Euro Bike Bimble

It was the final three miles that made it worse. A hard hilly 48 mile day culminated in a three mile, uphill detour to a headland and my campsite for the night (Camping Riva Smerelda for reference if you’re compiling a list of places to avoid in Sicily)

It was really grim. Not so much an end of season feel, I was used to that, but a feeling that the place was about to be condemned. The suspicious looking unfriendly woman dismissively told me the advertised restaurant was closed ,there was no Wi-Fi and the tent pitches had been relocated to the car park. It’s not a massive list of requirements you need as a camper, and I wasn’t being a prima donna to expect the basics, otherwise I’d have wild camped . I was ready to lower my already low (😊) standards right down but this place was spirit breakingly awful .

I sat on a step near the toilet block,the duelling banjo theme from Deliverance running through my head and threw myself into booking.com ….

Before all that the ride had been good. Another hot day, I seemed to be making slow but steady progress. The miles rolled by via a couple of cafe drinks stops.

Ever present on my left were the Lipari islands ,and Milazzo, the town I was heading for, was the main ferry port for the island group. Even so, I didn’t expect Milazzo to be so nice . A palm tree fringed town harbour with a large Liberty Lines ferry also featured diving trips and other water sports-plenty of yachts and catamarans were in harbour too,and the waterside restaurants were crowded with people obviously straight off a boat.

It was this buzzing cosmopolitan town that I’d cycled through to get to the campsite, so it made the contrast even greater. A bit like passing up a full roast dinner for a mouldy sandwich .

Anyway the “find accommodation near me” fairy had done her work and within minutes of arriving I’d turned tail and was speeding down the hill under an amazing sky to an excellent B and B (ReUmberto bed and breakfast ,for reference if you’re compiling a list of places to go in Sicily 😊)

The place was so nice and such good value I took an impromptu rest day in Milazzo. My navigation phone was playing up and needed fixing, I needed a haircut and some supplies,and the bike needed a fettle..decision made

It was the word “pomodoro” that did it. I’d left the campsite early, so early in fact I’d beaten the morning bread delivery to the nearby village.

With the promise of bread and pastries within the next fifteen minutes I sat and waited in a quiet shady street .

I heard the megaphone getting nearer . There was an election in Italy in a few days time, candidate posters were everywhere and I thought the megaphone was someone electioneering or campaigning for a local candidate or something.

That is until I heard pomodoro being barked out. I know Italy has had a difficult political landscape recently but even they wouldn’t have a campaign based on the Tomato Party, surely?

Of course not! What I was hearing was the sales pitch for the mobile fruit and veg seller,driving from street to street in his flat backed Piaggio moped van thing, the back piled high with salad,and peaches, melons,oranges and massive Sicilian lemons (and yes, tomatoes of course) .

The houses in these streets were basically four or five story’s high, an apartment on each floor with a balcony overlooking the street below.

As I watched the van pulled up beneath a balcony where an old chap sat. A shouted conversation later, the old chap lowered a bucket on a rope down to the van. Here it was filled to the brim with his fruity order before being pulled back up to to the balcony, lowering it again with the payment coins rattling around .

Home delivery Sicilian style and as I watched I saw that in fact every balcony had a bucket and a rope attached to it. Simple! Just don’t tell Jeff Bezos.

Cycling wise it was a 40 mile day today, again hugging the coast but on some busier roads.

As I progressed I was seeing the difference in the local cycling scene too. In Northern Spain there were plenty of “roadies” all of whom looked to be full kit semi pro racing snakes who rarely said a hello or acknowledged me. They shot past me on hills, completely aloof and composed . It wasn’t until Sardinia that I saw anything resembling a UK style club run, and these riders were noticeably friendlier. But in Sicily the other cyclists were really chatty and smiley and curious about my route and kit,one even taking a photo of my pedals (me neither 😊).

The undulating route took me through Santa Stefano di Camastra, Sicilys answer to Stoke on Trent. This was clearly the ceramics capital of the island and every shop sold a huge range of colourful vases,huge urns,pots and plaques. Some if it was pretty tasteless actually but it was clearly big business, and as I whizzed downhill out of the town I passed several large pottery factories .

I spent the rest of the ride trying without success to pinpoint the source of every cyclists irritant, the RANDOM UNIDENTIFIED NOISE .

Tonight’s campsite was Agricampeggio Alessandra whose website grandly claimed the site wasn’t so much about camping but a “way of life close to nature” which I assumed meant there was no bar. I was right .

Today was a later start . I’d slept well to the sounds of the crashing sea,and with a shorter day ahead I was in no rush to get going.

The campsite was arranged in a series of terraces down to the sea-tents got the front positions closest to the water with camper vans etc further uphill and behind.

As I was packing up I spied two other cycle tourists on the pitch behind me -a married couple,older than me,with his ‘n’ hers Surly bikes . These are pretty much the best touring bikes out there and so I guessed I was in the presence of no little expertise and experience .I watched as they packed their stuff away -they seemed choreographed and in complete ergonomic harmony -no movement was wasted as panniers were filled, tents aired and rolled and bottles filled in an impressively well practiced style.

I of course was trying to appear cool as I packed and re packed my panniers, put them on the bike and took them off again, belatedly remembered I’d left my helmet hanging in a tree, tripped over a stray tent peg and generally just huffed and puffed and faffed about

Turns out they were even more experienced than I thought -an American couple called Ward and Jacky, they were on a month long tour of Italy, having previously cycled around the world (and written a book about it), veterans of seventy countries and counting . Wow. Ward told me that the previous day, on a campsite “rest” day, he’d cycled uphill for four hours into a local National Park-pretty similar of course to my rest day spent expertly procrastinating while browsing nonsense on the internet .

Today I had two aims -visit the nearby town of Cefalu and see something of the Queens funeral . I didn’t achieve the latter, despite my best efforts, failing to find any TV, anywhere. I did listen on the radio though and it was a really weird feeling to hear it all from afar, feeling connected but disconnected at the same time .

Cefalu was lovely though, if very touristy. A maze of narrow streets leading to a small main square with a Norman cathedral, it was rammed. It was described as the prettiest town on that Northern Sicilian coastline. For me though, the presence of umbrella led tour groups, coaches loudly beeping as they reversed slowly up impossibly steep and narrow streets and a good smattering of shops proudly selling tack made me not to want to linger .

One shop that I did approve of though was the one selling freshly made arancini balls-thats all, made to order and apparently essential for any middle aged foreign cyclist about to climb steeply out of the village 😊🚴🏻‍♂️

Climb steeply I did ,once again never losing sight of the glittering sea to my left . I also noticed a railway line beneath me that hugged the coastline too-later research identified this as the Palermo -Messina line ,surely one of the most scenic regional train routes around .

Tonight’s campsite was virtually empty-massive and clearly hugely busy in the Summer,tonight it had that familiar end of season feel.

I had a decent pizza there though and my sole dining companions ,an English couple did the UK proud as she (sozzled) loudly argued with him (even more sozzled) that Macron, not Trudeau, was the Canadian, not the French president and that Westminster Abbey doesn’t allow dogs in (who knows what trauma lies behind that 🤷🏻‍♂️)

She then raised a (very full) glass to “Our Queen” before bursting into tears, and the pair of them weaved patriotically back to their motorhome.

What a fascinating place. Filthy, beautiful, chaotic, noisy, historic, feisty, scenic, poor, rich, diverse, -almost any adjective you can think of really .

I started with the ubiquitous cappuccino and crème croissant at Caffeteria de Costa, the still warm pastries arriving on a metal tray carried in on a bakers shoulder,before flying out the door quicker than they came in. I sat for an hour there ,watching and listening as the Sunday morning city came to life, early morning runners and cyclists avoiding the daytime heat, an army of street cleaners working to the clatter of bottles into skips.

Next door was a grand building with massive heavy doors betraying nothing of within. Outside, a black Mercedes, illegally parked but studiously ignored by all the passing carabinieri, waited with the driver standing guard ,black suit, black tie,hands clasped to the front. It certainly looked a bit “Godfather”ish, even if the official line is that the Mafia is pretty much extinct these days

I threaded my way out of the city through a morning market, what a tourist guide would probably call “grittily authentic”- narrow streets with a sprawling collection of stalls ,smells and sounds. One stall holder demonstrating his CD’s with a booming soundtrack,next to lots of fish stalls and a man selling nothing but red onions .

It’s a shame I didn’t need a new bathroom tap,a lotto ticket,some saffron, an umbrella or a phone case as it would have been just the place.

Around the corner was an African presence, all brightly coloured fabrics and wicker baskets. As I pushed the bike through (it was too busy to cycle) I saw a stall on a corner that was four deep with noisy eager customers

Here was a little three man production line -one man was washing and slicing squid and octopus into rings before the second man dunked them into a big bowl of batter. The glory role went to the third man who quickly deep fried the rings before stuffing them into fresh bread rolls (or ‘cobs’ for any East Midlands readers😂) before squeezing on fresh lemon juice and passing them out to the waiting crowd (most of whom,commendably despite the early hour had a beer on the go) wrapped in paper.

I’d debated with myself staying longer . I had a 46 mile ride to a campsite and I was pretty knackered from the ferry, but I did want to make progress, instead adding Palermo to the “definitely worthy of a long weekend “ list for the future .

Here now was my introduction to “proper” Italian drivers ! This lot made Sardinians look like amateurs ,as they skimmed past me at a distance that would set Close Pass Twitter on fire .

But. But. In a weird way ,despite the close passing, it actually felt quite safe . There was no impatience, no excess speed, no “get off the road “ kind of malice and no carelessness-weirdly I think there was some kind of pride in slowly and closely passing a cyclist and what seemed chaotic at first glance was actually a carefully choreographed way of moving around.

That’s not to say it was relaxing ! Riding through an average Sicilian town was an adrenaline rush of the kind Alton Towers would dream of-the most thrilling event being when “close passing” driver conspired with “emerging from a side road” driver to make a cyclist sandwich, “una panini de ciclista” if you will.

One emerging driver was so surprised to see me she nearly dropped her phone,and on one particularly close pass I couldn’t decide whether to blame the bare chested driver or the baby on his knee😊

No matter. My route today hugged the coast for nearly all the way -because I liked that scenery but also because it avoided some of the mountain madness inland-don’t forget this is an island with an actual volcano!

I rolled into Camping Sanfilippo at about 5pm,and was surprised to bag a stunning sea view pitch. There were two campsites next door to each other ,each advertising access to their own “private beach”. Of course ,it was the same beach 😊

After some rehydration (Peroni style) and carb loading (marguerita style) I sorted tomorrow . I was planning a shorter day, firstly to visit a much recommended village called Cefalu,but also because it was the Queens funeral and I wondered if I’d find somewhere to watch it . As my German neighbour put it, “Regina Kaput” and I wanted to see at least some of the proceedings if I could

My Grimaldi Lines ferry MV Corfu,had been in port since yesterday. Smaller than the ferry that I’d taken from Barcelona, it still dominated the port skyline. That is, until today, when a new ship on the block turned up-the Cunard liner Queen Victoria. Dwarfing all around it, this 3000 passenger liner seemed to be a bit of a blot on the landscape, a huge floating symbol of indulgence. I don’t think the Cagliari tourism imdustry minded though, and the (very) loud American voices reverberated around the narrow streets as much needed revenue flowed in.

It had struck me in Cagliari how massive the effects of COVID must have been in a society that absolutely exists and thrives on bustle and contact and outdoor mixing-Italy was the first European country to be hit hard and the ensuing lockdowns, overnight turning these lively, noisy, hectic streets into ghost towns must have been such a worrying and marked contrast, more obvious than in other places maybe .

Anyway, my crossing was no different to the QV passengers, in as much as we were both on a ship. In the sea. There the similarity ended . I mean who needs a cabin, a three course meal, a waiter, a bar and a view of the Mediterranean sunset from the lounge deck? I bet any of those passengers would have gladly swapped that for a reclining seat that didn’t recline, in a lounge that wasnt loungey.

And what would they have given to watch seven solid hours of Tu Si Que Vales at top volume on the no escape communal TV? Loosely translated as “you are worth it” it was basically Italy’s Got Talent on a loop. The third time I saw the Arthur Scargill lookalike in the white trousers dancing to “Staying Alive” I knew his finale was to climb a step ladder and do the splits into a cactus plant. Seriously. Still made me wince though.

We arrived into Palermo at 5am. Even thought the ship wasn’t going any further, everyone was disembarked into the night. I rode into the centre and waited for daylight to form a plan. My first impression was litter everywhere . You know those photos of Glastonbury the day after everyone’s gone home? It was like that,talk about the morning after the night before .

It was nice seeing the city wake up though,and I had a breakfast tip off that opened at 730am…..

(more…)

With thanks to the Bare Necessities I know the words and the tune but what I didn’t know is that prickly pears were an actual thing . Until, that is, we were served them for breakfast at Corona B & B and I realised they were the fruits of the massive cactus plants that were everywhere .

Small, prickly and pear shaped (clues in the name I suppose 😊) I had no idea they were edible,and guess what ? They weren’t. In fact,absolutely disgusting. Apart from anything else the prickles were almost impenetrable and the fruit within was most definitely not worth the jeopardy . All I’ll say is that Cian rode all day with palms full of spikes,regretting his youthful fruity enthusiasm

So todays ride was our last in Sardinia-45 miles into the capital Cagliari on the South coast . In purely cycling terms we could have ridden the island in four days but our Sardinian time was stretched out to a week to fit in with plane and ferry schedules. This gave us the campsite rest day in the middle and also gave us a free day in Cagliari too.

Todays ride was uneventful really-we had quite a long time riding parallel to a motorway ,on a kind of service road ,which made for a functional but (whisper it) boring route

The run into Cagliari itself was a bit of slog too-the roads were noticeably busier (and in worse condition) and the suburbs were sprawling and hard to navigate (we later realised we’d done an extra eight miles today, I think most of it going round in circles on the outskirts!)

This was our rough route through Sardinia. The North Western corner and coastline was stunning-mountainous and very very quiet, not nearly as touristy as I imagined it would be. Cycling wise it was hard work but I’m chuffed we got up (and down) some of the biggest hills I’ve encountered .

As we moved South the roads got busier and more potholed, and driver behaviour got a bit more impatient (but nowhere near UK homicidal levels 😊)

Cagliari itself was lovely. It’s a prosperous and busy international port and the old town area ,in the Castello district is particularly charming. A maze of narrow high sided streets, wall to wall bars and restaurants make the streets even narrower and amplify the buzz and chatter in a really civilised way .

Established as part of the Roman Empire, its strategic importance for controlling trade in the Mediterranean and North Africa has made it a target over the centuries for invasion by a wide range of powers,including the Spanish and French,and today the history is obvious ,with Roman ruins everywhere. It’s really charming and understated,even on the days the cruise ships disgorge their bus loads of passengers into the town.

Saturday came too quickly-Cian left in the early morning, what a treat to have had him for a week before he disappeared off to South America for who knows how long! For me ,the 5pm Grimaldi Lines (them again) overnight ferry to Palermo in Sicily awaits….wonder if I’ll get any sleep on this one ?…..

Hmm. Remember in my very first post my thoughts and prayers being focussed on my rear wheel spokes? Well I’d clearly been lacking in the thinking and praying department as the tell tale ping of a broken rear spoke interrupted our early morning grand depart from the camp site.

I’d got some spares but checking revealed another four spokes about to ping so it was a bike shop job. Luckily we were only half an hour from Oristano where Signor Google told me there were three bike shops-loading my panniers onto the front and riding gingerly,wincing at every bump, the Italian version of Sods Law meant that it was only the very last shop we tried that could do a “while you wait” job.

BK Bikes was clearly a labour of love for the owner, with half a dozen beautiful classic Italian road bikes on display, I’d guess from the 1980s. We had an in-depth conversation about these strictly “not for sale” beauties without understanding a word each other was saying ! We got the drift.

Job done. Five new spokes later we set off for Sardara. A spa town apparently, with several of the hotels offering that kind of health and wellness package, we instead had ignored all that nonsense and opted instead for the unfortunately named Corona B &B.

Thirty six miles today and the riding was a bit harder. I learned that the Italian for “head wind” is “vento contrario” which sounds nicer but is still a head wind. It made me realise I hadn’t been checking the weather at all-normally my rides in the UK are preceded by obsessively checking the wind direction etc and planning routes accordingly, but here I hadn’t bothered , probably because it wouldn’t make any difference to the days plans in any case.

The scenery was fairly similar for the whole ride -there was definitely evidence that we were now moving inland through flatter plains ,with cloud topped mountains looming either side of us.

This seemed to be grape growing country and some vines were being harvested -tractors were bumping past us with trailers piled perilously high with the almost black crop.

Corona B & B was basically a first floor extension of the owners house . It was actually really nice and comfortable, a small foyer with two rooms off, but although access for us was via external steps, the owner Mauro was able to access the area from a secret locked door leading down into his house .

I’m sure he meant well but silently appearing and disappearing, and hovering just a bit too long was all a bit Norman Bates. He did later recommend a cracking pizzeria though so you know, swings and roundabouts !

This was a great days cycling. The climbs were just as long ,but we’d got a kind of “grind it out” rhythm going. We’d also seen two other groups of cycle tourers following the same route, a German quartet and a Swiss couple. We definitely weren’t in competition, oh no, perish the thought, but a certain motivation to keep going and not be overtaken seemed to have crept into our ascending.

The difference today was that the descents were longer and straighter,meaning it was easier to let the bikes go and make the most of the reward after the climb-on one stretch I freewheeled for over three miles

A practical problem we faced was making sure we had enough food and crucially, water. We would typically get through three litres each before lunch, and Sardinia was no different to other places in its lack of places to get even the most basic of supplies once out on the road.

We had seen the tiny village of Santa Caterina di Pittinuri on the map-twenty miles in, it was at todays halfway point and we hoped we might find at least a water fountain . What we didn’t expect was to stumble into what looked like the set for a Gina Lollobrigida film

Tucked away down a little track was a stunning cove. A couple of fishing boats bobbed on the waves and someone tanned and slim was paddle boarding languidly across the bay. The short stony beach was sprinkled with a few umbrellas and a couple of IMIS (see yesterday!) were unloading a small boat onto the slipway .

The sea and the sky seemed to merge in an unbroken palette of deep blue with only the reflected sunlight flashing on the waves to mark one from the other

Facing the beach were some haphazardly placed plastic tables and chairs . The smell of garlic and herbs was drifting out of the small restaurant and the low chatter was punctuated by the noise of a wine bottle in ice bucket. A man emerged from the sea and playfully shook water onto his wife -although what she probably actually said was “don’t bloody get me bloody wet you bloody idiot” it (of course) all sounded so much better in Italian.

Fearing for our progress if we’d followed the crowd and fuelled up on grilled freshly caught lobster washed down with a crisp dry white, we had something more carby (and boring) to eat and reluctantly pressed on.

The next twenty miles saw us pedalling into Camping Spinnaker at Torregrande -this turned out to be a superb location,a minute from the sea and an ideal place to have a rest day the following day . The campsite was rammed, and ticked all the boxes, including a full programme of Europop karaoke. A particular favourite was the classic “ uno,due,tre….quattro” sang (ie shouted) to the tune of ….well no tune at all. Nor were there any other lyrics. Sadly it became my uphill cycling earworm and took days to purge from my memory!

I had my first swim in the Med here (glam) and also cleaned and checked and fettled with my bike in the outdoor showers (not glam).

Our next days cycling was therefore Wednesday ,heading inland (and away from the mountains ) for the spa town of Sardera.

A sunny Sardinian September Saturday was the pleasingly alliterative beginning of our week in Sardinia

Note the “our”- for this week I had a riding and navigating companion in the form of Cian, and our plans for the week were designed around some logistics.

He had flown into Alghero in the North,was hiring a touring bike from a local company before we both rode down to the Sardinian capital Cagliari on the South coast. His return flight six days later was from Cagliari, as was my onward ferry to Palermo on the same day. Handily the bike could be dropped off at a local office in Cagliari too.

So with the beginning and the end sorted all we had to do was fill in the middle . The route was pretty straightforward, hugging the mountainous coast until about halfway down then heading inland at an angle through a (hopefully flatter) valley into Cagliari. Individual daily distances were mainly dictated by campsite and hotel locations along the way.

The harbour town of Bosa was our end point today . About 30 miles away with no obvious towns or amenities along the way ,the breakfast ninja boy gave me a #prouddad moment as he stealthily made us a full packed lunch ,wrapped, packed and secreted away before I could say “do you think they’ll notice.”

We took the long way out of town, along the harbour with the competing boat trips ,each one a euro cheaper or ten minutes longer than the other -the owners formed a kind of guard of boat trip honour, leaflets in hand by the booking on desks while the boats themselves were being hosed down and ice laden cool boxes hauled aboard .

The harbour side merged into the old town and the huge old city walls surrounding them-this promenade was the fixture of the evening passeggiata, the ritual early evening social stroll so beloved of Italians.

But for now it was simply where the British entrants to the Sardinian Open-Father And Son (SOFAS) team had their “before” picture taken by a press ganged but helpful local.

We had a glorious three or four minutes grace of sea level cycleways, before the climbing started . Despite the ascent feeling fairly gradual ,after only a few minutes, a stop to look back showed we were already a respectable distance above the town.

Any self respecting climb would level out now, it’s lung busting work done -but no. Or as they say in Sardinia, no. Up we went for about seven miles, straight into lowest gear and staying there .

The European way of gaining height is different to the UK-we favour straight steep hills that tend to get from bottom to top in a no nonsense “let’s get it done “ way, whereas in Europe it’s more of a long winding switchback kind of set up, “relax signor,take your time ,have a leetle leemon-cello”. It’s like the contrast between a firm handshake and “mwah mwah”air kiss

Lunch was a beach bar at about 10 miles in. A long straight descent had followed the first climb and we spent a recuperative hour contemplating the next section of mountains .

It was here that we observed the superbly liberated phenomenon of ITALIAN MAN IN SPEEDOS. No height,weight or age restrictions affect the membership of this club, only the ability to preen performatively and to lay a towel on the tiniest of spaces,following the sun round like an oiled sundial . We were to see many examples of IMIS as the week progressed.

Up and down we went . Never losing sight of the glittering blue Med on our right ,the scenery was amazing. Lots of bays and coves dotted this section of coastline and it all made for mesmerising riding . The heat though was intense -even being so high didn’t seem to cool it down, and apart from the occasional tree there was no shade of any kind all day.

In a weird way,the descent into Bosa, all seven miles of it, wasn’t the glorious free for all we were dreaming of. On our fully loaded bikes,the constant twists and turns meant we were cautious and heavy on the brakes . One particularly sharp left hand bend ,under a rockfall canopy with a sheer drop over to the right gave me butterflies for sure.

Digs for the night was the Resort Islo Rosso,booked about four hours earlier and as cheap as the chips we inhaled with pizza later.

You know they say the best thing to come out of London is the M1? Well the best thing to come out of Cervera is the train line to Barcelona,and I took full advantage .

After a little hiccup at Cervera station “signor,the train,it has died “ I arrived into Barcelona mid afternoon. Having the bike meant I could zip about on the city’s excellent cycle segregated infrastructure but having the bike meant I was a bit limited in what I could actually see . I pedalled to the surreal La Sagrada Familia,just (it seemed ) so I could hear some loud American voices. Afterwards I went to the city cable cars but couldn’t go on them as there was nowhere to leave my fully loaded bike.

My ferry was boarding at 9pm so I grabbed some food in the port area, gawped like a child at some amazing superyachts and made sure I was in the right place to get on the ferry .

The route to Porto Torres in Sardinia was operated by Grimaldi Lines . This is an Italian shipping line which meant Italian rules applied . By which I mean there were no rules .

I looked up the word “chaos” in the dictionary and this is what it said -“the act of trying to board an Italian ferry, in Spain, in the dark, on a bike, when all around you are having a high speed animated language meltdown,at top volume, about trivialities and issues known to no one else . See also the “art of arguing”, “the threat of divorce” and “don’t insult my madre “

It was amazing!! I won’t say too much about the Grimaldi Lines crossing except to say it acted as a cheap overnight accommodation and that they lived up to the first four letters of the company name .

No matter . On Saturday lunchtime we docked in Porto Torres on the very North of Sardinia -a major port with less security than my local Sainsburys, I rode untroubled through, and 30 miles later I was in Alghero and waiting for my boy to arrive

I’d booked Hotel Catalunya which was lovely. Cheap as chips bearing in mind the location and the included breakfast, and an easy place to head for straight off the plane.

We plotted our routes over pizza and beer with the promise of a good nights air conditioned sleep and a massive breakfast 😊. Can you see how important a buffet breakfast is becoming?