Hi,
Reg here, I thought it was time I had my say for a change, especially as we’ve been on the road together now for three weeks and three thousand miles. Between you and me I think the old man is getting a bit long in the tooth for this blog malarkey, so as he’s having a day off I’ll get my tuppence worth in.
I heard that Bramble used to do a quality blog when she was around, so really Bri is just filling in until somebody/thing can do a proper job!
Continue reading “One Lump or Two?”Some photos of today’s rest day by the pool!
More technical issues which will be addressed tomorrow so here is the Relive
Any well seasoned traveller will say that it’s the people we meet as much as the places we go that make a journey so special. Before I left home there were some who asked me who I was going with and when the reply was “Nobody”, the usual response was “I’m sure you’ll meet loads of people”. My intention was not to meet ‘loads of people’, this was always a journey on my own, after all I have to get used to that because that’s where I am. If I was to meet anybody then fair enough, but I wasn’t going out looking to meet people, I was going to get used to being alone and see how I coped.
Continue reading “The People We Meet”I could write a book about the people I’ve been with over the last two days.
You may wonder how two days could fill so many pages, but every person I meet seems to be worth a chapter!
I’ve only been getting a snapshot of each as I’d they end up getting so much more about me but for a change, less about me and more about them.
Firstly an apology to ‘Seville Gav’ with whom I still have regular contact, which just goes to show the impact of a chance meeting on a ferry, and to Alun (from the valleys) the two of whom were my first ‘connections’ on this trip, and I forgot to mention them in my last post.
Saturday morning, as the saying goes ‘I lost an hour of my life which I will never get back’. I had (in the motorhome) previously driven parts of the infamous 700 mile A7 which pretty much runs the entire ‘Costa’ coast, and Gav had reminded me with, quote ‘Do anything you can to avoid the A7’, but I was in the hands of my guides ‘Estepona Harry’ and ‘Marbella Jimmy’.
The A7 serves a valuable purpose linking all the British pubs and cafe’s along the entire Spanish coast! But seriously, linking all the major resorts, towns and cities, and there is something nice about seeing the expanse of the blue Mediterranean Sea from such close quarters, but like Gav suggested, if there’s any realistic alternative you would avoid the A7 like the plague. A busy dual carriageway with everybody on a mission and ridiculously short entry slip roads just to add a bit of spice, as if it needs it!
Harry met me at the Repsol garage in Estepona where he was amazed to see me putting in the expensive grade of petrol, “What are you putting that in for”? “Coz I want maximum power” was my reply, I think it tickled him that I needed that from a 2.5 litre motorbike engine.
We met James at one of the many British cafes along ‘the strip’ just outside Marbella, it was decent and cheap as chips, but wouldn’t hold a candle to those served up by some of my favoured establishments in Cumbria.
After breaky we continued up the coast another 25 miles to Malaga, which was our start point for the climb up the A7000 into the Montes de Malaga. We did a rather large anti-clockwise loop stopping off at all Harry and James’ usual cafes for a variety of refreshments. The temperature hit 33c again so cool drinks were generally the order of the day.
I got back knackered and sweaty, which is becoming standard practice, so just enough time to shower me and my clothes before heading into town for a meal with my hosts Andy and Andrea and their friends and neighbours Geri and Jean Marie, both motorcyclists.
A great evening, bed at 1am, up at 8 for breakfast then a mid morning swim in the pool where Keri was accompanied by her friend/partner Patrick. There was something about Patrick that made him instantly likeable, he had the appearance of Kenny Rogers with his white hair and beard and his friendly demeanour resulted in my pool entry being delayed somewhat. He had just arrived after a 40 hour flight from Vancouver via Mexico and Madrid, it seems the American twang I thought Keri had was actually Canadian as Vancouver is where they both originate. After some swimming and more chin wagging they eventually left to be replaced by Jean Marie, which turned my plans for yesterday on their head.
Jean Marie was actually born in Malaga but for all intents and purposes he’s French, from Brittany, he’s such a friendly and (yet another) likeable chap and is in awe of Reg. Fairly new to biking having recently passed his test, he’s riding a Yamaha Tenere trail bike which is hired until he gets his own new BMW F900XR later this month. He was keen for us to go for a ride so I shelved my plans for the day and we went off with him to Tarifa.
Tarifa is a place where all the young, beautiful, well tanned athletic types hang out, so it came as a bit of a shock to them to see an old, ugly, white muscle deficcient north European amongst them. Fortunately I kept my clothes on so as not to cause too much alarm. By all accounts it’s one of the world’s most popular destinations for wind sports and Jean Marie and I partook in that sport of hanging onto our motorbikes as we climbed up the N340 to the peak of Mirador Del Estrecho, where even on this cloudy and hazy day Morocco could be clearly seen, which is not surprising as the dark continent is only 10 miles from Europe’s most southerly mainland point.
Jean Marie rides at a conservative pace, which was fine by me as it was a complete contrast from Harry and James’ style. After Tarifa we went further along the coast to get a closer view of those hanging onto kites whilst skimming across the water. Then we headed to La Linea next to Gibraltar, and as I didn’t have my passport we stayed on the Spanish side for afternoon coffee before returning back to Casares.
Yesterday evening I was invited to dinner with my hosts Andrea and Andy. Andy is English and is constantly flitting backwards and forwards between here and England due to the deteriorating health of his mum.
Andrea is Hungarian from Budapest, I asked her how she learnt her excellent English, she started to give an insight into what life was like behind The Iron Curtain. At school their second language had to be Russian and she told stories about how controlling the establishment was of the people. It’s taken 30 years for the old regime to finally lose all control of the country, which is now regarded as one of the safest in Europe. She was saying how Romania sorted their escape from control of the communists by executing Ceausescu and his family, whereas the Hungarians allowed those in power to linger on and hence slow the progress of the nation. She’s also fluent in German, has lived in Brazil and Argentina and this winter intends to improve her understanding of English and Spanish, her vocabulary is excellent but she wants to understand the cultural aspect of the nations, I think she has her work cut out with us!
I’ve managed to arrange one extra day here so depart Thursday morning destined for three nights in Cordoba, watch this space……..
This morning I took the 45 minute weaving route (not that there’s any other) between sugar cube villages and the occasional cork trees to bring me to that tourist Mecca Ronda. It’s one of those places that any holidaymaker searching for a bit of class and culture pay their 40 euros or whatever to be coached up from the Costas. I gave it a little more time than the fleeting visit a week ago but once you’ve seen it…………. as the saying goes.
It will come as no surprise to the readers of this blog that I would describe myself as a simple man. When Reg and I roll up at a petrol pump we don’t need to be verbally greeted by it, nor do we need an array of buttons to choose from to select a pre determined amount of fuel, nor even an attendant to perform the task. Just let me grab the fuel nozzle, fill the tank and go to the kiosk to pay, simple as that! Call me an old fuddy duddy, dyed in the wool dinosaur if you will, but that’s how I like it, simple. A bit like my coffee, just put a teaspoon of coffee from the jar into a mug and put some hot water on it. I don’t need to wait 15 minutes while some machine coughs, splutters and farts until it dribbles out something you could resurface a road with!
Continue reading “Lost in Translation”The King’s Little Pathway conjures images from ancient history where maybe serfs, servants or slaves carried treasure for a ruler, but the truth is much less romantic.
It was built at the turn of the 20th century to give access for workers to the newly constructed hydro-electric power plant. King Alfonso VIII crossed it in 1921 and hence the name, fortunately the walkway is more exciting than its history.
More detailed information is here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caminito_del_Rey
Continue reading “El Caminito del Rey”Ian raised a question that others may have been wondering?
Are you looking forward to heading for home or could you manage to stay travelling?
My reply was ‘Therein lies a story, far too big for FB’, maybe even too big for this blog, but I pondered it as I departed my hotel this morning and rode through the vast dry sierras of southern Spain.
I actually enjoyed the solitude of being the ‘lone ranger’, taking my time to stop and take photos at will, of anything that tickled my fancy.
The day had to be managed, the prospect of the predicted 37 degrees meant one thing for sure, Reg wasn’t turning a wheel today and will remain in the shade anchored to a lamppost, even if he did look a little sad.
Embrace what I do have, not long for what I don’t, easy when I feel strong and focussed, not so easy at other times.
But this morning I feel good and positive despite the rain and I’m looking forward to the prospect of riding across the Sierra Morena to my overnight stop at Tomelloso, en route to Valencia. It’s the first outing for the waterproofs and the waterproof covers for the throw over panniers so we’ll see how they perform.
Continue reading “Sierra definition: A range of mountains with jagged peaks”