There are lots of options for places of interest I could visit from here. Lovely beaches are due south. Córdoba, an ancient city with Roman, Moorish and Jewish influences is 70 miles north. Gibraltar is half a tank of fuel to the south-west and the Algarve would cap a star-studded ride west via Seville and Huelva. I have no such lofty ambitions.

 

Day 9 Antequera to Valle de Abdalajis

 

Not today. My first port of call is only 10 miles away. Stupidly, instead of following road signs and instincts, I followed my sat-nav. It was another scorching day already. I was dripping with perspiration just loading the bike and the sweat became a tsunami shortly after, as the sat-nav directed me, not around the city centre of Antequera but right through the middle. I got swallowed up negotiating narrow, cobbled, steep, ridiculously sharp, blind corner hairpins all the way up to the cathedral that dominates the skyline. At one point, I was staring at a flight of steps that led right up to the cathedral door on a steep, cobbled slope that was surely a dead end. We don’t do steps. I will have real problems turning this bike around. I’ve got to get a lighter bike.

I pulled over, as close to the side wall as I could, to figure out what to do. I had to hold the brake tight. Putting the side stand down will be a problem finding a grip on this elevation. I’m spitting curses under my helmet like a Gatling gun in full flow. Instead of spent shell casings, it’s spittle all over the inside of my visor. Then, a van came up behind me, edged passed and turned sharp right into what I was sure was the stone wall. It wasn’t. There was a gap just wide enough for small vehicles. The stonework, from where I had stopped, looked like a continuation all the way up the steps. My hard work was not finished. These narrow streets were a hive of activity with delivery vans and folk carrying boxes or pushing trolleys. My tyres were wrestling for grip on the shadowed, damp, knobbly surface. Shop keepers had washed down their entrances and swept the water over the cobbles. At the end of this narrow street, my prize was another narrow street, still cobbled, all the way up to the side of the cathedral. Here, two-way traffic was allowed and vehicles were coming down as well as up, while more traffic was joining from streets to my right. On this street, even more delivery vans were blocking the way.

At least with my loud pipes, folk could hear me coming up behind them. They could also hear my heart beating a retreat. I could certainly feel it. Did I tell you, I hate my GPS with a passion?

After passing a school, busy with arrivals and a hill top car park with a queue blocking the way, I came to a junction where a normal road was waiting. A couple of hundred yards later, I turned right and I’m on the A-343. It’s not the best surface or the easiest but it’s a magic carpet compared to what I just rode through. My thigh muscles have cramped up in protest and my confidence has been shot to pieces. I’ve not got out of second gear since I left the hotel. Thank goodness I’ve only 5 miles to go. I passed a lovely roadside café that I considered returning to later but then completely forgot about it.

I’m feeling more relaxed now, until I turned off the road onto a tarmac strip that ended before the rear wheel became aligned with the front. I faced another long, lumpy, chewed up dirt road all the way to the car park for the Lobo Park Wolf Reserve. Sweating still, I’m standing on my pegs all the way to the public car park. A big sign said, ‘Please take all your belongings with you as thieves operate in this area’.

Do I want to do this? At that moment a woman, digging in a field next to the car park shouted for my attention and pointed up the hill, suggesting I take the bike to the front entrance. Thankful, I did one more stretch of horrible track riding and parked between a couple of vehicles in full view of a couple of cottages and the Park’s buildings. I chained luggage and helmet to the bike just in time to be told, in English, by a woman in the garden of a cottage that I had parked in the private bit and should return to the public car park. She relented when I pointed to my luggage and said I was told to bring the bike up here. She seemed happy to have been overruled.

Without a care in the world or a cloud in the sky, I rode the final few miles to my destination for the day. Valle de Abdalajis is a tiny village high in the hills and I had to ride the last few miles with clutch and brake lever constantly at my fingertips. The bends got sharper as the road sought greater heights. I’m not sure I’ve got all my confidence back after the escapade the GPS put me through in Antequera.

Just before Valle de Abdalajis is the Hotel Refugio De Alamut. This is another place that I had determined to keep on my itinerary since I first plotted my route a couple of years back. It’s located high on the side of a mountain. I was advised that the turn off was sharp and to do a U turn and approach the entrance from the left.

They got that right. What was more disconcerting, was the steepness of the concreted (thank goodness) slope with two hair pin bends before you reach the parking area. A fully laden, top heavy bike might lift its front wheel on the ascent. It’s a bit iffy.

The hotel makes up for what the driveway lacks: charm. The rooms are chalets, there is a swimming pool, bar/dining area, games room and a good reputation for hospitality for less than the price of a room at the Ibis in Ipswich. I was shown to my chalet after taking a long cool drink from a large bottle of water in the bar. It’s absolutely perfect. The view from my window across the valley to the east is wonderful.

I walked to a restaurant close to the village, for lunch and dined on a fine salad that was mouth- wateringly good. As I walked back towards the hotel, I spotted water pouring from a fissure in the rock, just like a tap had been installed, right by the side of the road. A car then pulled up and a guy got out and filled several demijohns with the highland spring water before driving off again.

After photographing everything in sight, including a couple of Iberian deer drinking from the swimming pool I did what the Spanish do and had a siesta. As I lay there staring at my ceiling fan spinning out wafts of cool air, I felt quite chuffed to have made it this far. I have one more challenge ahead, before I turn to the north and attempt the long, long ride to the Atlantic coast and the ferry for home.

In the evening, I was all freshened up and raring to go, nowhere. With a cold beer in my hand and a smug smile on my face I watched the evening shadow slowly engulf the hills opposite. It was beautiful. I then enjoyed a lovely meal in the hotel bar and a long chat with Carmen, the lady who runs this place. I was introduced to a guy from Scotland who lives nearby but is desperate to move on. He says he wants to go back to Fife. I could see his point regarding the slow pace of life, the complete ‘manana’ thing when you want help to get things done and the constant heat but ‘out of the frying pan and into the dog’s dinner’ comes to mind, with mixed metaphors. Even the owner of the hotel has put this place on the market. Did I know ten people who could put up shares to buy her out? I don’t know ten people. I’m the lucky one here tonight. I relished the solitude for this one night. I’m in the best position of all of us.

The wind had picked up during the late evening and it looked likely that it will persist tomorrow. I’m a bit worried, these mountain roads are very exposed and I had planned to ride through El Chorro. The lakes and mountains make for a fantastic tourist attraction. But if the wind is howling like a wolf, it might be wise for a change of plan. I’ll review it in the morning. I’ve got that steep concrete drive to negotiate again. That is also nagging at the back of my mind as I hunker down in my lovely chalet. Total silence, complete bliss. The fan above my bed still silently spreading cool air.

I’ve ridden less than 20 miles today. Well, it was my day off. The wolf reserve exceeded my expectations. The hotel location is awesome and the hospitality was delivered as promised. I spent £10 on the park and £48 here on the room. At this rate I’ll save enough of my budget to put up my 10% for a share in buying this hotel.

 

Day 10 Valle de Abdalajis to Caceres

 

The wind did pick up overnight and now there’s low cloud across the mountains. Plan ‘A’ and ‘B’ have been scrapped which was two routes on sketchy roads to El-Chorro. There’s not much point in winding my way to an area where such conditions could make it dangerous and restrict viewing opportunities. Plan ‘C’, which Google maps suggested, is to ride back to Antequera and pick up the road west to Jerez from there. I don’t really want to retrace my steps.

 

I opted for plan ‘D’, which was to ride south, down out of the mountains and pick up the main road north thus avoiding risky and exposed mountain roads and maybe detour to interesting new places along the way. It proved the right thing to do. I got the bike off the hotel grounds without mishap. The concrete drive has gouges wide enough to re-direct the wheels, particularly on the hair pins. A brief sigh of relief as I turned right towards the village of Valle de Abdalajis and at the fork for El-Chorro, a guy in a Hi-Vis jacket just about explained to me that a vehicle was blocking the road to the mountain anyway. I took the left fork and rode steadily down the smooth asphalt and leaned into testing bends, passing through Álora and joining the A-357 north to Ardales. This is a good road too. Some steep inclines and with the wind behind me I could race along a bit.

I turned left onto the A-367 so I could enjoy more clear roads and scenic views as I headed west, following signs for Ronda. Unfortunately, the winds really picked up along much of this section so now I was being hampered by the fierce cross wind when exposed on the open plains. Debris from recently harvested fields began swirling and bouncing across the road. At least the cloud was lifting and as the sun climbed, so did the temperature. It’s going to be another sweltering day. Due to the wind and debris, I had to slow down. On two occasions, coaches raced up behind me in intimidating fashion. I can’t pull over, there’s no room, and I don’t want to speed up and get a visor full of foliage with this much unpredictability. He’ll have to wait. Fortunately, the first coach overtook me, impervious to the sideways battering the wind was causing but then I became the meat in a coach sandwich as we all ended up following a caravan travelling with understandable caution. My bike is shaft driven and very heavy in comparison to chain driven bikes. It takes a big gust to make it stray off course. I think today is an exceptionally windy day.

At Cuevas de Becerro, I stopped to check the route. I didn’t want to go all the way to Ronda itself so I wondered if I should turn right here and head north again to get to the A-384. The Sat-nav suggested I head back 10 miles and then take a left, up a single-track road. I remember passing it when I was being harassed by the coaches. It’s narrow and the road looked in need of repair as well. Besides, I’m not heading back across that plain and I’m not knowingly go to go and fully expose myself on the top of another mountain either. I’ll turn right here and weave my way up through the valleys in the hope to avoid the direct assaults of the wind.
It worked, I rode through several, lovely and moderately sheltered valleys, crested modest hills and passed through one or two tiny hamlets until I reached the A-384 just beyond Torre Alhaquime. Now I’m on a major road and able to ride at speed all the way to Jerez. However, the winds were still trying to blow me across into oncoming traffic or down into ditches but the occasional cuttings and forests of trees offered some protection. The sun was heating this wind like a blast furnace and the calmness of my usual riding disposition was being frayed like a tattered flag in a hurricane.

I can’t wait to see the sign that says Circuito de Velociodad so I can get off this roller coaster.

I’m almost at the end of my mission. As I approach the final roundabout that takes me to the circuit entrance the signpost also shows, a turning for Arcos. It’s ironic that the outset of my Spanish adventure I headed to Los Arcos, and here I am at the farthest reaches of the trip and I find there was a short cut just off this roundabout.

I arrived at the gates. They’re closed to the public. I never expected a red carpet and a brass band any way. I just wanted to reach the doorstep. I’m happy. Very happy. Relieved too. I smiled, turned around and waved. “Mission accomplished Houston, I’m coming home”. I headed back up to the first roundabout and set off on the CA-4011 for Gilbalbin. No traffic, and the wind whistled somewhere else. There’s a nice café at Gilbalbin but I want to stop just a bit further on, where the SE-5207 meets the A-480. I’ve covered 125 miles today already and I deserve a coffee. There’s a café at the crossroads. I know that because almost opposite is a hotel that I had planned to stay in to celebrate my pending achievement. The ‘Hotel El Cortijo Los Naranjos De San Juan’. It seemed appropriate that after my longest ever journey on a motorcycle, that I should book a room at a hotel with the longest ever name.

I’ve already decided that I’m not staying the night here. That would have been a good idea if it was late afternoon but it’s barely 1pm. I now face the, not so small matter of riding back to the Atlantic coastline to a town halfway between Santander and Bilbao. I have plenty of days in hand before my allotted ferry so I can choose which route, which cities and how many days I should take between here and there. It’s around 600 miles. If I stick to ‘N’ roads it will take 13 hours in the saddle. If I keep to the Autovias I can almost half that total. Pick n mix perhaps. My goal right now is to get out of the deep south as far as possible this afternoon. I’ll head for Seville and then see how I feel about reaching Extremadura province and perhaps Merida, which as the name suggests is a geographical marker for somewhere around the centre of the country, although west of Madrid, to be more accurate. Bikers I’ve spoken to in the past seem to use Merida as a crossing point and a place to stay on the long ride from north to south. Let’s see if I can get through Seville without too much hindrance and then I’ll have another look at the map.

I crossed into Extremadura province, leaving Andalucia behind to roast someone else’s head through their helmet. This region is hardly known for a temperate climate but I am hoping that autumn has actually begun the farther north I go. The winds were more manageable now and I had more time to look around and take in the scenery. At Santa Olalla del Cala, another hill top pueblo, you cannot miss the eye-catching castile guarding the residents. There are so many vistas and talking points that crop up along the major roads that makes pushing along to eat up the miles more enjoyable. I re-fuelled at Almendralejo and took twenty minutes rest. I’m not far from Merida now and had a look at hotel options beyond there. Just outside of Caceres, I tagged the perfect hotel. I wanted something nice, just like I promised myself if I stayed near Jerez after completing my mission.

The ‘Hotel Hospes Palacio de Arenales and Spa’ has a long name too. A country club hotel with sheltered parking for the bike and located very close to the Autovia. It’s 70 miles away from where I’ve stopped. I’ll be there before 6pm. Perfect. I rolled up shortly after 5pm. I’m soaking with perspiration under my togs. The sun followed me all the way.

As I checked-in, the wonderfully observant receptionist remarked that I looked like I could do with a glass of water. She went to a side table and lifted a bottle of Cava out of an ice bucket. She poured some into a champagne flute and handed it to me. Realising her ‘paso en falso’, she giggled and said ‘Would you like some Cava while I actually pour you a glass of water?’ That’s some welcome. Perhaps, I should have expected the same at the Circuit de Jerez.

Both drinks were welcome, the Cava was exceptional. I still believe they send their rubbish Cava to the UK and keep the good stuff for themselves. After turning my room into a crime scene, with clothes and the contents of my tank bag scattered everywhere, I showered and wrapped the complementary white dressing gown around my body and followed the signs along several, expensively furnished, underground passages to spend an hour in the spa. Yes, my 52-point item list included swimming shorts. The powerful water jets drilled into my aching neck and shoulder blades, relieving taut muscles and tired limbs and I basked in the luxury of this sparsely populated hotel. In fact, there were only four people in the spa besides myself: An elderly couple, tottering between the swimming pool and a shallow pool and a randy young couple in the jacuzzi that were necking and fondling like newlyweds. When they stepped out and headed for the sauna I wanted to warn the guy that his room key was sticking up in his shorts. If he sits in the sauna with that in his pocket, it will burn his groin. Then I remembered that we didn’t have room keys, but a plastic slot card.

Back in my room, I spotted a heron standing by the pond right outside my window. The view beyond and across what could be termed the moor was lovely. What a great choice of hotel I’ve made! I sauntered to the restaurant where a table was reserved for me. I was the only diner. The waiter was very attentive. The food was quite good but not great, prawns for starter and roast duck with caramel potatoes.

The wine, locally produced is heavy on the alcohol content but not the pocket. The reputation that Spanish wine is mostly plonk has long been dispelled but legends take longer to die. Spain, like most wine producing countries has invested millions of hours and capital in getting a share of the massive wine market throughout the world. I chuckle when folk back home dismiss a country as a gut rot wine producer based on practices more than forty years ago. It’s why I enjoy my hobby so much. Everywhere I go I am enlightened and educated on the qualities and varieties so many wine growing regions are bringing to the table. I have a lot of researching to do when I get home. Some of these lesser known wines need tracking down on-line and through outlets in the UK.

As I settled down for the night I caught a flash of lightning through the window and a clap of thunder. A storm is brewing. It was a storm, a big one. I’m glad my bike is under cover. I hope this storm goes by morning. I’ve not used my waterproofs yet. I was hoping I’d make it back to England before unzipping that bag. As the storm raged on I got my MP3 player out and fell asleep listening to the gentle rhythms of Gojira.

I’ve covered 340 miles today. I didn’t expect to but the urge to get to Laredo and a lazy weekend by the beach inspired the big push. It should get cooler the further north I ride. Palencia or Burgos tomorrow? I’ve not decided. I might be staying here if the storm persists. The hotel cost me £80 for the night and £25 for dinner with wine. It was my luxury treat. I filled the bike up twice but snacked during the day so not too much expenditure for what was a mega jaunt with champagne to make it a special treat. Tomorrow I’ll slum it, I promise.

Next Spain by Motorcycle Pt. 6

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