I do know the way to San Jose. Short one today. Already in Cádiz but did go through San Jose. More later.
Just SE of Seville now. Very drunk as I type this. Beer, wine and G&T has done for me. 360 miles of awesome roads, including the 502 from end to end. What a great road! S1000R going well so far. It is very hot here now. Low 30s celcius. nice hotel, great company (six others spouting bollox). What’s not to like? No idea where we are going tomorrow. Perhaps NW into the roads N of Huelva. Lots of green edges on the map...
That’s a big day. Well done. I go by Seville tomorrow but have to keep going as we’re off to Portugal. In Cádiz right now. What a lovely city. Good food, wine and music. Interested to know where you’re headed and what roads.
Today was the N435 from Fregenal de la Sierra to Valverde del Camino, then A493 to La Palma del Condando amongst others. I last did the 435 from north to south 20 years ago on a Blade. It is another of those roads where the corners seem to go on and on until you should be back either under or over where you were a km ago. Tomorrow I am meeting my brother for lunch in Gaucin so play time in the Sierra Ubrique near to Ronda. After that we’re going east via the Sierra Nevada to Cazorla for a few days then back north via Cuenca and the Alto Tajo region.
You obviously know the area but just in case ; Jubrique and Genalguacil have got to be good but I have to say I haven’t done them yet. The road from Ronda to El Burgo is a bit rough and tight but gets you to El Burgo. Have a coffee there at the cafe on the roundabout. And do this road; El Burgo to Yunquera, supreme, then onto Coin. Then the mountains of Malaga aka the A7000 to Colmenar, then Ma 3170 fast road to Velez Malaga. Motorway to just beyond Nerja , take the N340 coast road (watch for speed cops) then up to N346 just north of Velez de Benaudalla. Which leads into the A348. Whatever you do make sure you do the A348. Turn north over the Sierra Nevada as you please. Either just after Ugijar (tight) or at Canjayar (maybe better). If you have a better plan...tell me.
Correction, it’s the A346 that leads into A348. It’s just south of Orgiva. No need to go into Orgiva though.
And another thing, do the Ronda to San Pedro road. Stop at the bikers cafe. When you get to the other end, turn round and do it again. It’s what me and Bazzer do. You’ll love it.
Dual. The road from Zahara de la Sierra to El Bosque was epic. Tight with sheer drops and those little blocks with gaps lining the edge between life and oblivion. Surpisingly Dulcinea was cool on the back, we took it easy but passed 10 BMW’s of Spainish registration on the way to the top of the pass. At the pass we got off and walked to the top, the BM’s came, stopped, admired the Ducati and moved on never to be seen again. I thought they’d walk up and we could have talked multilingual bike language. A Spanish guy on a Kawasaki pulled up and walked up with his girlfriend. We rode on to El Bosque, had a coffee and then went on through San Jose. I wanted to stop and take a picture of the sign but the fella driving the artic. lorry behind had other ideas. It was like a scene out of Dual. Honestly all I could see in my mirrors was the front of this artic. He knew he was pushing me but didn’t care. I opened it up and gapped him. I’ve been rear ended twice in a car and didn’t want to be making like a fly on his windscreen. The shame was we went gliding by a whole field of happy faces. They all smiled as we went by. I couldn’t stop so resolved to at the next opportunity. I lost Señor el Madre Trucker and soon enough came across another field of smiling sun flowers. I had to stop. All those happy faces and in the background enough windmills for Don Quixote to shake a stick at in several lifetimes or novels. What a great view. That’s what travel is about.
Happy Monday’s. We were lucky in Cadiz. After helping Chiz find his way from Prague to Mugello via Google maps, the forum and McDonalds WiFi (his end), we went out to explore Cadiz. The walled city/port where Sir Francis Drake had sailed into and set fire to the Spanish fleet, delaying the armada for a year. Funnily enough none of the locals mentioned that. We went to the fish market, it was closed. Then after strolling around for while decided on a siesta, as the locals were obviously having theirs. It set us up for the evening. We left the hotel again just after 8-ish. Right around the corner we came across a tiny guitar makers shop. The sound coming from the open doorway was so perfect I took it to be piped music. Dulcinea insisted there was someone in there playing. I stuck my head in and this guy was playing the most exquisite Spanish guitar solo I’ve ever had the pleasure to hear. I whipped out my iPhone, I don’t usually do that but this wasn’t usual at all and I’m glad I preserved the moment by recording it. If I can post it up I will. In the tiny space, surrounded by parts of guitar shaped wood and dust this extraordinary musician was plucking nectar from the air, with ease. I don’t know if he was a famous musician but I suspect he was, he was that good. The Guitar maker/shop owner took photos of him playing so he was obviously someone special. Neither of them were bothered by our presence and they appreciated our appreciation. Dulcinea had to fight back the tears, it was such an experience and a privilege. At that point the evening could have been complete. We were quite happy, we’d had our fill of experiences. We carried on to the restaurant we wanted to go to, witnessing old people sat on benches chatting the evening away, young lads playing football and Swifts whipping through the evening light between the buildings and the trees. As we continued to stroll around the city the sound of drums drifted over the sea wall towards us. On investigation further down the bay we came across the source. Apparently Monday nights in Cádiz is band practice. So as not to disturb too many people, young teenagers go to a disused building by the sea, and practice drums and a brass. When the two sections struck up, albeit independently, the sound went right through you. It was fantastic. How much better is that, than hanging around on street corners with nothing particular to do other than get into trouble. I admired the Spanish youth for their dedication, their ability and the Spanish culture for developing such talent. Their were no adults involved whatsoever, no complaints about noise, there was no problem. It was just a great, almost filmic scene as the sun sank over the horizon to terrific music. Again we felt privileged. All this was followed by a lovely fish main course, a couple of glasses of wine each and a dessert, which just by the way it was written in Spanish seemed so appealing, I just had to have it. Called, Bizcocho templado de chocolate. Translated it was; A temple of chocolate biscuits filled with vanilla ice cream, bathed in warm chocolate and dulce de leche. Dulce de leche is a Spanish confection from South America, made by slowly reducing down milk and sugar together. Apparently not a caramel or a butterscotch but delicious over the temple of chocolate biscuits. Fandabidoubledozo! No wonder my blood sugar is high.
Some like it hot... Thanks for the route suggestions. The ‘vegetables’ were moaning about the potential distances, so on the traverse from Sevilla to Cazorla I ended up doing Colmenar to Loja and then up to the top of the Sierra Nevada. That was an anti-climax. It is billed as the highest paved road in Europe, but you can only get to 2250 metres above sea level. Cime de la Bonnette in France is much higher than that... On the way down via the back road to Guajar Sierra the single track road was blocked by a load of cycle team busses and assorted other vehicles. They had the road un officially closed for some filming and invited us to drink their coffee for ten or fifteen minutes until they finished. After the alotted amount of time a 4x4 with a big fuck-off camera boom and gyro stabilised camera came up, closely followed by Julian Alaphillipe (one of the TdFrance favourites). He was riding a VERY nice bike. I was jealous... The 315 from Baza to Cazorla was blocked for road works at Ceal, requiring a 30km detour via the 6206. That road is tight and twisty, but VERY pretty. Cazorla is nice and is high-enough to be cool, compared to the planes around Granada. Today we went to the desert just north of Almeria, via the A349 (insanely fast open road), close to the race track and back via the 1178 (immaculate surface, deserted, VERY entertaining, recommended). I’ll keep the 7000 and the 348 for next time. Tomorrow is a tour of the Sierras of Cazorla and Segura.
The Road to Perdition. I decided to motorway all the way from Cádiz to Algoz in Portugal. Not much option really. We had to go via Seville, it’s the only way and after that it was either straight along the motorway or a massive detour north then south. The terrain up to Seville is pretty flat and boring. It puts me in mind of the Fens. I was brought up next to that flat boring bleak windswept godforsaken landscape with its miles of uneven straight roads and dykes. I hate the Fens, with a vengeance. At least this had sunshine. ‘When I were a lad’ a dyke was a forty foot wide ditch, full of water, draining the richest farming soil in the country. Something enthusiastic young lads accidentally punted their cars and motorbikes into at great speed, often at dead of night after a nightclub visit. If they survived they’d recount stories of their stupidity with laughter. Often they didn’ survive, not so funny. Flat straight roads are something to avoid in my book and so are dykes. However we needed to be there to see friends who were over from South Africa. Until we got there it was cruise control and a lobotomy. Then it was a full bottle infrontome. I didn’t touch the bike for three days. As we were heading towards the border we went past a prison. I’ve now been past three prisons in various parts of Spain. The ones I’ve seen all look exactly the same. They are all modern, built in the middle of nowhere, big, seriously big and seriously serious. High walls with rounded tops, goon towers on every corner, most likely with machine guns and a no mans land with wire fencing all around. There’s no mistaking them. They’re quite different from Parkhurst, where I was born. Crossing into Portugal we were immediately greeted with a suspension bridge with both towers held up by scaffolding. Confidence inspiring. I was glad we were on a bike not in an articulated truck. Next all foreigners had to immediately pull in and put a credit card in a machine in order to enter and use Portuguese roads. It was unmanned, I did it twice but still don’t know if I’ve been charged at all, charged once or charged twice. I’d heard the roads in Portugal we’re not as good as in Spain, it was immediately apparent. We pressed on stopping not for gas but a leg stretch. Dulcinea del Toboso produced two towels that we soaked in cold water and wrapped around our necks. The temperature gauge read 37 degrees. I’m sure it was lying but it was well over 30. In full leathers even my sweat was sweating. Within 20 minutes the towels were dry but if I put my arms in a certain position I could get the wind to go down my back and dry between the damp T-shirt and my Feildforce back protector. At one of the stops I asked if Dulcinea wanted the suspension softened by a notch as the roads were rougher. Instead of accessing the suspension adjustment on the dash I accidentally zero’d my No2 trip meter. That had the total Km’s travelled since we started in England. To say I was gutted would be an understatement. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. I can work it out. I pretty much know the bikes mileage before we started. In two weeks I’ve doubled what the previous owner had done in two and a half years. That’s what they’re for, riding. Even if it has to be a long boring road. Along the route Storks nest on any electrical pole they can. You can just see the large chick in the nest. Sparrows nest in the lower part of the Storks nest, air B&B style.
I should imagine the ‘vegetables’ are cooked if you’ve been having the temperatures that we have. If you mean the road up to the ski resort, the A395 then I can understand you being disappointed. There are better roads to do. That road up the side of the lake through Tranco looks like it could be good. I had wanted to do it but because of time wound up at Ubeda. Similarly it’ll be on my list for next time. I like your title.
Hit the Road Jack. Sorted. Another story. I didn’t want to do Lisbon on the bike, we’d thought of Casais but decided on Sintra, a historic town near by. At a coffee stop on the way there was a Tv report saying Sintra was shut to traffic for fear of fires in the heat wave. Plan B. Ok we’ll try this nice looking little port just south of Lisbon called Setúbal. To be honest, when we got there it wasn’t nice but the hotel staff were. They let me park right outside the door, which of course I loved. Good fresh fish on the tatty sea front, bed and up early, ready to head up towards Porto or into the Douro valley. It was 8-ish and I’d got the bike loaded, we’re good to go. I thought I’d check the tread and squaring of the rear tyre and oooh, there’s a little stone trapped in the tread. I pulled it out with my fingers aaand out and ooout and it’s not a stone it’s a cable clip complete with nail and oh shit it’s gone right through. Not only that the tyre is completely flat but on its main stand it didn’t show. Bum’olee! Ok decision, do I repair it with the messy can of gloop that inflates it or plug it. I’ve had that spray stuff spread itself all over the rear before and I didn’t like it. I’ll plug it, no mess. It’s a Saturday, everywhere will shut at 1. I’ll have to get this sorted quick. No chance. I got the hotel to call around every bike and tyre shop we could find. In the entire place nobody had a 190-55 zr 17. Bum’olee. By 10.30 I’d tracked down a 190-50 17 There was no other choice I’d have to go for it. I’d already rasped and plugged the hole. Unloaded the luggage and deposited Dulcinea in reception. Just in case it hadn’t sealed, it was only at this point I filled the tyre with air from 3 x Co2 canisters and headed off to the bike shop. Everything in Portugal seems to be more expensive than Spain and The Uk. Not only that, they had me over a barrel. €195 for a wrong sized tyre, ouch. I bartered them down to €172 and gave up and went for it. Cheaper than 2 more nights sitting in a hotel in a not particularly nice place. The the guy explained he’d got no fitter so he wouldn’t sell it to me unless the car tyre place round the corner down the road would fit it. Off he went, back he came, done deal. I followed matey round to the car tyre shop and he left me to it. Good job it’s got a centre stand, good job I’ve got a 55mm socket with me. Silencer cover off, good job I have hex keys with me. Silencer off, wheel off. Then somehow the boss man makes me understand and asks me why I’m putting a 50 profile on? I explained it’s all they had so he drags me over to the front window points and taps the window and there.......is a Bridgestone 190-55 zr 17. Unbelievable! How much? €161 Will you take this brand new one in part exchange? No. Don’t blame you. We tried to phone the bike shop to ask for a refund, no answer. So he produces his scooter keys and says off you go, use that. No problemma. So there I am, ripping up the street on this tiny scooter in 30+ degrees heat. Full Ducati leathers, sports boots, full face helmet, fancy ducati summer gloves and the tyre crossways where you normally put your feet. Knees holding the tyre in place, legs dangling off either side. What a picture.
Mad dogs and Englishmen. The bike shop took their unreasonably priced tyre back, relief. The scoot was a hoot, the brakes weren’t. They didn’t exist and you don’t find that out till you need them. Fun. As I pulled up back at the tyre shop I could hear laughter coming from the bike following me. It only made me laugh more. I really did enjoy riding it. Thumbs up to the boss man. Ok. He assured me it was a really really good tyre. Pedro the Cruel always uses them and swears by them. He’s been trying to get me onto Bridgestone’s, while I’ve been trying to get him into Metzelers. It was a god send and it was going on. Game on. Tyre on, balancing done, 230 Newton’s later, wheel on. End can on, end can cover on. Result. Then the guy says to me; €161 for the tyre Ok, agreed, 10 for fitting, 10 for balancing. Total €181. It was a fair bit of work to get the wheel off and there was no huffing and puffing about it whatsoever. I don’t care if he made a good profit on the tyre, he really helped me out. The guy had spent a good hour on it, plus balancing. Plus he’d loaned me the mean machine. I refused to pay him what he asked for fitting....on the grounds it wasn’t enough. The tyre was expensive but you have to bear in mind, probably not expensive for Portugal and less expensive than the other incorrect tyre. Plus the guy had saved me staying 2 more days in a town I didn’t want to stay in. (Now that I convert it into Sterling it wasn’t that bad after all). I bunged him €200 and everyone was happy. I’d never have chosen a Bridgestone but at least I won’t have to rip it off as soon as I get home. I went off happy into the midday sun to pick up Dulciea del Toboso who’d been sat-about in Setúbal. Luggage loaded, buffs soaked in water, we set off not at 8am, more like 2pm. It was 37 degrees. Back in Spain, Sunday eve in Salamanca, just great. Great stuff. Thanks. Long days in the saddle. More later. Sunday night in Salamanca. What a fantastic place. You can’t point a camera at almost anything here without it looking good.
Blazing Saddles. Still unbelievably hot and humid. 30 degrees and more. View attachment 158068 View attachment 158069 Heat. We melted in the afternoon heat. You could cut your way through it. It was so hot I had to close my visor because the wind was almost burning my face. We took refuge inside a cafe, it was cooler. I thought it might be cooler by the coast so we revised the plan and headed off north west. We booked a hotel in Aveiro, ‘the Venice of Portugal’. It sounded good but to be honest it wasn’t. When we got there the hotel was in a dodgy area surrounded by tatty old high rise apartment blocks near the railway. I feared not only for our safety but the bikes. Fortunately we could garage it at the hotel. My fears may well have been unfounded as we walked out from the hotel in the evening with no problem. Two gin and tonics in a small bar €16. I began to yearn for Spain. We couldn’t find anywhere to eat just small tapas, it was getting late, in Portugal they close up earlier than in Spain. The European cup final was almost over and it looked a boring match anyway. On the way back to the hotel we saw a Sushi place and decided to give it a go. At least we could get something small. It was really good, really fresh. Funny that, being next to the sea. Success at last. The next day we were up early and off, in order to try and beat the weather. The temperature was something like 20 degrees lower but it would warm up. Dulcinea and I had a disagreement about the route. I thought we’d agreed to go north via Vigo then across northern Spain, apparently not. The weather forecast said the same thing, it was going to be raining up there. All I wanted to do was get back to Spain, in the end I didn’t care which way. We plotted a course via the Douro valley. Not the most direct route but it would be interesting to see the vineyards and there’s a road there that’s meant to be one of the most scenic in the world. It looked a bit straight to me. We shot up another motorway section to get to Peso de Régua asap. You know when you have a completely empty beach and someone has to come and plonk themselves right next to you, well the Portuguese seem to like doing that on a motorway. Empty motorway in front to the horizon, empty motorway in the mirrors as far as can be seen and this guy has to check out the tread depth on my new tyre. Not for the first time in Portugal I endured what seems to be an insane trait. I opened it up a bit, so did he. How much slipstream effect does he think he’s going to get from a bike to a car? I didn’t know you could have a peloton with one motorbike and a car but apparently you can. I opened up a little more. The previous time this had happened I’d dropped a couple of gears and inflicted whiplash on Dulcinea del Toboso. This time I reached behind me and pulled her forwards. She understood as she could also see in the mirrors that an unemployed and bored José Mourinho had clearly instructed this guy to mark us. For want of something better to do. Everywhere we went, he went. This is where you’re glad of a 1200cc Ducati. I put it into warp speed and leapt away from him, moved over to the right and gave him a very irate wave to go by. He understood and duly pissed off. On a better note, mainly we cruised as anything faster would rip Dulcinea’s head and shoulders off. As we were bimbling along at about 70mph a sports bike with a shorty pipe ripped past us on a sweeping bendy section of the motorway. As he did he laid down a trail of rubber on the road. I don’t recall seeing that on the road before, then I remembered it was MotoGP day, Mugello. Someone was getting excited. It made me smile, I’ll have to go to that next year.
