Jamie on the road to Madrid, Spain
Location: Bowerchalke, England
Day 1,606
Miles on the clock: 43,630
Gibraltar is an odd place. The road signs are British but people drive on the right. The people are British but most speak with soft Spanish lisps. I had a pint of tepid Old Speckled Hen in The Lord Nelson on the afternoon I arrived. I was killing time, waiting for my friend Jamie's flight to get in. As is happened, a thick fog shrouded Gibraltar rock that evening and the plane was redirected to Malaga. I heard staff in the airport making jovial banter about the "pea-souper" that had fallen.
Day 1,606
Miles on the clock: 43,630
Gibraltar is an odd place. The road signs are British but people drive on the right. The people are British but most speak with soft Spanish lisps. I had a pint of tepid Old Speckled Hen in The Lord Nelson on the afternoon I arrived. I was killing time, waiting for my friend Jamie's flight to get in. As is happened, a thick fog shrouded Gibraltar rock that evening and the plane was redirected to Malaga. I heard staff in the airport making jovial banter about the "pea-souper" that had fallen.
Jamie's bus connection arrived at 11.30pm and we went for some drinks in the market square. The pre-drunk, underage teenagers loitering outside the pubs were a strangely nostalgic sight. We sat with pints and bad burgers watching the people for a couple of hours before retiring to a hotel room kindly provided for us by a friend of a friend.
The road very soon swept us up into the hills. It was late October but the weather was still hot in Andalucia. The climbs were steep and exhaustive but the descents were life-affirming. We passed through Ronda where Spain's first "plaza de toros" (bull-fighting ring) still stands. Hemmingway's ashes were scattered on the nearby estate of famed matador Antonia Ordoez. The 120m-deep gorge that cuts through the picturesque town, and the elegant stone bridge that spans it, are two of my abiding memories from the only previous time I'd visited Spain as a thirteen-year-old.
The road very soon swept us up into the hills. It was late October but the weather was still hot in Andalucia. The climbs were steep and exhaustive but the descents were life-affirming. We passed through Ronda where Spain's first "plaza de toros" (bull-fighting ring) still stands. Hemmingway's ashes were scattered on the nearby estate of famed matador Antonia Ordoez. The 120m-deep gorge that cuts through the picturesque town, and the elegant stone bridge that spans it, are two of my abiding memories from the only previous time I'd visited Spain as a thirteen-year-old.
Camping in an Andalucian olive grove, Spain
We slept outside each evening under twisting old olive trees in geometrically planted groves that spread across the ruptured landscape as far as the eyes could see. The combination of European supermarkets and having a friend to cook with resulted in cheap but more elaborate meals than I'd prepared for a long time. Paella, Chinese dumplings, bolognaise and risotto, washed down with sangria, beer, white wine or whisky. Fire-cooked toast with marmalade and real butter for breakfast was an absurdly pleasing treat for me.
The towns were all pretty. And all perched high on steep-sided hills; a defensive legacy of the Berber conquests. In the morning the narrow cobbled streets would be busy with old women walking back and forth to market. However from lunch until 6pm every town would be silent. It was unusual to see anyone moving anywhere. We would look for benches or shaded grass to rest on and while away the afternoon heat as the Spanish do.
We spent a couple of nights in Madrid with hosts found on a cycling internet forum. The city surprised me with its mono-culture. I think it's the whitest capital city I've ever visited. The grandeur and pomp of every third building was impressive though.
The towns were all pretty. And all perched high on steep-sided hills; a defensive legacy of the Berber conquests. In the morning the narrow cobbled streets would be busy with old women walking back and forth to market. However from lunch until 6pm every town would be silent. It was unusual to see anyone moving anywhere. We would look for benches or shaded grass to rest on and while away the afternoon heat as the Spanish do.
We spent a couple of nights in Madrid with hosts found on a cycling internet forum. The city surprised me with its mono-culture. I think it's the whitest capital city I've ever visited. The grandeur and pomp of every third building was impressive though.
Abandoned shepherd's hut (home for a night), Spain
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Cooking dinner inside the hut, Spain
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North of Madrid, the approach of Autumn caught up with us. The days grew rapidly shorter as we progressed rapidly further north. We began to sleep in the tent and had frost when camping over 1,000m. The trees were ablaze with the fiery colours of decay. One night our campfire was spotted in the woods and reported to the police who found us and informed us that wild camping is illegal in Spain. Not since an unpleasant debacle in a Congolese village had I been told I couldn't camp somewhere. We pleaded with the police officer who saw we were no harm and conspiratorially said we could stay if we didn't relight the fire and were gone by sunrise. We complied and pushed onto Pamplona where the rain began and accompanied us throughout the whole descent off the central Spanish plateau, down to the coast and into France.
Jamie flew home from Biarritz. Our fortnight crossing Spain had served as the perfect decompression for me after a protracted period of struggle and over-inflection in Africa. I was now happily pursuing the final 1,000 miles of my journey and finding myself able to relish so many things that I'd begun to endure rather than enjoy at various points over the years: watching traffic pass while resting on the roadside, solitude, exhaustion after a hard day, snatches of acquaintance, being lost and asking for directions, the bemusement of strangers upon seeing me, silence, room for thought, and miming when I don't know a word in a foreign language.
Two or three days of rain and even hailstones led me to a charity shop where I bought a pair of trousers, some canvas shoes and a hat for four euros. I was dressed absurdly but didn't care in the least. I locked myself into a surprisingly clean and warm public toilet for a night in a town called Bellac. I traced the Loire on a cycle path for hours. I rested in Paris for a day with a kind man who invited me through my blog and who'd grown up in DRC.
Jamie flew home from Biarritz. Our fortnight crossing Spain had served as the perfect decompression for me after a protracted period of struggle and over-inflection in Africa. I was now happily pursuing the final 1,000 miles of my journey and finding myself able to relish so many things that I'd begun to endure rather than enjoy at various points over the years: watching traffic pass while resting on the roadside, solitude, exhaustion after a hard day, snatches of acquaintance, being lost and asking for directions, the bemusement of strangers upon seeing me, silence, room for thought, and miming when I don't know a word in a foreign language.
Two or three days of rain and even hailstones led me to a charity shop where I bought a pair of trousers, some canvas shoes and a hat for four euros. I was dressed absurdly but didn't care in the least. I locked myself into a surprisingly clean and warm public toilet for a night in a town called Bellac. I traced the Loire on a cycle path for hours. I rested in Paris for a day with a kind man who invited me through my blog and who'd grown up in DRC.
Last morning in Spain squatting in a ruin north of Pamplona
By the time I sped into Calais, excitement had been building for several days and I headed straight for the port. I'd been once again kindly given a complimentary ferry crossing by P&O and was welcomed onboard personally by the captain. In the Club Lounge I was treated to a champagne and eggs Benedict breakfast. I was then greeted off the boat by Brian who I'd first contacted to ask for the free crossing in 2010 and who'd once again obliged. He welcomed me with a big hug and took me to the P&O offices to meet some people and have lunch. That night I camped atop a white cliff and let melancholy merge with joy in my racing mind while the sun set over Folkestone. I was nearly home and it was nearly over.
I had anticipated culture shock but it never came. Everything seemed comfortably (if distantly) familiar. Signposts, pub names, images and overheard snippets of conversation rushed upon me and found buried-but-not-forgotten counterparts in the recesses of my head: Public Bridleway; Zig-Zag Hill; The King's Head; vomit on the pavement; CLOSING DOWN SALE!; The High Street; "bucketing it down"; W.H.Smiths; bald and burly men in high-vis vests; the astringent scent of salt and vinegar wafting out of chip shops on warm soggy air; old, emaciated men with gin-blossomed cheeks stooping slowly down the street; school boys with deliberately-badly tied ties; school girls with high cut skirt hems; "Victoria Road" and "Victoria this" and "Victoria that".
I joined the A20 London-bound and crossed the M25 circular mid-morning on a Thursday. I was early for my homecoming party that evening so I rode around the city enjoying my last day as a tourist. I sat in Trafalgar Square watching excited young couples from Europe, Asia, Africa and the Americas; all taking photos of themselves with their phones attached to 'selfie sticks'. I finished my French bread, meat and cheese on a Hyde Park bench and then sat in a pub after darkness fell. At 7pm, as arranged, I met with some police officers on Earl's Court Road and they stopped the traffic.
I had anticipated culture shock but it never came. Everything seemed comfortably (if distantly) familiar. Signposts, pub names, images and overheard snippets of conversation rushed upon me and found buried-but-not-forgotten counterparts in the recesses of my head: Public Bridleway; Zig-Zag Hill; The King's Head; vomit on the pavement; CLOSING DOWN SALE!; The High Street; "bucketing it down"; W.H.Smiths; bald and burly men in high-vis vests; the astringent scent of salt and vinegar wafting out of chip shops on warm soggy air; old, emaciated men with gin-blossomed cheeks stooping slowly down the street; school boys with deliberately-badly tied ties; school girls with high cut skirt hems; "Victoria Road" and "Victoria this" and "Victoria that".
I joined the A20 London-bound and crossed the M25 circular mid-morning on a Thursday. I was early for my homecoming party that evening so I rode around the city enjoying my last day as a tourist. I sat in Trafalgar Square watching excited young couples from Europe, Asia, Africa and the Americas; all taking photos of themselves with their phones attached to 'selfie sticks'. I finished my French bread, meat and cheese on a Hyde Park bench and then sat in a pub after darkness fell. At 7pm, as arranged, I met with some police officers on Earl's Court Road and they stopped the traffic.
Cows at sunrise in northern France
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Sunset over Folkestone, England
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A police escort of two outriders with blue lights flashing took me down the strangely quiet and empty road. I turned right. Bagpipes struck up, the flags of every country I'd visited were strung across the mews, a chequered flag was waving and so many people who I'd assumed wouldn't care were cheering me on over the finish line and to my family to whom I'm immensely grateful.
A wonderful party ensued and I was a wreck of relief and emotion throughout. I was publicly unbearded and finally got to bed in the small hours. A day later I quietly began the real final ride of the trip. Under grey skies and in thoughtful mood I rode southwest. My last tented night was in a field on the outskirts of Basingstoke. On a sunday afternoon I rode into my parent's village near Salisbury. The villagers had been alerted and faces from my past smiled and waved me down the lane, up the short sloping driveway and home. Then it really was over.
A wonderful party ensued and I was a wreck of relief and emotion throughout. I was publicly unbearded and finally got to bed in the small hours. A day later I quietly began the real final ride of the trip. Under grey skies and in thoughtful mood I rode southwest. My last tented night was in a field on the outskirts of Basingstoke. On a sunday afternoon I rode into my parent's village near Salisbury. The villagers had been alerted and faces from my past smiled and waved me down the lane, up the short sloping driveway and home. Then it really was over.
Crossing the finish line in Spear Mews, London
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That's it. That's the final blog!
If you have enjoyed reading these blogs over the years, please consider making a small donation to either of the two very worthy charities that I am supporting. Just click the links to the right. Don't do it because I've cycled nearly twice the circumference of the world. Do it because it is the right thing to do! Many thanks, Charlie |
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