Cycling along the Spanish Pyrenees from the Med to the Atlantic - A Travelogue
- Thread starter Idaho
- Start date
Ground Elder
Well-Known Member
oryx
Sitting on the bok of the day
I have really enjoyed reading this, thanks.
It's completely different to any holiday I would take - I haven't cycled for about twenty years (at least) and my OH would rather jab knitting needles into his eyes than camp
so we usually do city breaks. This was a real eye-opener to another world of holidays! I've enjoyed your writing style and the photos.
It's completely different to any holiday I would take - I haven't cycled for about twenty years (at least) and my OH would rather jab knitting needles into his eyes than camp
so we usually do city breaks. This was a real eye-opener to another world of holidays! I've enjoyed your writing style and the photos.
krtek a houby
Merry Xmas!
Absolute pleasure to read of your adventures. Thanks for sharing Idaho.
Idaho
blah blah blah
Finishing up
Zarautz - Bilbao - Santander - Plymouth
I've dedicated far too much mental time and effort trying to decide on the heading. I liked the day zero and day zero + 1 notation of the first few posts, but struggled to come up with a satisfactory corresponding notation for the last few days. Day sixteen + 1, 2 & 3 is cumbersome and confusing. I toyed with day omega, but while that would suit the latest avengers film, it's absurd and pretentious for a cycling holiday.
Train times from Zarautz to Bilbao were inconsistent from the various sources I tried. I got up early and arrived at the station in time for an earlier train, in the hope that this would give wiggle room for any disruption. It arrived promptly. The board and front of the train happy stating that it was bound for Bilbao. All seemed well until 3 minutes later, it pulled up to the next little local station and a guard shooed us all off toward a row of coaches. The line was closed for repairs, hence the confused information available.
The guard was very helpful and directed me toward the bus that would go as far as Eibar where the train service resumed. She said it would be no problem to get the bike on board, pointed at the luggage hold and wandered off to direct other passengers. Getting the bike into the narrow horizontal aperture of the hold wasn't quite as easy as she'd intimated. It was made more panicky and awkward by the inevitably grumpy bus driver insisting "Rapido! Rapido!" while another assistant greatly slowed down the process with less than useless interventions. I got the bike in, and other than getting some kind of oil over my rucksack cover, got it out again undamaged at Eibar.
This was my second time passing through Eibar. We started our tour of the Basque country there in May. I'd planned a 65km route along a Via Verde up the valley, past a reservoir and to a B&B in a small village. It was going to be a good solid start to the trip. Unfortunately I hadn't taken account of the 20km ride from the ferry terminal to the train station to take us to Eibar. Further, it turned out there were no places to eat in the village. We rode another 10km trying and failing to find sustenance. The best we could come up with was a taverna that sold us a ham roll, a few bags of crisps and nuts and a bottle of wine.
Having a couple of hours to kill in Bilbao was an unplanned treat. It's a great city. I sat by the river and had a late picnic breakfast, then wandered around the old town and had a coffee. The information boards on the main bridge between the old town cycled between telling time and temperature. They claimed 31C, although I was sceptical. Coming through Irun a few days ago, I passed 5 similar boards on the same street, mostly attached to pharmacies, all with different temperatures displayed. And not just a degree or so different, but ranging from 20 to 29C. It was a lovely warm sunny day though, I'll grant that.
Another train bargain. A mere €6 for the 3 hour, scenic journey from Bilbao to Santander. It's a funny little narrow gauge service that operates under a cloak of secrecy. Not only is it impossible to find a timetable online, it also runs from a separate station hidden behind the main station. Actually a beautiful building. Deco style columns, glass roof and large potted plants. The train wound through the hills and valleys of the western Basque country and into Cantabria. Nothing planned for Santander other than drop everything off at the Airbnb, get a haircut, pick up a few presents for the family and get some food.
Finishing the ride pulled all the wind from my sails. Fatigue had caught up with me. I trudged down the steep streets to a Moroccan barber. Having limited material and therefore possibilities to work with, he had no problem working out what I wanted done. The transformation from grizzled and tufty 19th century prospector back to ordinary, suburban, balding beardy geezer had a reverse Samson effect. I perked up enough to go shopping and get some dinner. The effect was short lived and I was glad of the series of exterior escalators that lead from the city centre to my Airbnb in the university district at the top of the hill.
I've noticed a cultural difference between Britain and Spain. In Spain there seems to be no social obligation to get out the way, and no expectation from the blocked person of any right to progress. I saw it a few times in shops were people would be milling and chatting, and I would walk near, in the expectation of a sorry/excuse me exchange, but just stand there like a lemon. On the escalator some stand and some walk. If the walkers end up behind a stander, they give up hope of progress and wait. "Disculpe" is the given translation of excuse me, in Spanish, but instead of being a minor and routine comment, seems more of a verbal cattle prod, evoking a surprised leap to the side.
I got back to the accommodation, and was in bed at 9pm. I didn't get out of bed until well after 9am the next day. Needed that.
Santander ferry terminal is right in the middle of town and only a ten minute ride from the Airbnb. Entering the terminal is like leaving Spain. Suddenly all the vehicles are British and the only language audible is English. A vehicular tribalism occurs, partly directed by the port employees and partly by the punters themselves. The motorbikes, of which there were at least a hundred, all parked up on one side, with the campers all queuing on the other side. The cars line up in the middle, and the handful of bicycles annoy everyone by weaving their way to the front. It's often a nice opportunity to chat and find out where people have been. As we filed through check in and passport control, all the two wheelers were merged together. A couple of the bikers were very interested in the electric bike and had lots of questions.
Getting on a ferry is a very stop-start process. You get directed to a series of muster points before finally getting the wave to get on board. They don't like bicycles to ride onto the boat for some reason. Maybe the surface can be slippery? After cycling 1000km over all sorts of terrain, it seems a bit ignominious. I put my bike in the pile, grabbed the overnight bag and found my cabin - more of a cabinet - before heading up to the deck.
Sea state forecast for Biscay was rough to very rough, with gale force winds later in the crossing, all of which seemed very abstract during the sedate progress out of the calm, sunny harbour. A small pilot boat was close in on the starboard side guiding the large vessel past unseen hazards. As soon as we pulled out of the protection of the harbour the pilot peeled away. The wind rose from barely a breeze, to a relentless series of buffeting blasts making passengers grab for hats and handrails. The smooth water of the harbour gave way to three metre rolling swell.
Ms Idaho and Idaho jnr both get very acute travel sickness and one of my daughters is very emetophobic, so all family sea crossings have been anxious affairs with much fear and focus on the mal de mer. This rubs off on me and I stress, but in truth i don't really suffer. The sound of people retching into bags while I was enjoying the ride proving as much. A crewman came on deck to tell us to go inside. I sat inside helping myself to the free hot water (top tip, bargain hunters, bring your own tea bags), in which time the conditions got rougher. Rolling with yawning, rising moments of disorientating low gravity, followed by thumping broadsides shuddering the whole ship. The busy ship seemed to empty as people headed for their cabins. Nothing much to do other than eat and drink tea, which had exhausted it's appeal by 9. I went to the cabin, listened to an audiobook and let myself be rolled and rattled into sporadic sleep.
I'm finishing this post sat with a tea, looking out at Devon on the horizon. The sea state is only slight and the blue sky out at sea is soon to be replaced by thick rain clouds over the land. The only challenge of the journey remaining is the short train journey from Plymouth and getting the bike into the "reserved bicycle space" - a cramped area, about two thirds the size of a bicycle where luggage, push chairs and all kinds of stuff that GWR fail to plan for are stored. Time for some Half Man Half Biscuit to get me back in the mood for blighty.
Zarautz - Bilbao - Santander - Plymouth
I've dedicated far too much mental time and effort trying to decide on the heading. I liked the day zero and day zero + 1 notation of the first few posts, but struggled to come up with a satisfactory corresponding notation for the last few days. Day sixteen + 1, 2 & 3 is cumbersome and confusing. I toyed with day omega, but while that would suit the latest avengers film, it's absurd and pretentious for a cycling holiday.
Train times from Zarautz to Bilbao were inconsistent from the various sources I tried. I got up early and arrived at the station in time for an earlier train, in the hope that this would give wiggle room for any disruption. It arrived promptly. The board and front of the train happy stating that it was bound for Bilbao. All seemed well until 3 minutes later, it pulled up to the next little local station and a guard shooed us all off toward a row of coaches. The line was closed for repairs, hence the confused information available.
The guard was very helpful and directed me toward the bus that would go as far as Eibar where the train service resumed. She said it would be no problem to get the bike on board, pointed at the luggage hold and wandered off to direct other passengers. Getting the bike into the narrow horizontal aperture of the hold wasn't quite as easy as she'd intimated. It was made more panicky and awkward by the inevitably grumpy bus driver insisting "Rapido! Rapido!" while another assistant greatly slowed down the process with less than useless interventions. I got the bike in, and other than getting some kind of oil over my rucksack cover, got it out again undamaged at Eibar.
This was my second time passing through Eibar. We started our tour of the Basque country there in May. I'd planned a 65km route along a Via Verde up the valley, past a reservoir and to a B&B in a small village. It was going to be a good solid start to the trip. Unfortunately I hadn't taken account of the 20km ride from the ferry terminal to the train station to take us to Eibar. Further, it turned out there were no places to eat in the village. We rode another 10km trying and failing to find sustenance. The best we could come up with was a taverna that sold us a ham roll, a few bags of crisps and nuts and a bottle of wine.
Having a couple of hours to kill in Bilbao was an unplanned treat. It's a great city. I sat by the river and had a late picnic breakfast, then wandered around the old town and had a coffee. The information boards on the main bridge between the old town cycled between telling time and temperature. They claimed 31C, although I was sceptical. Coming through Irun a few days ago, I passed 5 similar boards on the same street, mostly attached to pharmacies, all with different temperatures displayed. And not just a degree or so different, but ranging from 20 to 29C. It was a lovely warm sunny day though, I'll grant that.
Another train bargain. A mere €6 for the 3 hour, scenic journey from Bilbao to Santander. It's a funny little narrow gauge service that operates under a cloak of secrecy. Not only is it impossible to find a timetable online, it also runs from a separate station hidden behind the main station. Actually a beautiful building. Deco style columns, glass roof and large potted plants. The train wound through the hills and valleys of the western Basque country and into Cantabria. Nothing planned for Santander other than drop everything off at the Airbnb, get a haircut, pick up a few presents for the family and get some food.
Finishing the ride pulled all the wind from my sails. Fatigue had caught up with me. I trudged down the steep streets to a Moroccan barber. Having limited material and therefore possibilities to work with, he had no problem working out what I wanted done. The transformation from grizzled and tufty 19th century prospector back to ordinary, suburban, balding beardy geezer had a reverse Samson effect. I perked up enough to go shopping and get some dinner. The effect was short lived and I was glad of the series of exterior escalators that lead from the city centre to my Airbnb in the university district at the top of the hill.
I've noticed a cultural difference between Britain and Spain. In Spain there seems to be no social obligation to get out the way, and no expectation from the blocked person of any right to progress. I saw it a few times in shops were people would be milling and chatting, and I would walk near, in the expectation of a sorry/excuse me exchange, but just stand there like a lemon. On the escalator some stand and some walk. If the walkers end up behind a stander, they give up hope of progress and wait. "Disculpe" is the given translation of excuse me, in Spanish, but instead of being a minor and routine comment, seems more of a verbal cattle prod, evoking a surprised leap to the side.
I got back to the accommodation, and was in bed at 9pm. I didn't get out of bed until well after 9am the next day. Needed that.
Santander ferry terminal is right in the middle of town and only a ten minute ride from the Airbnb. Entering the terminal is like leaving Spain. Suddenly all the vehicles are British and the only language audible is English. A vehicular tribalism occurs, partly directed by the port employees and partly by the punters themselves. The motorbikes, of which there were at least a hundred, all parked up on one side, with the campers all queuing on the other side. The cars line up in the middle, and the handful of bicycles annoy everyone by weaving their way to the front. It's often a nice opportunity to chat and find out where people have been. As we filed through check in and passport control, all the two wheelers were merged together. A couple of the bikers were very interested in the electric bike and had lots of questions.
Getting on a ferry is a very stop-start process. You get directed to a series of muster points before finally getting the wave to get on board. They don't like bicycles to ride onto the boat for some reason. Maybe the surface can be slippery? After cycling 1000km over all sorts of terrain, it seems a bit ignominious. I put my bike in the pile, grabbed the overnight bag and found my cabin - more of a cabinet - before heading up to the deck.
Sea state forecast for Biscay was rough to very rough, with gale force winds later in the crossing, all of which seemed very abstract during the sedate progress out of the calm, sunny harbour. A small pilot boat was close in on the starboard side guiding the large vessel past unseen hazards. As soon as we pulled out of the protection of the harbour the pilot peeled away. The wind rose from barely a breeze, to a relentless series of buffeting blasts making passengers grab for hats and handrails. The smooth water of the harbour gave way to three metre rolling swell.
Ms Idaho and Idaho jnr both get very acute travel sickness and one of my daughters is very emetophobic, so all family sea crossings have been anxious affairs with much fear and focus on the mal de mer. This rubs off on me and I stress, but in truth i don't really suffer. The sound of people retching into bags while I was enjoying the ride proving as much. A crewman came on deck to tell us to go inside. I sat inside helping myself to the free hot water (top tip, bargain hunters, bring your own tea bags), in which time the conditions got rougher. Rolling with yawning, rising moments of disorientating low gravity, followed by thumping broadsides shuddering the whole ship. The busy ship seemed to empty as people headed for their cabins. Nothing much to do other than eat and drink tea, which had exhausted it's appeal by 9. I went to the cabin, listened to an audiobook and let myself be rolled and rattled into sporadic sleep.
I'm finishing this post sat with a tea, looking out at Devon on the horizon. The sea state is only slight and the blue sky out at sea is soon to be replaced by thick rain clouds over the land. The only challenge of the journey remaining is the short train journey from Plymouth and getting the bike into the "reserved bicycle space" - a cramped area, about two thirds the size of a bicycle where luggage, push chairs and all kinds of stuff that GWR fail to plan for are stored. Time for some Half Man Half Biscuit to get me back in the mood for blighty.
Last edited:
DJWrongspeed
radio eros
Do you have a route map/ itinerary Idaho? I understand the ferry back is pricey but easier than the train?
Idaho
blah blah blah
Yeah the ferry is by far the simplest. Trains are a faff, requiring you to partially disassemble your bike. I really don't fancy changing trains with bags and a disassembled bike.
I don't have a route map as such. I've listed the start and finish points, so it's not too difficult to piece it together from that. What kind of detail did you want?
trabuquera
Modesty Bag
Sweet FA
✪ Three rounds Lord, in my .44 ✪
Love both Bilbao and Santander (and the ferry home). Have had great times in both cities. Once came close to missing the ferry after meeting someone in a bar who I offered the rest of my weed to before embarking. He insisted we cement Anglo-Iberian relations by caning the rest together.
Mrs FA resolutely tight-lipped as she drove onto the boat with me lolling around in the passenger seat.
Mrs FA resolutely tight-lipped as she drove onto the boat with me lolling around in the passenger seat.
krtek a houby
Merry Xmas!
Glossy 500 page paperback with annotations, detailed maps and vouchers please
Idaho
blah blah blah
I reckon I could pad the story out to a small book by adding various skipped details, anecdotes, witty asides and historical detail crudely culled from other sources. The maps would fill up space, and the vouchers could be a nice little earner on the side.Glossy 500 page paperback with annotations, detailed maps and vouchers please
Crispy
The following psytrance is baṉned: All
This is the South side of the Yebra de Basa anticline. You can see in this horrible low-res image the dashed lines in the middle where the upthrusted folds of rock have eroded down, leaving the exposed edge of newer rock layers.
3D structure of subsurface thrusts in the eastern Jaca Basin, southern Pyrenees
This paper presents a new model of the subsurface structure of the eastern Jaca flexural basin of the west-central southern Pyrenees, by means of subsurface ...
www.redalyc.org
Bahnhof Strasse
Met up with Hannah Courtoy a week next Tuesday
They are appalling, my handlebars are too wide to fit through the poxy door!
Lovely travelogue, thanks.
