The city of Nice seen from the surrounding hillside bathed in sunshine

Home Travel StoriesSpain And The Faro Rally 2005 - By Ren Withnell

Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 11

I wake up early enough to notice how quiet it is again. We’d agreed last night to set off fairly early to avoid the worst of the afternoon heat. I get up and put my shorts on and take a look around outside. It’s going to be yet another clear hot sunny day, I’m almost bored with good weather now it’s so predictable. As I start the now familiar routine of putting things into bags in a certain order the Scottish crew are getting up and doing the same. Bags are packed, tents carefully folded, bungees pulled taught over luggage and checks made to ensure nothing will escape. For a moment I think I may actually miss doing this, putting my home into a bag and strapping it to a bike.

We pay our bill and get our respective passport returned to us, then hit the road around 0900. I’m a little concerned. Today’s ride should be a mere walk in the park after Sundays 450-mile trek. But the Scottish crew ride for 80 miles at a time. I’m now quite used to 30 to 50 miles between stops and the discomfort from the Revere ensures I have to do this.

The ride starts off fine and we make simple easy progress. George is leading on his modern Triumph with a shock minus it’s damping due to a big pothole at the start of the trip. I notice it is running somewhat rich, which is the reason why they stop every 80 miles, it has drunk all it’s fuel. Speeds are similar to my own save through the tighter bends and rougher sections otherwise Liz on the back of the Triumph would be seasick.

As we roll along the countryside starts to change from scrubland desert to dry farmland. The views remind me of the south downs of England but basked in sun and every crop is golden brown not lush green. It is nice to see something other than hard grass and mean-looking bushes. It is also noticeable that there is more life here. Tractors in fields, cars on the road, kids in the towns and more of the omnipresent cranes. My backside is going numb now, and if they do stop every 80 miles I’ve still got another 40 to do.

I’m no longer looking at the scenery now, I’m watching each mile pass slowly on the odometer. My mind is washing between anger, pain, peace, distraction and curses. Some folks tell me their backside goes numb. I’d kill for numb. Numb means no pain. Numb is easy. No, I get an ache that grows into a feeling my arse is in a vice being squeezed ever harder. My dodgy knee screams until I move. My feet feel like I’ve been stood on them for 4 weeks solid. I fidget endlessly, each time I feel fine for 30 seconds then the pain comes right back in. I sit up, hunch down, stretch my legs out, move my arse backwards and forwards and sideways, pull funny faces and still nothing works. Either this bike is all wrong or I am all wrong.

Finally with 78 miles on the clock we pull into a petrol station. I get off and smile weakly at the rest of my travelling companions. They are all a tiny bit stiff and ready for a stretch but I don’t get the impression any of them feel like I do. Everyone fills up and we stand in the sun drinking water and chatting. I’m ready for a 3 smoke, 2 toilet visit and big drink kind of stop but no sooner have I lit my cigarette they are all putting on their helmets and waiting for me. I complain but this falls on deaf ears as they wish to be getting on with it before it gets too hot. Too hot?!?! It’s been too blinking hot since I left Liverpool 11 days ago, what difference is 20 minutes going to make. I keep these thoughts to myself, I do not wish to be seen as weak.

A tiny lizard sat on a rock Lizards lying around on rocks. Bet his arse ain't sore

We set off again into the dry farmland. The entire situation repeats itself again like some kind of horrific groundhog day, feel ok, get a bit stiff, get worse, curse, cry, whimper then eventually stop. At least this time I’m 160 miles into the journey. I deliberately dither and procrastinate to ensure I can at least get back n the bike. This time we are into the hills of Northern Spain and the scenery changes into valleys and mountains and trees. Real trees, green trees, forests of them. If only my arse was not so painful I would really enjoy this.

We pull off looking for food. The first town seems to offer no refreshment, back onto the main road. The second stop is open and ready, just not for us. We are told we would have an hours wait, we suspect they are either waiting for a coach party or the workers on the road we can see being built. We are back out of the tunnels and bridges of the mountains before we finally find somewhere to eat.

This place looks quite posh but I still eat the stringy ham on hard bread sandwich. One of the girls comes out with nice soft bread with nice boiled ham between. I ask her what she asked for to get that. “Er…ham sandwich?” Arrrggghh!! It seems “bocadillo” is the hard things I’ve been eating, “sandwich” means you get nice soft bread like I would expect back home. And “Jamon” means the stringy cured ham, “ham” means ham like I find in packets in Tesco back home. Curse that effing Spanish phrase book, it never told me that. I would kick myself but my dodgy leg won’t let me.

Do you remember from Day 3 when I got off the ferry and did not dare to turn left? I ended up at a campsite in the outskirts of Santander called Cabo Mayor before I had built up enough courage to follow signs and make left turns. Well this is coming back to haunt me now. I had told the Scottish crew of my stupidity and now it seems I am to lead us into Santander and the campsite I am now considered an expert in Santander campsite navigation through being a big wet scaredy-cat.

It does not take long to gat into Santander, but I have no idea where to start. The only logical thing to do is follow the signs for the ferry, then carry on as I did last time, going either straight ahead or right. The ferry terminal is well signposted and sure enough I’m back on the big scary dual carriageway. I follow the road, staying close to the right like I did last time. Each turning is a right or straight on up the hillside. Sure enough I soon find the campsite and take a moment to bask in my own smugness.

We book in a pitch tent on a patch of lush green grass with soil soft enough to get tent pegs into. All the usual things happen, washing, bike checking, drinking yet more water, talking and generally settling in. The site has the same good standard of facilities as the other sites I’ve stopped at and I take another long shower to wash off the day’s sweat and pain. Later we all decide to venture into Santander by taxi for something to eat and a good look around.

george pulling up his shorts to show his thigh George flashes some thigh, "One for the ladies!, Straight though!"

2 taxis have come to collect 7 people, but we get separated and a long wait ensues whilst we gather ourselves together. Everyone has an opinion what he or she would like to eat. I’m looking for a McDonalds, the Scottish crew cannot decide between curry, English, Chinese or Indian. We wander aimlessly until a waiter jumps out from a bar and hurriedly tells us what is on offer in perfect English. I think we all have had enough of struggling to speak Spanish so we sit down to be served in a familiar tongue. The food is English and somewhat basic. We eat our average meal and pay above average prices.

As we head back to the site there are myriads of tourists milling about and getting in the way. Amongst the stalls and cafes I can see several Spanish people dressed in Victorian costume. I laugh to myself, I am still over 1000 miles from home in a strange country and I come across traditional English dress. I can only assume this is some kind of entertainment but I feel like I’m being mocked for my un-cosmopolitan dislike of all things Spanish. I want to go home.

A lady in victorian dress amongst the other people Are they being cruel or what?

The town is pleasant enough. It seems somehow cleaner and friendlier than I remember it on my first visit. The beach is vast and clean, the waters deep blue, the town hall bright white and the grass seems so green. I ponder if this is all relative. Am I seeing this as nice after seeing so many drab dusty concrete towns throughout Spain? Is this nice because it marks the end of the foreign part of my trip? Is it simply because I have stopped to walk through at leisure and have time to notice the place properly? My answer comes soon enough.

As we walk out of town and the tourist area, the grey and brown concrete 5,6,7 storey buildings make their return. The hillside is covered with them, daunting and depressing. The cranes break up the skyline yet remain still, the same as every other crane in this country remains still. I feel I’m in a place of good intentions but nothing is ever finished. I’m in a place where property is something to shelter in, not to be proud of. A place where the sun is a problem not a relief. And the problem is heading over the horizon much to my relief.

Back at the site we sit in the cool evening air drinking and talking. More quotes from Hector Brocklebank, more dissection of the rally and the trip, more talk of bikes and repairs, and how much we all look forward to getting back to civilisation. Of course being Scottish this means civilisation is not to be found in Plymouth, or even the North-West. Civilisation for them begins at Gretna Green when they are in Scotland. I retire to bed.

Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Preparation
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 1
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 2
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 3
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 4
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 5
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 6
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 7 The Portuguese coastline is not quite what Ren was expecting. Then there's the case of the disappearing helmet.
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 8
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 9 Ren has to brave the plastic portaloos of HELL at the Faro Rally. It's also time to leave the noise and chaos and get back on the road Northbound
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 10
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 11 It's another long and hot ride across the Spanish scenery. Still, every sweaty mile is a mile closer to home.
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 12
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 13
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Day 14
Spain And The Faro Rally 2005 - Aftermath

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