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Cycling along the Spanish Pyrenees from the Med to the Atlantic - A Travelogue

Idaho

Idaho

blah blah blah
Day Zero

I've fallen in love with northern Spain. In particular, cycling in northern Spain. Last September, at the last minute, and without specific plans, I got the ferry from Plymouth to Santander and had a week cycling around Cantabria and into the Picos. My continual raving about the experience to the long suffering Ms Idaho led us to book the Portsmouth to Bilbao crossing in May to do a week long loop of the Basque country. It didn't disappoint and only intensified my interest in returning.

With no holiday plans this summer, I've worked all July and August holding out the reward to myself of 3 whole weeks to do a long journey across the North. Starting in Roses, Catalonia and finishing in Santander, Cantabria.

Up until yesterday the plan was to get on the train today with the bike and get myself to Gravesend to catch the bike coach. By chance my son mentioned something about having to get a coach because of the train strike. I really should pay more attention to current affairs. I'd booked my train months ago and thought nothing more about it...fool.

So in the end I strapped the bike to the back of our little Skoda and I drove up with my son and daughter. We dropped him off in West London, headed for a party and continued East. 7 hours of traffic and a Turkish meal later and I'm safely in Gravesend and my daughter is driving the car back home. The Turkish meal and £60 - her price for the courier service. Not yet feeling fully on holiday yet as I've not started cycling with all the crap I've over packed. The 15 minute ride from the cheap room to the pick up point tomorrow morning will be the wake up call. Each time I do a bike tour I take less, but each time I seem to still have too much.

Gravesend is nicer than I expected. I wasn't planning on drinking until Spain, but this pub next to the Thames lured me in after passing Pocahontas' resting place and looking out over the water to Tilbury.IMG_20230901_215119_HDR.jpgIMG_20230901_220138_HDR.jpgIMG_20230901_220751_HDR.jpg
 
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Day Zero+1

2km cycled. 2% of battery used

It turns out the Europe bike express coach service has been running for decades, although these days much reduced in terms of personnel involved and the list of places they serve. It was only a short ride from the strange Airbnb place (the room had a fridge, microwave and kettle, but there wasn't a single cup in the entire building) to the pick up point at the Gravesend cyclopark. The promptness of the coach's arrival caught me by surprise and there was some undignified and flustered faffing about with panniers and other crap whilst simultaneously pouring a just purchased cup of tea partially down my neck and partially over my stuff. The driver got the bike racked up in no time and I scrambled aboard.

The rest of the day was an uneventful coach ride, ferry, then coach ride to a hotel park just north of CDG airport. The ferry was called the Spirit of Britain, but didn't tell us to fuck off and slam the door in our faces. It seemed content to channel that spirit through the medium of high prices and low quality food.

The majority of the other passengers have elected to stay at the slightly fancier hotel where the coach is parked. I've gone cheapo just a couple of blocks away at the F1. Got to be on the coach at 6am tomorrow for the long journey south to Roses.
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Day Zero+2

1.5km cycled

Long day of travel. Up at 5 and the coach was on the road at 6. The Paris ring road was ridiculously busy for early on a Sunday. There was also the remains of a multi car crash to crawl past. Once we got past that it was steady going, but France is just so fucking big.

Down the A6 past Beaune, Lyon, Valence, Narbonne, dropping people off on the way. We crossed the border at 21:20 and got into Roses just before 10. I got the bike off the trailer and cycled round the corner to my hotel. After locking up the bike and dumping my stuff in the room, I've come out to the front for wine and olives and to wait for my soul to catch up with me.

Original plan was to have a swim in the Med in the morning, pottering around Roses before cycling inland through Figueres to pick up vital holiday supplies, then on to Besalu to camp. Immediate activity doesn't seem too inviting right now... But I'll probably be fine in the morning.

Note my fellow passenger's pillow:

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Day one

Roses - Figueres - Besalu

75km, 660m ascent, 70% battery used, 42% human power

A good night's sleep, a morning swim in the Med and a buffet breakfast. An excellent start spurring me to get on with it. Had a quick nose around Roses. Wandered round the fort and the market. Like a really nice, warm version of Torquay. Lots of French tourists.

Got saddled up and on the road at 11ish in the increasing heat. Quickly on to a good gravel trail past bamboo, cactus and dry tilled fields, which I followed for the 20km to Figueres. Bike gears aren't quite tuned right. Annoying as I only just had the chain and cassette changed. I'll see if I can sort it in Girona.

Was hot, hungry and thirsty and had a menu de dia in a strategic location across from what was meant to be a street with a cannabis dispensary. It didn't take too much of a fine salad and fried hake to identify the likely premises. After settling up I knocked on the door with "can I bring my bike in" rehearsed in Spanish. Strange set up in Catalonia. The young woman serving was an Italian with excellent English. She said there are a group of Italians living in Morocco who make all the high end hash for the Spanish dispensary market. Strange if true.

I packed that away, then dawdled around Figueres without really seeing the place. I somehow missed any of its soul while looking for a bike shop, then a tobacconist to buy a hash pipe.

Various maps, apps and other telemetry assessed, I left town heading west. The ride was longer, hotter and more hilly that before lunch. It was pleasant enough with a final look back at the Med from the high point. Some large and unspecified birds of prey, burros, and a few old villages. I was briefly chased by a large dog near Besalu, which got the blood pumping. I don't think it was actually aggressive on reflection. It wasn't barking and didn't have it's ears up. It was just lolloping after me.

The final 5km into town was along the river bank. Hot, swampy and gravelly, but set up the big reveal of the Besalu bridge. I carried on what turned out to be another 3km to the campsite, which is a place better described than experienced... I got the tent up and sorted out my crap then got back on the bike to head back 3km into town, passing a young man who'd broken down between campsite and town. He had very good English too, and said he'd lived in London.

Besalu is quaint enough. The bridge is the main feature. I wandered through on the way to a mercado. As I was putting things on the counter, half an eye on the bike outside, I heard snippets of the talk radio the shopkeeper was listening to: square leg, overs, etc. India are playing Sri Lanka and being from the Punjab he was rooting for India. Sensibly, I chugged a couple of litres of water and ate a bag of peanuts. The wisdom of age and experience before sampling the hash for the first time. I've had very high end Moroccan before and it's always ridiculously strong. I had a quarter of my normal pipeful on the town battlements looking down on the bridge.

Ten minutes later I'd wandered up to the main square and feeling very glad I'd been so restrained. I attempted to pronounce the Catalan on the menu -fromatge de Capra? Excellent meal. €23 for three courses + water and a pint.

Back to the campsite and the broken down car was being winched into a truck. I walked back to the site with the young man, Rrrrroger (I tried and failed to roll the R enough to do his name justice). He gave various explanations about why the campsite was so shit. All of which was almost forgiven by me when I stopped in the empty bar and ordered a cuppa of vino tinto and got half a bottle for €3.

Girona tomorrow. I might spend a couple of nights. Possibly at a hostel.

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Day two

Besalu - Banyoles reservoir - Girona

45km, 370m ascent, 26% battery used, 48% human power + another 8km unencumbered looking for a bike shop

Surprisingly good night. One of the campsite residents had gone away for the night and just left their dog loose about the place. I'm not the biggest canine fan, and it was a very large beast. However even I felt sorry for it. It was clearly a very friendly and gentle creature and was very anxious with the owner gone. It wandered around panting and being mournful to anyone around (a scattered few of us). During the night I could hear it making its rounds, tripping over my guy lines. A few times it took to barking, or sprinting to random sounds, probably hoping it was it's owner.

I took my time get up and ready. Packing a tent in warm sunny weather is always a slow business, and the day was not meant to be too taxing. I got on the road, again, at about 11. The dog was patrolling the road and started following me in some desperate hope I was it's best lead on its missing master. I hurried up and thought I'd lost it. I really didn't want to lead it into town. But the poor brute was determined. I had to actually get a sweat on to get properly away from it and not lead it into a main road.

The morning's ride started on some busier roads but then diverted through woodland tracks to the reservoir. I'd only done an hour and a half of riding, but was plenty hot and sweaty enough to get in the first available water. It was almost too warm to be refreshing. Maybe I've been spoilt by springtime Dartmoor rivers - but it was lovely. I've got a lot of these Uniqlo airism clothes. Very lightweight and dry in no time lying in the sun. Perfect for cycle touring. Cooled down and back in the saddle in dry clothes, I went another few km round the lake until I passed a cafe that looked tempting.

After lunch I pressed on. I'd booked the Airbnb over breakfast and had told the host I'd be there by 4ish. The next few hours were a nice mix of rural farmland, post industrial parks, riverside track and urban-industrial fringe. I crossed paths with a river called el Terri which I crossed and recrossed. Traveling alone lacks some things that group travel has in abundance. Namely in jokes, teasing, general mad laffs. But old Terry at least gave my daft mind something to chuckle about as I addressed it in various regional English accents each time. I've got the new Alan partridge podcast, but not got into cycle audiobooking yet on this trip. Perhaps the tiny little pipe of hash helped. I went for a tenth of my usual pipe, once I was on the home straight on bike trails into the city.

Got into Girona about half four and got into the Airbnb. Decent little place. £38 per night for a room in Jordi's flat. Very central. He's trying to create some revolutionary project management software. He is quite intense talking about it, and for my sins, I actually understand a lot of what he's talking about from my former life in the bullshit industry.

One slight problem was that there wasn't really anywhere to store a bike. I thought I'd be clever by taking it into a workshop for a few minor fixes for a couple of days, killing two birds with one stone. This ended up as a bit of a mission. I ended up in Girona's version of Marsh Barton - Exeter's nexus zone of car showrooms, German supermarkets and builders merchants. All's well. The bike is in the capable hands of Miguel until Thursday. Hopefully it'll be running smoother and not making a maddening squeak.

Showered, changed, I've come out to a restaurant the host recommended. Very pleasant. Salad and cheese course, and a bottle of red that tastes like red ink and sunshine. I like Girona.

Tomorrow is hardcore tourism. Museums, wandering and gawking are the order of the day.

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Day three

Girona

0km cycled

A very warm night. I've become much more accustomed to heat in my agedness. When I was young I was blond and pale. I burnt easily and got hot and bothered. Add to that I got bad hayfever and my mother, for all her many skills as a nurse and midwife, was always very dubious of her own children taking medication. Summers were a claustrophobic, itchy torment. I remember going on holiday with my father and step family to Greece. He would sit out in the sun on a day that was unbearable in the shade. I couldn't understand it. I'd crave October. The cold and damp would feel like waking up from a drowsy fugue state. Something in my physical make up has shifted in the last decade and I just enjoy the warmth. I feel loose limbed and calm. That said, it was pretty uncomfortable until the early hours of this morning.

Lazy start. Supermarket under the Airbnb for breakfast. Made a cup of tea to justify my overpacking of teas and infusions (panning fallacy attributable to our crap August) and got down to the historical coalface.

First up, was meant to be the Girona museum of history, but there was some free exhibition of the history of Catalan and Spanish art in the 20th century. I like pretty pictures well enough, but I don't really enjoy art galleries, but this did highlight something new to me. That the neutrality of Spain during WW1 allowed a generation of innovative artists to flourish. Some pretty Miro's.

The history museum, Jewish museum and archeological museum were all worth gawking at. Entertained and enlightened, I headed back to the flat for a tea, a crafty pipe and a rest. Jordi is a sweet guy. I think he's in his 40s but I think he's a few steps along the spectrum so seems younger. He's got some traits and habits that a recognise from friends and family who are similar. Getting a feel of cultural variation and individual variation takes a bit longer to work out. He's very chatty and you have to verbally barge him to get a word in edgeways, and he registers slight surprise, but isn't offended. There was a chess board out so I offered him a game.

I gave such a dismal account of my skills, and my opening plays were so weak that he got overconfident and made a blunder. Pure luck, as he's actually a good player. I let him concentrate and he dissected me easily enough on the rematch while I finished off the second half of last night's bottle of wine.

I phoned Miguel and the bike is ready to go. Hoping to get it at 9 when the place opens. Ideally I'll cycle back to the flat, quickly pack up :rolleyes: and get on the road before the day heats up. A proper day on a trail I've been looking forward to. Just sat at the bottom of the hill below the cathedral having some patatas bravas and raising a final glass of vino to Girona. Double thumbs up. Happily return here.IMG_20230906_131225_HDR~2.jpgIMG_20230906_154802_HDR~2.jpgIMG_20230906_134939_HDR~3.jpgIMG_20230906_155340_HDR~2.jpgIMG_20230906_135740_HDR~2.jpgIMG_20230906_184051_HDR~2.jpgIMG_20230905_235503~2.jpg
 
Day four

Girona - Orlot

76km, 720m ascent, 55% battery used, 55% human power

A fine feast of a day. Top notch holidaying. I've done a few via Verde bike routes with Ms Idaho and they've all been great, so the prospect of 50km on dedicated bike paths, up into the foothills has always been my real "day one". I was anxious about it in the run up. I haven't cycled in the heat for a year, the bike was feeling funny, etc. As ever, just get going and the rest will work out.

I got on the road at 1025. Only 25 minutes behind what was a tough deadline. Game on. Cycled to a big park in the north of the city and picked up the via verde Carrilet, which then takes you through a mix of allotments, villages, small holdings, and light industrial units. Past dried, penitent sunflowers, an old bloke fishing in a former mill pond and migrant workers planting winter onions.

Former train lines make great long distance cycling. I love looking down a long track. When you do long cycle rides, you spend most of your day looking straight ahead. It's great to take in your landscape head on. The happy simplicity of a clear way ahead.

It was a steady comfortable uphill all the way. Got to the halfway point and promised to stop at the next shady seat to eat. I'd also been having an internal negotiation about when I was going to have my first toke. The internal dialogue over the fine line between enhancing my senses and being optimistic and engaged and just getting really stoned. I enjoy it more, the less I do it, but there is a point at which it does lighten my mood and make me very receptive to the beauty of this world.

The steady track got steeper but the main pass of the day was easy work with a fantastic payoff of a view into mountain country. I headed down past roadworks to Orlot. Orlot made little impression. I skirted round it, stopping at one of the thousands of public water taps in Spain. They are everywhere and there's an app to find them. Civilised and excellent.

The campsite is some distance outside Orlot. I feared it was closed when I arrived as it was totally empty - but Yuri came down the track eventually, and what a gent he turned out to be. He didn't charge me for electric and gave me a bottle of their own label vino tinto. No restaurant open, but there is a small shop. So I pitched my tent in one of the many quiet corners (noticing my pannier was torn - doh!) had a quick swim in the pool, and ate a cobbled together meal of bits and bobs.

Yuri had promised to help repair the pannier, so I thought it was only fitting that I open the red wine he gave me. He used to be a high flying young mechanical engineer in Barcelona, but he burnt out. Was happy running the family campsite. We glued up the pannier, drank wine and chatted. Very nice fellow. We finished with some local walnut liquor, which was lovely, were I to get any, would doubtless do that inevitable transmutation that holiday booze does when it crosses the threshold. From evocative, enchanting herbal notes to toilet cleaner.

Sat outside the tent writing this. It's cooling down noticeably and the woodland behind my tent has either foxes or wild pigs snuffling around!

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