See what I did there? Today I was heading for Pamplona ,famous for its annual Running of the Bulls Festival held each July as part of the summer San Fermin festival.

I’d read about bullfighting, Hemingway was famously fascinated with the spectacle and the history and he visited and wrote about Pamplona bull fighting scene many times.

Obviously my sympathies were always firmly with the bull,and I couldn’t really believe this hangover from the past still continued, in fact in an arguably more reckless and uncontrolled way by releasing some furious bulls into narrow city streets where the brave, the foolish and the downright stupid would allow themselves to be chased on foot, and do their best to avoid being gored or trampled to death by a ton of rampaging beef.

I left Camping Igueldo dropping steeply down towards the unremarkable town of Andoin-in fact as I now moved inland heading East away from the coast,most towns seemed to be unremarkable. This is what could patronisingly be called “local” Spain,with no foreign visitors,no tourism or facilities but with obvious civic pride. The run in was always the same ,quiet streets with a few small bars,a central square with the pasticerre, maybe a small supermercado and farmacia and almost always a shop selling everything from plastic chairs to broom handles to meat slicers.

Outside the bars would be the obligatory groups of men, ( always men), putting the world to rights with an urgency and volume at odds with the fact they’d done exactly the same thing the day before, and probably the day before that .

In short ,nothing much happens, (or so it seems.)

On this Saturday morning in Andoin there was a busy street market on,but not needing any new hoover bags ,cushion covers or enormous bags of sweets I rolled on through and joined the Camino Natural del Plazaola

This was one of the network of Vias Verdes, or greenways,that criss cross Spain . Typically disused railway lines (think Tissington Trail) they are traffic free, often paved, and normally go through some beautiful countryside . The Spanish had the foresight to preserve and develop these networks when the railways closed and they’re now used by millions every year .

Climbing out of the town I was surrounded by greenery and scenery within minutes . The climb was fairly gentle,but persistent. I was heading for Lekunberri,which was the end of the line and a 22 miles climb away.

Some sections of the trail were paved but the vast majority was loose gravel and stones,a bit bumpy for my set up and probably the reason that the only other cyclists I saw were on mountain bikes .

The trail followed the the river Rio Oria and it was a constant presence down to my right ,flowing quickly and cheerily downstream, in contrast to my slow and steady climbing in the other direction

Tunnels . What do we think about tunnels? Well for me I’ve never really thought that much about them- but my mind was focussed now because of the sheer number and frequency of tunnels this disused railway line featured.

At first they were short and straight. Mostly unlit, even the ones pitch black on entry did a quick dogleg to show the exit. It was impossible to see the surface you were riding on though ,and often water would drip down onto me while I rode through

As the trail climbed into the higher ground,and further away from towns, the tunnels become longer. Now they seemed to be averaging 200 metres and now there was at least 30 seconds of pitch black riding in the middle of each,still with the unseen riding surface and cold damp atmosphere to navigate before the exit showed dimly in the distance.

Not planning on riding in the dark I hadn’t brought any lights with me and more than once I had to resort to my feeble phone torch to help.

Then, nearing the end of the trail I entered a tunnel which did have strip lighting, but only every hundred metres or so-the pools of light left inky black sections in between, and this tunnel went on and on. And on some more . I’m neither claustrophobic nor a panicker but as the journey into darkness continued I thought I’d treat myself to a few “what if’s” (there’s a rockfall,my spokes break ,I come off , there’s a murderous three eyed Spanish tunnel dweller waiting to pounce etc etc ). Water was pouring down the tunnel sides ,some of the rock was calcified, and still there was no faint circle of daylight in sight.

Out of the darkness and silence I was relieved to hear noises of oncoming fellow cyclists,and as we approached each other I realised it was a family with a clearly terrified young lad crying, with the dad saying to him whatever the Spanish is for “it’s character building son”

We exchanged the internationally understood look of “ well this is just awful isn’t it “ and carried on. The ground was heavily rutted with potholes and perilous gullies full of water and this slowed progress down to waking pace.

I don’t think I’ll ever use the phrase “there’s light at the end of the tunnel” as a trite work saying again,because when I did eventually see the exit I sure was mighty relieved . As I exited I saw the tunnel had been 2.7km long . Probably just as well I hadn’t seen that on the way in.

I’m not one for over the top health and safety stuff but in the UK they’d put you in hard hats ,miners lamps and high viz to go through that and probably charge you £8.50 for the “experience “

After Lekunberri and a detour off the trail for lunch ( a beer,a Coke and two sandwiches 4 Euros, thanks for asking ) I was back in the road and mainly downhill into Pamplona . At one point I unwittingly picked up the EuroVelo 1 Atlantic Coast route . These series of routes are an official GOOD THING and have benefitted from EU funding to develop a number of Europe wide long distance cycling routes.

The last few miles took me through a huge City park and to Hotel Albret. There was no camping option tonight and Saturday night hotel availability was limited -this was a bit of a budget buster but as I was having a rest day in Pamplona tomorrow it felt OK .

I’ll always the appreciate the calm and unruffled politeness of hotel staff who, faced with a sweaty, salty, grubby cyclist wheeling a bike through the marble floored lobby don’t even bat a eyelid .