3 – 6 October Andalusia to Extremadura
Altura is the sort of place we normally avoid: a beach resort catering to package holidaymakers. Having come all this way, it seemed only right to sample the delights of the Algarve, but for us they were limited. The pretty little beachfront restaurants I’d remembered from thirty years ago, with fishing boats pulled up unloading fresh sardines, had gone. The town was mercifully low-rise, with the ghastly exception of our own hotel. We were on the seventh floor. The bars were closed, the seawater was bitterly cold, the Rider was plagued by mosquitoes. All in all, a hasty retreat was called for.
The border between Portugal and Spain, unmarked and unnoticed (which is how we like European borders to be) runs along the Guadiana river. Tigger was the only vehicle to board the ferry for the short crossing to Spain. She preened herself on deck while an admiring crowd gathered round. One small boy wanted very much to sit on her, then cried when his mother lifted him up. Tigger tried to look welcoming, but in vain. British bikes are not common on this ferry.
Oleanders lined the eastbound road on the other side, with Mediterranean pines dominating and pepper tress offering much-needed shade in the towns. It became disastrously hot (32) and we were very glad to get off the bike by late afternoon. Our destination was Cadiz, AKA the oldest living city in Europe, called Gadir by the founding Phoenicians, and Gades by the Romans. We stayed in El Puerto de Santa Maria, at El Monastario de San Miguel. This large converted monastery had been recommended by friends, and was an excellent choice, real value for money. Large cool room, excellent breakfast, swimming pool with the regulation freezing water, and very good service.
So off we went to catch the ferry across the bay to Cadiz. Only the ferry was cancelled due to the heavy sea fog. Later we realised there was more than fog going on — see below. The replacement bus was fine, whilst faintly disappointing. On arrival in Cadiz, we enjoyed a delicious coffee at the well-named subversive Clandestine Library bookshop. Then we strolled the narrow picturesque streets of the city in search of the city’s Phoenician/Roman roots. Or even of the its Peninsular war action. Failing to find either, we did locate the Muséo de Cadiz, which was awesome. I’ve never seen such high-quality artefacts anywhere, and it made the trip more than worthwhile.
We walked round the ramparts, filming a video piece (I’ll upload this and other little snippets to my YouTube when we get home — see my Linktree connection below to watch later), against a persistent backdrop of fog. The Rider, a keen fan of Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe, did lose his sense of humour at not seeing any of the 1811 action sites. Cadiz is lovely though, and a delight to wander around, whatever the seascape.
The next morning it was time to head back north. We thrashed along the motorway while the air was cool, knowing it would get very hot later. On the way we realised the untapped cork oak trees were here to feed the famous local pigs. Lean and rangy, these handsome black pigs enjoy a free-range life of snuffling for acorns before becoming the world-famous Jamon (smoked ham) de Extremadura.
We were pursued across a brown plain and up into the hills north of Seville by the same haze of what we supposed to be dust blown across from North Africa. Then the Rider spotted this on his phone:
The poor visibility from these African fires followed us up high to the lovely little Moorish town of Jerez de los Caballeros, where we spent the night in a nicely-converted convent. The town is on the Ruta de la Plata: one version we read said this was the Roman name for the road built to their Spanish silver and gold mines; another less flattering story referenced the many local adventurers who left here for the New World, and returned enriched by Aztec and Inca plunder. A breakfast encounter with a charming Portuguese biker sent us slightly off-trail back across the nearby Portuguese border, where we visited Elvas.
This UNESCO-listed city has the most comprehensive walls and bastions we’ve ever seen, built in star-shape in the Renaissance by an Italian military architect. It was well worth the detour to see these bastions, and the well-preserved aqueduct. Elvas certainly pays witness to the constant warfare along this border until recent times.
Back over the border for our next stop: Badajoz.
From the Front Seat
The roads and passes that we rode along, around and through the Picos de Europa were good, with some outstanding. Sweeping corners frequently with long, armaco-protected drops alongside. Also dodging a myriad of dents and divots from rock fall – and on one memorable corner a scattering of fresh rocks the size of breeze blocks!. These roads are well known to British as well as riders from across Europe and we saw and waved 2 fingers* at dozens coming the other way.
*No, not the infamous British ‘2 finger’ salute you’re thinking of, but a lower, left handed, ‘Hi buddy, dig your ride’ acknowledgement favoured by continentals, instead of the traditional UK nodding-head greeting. NB. We can’t do likewise in the UK because we ride on the left, meaning we’d have to take our throttle hand off the bars!
Anyway… as we’re on a timetable to reach Cadiz we bypassed the most exciting of those routes to push on into Portugal quick-ish.
Our general pattern has been to bash each morning half distance on fast ‘A’ roads (labelled variously ‘E’ or ‘IP’ or ‘A’ – huh?) Then switch to smaller local ‘B’ roads (labelled ‘N’ or ‘IQ’ or ‘not-at-all’) for the 2nd part of the day’s travels. This allows us to get more miles under our wheels in the cooler hours ..and to take it easy and stop for coffees/water as the days warm up.
This plan has seen us enjoy 1,000s of kms on near empty local roads and witnessing, at slower pace, changes in geography, agriculture and ecology as we progress south. For example, we saw pines and limestone in the north sides of the mountains and gorges, scrubby hillsides on the south. This was followed by olive trees and gum trees dominating in north Portugal, then cork oaks, vineyards and more olives in the middle. Then finally as we approached the southern most and flattest part we came across huge fields of cotton dominating the horizon!
As we headed south what we expected was for the country to flatten out and for the roads to get straighter and less exciting. What I didn’t expect was the ‘N2’ from Beja to Faro…. starting quietly through an agricultural plain, this road rises into what looked at a distance to be moderate not-very-exciting hills. That impression was totally wrong. After 20km or so the super smooth road starts twisting – and doesn’t stop twisting for over 50km! Almost no straights between the corners just twist, twist, twist, twist and twist again! The most fantastic road I’ve ever been on. No (godamn) campervans, no lorries, no locals in beaten up fiat 500s, and only 2 cyclists! I really can’t overstress or adequately describe quite how good it is for motos. Hard work on your wrists, tough on the tyres, brakes, chain and brain …but bloody brilliant. It was almost impossible to stop, and completely hopeless to capture the dynamic in a stationary photograph so the pic here is stolen off the net. I’d love to do it again. And next time I’ll do it without the weight of overstacked panniers, tank bag and top box (I daren’t say ‘pillion’!) to slow down the fun :))))
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