Homeward Bound

The Bay of Biscay yet again fails to live up to its legendary status and although it’s by far from a millpond it certainly has a long way to go before it gets Andy and me ‘reaching’ for the sick bags. We seem to fall in that fortunate category of having sea legs, so it takes more than a swell or some white horses to prevent us from getting our money’s worth from membership to the Commodore Lounge.

The significant thing about me typing this as we cross one of Europe’s renowned lumpy waters on 23rd January, is that I’m just one final drive from completing what I set out to do. Anybody who read my last entry of 14th January will know that this was by no means guaranteed.

The concluding chapter

Ken returned to England with more colour in his cheeks, and after I made a brief call in at Fuengirola to see Paul and Chris, I was back at the apartment in Estepona for four nights, until Andy would fly in to Malaga to accompany me on the drive up through Spain and eventually home.

I suppose those four days of doing not very much gave me chance to recharge, Herman’s wheels not turning, nor my legs striding out, however the visit of Paul and Chris to Estepona saw me putting in a four miler, which was possibly little too much? On my final full day I took the recommendation of my apartment’s owner Ana to visit a place high in the hills. 

Fin de Sendero (by Pico Los Reales) in the Sierra Bermeja exceeded my expectations, something which hasn’t always been the case on this tour. The drive up was steep, very steep in places, and narrow, not much more than a car’s width at times, but it was well worth the climb, although it would come with many problems if doing it during the season as there are no passing places to speak of. The view from there was……..well you’ll get an idea from the photographs.

I had time on my hands on Friday (17th) which suited me as I took a few stops en route to Malaga to await the late arrival of Andy. Early Saturday morning we popped across to Fuengirola to meet up with Paul and Chris for coffee before Andy and I headed north to Córdoba for two nights. The open top city bus tour is something I wouldn’t particularly recommend but you can’t go to the city without visiting the Mezquita, I suppose it would be like going to Granada without seeing the Alhambra? I wanted Andy to see it and despite me having been before it still amazes me!

The further north we headed the cooler and wetter it got so by the time we arrived at Toledo it was like northern England in winter. Nevertheless we quickly did a whistle-stop hike around the steep cobbled streets so by the early evening it was time for a long awaited paella. With no suitable inside seating we enjoyed our meal sitting outside by one of those heaters, sheltering from the rain under the restaurant’s vast umbrella. The location of the city is truly stunning, sat upon a hilltop with a deep gorge around it, I would love to return in good weather, possibly on the bike, and explore the gorge area. Our hotel in the historical quarter was first class in all respects.

Our final stopover was Salamanca, a place I’d been to twice before. We stayed at the Parador for a remarkable £75 pppn b&b, massive rooms with settee and a couple of comfy chairs and although it’s a twenty minute walk to the centre it makes up for that with arguably the best view across to the cathedral.

You say patata, I say frittata 

I’ve never previously had a problem using the the term frittata in Spain, but it seems that every bar Andy and I went into didn’t recognise the term. Was it due to the parts of the country we were in or just my lack of understanding of the readily available local dish? On our drive up through the central region we always plumped for local cafe/bars as opposed to chains or petrol stations and as such English was rarely, if ever spoken. With much smiling and nodding, as if we understood our hosts, we never ended up with what we expected, to the extent that I dropped ‘frittata’ and replaced it with pointing, yet even that failed once, which made us think these two English travellers were a good excuse to have a laugh at their expense. The time we did get a frittata was when I asked for a croissant! I rest my case.

Re-evaluation of travel

When Rachel died and I eventually decided that I was up to travelling again I did so with a heavy heart. It was an emotionally distressing challenge but with it brought life and hope that a future could still be bright. After a few trips the solo travelling on the motorbike made me believe I could be strong enough to do this alone and that I certainly didn’t need to be chaperoned on my trips, the turning point being the Scandinavian venture.

Now I travel carrying not so much an emotional hit but more of a physical one. I can still do solo travelling, but on this latest Spanish jaunt I have had chaperones, firstly in the shape of Ken and now with Andy. Yes I had a week’s solo driving down to the Costas and never gave anything a second thought, after all, this is my life now. But the accompaniment of Ken and Andy, coupled with some physical challenges has impacted my thought process. Call me a big softie, but throw into the mix not seeing my two grandsons for a month only adds to the conundrum. 

So where do I go from here? Are future travels always going to be accompanied and limited to three weeks? And who knows what awaits me after my February scan? If I’m told no more travelling abroad again for four months whilst I undergo more treatment will I get cabin fever again and long to return to the open road? If I’m told that I have another three months off will I want to go again so soon after a trip during which I found physically challenging at times?

Plenty to ponder on my return and I warm to the prospect of discovering what the future holds.

Photographs to follow on my return to England.