Between The Rock and a hard place.

Day 91

Mileage 8242

The Rock of Gibraltar

Poring over maps each evening, planning the next day’s route, feeling the miles roll by underneath you, absorbing every bump and curve gives you a real sense of scale. The distances we have travelled and those that lay ahead can sometimes overwhelm us, yet, lying in a tent at night, gazing through the fine mesh inner at the stars over head provides a sobering reminder of just how small this journey is. Today we are in Gibraltar, a tiny British enclave on the southern coast of Spain. It feels as though we have come along way but, even though we just caught our first glimpse of Africa, we realize it will be a long time before we set foot on her soil. The temptation to ride aboard a ferry to Morocco is strong but there is so much to see and do on this continent we have to resist, yet with Europe, still so familiar and comfortable it feels as though the real adventure lies just across the narrow straits.

Our stay in Donostia/San Sebastian, though short, was both productive and relaxing. The city is one of Spain’s most popular vacation destinations where the azure waters of the Bay of Bisque  meet golden sandy beaches filled with bronzed locals of all shapes and sizes. Beth and I felt we needed to bring some balance to the picture so we peeled of our motorcycle suits and unveiled our pasty white bodies to overdose on some much needed vitamin D. In less than an hour we added a healthy shade of pink to the colors on display before retreating to a more shaded spot on the beach. We had planned to work on the bikes but it turned out to be a bank holiday (because bankers need more holidays), so we made our way to the ocean for what turned out to be one of the hottest days of the summer so far. After our recent few weeks of inclement weather we were ready for a change so we joined the bankers and had a much needed day off. It felt good to be back in Spain, using a language we feel more comfortable with, though still far from fluent, where the pace of life is a little more relaxed. The city of Donostia/San Sebastian, in Spain, yet so close to France, is in the Basque region where the locals consider themselves neither Spanish nor French. There is a strong desire for autonomy and a noticeable affinity with the Irish which made for a warm welcome and much interest in our bikes and our journey. 

Donostia/San Sebastian

The bikes were due for an oil change and Beth’s rear brake pads were getting thin so we spent part of a day sourcing supplies and completing the necessary maintenance, feeling rather proud of ourselves for having completed these most basic tasks in a foreign country while working around the siesta which is observed religiously. Before we knew it, we were packing our gear and moving on, hugging the North coast of Spain, savoring the empty sandy beaches and sleeping to the sound of the rhythmic rush of ocean waves. Our route was taking us along the Caminar de Santiago, an ancient pilgrimage route to the city Santiago de Compestela, where hikers walk, often over 900 miles, to reach the holy city. Said to have inspired Paulo Coehlo while writing, The Alchemist, the path took us through some of the most scenic regions of northern Spain, shepherds tending their flocks and farmers working their lands by hand, it felt as though we had turned back time. There was an overwhelming feeling of contentment, a sense that if a task couldn’t be completed by sunset then that was okay, perhaps it wasn’t so important after all. As weathered as the locals appeared, smiles came easily, and a warm generosity lay just below the surface. 

The end of a journey, for some, Santiago de Compestela

Picos de Europa

Our route took us further West along the picturesque Atlantic shore, the road hugging the contorted coastline. The weather had improved significantly and now the hot, thick coastal air made the ocean look even more enticing. We spent an evening strolling along the deserted beach outside the sleepy fishing village of San Vincent before pitching our tent nearby. A couple of Dutch bikers we’d met in San Sebastian had suggested we take a detour through the Picos de Europa National Park so we turned inland and upwards for and additional 200 kilometers of driving bliss, the hot tarmac gripping our tires and allowing us to push the bikes, and our abilities, to the limit. Roads like this can be exhausting, requiring all of your concentration as the stunning views compete for your attention, we pulled over several times to allow our heart rates to return to normal and at one rest stop we encountered the very same Dutch bikers who’d recommended this detour. We took the opportunity to thank them for their advice and share a few tales from the road before completing the circuit. It absorbed most of our day but was well worth the effort and as we pulled into camp drenched in sweat and buzzing with adrenaline, we savored an ice cold beer before settling down for a great night’s sleep.

My new mode of transport

As we neared the city of Santiago, the pilgrims became more numerous, as several alternate routes combine for the final leg of this impressive undertaking. The city itself is beautiful, narrow streets create a maze around the main cathedral which overlooks the central plaza, a gathering point for exhausted hikers, each one contemplating the significance of their achievement, some wept, some chuckled, some sat silently, staring at the impressive facade looming above. We felt a little like impostors, our efforts overshadowed by this collection of ragged travelers, but we wondered as to what our emotions will be when we reach our destination which still seems so far away. We spent two days here wandering the streets and exploring the markets before another storm prompted our hasty departure, Southern regions promised better weather and other fellow travelers had suggested we explore the roads of Eastern Portugal so we pushed inland and crossed another frontier. 

Serra da Estrela, Portugal

As soon as we entered Portugal we noticed several changes, although fuel prices climbed, just about everything else became cheaper, there were far fewer vehicles on the roads and signage gave you more of a rough idea than an actual direction, the attitude seemed to be, if you’ve made it this far you can probably figure the rest out by yourself. Overall, the country had a rougher, more rural feel to it, less manicured than where we had come from. The people were no less hospitable and appeared happy to welcome visitors even though we were on the less traveled Eastern side. Our map book road numbers occasionally corresponded to what we found on the ground but we managed to locate the roads we’d been pointed towards and all the frustrations and wrong turns were soon forgotten as we wound back the throttles and snaked our way into the mountains. The empty roads allowed us to thoroughly enjoy every corner without getting stuck behind any oversized camper vans, or road maggots as we affectionately refer to them. Many roads stand out but the routes through the Serra da Estrela are of such a high quality they took us by surprise. We thought we had ridden the best roads in Europe when we criss-crossed the Alps but this region was on a par with those and it was hot, dry and deserted, making it hard to chose a favorite. Add that to the lower cost of just about everything and you have a winning combination. We came in under budget every day in Portugal helping to offset our over stay in Switzerland. Just when we thought it couldn’t get better we stumbled upon three exquisitely beautiful villages and the best campsite of our trip. We rarely learn from our mistakes and had spent yet another day trying to cram too much in, time and distance stretch when you choose the least direct route with the most hairpin bends in ways that defy the laws of physics. We had to abandon our intended destination and settled for following signs that promised a campsite towards the village of Beira, as the roads narrowed and the surface deteriorated we assumed we’d missed a turn and were just about to back track when we stumbled upon the Beira-Marvao Campground where the Dutch owners made us instantly feel like long lost friends. Our only regret is we couldn’t stay longer to explore the region further. After one blissful night under a tremendous starry sky , throughly rested and refueled on the finest coffee we’ve had yet, we set out to explore three nearby towns on our hosts recommendation. 

The streets of Marvao

The towns of Castelo de Vide, Marvao and Elvas were simply fascinating, the narrowest, steepest streets we’ve encountered yet, many only accessible by motorcycle and each one topped with a beautiful castle. Sadly the town of Elvas took us so close to the border with Spain we decided to leave behind the empty Portuguese roads and keep our momentum moving South. With the heat increasing and our patience waning we left the search for a campsite to the last minute and after several false leads we pulled up outside the town of El Coronil and, too exhausted to continue, we settled down for our second night of ‘wild’ camping. Hot and sticky but too tired to care we lay on top of our sleeping pads and had a fitful night’s sleep. At exactly midnight the town erupted into a noisy festival of lights and music with lasted until six in the morning. Clearly they had heard Beth and I were in the area and decided to throw a party just in case we should show up. 

Barbary macaques or 'Rock Ape'

The following morning we quietly left the area and set our sites on Gibraltar, stopping briefly for breakfast in the stunning town of Ronda before climbing our last mountain pass as we neared the coast. A rest stop on one of the summits provided us with our first view of Africa. Through hazy ocean air we could just make out the distinctive shape of the Rock of Gibraltar and the mysterious Atlas mountains beyond, motivated to see more we picked up the pace and by lunch time we were approaching the border between Spain and this old bastion of the British Empire. Security appeared a little tighter here than on any European border we had crossed yet, with passport checks on both sides of the frontier. We suspect each side was trying to identify us before the other so they could throw the bigger party. Across the narrow isthmus, Gibraltar came as a bit of a surprise, suddenly everyone was speaking English and the beer was over priced and under chilled. We tried riding to the top only to find it is prohibitively expensive, at least on our tight budget, so we turned back and vowed to return on foot. The following day, with hiking boots and packed lunches, we arrived again at the base of the rock and proceeded to climb out of the overcrowded city to the top via the Mediteranean Steps, an abandoned, exposed pathway on the South side of the monolith. Hiking up from the sweltering heat of the city below we were soon enjoying a cool ocean breeze and a spectacular view across the Straits of Gibraltar to Morocco. Through the distant clouds on the African side arose the Mons Abyla which, along with the Rock of Gibraltar formed the Pillars of Hercules. In ancient Greek mythology this was once considered to be the end of the known world and gazing out across the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean it was easy to see why. Sadly, it is now an over developed tourist attraction and at every turn there is a charge or a fee and an orderly line of people willing to pay. The resident Barbary macaques nonchalantly watched the crowds go by perhaps contemplating how they can get in on the action.

Africa, the hard place?

Returning to the city by late afternoon, we rewarded ourselves with a beer and watched a parade of lobster red English tourists march up and down Main Street shopping for familiar goods they could easily find at home. There was a certain amount of excitement in the air as tensions over fishing rights in the surrounding waters, and the bigger question of sovereignty, had brought the Spanish and British governments into yet another heated exchange. One fastidiously patriotic older lady explained to us that “as long as the apes remain, the Rock will always be British”, we thought it a rather odd way to refer to your fellow country men. As we prepared to leave we couldn’t help but notice the forlorn faces of off duty soldiers watching the world go by from the tiny windows of their residential barracks looking more like they were serving a prison sentence than fulfilling a vocation. 

Looking East from The Rock

Is it round or square?

With Africa so close we can only wonder at what adventures lie ahead on this journey. All the minor difficulties of our trip up to this point will undoubtably be magnified by the potential hardships that await. One of the lessons we are slowly learning is that effective communication is vital if we are to succeed, not just with the people we meet along the way, but with each other. We are discovering more about ourselves and our relationship with each day that passes. We often assume we are on on the same page when it comes to needs and wants but our expectations are more often out of sync than not. With patience and effort we are beginning to better understand each other and appreciate our strengths and weaknesses. We often smile when we recall a silly disagreement over the description of a shower token used by a campground near the beginning of the trip. The token, pictured below was, in my opinion, most definitely round with two square edges whereas Beth insisted it was, in fact, square with two round edges so when I asked for the round shower token and she gave me a blank stare I couldn’t possibly understand where the confusion lay, trivial but true. How would you describe it?