Bob's Blog

Short Way Down

The Pyrenees, Spanish-side, state of Aragon

The quick route to Africa, straight down more or less, from England to Morocco. It was a route I'd begun decades ago, on my first ever bicycle trip, from England to Barcelona. I'd begun that trip not long after meeting a French guy in Jerusalem, who was cycling all the way to South Africa. After digesting that possibility, when I returned to the UK, I grabbed my Dad's bike, and set a course to visit a Scottish friend living in Barcelona.

That trip was before the days of GPS, and smartphones. I visited the local library and rented out a handful of laminated maps, and plotted a course via campsites all the way down, via the Atlantic Coast and Biarritz for a spot of surfing. I missed my ferry however, and I landed on the continent a decent distance east of where I should have been. Out went the maps and the carefully drawn course, and I then winged it as best as I could.

I made it to Barcelona, on time for a return flight, though with very sore knees and I didn't make it to the Atlantic. In Barca, using a wire lock for my trusty transport while out for a drink in La Rambla, the bicycle was stolen, to my sadness. They asked at the airport, "where's your bike?" I'd pre-paid for a spot. "Stolen!" I said. Ah well, a stolen bike wouldn't dampen what turned out to be the first of many adventures on a bike.

So, to many years later, I set off again, taking the ferry from Portsmouth over La Manche. I jumped on the train south via a night 'down and out' in Paris, onto Toulouse, where I cycled south, crossing paths with my younger self, at some point on the road to the Pyrenees.

The aim this time was to hit the Atlantic, then cross the Mediterranean, and lay down a marker in Morocco, for a future trip continuing further south into Sub-Saharan Africa, and eventually the southern tip.

I cycled over the Pyrenees via Andorra, through the last skiing snow of the season, and through the rain of the mountains of Spain (it doesn't fall mostly on the plain, in my experience!). And I then joined a Camino de Santiago, with every road seemingly claiming to be part of the famous route.

I eventually joined the most famous trail, which starts in Saint Pied de Port, France, just south the 'running of the bulls' city of Pamplona. There were heaves of the 'pilgrims', plodding along, enjoying their free 'blood of Christ' red wine.

The camino towns were beautiful, in their somewhat museum-ified manner. Yet the trails between were dull, and mostly flat farmland running alongside motorways. I met an American who, while cursing his bad shins, seemed to wish he was elsewhere. I for one, was glad not to be walking it, and I quickly plotted a diagonal course away from the camino to Portugal and the Atlantic coast.

Reaching Lisbon felt momentous, the city, was San Fransisco-like, with it's 'Golden Gate Bridge' lookalike. I'd made it to the Atlantic on my bicycle, it wasn't Biarritz, it was a different bike, different surf, a different decade, but I'd made it.

I cycled south alongside the surfing beaches, to the southern Algarve and back into Spain. Then to avoid a three-day detour to Seville (no bridges), I cycled 30k along a totally empty beach sat in a nature reserve. I had to wait in the blistering sun for the tide to go out so I could cycle. It was tough going, but great fun in a wild and remote spot - hard to find in Europe!

I continued down to the southern tip of Spain (and Europe) in Tarifa, where I met a Korean cyclist, Gin - who was riding a Surly bike, bought from the same shop in Seoul, that I'd left my old Surly for months on end. Then I jetted across to the port town of Algeciras, lying across the bay from British Gibraltar.

Next station, I had fixed in my mind, would be Ceuta, one the Spanish enclaves in Africa. I would enter Morocco from there. Yet, disembarking the (expensive) ferry to Ceuta, a guy on a motorbike told me the border was still closed, and had been for two years! Though it would open in just three days.

I would have stayed and bided my time, yet there was barely any accommodation and the one place I did found, told me no bicycles, "I could leave it in the park", said the guys translator app. "No gracias!" said I. So, to Africa, then back to Europe. Africa again, the next day!

The next ferry felt right, I was leaving Europe, even getting the stamps on board. Like the crossing from Europe to Turkey-Asia, this had the same feeling, the adventure that awaits the excitement of the unknown and uncertain. No more comforts and ease of Europe.

However, I didn't have far to go and Chefchaouen was be my resting place, to recover from the more than a month I did on the bike non-stop. The ride up through the the green hills of the Rif Mountains to the Atlas was a great ride. I was met with the typical Muslim hospitality, having two offers to stay just in the day ride. I was keen to get to the end and rode 120km that day, with a big steep effort to the blue city of Chefchaouen.

Apparently, the Jews who escaped Spain during the Inquisition who fled to Morocco and the Atlas mountains, painted their houses blue, to remind them of the sea. It certainly had the tranquility of the Mediterranean sea, and was a great place to rest.