Leon to Potes through the Picos at EveryTrail

Today presented a few challenges. Breakfast at the hotel was everything a hotel breakfast could be, huge variety and potentially endless, although much of it came in little containers that left a small mountain of litter on my table afterwards. Breakfast was deserted. I’ve been avoiding coffee for the last four days and it is definitely helping my stomach.
I had half a plan to head over to the Picos again and camp at Potes which Alan Rogers gives a good rating for. But the first challenge was to escape the underground car park. It presents a steep and winding concrete road up onto the street and not only that, you have to stop on the steep incline, press the button on the wall for the door to open above you and then spring out up the last part of the slope and onto the street.; OK in a car but a little tricky on a big heavy bike. I made it but with the odour of burning clutch in the air that seemed to hang in my nostrils for a while after I had ridden out of town.
I had an idea of the route, quite tight and twisty after a while and I found eventually I got into a new technique with countersteering and leaning the bike under me while I kept relatively upright. It was making corners feel much more under control. But havint just discovered this, I think we must have crossed into a different autonomous region because the road surface suddenly became much worse, full of potholes, tar banding and negative cambers. So I slowed down. Then I got high enough to be riding in cloud and at times I could only see a few yards in front of me, this combined with tight 2nd gear bends with sheer drops on one side and overhanging rock on the other. Now add the odd cow wandering over the road and you have the full picture.
After a while I reached an iconic biker location, the Puerto San Gloria, a lookout on a spectacular downward hairpin complete with a few sports bikes parked and their riders looking through the mist to the valley below. I did not stop to join them. I barely saw them and kept going down concentrating for grim death.

Eventually the mist cleared but the bends did not ease up for another 15k. But I made it down to Camping La Ilsa Picos de Europe campsite just out of Potes by 2pm. I could have revisited a site a stayed at on the way down but that would have meant another hour travelling so I decided to stay. I was initially a bit iffey about the site – it’s a bit featureless and next to a road (though behind a stone wall) but I warmed to it: English is spoken and the shop sells some fresh produce and chilled white wine. The wifi also reaches to me tent on occasions.
After tonight – just three more nights before the ferry.
Tonight I am cooking my most elaborate variation of a pasta dish: local organic onion and beef tomato cooked in olive oil with herbs, chorizo and pasta and white wine. Meanwhile a woman is playing an elaborate hiding the ball game with a large, lovely old dog. I have no idea of the breed. It pretends to growl at her and prance off as she tries to get something out of its mouth. Humans and animals. Maybe we learn something from them – or from our relationships with them.

Today I took the ride southwards on the coast road down to the bay of Arousal, but it wasn’t as successful or enjoyable as yesterday’s ride.

To the Cape of Arousal at EveryTrail

The road is not as attractive and there were roadworks in a town about 5 or 6 miles down the road and a diversion which got me completely lost. I knew the name of the town I was aiming for, Ribeira. In my lostness I got swept onto a motorway that I could see on the map but wanted to avoid. In the end I made it to Ribeira, which is the kind of town that guidebooks describe as ‘a gritty port town’, hot busy, big trucks and tricky to navigate around, but a few stops to look at the map and u turns later I was leaving town. I managed to stay on the right road back, the only event being my arrival, along with others, at a recently occurred accident. A bright yellow delivery truck and a car were severely smashed and it was impossible to work out what had happened but everyone seemed safe and completely unhurt.
Today is more humid and a little overcast. The other Brits left this morning and I think I may do the same tomorrow. Its very pleasant here but short of spending tomorrow lying on the beach or swatting flies at the campsite, I think I have exhausted things here. But I still haven’t decided where to head for tomorrow. There is a medium-sized looking town Leon about half way toward the region I want to end up at on Sunday. I might see if I can find a hotel there. There are no Alan Rogers recommended campsites there, though apparently a great many.
This holiday has been so much more successful than previous camping trips and I put that down to two things so far: I have got the right guidebook to chose campsites, so for the most part I have avoided the nasty ones which can just feel uncomfortable. Here, as in the first site I stayed in, there is a thankful variety of travellers, young couples, even the odd single person, apparently gay couples, all in a variety of tents. There’s something about the barrage of families and the slightly affluent retired folk in motorhomes that feels alienating because there is no point of contact. With the unusual travellers there is, or at least the possibility. The other ingredient – again so far – has been the weather, warm, sometimes hot, dry. There’s nothing worse for the spirits than rain, particularly when you don’t know how long it will last. The other difference is that I’ve stayed in one place if I like it rather than move on every morning in a distance-covering operation. In fact, this trip is a few days too long, a result of the hugely different ferry prices.

1st September
Some thoughts as I pack up in the morning, I have the advantage of getting the morning sun up here to dry everything off. I fell asleep quickly (after listening to Bruce Springsteen on my iPhone) at 10.30 but awoke again at midnight with children running around and chattering and laughing, but quickly settling shortly after midnight. Then I was awoken again at 4.30 but loud festival music thankfully distant. Why it started at that time I have no idea: did the wind direction change? It was bizarre.
Now at 8.30 I am up before the entire campsite, nearly packed and keen to get back on the road. I have felt an outsider here, a shadowing single figure on the outside of this site of happy families. Sometimes its right, when solitude doesn’t feel conspicuous, as at the last site, with a range of different people there, but sometimes it does not feel comfortable and I wonder where all the serious minded interesting lone travellers have found to stay that I haven’t.
Today I will ride up around the top corner of Galicia and not sure where I will aim for tonight. I even thought a hotel would make a chance. I even thought this model of holiday may have had its day.
At Muros campsite. What can I say? I rode 215 miles today in increasingly hot weather. I stopped off for a very quick lunch looking over a beautiful little port but with choppy seas. But I had lost my keys somewhere (I found them in the bike) and was anxious about the steep climb up back to the main road and sure enough there were obstructions but I ploughed on up not wanting to stop as hill starts are a performance on such a heavily laden bike. The journey was enjoyable though the GPS kept getting lost adding to the overall sense of confusion about where I was and what direction I was heading in. And there were tolls. I followed a car through the lane that seemed to let people through automatically but not me, so had to push Bertha back from the barrier and try another. By this time the temperature was showing 33 degrees. Now I have finally understood the weird thing happening with campsites. I had loaded a while back a Europe full of duff specialist-Dutch motorhome campsites. They are close to the much nicer Alan Rogers sites but when searching for the right address on the GPS I’ve got confused. So luckily I worked that out before I turned left to what looked like the huge and ghastly beach front site and kept on the road another few miles to the sharp uphill right (that I stopped on because of poor slow speed style) that led to this lovely campsite – where there is a field for free form camping, shared only so far with a Portuguese couple and a female cycling duo who are riding from Santiago de Compostella to Lisboa (they said). They are friendly, speak some English and share an incredibly narrow tent. They must be good friends. Now someone else is walking over the space looking for somewhere to park. Also sounding Portugese though driving a Spanish car. Ah they are coming next to me… I have the feeling I may stay here till the site closes on 9th September, or at least 4 or 5 nights. I am rather exhausted by all this rather lost riding. There is meant to be a ‘supermarket’ here on site, and a restaurant (I’m having coffee there now with breakfast croissant).
This is a different climate down here, much hotter and there are flies and cicada after dark.
From Arbon, Asturias to Muros, Galicia at EveryTrail

The night was warm and the morning also bright. I think there is enough to do to stay for a while. I’ve stopped reading Seven Pillars of Wisdom and taken up Being and Time instead. I was growing tired of the constant theme of cruelty in Lawrence’s writing.

From Cabuerniga to Arbon at EveryTrail

I headed off late morning after the age that it takes to pack everything up and move everything that got damp in the night into the shifting sunshine to dry off, and after 15 miles of small roads was spewed out onto the motorway A8 heading west. It was great to be riding at speed even though it could be thought of as a boring road.

I’d got a campsite from Alan Rogers guide that seemed to promise something special, close to the coast, and small it said. I ended up needing to stop for petrol at a ghastly service station with no shade so made a quick snack of it by the bike, my carton of milk bought from the campsite, still drinkable, and some nice fresh bread, followed by chocolate just starting to melt on my fingers. About an hour later I arrived at the suburb where the campsite should be. There was something odd in the guidebook, it seemed the site had two different names and true enough at a small junction in the town there were two sites. I headed to where the GPS wanted me to go but found a rather nasty ASCI approved (i.e. full of Dutch in motorhomes) place with a grand entrance so turned around feeling smug heading for the other site. When I got there, it looked worse. The woman in the glass reception booth told me to park the bike and follow her but by the time I had, she was nowhere to be seen. I walked down to where a few tents were but the place was like a cross between a loud public swimming pool, a busy bar and a caravan site. This was no good, so in the car park I leafed through the guidebook (which I am beginning not to trust so much) and tried a few different ways to tell the GPS where I thought looked safe to go to, about 35 or so miles further west. I jumped on and enjoyed zooming off. But with so much road building here the GPS was hopelessly confused and took me on some lovely twisty roads believing that I was actually a couple of hundred feet above on the new motorway whose great concrete stilts I rode under, from one side to the other. As ever the route to a campsite gets more and more remote and you need trust to believe that it really knows where it is going. Close to where it should be I slowed down looking out for signs and noticed a queue of traffic just behind me. I darted off to the side of the road to let them pass and lurched to an undignified halt. Round the next few bends was the entrance, down a rocky track that Bertha laughs at.

So I am here. In some ways little different to the others – but subtly nicer – and I feel comfortable which is the point. The owner chain smokes roll ups and has Diablo tattooed on his forearm for a start, and explained (something) about the beer I just bought. I found a shady corner just flat enough to stand Bertha and I camped under orange trees. I just ate one that I saw fall to earth. They smell beautiful and fresh.

The guide book says they have a great restarant here. I’m enjoying a cool beer as I write this but I’m not sure I’m up for sitting alone to eat surrounded by the happy families here. I think I will stay a couple of nights all being well and perhaps Sunday will have emptied out. Tomorrow is 1st September and perhaps everywhere will be quieter from now. I want to get to the West coast.

From campsite up to the El Sopleo caves at EveryTrail

So, my philosophy is to take it easy. My last visit to Spain on the bike was the cause of some anxiety and a baptism of fire of tight steep hairpins. I went out, after mid day looking for medieval Potes but the road I was looking for wasn’t there. Kindly at breakfast two teachers from Portugal gave me some in depth – cave-orientated advice about what to see around here. Luckily the El Sopleo (it means breath or breeze I think) caves were part of their recommended itinerary so I made a sharp right and then a further right up a steeper road (there were cows with horns wandering on it on the way back). Some tightish hairpins today but only one gave some anxiety . There is a stunning view from the site and you can pay €12 for a guided tour of the caves which you start in a rattly old mine train something like the Waterloo and City line used to be – but open carriages. Once inside the show starts. A light show and loud synthesised atmospheric music, reminding me of Almodovar. At this point I remembered that I’d left my expensive movie camera on my bike. Annoying but I am burdened with too many gadgets anyway. The cave was cavishly amazing. At the final  part they played opera, loud and beautiful. Some families started to hug eachother and kiss. The guide said, I think, ‘Music and lights stimulate the frontal cortex’. Then we rattled back up the train back into the daylight. Photography was banned which was a relief. We have to concentrate and rely on memory. A potato salad and Fanta celebrated the safety of my camera.

Tomorrow I will try to find Potes. This holiday is going to be measured though the Portuguese did tell me Galicia is beautiful, though it rains there.

The weather is perfect. The 7pm sun on the roof tiles and bricks where I am sitting now are so warming. There are tourists – all Spanish – but nowhere is crowded and no one drove behind me today making me think I should ride faster than I want to. On my return I realised I’d lost one of my Zig bottles from the back of the bike (the one with vodka in it). I was fond of it.

Today is the end of the last public holiday here until Christmas. The evenings are already drawing in – its nearly dark now at 8.30 – and the Proms are running, marking the end of high summer. But tomorrow I head off on another motorcycle trip, my eighth. Every year since learning to ride I’ve taken one or more trips with a tent and other equipment strapped to the back, apart from the first where I braved German youth hostels for four nights with just a pair of crocks and a hazard triangle.

This year I’m heading back to Spain, on the ferry from Portsmouth down to Santander. Its the second time I’ve taken this ferry though the first time was an early morning sailing and I stayed in Travelodge Portsmouth the night before. ViaMichelin says it will take 2 and 1/2 hours to get down there, though I always leave in plenty of time. I’d far sooner hang around than feel worried about missing the boat. Each trip is an attempt to solve the problems that the previous trip opened up – avoiding rain, avoiding that alienating feeling of being surrounded by huge motorhomes where I camp, running out of good books, having too few gadgets, having too many gadgets.

The plan is to investigate northern Spain, no huge mileage to make this time, and being prepared to stay in one place, if its agreeable, for a while. I have a few new bits of equipment to test out, all bought with the aim of cutting down on space.