Stocked up and packed up, I’m ready to go. It’s a beautiful sunny morning and only 09:00 as I pull away from the fuel stop. I would have been away five minutes earlier but a guy went into the store to buy his bread and then came over to ask about my bike. He then proceeded to show me pictures of his bike on his mobile phone. He spoke no English but there’s no language barrier when you show enthusiasm. A nice start to my day.

 

Day 3

 

The direct route to Pedrola is around 87 miles but I’m on a tour, not a point to point race. I’m going to deviate slightly through the various regions of Navarra and cross into Aragon via a bit of desert. But first, I was advised to visit Estella, which is east and about halfway to Pamplona. I’ll then turn south and take in what that region has to offer. So far, I’ve seen enough distractions and landmarks to spend the day just exploring every next bend. I could stay the whole two weeks enjoying just this region let alone the whole country. Logrono attracts a lot of visitors and had a festival running while I was here. Pamplona is renowned for beautiful architecture as well as taunting bulls in public displays of macho barbarism and there are hilltop castles with their own history scattered all around. The Pyrenees are a short burst away which makes this part of Spain absolutely perfect for a short break for those with limited time to spare. If all goes pear shaped, from here on with the rest of Spain, I would be more than happy to come back and explore in more detail until my ferry departs for home. However, my enthusiasm to keep going never wavered.

Avoiding the A-12 because it’s a fast running dual carriageway, I chose to ride along the more sedate and empty NA-110 to Estella. It was a good choice as I would not have been able to stop and photograph the Castillo de Monjardin and village of the same name below the hill. I’ve travelled less than 10 miles so far. This could be a long day.

I had a brief excursion into the centre of Estella by way of the confusing one-way system before I found the old town where the Palace of the Kings and several other significant ancient buildings are located. If it was later in the day, I may have stopped longer but I was itching to get out on the open road. The NA-122 unfolded before me and it was all coasting from here on, with smooth bends, comfortable inclines and panoramic declines. I responded with a nod as I passed the town of Allo and admired symmetric olive groves that outnumbered the vineyards along this wide open plain. The vines were there but they’re planted higher up the distant slopes.

By the time I reached the roundabout at Cárcar I was ready for a mid-morning cuppa and a snack. Luckily, there is a café on the corner. I was getting a bit hot by now so I sat inside in the cool. On the wall behind the counter was a large banner with the number 93 and the name Marquez emblazoned. There’s no doubting who is the king of the race track in these parts. My wife is a ‘46’ groupie and I was told in no uncertain terms, with a smile, that she would not be welcomed here. The wife of the chap running the place was heading to Aragon at the weekend to watch the MotoGP. I was advised which route I should take tomorrow to get to Caspe so that I could avoid rubbish roads and crazy drivers.

The fellow even sketched a map for me on a scrap of paper. I shall heed the advice. No one in the café spoke very much English but they all joined in. We managed fine and shook hands when I departed. How can you not leave without a smile on your face when you’ve been shown such warm hospitality? I’m glad I never told them I’m a VR 46 fan too. I turned right at the roundabout onto the A-134. The river Ebro getting ever closer as we both continue south. At Azagra I turned back to park in the village because I had passed a bullring.

I try to distance myself from the cruel activity but it is part of Spain’s culture, so I stopped to take a few shots from outside and, because the access doors were open, I took a few photos from inside as well. This is a such a sleepy village, until my barking exhausts shook the windows. I was surprised to see the makeshift construction right next to the roadside. I think it can be erected and taken down quickly and moved to other towns, a bit like a travelling circus, I guess. It was just plonked here on a bit of wasteland between rows of apartments and the through road.

Less than 10 miles later I pulled into the town of Milagro. I said it was going to be a long day. This time, the photo opportunity was the wide and languid Rio Aragon. Just beyond this town it merges with the Ebro but there’s no access by road to that particular spot. The Aragon looks pretty majestic itself at this juncture it must be quite a sight at the confluence.

After crossing into Aragon, the elevation was almost all downward and vegetation became more evident and lusher. I crossed over tiny bridges that were built for open channels to carry water from the now receding mountains down to the flat plains. At Velareña I took the right-hand turn onto the CHE-1501 all the way to Tauste and then beyond to the town of Pedrola. Along this route irrigation channels run alongside the road, feeding the vibrantly green fields of a crop that I have no idea what it is. I stopped to inspect. The meadows were flooded like paddy fields. At one place a stork was standing, motionless, on the edge of one of the channels, not ten feet from the roadside. These mini canals, about a foot wide were on both sides of the road. A sluice gate system was set up that blocked one field while flooding the next. Folk waved to me from their cars as they passed. One guy, turning down onto the side road, stopped to chat for a few minutes. He told me what bike he owned and asked if I was heading to Aragon for the weekend. He asked if I liked Spain. ‘Me gusta mucho España muchas gracias.’

Pedrola was only a couple of miles away and after taking in the landmarks in the old town centre I went to find my hostel for the night. Hostel Bonavia should not be mistaken for the Hotel Bonavia. One is a mock castle where business types hold conventions and families turn up for lunch with smartly dressed children in tow, while the other is a roadside café next to a fuel stop with a few rooms to let.

They are on opposite sides of the same road where, at the time of my visit, was a mess of roadworks, diversions and tailbacks. I had a coffee and cool water outside the castle hotel, while stripping down to my tee shirt to cool off. The business ‘types’ arriving and departing the hotel didn’t look too impressed with my casual attire. They were probably more envious than dismissive as they carried their briefcases and laptops.

Refreshed, I somehow found my way, via a landfill site, a dead end and a vegetable patch, down and across the chaotic roadworks on the dual carriageway to the hostel Bonavia and my room for the night.

The café at the hostel is great. I sat outside on a long balcony, in surroundings that seemed anything but a transport café. My room was so small, even the mice were hunchback. I had to move my kit onto the bed every time I needed to get to the bathroom and take it off again when I got back.

But it was adequate, clean, quiet and rodent free. The view from my window looked out across an enormous lorry park. In contrast, the stairwell to the upper floor was rather grand and has lovely stained-glass windows giving the impression that this was merely an annex to the posh castle on the other side of the carriageway. I have no complaints. The staff were friendlier than the ones in the bar in the castle hotel as well. My bike was parked under the row of trees in front of the café and was chained up with more shackles than Marley’s ghost. I felt no angst about it not being there in the morning. My supper was excellent and very cheap and I settled down after closing the shutters on my windows feeling perfectly vindicated in my choice of ‘habitacion’.

 

Day 4 Pedrola to Caspe

 

Very similar to the day before, I ate breakfast in my room: Marble cake and water as I dressed and packed ready for an early start to catch the cool, morning air. I filled the bike at the petrol station next door. After paying the bill at the hotel I opened the door to two armed police officers heading into the café for their breakfast and for my politeness got a slap on the shoulder and a cheery Buenos Dias. Even the bobbies are friendly.

I had to ride a short distance along the disruption on the A-68 due to the extensive roadworks and took a right towards Bárboles which passes the giant Opel Espania car works. There’s a fair bit of industry in this tiny enclave. I finally negotiated my way onto the A-122 and passed the sign for the village of Bárboles. I’m in the Zaragoza region of Aragon and hoping to encounter a few vineyards along the way as well as other eye-catching landmarks. The mountains crept ever closer to my left and in front. They’re not particularly high but they’re rugged. One of the villages that seems to survive solely because of a large quarry behind it has several dwellings built into the rock near the summit. I followed this sheer faced escarpment for the next 10 miles. I turned left towards Rueda de Jalon and was attracted by what looked like another giant quarry, cut behind the pueblo with a ruin, like an abandoned workhouse, precariously perched at the apex. The houses at ground level looked miniscule even when I got closer. As I crossed a bridge over the Rio Jalon I was struck by its colour. It more resembles a thick, chocolate milkshake than a waterway. There were ducks paddling on the surface, or were they walking? I should have added a straw to my itemised checklist.

The ‘quarry’ turned out to be a legacy of earth’s formative period, carving out a massive bowl behind the escarpment, and the tower, or what’s left of it, the remnants of Castillo Rueda de Jalon. It is an imposing feature over the immediate landscape. The population of the village is less than 400. What industry sustains them, I can only guess. Perhaps it’s milk shakes to burger bars.

My route took me onward to Epila and then to Muel. The A-1101 was very pleasant; a good surface with olive groves on open plains that give way to semi desert the closer I get to Muel. Just beyond the town is an oasis of fun for off-road enthusiasts, whether it’s two wheels or four. The Circuito Monegros TT is an amazing place, tucked way up in the hills. The circuit offers off-road challenges varying in difficulty, from novice to insane. A great way to spend a day in the dusty desert. If I lived anywhere near this place, I would have to have an off-road bike and a replacement spine in the garage.

Back to less dangerous activities, I was drawn out of Muel onto a road surface that was not only decidedly narrow but somewhat pocked. As far as Mezalocha I only had to contend with the lumpy, bumpy bits, but just after that the road rose and twisted like a bad-tempered cobra. It’s at times like these that you question if you should have stuck to the bigger, more frequented roads that lead to non-descript towns with lovely, if misleading, names, like Carénina for instance. This microcosm of the Aragon district is under the domain of Carénina wines and is the reason I chose this route. There’s a particularly nice bodega somewhere along this chopped up, badly surfaced goat track and I’m determined to reach it and have a nosey around. This is rough, open countryside where there’s no hiding from the sun. I’d put my bike into a higher gear and get this over with if I wasn’t so concerned that the surface was more loose shale, than hard concrete. I passed a quarry that is probably to blame for the well-worn road surface, as HGV’s were evident inside the open gated entrance. I didn’t meet another vehicle all the way to Aylés, which is where the bodega of the same name is located. As you descend from the arid wasteland the rocky soil is blessed with hectares of vines, which at this time of the year look so verdant and pleasant on the eye after the 50 shades of slate I’ve just passed through.

At Villanueva de Huerva I took refreshment of a far more appropriate kind for this time of day. My second and fulfilling breakfast in a small café. I’m beginning to notice that every café, bar and restaurant deems it necessary to have the TV on for patrons and not at a low volume either. I also noticed that they seem to always beam chat shows where two or three women in bright, childishly coloured clothes and matching backdrops all talk frantically over each other the whole time. At least I don’t hang around too long at any stop. I must press on, I’ve got places to go.

Turning left in the village and onto the A-220 the surface and width only improved marginally and the elevation increased steadily until I reached the tiny outpost of Fuendetodos, where the church has mosque like minarets and honeycomb coloured walls on the dwellings. The road descends from this point, after several false promises, until widening to a respectable ‘A’ road standard with suitable surface dressing. It’s beautifully open, with gently sweeping bends and long, long straights. I passed a large monastery surrounded by a forest of trees. The buildings have Russian style onion dome roofs but I found it impossible to stop to photograph as I was enjoying the ride so much. At Belchite, the sat-nav advised me to turn right and then immediately left onto the A-1307. But not before I stop to take a look at the crumbling church spire that looks like it has been built by termites.

As I pulled up, two bikers appeared from the road I was about to embark on. They had ridden up from Barcelona and asked me what state the road I had been on was like. My answer would have been ‘Curate’s egg’, if they would have known what that meant. In return they told me the road they had just emerged from was not a good one either. In fact, they recommended I avoid it and take the long way around. When I set off, I decided, “well, they did it” and I don’t want a long detour so I’ll chance it. I’m hardened to these challenges now.

This was my hardest challenge so far. For a start, the sat-nav said I had 45km before the next turning and it looked, dead straight all the way. I was dismayed that the road was just wide enough for one HGV and as I reached the plateau there was one a little distance in front of me. I was seriously concerned that the surface was covered in an inch-thick coating of loose chippings. The landscape was flat, and open with nothing but scrub, and a gazillion wind turbines. Even the horizon had been taken away. And the lorry I had spotted was disappearing into the distance in a cloud of dust. It was full concentration time. I know now what a rally driver feels like when facing the section that you just want to get over with as quickly as possible. 45 km? This is going to be cruel.

It was cruel. Keeping the bike steady and avoiding creases, little piles of extra chippings and potholes while you feel like you’re not progressing at all is draining. Every time I looked up I was in the same place. It was like an optical illusion, there are no features and no shade. Was I moving at all? If I slid off the road here and down into the scrub, how long before another vehicle comes along? It was also cruel because my sat-nav was lying. After only 23km and not 45km, I came to a curve and a downward slope that brought me to the junction with the N-232. I was relieved to end that challenge successfully.

This is a beautifully undulating, sexy, curvy main road, though Azaila, Hijar and all the way to my key target of the day; the Motorland circuit, Aragon. Not content with inventing its own distances and deleting junctions, the sat-nav then got me to take a left turn too early for the race track and I toured three quarters of the way around the barren hills that the circuit is built on, before finding the front entrance. I hate my sat-nav with a passion.

It’s Thursday and I wanted to purchase a day ticket for the Friday ‘free practice’. I had considered staying for the weekend but there were so many factors encouraging me to just stay the one day, take a few photographs and continue with my personal endurance ride. If I was in good company, yes, it would have been an easy decision stay the weekend. Being on my own, I’d get restless waiting for Sunday tea time to come so I could get back on my own bike and enjoy what I’d set out to do and that includes visiting other circuits along the way. I enquired at reception to be told that no day ticket was available. It was 50€ for the three days or nothing. That’s a bargain right enough, I’ve been to Silverstone. But there’s not a hotel room available for tens of miles around now. This is a sell out event.

I sucked in through my teeth, sloped away and decided to photograph what I could from the perimeter fence. I record every MotoGP race on TV anyway and will watch it, more than once, when I get back. I have achieved my goal of getting to the circuit. Another iconic location ticked. It’s seriously hot. I need less clothing. I’m just looking for excuses to back up my decision to move on tomorrow. By the time I returned to my bike, the enticement of the road had won over the excitement of the track, this time. If I’ve been to vineyards and not tasted the wine, I can visit a racing circuit and not drink in the elixir of excitement. There will be more MotoGP’s I can attend, but this might be my only opportunity to see so much more of Spain with the addition of these three available days. Helmet, gloves and engine back on, I switched off the debating chamber in my head and let out the clutch.

I rode down the twisting, dusty roads into and through Alcaniz. It’s fascinating in the old town, with very Moorish influences and a laid-back character. It seems incongruous to be so close to a racing circuit. I headed north-eastwards, to Caspe. The N-211 is a pleasant road, high up in the hills through chunks of desert that resemble the surface of Grandma’s bread and butter pudding.

Due to my having to reschedule my trip to Spain at late notice, Caspe was the only place where I could find a room close enough to the Motorland circuit without being in a different time zone. I was not aware my arrival coincided with the MotoGP event until after I allocated where I planned to be on this date. My original trip scheduled for late spring had me reaching Aragon on the Saturday of the WSB event.

I had made sure I could stay for the Sunday races as well, until unforeseen issues at home put a stop to that plan.
The Hostel El Surtidor was excellent. I parked directly out front and although on the street, I was advised it was as safe as it should be. I know that now because I stupidly tested that claim by leaving my ignition key in the seat lock for several hours before realising my error. The bike was still there but the keys were gone. The two locks I used to secure both wheels were on the same keyring. I did bring a spare set with me, 52-point check list saves the day again, but I have to fetch my wallet from my room and go find new padlocks to secure the bike.

With a cold sweat I headed back into the bar of the hostel. The barman beckoned me, waving my original keys in the air. A passer-by had spotted them in the seat lock and handed them in. Am I stupid or what? That seat lock is my blind spot. This wasn’t the first time.

I celebrated by heading into the old quarter for a beer and snack. The proprietor of the café just down from the cathedral, talked bikes and re-filled my complementary bowl of salty substances as I let the hot afternoon cool down to a gloriously warm evening. I ate in the hostel’s highly recommended restaurant while sharing the table with a fellow biker from Germany who was here for all the MotoGP action. I’m beginning to feel remorse again for making the decision to move on tomorrow morning. We chinked glasses and promised to update each other by email after our respective adventures and I trotted away to settle down to sleep in another cupboard sized room. These amazing days are running consecutively. I loved every minute of being on that bike. We overcame a few challenges and were rewarded with several grin inducing vistas. Free practice tomorrow? Don’t think about it Eddy. We will rise and shine and be passing signs for Motorland as if it were Christmas Day. We’ve got lots more things to see and do before we can watch the superstars writing off hundreds of thousands of Euros worth of bike parts for the sake of a few points in the championship.

I’ve covered 140 miles. Spent £23 on a hostel room and £15 on three meals. With savings like that, I can helicopter in to Aragon for next year’s MotoGP.

Next Spain by Motorcycle Pt. 3

Tags: Eddy Smith, Motorcycle Routes Spain, Motorcycle Touring, Motorcycle Touring Spain