diesel slick as I did, and just managed to come to a stop before the oncoming traffic turned back to their side of the road.

The Guarda Civil flagged me through as though I belonged there. No drama at all.

No, the close call was yet to happen:

I arrived at the junction with the autovia/autoroute at the Spanish/French border. Still in the pissing rain, I ran up the onramp, expecting a long merging lane. A hundred meters up the road, the lane came to an abrupt end, I could not enter the motorway as a gigantic juggernaut was bearing down on me and he was not going to change direction. I slowed and rode the hard shoulder until it was clear to tuck in behind him.

I calmed down by the time we got to Bordeaux. It was rush hour, still raining and traffic was mad. We were joined in the urban mayhem by a couple on an R6 who had clearly not planned for rain. They finally tired of doing the speed limit with us and zoomed off to find shelter.

Saint-Emilion came as a relief. A beautiful French town dedicated to wine and tourism.


Out our hotel window, Saint-Emilion


Restaurant Le Tertre. I can’t recommend it highly enough


Bordeaux wine country, Saint-Emilion


Town detail


Clothes washing pool


Skyline, Saint-Emilion

We walked and walked in and around this pretty little town. Guide books and the hotel had recommended our restaurant for the night, so we made a reservation upon arrival and a good thing we did. Many were turned away on this Friday night.

I had a couple of pretty awful glasses of Saint-Emilion in the cafe and bar we tried, so I was grateful that the wine serve with our meal was delicious. I got spoiled, frankly, by the consistent quality of Spanish wines we’d been drinking for the past 12 days. I was surprised that I got served such rubbish in this wine town.

Anyway, in Le Tertre I managed to use snail tongs without launching one of the little buggers across the room. They were cooked with ham and sausage stuffing a la bordelaise (it says here) and the grilled sirloin steak was tasty and tender.

I’d go back to Le Tertre, except one night in Saint-Emilion was enough for us.