Following the coast south from Valencia towards Gandia is a perfectly flat strip of land through L Albufera nature reserve, with the Mediterranean on one side and a huge inland lake on the other.

 

An environment presumably ideal for mosquitos and other small insects, as for an hour an a half it was like riding across a dragonfly super highway, on which I dared not breath through my mouth.

 

After a day of rest, being kindly looked after by old friends James and Melissa Buckland and their lovely family who were holidaying in their family villa in Xabia, I set out early and made it to Torrevieja in one day. A day which demonstrated to me the difference between morning and afternoon riding in the south.

 

The last 20 miles felt just as exhausting as the first 65 had. Not even the GPS could last the duration as it beeped, sighed and died with 25 miles to go.

 

The next day it was down to Cartagena in Murcia. A town swimming in historical significance, with it´s Roman ruins and ampitheatre, Byzantine and Moorish remains, it´s strategic importance as a major naval station and it´s Art Nouveau architecture.

 

From Cartagena, I changed course and went inland towards Lorca. I found myself in true farming country as I passed unending fields laden with crops of grapes, olives and watermelons.

 

When I stopped at a farmers' bar/cafe for coffee and water, I stepped into an atmosphere similar to that of an Albion pub two hours before kick-off on a matchday.

 

Being 10 in the morning, there was a mixture of caffeinated and alcoholic drinks being served, a combination creating very high spirits. All apart from the proprietor, who was wearing the 20-yard stare and sweat trickles of a man trying to remember six orders at once.

 

I think the pale, blotchy, Lycra-clad monstrosity standing before him, attempting to speak a language not too dissimilar to his own, nearly pushed him over the edge.

 

I was glad to be in Lorca and finished for the day prior to lunchtime, as by 3pm the temperature was 38 degrees Celsius and there was nothing to do but be as still as is humanly possible.

 

While observing my vow of immobility, I was hoirrified to notice that my pot belly was getting bigger. After all the effort expended over two and a half weeks, I was looking less healthy than when I began.

 

Admittedly I had been eating meals in the manner of Mr Creosote, and so a resolution to stop abusing my stomach was put in place.

 

From Lorca I bounded southwards and rejoined the coast at Garrucha. On arrival, I got talking to the hotelier, a keen cyclist, regarding the popularity of cycling in Spain.

 

I have seen possibly thousands of cycling enthusiasts on the roads and there is apparently much affection for the sport here. Much of this is, I think, due to the prevalance of the extra hard shoulder space on nearly all Spanish roads. Most of the time this will be over 3ft wide and, more importantly, it will be respected by the motorists.

 

It isn´t to the same standard as the Dutch and Scandinavian cycle routes, separated from the road by pavement, but it does give cyclists somewhere to be that is not in the path of other vehicles. More still, when paths do cross with motor vehicles, the drivers respect cyclists as road users with an equal right of way.

 

In 650 miles of riding, I haven´t once felt antipathy or anger from a motorist at having to give way or slow down to cycling speed prior to overtaking safely.

 

So I find myself in Andalusia, where the laidback resort towns come thick and fast. It´s hard not to enjoy being in holiday land, but I´m trying to resist switching to full relaxation mode as I prepare for my final four days of riding, across mountainous Almeria to Nerja, Malaga, to my fiancee and to reacquaintance with the life of a sloth.