And that’s saying something . Today was a later start because I was just a doing a 25 mile day to the university town of Cervera. When I read that Cervera is a university town I imagined groups of bright young things ,fiercely intelligent and cool, excitedly harnessing academia to propel themselves to personal excellence and fulfilment .

Well

I can only imagine that the students of Cervera all graduated with first class degrees in surliness and indifference and then stayed in the town to work in the service sector .

The town was grim. The hostel was grimmer . There was no food available but I’m calling it as if it was-grim . It was but a staging post for Barcelona tomorrow but I expected more. Rolling through the suburbs I felt (for the first time ) the need to hide my phone away.

On the journey in I’d been listening to UK radio and it was in that curious journalistic hinterland between the Queen dying and her death being officially announced. The House of Commons energy debate had been prematurely halted as I rode ,and the speculation was beginning…..in one way it was (very) good to miss the actual announcement and all the talking heads and opinion pieces ,but it was also weird to think about it happening, as inevitable as it was .

This whole trip was planned with an acknowledgment that I’ve been in full time work for forty years, beginning all that time ago with an attestation and an oath to the Queen . I’m not a Royalist but there was definitely an end of an era feel to tonight -didn’t excuse the 30 minute wait for a drink though!!

Todays end point was Molerrussa . I had planned my run in to Barcelona to shadow the train route, really just to be confident that if the wheel came off (metaphorically or literally) I would be able to train it into Barcelona to avoid missing the ferry on Friday

This was important as I needed to be in Sardinia on Saturday morning as a younger ,fitter and more sarcastic version of me was arriving on Saturday to spend a week cycling from the top to bottom of the Mediterranean island ,before himself buzzing off to South America for a year. So a deadline was born.

Scenery and population wise the ride itself was much like yesterday -about 50 miles on the same kind of tracks ,this time alongside the huge man made irrigation channels that service the fruit farms . Wider than our canals,they stretch as far as the eye can see, with enviously clear and clean water pouring through and into the massive crop sprayer watering things ( this is the kind of descriptive detail you’re here for, I know 😊)

Each main canal had multiple offshoots,a kind of vein and artery affair, and each artery had a service road next to it . Again, there was just nobody out there except me and the miles rolled slowly and quietly by. It was baking hot today with little shade. Learning fast , I’d got some supplies in my panniers, the local speciality known as “make some lunch from last nights hostel feast “ so the lack of amenities wasn’t an issue today

Mollerussa appeared about 6pm today. Hotel Jardin Apartments looked after me for the night, and again I was reminded how unusual it seemed to be English in completely Spanish town.

Quick change and a kit wash and I was out in a flash to rehydrate and get some food -I was beginning to rival a F1 pit stop crew in the speed and beauty of my “into hotel-out of hotel-drink-food” progress

Shorter day tomorrow …..

Which is just as well. Because if I’d been caught on todays ride existing completely on scrumped fruit , the Guardia Civil would have no words to describe how to prosecute me -and even if they did, I’d be cleared at Court and would be pictured across Spain, standing on the courtroom steps, flash bulbs popping, proudly and triumphantly holding my apple aloft ,freedom, la libertad , fruit for the people and the cheering masses !

Well yes. Indeed . As you can see, today was a long day, with little to occupy me except my thoughts of being a Fruit Freedom Fighter ! I saw no one all day. Not a car,not a shop,not even a bus stop. Nada except acre after acre of fruit farms -apples, olives, pears,lemons and peaches mainly. My routing took me across country away from main roads and onto the massive network of gravel tracks that criss cross this part of the country for the use of fruit farmers. If you’ve ever seen the roads used in the Strade Bianche cycling race then you’ll get the picture

It was nice in a way to be so removed from anything, every time I stopped there was complete silence -I could even hear the plip plop of my own sweat onto the crossbar but the terrain made the going slow and bumpy

I rolled into Albalate de Cinco at about 5pm. To call it a one horse town would be to exaggerate the presence of the horse . But-it did have a small supermarket (just as well because there was no bar or cafe in town ) and I stocked up for a hostel feast later . Tonight’s hostel was Hotel Casa Santos . Cheap and (sort of ) cheerful,I’d file it under functional and clean . Which is fine.

What kind of cycle tourist am I? I ask only because I suppose there’s different kinds of cycle tourers ,each with a slightly different emphasis-is it all about the bike,chasing segments and barrelling through countries with a rigid daily plan and not seeing anything other than your own front wheel and garage forecourt feed stops?

Or is it just using the bike as little as possible,cadging lifts and avoiding too much riding,unashamedly dodging hills or weather ,taking days to cover only a few miles and being easily sidetracked ?

Or is it something in between, using the bike as a way of seeing places at cycling speed ,with the ratio between the actual cycling and touring being as close to 50/50 as possible, while remaining pragmatic about the end game .

You know why I’m asking ! It’s because I took a train! After my planned Pamplona rest day on Sunday 5th I decided to make up some ground by train,because :

(i) I was a bit concerned about my timings,needing to be in Barcelona (about 250 miles away) for the overnight ferry to Sardinia on Friday 9th

(ii) between me and Barcelona was about 9000 feet of climbing

(iii) my legs were tired 😊

So I guess I’m in third category-obviously the tour wouldn’t work without cycling but sometimes the end is more important than the means . Trains are a last resort (hence the length of this self justifying conscience purging post so far!!) but sometimes needs must. That’s all.

But before the train out I had a rest day in Pamplona . It was Sunday and felt very quiet. The UK seems alone in Europe as treating Sunday like any other day, and it takes a bit of adjusting to. I actually think it’s better in many respects, it seems to encourage a different more family based lifestyle and provides a definite relaxing end point to every week, rather than every day merging seamlessly with the next .

So, Pamplona. A really interesting place . I thought the bullfighting heritage would be a lot more evident than it was, but maybe outside the San Fermin in July it isn’t such a thing. The actual bull ring was closed but seeing the narrow high sided streets that the bulls (six at a time) gallop through, gives a real sense of how amazingly daft these people must be !

The city also trades on its Hemingway connection. He was at his most prolific in the 1920s when he became obsessed with “the fiesta of bullfighting and brutality,drink and song” . He based himself in the Cafe Iruna in the main square Plaza del Castillo. It’s still there, a magnificently preserved building,all wood panelling and tiled floors. They even have a life sized statue of Hemingway leaning against the bar inside . My 6 euro beer was an expensive drink but a cheap ticket to an hour of ringside seat people watching .

The following day I caught the train to Huesca,via a change in Zaragoza. With bikes, trains in Spain are a bit (ie a lot) of a pain. In short there are three main types of train but only on the little commuter trains can bikes be rolled on without booking. The other types require booking in advance and with only two bikes per trip allowed ,it’s a bit of a lottery . Even worse the high speed inter city trains require a bike to be booked on ,paid for,and packed in a bike bag airline style.

But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and I arrived into Huesca at teatime on Monday . This is a really charming little town ,fairly high up and so a couple of degrees cooler. Most of the town is pedestrianised so it was a really quiet and relaxing traffic free environment. I actually enjoyed it more than Pamplona and the £29 Hotel Al Centro I stayed in was superb-the buzz and chatter and ambience was right on the doorstep.

I sat with a beer and tapas and planned tomorrows route to Albalate de Cisco. Just shy of 60 miles so had an extra slice of frittata con patate to carb load 😊👌

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 .

This was on my bucket list of places to visit ,Spain’s version of Cannes. Very swanky,very rich and very beautiful. It’s separated by a few massive Pyrennean mountains from the French border and it was only a few hilly miles from where I woke up on Friday morning.

Keen to slip away before the Belgian girl guides I was on the road quite early. So early that my tent was packed away damp but needs must

So today was 8 miles . Pah! Less than my commute to work, easy peasy lemon squeezy. It hadn’t been planned to be such a short day, distance wise ,but I’d had to do some “dynamic recalibrating “ ( ie “get real”) and adjust some of my daily targets and make sure I was in the right place for onward itineraries .

This is a beautiful part of the world. But lumpy. Very lumpy indeed. In fact I heard this region won the 2020 International Lumpiness Championships in the “Long and Steep as a Bastard” category. It’s true .

So I climbed 1000 feet in 8 miles which is easier to type than ride ,but it sure felt hard to me . When I wasn’t looking down at my front wheel the views were of course stunning,again.

Again I was reminded of Devon as I realised I was higher than the clouds and it was bloody freezing,but once I’d summitted ( that seems too triumphant a verb to describe the last weaving wobbly lunge for the top of the five mile climb) the sea below was immense and the views massive .

The last mile though was a freewheel down to Camping Igueldo. This is the nearest campsite to San Seb (as I jauntily now call it) with a regular bus down into the town.

It was indeed lovely and well worth a visit. If you were to drive from the ferry at Bilbao it’s less than an hour. There’s a fully functioning promenade with the surf crowd to the handbag dog crowd and everything in between happily co-existing, as do the superyachts and fishing boats off shore .

It’s a relaxed place thats obviously dripping with cash, but not in an ostentatious way and the two town beaches,with sandcastles and dogs are a nice counterpoint to some of the early evening preeners on the prom. In short , it’s got something for everyone and didn’t feel one bit snotty. The sunset was rather special too.

I also saw a silent demonstration while I was there-led sympathetically by the police ,a group of people holding pictures of what looked like political prisoners or silenced dissidents. A reminder of the separateness of this region and it’s fierce independence.

I also saw some kind of period drama being filmed on the iconic Maria Cristina bridge ,originally built to provide access to the Bullring. Traffic was stopped for filming, I did ask if the script demanded a cameo from a middle aged geezer in North Face kit and a twat tan but apparently not .

Anyway,tomorrow is a longer day. Riding to Pamplona I’m beginning the journey inland away from the coast,and starting towards Barcelona. Ultimately I need to be on the overnight ferry from Barcelona to Sardinia on Friday 9th September so I’m trying to break the trip into reasonable stages bearing in mind accommodation options, legs ,etc etc!

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I was looking forward to today . Not even the wet tent and other kit which I was now carrying (and wearing) could dampen the excitement at spending most of the day ahead in sight of the sea. My route hugged the coast ,with the sparkling Bay of Biscay on my left all day .

Weather wise there was a coastal dampness hanging in the air , a surly hangover from yesterdays downpours, but with the promise of it being burned off pretty quickly, I got going as soon as I could.

As I wheeled out of the camp site I passed last nights super wholesome German bikepacker couple-they’d arrived just after me, high fiving and seemingly waterproof, probably because of their inner Zen. On route from from Paris to Portugal, everything about them was immaculate. As I left, they were too busy pulling some yoga moves to notice my spectacular bike bound slam dunk of last nights cider bottle into the recycling bin. They probably wouldn’t have been as impressed as I was.

The next couple of hours cycling was excellent. The skies had cleared and the road seemed to match every up with an equal down,giving plenty of time to take in the sea views as I snaked around the coast.

But. But. The bike was heavy and I was preoccupied with the naiviety of my packing. Maybe I wasn’t as ruthless at that stage as I thought I’d been. A conversation the previous night with my UK based Tour Director (😊) had thrown up the idea of sending some unnecessary kit home,and as I dropped into the coastal village of Ondarroa the sight of a Correos Post Office sealed the deal .

I bought a box and basically loaded both my front panniers and contents,including all my cooking kit and some clothes . The lady serving me was patience personified and with a combination of Spanglish,the art of mime and a bit of Google Translate I got rid of 12 kilos of weight for about £35. I was a bit alarmed when she asked me for my DNA but turns out it was just Google’s way of asking me for my identity and luckily I didn’t have to think of a mime for that!

I felt the difference straight away . The bike felt so much better and I was more confident on the descents especially. Knowing I’d done the right thing made the remaining miles fly by and I made it the campsite in good time.

Gran Zarautz Camping was a bit of a culture shock . A huge commercially run international site ,near the beach and very very surfy . It was also the first time I’d heard English voices since I arrived,which felt strange.

One of those voices belonged to Moss (real name). A dreadlocked surfer dude with a guitar, he provided the one chord soundtrack to me putting my tent up. His adoring surf girl fans, Quinoa, Karma and Hemp (not real names ) hung on his every melancholy tuneless strum

Also in my little section were a group of about ten Girl Guides. Or maybe they were Scouts-in any case they were about eighteen ,from Belgium I think and were wearing those coloured neckerchiefs things.

My tent was now up and I was fettling with my kit. Although Moss had thankfully paused the guitar the Guides were happily clapping as they sang the Belgian version of Kumbayah . My sandals,still wet from yesterday were also muddy and so I began to clack the soles together to shake the mud off -with horror I realised my clack-clack had dropped into the rhythm of my happy clapping neighbours. THEY THOUGHT I WAS JOINING IN!

Clap clap they went,clack clack I went,locked in a circle of fixed grins and synchronised clapping and clacking that I needed to break. Even worse, Moss was seeing an opportunity for Eurovision campsite harmony, man, and the strumming began. Increasingly desperate to show I wasn’t part of this I changed my speed, now for every clap clap I was clack-clack-clack-but they did no more than match me!! Nooooooo…….faster and faster went the singing, the clapping and the clacking, me too polite to stop but oh so desperate for the awkwardness to end.

Luckily Moss got so excited I think he snapped a string and the resulting fuss broke the spell, me taking the opportunity to disappear into my tent,international incident averted !

San Sebastián tomorrow,a short day to prepare for heading for Pamplona the day after……

I felt a bit gloomy this morning . Yesterdays riding had felt tougher than I expected and although I hadn’t got rigid daily mileage targets ,I hadn’t gone as far as I wanted and it had certainly taken me ages . The bike felt heavy and the front panniers especially were making the handling sketchy,especially on downhill sections. I also hadn’t planned on staying in a hotel on the first night and that felt like a bit of a cop out too

I needed to have a word with myself. This kind of negativity wouldn’t do, it was only the first day, things hadn’t even bedded in yet and at least ,as one of my friends on Strava succinctly put it, I wasn’t “working shifts and dealing with muppets” 😊

I congratulated myself on my positive mental attitude with a second pain au chocolat and then set off from Guernica with whatever the cycling equivalent of a spring in my step is.

But I’d barely reached the end of the street before the ominously black clouds opened, and the rain came down. And down. And down some more. Gatos y perros. As you read this the cold rain is falling. When you pause between paragraphs it’s still chucking it down,steaming up your glasses and dripping off your nose . When you reach todays exciting finale just assume it’s still pouring and you are so wet that the campsite lady quietly wipes the check in counter down with a towel after you .

“ cinquo minutes senor” came the motivating call from the pro kit road biker that glided effortlessly past me. Seeing as I’d been riding oh so slowly uphill for the last two hours it was an amazing relief to know I was five minutes from the top. Except I wasn’t . Maybe he was the founder member of the “lets give the foreigner false hope” club.

Maybe his cheery five minute warning was the length of time he thought it would be before gravity and fatigue ground me to a complete standstill, sending me gracefully falling sideways into the wet verge without even the energy to unclip

Maybe he was actually referring to the bus shelter (the word “shelter” being the key here) I was pathetically grateful to come across when I did eventually make it to the top near the tiny village of Nabarniz

I’d already noticed how green and lush this part of Spain is. Known to be the wettest part of the country it reminded me of the Atlantic coastlines of Devon, Cornwall, even Brittany. A month earlier I’d been in Andalusia where the scorched and arid landscape was supporting crops of olives and oranges , lemons and grape vines ,whereas here it was apples and blackberries (I know you’re now thinking about custard)

There followed a glorious downhill into Lekeitio for lunch. The descent was a bit nervy because of the weather (it’s still raining remember!) but it was a nice lunch stop. Seemingly there was a festival planned for that night around the harbour and the setting up was being done in strict accordance with Spanish health and safety laws,ie making sure the cigarette was lit before climbing the wet scaffolding and wrapping the lunchtime wine bottle in a hi viz cover

About eight rollercoaster miles remained to Camping Endai ,my home for the night . Later in the campsite bar I tasted the liquid benefit of all those apples I’d seen growing earlier …..

The ferry that is . We docked a little late and there was an announcement warning of Spanish immigration delays but our mixed cycling quintet rolled off, and to the head of the queue pretty easily . The port was typically busy and noisy but after a couple of roundabouts and a short tunnel I picked up a bike path all the way into Bilbao.

It’s probably worth saying at this point that I’m using an app called “cycle travel” for navigation . It’s free and I really rate it as it defaults to quiet traffic free routes, including off road cycle ways etc . Sometimes this means its suggested routes are longer but they are always more pleasant .

Bilbao. I didn’t know much about it but it has a port area that Lonely Planet would probably call “edgy” -but at that time of the morning it was the usual waking up clatter of rising shutters, pavements being washed before the heat of the day and moped buzzing locals carrying baguettes and pastries .

I didn’t intend to loiter ,aiming to head for the centre, cross the bridge over the River Nervion and then towards the North coast at Lekeitio-about 52 miles to a campsite I’d identified but not booked

Something else probably worth saying is that my aim was to not book places to stay more than 24 hours ahead -not on the grounds of being some kind of free spirited nomad but more because I just didn’t know how my legs would be from day to day !!

However the river crossing wasn’t a bridge as I thought but something far more geekily exciting -a gondola suspended from a huge overhead gantry that glided back and forth carrying Bilbao’s finest ,apparently since 1893. The Bizkai Bridge (see why I was confused) is now a designated UNESCO “heritage monument” so the 90 cent ticket for five minutes of childish excitement seemed like good value really!

It was hot,and getting hotter. Hilly and getting hillier and the bike was heavy and …..well you get the picture .

The cycling was really nice though -excellent roads ,considerate Spanish drivers and superb infrastructure was of course welcome but robbed me of my usual excuses for slow progress ! I was thinking that I’d overpacked the bike and under packed my legs when I rolled into the one horse town of Muniz,and later Fruiz ,for some grub and una cerveza

It was at this point I realised my Garmin was malfunctioning-although I’d been cycling hard all day and had covered at least sixty miles it was telling me I’d covered less than twenty! Hmm ….sadly the malfunction was all mine and I decided to head about ten miles to Guernica and call it a day .

Guernica was buzzing . Typically Spanish with a central square packed with what must have been the entire population, which for a random Tuesday night was pretty impressive .

The town has an evocative history-massively damaged during the first air raid of the Spanish Civil War in 1937 (carried out by General Franco’s fascist chums from Germany and Italy) it was the scene of much resistance -targeted (and then rebuilt) because of the bloody mindedness of the locals it seemed to sum up the Catalan spirit of independence and stubbornness I was beginning to see-more of that later .

I’m always suspicious of travel writing that says ….”at this point,tired and weary, I happened across a small hotel ,cheap and clean with a friendly owner and bike parking” but thats exactly what happened !! Hotel Bolina for the record,£38 for the night, don’t mind if I do.…

One of the side effects of travelling solo is that it’s easier to earwig on snatches of conversation going on around you -I’ve no idea if the parrot in question , or indeed the victim ,was known to the Hyacinth Bouquet lookalike who snarkily announced it to her ferry companions ,but no one batted an eyelid in any case.

The ferry was fine actually. I wasn’t expecting much but it was a relaxing experience. Brittany Ferries don’t seem too geared up for bikes though-the P &O /Stena style where they let the assembled peloton board (and exit) first like Ferry Kings is definitely not the Brittany way-surprising for a French company.

Maybe it was because there were only four other cyclists that they seemed to overlook us -I later learned that the boat was carrying 610 passengers ,of which 605 were boarded and tucking into paella before we’d even moved off the quayside.

During the two hours us cyclists spent together ,queuing ,on foot, in the open ,we discussed many things ,where we were heading,family circumstances,previous trips ,bikes of course ,but being British we did not exchange names -that being a STEP TOO FAR of course .

So in true cyclist fashion,identifying someone by their bike , I can report that Canyon Clive and Merida Mike were heading for Alicante over two weeks -bristling with technology plus trendy bike packing luggage,tiny tents and a healthy credit card ,they were on a mission for sure . Giant Gillian was a different story-towing a trailer behind her electric bike she was heading for Portugal to ride the Camino de Santiago with her chum. She is 71 (she told me of course ) and was doing the whole trip from a paper Michelin map and the kindness of strangers to charge her bike on the way . “If ever I get lost “ she told me “ I just stand there looking doddery and someone always takes pity”

Dawes Derek was a chatty Halifax man,cycling down to his apartment near Malaga. His wife was flying down and he “was getting some peace and quiet” doing it his way . I suspect Mrs Derek was happy with that too!

Some ferry logistics -it was the Brittany Ferries Salamanca ship,a brand new ferry running on LPG so no diesel fumes belching out of the funnel. It left Portsmouth 2130 on Sunday and docked in Bilbao at 0800 Tuesday . I hadn’t booked a cabin but managed to blag a cancellation once on board for £100 for two nights which was well worth doing . Food was good and cheap (one breakfast and dinner was included in ticket price ) and apart from a medical emergency in the Bay of Biscay -monsieur the ‘elicopter will be landing on the top deck ‘elipad” the crossing was drama free .

As we docked in Bilbao the sky was black and gloomy-my fellow two wheeled travellers met at our bikes and talked about the weather ahead of us -Canyon Clive had a gadget to tell him the barometric pressure or something . I wonder how they’re doing………

I’m talking about kit and “stuff”- just because I can carry all of it on the bike, doesn’t necessarily mean I should!

I’m now into the process familiar to every cycle tourist ,the eternal trade off between weight and necessity. Do I need that extra gas canister? Will I really need all those tools,clothes ,maps,clothes pegs (yes really)

Last night was the final dress rehearsal for the upcoming production of “How heavy is that bike?” and it’s certainly a bit …weighty! Those of you who know me will know I’m hardly a lightweight myself so my thoughts and prayers are firmly focussed on the spokes of my back wheel!

Kit wise ,I’ve got a tent (Wild Country Hoodie 2),inflatable pillow, Alpkit inflatable mattress and a Highlander 3 season sleeping bag . I have a Decathlon folding chair, figuring that the extra small luxury of not having to spend multiple nights sitting on the cold floor is worth a few extra ounces of weight. Cooking wise I have an Alpit Brukit (like a poor man’s Jetboil) plus a gas canister ,a Vango cooking kit and a collapsible bowl. This will more than deal with any campsite cuisine needs ( ie dried noodles and beans !) I reckon.

In terms of clothing there’s two full cycling kits plus a couple of extra tops. Off the bike it’s flip flops and various easy wash/drip dry bits of polyester ,along with another mega useful item,travel wash !! Pair this with a little washing line and a few pegs and it’s just a case of “wash one,wear one” on repeat .

There’s a few essential tools too,Allen keys,spare spokes,a chain breaker,15ml pedal spanner,cable ties and gaffer tape,some spare tubes and chain lube too. This should be enough to deal with any roadside issues and get me to a bike shop if necessary.

Theres a few other luxuries squeezed in,an IPad for route planning, Kindle reading (and Wordle obviously), small Bluetooth speaker and a notebook for my terrible memory .

And now….the most important bit of all. The bike started life as cyclocross bike ,made by Dolan but with Ribble markings on it too (who knows ). I’ve had it a few years now ,via Ebay and it’s the most comfortable and versatile bike I’ve ever owned. Obviously, in the spirit of Triggers broom there’s not much original left but for a £350 bike it’s just the job. I’ve changed the brakes from cantilever to V and upgraded the pads to Swisstop. The seat has been changed to a Selle Italia (as close to an armchair on a bike as I could find!). The original drop bars have been replaced with flat bars with Shimano lever brakes . The new wheels cost almost as much as the whole bike , a handbuilt Ryde Andra 36 spoke wheelset from SPA Cycles in Harrogate . They feel bombproof and I’ve added Schwalbe Marathon Plus 700×38 touring tyres . Gearing wise it has a 50-30-39 triple on the front with a 11-32 cassette on the rear, hopefully giving me a few extra minutes of riding on the hills before having to get off and walk !

Charging phones, Garmin, iPad etc is a challenge. Not only on the road but on campsites too. I’d looked at various options ,dynamo hubs,solar panels etc but settled on a Pedal Cell dynamo. This is basically a high tech version of a low tech bottle dynamo,but producing by more power ,even at low speeds (important!). It can either directly charge a device, or a power bank for later use . I tested it directly into an iPhone, and an hour of riding charged it from 36% to 78%,which is encouraging.

Anyway ,enough nerdy kit stuff for now ….

Bilbao to Athens that is!

This seems to be the general route I’ve settled upon. More exact details to follow but this is the idea. It’s about 2200 miles which is 45 (of my available 60) cycling days based on 50 miles a day. Some hilly/windy/tired days I won’t get anywhere near that distance but other flat/sunny/good legs days I may go beyond ,so let’s see.

Just over a week to go before I leave so quite a lot of prep to do this week, (on top of the day job of course ) so I’ll be posting some nerdy things this week, like kit lists,bike spec etc . Well I call them nerdy but other peoples lists and ideas have been really useful for me in the run up to this trip so the least I can do is tell you what make my tent is and what cassette size I’m using!

Look out also for some travel and logistical details re the route and ferries etc .

This blog has been designed to chronicle my solo trip,by bike,across Europe. Starting in August 2022 at Bilbao in Northern Spain and finishing at some point further West about eight weeks later.

Of the two tasks (blogging v cycling), I’m definitely favouring two wheels over a keyboard !

My aim is to use a combination of pedal power and ferries (I love ferries!!) to travel West to East over the eight weeks of September and October . The provisional plan is Spain-ferry-Sardinia-ferry-Sicily,Italy and another ferry across the Adriatic to either Croatia or Montenegro. This last bit depends on all the usual cycle touring factors such as energy, time elapsed,funds etc and will dictate how I actually get back home

More of that in posts to come

I’ll be updating when I can and this is just a first post so I can circulate the blog address in advance of my departure from the UK on the 28th August .