It seemed like a good idea at the time, the enjoyment of riding a motorcycle through the English Lake District with a swim in one of its most beautiful ‘Meres’, that of Butter’mere’. The water here is clear, and only surpassed by the more remote and dramatic Wast Water, although Crummock Water vies with Buttermere for number two slot.
As locals will know there is only one lake in the Lake District, that being Bassenthwaite, all the others are either meres or waters, for those wishing for more detailed explanation you can find it here:
In preparation for a six week venture into Spain (starting from Portsmouth on 11th August) I will, over the next four days, be having a short trip into Wales with biking buddies Nige and Andy.
The choice of steed is no longer the trusty BMW GS, as that departed my garage last Friday, so the Wales trip will be on my recently acquired Triumph Bonneville T120.
A fortnight before embarking on a six weeks tour of Spain, the sensible option would probably have been to keep the motorcycle which is universally accepted as being the No.1 choice for adventure/touring riders across Europe, but sensible is maybe an attribute not usually associated with yours truly?
Out with the old
So with less than two weeks to go before my grand depart, I sold the trusty BMW and bought a bike more suited to posing than Euro touring, draw your own conclusions!
Tuesday I couldn’t resist a pre tour ride out, after all, the sun was breaking through in Carlisle north of the river, so I donned my open face Union Jack crash helmet and added my Triumph shades to complete the image. Three miles down the road the sun was nowhere to be seen, hidden by cloud, which made me say to myself “Ain’t no sunshine”. Now lyrics of songs were never my strong point, but the little I do know was enough to finish the line off. It doesn’t take the winner of Pop Master to work out the state I was in by the time I arrived at Rachel’s grave! In the words of Tom Jones ‘It’s not unusual’.
For fear of turning this blog into some kind of ‘Guess the lyrics/guess the artist’ game, I shall desist from such a theme and move on to the adventure in hand.
It happens every time, as soon as I go abroad I wish I’d learnt a bit of the language. I can’t stop saying “Oui” instead of “Si” ,although I have snook into the darkest corner of what to most other people is commonly known as a brain, and dug out “Lo siento, no hablo espanyol” which, if nothing else, seems to break the ice.
I really had to at least do this after I attempted to order my evening meal last night at a small bar in a village not far from where I’m staying. It was privately owned with the daughter being ‘front of house’, however when I ordered what I understood to be cold meats, mother emerged from the back, put a forefinger either side of her head and started mooing. Not like in the words of Alf Garnet “You silly old moo”, she was only trying her best to help me understand, but if I don’t want the rest of this trip to turn out as the World’s longest game of charades, I need to do at least a little bit!
I gaze out of my bedroom window to see drizzle and think of the phrase ‘The sun shines on the righteous’, or is it the SON shines on the righteous? Well whatever/whoever is supposed to shine, the SUN wasn’t shining on me this morning, nor by the forecast would it for the next few days, as I am in the only place in Spain with one rain drop, and I’m not even on the plain! So much for all these so called sayings.
Glad I decided to travel light!
But I feel grateful to be here, and take my time loading up the bike thinking that the weather will improve in an hour or so, and I was right, the drizzle had subsided sufficiently to allow me to sit in the saddle without wiping it with the knee of my jeans, a practice commonplace amongst us northern European bikers.
I look longingly at those in the restaurant sitting at the tables around me, all seem to have chosen either a medium rare steak, or some other instantly recognisable meat to accompany their chips, whilst I stare down into my bowl of chorizo. Now I like chorizo, hence why I chose this from the tapas board, however I expected a little variety other than some bread to mop up the inevitable greasy soup it floated in. To my credit I managed to consume the entire helping, albeit by pacing myself, but I fear the consequences of such an ingestion.
It’s a Spicy One!
My glimmer of hope is how my body coped with last night’s meal. A couple of days ago I met two young Spanish bikers up at the monastery at Covadonga, the Rocket seems to instigate conversation, to which I always have to reply in Spanish “I’m sorry but I can’t speak Spanish”. They usually then start talking to me in English, as these guys did, and after chatting about bikes we got onto the subject of local food delicacies. They recommended Fabada, an Asturian (not Austrian) bean stew. I searched all the restaurants in Potes but without luck, but to my surprise it was on the menu at this hotel/bar, so that what I had. Beans…..mmmmm, I was thinking that it’s probably a good job that I’m only sharing my room with mosquitos, but even they daren’t enter! To be fair my insides coped remarkably well with that assault, fingers crossed this time!
Saturday night’s Fabada
Today’s ride was going to be a leisurely 60 miler but ended up being twice that and not so leisurely at times, I gave myself a slap for being too enthusiastic at times, not dangerous (in my humble opinion) just a bit too enthusiastic. This next bit is for my biker followers so if you dare read it you may immediately conjure up the image of me next to that village sign ‘Bore’ (which was actually ‘Bores’), you’ve been warned!
