Cycling along the Spanish Pyrenees from the Med to the Atlantic - A Travelogue
- Thread starter Idaho
- Start date
RubyToogood
RubyTwobikes
Can you just keep going please? We'll crowdfund you. Ta.
Idaho
blah blah blah
Day ten
Vielha - Vilaller - Castejon de Sos
76km, 1810m ascent, 79% battery used, 54% human power
That was a beast. I'm getting my journal done before pipe, wine and dinner, as I will likely be awake for about 5 minutes after that magic trio.
Awoke at 8 after a decent sleep. Was really tired last night, but just not sleepy. The experience of having had twins has trained me to be at peace with this. I lie on my back and say to myself "right now, you don't need to do anything".
There was a Basque woman staying at the pension. An English teacher - another linguist! She said she was an extreme sports fan in her youth. Mountaineering, base jumping, etc. She comes to this pension every year. She used to come with her dog, but someone ran over it on one visit. It's illegal to bury animals in Spain, but she said the local police turned a blind eye when she did. She's had the dog for 15 years and can't bear to look at a photo of him now.
The whole pension is very doggy. There is a yard outside where three dogs roam about. I had stored my bike in a shed off the yard, and wheeling it out this morning, avoiding the abundant turds with both wheels and shoes was possibly the most technically demanding bicycle control I've had to perform all holiday.
On the road at 0940 and immediately downhill 200m. Mist and clouds were crawling across the mountain tops. The sun hadn't got high enough to clear the tops and the valley was still in shade. I couldn't make sense of the contradictory directions the apps were suggesting over breakfast until I looked at a free tourist map stacked alongside other brochures. The way south from Vielha is either a high altitude, highly technical ridge ride, or through a 6km tunnel. I cycled the 12km, 600m ascent to the tunnel entrance with the power off, keen to have power in reserve for the series of passes later in the day. As I approached the signs above the road flashed out, in various languages,the requirement for cyclists to use the SOS phone before entering the tunnel. I did as I was told and the operator, quickly switching to English when confronted with my poor Spanish, told me he had closed a lane just for me! Incredible!
I put on my high vis vest (mandatory) with integral LEDs (optional extra). It was a last minute Amazon purchase before I left, and it's very good. Although if I put it on in December and stood still long enough, I fear people would start putting presents around my feet. What followed was one of the most intense cycling experiences I've ever had. I didn't feel unsafe as I not only had my own lane, the signs constantly flashed telling them other vehicles that there was a cyclist in the tunnel - but the sound was overwhelming.
Back in a former life, me and two colleagues found ourselves in Atlanta with half a day to kill before flying back to London. We decided to go to a firing range and shoot some guns. We approached it as just a casual bit of fun, none of us having any experience of firearms. When we got to the range, our frivolity rapidly cooled. The presence of so many armed people fiddling with guns, each of us loading the pistols provided with shaking hands. Most memorably, a local with an assault rifle taking careful shots in the next booth. The sound shook the air and all 3 of us office dweebs looked at each other with the same terrified expression. The sounds in the tunnel were the first to come close since.
The tunnel was dead straight with a steady incline. The lights running down the roof, the middle and the sides made it feel like I was riding down a runway. The vehicles came past in clusters. The low rumble audible first, building and building. By the time lights were visible, the rumble had turned to a ringing, intense tinnitus roar. This went on for 40 minutes.
Coming out the other side was euphoric. The only thing I can liken it too is when I've come down off a mountain in rough weather. Breathless, open mouthed and uncomprehending, I had left Catalonia and was now in Aragon.
More sweeping descent followed, until the app suggested I turn off and follow a track round the reservoir that I foolishly assumed, like a lake, would be flat. It was a very scenic trail through beech woods and past waterfalls, but an extra 300m up and down was hard on the meat battery. I followed a mix of road and trail down the valley and stopped for lunch by the river.
What would a day be without pannier problems? I'm going to give Vaude a ruddy big punch on the bottom for hawking crappy products. The clasp to stop the pannier flapping about had broken and disappeared. The spare strap I brought then slipped down, got caught in the brake and tore (thankfully the brakes were unharmed). I found some electric fence tape lying about (it's everywhere) and bodged a fix. I'll need to be more cautious on bumpy ground from now on.
Through to Vilallers, I stopped for a coffee and picked up some snacks. So far the day had been pleasant and sunny, but the rain came in as I started the climb up the second set of hills. Going uphill in warm rain - soaked with rain without waterproofs, soaked with sweat with them. I put the jacket on open, but didn't bother with the legs. I was fully soaked as I got to the top of the first hill, but the rain died off as I passed a sign for the Camino Santiago. I headed down that route on perfect tarmac. I doubt there is a road in rural Devon half as good - and just for me. I didn't pass anyone in half an hour, going through very Devonian cow pasture, oak, ash, hawthorn and sloes.
At the bottom of the hill the rain caught up. What followed was an hour of hard, soggy slog. Fortunately I had enough power left to turn it up to medium assist. The rain was relentless throughout the final set of hills. My shoes squelched with each press of the pedal and I was beginning to get cold. I stopped and stuffed down some chocolate. The sugar revived me for the final push. At the final col, suddenly the roads were dry and the sun came out. It was wonderful.
The final descent into town was easy. I'm staying at the swishest place so far. it's like a little apartment. I've lowered the tone by covering every surface in soggy clothing. I'm going to attempt an easier day tomorrow.
Vielha - Vilaller - Castejon de Sos
76km, 1810m ascent, 79% battery used, 54% human power
That was a beast. I'm getting my journal done before pipe, wine and dinner, as I will likely be awake for about 5 minutes after that magic trio.
Awoke at 8 after a decent sleep. Was really tired last night, but just not sleepy. The experience of having had twins has trained me to be at peace with this. I lie on my back and say to myself "right now, you don't need to do anything".
There was a Basque woman staying at the pension. An English teacher - another linguist! She said she was an extreme sports fan in her youth. Mountaineering, base jumping, etc. She comes to this pension every year. She used to come with her dog, but someone ran over it on one visit. It's illegal to bury animals in Spain, but she said the local police turned a blind eye when she did. She's had the dog for 15 years and can't bear to look at a photo of him now.
The whole pension is very doggy. There is a yard outside where three dogs roam about. I had stored my bike in a shed off the yard, and wheeling it out this morning, avoiding the abundant turds with both wheels and shoes was possibly the most technically demanding bicycle control I've had to perform all holiday.
On the road at 0940 and immediately downhill 200m. Mist and clouds were crawling across the mountain tops. The sun hadn't got high enough to clear the tops and the valley was still in shade. I couldn't make sense of the contradictory directions the apps were suggesting over breakfast until I looked at a free tourist map stacked alongside other brochures. The way south from Vielha is either a high altitude, highly technical ridge ride, or through a 6km tunnel. I cycled the 12km, 600m ascent to the tunnel entrance with the power off, keen to have power in reserve for the series of passes later in the day. As I approached the signs above the road flashed out, in various languages,the requirement for cyclists to use the SOS phone before entering the tunnel. I did as I was told and the operator, quickly switching to English when confronted with my poor Spanish, told me he had closed a lane just for me! Incredible!
I put on my high vis vest (mandatory) with integral LEDs (optional extra). It was a last minute Amazon purchase before I left, and it's very good. Although if I put it on in December and stood still long enough, I fear people would start putting presents around my feet. What followed was one of the most intense cycling experiences I've ever had. I didn't feel unsafe as I not only had my own lane, the signs constantly flashed telling them other vehicles that there was a cyclist in the tunnel - but the sound was overwhelming.
Back in a former life, me and two colleagues found ourselves in Atlanta with half a day to kill before flying back to London. We decided to go to a firing range and shoot some guns. We approached it as just a casual bit of fun, none of us having any experience of firearms. When we got to the range, our frivolity rapidly cooled. The presence of so many armed people fiddling with guns, each of us loading the pistols provided with shaking hands. Most memorably, a local with an assault rifle taking careful shots in the next booth. The sound shook the air and all 3 of us office dweebs looked at each other with the same terrified expression. The sounds in the tunnel were the first to come close since.
The tunnel was dead straight with a steady incline. The lights running down the roof, the middle and the sides made it feel like I was riding down a runway. The vehicles came past in clusters. The low rumble audible first, building and building. By the time lights were visible, the rumble had turned to a ringing, intense tinnitus roar. This went on for 40 minutes.
Coming out the other side was euphoric. The only thing I can liken it too is when I've come down off a mountain in rough weather. Breathless, open mouthed and uncomprehending, I had left Catalonia and was now in Aragon.
More sweeping descent followed, until the app suggested I turn off and follow a track round the reservoir that I foolishly assumed, like a lake, would be flat. It was a very scenic trail through beech woods and past waterfalls, but an extra 300m up and down was hard on the meat battery. I followed a mix of road and trail down the valley and stopped for lunch by the river.
What would a day be without pannier problems? I'm going to give Vaude a ruddy big punch on the bottom for hawking crappy products. The clasp to stop the pannier flapping about had broken and disappeared. The spare strap I brought then slipped down, got caught in the brake and tore (thankfully the brakes were unharmed). I found some electric fence tape lying about (it's everywhere) and bodged a fix. I'll need to be more cautious on bumpy ground from now on.
Through to Vilallers, I stopped for a coffee and picked up some snacks. So far the day had been pleasant and sunny, but the rain came in as I started the climb up the second set of hills. Going uphill in warm rain - soaked with rain without waterproofs, soaked with sweat with them. I put the jacket on open, but didn't bother with the legs. I was fully soaked as I got to the top of the first hill, but the rain died off as I passed a sign for the Camino Santiago. I headed down that route on perfect tarmac. I doubt there is a road in rural Devon half as good - and just for me. I didn't pass anyone in half an hour, going through very Devonian cow pasture, oak, ash, hawthorn and sloes.
At the bottom of the hill the rain caught up. What followed was an hour of hard, soggy slog. Fortunately I had enough power left to turn it up to medium assist. The rain was relentless throughout the final set of hills. My shoes squelched with each press of the pedal and I was beginning to get cold. I stopped and stuffed down some chocolate. The sugar revived me for the final push. At the final col, suddenly the roads were dry and the sun came out. It was wonderful.
The final descent into town was easy. I'm staying at the swishest place so far. it's like a little apartment. I've lowered the tone by covering every surface in soggy clothing. I'm going to attempt an easier day tomorrow.
Last edited:
RubyToogood
RubyTwobikes
May I suggest pausing for some new panniers? They would be a really stupid reason to come off or lose half your stuff down a mountain.
Idaho
blah blah blah
They'll survive! I have some possible bodges that could fix the problem. I just need a drill, some cable ties and some tape.
WouldBe
Dislicksick
Bikes don't work very well under water.
Sweet FA
✪ Three rounds Lord, in my .44 ✪
Idaho
blah blah blah
Day eleven
Castejon de Sos - Ainsa - Boltana
61km, 700m ascent, 44% battery used, 45% human power
Planned a conservative day after the rigours of yesterday and a pessimistic forecast. The bolder option would have been over a high pass on what were likely very good trails. But it was thick fog when I got up, and the bold route would have been hard cycling into the clag on the hope it cleared. A few hours later and it was all sunshine and blue sky.
No bother. The slow start had given me the opportunity of dropping the bike into a workshop round the corner. €10 for a chain clean and oil while I picked up lunch stuff. Managed to request the bike maintenance, and a few other interactions, in Spanish, which was gratifying. The town seems to be parascending hot spot. As soon as the mist cleared there were a few in the sky, and a number of others, heavily backpacked, setting off to do the same from hire/guide places on the main street. The pannier modification worked fine, although the gremlins (or my idiocy) put my shoe laces somewhere to dry and didn't lodge that info with the legitimate mental authorities. I gave up after 3 full searches and set off.
The conservative route was a day of road cycling - which under-promised and over-delivered. The road out of Castejon was through a narrow ravine with the river running to one side. Traffic was very light and there were work teams dotted along for several kilometres doing various adjustments, extensions and improvements. I emerged into a widening landscape and stopped by a dam for lunch.
Landscape widening further, I passed through a beautiful green valley. Stopping to snap some kind of thumb and bowling ball roundabout feature as well as an inviting, but expressly not swimmable river.
Southwards progress at it's zenith (nadir?), I turned west, climbing up to the Collada de Foradada on wide, smooth and empty tarmac. There were two uphill lanes, so when the dozen or so vehicles did overtake on that 6km stretch, they were a whole lane away. I did go through a short tunnel - 400m - which I was notably more anxious during transit than usual. Bit of PTSD from the Vielha tunnel!
The road from the Collada to Ainsa was a treat. Wide, empty, excellent visibility and varying from gentle to moderate downhill, with the face of the grand Pena Montenesa to my right. I kept stopping to snap it. Although the best view came an hour later in Ainsa.
I've had Ainsa on my list of places to gawk at, and it didn't disappoint. Fantastic views across a few connecting rivers and mountains on all sides. I wandered about a bit, then realised I needed to some food, water and shade. It was high 20s, and I'd been a bit late putting sun creme on when the mist lifted.
I sat down and got my phone out to look up the location of a tap, and anywhere that sells shoe laces - no connection for the first time in two weeks! I drank the water I had left (I wasn't desperate), and looked up to see that I'd actually sat opposite a shoe shop. It was closed, however, and the sign on the door was very difficult to decipher, as it seemed to suggest that the place should be open right then. A concern as I will need my shoes tomorrow. Previous Google checks, before I lost data connection, hinted at a very limited retail offerings in Boltana. I wandered about taking pics and on making a circuit of the tiny centre, saw that I'd also been sat within 3 metres of a public tap. At least the water bottles were full.
The ride to Boltana was uneventful. Perhaps a bit busier. As I got within a couple kilometres there was a sign pointing to a supermarket in 200m. I pulled in and then immediately ignored the supermarket in favour of a warehouse called HIPA ASIA. The briefest glance at the entrance, piled with fans, plastic containers, lighters, sunglasses, and assorted domestic goods, filled me with promise for the laces. The two staff were Cantonese speakers, but understood my Spanish (ropes for shoes... really Spanish? A bit low effort). I had too much choice, which means I've got a weird colour that's a bit short - but good enough.
Hotel check-in was also done in Spanish! And I pretty much understood everything she told me (mainly because it's always the same kind of thing tbf). I'm sat in the town square after a major cheese eating event, drinking red and planning tomorrow. Boltana is the doggiest place in what is a very doggy country. I'm the only table out of 8 without one. Need to watch your step in the dark...
I've pinned down the next couple of days, and know what I need to do to reach the Atlantic in time. Going to be some full days ahead. Tomorrow is back up to the high country for the night. Reception or WiFi may or may not be available, so please forgive if the next installment is late.
Castejon de Sos - Ainsa - Boltana
61km, 700m ascent, 44% battery used, 45% human power
Planned a conservative day after the rigours of yesterday and a pessimistic forecast. The bolder option would have been over a high pass on what were likely very good trails. But it was thick fog when I got up, and the bold route would have been hard cycling into the clag on the hope it cleared. A few hours later and it was all sunshine and blue sky.
No bother. The slow start had given me the opportunity of dropping the bike into a workshop round the corner. €10 for a chain clean and oil while I picked up lunch stuff. Managed to request the bike maintenance, and a few other interactions, in Spanish, which was gratifying. The town seems to be parascending hot spot. As soon as the mist cleared there were a few in the sky, and a number of others, heavily backpacked, setting off to do the same from hire/guide places on the main street. The pannier modification worked fine, although the gremlins (or my idiocy) put my shoe laces somewhere to dry and didn't lodge that info with the legitimate mental authorities. I gave up after 3 full searches and set off.
The conservative route was a day of road cycling - which under-promised and over-delivered. The road out of Castejon was through a narrow ravine with the river running to one side. Traffic was very light and there were work teams dotted along for several kilometres doing various adjustments, extensions and improvements. I emerged into a widening landscape and stopped by a dam for lunch.
Landscape widening further, I passed through a beautiful green valley. Stopping to snap some kind of thumb and bowling ball roundabout feature as well as an inviting, but expressly not swimmable river.
Southwards progress at it's zenith (nadir?), I turned west, climbing up to the Collada de Foradada on wide, smooth and empty tarmac. There were two uphill lanes, so when the dozen or so vehicles did overtake on that 6km stretch, they were a whole lane away. I did go through a short tunnel - 400m - which I was notably more anxious during transit than usual. Bit of PTSD from the Vielha tunnel!
The road from the Collada to Ainsa was a treat. Wide, empty, excellent visibility and varying from gentle to moderate downhill, with the face of the grand Pena Montenesa to my right. I kept stopping to snap it. Although the best view came an hour later in Ainsa.
I've had Ainsa on my list of places to gawk at, and it didn't disappoint. Fantastic views across a few connecting rivers and mountains on all sides. I wandered about a bit, then realised I needed to some food, water and shade. It was high 20s, and I'd been a bit late putting sun creme on when the mist lifted.
I sat down and got my phone out to look up the location of a tap, and anywhere that sells shoe laces - no connection for the first time in two weeks! I drank the water I had left (I wasn't desperate), and looked up to see that I'd actually sat opposite a shoe shop. It was closed, however, and the sign on the door was very difficult to decipher, as it seemed to suggest that the place should be open right then. A concern as I will need my shoes tomorrow. Previous Google checks, before I lost data connection, hinted at a very limited retail offerings in Boltana. I wandered about taking pics and on making a circuit of the tiny centre, saw that I'd also been sat within 3 metres of a public tap. At least the water bottles were full.
The ride to Boltana was uneventful. Perhaps a bit busier. As I got within a couple kilometres there was a sign pointing to a supermarket in 200m. I pulled in and then immediately ignored the supermarket in favour of a warehouse called HIPA ASIA. The briefest glance at the entrance, piled with fans, plastic containers, lighters, sunglasses, and assorted domestic goods, filled me with promise for the laces. The two staff were Cantonese speakers, but understood my Spanish (ropes for shoes... really Spanish? A bit low effort). I had too much choice, which means I've got a weird colour that's a bit short - but good enough.
Hotel check-in was also done in Spanish! And I pretty much understood everything she told me (mainly because it's always the same kind of thing tbf). I'm sat in the town square after a major cheese eating event, drinking red and planning tomorrow. Boltana is the doggiest place in what is a very doggy country. I'm the only table out of 8 without one. Need to watch your step in the dark...
I've pinned down the next couple of days, and know what I need to do to reach the Atlantic in time. Going to be some full days ahead. Tomorrow is back up to the high country for the night. Reception or WiFi may or may not be available, so please forgive if the next installment is late.
Idaho
blah blah blah
Day twelve
Boltana - Broto - Bujaielo
49km, 970m ascent, 59% battery used, 43% human power
Up and at it promptly this morning. I have always had the ability to wake up at, unaided at a specific time. Although usually it involves a fair bit of light sleeping and waking up to check. So I'm not quite X-Men material. This holiday, however, it's kicked in without the need for light sleep, or even to have the phone, therefore clock, switched on. I've pinged awake between 0730 and 8 every morning, usually after a solid sleep. Usually a vivid dreamer able to remember that night's dreams for the rest of the day - I've been enjoying 8 hours of soft, black unconsciousness.
Breakfast buffet was a mean selection of buns and breads (no good for me), cheese and meat (already have both - earmarked for today's lunch), and some yoghurt and hot drinks. Shouldn't have bothered with it, but there was all the equipment to make a couple of decent cups of tea.
The road west was fair. Busier than yesterday, and narrower, with everyone except a French car giving good space. French drivers in France are usually very good. French tourists in Spain have been noticeably shit. I've had a few close passes and the majority have been French registered cars.
North Aragon has a pattern of tight winding roads through narrow canyons giving way to open green valleys and straight roads. I passed a few shepherds managing flocks as well as larger modern farms.
Getting away on time, having a modest distance to cycle and being liberal with the power. All with the aim of getting to the refuge for lunch, and seizing the opportunity for an afternoon mountain walk. I picked up a few bits of food at Fiscal and continued on to Broto for a coffee break. Getting a few minor to moderate protests from the right knee when cycling uphill. Mainly downhill tomorrow so it can cease it's miserable whining. The run to the coast is going to put it to the test. Broto and the other touristic bits of Aragon definitely have a different flavour to Catalonia. it's certainly less wealthy and less populated.
The final stretch was a dramatic winding uphill through small gorges nestled within larger canyons looming far above, partially draped in cloud. I wanted to visit this area as a reconnaissance for a future hiking trip. No question I'll be back. There is so much great walking, and so many facilities and options. Most importantly, it's awesome in the archaic sense. the mountainsides are colossal cliff faces that appear to hang above you.
Had a picnic lunch when I got to the refuge at 1330. Locked up the bike, found a plug point for the battery, and stashed all my bags in a corner. The place is a main stop on the GR11, and intersects with other routes both long distance and local. The walk up to the ridge line border with France would have been about 6km, but an ascent of 1000m. I opted to do a gentle wander up a side valley, passing reclining cows that looked like mountain gods, with Griffin vultures circling high overhead.
A bridge offered an easy crossing and a beautifully clear, deep channel of water. The rain was having weak attempts to get started. I sat under a tree for shelter and asked "what would Idaho do in this situation?" This led to a pleasant pipe and further appreciation for the subtle variations in green of the different trees. The next question was "what would Ms Idaho do?" This led to getting changed into swimmers and getting into that beautifully clear, deep pool. It was colder than I expected. Maybe Devon coast in December temperature...12-14? Both reviving and calming.
Just a plunge and float about. The rain started to get the hang of its job, going about the soaking business with much greater gusto. I got dried and dressed under a sheltering tree.
The trail back to the refuge on that side of the river intersected with 1.6km of the GR11. I think I can count that as having done the whole GR11. I'm sure the other 800km of it are much the same.
Staying in a dorm tonight. Glad I didn't decide to camp as it's chucking down. Booked dinner here as well as what sounds like a promising brekkie tomorrow before the big run west. Hoping to get an early-ish start tomorrow and get to the city in time for a bit of sight seeing.
Boltana - Broto - Bujaielo
49km, 970m ascent, 59% battery used, 43% human power
Up and at it promptly this morning. I have always had the ability to wake up at, unaided at a specific time. Although usually it involves a fair bit of light sleeping and waking up to check. So I'm not quite X-Men material. This holiday, however, it's kicked in without the need for light sleep, or even to have the phone, therefore clock, switched on. I've pinged awake between 0730 and 8 every morning, usually after a solid sleep. Usually a vivid dreamer able to remember that night's dreams for the rest of the day - I've been enjoying 8 hours of soft, black unconsciousness.
Breakfast buffet was a mean selection of buns and breads (no good for me), cheese and meat (already have both - earmarked for today's lunch), and some yoghurt and hot drinks. Shouldn't have bothered with it, but there was all the equipment to make a couple of decent cups of tea.
The road west was fair. Busier than yesterday, and narrower, with everyone except a French car giving good space. French drivers in France are usually very good. French tourists in Spain have been noticeably shit. I've had a few close passes and the majority have been French registered cars.
North Aragon has a pattern of tight winding roads through narrow canyons giving way to open green valleys and straight roads. I passed a few shepherds managing flocks as well as larger modern farms.
Getting away on time, having a modest distance to cycle and being liberal with the power. All with the aim of getting to the refuge for lunch, and seizing the opportunity for an afternoon mountain walk. I picked up a few bits of food at Fiscal and continued on to Broto for a coffee break. Getting a few minor to moderate protests from the right knee when cycling uphill. Mainly downhill tomorrow so it can cease it's miserable whining. The run to the coast is going to put it to the test. Broto and the other touristic bits of Aragon definitely have a different flavour to Catalonia. it's certainly less wealthy and less populated.
The final stretch was a dramatic winding uphill through small gorges nestled within larger canyons looming far above, partially draped in cloud. I wanted to visit this area as a reconnaissance for a future hiking trip. No question I'll be back. There is so much great walking, and so many facilities and options. Most importantly, it's awesome in the archaic sense. the mountainsides are colossal cliff faces that appear to hang above you.
Had a picnic lunch when I got to the refuge at 1330. Locked up the bike, found a plug point for the battery, and stashed all my bags in a corner. The place is a main stop on the GR11, and intersects with other routes both long distance and local. The walk up to the ridge line border with France would have been about 6km, but an ascent of 1000m. I opted to do a gentle wander up a side valley, passing reclining cows that looked like mountain gods, with Griffin vultures circling high overhead.
A bridge offered an easy crossing and a beautifully clear, deep channel of water. The rain was having weak attempts to get started. I sat under a tree for shelter and asked "what would Idaho do in this situation?" This led to a pleasant pipe and further appreciation for the subtle variations in green of the different trees. The next question was "what would Ms Idaho do?" This led to getting changed into swimmers and getting into that beautifully clear, deep pool. It was colder than I expected. Maybe Devon coast in December temperature...12-14? Both reviving and calming.
Just a plunge and float about. The rain started to get the hang of its job, going about the soaking business with much greater gusto. I got dried and dressed under a sheltering tree.
The trail back to the refuge on that side of the river intersected with 1.6km of the GR11. I think I can count that as having done the whole GR11. I'm sure the other 800km of it are much the same.
Staying in a dorm tonight. Glad I didn't decide to camp as it's chucking down. Booked dinner here as well as what sounds like a promising brekkie tomorrow before the big run west. Hoping to get an early-ish start tomorrow and get to the city in time for a bit of sight seeing.
editor
hiraethified
Lovely stuff!
WouldBe
Dislicksick
Horny artisan bread?
Idaho
blah blah blah
Day thirteen
Bujaielo - Jaca
79km, 1080m ascent, 59% battery used, 56% human power
I was not woken by any of the other 4 old geezers snoring. There is an iron rule in dormitories that there is always someone loudly scoring and keeping everyone awake. The only logical conclusion I can draw is that I was one keeping everyone awake while I slept like a log.
Dinner last night was pleasant and social. In Spanish refuges, you book your time and meal a few hours in advance. They then table you up in groups - usually sticking the foreigners together. An older Dutch couple and an American in his 40s and his younger Belgian wife. The table being majority Dutch speakers, we naturally spoke English.
The travel gods must like neat stories, and after reading my previous discussion of gun tooting in Atlanta, thought it only fitting to offer up a real life Atlantan for this latest chapter. He wasn't the gun tooting type. He's a nurse practitioner who spends months at a time at remote Alaskan villages earning money to then go back to Belgium and live with his wife. They were both three weeks into doing the full GR11. The timeline they set themselves has made an already tough journey, even more brutal. 30km days are hard, even on the flat. They'd been doing 30km days over mixed ground with minimum ascents and descents of 1000m. The GR11 is famously relentless in climbing up and trudging down every day.
Hadn't really looked too closely at today's route, but was up for a decent ride after an early wake up and good breakfast. Descending down the valley past Torla, leaving behind the high country, then turning west at Broto felt like the beginning of the final phase - heading out of the mountains and west to the sea. That said, I spent the next hour climbing to take a short cut out of the lower Ordessa valley and have an easy run to Jaca.
As well as lithium and meat batteries, altitude offers a third. Starting at 1400m, dropping down to 1100m, grinding back to 1400m felt easy in the knowledge it would be steady down all the way to Jaca at 800m. Gravity pulling it's weight.
A climb, tunnel and another lovely descent brought me to another flat, green Aragonese valley. This eventually led to some good gravel tracks and empty back roads. Bikemap was getting all sorts of funny ideas about what constitutes cycleable track and sent me up a steep slope, over rough rocks and pebbles, only to leave me stranded on a highway under construction. Some back tracking and head scratching later, I found the Camino Santiago and the easy way west by going through another tunnel. This one was small and short, and just went under this pile of rock? Spoil? I couldn't work it out. it's like a long rocky outcrop about 30m high and stretching along in a straight line for 15km from Sabiñànigo to Jaca.
I stopped for lunch and pressed on in pleasant weather on an easy and popular cycling road. an hour later and with Jaca a few kilometres below me, I had a pipe and surveyed the prospect of Jaca below. I rolled into town with the strange mix of stuff that "Aragon folk" got me on Spotify.
A couple of hours to kill until check in so I went for a coffee. Sitting down, and having a routine check, I realised I'd lost my cap. The first thing I did was notify my family. They were shocked, surprised, saddened and sympathetic, which they did a brave job disguising as tired exasperation. It's the 3rd time in a year that I've lost the fucking thing.
Jaca seems a nice little town. I missed going into the fortress, but enjoyed wandering around it. The revolt of the garrison against the dictator in 1930 was one of the first rumblings of the civil war a few years later. I picked up a new cap, some nuts, cured cheese and meat for the next few lunches, did some laundry and have just finished a salad and some patatas bravas. Tomorrow is a steady descent out of Aragon and then a steady ascent into Navarre. A bit longer ride tomorrow, and possibly longer still on Monday into the Basque country.
Bujaielo - Jaca
79km, 1080m ascent, 59% battery used, 56% human power
I was not woken by any of the other 4 old geezers snoring. There is an iron rule in dormitories that there is always someone loudly scoring and keeping everyone awake. The only logical conclusion I can draw is that I was one keeping everyone awake while I slept like a log.
Dinner last night was pleasant and social. In Spanish refuges, you book your time and meal a few hours in advance. They then table you up in groups - usually sticking the foreigners together. An older Dutch couple and an American in his 40s and his younger Belgian wife. The table being majority Dutch speakers, we naturally spoke English.
The travel gods must like neat stories, and after reading my previous discussion of gun tooting in Atlanta, thought it only fitting to offer up a real life Atlantan for this latest chapter. He wasn't the gun tooting type. He's a nurse practitioner who spends months at a time at remote Alaskan villages earning money to then go back to Belgium and live with his wife. They were both three weeks into doing the full GR11. The timeline they set themselves has made an already tough journey, even more brutal. 30km days are hard, even on the flat. They'd been doing 30km days over mixed ground with minimum ascents and descents of 1000m. The GR11 is famously relentless in climbing up and trudging down every day.
Hadn't really looked too closely at today's route, but was up for a decent ride after an early wake up and good breakfast. Descending down the valley past Torla, leaving behind the high country, then turning west at Broto felt like the beginning of the final phase - heading out of the mountains and west to the sea. That said, I spent the next hour climbing to take a short cut out of the lower Ordessa valley and have an easy run to Jaca.
As well as lithium and meat batteries, altitude offers a third. Starting at 1400m, dropping down to 1100m, grinding back to 1400m felt easy in the knowledge it would be steady down all the way to Jaca at 800m. Gravity pulling it's weight.
A climb, tunnel and another lovely descent brought me to another flat, green Aragonese valley. This eventually led to some good gravel tracks and empty back roads. Bikemap was getting all sorts of funny ideas about what constitutes cycleable track and sent me up a steep slope, over rough rocks and pebbles, only to leave me stranded on a highway under construction. Some back tracking and head scratching later, I found the Camino Santiago and the easy way west by going through another tunnel. This one was small and short, and just went under this pile of rock? Spoil? I couldn't work it out. it's like a long rocky outcrop about 30m high and stretching along in a straight line for 15km from Sabiñànigo to Jaca.
I stopped for lunch and pressed on in pleasant weather on an easy and popular cycling road. an hour later and with Jaca a few kilometres below me, I had a pipe and surveyed the prospect of Jaca below. I rolled into town with the strange mix of stuff that "Aragon folk" got me on Spotify.
A couple of hours to kill until check in so I went for a coffee. Sitting down, and having a routine check, I realised I'd lost my cap. The first thing I did was notify my family. They were shocked, surprised, saddened and sympathetic, which they did a brave job disguising as tired exasperation. It's the 3rd time in a year that I've lost the fucking thing.
Jaca seems a nice little town. I missed going into the fortress, but enjoyed wandering around it. The revolt of the garrison against the dictator in 1930 was one of the first rumblings of the civil war a few years later. I picked up a new cap, some nuts, cured cheese and meat for the next few lunches, did some laundry and have just finished a salad and some patatas bravas. Tomorrow is a steady descent out of Aragon and then a steady ascent into Navarre. A bit longer ride tomorrow, and possibly longer still on Monday into the Basque country.
Idaho
blah blah blah
Day fourteen
Jaca - Oronz
89km, 860m ascent, 49% battery used, 56% human power
There is something particular about European cities on a Sunday morning. Shuttered up shops, teams of people spraying and scrubbing the streets. Older couples walking in sports clothing. A cool humidity awaiting the warmth of the day.
Got up early and sorted out my stuff. My four little pots of yoghurt had survived 48 hours unrefrigerated, so I added them to the last of the nuts and prunes for a quick and thrifty breakfast. I promised myself a coffee stop after 20km.
I had the first memorable dream of the holiday. I was employed to help a friend's ageing mother do her weekly shop. She insisted that a part of the arrangement was that I should assist her while wearing a long green dress. I was willing to go along with the request but I woke up as we were on the way to Lidl. Ridiculous brain.
The first 20km was an easy westward ride on very quiet side roads and fairly quiet main roads. This section was on the Camino Santiago, and I saw a couple of pilgrims. I received some stolen glory from them as a driver beeped, waved and shouted "Bon Camino" as he passed. Bikemap had a go at stitching me up by pointless guiding me off the road, up some gravel to a dead end. The app does have uses, but it's a fucking hazard at the same time.
Crossing the river Aragon, I stopped in Puente de Reina for a cafe con leche and una tortilla. I rode this first section with the power off. It was easy, slight inclines and long, steady declines. The gravity battery was helping for the whole first half of the day.
The approach to Berdún from the east gives an incredible vista. The town is perched on a hillock on a wide low hill in surrounded by mountains facing off from three sides 10km or so, from each other. I turned the power on to low as the way rose up into the Roncal valley, and across the border into Navarre.
From that point on it was beautiful riding. Along river canyons, past villages tucked behind caves, up forested passes and down smooth, great visibility descents. The one car every few minutes dropped to a few an hour. Huge kites and both Griffin vultures and Egyptian vultures circled. I stopped to take a pic of the mountains behind me to the east. The most distant range visible was to my west this morning. I don't understand why, but I find this visible progress extremely satisfying. I stopped in Burgi town square for a picnic lunch. Beautiful Basque village with families all out on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
The weather had been pleasant all day, but there were hints and portents of an afternoon storm. They are a feature of Northern Spain. I underestimated them in May when me and Ms Idaho did our circuit of the Basque country. After a long hot ride we were steadily working through the last 30km to a campsite. Showers turned into downpours. Downpours became dense volleys of large hail, whipped at our faces, knees and knuckles. The paths were subsiding and new unnamed rivers were pouring across our track. We sheltered, shivering in a bus stop, brewed up a tea and and ate snacks. I booked us into a nearby hotel.
I booked today's hotel last night, seeing the forecast of storms. I was thinking that I might just make it in the dry. Rumblings of thunder increased as I dropped into the Salazar valley. The wind cooled and sky darkened. 10km to go. I turned up the power and got pedalling. At 8km I stopped to put the high vis on. Cars had lights on now and it was spitting. By 3km it was raining constantly and the thunder and lightning were closer. I was damp, but fine. I rode into the village with the directions pointing me to the centre.
Unbeknownst to me I'd just past the hostal. I got off the bike and sheltered by a house, getting the phone out to work out where I needed to be. Too late. The storm hit as I was wandering in the wrong direction. No hail this time, but a series of drenching waves of water, flung on gusts strong enough to shove me as I was walking it round the village. I found an unmarked lobby and put my bag and panniers in it, parked the bike and went to find the hostal. A woman saw me wandering, and directed me down the path. I found the place, the first place I passed coming into the village. I put a few bags down outside then went back to get my bike. In my haste I hadn't packed the bungees away. I wheeled the bike 2 metres before I felt resistance... FFS. I tried pulling it out but it was jammed under tension. Always travel with a good knife. By the time I'd sorted it, the hostal had sent out a search party.
The storm had knocked out the electrics in the valley for a couple of hours. I had a shower, hung everything to dry and went out for a smoke. As well as the hash, I'd got a couple of grams of weed in Figueres. I usually prefer hash, but I'm not adverse to the right weed at the right occasion. Wedding cake. Very nice. The kitchen is up and running and they'll serve food shortly. I'll likely go for another stroll around the block after dinner. Last long day tomorrow. Might even nibble into France, briefly.
Jaca - Oronz
89km, 860m ascent, 49% battery used, 56% human power
There is something particular about European cities on a Sunday morning. Shuttered up shops, teams of people spraying and scrubbing the streets. Older couples walking in sports clothing. A cool humidity awaiting the warmth of the day.
Got up early and sorted out my stuff. My four little pots of yoghurt had survived 48 hours unrefrigerated, so I added them to the last of the nuts and prunes for a quick and thrifty breakfast. I promised myself a coffee stop after 20km.
I had the first memorable dream of the holiday. I was employed to help a friend's ageing mother do her weekly shop. She insisted that a part of the arrangement was that I should assist her while wearing a long green dress. I was willing to go along with the request but I woke up as we were on the way to Lidl. Ridiculous brain.
The first 20km was an easy westward ride on very quiet side roads and fairly quiet main roads. This section was on the Camino Santiago, and I saw a couple of pilgrims. I received some stolen glory from them as a driver beeped, waved and shouted "Bon Camino" as he passed. Bikemap had a go at stitching me up by pointless guiding me off the road, up some gravel to a dead end. The app does have uses, but it's a fucking hazard at the same time.
Crossing the river Aragon, I stopped in Puente de Reina for a cafe con leche and una tortilla. I rode this first section with the power off. It was easy, slight inclines and long, steady declines. The gravity battery was helping for the whole first half of the day.
The approach to Berdún from the east gives an incredible vista. The town is perched on a hillock on a wide low hill in surrounded by mountains facing off from three sides 10km or so, from each other. I turned the power on to low as the way rose up into the Roncal valley, and across the border into Navarre.
From that point on it was beautiful riding. Along river canyons, past villages tucked behind caves, up forested passes and down smooth, great visibility descents. The one car every few minutes dropped to a few an hour. Huge kites and both Griffin vultures and Egyptian vultures circled. I stopped to take a pic of the mountains behind me to the east. The most distant range visible was to my west this morning. I don't understand why, but I find this visible progress extremely satisfying. I stopped in Burgi town square for a picnic lunch. Beautiful Basque village with families all out on a sunny Sunday afternoon.
The weather had been pleasant all day, but there were hints and portents of an afternoon storm. They are a feature of Northern Spain. I underestimated them in May when me and Ms Idaho did our circuit of the Basque country. After a long hot ride we were steadily working through the last 30km to a campsite. Showers turned into downpours. Downpours became dense volleys of large hail, whipped at our faces, knees and knuckles. The paths were subsiding and new unnamed rivers were pouring across our track. We sheltered, shivering in a bus stop, brewed up a tea and and ate snacks. I booked us into a nearby hotel.
I booked today's hotel last night, seeing the forecast of storms. I was thinking that I might just make it in the dry. Rumblings of thunder increased as I dropped into the Salazar valley. The wind cooled and sky darkened. 10km to go. I turned up the power and got pedalling. At 8km I stopped to put the high vis on. Cars had lights on now and it was spitting. By 3km it was raining constantly and the thunder and lightning were closer. I was damp, but fine. I rode into the village with the directions pointing me to the centre.
Unbeknownst to me I'd just past the hostal. I got off the bike and sheltered by a house, getting the phone out to work out where I needed to be. Too late. The storm hit as I was wandering in the wrong direction. No hail this time, but a series of drenching waves of water, flung on gusts strong enough to shove me as I was walking it round the village. I found an unmarked lobby and put my bag and panniers in it, parked the bike and went to find the hostal. A woman saw me wandering, and directed me down the path. I found the place, the first place I passed coming into the village. I put a few bags down outside then went back to get my bike. In my haste I hadn't packed the bungees away. I wheeled the bike 2 metres before I felt resistance... FFS. I tried pulling it out but it was jammed under tension. Always travel with a good knife. By the time I'd sorted it, the hostal had sent out a search party.
The storm had knocked out the electrics in the valley for a couple of hours. I had a shower, hung everything to dry and went out for a smoke. As well as the hash, I'd got a couple of grams of weed in Figueres. I usually prefer hash, but I'm not adverse to the right weed at the right occasion. Wedding cake. Very nice. The kitchen is up and running and they'll serve food shortly. I'll likely go for another stroll around the block after dinner. Last long day tomorrow. Might even nibble into France, briefly.
tim
EXPLODED TIM! (Help me!!!)
Yes, I too love a trans-Iberian picaresque peregrination. This is almost up there with the late lamented Stanley Edwards' "Carry on Foraging" thread. Have you considered filching the odd turnip from a small-holding or catching and grilling a couple of sticklebacks?
davesgcr
Reading books
As ever -excellent - you can see the weather turning . Still you have the odd pipe to sustain / cheer you.
- very well done and thanks for the travelogue.
Idaho
blah blah blah
Day fifteen
Oronz - Urepel - Elizondo
81km, 1600m ascent, 78% battery used, 50% human power
No hostal breakfast. There was a choice of the usual European can-you-really-call-that-breakfast for €4 or some kind of rare monster breakfast feast for €12. I love a hearty first meal of the day, but not really until mid morning. The map showed a village with a supermarket 25km down the track. I got underway before 0930 and promised myself breakfast and a coffee there.
It was mixed cloud and sun for the first couple of hours. The air was still cool, but I held off putting on another layer. The route was a series of medium mountain passes, so I knew I would soon warm up. Again the roads were very quiet. Perhaps one car every two or three minutes. I passed through traditional Basque villages with their manicured alpine style wooden houses, decorated with window boxes full of flowers and well tended gardens.
The first climb took me to 1000m+ for the penultimate time. The landscape had a familiar mix of trees, plants and cow pasture. The distant crags and sharp peaks, combined with the circling vultures and kites kept me from being over familiar. A down and up to the final 1000m pass, then an enjoyable descent through a village who's cafe was a surprise bustle. I stopped in for a cafe con leche amongst the mix of local old folk, workmen on a break and a big group of old geezer road bikers. All having a late breakfast or early lunch. Some fat beardy bloke was blithely skinning up at his table while his friends drank their coffee. God damnit man, it's only 11am!
Downed the coffee and plodded on to the supermarket 5km down the road where I picked up the usual yoghurt, nuts and fruit. I sat on the wall outside what I guessed was some kind of farming co op building and a local skinny and scarred Tom cat tried to charm me into feeding him. Pretty sure all my breakfast items were not cat suitable.
Another few kilometres on a quiet, straight road with the old geezer road bikers overtaking me one by one. One of them was definitely in his late seventies - good on him. Google maps was coming up with various stupid suggestions such as pulling off a good quiet road, going up a rough track only to rejoin the road a kilometre later. I kept it simple until a turn off through the Sorogain woods. Both Google and Bikemap assured me this would take me across the border briefly and take what seemed like a very cool international short cut.
The Sorogain and the crossing into France wildly exceeded expectations. Riding up alongside a river through beech and birch woodlands. Locals out picking mushrooms. Rising to the border, the trees disappeared and it looked exactly like Dartmoor. horses and cows, pasture, braken and granite tors. The view into France from the peak was exceptional and the actual border was just a faint spray paint line halfway down the hill. Not the best time for one of my brakes to start playing up. I think it has got some oil in it somewhere. I sat in a tiny French Basque village in France and ate my lunch and did my best to wipe clean the brake disk.
I wasn't worried about the ride back up and over into Spain as the apps had done so well so far. I'd also saved up a decent amount of battery for this last real hill of the journey. Naturally this meant that the steep, narrow tarmac road swiftly turned into a steep, narrow rough gravel track. I cranked the power up and rode hard to keep momentum over the rocks, sand and pebbles, passing Basque..beehives? The sky was darkening and there were rumbles of thunder as I crossed the border ridge and said goodbye to France.
Back into Spain, the ride down was initially problematic as the land owner had closed a gate on the path and put up private property signs. I called to an old geezer asking him if I can go through the gate to the road. He gave an answer to the effect that I shouldn't go that way, but whatever.
The rest of the way down to Elizondo was easy and enjoyable and the rain never came this way. Halfway down I was stopped by the terrified screams of young children. As I got closer the screams were accompanied by the metallic thrum of a zipwire. It was a very exciting adventure park. You get ferried to the top of the canyon and make your way down by zipwires, bungee jumps and other similar exciting stuff.
Elizondo feels substantial for a small place. I'll read up some history before bed if I don't just crash. It has lots of grand old buildings and sits astride the River Bidasoa, the last major river of the Spanish Pyrenees if, like me, you are coming from the east. Tomorrow I'll be following it all the way to Irun and the Atlantic on a dedicated bike trail, which seems very neat to me. Forecast is good. Fingers crossed for an easy day and a camp near the sea.
Oronz - Urepel - Elizondo
81km, 1600m ascent, 78% battery used, 50% human power
No hostal breakfast. There was a choice of the usual European can-you-really-call-that-breakfast for €4 or some kind of rare monster breakfast feast for €12. I love a hearty first meal of the day, but not really until mid morning. The map showed a village with a supermarket 25km down the track. I got underway before 0930 and promised myself breakfast and a coffee there.
It was mixed cloud and sun for the first couple of hours. The air was still cool, but I held off putting on another layer. The route was a series of medium mountain passes, so I knew I would soon warm up. Again the roads were very quiet. Perhaps one car every two or three minutes. I passed through traditional Basque villages with their manicured alpine style wooden houses, decorated with window boxes full of flowers and well tended gardens.
The first climb took me to 1000m+ for the penultimate time. The landscape had a familiar mix of trees, plants and cow pasture. The distant crags and sharp peaks, combined with the circling vultures and kites kept me from being over familiar. A down and up to the final 1000m pass, then an enjoyable descent through a village who's cafe was a surprise bustle. I stopped in for a cafe con leche amongst the mix of local old folk, workmen on a break and a big group of old geezer road bikers. All having a late breakfast or early lunch. Some fat beardy bloke was blithely skinning up at his table while his friends drank their coffee. God damnit man, it's only 11am!
Downed the coffee and plodded on to the supermarket 5km down the road where I picked up the usual yoghurt, nuts and fruit. I sat on the wall outside what I guessed was some kind of farming co op building and a local skinny and scarred Tom cat tried to charm me into feeding him. Pretty sure all my breakfast items were not cat suitable.
Another few kilometres on a quiet, straight road with the old geezer road bikers overtaking me one by one. One of them was definitely in his late seventies - good on him. Google maps was coming up with various stupid suggestions such as pulling off a good quiet road, going up a rough track only to rejoin the road a kilometre later. I kept it simple until a turn off through the Sorogain woods. Both Google and Bikemap assured me this would take me across the border briefly and take what seemed like a very cool international short cut.
The Sorogain and the crossing into France wildly exceeded expectations. Riding up alongside a river through beech and birch woodlands. Locals out picking mushrooms. Rising to the border, the trees disappeared and it looked exactly like Dartmoor. horses and cows, pasture, braken and granite tors. The view into France from the peak was exceptional and the actual border was just a faint spray paint line halfway down the hill. Not the best time for one of my brakes to start playing up. I think it has got some oil in it somewhere. I sat in a tiny French Basque village in France and ate my lunch and did my best to wipe clean the brake disk.
I wasn't worried about the ride back up and over into Spain as the apps had done so well so far. I'd also saved up a decent amount of battery for this last real hill of the journey. Naturally this meant that the steep, narrow tarmac road swiftly turned into a steep, narrow rough gravel track. I cranked the power up and rode hard to keep momentum over the rocks, sand and pebbles, passing Basque..beehives? The sky was darkening and there were rumbles of thunder as I crossed the border ridge and said goodbye to France.
Back into Spain, the ride down was initially problematic as the land owner had closed a gate on the path and put up private property signs. I called to an old geezer asking him if I can go through the gate to the road. He gave an answer to the effect that I shouldn't go that way, but whatever.
The rest of the way down to Elizondo was easy and enjoyable and the rain never came this way. Halfway down I was stopped by the terrified screams of young children. As I got closer the screams were accompanied by the metallic thrum of a zipwire. It was a very exciting adventure park. You get ferried to the top of the canyon and make your way down by zipwires, bungee jumps and other similar exciting stuff.
Elizondo feels substantial for a small place. I'll read up some history before bed if I don't just crash. It has lots of grand old buildings and sits astride the River Bidasoa, the last major river of the Spanish Pyrenees if, like me, you are coming from the east. Tomorrow I'll be following it all the way to Irun and the Atlantic on a dedicated bike trail, which seems very neat to me. Forecast is good. Fingers crossed for an easy day and a camp near the sea.
Idaho
blah blah blah
Day sixteen
Elizondo - Irun - Hondarribia (then Zarautz)
72km, 300m ascent, 43% battery used, 50% human power
A strange night. Either I ate something that disagreed, or I was just exhausted. I switched the light off at 2130 and wrestled with a semi dream delirious loop where I would be able to sleep properly if I could connect two routes together. The routes were either white lines on a map, or it was the position I was in, or it was some other internal nonsense debate. It faded in the small hours and I did get enough decent sleep to be up and ready for riding at 0930. The promised hostal breakfast was either cakes or lunch food. I had a couple of coffees and a couple of yogurts. Plenty of lunch in the bag for later.
Initially, some road riding. Medium busy at times, but generally fine. The Basque villages I passed through seem to be comprised of only 3 or 4 storey, substantial and old mansions, built out of stone and wood. Very impressive. I'm guessing some are multi generational homes and some split into apartmentos. After 15km I crossed the river Bidasoa and picked up the Via Verde, a former train line converted to a multi use path.
The first few kilometres were shared with some scattered settlements and farms, so there were a few stinky diesels ruining the ambience, but these soon dwindled. The path followed the Bidasoa all the way, but occasionally ran alongside, opposite, or where a flyover had been constructed, under a new road. It's a busy road, concentrating traffic from Navarre to the big cities and to France. The sound would intermittently appear then disappear through a tunnel, or along some other unseen course, giving me back the sound of birds and the river.
I've done a few Via Verdes and this one isn't as outstanding as Pamplona - Donostia or Girona - Orlot, but there was plenty to enjoy. Not least was the constant, steady descent and simplicity of route finding. The sun was out and a gentle day to finish was just fine with me.
The Bidasoa winds through hilly country. A big reveal of a vast vista of the Atlantic never happened, although I held out hope. Perhaps just as good was following a bend in the river and getting a subtle, but unmistakable smell of salt water carried up the valley by a gentle wind.
At the outskirts of Irun the path became more urban-industrial, then suburban. Finally getting into the city, I stopped to check the map fully for the first time. Turns out Irun isn't actually on the sea, but a port set back in the estuary. The nearest beach where I could walk to the sea and touch the water was in Hondarabbia. It being urban territory, I delegated route finding to Google. This took me past a bridge which turned out to be another border with France. The span so short that you can read the French road signs and advertising hoardings.
It was another 8km until I crested a rise, and caught first sight of the sea between rooftops. I was less than a kilometre away. I cycled down onto the prom and wheeled the bike onto the beach along a helpful wooden walkway. I stood in the water and took a couple of pictures. Done. Journeys seldom finish on a crescendo unless you are writing fiction, and I'm fine with that.
I cycled back through Hondarribia old town, which turned out to be a real gem. Beautiful timber and stone buildings and narrow cobbled streets. Also lots of flags, so another thumbs up. I wanted to camp near the beach tonight as well as make a start on the series of local commuter trains I need to take to get to Santander tomorrow. I hopped on the first of these trains in Irun, going to Donostia. You can wheel your bike straight on to local Spanish "commuter" trains. €2 for a half hour train ride. I then cycled across Donostia to get to the Bilbao line. Spent a few days in Donostia in May - great place. Thoroughly recommend.
Another €2 and another half hour and I got off at a busy beach resort of Zarautz. Plenty of battery left, and hopefully not much needed tomorrow, so I powered up to the hilltop campsite. Put the tent up and scampered down to the beach for a swim. This holiday has had so few swims that Ms Idaho would have taken up an arms had she come along. I spent half an hour bobbing and diving through the shore break as German surfers cut through the swell another 20 metres out.
Tomorrow is a travel and organisation day. Get to Santander, do some gift shopping, and potter round the city. Ship sails on Thursday. I think I'll do a final travelogue post on the ferry and combine any observations from the next few days. It's been a great trip, and I've really enjoyed the nightly discipline and routine of posting. Hope you've enjoyed reading.
Elizondo - Irun - Hondarribia (then Zarautz)
72km, 300m ascent, 43% battery used, 50% human power
A strange night. Either I ate something that disagreed, or I was just exhausted. I switched the light off at 2130 and wrestled with a semi dream delirious loop where I would be able to sleep properly if I could connect two routes together. The routes were either white lines on a map, or it was the position I was in, or it was some other internal nonsense debate. It faded in the small hours and I did get enough decent sleep to be up and ready for riding at 0930. The promised hostal breakfast was either cakes or lunch food. I had a couple of coffees and a couple of yogurts. Plenty of lunch in the bag for later.
Initially, some road riding. Medium busy at times, but generally fine. The Basque villages I passed through seem to be comprised of only 3 or 4 storey, substantial and old mansions, built out of stone and wood. Very impressive. I'm guessing some are multi generational homes and some split into apartmentos. After 15km I crossed the river Bidasoa and picked up the Via Verde, a former train line converted to a multi use path.
The first few kilometres were shared with some scattered settlements and farms, so there were a few stinky diesels ruining the ambience, but these soon dwindled. The path followed the Bidasoa all the way, but occasionally ran alongside, opposite, or where a flyover had been constructed, under a new road. It's a busy road, concentrating traffic from Navarre to the big cities and to France. The sound would intermittently appear then disappear through a tunnel, or along some other unseen course, giving me back the sound of birds and the river.
I've done a few Via Verdes and this one isn't as outstanding as Pamplona - Donostia or Girona - Orlot, but there was plenty to enjoy. Not least was the constant, steady descent and simplicity of route finding. The sun was out and a gentle day to finish was just fine with me.
The Bidasoa winds through hilly country. A big reveal of a vast vista of the Atlantic never happened, although I held out hope. Perhaps just as good was following a bend in the river and getting a subtle, but unmistakable smell of salt water carried up the valley by a gentle wind.
At the outskirts of Irun the path became more urban-industrial, then suburban. Finally getting into the city, I stopped to check the map fully for the first time. Turns out Irun isn't actually on the sea, but a port set back in the estuary. The nearest beach where I could walk to the sea and touch the water was in Hondarabbia. It being urban territory, I delegated route finding to Google. This took me past a bridge which turned out to be another border with France. The span so short that you can read the French road signs and advertising hoardings.
It was another 8km until I crested a rise, and caught first sight of the sea between rooftops. I was less than a kilometre away. I cycled down onto the prom and wheeled the bike onto the beach along a helpful wooden walkway. I stood in the water and took a couple of pictures. Done. Journeys seldom finish on a crescendo unless you are writing fiction, and I'm fine with that.
I cycled back through Hondarribia old town, which turned out to be a real gem. Beautiful timber and stone buildings and narrow cobbled streets. Also lots of flags, so another thumbs up. I wanted to camp near the beach tonight as well as make a start on the series of local commuter trains I need to take to get to Santander tomorrow. I hopped on the first of these trains in Irun, going to Donostia. You can wheel your bike straight on to local Spanish "commuter" trains. €2 for a half hour train ride. I then cycled across Donostia to get to the Bilbao line. Spent a few days in Donostia in May - great place. Thoroughly recommend.
Another €2 and another half hour and I got off at a busy beach resort of Zarautz. Plenty of battery left, and hopefully not much needed tomorrow, so I powered up to the hilltop campsite. Put the tent up and scampered down to the beach for a swim. This holiday has had so few swims that Ms Idaho would have taken up an arms had she come along. I spent half an hour bobbing and diving through the shore break as German surfers cut through the swell another 20 metres out.
Tomorrow is a travel and organisation day. Get to Santander, do some gift shopping, and potter round the city. Ship sails on Thursday. I think I'll do a final travelogue post on the ferry and combine any observations from the next few days. It's been a great trip, and I've really enjoyed the nightly discipline and routine of posting. Hope you've enjoyed reading.
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Idaho
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Hondarribia, Donostia and Zarautz:
I'll see if I can find someone smoking weed on a Spanish surfer campsite (should be a real challenge). They can have whatever I have left. A good few days of clean living is needed.
Just remembered that I'm camping so I can make a pot of herbal tea!
I'll see if I can find someone smoking weed on a Spanish surfer campsite (should be a real challenge). They can have whatever I have left. A good few days of clean living is needed.
Just remembered that I'm camping so I can make a pot of herbal tea!
