I´ve never been able to sleep at a 45-degree angle and so it proved again as I sat in my overnight seat in the ferry´s lounge room, trying to find a gap for my foot to wedge into.
After 25 hours at sea, the 7 of us cyclists aboard disembarked together, skipped the queue for passport control and fanned out in our chosen compass points. One guy going east for France and the road north towards Calais, a girl on her way west to meet her boyfriend on the Camino de Santiago, four lads heading south-west to Portugal and myself south-east, towards the sweltering heat of Andalucia.
Santander, being a major port town, was not designed to be accessed by bicycle. As such, I would liken the journey to my first stop in Astillero, as like riding up the A23 looking the wrong way at each junction.
Thankfully, as soon as I rolled out the next morning, on my way to Ogarrio, the roads became ideal. Well paved and virtually free of traffic.
This is when I had my first sight of the Cantabrian mountains. Like the South Downs on steroids, they looked down at me and sneered at my bulging panniers.
I was soon glad to have opted for a pair of cycling sunglasses, as something resembling a flying gerbil flew into my left lens. I can only presume he was fleeing the mountain roads, as I soon found the gradient tilting upwards, as I wound my way to the summit. These roads are the Mr Whippy of cycling. The 99 with a flake in it. They swerve and glide left and right and keep going until you fully deserve your glorious five-minute descent.
Ogarrio is a small farming village, surrounded by peaks and cliff faces, 25 miles to the south of Santander. Having filled up on three excellent courses in the restaurant/hotel, Casa Tomas, I wandered over to the crumbling medieval church from where I could hear hymns. Being a Thursday afternoon, I was impressed by the dedication to church service, as seven or eight local women were in full song.
Around an hour later I could hear the men of the village singing. The voices were not coming from the church, however, but the restaurant bar on the other side of the plaza. This turned out to be quite common in the north amongst the mountains as often, it seems, song follows drinks, follow food.
During the next day´s ride to Gueñes in the Basque Country, I was very happy to have many fellow cyclists sharing the roads, often giving a friendly Basque “Apa Apa Apa!” shout of encouragement, if I was suffering through a climb.
Once I was firmly seated at the hotel bar, the reason for so many cyclists became apparent. The quality of the climbs in the area mean many professionals use the region for training. In particular Euskaltel Euskadi, the Basque team, easily identifiable in their bright orange kits. Even more, the friendly looking gent in his 60s, sharing the bar with me watching the tour de France, worked as a mechanic for the team. I contemplated asking his advice on the saddle sore which had appeared on my right buttock, but it just didn´t seem like bar chat.
My only other physiological problem so far, apart from breathing, was a burning pain on the front outer side of my left knee cap. After some web-based research, I found that my left cleat was positioned so that my left foot was pointing slightly inwards at the front. Having readjusted, I have gone 170 mile in three days without any knee pain at all.
The first 30 of those 170 were on to Murgia. My last day in Pais Vasco and I took the chance to fill up on Pintxo, the Basque version of Tapa. In the picture you can see Tostada de Chaka and two Tigres (pepper, onion and garlic mix, added to mussel meat, sitting on half a mussel shell, which is then all breaded and fried).
From Murgia I rode 55 miles down to Los Arcos and today 85 miles on to Tauste, in Aragon. The mountains have given way to flat farmlands and being the central plains, the roads have become bigger, faster national roads. The fellow road bikers have all but disappeared and in comparison to the north, I can see why. The stunning landscapes come with an equal measure of numbing ones. When the road is so flat, straight and baked, it can do funny things to a cyclist.
I managed to throw myself over the handlebars after three hours of riding this morning, as I misjudged my angle and collided with the roadside barrier. The only reason I can think of is that I went a bit dopey. My reactions seemed to slow to a crawl and all I could manage before take off was one very loud expletive. I was very lucky to escape with minor scrapes and thankfully there´s nothing broken on the bicycle, but I´ve been reminded that the long hot flat roads are just as hazardous as the mountains. I will be taking a lot more rest stops from now on!
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