Off Yer Trolley - Round the World in 80 Ways!!!

Tuesday 8th December: Cuellar

2011-12-27T05:34:00.000-08:00

I returned to Cuellar early on the following Tuesday to explore the town thoroughly. The town itself, dating from at least the 11th century if not earlier is situated on the edge of a plateau in the province of Segovia, 6okms from that city and 50kms southwest of Valladolid.

Dominated by its large medieval castle which sits at the top of the town, the town almost spills over the edge of the plateau, tumbling down the slope with a network of streets which lead down to a hollow dip in the land where much of the modern town spreads out. Cuellar overlooks a vast plain that runs eastward towards the Sierra Guadarrama, which are just visible in the cool December haze. Beyond those mountains lies Madrid some 150kms away.

The town has seen better days but, full of the joys of following the story of Francisco de Cuellar to here it feels magical to walk around the ancient streets. However, despite the excitement of being here there is no definite proof that this was actually the hometown of Francisco de Cuellar. There is a population of about 10,000 here. The castle was that of an aristocratic family, the Beltran de la Cueva, Dukes of Albuquerque, a prominent family in the sixteenth century. Five kilometers from the town is the shrine of Nuestra Senora del Henar to whom Francisco prayed at the moment he jumped from the stricken Lavia as it was pounded to pieces by the storm waves at Streedagh.

Being a holy day it was very quiet around town. Shops were closed. There were a few people around the streets, but not many. At the heart of the walled old town lies the plaza Mayor, a small square on which sits one of the towns many churches, the Iglesia de San Miguel. Huddled around the edge of the plaza are a collection of old townhouses, some undergoing repair, along with the towns principal hotel and the Ayuntamiento, the town hall. Six streets radiate from the plaza leading to different parts of the town. I followed the Calle Moreria uphill to Arco San Martin, a gate which leads through the fortifications which protected the old castle.

Cuellar appears to have been a wealthy place in the past. Old monuments that testify to its fomer splendour are scattered all around town, from the many churches to the imposing walls and the collection of plazas. I stopped for lunch in a modest bar run by a husband and wife on the Calle San Estaban. I was the only punter in the place and the wife appeared slightly bemused by me as I ordered a beer and some food from the menu. While I ate the couple sat quietly watching tv. I think I was hungier than I realized as I literally licked the plate clean which, I think, pleased the wife as a compliment to her cooking.

In the afternoon I visited the castle in the company of five or six others. In the past as well as housing the Dukes of Albequerque, Napoleonic troops troops were stationed here as well as troops loyal to Franco during the Civil War. Today a school occupies part of the castle buildings. From the battlements we watched the magnificent views over the surrounding plains.

Afterwards, as darkness fell I made my way to a bar, housed in one of the towns churches, the Iglesia de San Pedro. The refurbished church made a beautifully atmospheric cafe bar, the place was snug and warm with spanish music playing softly in the background. I ordered a hot chocolate, so good I ordered a second, and took out the copy of Francisco's carta I had originally downloaded at an internet cafe in Chachapoyas, Peru a year ago and almost ceremonially re-read his account of his experiences in Ireland. I had carried that copy with me on all of my travels of the past year and so it was fitting to conclude the journey by re-reading it once more. 'I believe that you will be astonished at seeing this letter on account of the slight certainty that could have existed as to my being alive. That you may be quite sure of this I write it, and at some length, for which there is sufficient reason in the great hardships and misfortunes I have passed through since the armada sailed from Lisbon for England......'

I took one last stroll around the town, taking in the sights under the streetlights before I made my way back to the bus station to catch a ride back to Valladolid. The journey to Cuellar was over but with a series of documents already found in Simancas, and the tantalizing possibility of finding more the real search for Francisco de Cuellar is really only beginning....

Sunday 6th December: The last 60kms

2011-12-27T03:56:00.000-08:00

I got up easily this morning. There was no morning fatigue in the way that there has been on many occasions on this journey. Instead there was a surge of adrenalin and excitement in anticipation of reaching Cuellar later today. Its around about the sixty kilometer mark from Medina to Cuellar so it should be a straight forward spin today. My main concern is the weather. For the las tleg of the journey I'd love to have a fine, bright day, dry at least. Thankfully, as I leave the accomodation it is dry though overcast.

I cycle out of the quiet, empty plaza and along the equally deserted Calle Padilla, cross the river and make for the outskirts of town. I pass by the castle, take a last look at its imposing height up on the hill before looking east wards and taking the road for Pozal de Gallinas and Olmedo which will take me where I want to go. Its dull and overcast overhead as I pass through the small, sleepy town of Pozal. Very little is stirring here save for a couple of unseen dogs that keep me on my toes with their barking. As I leave that town behind raindrops are beginning to fall. Very quickly I get annoyed and frustrated. It wasn't supposed to rain today. I pull on my waterproofs resentfully and push along the road, head bowed against the wet.

If there's a consolation on the road this morning, its that its flat and there's no wind. The level, almost treeless plain is broken by the odd small rise and a few ridges that break the horizon. There is little traffic on the road this morning, thankfully, as the cars that do pass by zip past at speed, showering me with a heavy spray in their wake causing me to vent my annoyance by shouting a few well chosen curses in their direction.

By mid-morning I get to Olmedo where there are a few signs of life. The centre of town is bounded by its sand-couloured crumbling old medieval walls. Regretfully I don't enter the town as the road I'm on skirts around the edge of town to a junction where I follow a signpost for Cuellar. By now the rain is falling persistently and a heavy mist has descended obscuring the road ahead. With no views to distract me I keep my head down and concentrate on keeping a steady even rhythm and try to forget that I'm becoming uncomfortable damp.

As I reached the town of Iscar, Cuellar lay only 20kms ahead. By now, the rain had eased off and I stopped for a breather and to step out of the damp water proofs. I stopped to take a photo of a ruined castle high up on a nearby hill and then took a slow, leisurely spin through the centre of town. After Iscar the landscape began to change. A high ridge appeared along the skyline ahead, marked by a flat-topped hill that looked as though it stood guard over a broad gully that had cut its way in to that ridge. The small hamlet of Mata de Cuellar which a short distance before the flat-topped hill announced that I was entering the final stretch of the journey. Following the broad gulley through this table land the road passed through San Cristobal de Cuellar and I knew that I had to be in the vicinity of my destination. Beyond San Cristobal the road rose up through the table land to emerge on to an open plateau. The hamlet of Torregutierrez stands as if on guard, perched on a small rise overlooking the road as it emerges into the open only a kilometre or two short of Cuellar which is visible.

Although soaked and cold I enjoyed the last kilometer looking at the town ahead of me as it slowly spread out, savouring the moment of arrival. I stopped at the sign post that announces Cuellar, touched it and took a photo before pushing on into the town. The road I was on led directly to a castle that sits on thupper side of the old town. I stopped here at a carpark where a number of day-trippers and familes were milling about, perhaps considering where they were going for lunch. I was both sweat and rain-soaked, and the rain continued to fall with a very cold, wet persistence. As I lingered, looking around at some of the ancient remains of this old city my body temperature began to drop rapidly. The rain was almost falling as sleet. My hands were painful with the cold and after ten-fifteen minutes I began to shiver. Much as I wished to I couldn't afford stay here as I was. To stay warm I had to keep moving. I made my way down through the town centre and found the bus station. Considering what to do I decided to return to Valladolid on the next bus. Much as I wanted to stay for a look I was too cold and too wet to be wandering the streets in this weather. With the focus now on searching for documentation in Simancas and only a few days left before I would return home the priority was to get back to Valladolid tonight. Tuesday being the 8th of December is a holy day and a bank holiday in Spain. The archive in Simancas will be closed and I could return then and spend the day exploring Cuellar. It seemed like a good plan as I stood shivering in the bustation and, with my mind set, I prepared my bike for loading onto a bus. The journey was over.

Saturday 5th December: Medina del Campo

2010-09-14T04:26:00.000-07:00

I left Valladolid early Saturday morning southwards for Medina Del Campo. The owner of the pension has kindly kept the room free for me to return tomorrow night and has stored most of my luggage as I'll need very little for only two days on the road. I bring only one small pannier with my one the bike which makes cycling an absoulte joy as there is almost no extra weight on the bike now.

I'm not going directly to Cuellar today but making a diversion to visit Medina del Campo as this town is considered to be the 'Medina' that is mentioned by Francisco in his carta. When Francisco reached the Low Countries he arrived at the port of Dunkirk onboard a ship that was part of a small convoy from Edinburgh that was repatriating some 600 survivors of wrecked Armada ships in Ireland and Scotland. That convoy was attacked by Dutch pirates within sight of the harbour entrance and in order to evade their attackers, Francisco's ship ran aground on soft sand banks some distance from the shore. To escape everybody onboard was forced to jump into the sea either to swim or to try and float ashore however they might. Francisco survived his ordeal and was pulled from the surf by soldiers from the local garrison whom he claimed to be from 'Medina'.

I had already visited Medina de Rioseco on the way to Valladolid. That Medina was a significant town in the late 16th century but Medina del Campo at the time held a higher status and was renowned for its textile markets. Its quite possible that Francisco was familiar with this town and so for that reason I felt I showed go and have a look myself. It was an easy day's cycle on a light bike and no breeze. It was overcast but the clouds were high and didn't threaten rain. The only glitch in the day was that I left Valladolid on the wrong road. I had reached the town of Mojados, nearly 30kms down the road before I realised my mistake, too far to turn back but, thankfully not too far out of my way. I was able to follow a road out of town that ran directly to Medina del Campo.

By lunchtime I had reached the town. It was an easy 60kms. There's a lot to be said for cycling without any luggage onboard. Medina sits in a wide, vast plain that extends south from Valladolid. neighbouring villages lie hidden from one another by gentle rises from the top of which the views extend for miles across the countryside. I followed the streets of Medina to the heart of the town at the Plaza Mayor. The town is sited on the banks of the rio Zapardiel and the pedestrianised calle Padilla was thronged with shoppers, bustling about doing their Saturday shopping. Walking into the plaza I had a quick look around. It was an impressive, wide square lined by a mix of old merchants houses, religious monuments and modern cafes and bars. On the far side of the plaza I spotted the local tourist office. Hoping I might be pointed in the direction of some cheap accomodation I made a beeline for their door only to discover it had just closed for lunch. I would have to find my own way around town but I was in no hurry. The cycle hadn't taken much out of me and it was a fine dry afternoon.

One full circuit of the plaza later I had found some good cheap rooms over a bar down in the opposite corner of the plaza from the tourist office. A perfect location in the heart of the town. I had a quick lie down for an hour before going back out for a look around town. At the time that I checked in it was, perhaps, approaching lunchtime. The bar was busy with punters and luchtime clientelle chatting, sipping beer and working their way through the selection of tapas that was on offer at the counter. Mounted high at one end of the bar was a tv showing an episode of Bear Grylls survival show 'Born Survivor'. Many of the conversations paused every so often to watch as Bear engaged in another of his daring escapades. A cloth capped elderly gent sitting alone at the bar chewed absently on a selection of baby octopus cooked in a garlic sauce and washed it down with the occasional sip of beer, not taking his eyes from the tv screen.

I left the bar to wander the streets of Medina, wondering if Francisco had, indeed, visited this town. Had he too, walked through this plaza? Very quickly I noticed that whereas ninety minutes earlier the Plaza Mayor and surrounding streets had been thronged with shoppers and the typical Saturday morning bustle, the place was now deserted, almost eerily quiet. I'm still finding hard to adjust to the rhythm of Spanish ways. The shops were closed and everybody had gone home for lunch. 'Siesta' time had descended on Medina del Campo.

I spent the afternoon wandering around the streets of the town looking for reminders of the town's former reputation. Sprinkled around the plaza and its adjoining streets were stately buildings of aristocarats and merchant magnates. On the calle del Almirante sits the palacial townhouse of the Enriquez family of Medina de Rioseco who built a residence here in the sixteenth century. In the Plaza sits a statue dedicated to Isabel, Queen of Castile, whose marriage to Ferdininad of Aragon unified those to crowns and gave birth to the modern Spain. It was she and her husband who sponsored Columbus voyage to the West in 1492 which revealed the existence of the Americas to Europeans and laid the foundations for the vast Spanish Empire of the Indies that would be forged in the following century.

I walked over to the outskirts of the town to see the local castle, the castilla de la Mota. It sits on a small hill overlooking the town centre. A picturesque medieval castle with powerful fortified walls and a tall tower keep, it was surrounded by a wide, dry mote. Approching the town earlier it was the impressive castle dominating the skyline that marked the presence of Medina on this open plain. It was open so I bought a ticket and joined a number of families to wander around the ancient battlements, taking in some spectacular views over the town and surrounding countryside as the late afternoon sun began to dip towards distant mountains that fringed the plain to the southwest

The sun had set by the time I left the castle. It was cold, a chill air had descended and now tiredness and hunger had got the better of me. I drifted back to the accommodation and found an open supermarket along the way to pick up some food to have back in the room. I lay down and watched tv for a couple of hours, flicking channels to see if there was any football on show. Deportivo La Coruna were showing, at home to, I can't remember, but it was like seeing an old friend again such was the fondness I had for that town after my visit. I left the match with Deportivo leading 1-0 for a last wander around Medina. I wanted to see the town at night and, hopefully, with a bit more life on the streets than there had been in the quiet of the afternoon.

The bar was quiet, a couple of punters propped up the bar so I didn't hang about. I stepped out in to the Plaza and couldn't help noticing a lady who seemed to be lingering with a certain intent under the arcades in the vicinity of the bar. I didn't really want to be jumping to conclusions but from her demeanour and the way she was dressed I guessed she was their for business, at least that was what crossed my mind. Word must have got out that there was a 'gringo' in town. Sorry love, I kept moving. The plaza was still quiet but very soon the evening paseo was in full swing with families emerging to stroll around town. The length of the main shopping street, the Calle Padilla, was now brightly lit up by the Christmas decorations. Most of the Strollers concentrated here, filling the street with chatter as they slowly wandered towards the Plaza.

A couple of stalls had been erected to sell knicknacks and treats towards which most of the children gravitated. The Plaza began to echo with the shouts of children encouraging their parents to buy them a sweet or a toy that appealed to them, followed by quiet, intense concentration as they unwrapped their treat, or the anguished cry of a one who had been told no. Some children played ran around gleefully with a new toy while those less fortunate looked on enviously. Laughter was sprinkled by admonishments of angry parents or the cooing of grandparents tending to the injured cry of a toddler that had tripped on the stone paving. And so the Saturday evening paseo of Medina del Campo played out.

Medina was more attractive in the dark, with the light haze of the street lights and the more prominent historic buildings lit up brightly. As families gradually melted away homewards the bars were filling up. Younger couples strolled arm in arm to meet up with friends or to sit quietly hand in hand on a bench in the corner of the plaza. I began to think of tomorrow and the final leg of this journey. After three months on the road the adventure was almost over. It was both exciting and sad. However, it was time for sleep tonight. Almost reluctantly I returned to my room and got myself ready for the final leg to Cuellar.

Monday 30th November: To Valladolid

2010-09-13T10:47:00.000-07:00

A cold morning but thankfully no snow. For those on the Camino 100kms further north its been a tough 24 hours. Same place have received a couple of feet of snow. So for some of the people I met over the last few days I hope its not too difficult. I narrowly avert a minor crisi of my own making this morning. On leaving the accomodation I stopped in a supermarket to buy water and some snacks for the road, and promptly left my wallet behind in the shop on the top of a freezer. Fortunately I hadn't left town when I realised what I'd done and after a mad sprint up the street I found the wallet, untouched where I had left. I was a very lucky boy. Last night night I had withdrawn from an ATM a week's supply of cash...three hundred euro!!

The temperature was near freezing this morning on the road but there were blus skies above and the rising sun brought slowly took the chill off the breeze. What wind there was behind me which made the 40kms hop over flat table land into Valladolid a joy. A couple of hours later I was descending from the high plateau in to a wide flat valley in which sat the former royal capital. I followed the suburbs to the banks of the rio Pisuerga and crossed in to the old town which lies on the left bank. Arriving here I'm excited I'm within proximity of Francisco de Cuellar's homeland now, no more than a day's ride from Cuellar. However I plan on spending the next few days in Valladolid and a visit to the royal archives at Simancas not far from here. I'm hopeful of finding some documents connected with Francisco but I have no real grounds for my optimism. Apart from the letter he wrote no other documents have been uncovered that throw any light on his life after the Armada. References have been made to the fact that he served in south America c.1583 and that he was involved in a battle with English galleons off the coast of Brazil. No full account has been so far been uncovered of this episode in his life other than that he was court-martialed for conduct unbecoming after the encounter with the English. Not a very heroic intro to the likely character of this unlikely 'hero' I've tried to find for the past couple of months.

First of all, however I have to discover how to reach the archive in Simancas and, before that I have to find some accomodation in this city. After the first pension I tried claimed to be full I had more luck with the second adress. I haggled for the cheapest room available and was given a single bed room for 18 euro. There was a shared bathroom with a bath in the corridor and as every other room was en suite it was for my use only. Happy days!

After settling myself into the room I had a look around town and made for the local tourist to find out how I could get myself into the Simancas archive. The advisor gave me an appropriate timetable and directions to the city bus station but said that I would have to make an appointment in advance to use the archive. I decided not to bother trying to make an appointment in favour of taking a chance that I wouldn't be turned away on arrival. I went down to the bus station and found out relevant timetables and platforms for the bus to Simancas. Once all that business was sorted out I had another wander around town.

On first impressions Valladolid was a really nice city, attractive and easy to get around. The heart of the city today, lies along the Calle Santiago between the Plaza Mayor and the Campo Grande, a public park in the centre which, during the medieval era, marked the ceremonial entrance to the city for the Kings of Spain. The pension where I was staying lay a couple of blocks to the north, in the heart of the old town just off the plaza los Arces, a small plaza close to the old royal palace. In the Plaza Mayor this evening workmen began erecting Christmas decorations and novelty rides for the kids. Thoughts of Christmas suddenly made it feel very late in the year. Until now I had been preoccupied soley with thoughts of this journey and reaching Cuellar so I hadn't considered Christmas or where I wanted to be for the New Year. But the sight of Christmas decorations in the shops and along the streets around the city made me realise I'd have to decide over the next few weeks where I wanted to be for Christmas. Eager to be fresh for the morning trip to the Simancas archive I had an early night.

Sunday 29th November: Medina de Rioseco

2010-09-13T06:05:00.000-07:00

A wickedly cold morning today with a hint of snow swirling about. I'm so gald I'm not on the road today. Eating breakfast I watch some of the continuing build up to Real-Barca on tv. There seems to be something of a world record attempt on tv for the longest live broadcast in the build up to this match. In mid-morning I leave the tv for a look around town.

Medina de Rioseco is a town of faded grandeur. A charming place in many ways. It is still the principal town of the 'Tierra de Campos', he 'land of land', a region of broad sweeping treeless plains north of the old royal capital, Valladolid. Its heyday was in the 15th and 16th centuries when it was an important market town with a population of over 15,000. Today less than 5,000 people live here. However the old streets remain as do the old merchants houses and the monuments that are a testimony to the town's former wealth. the town was known as 'la Ciudad de los Almirantes', the city of admirals, an odd nickname for a city hundreds of kilometres from the sea. The name originated from an honorific title of 'Admiral of Castile, bestowed on the local grandees, the Enriquez family, dukes of Osuna.

The old main street, the 'Rua Mayor' is a narrow arcaded street which runs down to the Plaza Mayor past one of the town's four monumental churches, the church of Santa Cruz. This formed the central thoroughfare of the town along which many of the principal merchants resided.
One of the results of the wealth of trade and commerce that passed through the town was the endowment of some magnificent churches, all built during this period. The churches of Santa maria, Santiago and Sant Cruz dominate the town's skyline. Each were sponsored by different elements of the local community. The Enriquez family, Admirals of Castile funded the erection of the church of Santa Maria while Santa Cruz was built by funds donated by the mrchant community. The populace at large sponsored the church of Santiago. Each building is magnificent, as if the different sponsors were all vying to associate themselves with the most impressive building in town. Given the great amount of monumental archtecture that was built in this town during a realtively short period a thriving community of artists once flourished here. I took a look into the church of Santa Maria and was followed by three local drunken lads returning hom from an all night session in one of the local clubs. An obvious stranger in town, they had been watching me in the street and saw me disappear through a side door into the chapel and had follewd to investigate. Slightly concerned by this unwanted attention I slipped back outside while the lads amused themselves around a holy water font. By the time they came back outside I had disappeared into the warren of side streets that litter the old town.

I went into the local interpretive centre which stands next to one of the few survivng town gates, the porta Ajugar and was given a tour by a guide, a local lady in her fifties who spent three years living in Dublin during the eighties. Despite speaking English she conducted the tour through Spanish. Surprised to see a tourist in her town at this time of year the first thing she asked me on learning I was from Ireland was 'what brought you to this town'?..... It was a long story!

By lunchtime the cold piercing wind was beginning to chill me so I returned to my room and slept through the afternoon. I returned back down town in the evening for a meal and to watch the Real-Barca match in a bar. When I entered shortly before kick off there were only a handful of punters sipping beer at the counter. I ordered a glass of beer and some food and took a seat at a small table to watch the tv mounted high on a wall above a large window that looked out onto the street outside. Gradually, over the course of the first half punters wandered in for a chat and a coffee or beer, or simply to read the Sunday papers. The hum of conversation began to compete with match commentaryas friends and acquaintances found more interesting topics to discuss than the barren stalemate that was playing out on the screen.

Twice during the match the lady who had given me the tour of the visitor centre earlier in the day walked paased the bar. Both times she looked in and waved to me. The second time she had a couple of friends who both peered through the window to catch a glimpse of the only tourist in town.

The match dragged by, ending in a 1-0 win for Barcelona. 'El Classico' wasn't quite the classic it had been built up to be, although the winner was a great goal score by Ibrahamovic. He had come on as a sub for the subdued Thierry Henri whose dip in form lately has been so poor that it appears he needs a helping hand to find his way around the pitch. In fact, there ws far more action in the bar than on the pitch. One old guy came into the bar seemingly with the sole intention of winding up his mates. One guy, after entertaining yer man's drivel for longer than his patience could endure asked to change places with the guy next to him, and when this didn't subdue the wind up merchant he angrily snatched a paper from the counter and moved across the bar to sit alone with his paper at a table.

Another little cameo that played out at the bar involved a couple I'd seen earlier in the day on the main street. When I first saw the man he had been on his knees, hands raised up holding a small tub as he begged for money. His wife/partner had maintained a constant vigil seated in a doorway some feet away. Now, in the evening this couple made their entrance into the bar during the secod half to watch the final few minutes of the big match. By now the bar was full of punters. The pair stood quietly at one end of the counter, sharing a cup of coffee together, beneath the tv, watching the action and discussing the game quietly with those around them. They evidently wished Barcelona to win and hopefully, went away happy with the result. After their first cup was finished the man carefully checked the change in his pocket and, counting out the price of a second asked for another coffee. Those in the bar accepted them just like everyone else eventhough, presumably everybody knew who they were. There was a quiet dignity about them in no way stigmatised by how they had acquired the price of their drinks. This was the first time I'd seen a 'beggar' in a social context, interracting with people other than in the street asking for money. It made me realise how, at home, we tend to stigmatise and categorise beggars as a one dimensional stereotype. How we usually associate them with a brief moment of discomfort and moral guilt as we pass by, mostly ignoring them, and then as soon as we've passed, forget them as quicklyas our consciences allow. This small brief cameo in the bar in Medina struck me and made me realise that, perhaps I should see the individual and not the beggar the next time somebody asks me for money in the street.

I left the bar as the match entered injury-time confident Barca were going to win. The town looked beautiful under street lights. Within minutes the bars emptied onto the Rua Mayor as the match had ended. Looking at the subdued Real madrid fans it was obvious the game had ended one nil to Barca. Groups of guys and girls made their way to the local night clubs while families emerged from the restaurants to wheel prams and sleeping infants back home. There was a chill in the air tonight that suggested we could be in for a fall of snow tomorrow. Walking back to my room with my chin tucked into my jacket against the cold I wondered if the couple I had seen in the bar had somewhere warm to sleep tonight.

Saturday 28th November: South to Medina

2010-09-13T03:22:00.000-07:00

I had breakfast this morning with John, the English guy. Normally you are ecpected to have left this refugio by 8.30am but last night before he left, the Hospitaliero we could sleep on a little and leave when we wished. As its late November now it doesn't get bright until 8am and with bad weather forecast for this morning the man kindly relaxed the rules for us. John had put on a gas heater to give a bit of warmth to the kitchen. As we ate our breakfast we began to hear a rustling and knocking noise coming from the heater. We didn't know what to make of it as the noies would stop and start intermittently. It sounded as though something was moving inside the heater, and with that, a mouse appeared from underneath the heater with a large hunk of stale, by now almost toasted, bread in its mouth and scurried across the floor to disappear once more under the fridge. More rustling noises sounded from the fridge as the mouse stored his bread securely and then made another dash across the floor, between John's feet to disappear behind a bench that lined the wall.

Before I left the Spanish guy made an appearance. Despite my nocturnal wanderings to the loo he was as jovial as he had been yesterday evening as he limped around the kitchen. Not wishing to hang about I got my bags onto the bike and made ready for the road. I shook hands with the pair and wished them all the best for the remainder of their journeys and was the first out the door. The two walkers cut two very contrasting images as I said goodbye, the jovial limping Spaniard and the quiet forlorn Englishman. I genuinely hope things turn out well for them.

On the road it was overcast, cold and threatening rain. I was dearly hoping for a tail wind to push me towards Valladolid but instead, what I got was a vicious cross wind that cut across my face. Leaving Mansilla I had left the Camino de Santiago behind. I had mixed emotions. It was a pity to be leaving the Camino and all of its experiences but I couldn't wait to get down to Valladolid to try and see if I could uncover anything more on the life of Francisco de Cuellar. Ultimately I was looking forward to seeing Cuellar and the surrounding countryside to see just how different this landscape was to the wilds of northwest Ireland. I thought I might make Valladolid tonight but I would have needed a tailwind to get me through the 120kms before evening. Very soon I realised that wouldn't be possible as I found myself struggling against the wind on open plains.

South of Leon, around the town of Mayorga the plains open out into a wide expanse. The countryside undulates along a seemingly unending sea of grasslands. The high plains f north central Spain stretch for hundreds of kilometres, stopping just short of Madrid at the mountains of Guadarrama. Somewhere along this high plateau sits Valladolid, and beyond it the town of Cuellar. Across this open treeless landscape the road runs straight through bare empty fields. and small roasdside villages. Its sheep country here. Every so often you see the silhoutte of a shepherd on the top of a nearby ridge or hear the bark of a sheepdog as a flock of wandering sheep is gathered together to move to a fresh pasture. Watching this activity in the fields and ocasionally sprinting from growling sheepdogs help alleviate a frustrating battle against the wind. The strength of the wind can be guaged by darkening clouds above as they slip sideways across the sky.

I arrive at the town of Mayorga, roughly halfway on the day's journey to Medina de Rioseco where I'll hopefully stop tonight. It s a farming town to judge by the number of agricultural businesses and grain processing plants on the outskirts. It was an old town with a few scatterd reminders of its past and a restored 15th century gateway, the sole reminder of the medieval town walls. There was little activity in the town plaza. A couple of old men emerged from a cafe to stroll along a sheltered arcade that ran the length of one side of the plaza. Plainly they don't gey many visitors here. Their conversation ceased mid-sentance and the pair hesitated as they encountered me camera in hand trying to line up a photo of the plaza. They frowned quizically at me in my cycling gear, more like a mountaineer than a cyclist, wondering to themselves, no doubt, what had brought this odd-looking stranger into the midst. As I cycled out of the square an elderly couple, grandparents, out walking their infant grandchild stopped and stared at me as I rolled silently by.

Very soon the countryside had swallowed me up as Mayorga slid behind the next ridge. Three colours dominated, vivid green grass, rich red earth and dull grey clouds that threatened rain but, so far so good, ther had been no downpours. Far off in the distance small patches of sunlight peered through the cloud cover keeping me optimistc but never coming closer. Through the afternoon I passed through a couple of villages and what I saw of them left me a little concerned that I wouldn't find any accomodation in Medina de Rioseco. These small towns consisted of nothing more than houses, crumbling churches and rundown looking bars. There didn't appear to be accomodation available for a traveller but then I reckon nobody really wants to stay in some of these villages.

I was making slow progress and the wind had veered into a head wind which was draining my energy. The last 10kms was pushed through gritted teeth and thankfully from the top of an overlooking ridge Medina looked a fairly substantial town. Cold and hungry I was relieved to have arrived before dark I rolled into town looking for some cheap accomodation. One of the first places I saw was a 2-star hotel, which, in the absence of anything in my budget range would have made a very luxurious if expensive overnight stop. However, after enquiring in the local Irish pub I was directed to a 2-star hostel, the Duque de Osuna, offering spotless and spacious en suite rooms for only 20 euro a night. Delighted with myself I paid for two nights. I hurriedly ate a banana and a couple of digestive biscuits to stave off the hunger pangs I proceeded to run a hot bath and sank into a long luxurious soak in my own bath!

Afterwards, I stocked up on food for two days in a nearby supermarket before settling back down in bed to watch tv. A brief look around Medina had revealed a gem of a town, but a proper wander around its streets could wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, all the local stations seemed to be focusing on tomorrow night's big game, 'El Classico' between Real Madrid and Barcelona, one station was even devoting 24hr live coverage in the build up to the match! In Spain this is the big one!!

Friday 27th November: Last night on the Camino

2010-09-12T12:09:00.000-07:00

I woke up early this morning and listened to the rain bouncing off the roof before dawn. I had another night of frequent trips to the loo so I'm not really sure whats up there. I'm not being affected during the day. Maybe I'm drinking too much in the evenings. The refugio laid on a really good breakfast this morning. You had to pay for it but it was worth it. If there's only one thing I'll remember San Martin for it will be for the quality of the food in this refugio.

Leaving the refugio it was cold and windy but thankfully the wind would be to my back. I delayed my departure to allow a shower pass through and then hit the road for Leon. It was only 20kms into town so it was a short hop along the busy roads. I arrived into the city centre around 10.30, plenty of time for looking around town. i found my way to the local city refugio which hadn't yet opened, frustrating my need to find a loo. I hung about the door until a lady emerged from the entrance. I asked her if I could use the toilet but she said no, that the place wasn't open yet. I shuffled away disgruntled, clenching my buttocks gingerly and grumbling to myself.

I had no choice now but to look around Leon. Its a historic town, one of the 'grand Dames' of the Camino and a former capital of the kingdom of the Asturias. The city has a long history dating back to the Roman era. The old town is pretty compact, an easy place to explore for a morning. It had the usual features of most Spanish cities, the Plaza Mayor, the Cathedral, the old city walls and some narrow winding streets. I don't know whether it was my delicate disposition or the curt rebuff I'd recieved from the woman at the refugio but I didn't take to Leon in the way that I thought I might. The fact that I had to wheel the bike around with me didn't help. I spent about 90 minutes around the old town before heading back to the refugio to try again to access a toilet. I had more luck this time. The place was open and the woman, very curteous and smiling this time directed me to a sparkling 'el banyo'.

I left Leon for Mansilla out on the edge of the Mezeta. I rolled into town just after 1.30pm and settled back into the refugio I'd stayed in a fortnight ago. The place was open but the reception desk was closed until 4pm but peregrinos arriving early can claim their bunks in the meantime. I was first into the place today. I took the opportunity for a proper look around Mansilla. Its a town with a rich history in its associations with the Camino. An important town in its own right during the medieval period but today it has fallen a long way from the status it once held. Most of the town is still contained within the old medieval walls, long stretches of which still survive. Inside the walls the town has a bit of a delapidated feel. It looks as though parts of the old town were flattened to make way for modern houses and a new street layout although some of the old streets that run through the centre of town follow the original layout. I spent an hour or so wandering around the streets before heading back to the refugio for an afternoon siesta.

The refugio was very quiet this evening. After my snooze I came down to pay the hospitaliero and register for the night, and bumped into a walker from England who'd just arrived. He was an elderly man, his face creased with age and, perhaps, a hard life. He had a long white bushy beard and a shock of long silvery hair that fell to his shoulders. We fell into chatting as we prepared our evening dinners. A quiet, softly spoken guy, he looks like the kind of character who's uncomfortable in large crowds and prefers to be quietly left alone. The man's name was John, originally from London he's retired and has spent the last six months walking. He took a ferry to northern France and was been walking since, basically wandering about the place before joining the Camino at Aarles. He followed a route through Toulous, Auch, and Pau but crossed the Pyrenees east of St Jean pied de Port much higher than where I crossed the mountains. He funded this adventure by cashing in a some sort of retirement fund but now, approaching the latter stages of the camino and with Christmas just around the corner, he doesn't know what to do. He seems to be dreading the thought of what he's going to do after he reaches Santiago. He has nowhere to return to in England and doesn't really want to return to the country, preferring instead if he could find any kind of employment, to remain on the continent. As he spoke he sounded tired. He said he's weary of walking now but with nowhere or nobody to return to the futre is weighing heavily on his mind. He has the look of a very lonely individual.

John has a great love of France, loves the country, the food is comfortable with the Frech character. Regarding both of our experiences and opinions of France and Spain he holds the opposite view to me. Of the two countries he much prefers France and all things French, my affections lie south of the Pyrenees with all things Hispanic (except for French pastries...top nosh!!)

We were joined that night by a third character. A loud exuberant spaniard from Barcelona with whom I would be sharing the dorm. He spoke in rapid, staccato Spanish and it was clear John ws unimpressed. He had already confessed that he'd long given up trying to communicate in Spanish. As for me? it was grand. I sat in the middle of these two contrasting characters and to be honest I got on great with the Spaniard, having a laugh as I practised my Spanish. Another walker, the Spaniard shuffled painfully around the place. He was suffering with multiple blisters on his feet both of which were covered in plasters. Watching how difficult it was for this guy to wealk I don't honestly know how this guy was going to be able to reach Santiago. But the Camino has a strange effect on people. The desire to complete this trek/pilgrimmage/journey whatever label or motivation you wish to apply to it can drive people to overcome many difficulties. Its a remarkable experience, this camino.

By 9.30pm all were in bed. I'd had a few cups of tea with John and was now dreading the possibility of multiple trips to the loo through the night. The prospect kept me awake, and so it came to pass... literally. I must have made at least four trips downstairs through the night. It became embarassing trying to tip toe quietly out of the dorm so as not to waken the other guy oin the dorm. Despite my efforts the creaking floorboards woke him up each time.

Thursday 26th November: Out of the Mountains

2010-09-12T09:50:00.000-07:00

The brilliant sunshine and blue skies of a bright crispy morning brought the two of us in the dorm eagerly out onto the road. Below the village the lower slopes of the mountain and the entire valley over to Villafranca del Bierzo were covered in a thick coverinf of fog. We wished each other luck and Cesar freewheeled his way down into the mists below while I walked my bike up the steep slope out of the village. The views were magnificent this morning, the air crystal clear. Pushing quietly uphill in the still morning air I startled a pair of gazelle that trooted across the road in front of me. A couple of times I was forced to dismount and tread carefully along the side of the road to avoid black ice that had formed in the freezing conditions after last night's rain. I made my way across the mountain top and stopped again at the refugio in Manjarin to say hello. I was curious to see if that modern day templar was back just to catch a glimpse of him.

The hospitaliero on duty on the first occasion I visited the refugio was working today and recognised me and offered a cup of mint tea. When I asked if the owner had returned he said no, that he was down in Ponferrada at a dental appointment. Funny, he was attending a dental appointment the last time I was here as well. No matter. The lad liked the idea of backtracking on the Camino and quoted an old saying that considers the way to Santiago as good for the body and the journey back good for the soul. Certainly, I've noticed since I rejoined the Camino at Sarria, that I've been more relaxed on the road. I'm not pushing myself to get where I'm going like I did on the way to Santiago. The desire to get to that city for Ireland world Cup wasn't perhaps, the best inspiration for completing the camino. Now, I don't mind if I only cover 30-40kms in a day. I'm enjoying the journey a lot more this way. I take my leave as a group of around ten walkers arrive together for a late breakfast or mid-morning break. I cycle slowly taking in the magnificent mountain views. It is possible to see far byond Astorga some 30kms away down on the plains.

Descending down the mountain I made a point of stopping in each village for a look with a particular favourite being the town of Castillo de los Polvazares, a beautiful red-brick town of cobbled streets. I thought about staying once more in Astorga but the refugio I had stayed in had since closed for the season so I decided after a quick look around town to keep on the road. I decided to make for San Martin del Camino which was supposed to 11kms from Astorga but, 20kms down the road I still hadn't reached the town. Back down on the plains, though it was easy going. There was the long-dreamed of tail-wind which made the day such a joy. Sunshine and tail-winds what a joyous combination!! I decided to stay in San Martin tonight so that I'd have a short hop to Leon tomorow morning and can push on beyond that city in the afternoon in order to shorten what looks like being a rather long spin on Saturday.

I arrived at a private refugio in the town in late afternoon and checked in. To be honest San Martin was a bland nondescript place with little to recommend it other than a single room to myself for the night. With no shops that I could find open I opted for dinner in the refugio and, by Jaysus, it didn't disappoint. A first course of serrano ham and bread was followed by soup and a main course of chips pimiento and pork steaks. Lip-smackin stuff!! Finger lickin good. I had dinner alongside a guy from Barcelona called Jose, a 58year old who runs marathons and ultra marathons. An interesting guy. Compared to his normal endeavours the camino is an easy stroll for him... and he agrees!! He comfortably averages 30-35kms a day. Chatting about his marathons he talks about the mental resolve and the inner psychology of long-distance running. He believes the difficulty, or otherwise of running a marathon is all about the mental approach. I could identify with everything he was saying and added that you can transfer all of those elements from running onto the Camino in order to get through some of the rough days on the road. A healthy mind in a healthy body was this guy's motto, although he looked older than his 58 years. We finished our meals with him pointing to his head and almost saying, almost in a whisper, 'its all in the mind.' With that we shook hands, wished each other luck for the rest of our respective journeys and retired to our rooms.

Wednesday 25th November: Legends of the Camino

2010-09-12T04:56:00.000-07:00

I hit the road today happy to get back on the road. You meet all kinds on the Camino. Apparently, the Brazillian host of the refugio I stayed in last night is a legend of the Camino. At least that's what I was told by the American Hospitaliero in Villafranca. How you qualify for legendary status by owning a refugio on the Camino de Santiago I don't know but the American lad was convinced by him and treated this guy with something approaching reverential awe. Personall, I think the guy believed his own hype. Appropriately enough, this 'legend's' name was Jesus! Seemingly he has an aversion to cyclists on the camino or, maybe it was just me. But the derision and rebuke I took from him on arrival and later has convinced me to avoid anyone considered 'legendary' while I'm still on this route. It would appear notions of celebrity and ordinary decent humility don't sit comfortably with this character.

Whatever about the 'legend' the American hospitaliero, for me, is beginning to acquire the elements of a legendary reputation. This wasn't the first ocasion I'd met him. A couple of weeks ago he was working over in Ponferrada, on the far side of this valley and had just completed his first week in the job when I stopped at the refugio for the night. The impression this character left on me by the end of the evening was of a cross between Don Juan and Don Quioxte. On that occasion he was pining for the love of a Spanish girl whose father had chased him away with a shot gun. He'd previously lived in Itlay for a few years with equally dramatic romantic entanglements. Now, with his Spanish love blissfully forgotten, he was passionately devoted to a new love and had shacked up with one of the resident hopitalieros here. The concept of love thy neighbour was being brought to a whole level in this refugio!

After a mediocre breakfast of stale bread that we had to pay for a left relieved to leave these legends of the Camino behind. I struck out for Ponferrada and the mountains beyond. I hoped to stay high up in the mountains above Ponferrada tonight at the village of El Acebo so today would be a relatively easy short hop of 40kms across mostly flat ground with a last tough climb of 10kms up the mountainside to the village.

I passed through the traffic-clogged streets of Ponferrada without delay, stopping briefly for a last look at the local templar castle before striking out for Molinaseca which sits at the base of the slope up to El Acebo. Climbing a ridge on the outskirts of town I passed a walker coming in the opposite direction. We each did a double take and then before recognising one another although I couldn't quite place where I had seen this guy. We smiled and waved to to each other without stopping but it was a while before I remembered that we had shared a dorm way back in the Pyrenees in St. Jean. This guy was no spring chicken but he was making good progress on foot - 600kms in three weeks!

Two weeks ago I had skipped Molinaseca but stopped now to have a wander through its streets. It was a lovely town, deathly quiet this morning. Nobody stirred along its medieval streets and picturesque buildings or crossed the cobbled surface of the old Roman bridge that conveys 'peregrinos' along the camino into town. One of the bars displayed that it serves Murphy's Irish red, one of those beers that tourists lap up but nobody in Ireland in their right mind ever touches. Amidst the timbers of this 'medieval' hostelry the Murphy's sign looked, well... quaint.

From Molinaseca the road gradient of the road rose steeply into the mountains. This was not going to be easy. Yesterday's climbed wasn't as tough as this. On top of this, the morning, which had been at best, overcast had brought rain. Wrapped up in waterproofs this was going to be a hiot, sticky climb. I followed the road and got stuck into the slow even rhythm of a hill climb but a couple of times either through fatigue or simply because the road became so steep I had to dismount and push the bike up the hill. The higher the road climbed the heavier the rain fell. A mix of mist and heavy cloud created a dusky half-light even though it wasn't yet midday. In the rotten weather the climb became a struggle. Even walkers descending the mountain seemed to be affected by the wet gloom. I tried to keep to the usual camraderie on the road and greeted a couple of German walkers with an attempt at a cheery 'Buen Camino' but they grunted back a reply reluctantly without looking up. Stung once I was reluctant to greet the next group of walkers I met but a couple of Korean girls smiled enthusiastically and waved their greeting as I crawled past. It is remarkable how much even a simple smile can raise your spirits. After the grumpy Germans the cheery Koreans raised the energy levels enough for a last push up to El Acebo.

The village was completely obscured as I made a timely arrival for lunch. The rain was pouring down. If I had harboured any notions of trying to cross the mountains today they were well and truly washed away by now. I was happy to stop earl here and checked into a refugio at the back of a bar/restaurant. After a quick shower and change into something warm and dry I ate in the bar. Inside the place was buzzing for lunch with locals having the 'menu del dia' or just sipping coffee or beer. After the meal I snoozed through the afternoon as the rain continued to pour down. Later, I waited for a lull in the showers so as to look around town but the rain came down incessantly. Eventually I went anyway for a very brief run around the place before retreating back to the bar for a beer. I was joined in the dorm by a second cyclist, alad from Madrid who arrived soaked and chilled to the bone after cycling through 80kms in that weather. The lads name was Cesar, a fireman by trade.

In the evening went claimed a corner of the bar for ourselves to watch Real Madrid in the Champion's League and chatted away in a potted mix of Spanish and English. It was good to prctise the bit of Spanish and interesting comparing the experiences on the road. This lad was fit, fitter than me and unlike me, appeared unconcerned by the weather. I only had two glasses of beer tonight but back in the dorm i had a night of broken sleep with multiple trips to the loo. I wondered if I'd picked up something back in the refugio of that so-called legend in Villafranca.

Tuesday 24th November: To Castile y Leon

2010-09-12T02:58:00.000-07:00

I've been nervous about this day for aver a week now. I'm expecting a tough day back in the mountains I crossed the week before last. I've been psyching myself up for a tough climb up to 1,300m getting ready for a possible battering from wind and rain. When I wake up and look out its a gorgeous morning, clear skies overhead and the morning air chilled, sharp and dry. Perfect weather for climbing a mountain and I can't wait to get out onto the bike.

After breakfast as the walkers all troop out into the street in the direction of Santiago I slip off in the opposite direction, towards Leon. Out on the road the sun is still low in the sky and as the road dips into hollows between hills the air is frigid and soon my hands, despite my gloves, feel like blocks of ice forcing me stop every so often to try and shake some warmth into my hands. As I exhale my breath fogs. On higher ground the lush green fields are bathed in a warm golden sunshine that quickly melts last night's frost. But beneath the golden rays, in the shadows, pockets of mist blanket the low-lying ground. By the time I reach Samos my fingers and toes are so painful from the cold I have to stop and walk around to restore some warmth. The ancient monastery lies deep in a sheltered valley in the lee of the mountains and has yet to receive the first of the morning rays.

Pushing through the frigid air that sat freezing in the lee of the mountains I reached the village of Triacastela. Lying at the foot of the mountains it received the first of the sun's rays as it started to peep over the mountain tops, spilling down the slopes with a welcome warmth. As I began the slow 15kms climb to the summit the rising slopes were transformed by bright sunshine. After building up this climb in my own mind for the past week the climb itself is less difficult than expected. I make slow progress, for sure, but the legs remained steady as I found a slow constant thythm. Lulled into a daydream it was actually a soothing climb, is stark contrast to the wild conditions the last time I was on this mountain. Half-way up the mountain the magnificent landscapes begin to spread out distracting attention from the slopes above. Gradually the bike slides up the mountain until the road levels off bringing a gentle few kilometres over the tops of the mountains.

Having stopped at a cafe at the mountain pass of Alto do Poio for a hot chocolate I was warm and reefreshed and couldn't wait to have a look around the beautiful mountain village of O Cebreiro. There was very little wind today which was a bonus as, when any gust of a breeze blew up here, it cut though you. Any patch of ground that still remained in shadow was crusted with white frost. Crowning the third of three summits in these mountains the small cluster of buildings that comprise O Cebreiro perch precariously on a narrow ridge over precipitous cliffs that drop away from the village wall on the south side of the village and the mountain road which creeps along a ledge to the north. The panoramic views on a clear day are magnificent extending 50-60 miles in either direction. The robust grey stone-built houses, many of which were rooved with thatch, huddle around a collection of twisting lanes. During the summer the place must buzz with walkers revelling in the cool moutain air after crossing the hot dusty plains of Castile for the previous two weeks. To spend a night up here at the height of summer after the long climb from Villa Franca del Bierzo must rank as a highlight of the Camino for many walkers. Every second building appeared to be a cafe or restaurant. In the depths of winter, however, when the peregrinos have gone and the wind and snow are howling it must be a lonely existence up here.

From O Cebreiro my days work was done. It was virtually all downhill from here for the best part of 40kms to Villa Franca. I left Gallicia behind and spun down the lightly wooded valleys on the Castillian side of the mountains. There's obviously no great love for Castile among Gallicians as the sign announcing entry to Castile has been pelted incessantly with paint bombs obscuring the sign behind a highly colourful collage. Descending through Autumnal browns, reds and golds the road dropped down into the low valleys before Villa Franca. Rounding a bend in the road I saw a couple of walkers aproaching. Not passing much notice of them until I got up close I glanced at the lead walker and realised I knew this pair. They were the Songs from Korea, the father and son I had met far back in Santo Domingo de la Calzada. Recognising them I broke into a wide smile and after a moment of puzzlement they recognised me and we greeted each other like long lost friends in a welter of handshakes, back slapping and loud exuberant 'Buen Camino's!'

I was delighted to meet these characters again. They had been great company when we first met and I was certainly taken by the idea of the father and son travelling together across half the globe to complete the Camino, not as catholics, but to follow this journey together. Of all the people I had met on the Cmino I was hoping to bump into these two once more. We spent 10-15 minutes chatting and telling of our experiences over the past fortnight before the need to keep moving brought a round of photos and some fond farewells. I think I didn't stop smiling for the next 10-15kms until hunger pangs forced me to stop for food at a truckers roadside restaurant. I freewheeld most of the last 10kms down to Villa Franca de Bierzo to stop for the night at this picturesque town in a refugio run by a Brazilian.

Monday 23rd November: Back on the Camino

2010-09-11T11:15:00.000-07:00

I didn't leave Lugo until midday today. It's only a short hop down to Sarria, 30kms so I'm taking it easy on the road. Leaving town I made my way on foot theogh the old town before exiting through the Porta San Pedro and followed the rua San Pedro out of town to where the land drops down into an adjacent valley. From the edge of town you can see for miles across the valley towards mist shrouded mountains in the east that mark the border with the rovince of Castile y Leon. At the town of Betanzos I joined a brand new stretch of road with a lovley smoothe even surface. I struck out along this thinking I struck it lucky for the day when oncoming traffic started to beep their horns and waving at me to leave the road. It hadn't dawned on me that I was on a new motorway. Gingerly I pushed on and exited at the first junction I came to happy that I hadn't met any traffic cops. I wasn't eager to face a repeat of the fine I'd been given for doing the same thing in France some weeks ago.

Joining the older road to Sarria I took a leisurely pace through mostly flat lush pastureland that was very similar to home. Heading for a line of hills beyond which lay Sarria Iclimbe one decent ascent through the last 10kms which brought me to a point directly above the town . A rapid freewheel downhill and I made a bee-line for the town refugio that I had stayed in some 10 days earlier. It was a pleasure to arrive in a town and know where you are going. I was met and checked in by the same elderly man I had met on the previous occasion I had stayed there. He didn't recognise me at first but when he saw his stamp on my Camino passport from 10 days ago he did a double take and then smiled as he remembered me.

It was good to be back in Sarria. I really liked this refugio first time round and this time I would get to have a look around town. The old town really only consists of a single streets now, the rua Maior. This is the camino quarter of town, the area where all of the 'peregrinos' gravitate to this highest point in the town if they are staying overnight. All of the private refugios and cafes are located up here overlooking the new town situated on low ground at the foot of a hill.

Back in the refugio the place was filling up with walkers. The 14-bed dorm that I was in was fully occupied with a mix of Spanish, German, Korean and Portuguese. I was the lone cyclist. With the amount of oils, ointments and muscle rubs our dorm smelled like the dressing room of a football team. There were some sore, blistered feet on view this evening and some heavy limping by a couple of unfortunates. I was glad I wasn't suffering like that. Eating dinner down in the kitchen I was joined a Spanish lad and a German girl. The Spanish lad was from Zaragoza and had joined the Camino at Leon. He said he'd visited Ireland before. He had good English which he had learned in Ireland after spending four months working in bars in Dublin. His rendition of 'hows it goin bud' and 'deadly man' sounded authentic enough any way. At the end of his stint he had taken a 'Paddy wagon' tour around the country. He'd spent a week in the north and particlarly like a city called 'Londonderry'. I drew a blank on that one I must admit and asked him if that was anywhere near Derry? He smiled recognising the politico-cultural nuances of the Emerald Isle.

The German girl was having a lot of problems with a laser card that she was using. Spanish banks didn't appear to be akcknowledging her card as valid which meant she was having a lot of difficulty withdrawing cash. I told her of the attempted fraud that had resulted on my card and the difficulties I'd been having every time I needed cash. It turned out she had met the Irish lad I'd bumped into in Burgos. She actually knew him from a previous trip on the Camino some years ago. She hadn't arrange to meet the lad on this trip but merely happened to bump into him outside a cafe in one of the towns back towards Ponferrada. It turns out I just missed him today as he is staying the night in a refugio about 6kms up the road. A pity, it would have been interesting to meet this guy again. I recognise two other faces from the refugio in Burgos, two Korean girls so I reckon all of that contingent must be coming through this are now. I'll have to keep a look at on the road between here and Leon for some more familiar faces.

Sunday 22nd November: Lugo

2010-09-11T07:36:00.001-07:00

Today was an easy day. With rain pouring down through the morning I took the easy option and stayed in Lugo. I went down paid the lady of the house for an extra night and took the option of a sleep-in. In the afternoon as the rain cleared for a while I took a wander around the old town.

Lugo was built by the Romans on the site of an older Celt-Iberian hill-fort settlement. The Roman town was founded by Publius Maximus and Caesar Augustus (son of Julius Caesar). The old city walls erected by the Romans still survive though the interior of the old town is much altered. Some of the old medieval streets and buildings survive, including one old refugio for pilgrims travelling to Santiago, but it is the impressive city walls that still define Lugo. Apparently these are among the best preserved in the world! It is possible to walk a circuit of the old city along the tops of the ramparts and, to judge by the crowds of locals ambling by it is a very popular location, still, for a Sunday stroll.

Wandering throght the Plaza de Soidade, around the tourist office and up the rua de... to the cathedral you could feel you have walked into a different era. If Francisco de Cuellar passed through Lugo on his way home after his Armada travails or spent a night in one of the city inns i couldn't help wonder what might have passed through his mind. A year or two after the great failure of the Armada his family would doubtless have heard the account of his court-martial. If his letter had been read they would have known of his almost miraculous escape from almost certain death in Ireland. What kind of reception would he receive. Would he have cleared his name after the disgrace of his court-martial. How would he have travelled? Did he have hitched a ride on a merchants wagon over to Sarria or across the mountains to Leon? Was he wealthy?Could he have afforded a horse or would he have made the journey by foot? If the guy had the ability to charm his way across Ireland then perhaps, he was able to blag his way across Spain as well.

Saturday21st November: La Coruna to Lugo

2010-09-11T06:09:00.000-07:00

Today marks the start of the trek down to Castile and, hopefuly to the town of Cuellar. Over the next few days I'll be backtracking over the stretches of the Camino de Santiago as far as Leon before veering south to Valladolid but first I'll detour to visit the town of Lugo. I'm not sure what the main route out of La Coruna was back in the day? Travellers going to the royal court in Castile could go directly south to Santiago and pick up the Camino eastwards out of Gallica or make for Lugo and perhaps, join up with the Camino at Sarria. That is my plan. its 95kms to Lugo but I'm hoping that having tunred eastwards that I will have the wind behind me and an easy passage.

It was a bright, blustery morning when I bid farewell to Gabriel Santiago and left the Allianza. I took a last look around the waterfront and followed the Avenida de Marina out of town. Leaving the city I faced into headwinds, which immediately set the temper rising as I'd really been banking on an easy tailwind. I'd consoled myself many times on the road to Santiago that I'd have tailwinds once I turned back from La Coruna but here, first day out I was facing into a familiar struggle against an invisible enemy. Very frustrating. Headwinds and Hills, a common theme in Gallicia. As the morning progressed I began to doubt if I'd make it to Lugo before dusk. A roadsign outside one town proclaimed 588kms to Madrid. It seemed like a long way to go.

The road rose into mountains for 30kms past lush green vegetation, gradually gaining altitude. The road rose to the top of one cloud covered mountain, and with that the rain began to fall. Stopping to change into my raingear under the shelter of a stone fieldwall an old woman who had been tending a vegetable plot eyed me cautiously. Another old lady apeared out of a laneway and shuffled up to me. She spoke in her native Gallego which he could not understand at all and after a few moments of mute bemusement as the woman repeated her questions she gave up, smiled said goodbye and shuffled off to her friend in the field.

I rejoined the road as the rain was blown sideways by stiff crosswinds. A grey mist sat low over the soaked landscape obscuring everything with the driving rain forcing me to keep my head low to avoid uncomfortable rivulets of water running down my neck. Thankfully at this point the road levelled off onto a high forested plateau. The tall trees provided a shelter of sorts shielding me from the wind for which I was very grateful. The pedal beat out a slow regular rhythm as I tried to stop myself counting each and every mile marker by the side of the road. One good source of distraction as I tried to forget the damp conditions was the ongoing world Cup outcry. I spent miles and mile mulling over the possibilities of a replay and how it might turn out. What if Duff had taken his chance? What if the game had gone to penalties? The end result always, however, brought qualification for Ireland and 'Papa Gio' Trappatoni. It was a perfect distraction for slogging through 90kms of wind and rain.

At one point I crossed one of the subsidiary routes for the Camino, the northern route, the Camino del Norte, which follows the coast from Bilbao. I stopped at a picturesque high-arched medieval bridge whose surface still boast its original cobbling. Most of the towns along this route held no interest and I passed through them without a second glance. However, in the last 20kms before Lugo I considered stopping short of that town. I was soaked from sweat under my waterproofs, every bit as much as if I hadn't been wearing any covering. The winds had eased but no I was getting tired and the cold began to seep into my bones. I saw a couple of accomodations but each were above my budget allowance. In the end I just pushed for Lugo.

Entering the town I followed the long straight Avenida La Coruna which runs through the heart of the modern town to the gates of the walled old town. I kept an eye out for the first one-star pension I could find. There was supposed to be a youth hostel somewhere in the old town but I was too wet, too tired and too cold to waste energy searching for a hostel I suspected would be closed this time of year. By now if I stopped moving at all for any length of time I would begin to shiver. I was finding it impossible to retain body heat and had to keep moving to stay warm. Halfway along the Avenida I spotted a bar that was advertising rooms so I went in was offered a good price, paid for the night and took directions to the 'Hostel Fisterre' by a barmaid tending to the deserted bar.

The room was small but clean and warm with an en suite. The hot shower felt like heaven. Every stitch of clothing was soaked and hanging them around the room in an effort to dry them resulted in a heady sweaty stench permeating the room very quickly. My two thigh had large red sweat rashes that itched. Refreshed after my shower I skipped off down town to the local supermarket to pick up bits for dinner. Back in my room I settled down to watch Man Utd V Everton on the tv while I munched contentedly on bread, cheese, olives and serrano ham. At that particular moment I couldn't have been happier... and then Man U scored!!

Thursday/Friday 19/20th November: La Coruna

2010-09-11T03:09:00.000-07:00

A beautiful sunny morning in La Coruna. When I wake up I'm still angry after last night's result and a visit to an internet cafe shows I'm not alone. The controversy over the Henri handball seems to be causing a major furore at home. I decided to push football disappointments to one side and concentrate on matters concerning Francisco de Cuellar and the Spanish Armada.

La Coruna, a truly beautiful city today was, in the sixteenth century, confined within its city walls to a small peninsula connected to the mainland by a narrow neck of land in the part of the city where the pension I'm staying at is now built. Situated on a wide, sheltered bay that provided a perfect harbour conditions La Coruna had developed into the principal port of northwest Spain. Francisco de Cuellar wrote of his experiences with the Armada and commentators analysing that account suggested possible links with the region based on his language. Whether or not he lived in the city Francisco was present here with the armada in the months of June/July 1588. He was made captain of the San Pedro here and commanded that vessel in the engagements that followed with the English fleet along the south coast of England during the first week of August that year. A look around the old town therefore was made interesting given the possibility that Francisco may, or may not, have walked down the self same streets at some time during this period. Looking out into the harbour with its myriad collection of boats moored in the marina it was easy to picture the great fleet of Philip II's Grand Armada anchored in the bay over four centuries ago. I was also told that 'Aodh Rua', Red Hugh O'Donnell landed here on his way to petition the king of Spain after the Irish defeat at the battle of Kinsale in 1601.

Walking along the narrow streets of the old town there are many building remaining that were in use at the time of the Armada. I stopped off at lunchtime in one of the old Town's bars for a seafood lunch that suggested a second visit to the bar would be on the menu for tomorrow. Nearby, the church of Santa Maria del Campo was the official church for the traders and sailor's guilds in the sity and would have been visited by many seamen of the time. The small tree-lined Plaza de Azcarraga, known then as the Plaza de Harina was the city's main plaza at the time of the Armada. Any of the principal officers who came ashore while the Armada rested at Coruna would most likely have visited this plaza. The main body of soldiers and sailors onboard the Armada ships were not, however, permitted to enter the city for fear of desertion. In an attempt to raise morale the men were allowed to visit the shrine on the tiny Isle of San Anton a short distance for the walls of the city. All who visited the shrine were presented with a holy medal. Francisco's was stolen from him outside Grange after he was shipwrecked.

The year after the Armada Coruna witnessed a second Armada, this time a hostile English fleet led by the much-feared Sir Francis Drake, 'El Draque'. The city was attacked in retaliation for the earlier attack by the Armada and in May 1589 Drake's force laid seige to the city. In desperate fighting on the city walls the defence of the city was inspired by the actions of Maria Pita whose heroics are commemorated by the naming of the city's main square in her honour and the erection of a statue depicting the events of those days.

I took a wander along the citys' main beaches, the playas de riazor and Orzan where local surfers were making the most the days waves. On the far side of the bay, close to the water front sits the impressive modern football stadium of the city's beloved Deportivo La Coruna. Named the 'Riazor' after the adjacent strand this was the citadel of a team that was powerful in both Spain and Europe through the nineties exists under more modest circumstances thesedays though the team is sitting high in la Primera Liga in the current season. From one icon of the city to another. The 'Torre de Hercules' was a must see, magnificent ancient lighthouse, reputed to have been first built by the Romans in the second century AD. Today the restored lighthouse dominates the seaward tip of the peninsula on the edge of the city.

In the evening I took a stroll back to Matthews bar to listen to a postmortem of last nights showdown in Paris. It Listening to the guys the French seem to be roundly condemned by all and sundry to the point of a diplomatic squabble between Irish and French politicians. In 1970 the aftermath of a world cup confrontation between Honduras and El Salvador sparked off a small war between the two nations. Hopefully this won't happen in this case. Perhaps a suggested replay between the two teams would cool down the hot heads?

Friday proved to be a dismally wet day. Exploring the city was confined to trips back to the old town for another taste of the local seafood specialities, to the internet cafe to monitor development on the 'Paris-gate' controversy and to a local Parillada for a fill of grilled meat in preparation for hitting the road once more tomorrow. It would be nice to stay longer in La Coruna but, with time ticking and my sights set on the city of Valladolid some 4-500kms away, I have to keep moving.

Wednesday 18th November: Back on the trail of De Cuellar

2010-09-11T01:27:00.000-07:00

Leaving Santiago on a bright sunny morning I'm heading north 65kms to the city of La Coruna. Back on the de Cuellar trail once more I want to see the major port of northwest Spain. from where the Spanish Armada made its final departure for English waters. The fleet had originally departed from Lisbon but called in to La Coruna to resupply and reorganise. Francisco de Cuellar, who had joined the fleet without a command of his own was appointed captain of the San Pedro, a Galleon of the Squadron of Castile, during the time at this port.

Beyond the city limits the countryside undulated. The hollows between hills were filled with early morning mists and while it was warm in the sunshine the air in these hollows was frigid. It felt good to be back on the bike after a couple of days rest and some big pasta dinners. The road to La Coruna past through a succession f hills and a series of bland modern towns. I didn't delay. I wanted to get to La Coruna early and find an Irish pub in the town that would hopefully be showing the second leg of the World Cup encounter between Ireland and France. Even though the lads are a goal down and playing against the odds now there still a little bit of optimism that they're not facing a lost cause this evening.

Twenty kms from the city I was in high country with La Coruna visible in bright sunshine far down below on the coast at sea level. A long 7kms downhill spin helped reduce the distance to the city and after a last couple of steep climbs the roadran over the top of a hill to reveal the city, sprawled over a series of hills that clung to the southern shore of a blue, sparkling bay. A fast sweeping road ran through the hilly suburbs before sweeping down into the bay area towards the old town. This was a fast road busy with traffic and not really a place for a cyclist. Unnerved by the motorists who zipped past me perilously close to the bike I stopped at the first junction that presented itself and stepped onto a sidewalk for safety. I stood for a few moment trying to figure out the safest way to reach the old town and a pension at which I hoped to stay. Obviously looking a little perturbed an elderly cyclist in his 60s decked out in bright lycra cycling gear approached me and asked where I had come from. When I said Santiago de Compostela he replied 'Ahh el Camino', nodding his head knowingly. Asking if I wished to go to the old town I showed him the adress of the pension I was looking for and this guy appointed himself my guide for the next ten minutes.

This guy appeared to understand my concerns regarding the traffic on this stretch of road. Perhaps having seen the road I had just come in he knew well why I was a little spooked. He told me to follow him and guided me right to the door of my accomodation before shaking hands and wishing me well. I must admit I was delighted. It was a great introduction to La Coruna which, in the fresh sea air and bright sunshine I was taking to the place immediately. I couldn't wait to have a look around. First though, I needed to book into my accomodation. I rang the bell of the pensio La Allianza which sat on the edge of the old town next door to the wide open Maria Pita Plaza. I was met by the owner, a jovial Einstein lookalike named Gabriel Santiago. permanently stooped, Gabriel suffered from a problem with his back and spine which affected his mobility but in no way detracted from personable, affable character which was a model of charm itself. He brought me into the front room of the lodgings, sat me down to register my arrival and proceeded to give me and overview of the city. For first impressions La Coruna made an immediate impact with the warm, friendly people who lived here.

After unloading the bike Gabriel showed me where I could store it safely and then left me to settle in. Straight away I nipped under the covers for a snooze. I didn't sleep for long. I was excited to be in this city and couldn't wait to get out for a look around. The pension is situated close to a waterfront and marina so within seconds of leaving the pension I was walking amidst rows of brightly coloured fishing boats and pleasure cruisers. Sunshine sparkled in the water and glinted off the impressive glass-front townhouses that faced the Marina. I took a quick look at the old town but the priority for the moment was to find an Irish pub for the evening that would hopefully show the big match. However Spain were also playing tonight, a friendly against Austria so that would probably take precedence over the Ireland match. I found 'the Shamrock bar' a Spanish rocker pub rather than your typical 'Irish' bar. They intended showing the Spanish match but they gave me directions to a bar called 'Matthews'. One glance at this pub and you knew it was Irish. Run by two brothers from Drogheda, the Matthews have lived in La Coruna for twenty years. The bar had opened two years ago but already it was a popular spot in town.

The two brothers were very affable characters, the picture of the genial Irish barman and, yes, they would be showing the Ireland match later. Great stuff. I hurried back to the pension, stopping off in a supermarket along the way to pick up some food for tea, showered and was back in Matthews in good time for kick-off. I was first to arrive for the game and joined one of the brothers in an upstairs bar where the tv was. Three or four other Irish sauntered in for the game, one lad from Dublin had an Irish jersey with him but curiously, didn't put it on until Robbie Keane. Apart from one table of French who remained mute until the end of the game the bar was filled with locals who got a great giggle out of our jumping around when Ireland scored. What a game, what a performance by Ireland, and what a bitter after-taste in the manner of the defeat. The lads totally outplayed the French in their own backyard and to be honest should have won the game in normal time. Duff's miss when one on one with the keeper will probably haunt him for a long time, and his flood of tears at the end suggested it was already doing so. Galling, I think, was the most appropriate word I could think of. I didn't hang about after the final whistle, there was no point. I just wanted to sleep off the disappointment.

Tuesday 17th November: Santiago de Compostela

2010-09-10T11:20:00.000-07:00

A quiet but memorable day resting in Santiago, getting ready for the last stretch of this journey down into the heart of Castile. I spent the day looking around town, sending postcards and generally enjoying the sights of this lovely city. The weather improved as well. It was nice to see blue skies again. I went to the Pilgrims mass in the Cathedral by way of officially signing off on the Camino. After mass I visited the crypt that holds the relics of St. james situated beneath the main altar. I saw a few faces I recognised from the journey including a French guy I'd bumped into in the refugio in Sarria last Friday, but not the Irish couple I'd met in Arzua. I did see the lad who'd invited me to share a room with him (but I stayed away from...discretion the betther part of valour!!). Afterwards I spent a while just wandering around thinking about the last four weeks since leaving Chartres. All-in-all the Camino is a fantastic experience, there is something special in following it route.

I slept through the afternoon before spending a while working on the bike. It desperately needed a new front tyre which hadn't survived the wear and tear of the journey very well. The brakes needed some attention as well. I suppose its kind of handy to be able to stop the bike and slow it down sometimes. While I worked on the bike the Italian cyclist came down with a Spanish lad who'd just cycled into Santiago this afternoon. They spent a while surveting the bike, commenting on its features and overall, seemed impressed by it. I felt like the proud father of a winner of a bonny baby contest. In the conversation that followed between us we were like a small cycling enclave in the sea of walkers who complete the Camino. For cyclists on the route it can sometimes be a bit of a solitary existence. Many consider doing the camino by bike as unworthy of the great route, that the only authentic participation should be on foot. On the camino the walker is king. However, in our small clique we could indulge ourselves in 'biker talk' without fear of condescension, things walkers wouldn't understand! We were like a group of harassed motorists giving out about other road users... 'those bloody so and so's, they think they own the Camino!!'.

The Spanish lad was staying in the same dorm and later when we compared our camino passports they showed uncanny similarities. I had started out from St Jean the day before he began. He arrived in Santiago the day after me. Remarkably, we both had stopped for 2 rest days and we each used the same refugios in the same towns along the route. Our passport stamps were identical for each stop except for the dates on them. Over a distance of 800kms we had covered identical distances each day, on successive days. Uncanny!

Also in the dorm tonight was a real character, a pilgrim from the Lebanon called...Ramon. He was a retired businessman from Beiruit, a fascinating character, larger than life and fluent in English French, Spanish as well as his native arabic. He appeared a very well informed individual, widely read and knowledgeable about the history of the Camino. He held in high regard the traditions and ethos of the Camino unlike such as myself who had bundled along basically ignorant of many of the deeper symbolic elements of the journey. Ramon's a Maronite, a member of an ancient Christian sect and one that I had not heard of before. This was his third time to walk the Camino. On this occasion he opted to walk the last 100kms rather than the full extent of the trek from St Jean. Even so, he was doing so against medical advice. He completed the route limping heavily with his right knee heavily strapped in a brace.

Ramon first arrived in the room during the early afternoon while I slept bringing an abrupt end to my siesta. He half swirled, half bundled in to the room unhapy at having to climb 2 flights of stairs to find himself in a 6-bed dorm. He had been conducted upt to the room by a member of staff, a Moroccan, who had carried his rucksack for him and pointed out where the showers and toilet facilities were located. Ramon was unimpressed at having to descend to a lower floor in order to shower and use the toilet and made his grievances very audible to the hapless Moroccan accompanying each point with dramatic gesticulations. I watched the scene quietly from my pillow in a far corner of the room, half amused, half bemused by the scene before me. As Ramon continued to complain he turned to me and asked me what I thought of the hostel. Half startled as all eyes turned on me I reassured Ramon that I thought the place was fine, that it was in a good location and that it was quiet. After that I decided it would be safer outside and before he lost his temper I had scarpered downstairs to the street below.

Later in the evening fortified by a large plate plate of pasta and after I'd had my fill of wandering around the streets I found Ramon in less rumbunctious spirits though still inclined to talk. He told me about himself, his life and the way Beruit used to be, the Paris of the east. He explained the background to his Maronite christianity and showed me a portrait of a revered saint that he had brought with him on this pilgrimmage. There was something compelling, almost endearing about him in his mix of sincerity and middle eastern garrulousness. His criticisms of the hostel and his demands for better accomodation on his arrival had perhaps, created the wrong impression of his character but I was glad I had met him, he was a very memorable individual. It was good talking or, rather, listening to Ramon. At one stage, after a long ten minute sequence of tales about his experiences Ramon suddenly stopped in mid-sentance and exclaimed 'But I'm doing all the talking, you haven't said anything of yourself!' 'Ramon', I said, 'I'm more of a listener than a talker'. And with that he continued where he had left off....

Monday 16th November: Completing the Camino

2010-09-10T07:56:00.000-07:00

I had breakfast with the Irish couple before going out into the rain which had not ceased falling since yesterday. Despite the rain there was a good mood on the bike knowing that Santiago was only 40kms down the road. With rain low clouds and mist there was verly little to see on the road so I kept my head down found a comfortable rhythm on the pedals and pushed for Santiago. I passed through the last few towns without really noticing them. Over the last 10kms into the city the camino passed along a series of minor roads and country lanes free of traffic. I passed by a number of walkers and stopped to say hello to the German lad who had stayed in the dorm in Arzua on Saturday night. We chatted for a couple of kilometres. The guy works as a mechanical engineer and builds custom made motorbikes in his spare time. He spent a number of years living in America and was pretty scathing of the attitudes of the average American. We were joined briefly by a Belgian couple who have walked the Camino from their Belgian home. I was afraid to ask how long they were on the road in case it reflected badly on my own rate of progress.

After a couple of kms I'd had enough of walking and decided to get back on the bike. We had passed through a number of rough backlanes but were now back on a smooth road surface. As I remounted the bike and wished the guy all the best for the last few kms he asked if I would like to share a room with him. Yikes! One of those really awkward silent moment followed before I replied 'No thanks', I was intent on staying in the main refugio in town. We'd already commented on the possibility of accomodation in the town and I'd already told him my plans so I didn't know what to make of that request. I didn't wait to find out either as I high-tailed it up the road.

Thirty minutes later I crested a ridge and caught my first sight of the city. It was a great feeling entering the suburbs, a genuine sense of arrival. I followed signs for the centre and wheeled the bike slowly through the 'puerto del Camino' into the old medieval quarter and followed the narrow twisting streets to the wide open space of the 'Praza do Obradoiro' over which the majestic Cathedral del Apostal presides. I spent a short while gazing at its richly ornamented facade and the sights of this monumental square catching my breath looking back to my departure from Chartres and savouring the satisfaction of completing another stage of this trek. Ideally I would have gone inside the Cathedral to formally complete the Camino trek but with a fully packed bike this was not possible. I took a wander through the closely crowded streets looking for a sign of a refugio and ended up at the tourist office where I was given directions to a local youth hostel as the local municipal refugio had closed for the season.

The hostel was only a 10 minute walk from the tourist office. Twenty minutes later I had been checked in by the cheerful owner of the place, had stored my bike, showered and was blissfully asleep in the 6-bed dorm to which I had been allocated. I slept for a couple of hours until I was awoken by a Japanese backpacker who was being ushered into the room. This lad was a student of architecture. he hadn't followed the camino but had travelled up through Spain after spending six weeks in Algeria and Morocco. I both admired and was intrigued by his adventures in Algeria and asked what had taken him there. It was simply his desire to see example of Islamic architecture. I was impressed by that sense of adventure and even more so that he hadn't experienced any difficulties in Algeria.

In the afternoon I went out to explore the city. The old quarter of Santiago is truly impressive. It was a wealthy city in the past and obviously thrived while the popularity of the Camino was at it's height. Fine tall buildings lined the narrow streets, along some of which ran pretty stone-built arcades sheltering the pavement from both sun and rain. Occasionally the streets opened out into small plazas one of which was dedicated to the author Cervantes who wrote Don Quixte. Cervantes was a contemporary of Francisco de Cuellar and I couldn't stop my mind wandering back to thoughts of the Armada era. I was looking forward to getting to La Coruna and finally rejoining my 'de Cuellar trail'. Restaurants, cafes and souvenir shops comprised the majority of the premises along the principal stone-paved streets most of which were pedestrianised and a joy to walk. The odd 'panaderia' and tobacco shops scattered amongst the touristic businesses made a pleasant break from the uniformity of t-shirts, celtic jewelry and religious souvenirs.

After dinner I bumped into an Italian who had just arrived in the dorm. A fellow cyclist he was from Ancona and he had joined the Camino at Pamplona. Looking at the stamps on his 'Camino passport' he had started out the day after I left Pamplona and He appears to have always been one day behind me. He was older than me and had two artificial bones in his right leg which caused him to walk with a pronounced limp. I was impressed that he had been able to complete the journey, even by bicycle, given the physical difficulty that he had to overcome. Also, it was nice to be able to discuss the route with another cyclist rather than with walkers as it is so much easier to empathise with the others experiences. Discussing the trek with a walker is like talking about two completely different experiences. The Italian spoke of the difficulty of the wind on the 'Mezeta' (between Burgos and Leon) and the dangers coming down the mountains between Ponferrada and Samos and I knew exactly what he was saying. It was easy to understand what was going through this guys mind at those particualr times. He intended staying in Santiago for one night and hope to get his bike accepted on a bus back to Pamplona where he would pick up his car and drive back to Italy. A journey which would take him a day and a half. Ahh, the joys of living on the continent.

Sunday 15th November: Rained off

2010-09-10T07:36:00.000-07:00

Ireland lost 1-0 to France last night. I recieved updates from my brother and cousin and the general consensus seems to have been that the French goal was unlucky. It doesn't look godd for the second leg in Paris now. Hopefully I'll get to see that, I should be in La Coruna by then. As if to sympathise with the manner of the defeat last night the weather this morning is terrible. Torrential rain falls incessantly, and while the other lad in the refugio, a German, prepares to leave and brave the elements I ask the owners of this reugio if its ok to stay for the day. Normally you are not allowed to stay to nights in a refugio, certainly not in the municipal ones but the privatly run establishments are more relaxed about this, anyway its November and the place is empty, a little more income is always welcome. So as the pours down outside I have an easy rest day reading and snoozing.

At mid-day an elderly Irish couple check-in to the dorm. They arrive gently bickering and soaked to the skin after four hours on the road. Fatigue and the stress of the weather was evidently taking its toll. Water had seeped into their packs wetting virtually everything they had so, in a way, I fell vindicated for not having venture outside today. The couple have spent 44years in Australia, have raised their family and since retired. They're over to travel Europe for a few months and will spend a while Inter-railing until Christmas after they complete the Camino. The couple are in their 70s and their trip was booked to celebrate the wife's 72nd birthday. They are impressively fit and active for their ages. After getting dinner down town in between dodging the rain I spent much of the evening chatting with the couple. We were the only people staying for the night and so I took advantage of the quiet to get a full night's sleep. I was in bed by 8.30 listening to the rain outside content to be warm and dry.

Saturday 14th November: To Arzua

2010-09-10T02:56:00.000-07:00

There was torrential rain last night and this morning starting out from Sarria you could almost smell the rain in the air. There was a heavy damp quality to the morning breeze. Leaving town I followed the camino along rough tracks, over some streams and through fields for the first few kms. It would have been grand walking it but hauling a loaded bike swollen after the previous night's downpours was tricky enough. It was a joy to regain a road surface once meore after 45 mins of the joys of cross country hiking.

I was tired this morning. The exertions of the last few days were catching up with my and, I think, the fact that I knew I wouldn't reach Santiago tonight removed a sense of urgency that had driven me along the road the last few days only to be replaced by a drained fatigue. Once I rejoined the road I zipped along to the town of Portomarin but after that the day descended into a long, slow slog. The route was all about climbing, not over mountains but up and down over a long repetitive series of ridges. I was too tired to have any interest in the surrounding countryside. Concentrating on the pedals I kept the head down, looking up only to focus on the top of the next ridge. Perhaps there was no real curiosity in the sight seeing today as the landscape all looked familiar, like home. I've heard many time of the similarities between the northwest of Spain and home but I never realy believed it. Now, in Gallicia I can see for myself how true those rumours are.

On the road I kept to a slow even rhythm on the pedals knowing that with every kilometre cycled it would mean one less on the way to Santiago. I follow the road down one seven kms stretch, all downhill but do so with little enthusiasm as I know that once I get to the bottom of this slope that I will have a long slog of a climb back up the next height. The spirit of the Camino appears to be growing on me. Normally in this tired state I would become frustrated with the incessant ridges and get annoyed on the bike but today despite feeling so drained everything remains calm inside, not so much serene as dogged, a calm acceptance of the situation. Still I feared the next climb would be payback for freewheeling for seven kms and sure enough the next climb brought a 10-15kms haul uphill. About 500m from the summit of this climb I hit the wall. Close to the town of Palas del Rei I passed a bar cum restaurant. I was ravenous and on entering and seeing a guy tucking into a fine plate of steak and chips my hunger pangs craved for something of the same so I decided to splash out on a dinner.

Sitting down I ordered a beer and from the menu requested a 'churrasco de terne' without really knowing what I had ordered. At least I knew there was beef. I took a read of a local sports dailies from the bar that featured a piece on the Ireland-France match in which the general gist of the article suggested that France, led by Thierry Henri should win through to South Africa. With regret I sent a couple of texts home to my cousin and brother asking if they'd update on the match as I wouldn't be able to see it. Still, I didn't have long to mope about as moments later the waitress delivered to me one of the most sumptuous meals I've ever eaten. It transpired that I had ordered a rack of grilled ribs with salad, chips and a generous portion of bread. I felt like a king and promptly ordered a second beer. This was finger liking good and as I supped happily a middle aged Irish couple entered the restaurant and enthusiatically ordered what I was having. They were from Dublin, loved the whole Camino experience, not so much for the roasary beads and prayers, which they certainly respected, but for the whole sense of adventure that goes with the trek.

After struggling through fatigue and hunger this meal set the world to rights. I rejoined the road with that glowing contentment you can only have after a fine meal and set to grinding out the miles with renewed vigour. As the afternoon progressed dark rain clouds closed in. I reached the town of Melide and considered stopping here but the municipal refugio was closed for renovations so I decided to risk a soaking and pushed on for the next refugio which was suppoed to be 11kms up the road. Sure enought the soaking came witrh a thunderous downpour. In a dark half-light I picked my way along roads littered with slippers fallen leaves and the spray of speeding cars. It made for uncomfortable cycling but in the gloomy half light I forgot about my fatigue and pushed a further 17kms to the town of Arzua where a collection of private refugios advertising vacancies guaranteed a bed for the night. Another heavy shower sent me scuttling towards the refugio I reckoned looked the best and checked in for the night. It was a fine place, a cafe bar at the front with a fine spacious dorm at the back and with only one other person staying here tonight it was going to be quiet. On arriving in the town I wasn't sure where I was but after checking on a map I discovered I was now within 40kms of Santiago. The knowledge of a short hop into Santiago tomorrow sent me off to the supermarket for food in a state of tired contentment.

Friday 13th November: Lucky for some!!

2010-09-10T00:45:00.000-07:00

I leave Ponferrada and its Templar castle behind somewhat appropriately on the anniversary of the demise of the order, Friday 13 November, 1309. Over the course of their existence the Templars had become an enormously wealthy and influential order in European affairs. International banking in Europe might be said to have started with the Templars whose financial assets were such that they could prove a threat to European monarchies. That proved their downfall as the King of France secretly organised for the seizure of all Templars in France and the confiscation of the Orders assets. Simultaneously on the morning of Friday 13, 1309 every chapter was supressed and those who templars who failed to escape were imprisoned. The order was effectively erased from history. The events of that day provide the origins of the saying 'unlucky 13'.

Starting out from Ponferrada today felt a little like an unlucky 13 with a tough day in the mountains a certainty and a climb upto the borders of Gallicia to a height of 1,300m. The main concern was rain. After the experiences in the Pyrenees I didn't fancy taking a soaking high up in the mountains. Despite the edgines starting out the first 40kms proves relatively straightforward. The road followed a route across the plain to the beautiful town of Villafranca del Bierzo which, from time immemorial, appears to have guarded the entrance to the mountains. On leaving Villafranca I steeled myself for the onset of a tough climb but instead, the road wound its way through a narrow cleft deep into the mountains. Steep slopes reared up either side of the road but it still mamaged to find a low lying path through these hills. This was great I began to contemplate the possibility of not having to make a big climb. In good spirits I even stopped and walked for a while with an Italian guy who strengthened my hopes that I might cheat the mountains out of a hard climb. He reckoned there would only be one short steep climb ahead. So, as I remounted my bike and left the walker behind I was hopeful putting up some big mileage today and began to extend the number of miles I hoped to cover for this day. I harboured an outside chance that I might make it to Santiago for tomorrow night in time to watch the Ireland v France world Cup playoff. If I could cover 120-130kms today I might be in a position to reach Santiago tomorrow.

I stopped for a snack in Vega de Valcarce, a village dwarfed by the high mountains that towered above. It sat in the shadow of modern motorway flyovers that crossed the mountains into Gallicia and were suspended high above the town supported on stilts that looked precarious to say the least. From here the road began to rise in earnest but, instead of the two kms climb that I had been reassured about it turned into a 20kms struggle rising up some 900m in altitude. Above the small town of Pedrafita do Cebreiro the winds started, strong headwinds that increased in strength as the road climbed higher. Three kms above the village I had to get off the bike to prevent myself from being blown backwards. Even pushing the bike on foot became difficult. The views up here were spectacular but such was the strength of the wind that I had to keep my head down as I pushed into the gale. It was a cold, piercing wind as hat and scaf came out with the overcoat in order to maintain bodyheat. The road ahead looped on up the mountain along the shoulder of a ridge before turning to follow in the lee of an adjacent ridge. It was possible to trace the route ahead up to a gap in the mountains at a pass some 10kms away. It didn't make for great viewing in such strong winds but once the road gained the shelter of the adjacent ridge the winds dropped away.

I reached a summit at 1,300m beside the village of O Cebreiro. Relieved, I felt that the climbs were over but I was wrong. Another 6kms of climbs in howling winds brought the road through two more hidden summits to a final pass at a bleak windswept Hamlet and past an apt statue depicting a pilgrim bent against the wind and holding on to his hat. The descent off the mountain was a completely different experience Buffeted by a mix of headwinds and crosswinds I struggled at times to stay on the bike. On one occasion after rounding a bend a particularly vicious gust brought the bike almost to a standstill. At the foot of the mountain the village of Triacastela brought welcome shelter from the winds. I pushed on through undulating foothills to the town of Samos where there was a refugio housed in a beautiful monastery. It was 4.30pm in the afternoon. After contemplating whether to stay at this location for the night I decided to push on another 13-14kms to Sarria. Darkness would be falling within the hour so it was a pretty intense push to reach Sarria in good time. I was tired but the sense of urgency squeezed out enough adrenalin to keep me going in a good rhythm. Concentrtating on the pedals I did very little looking about me but on the one occasion I looked up I almost stopped in my tracks. The first proper view of Gallicia and I felt as though I had been transported back to Ireland. The similarity was uncanny right down to the smell of damp in the fields.

I reached Sarria just as darkness descended. Relived to be off the road in the evening gloom I followed a series of yellow arrows painted along the street which indicated the route to the local municipal refugio. And on arriving, wasn't I glad I had pushed on to here. The refugio in Samos had been cold, cavernous and empty with a draught howling through the hall. In Sarria the refugio was bright, warm with heated floors. Such a joy to pad around the dorm after a hot shower on beautifully warm floors. By now I had given up hope of reaching Santiago in time for the match but the refugio in Sarria was a fine consolation.

Down in the kitchen I saw a Korean girl I recognised from yesterday evening in Ponferrada. That town was now 100kms back the road and she was a walker. As a cyclist 100kms is an average enough distance to in a day but for a walker? that's superhuman. I asked her how she had managed that feat of endurance. She replied 'by bus'!! Shortly afterwards a german lad came up to me and asked me if I was the cyclist whose bike he had seen downstairs. I replied 'Yes, is it still there?' He laughed and said it was. He too was cycling the camino. He had just cycled from Astorga today...... 160kms!!! He had crossed two mountain ranges over 1,00m in altitude tha had taken me two days to crosss, and he didn't look tired!! Jaysus, talk abou feeling inadequate. This guy was cycling like a top pro. He admitted that he had cycled from home in Germany down to the mediterranean coast, a distance of 1,000kms, in four days. This lad was stron, compared to my wiry frame he was bristling with muscles, Vorsprung dorch tecnic more like!! The guy was so loud as well. His part of the conversation boomed out across the dorm making me feel somewhat self-conscious as tired walkers tried to sleep. Impressive and all as his athleticism was, he was the kind of character who gives cyclists a bad reputation on the camino. The trek isn't suppose to be approached as a sporting challenge, to be completed in as short a time as possible. This lad would reach Santiago tomorrow night having completed the route in 5 days. I was going to do it in 10. Walkers averaging 25kms a day normall spend a month on the Camino. Here were two cyclists comparing distances travelled that day, one having covered 100kms, the other 160kms. Bragging about that kind of thing on the Camino is a no-no. Happy to end that conversation I went to bed rather sheepishly.

Thursday 12 November: Mountains & Templar castles

2010-09-09T07:20:00.000-07:00

It rained heavily last night. The streets of Astorga were sodden this morning as we left town. The school kids were hyper again this morning but everybody was a lot more tolerant of them now that we saw them for the first time. All of the kids had various physical or mental disabilities. Seeing their excitement on this trip we all perhaps, felt a little guilty at our quiet resentment of the noise they made last night. Out on the road I manged to catch a beautifully vivid rainbow in a shaft of bright sunbeam amidst all the dark rainclouds. The route followed a minor road up into the foothills of the mountains through some very pretty villages. At one picturesque church three walkers and their alsatian dog set about preparing a late breakfast in the shelter of its doorway.

The going was easy, no strong winds and, so far no heavy climbs. Out here it felt remote. The villages were small and crumbling. Stone walls lined the fields, reminiscent of the west of Ireland and further up the valleythe fields gave way to woodland which spread across the mountain slopes obscuring the view ahead with a swathes of autumnal greens, browns and golden leaves. Beyond the village of Rabanal del Camino the gradients of the climbs began to rise higher and the pace of the bike slowed to a gradual, persistant rhythm. With altitude the temperature of the mountain slopes lowered. Passing a refugio I saw I bicycle propped against a wall next to the entrance, another cyclist? I didn't bother to investigate, content to keep going at my own rhythm to the top of the mountain.

The last six kms to the top brought spectacular views. As I snapped some photos I noticed far down below my a cyclist on the bike I had seen struggling on the climb. I didn't hang about though. It was cool up here and raindrops falling I didn't want to hang about too long on this mountain top. A few wet kms later I came to the deserted village of Majarin and probably the most unusual refugio on the entire camino. Curious I stopped for a short break and a look at the place. Marked by a group of road signs denoting the distance to a selection of global cities sat what looked like a ramshackle hut. A narrow wooded passageway led to the entrance of a cottage and, on entering, the warmth of an old fashioned kitchen cum sittingroom with a table and benches arranged around a small wood stove. Unlit save for a a couple of small windows eyes took a few moments to readjust to the dimly lit room. I was ushered by the local 'hospitaliero' to the table and offered the choice of tea or coffee and some biscuits by way of refreshment. A large darkened kettle of coffee sat stewing on the stove while a flask of boiled water provided water for the tea. A group of Spanish walkers sat around the room chatting and drinking from plastic cups while the dreadlocked 'hospitaliero' set about dusting and tidying the place.

After pouring out a cup of coffee for myself I sat to one side on a bench to munch on a small handful of biscuits. As my eyes became accustomed to the gloom I noticed a large illustration painted directly onto the wall depicting the arrival of crusader knights before the walls of Jerusalem. Beside me various photographs of people dressed in the garb of templar knights and newspaper cutting adorned the wall. In the corner of the room sat an odd-looking shrine dedicated to the templars. A small statue of the virgin Mary was flanked by two models of templar knights dressed in white tunics emblazoned with a blood red cross. All very mysterious!! There was a book shelf lined with histories of the templars. Without doubt there was a very definite theme to this place. Talking to the 'hospitaliero' he explained that the owner of the refugio was a modern day Templar who had opened this private refugio over twenty years ago to reive the traditions of the Templar code and to restore life to the dead village. To hear of a modern Templar knight was a novelty as the order was supposed to have been suppressed in 1309. Unfortunately this modern knight, a former solicitor, wasn't around today as he had a dental appointment down in Ponferrada. The hospitaliero himself was from Madrid and had served in the refugio for three years. He prefers living up here in the mountains among the ruins of this deserted village to city life and feels he gets to meet far more people working in the refugio than he ever did in the refugio.

I waited in side in the warmth of the refugio and as the rain shower passed on prepared to leave once more. The 'hospitaliero' wished me 'Buen Camino' and told me that I had another 2km to climb, after that it would be 15kms downhill all the way to Ponferrada. Good news in deed, but I had to be careful as it was a dangerous road. I thanked, left a small donation for the coffee and biscuits and hit the road. Two kms later, on the final summit I sat on the bike panting. That coffee had been strong. I don't normally drink the stuff so with a heavy dose of caffein the effort of the climb seemed to set my hearbeat tripping at a rapid rate, something I've never experienced on the bike. The rain had eased off but the summit was enveloped in thick cloud that rolled across the mountaintop. I began the descent cautiously, unable to see more than thirty yards ahead at a time I didn't want to career wildly into a set of hair pin bends.

After dropping a couple of hundred metres the cloud cleared and far down in the following valley some 30kms away sat Ponferrada clearly visible in bright sunshine. Around one tight hairpin the road literally dropped into the beautiful village of El Acebo. Built on a shelving slope of the mountainside its highly distinctive stone-faced houses and cobbled street marked it out as a little gem on the camino. From El Acebo the downhill to Molinaseca at the base of the mountain was a pure joy. From there it was an 8km push to find the sunshine of Ponferrada. I felt fresh, I could have kept going across the valley for another two hours but the sight of the local templar castle decided where I would stay for the night. I found the local refugio, sat around among a group of walkers who were waiting fo rthe place to open a chattedbriefly with a Korean as we took in the views of snow speckled mountains to the south of the town.

The hospitaliero operating this refugio turned out to be an american lad who had recently come to Spain after three years in Italy. He'd fallen for a Spanish girl but had fallen foul of her father and had been chased out of town before discovering the camino and, apparently, fell in love with it instead. He was now dedicated to working in the refugios as a full time 'hospitaliero'. He'd spent one week in the job so far but was already full of wisdom, insight and sage advice regarding the way of the Camino.... and life in general. Thankfully the Templar castle was due to open so I quickly wandered down town, my head full of 'Yankee Doodle' wisdom on the 'mystical way of the Camino' and the secrets of life.....whooooo!!

Backing in the refugio that evening after cooking up some dinner for myself I bustled back into the 4-bed dorm I had been allocated only to wake up an Irish lad who was not in the best of health and was trying to get some badly needed rest. He was a lad from Cork and was suffering badly after some tough days on the road. He had some very painful sciatica in one leg and had picked up a stomach bog after eating some dodgy tapas in a bar yesterday. Unable to eat he was drained of energy but despite his tribulations he was in good spirits. There were no airs and graces about the guy. He was straight down the middle, as they say. He was a Corkman with all the dark, irreverent humour that comes with a rebel and I took to him straight away. He's an experienced mountaineer with trips to Nepal and other high altitude regions behind him so he had good ironic comments to pass about some of the mix of characters that you can meet on the Camino. He had no truck with some of the 'holier than thou and good will to all' that you can find on the camino. Perhaps I enjoyed his attitude so much because maybe he has kept himself detached from some of the excesses of the whole religious, mystical element that some get caught up in. Hearing some describing how they need time and space to sort out their 'issues' to 'clear my head' and 'meditate on my life' and all that can get a bit heavy and cliched. To be honest, I found crossing America as spiritual as the Camino, not because the camino isn't a spiritual experience but because its a designated pilgirmmage I think the whole experience here can become overblown by participants conforming to a stereotype. Any long-distance, physically difficult journey can become very reflective and spiritual in its own way. Right, enough of that.

The Cork lad gave some great tips on the kind medical kit to bring travelling. In return I gave some sage advice on the the kind of food that would be best for him in his condition and in that way we both ended the day feeling enriched and fulfilled. Yo man, peace!

Wednesday 11th November: To Astorga

2010-09-09T04:59:00.000-07:00

Everybody was out of the refugio and onto the road by 8.30am. It was a good bright, dry morning. The twenty kms to Leon slipped by rapidly with open countryside giving way to built-up suburbs with industrial and business estates on the edge of the city. Nearing the city centre I decide to skip a sightseeing tour of the place in favour of pushing on towards tonight's destination, the town of Astorga. I'm not bothered about skipping Leon on this occasion as I expect to be back in a couple of weeks. The road follows a long gradual climb out of the city to a satellite town on an overlooking hilltop. I stop here for a quick mid-morning snack and chat briefly to a French walker doing the same.

Beyond the hills ringing Leon the countryside opened out once more onto a flat plain which would end abruptly at a line of mountains that appeared hazily on the edge of the horizon. That mountain range announced the approaches to northwest Spain and Gallicia. After Astorga the camino leaves behind the predominantly flat terrain that it has crossed for the last couple of hundred kms since Burgos. The next few day will bring some tough hill country so the relative ease of todays kms have to be enjoyed.

The road to Astorga is a long straight busy stretch. I'm kept alert by fast traffic and frequent buffeting from trucks and lorries. After an easy morning a series of undulating ridges slow progress as Dark clouds gathering overhead threatened heavy showers from the north. Struggling up one ridge I was startled by a muffled 'Hola' and the sudden appearance at my elbow of an old pensioner flitting past on a swift racer. Perhaps sensing my energy was flagging a little he added by way of encouragement that Astorga was close by and sure enough, at the top of that hill one last plain spread out before me and crowning the top of a low hill a few kms away sat the medival fortified town of Astorga.

As I entered the town the low hill that I thought I had seen presented some very steep streets on the way up to the old heart of the town. However once in the old quarter and around the corner from the fine cathedral halfway up a narrow street I found a private refugio housed in the crumbling grandeur of an old 16th century mansion. It was a gorgeous old place with twisting staircase, creaking timber floors and a crumbling carved decorative motif over the street entrance which bore the coat of arms of the original inhabitants. I had arrived early, around 2.30pm and so had plenty of time for exploring the town. Long stretches of the old city walls survive which on one side provide a public promenade with panoramic views over the surrounding region. The old town itself is relatively small, comfortable for a pleasant wander among ancient townhouses, old churches, magnificent cathedral and a pretty plaza mayor. As I strolled around town the centre was quiet, almost deserted until 5pm when it became instantly transformed. Life resumed for the locals as shops reopened and families took to the streets after the afternoon siesta. Bug bites that had afflicted me for the past couple of days since Carrion de los Condes were still itching so I found a pharmacy that sold an appropriate lotion. I didn't have many bites but they itched like crazy and I was worried in case they spread. Thankfully the lotion brought some welcome relief.

Back at the hostel the place was beginning to fill up with walkers arriving in dribs and drabs. The dorm I was in had filled up. Down in the lounge area a wood fire was burning brightly in an iron stove. The warmth was inviting and I sat down on a long built-in couch set into a hollow in the split-level floor facing the stove. Sitting alongside me were a sprightly elderly American-Irish couple called Murphy. They had links with Ennis and had visited 'the old country' during the summer just passed. They were also avid cyclists so we had plenty to talk about. They have cycled coast-to-coast USA from West to East and had a quiet giggle mixed with sympathetic grimmaces as I described the route I had followed from Boston to San Francisco. It would seem that I followed a particularly hard route on that trip!

As the Murphys wandered into town to find a restaurant for dinner I made do with the kitchen in the refugio and food from a nearby supermarket. I ended up chatting over dinner with a Swiss guy named Adrian. A postal worker at home, though in the logistics end rather than the delivery of post, he had taken time off to walk the Camino from his hometown in Switzerland, and had set out on August 23rd. By now, unfortunatley he was struggling with a particularly bothersome knee problem. It had been causing him problem for five weeks and by now, was very sore indeed. He was in such pain that he'd seriously considered giving up on at least two occasions but with only 300kms to go to Santiago he was resolved to bear the pain in order to complete the trek. 300kms represents approximately another two weeks of walking so this guy was showing impressive determination. Its hard to understand how much it means to people to complete the Camino, no matter from where they have commenced the trek, until you actually join the route yourself. There is definitely something captivating, spiritual even, once you are on the route, regardless of your motivation for actually completing the trek. The spirit of the camino is definitely infectious. Whether or not it makes you a better person? Well, that's down to each individual themselves.

I was in bed by half nine. Indeed most of the 'peregrinos' usually are. The refugio was full. The last groupt to arrive was a large goup of youngsters who, by the sound of their high spirits were not participaing on the trek. It sounded more like a school group on a class outing. With all the noise and hubub from the school kids I definitely had my ear plugs inserted for the night and managed to drift off to sleep despite the noise. As the dorm filled up with tired bodies struggling to get to sleep people in the room became disgruntled and impatient with the youngsters. Tha=e last I heard before the lights were turned off was a very loud 'Silencio' from an annoyed Mr Murphy.

Tuesday 10th November: Wind and Fog

2010-09-07T09:10:00.000-07:00

Last night the dreaded bed bugs struck. They had infested the blankets that I had used and, with them wrapped up tightly under my chin a number of enterprising bugs took the opportunity to crawl up onto my face and take lumps out of me. I woke up during the night to go to the toilet. In the bathroom I noticed my forehead was itchy and when I checked in the mirror I found a golf ball sized lump of swelling on the side of my head. That ended any further notions of sleep. The thought of what had been crawling through those blankets was enough to make my scratch all over my body. In a half sleep the warnings that the Spanish girl had given me about infection swirled through my imagination and by morning I was half afraid I'd caught what she had. I was reassured the next morning by the Canadian guy who reckoned it was small spiders. Regardless, we had to be out on the road by 8am so the morning routine of breakfast and packing took over from any fears of bed bug infections.

We left the monastery to heavy fog which lingered for most of the morning. I parted from the walkers where the road and footpath diverged, the camino following a route across the adjacent fields before melting into the mists. Alone on the road in windless conditions the blanket of fog created a stillness that was very soothing. Cycling was easy, almost hypnotic. There was nothing to look at as the fog obscured the landscape 100m either side of the road. With no traffic on the road all that you had to occupy your time were your thoughts, the cool morning air brushing against your cheeks and the endless rhythm of the pedals which produced a soothing, calming effect to the physical endeavour.

After a couple of hours cycling and 40kms covered the fog began to lift around the village of Sahagun. As the road looped around the edge of the sleepy township the sound of enthusiastic chatter disturbed the quiet. Seconds later the rising mists unveiled a group of walkers sitting on a bench munching on their mid-morning snacks. They gave a cheerful wave as I passed by. As the fog lifted the landscape opened up once again to reveal a bare open countryside. And as the mists cleared away a breeze began blowing which quickly strengthened into a stiff headwind. The soothing exercise that had started the day turned into a struggle and while the snowy mountains to the north provided a dramatic view the long strait, exposed road began to drain my energy. At a redbricked scatter of houses at Castrotierra I was forced to shelter behind the corner of one building in order to draw breath and take some respite from the wind in what was turning the day into an unpleasant struggle. A few kms beyond I reached a junction with the N-601, the main road up to Leon, where I hoped to rest tonight. This large, fast carriageway veered northwest changing the effect of the breeze from a headwind to an equally difficult crosswind which dragged on the bike as if adding an extra heavy weight in the panniers. Buffeted by winds on the sparse open grasslands I wished for the shelter of some mountains or woodland, even the presence of a roadside hedge would have helped to lessen effect of the wind. I reached the village of Santa Marta, saw an open cafe and stopped for a badly needed rest and a welcome hot chocolate.

Renewed with the sugar rush of the hot chocolate in Sant Marta, an otherwise nondescript roadside village I pushed across the windy plain for another 20kms, towards the snowy Cantabrian that were beginning to loom large as I edged closer to them. I stopped short however as the road dipped towards the curiously named town of Mansilla de las Mulas. An old medieval walled town facing the mountains 20kms short of Leon. The accomodation was convenient here so I was content to stop rather than attempt to push on into the large city. Inside the refugio I parked up the bike in an enclosed central courtyard and discovered a second cyclist who was here for the night. He was an American lad using a cheap mountain bike he had picked up in a superstore in Barcelona. His own, expensive American tourer had been stolen the day after his arrival in Spain but undaunted he was loving his Camino experience and was content to spend as long as possible on the route diverging from the main route to explore the surrounding countryside. He was a real happy-go-lucky character and it was a refreshing take on the whole Camino experience, something I hadn't considered in my relative haste to get to Santiago in order to renew my own fanciful 'search' for a personal 'de Cuellar ' trail. He had earlier met up with the Irish lad I'd seen in Burgos and had spent a couple of days in that group. He appeared captivated by the 'guru-like' Irish guy and was intent on backtracking along the Camino after getting to Santiago in order to meet up with that guy once more. It was the same back in the refugio in Burgos. All of the gang that were there appeared to regard the Irish lad almost as a guru or spiritual leader of the pack. I must admit I was at a loss as to see the attraction. When I met that lad I must have been distracted from the charisma by the length of the beard. Perhaps foreigners see a mystical magic in certain Irish traits which we at home merely regard as odd. I must admit admit I was left unmoved if a little envious of the rockstar status he had acquired on the Camino.

Later, on in the evening I found the refugio inundated with a large group of French whom I was thankful not to be sharing a dorm with. Instead I was sharing with a number of Spanish solo walkers, a guy from Cadiz and a red haired girl from the south whose first solo trip abroad was a cycling holiday in Ireland. Happily she loved the place. The American lad obviously had his eye on this lady. Down in the kitchen he offered to go halves on their dinner so while she prepared and cooked the meal he went out and bought the wine, a candle for the table and downloaded soft romantic music for his ipod while the rest of us vacated the room to head for the dorms, not wishing to intrude in what appeared to be a very private affair. Twenty five minutes later, the spanish girl appeared in the dorm, evidently unmoved by the amorous attentions of 'Uncle Sam'!! However, the star of the show in this refugio was without doubt the small dog that was accompanying a French lady on her trek. It had walked with her from the Pyrenees and by now had established itself as the mascot for this group. With the attention it received from everybody in the room it had no shortage of admirers, babbysitters or indeed, food for the road. It even slept in the room with the French. A dog's life, ehh!!

Monday 9th November: to Carrion de los Condes

2010-09-07T07:35:00.000-07:00

Everybody left the refugio at 8am. It was a damp morning. As we were having breakfast there was a heavy downpour but that was the last of the rain for the day. Loading the panniers onto my bike I was one of the last to leave and I couldn't help notice who left after me only the French guy who had convinced an Italian lad to buy him his bus ticket. I wasn't sure whether to look at the Italian with admiration for his charitable act or to feel sorry for him for having been gulled by a con artist. Either way, I looked at the French guy with a certain cynicism.

I followed the Camino route out of Burgos across a stretch of wasteland to a main road 4-5kms out of town. As the footpath followed a cross-country route I stuck to the roads and followed an alternative route to the small town of Castrojeriz where I rejoined the main Camino. Today was a great day on the road. I had loads of energy. After the damp start the day brightened up into warm sunshine. Cycling for once felt effortless. For twenty kms I followed alongside the autovia del Camino de Santiago through hill country before the landscape opened out on to flat table land which ran all the way to Leon, some 200kms to the west.

From Olmillos de Sasamon old, craggy villages came at regular intervals encouraging a brief exploration breaking up the journey. At Olmillos it was the old castle. At Villasandino the old churches on the edge of town with massive cracks lining their walls grabbed the attention. Views lay unobscured for miles across the flat grasslands to snow capped mountains far to the north. From small rises the browns and oranges of village rooves marked sterk contrasts to the greens and yellows and light blues of the sky and pastures. During the course of the day I noticed one big difference between Spanish farmers and their Irish counterparts. At home when you meet a farmer on the road in his tractor you can give him the 'howaya nod', a half shake-cum-nod of the head, and the famer will respond in kind and maybe even smile and wave back if he knows you. In Spain when you give the 'howaya nod' the farmer regards you with bemusement and doesn't respond in any fashion. However, if you wave, its a different story. You'll get a friendly smile and a wave back. I spent the day trying out that theory and found it to be very consistent.

Outside the town of Castrojeriz I passed a road sign that read 497kms to Santiago. Still a bit of a distance!! Still, as far as the day's journey was concerned I was still fresh. By 2pm I was in Fromista after completing 70kms from Burgos. It was still early, the day was still bright so, after some lunch I felt fresh enough to press on another 20kms to Carrion de los Condes. The road was good and flat, I had a good rhythm going so it made sense to keep moving. Over the final 7kms I began to tire. This seemed to coincide with the rise of a cold stiff headwind and gathering clouds. But as tired as I might have felt I wasn't struggling nearly as much as some of the walkers I saw in the last few kms before Carrion. A couple, obviously struggling with either blisters or sore tendons, were limping heavily making little headway into the winds. Just to look at them made me glad I was on my bike. The local refugio was in a monastery with great showers. I found I was sharing with three Basque lads from Bilbao, a lady from the Dominican Republic who works as a teacher in New York, in the same school as and a Canadian guy who was walking the Camino for the third time. The lady from the Dominican Republic works as a school teacher in New York, in the same school that the author of Angela's Ashes, Frank McCourt, taught in. In the kitchen over dinner I got talking to the lad I had seen limping heavily out on the road. Turned out he was a German from Hamburg. He admitted he had been struggling with pains in his lower legs for some days now and was beginning to doubt if he could complete the trek.

In the evening I took a wander into the town and sat for a while with a couple of glasses of beer in one of the local bars. When I arrived the place was in full swing with gang of twenty or so local pensioners playing cards and dominoes to raucous jibes and one liners. Without ever knowing what they were saying it was still entertaining to watch the local characters wind each other up to knowing winks and digs in ribs. Funny how these characters always emerg in bars the world over. I had enough after 2 glasses of beer. Feeling a fog of tiredness descend I went back to my bunk in the refugio and gratefully snuggled under some warm heavy blankets that were stored in a cupboard for our use.

Sun 8th November: To Burgos

2010-09-07T00:44:00.000-07:00

A Bright morning, so far so good. A Frenchman in the hostel had told us last night that we could expect rain until next Wednesday so its a pleasant sight to see the sun and blue skies on leaving the refugio. I hope that guy is as accurate with his prediction of a French victory over Ireland in the coming world cup playoff in a week or so. (Arrogant so and so!!!) Everybody's up and out by 8am. All the walkers here are a couple of weeks into their trek so routines have been established and everybody goes about packing for the road with the minimum of fuss. I have breakfast with the Koreans and before leaving we have a round of photos together before parting with the now customary 'Buen Camino!!'

I have a quick look around town as I leave. Santo Domingo is a quaint town. The old medieval street plan still survives as do stretches of its enclosing walls. The town's links with the Camino stretch back a thousand years with the name of the town 'de la calzada' (of the path) incorporating its function as stopping point for pilgrims. However, despite the town's links with antiquity, for me the town, it appearance and location bore strong hints of a Clint Eastwood western. Sited on a windswept plain, bounded by snowcapped mountains the town, gathered round the spires of its churches, it would be very easy to see the silhouette of the man with no name emerge from the dusty plain slowly riding into town to confront a gang of rowdy gunslingers with a half-chewed stub of a cigar stuck firmly into the side of his mouth. The town simply has that look. As I slowly rode out of town I couldn't help but hum the tune of 'The Good, the Bad & the Ugly' passing rowdy groups of burly pilgrims on the road to Burgos.

The early morning sunlight was a sight to behold on the road this morning. In the sideways slant of the rising sun the mountains cast long shadows across the plain but in the places where the sun shone it radiated a golden luminescence off the rocks. It was as though the early morning sunshine echoed across the landscape to produce such a glow where it touched the land. It was a great morning to be on the road. Helping the good mood was the fine road surface which eased the bike along the 70kms towards Burgos. There were some headwinds but nothing like as strong as yesterday. Soon the road left the vineyards of Navarre behind and we entered rolling hills of Castile y Leon. The first town inside the border of Castile was Redicilla del Campo, a small tumbledown settlement at the end of a long straight stretch of road. Redicilla marked the start of a period of struggle through the hills. Finally, a long downhill afforded a spin down to the town of Villafrance Montes de Oca which was nestle into a green vale in the hills.

On the outskirts of town I was hailed by a walker, a Spanish girl with jet black hair and such startling green eyes it was hard not to stare. She was a girl from Barcelona and taking me for a 'peregrino' on the Camino she wanted to warn me about something which sounded like 'Cerna' an infection she had picked up in one of the refugios infested with bed bugs. The rumours of the old bed bugs on the route had been doing the rounds but this girls had been infected with something far worse than a mere 'itchy-scratchy' infestation. She showed me spots on her hands and arms from these bugs that appeared more under the skin than on it and said that they covered her body. She was being forced to drop out of the trek, take a bus to Burgos from where she would fly home to Barcelona to rest in isolation for two weeks until the infection cleared up. Determined to complete the Camino she would then return to this point to continue her journey. Apparently the doctor had told her not to tell other 'peregrinos' about the infection but she was determined to spread the word so that others might not pick up what she had gotten. It was a stark warning indeed as I had no sleeping bag and was hoping to find blankets etc in many of those refugios. The girl's warning alone was enough to make me itchy.

I didn't have long to think about that girl's warning. On the far side of town the road rose steeply in to another band of hills for the next 10-15kms. The long rhythmic climb consumed my concentration and pushed aside all thoughts of marauding bed bugs for the afternoon. On the ascent through wooded hills there was no wind, only bright blue skies but as soon as the road cut across the tops of the hills it brought the bike into the face of headwinds once more. Another stark warning of the potential dangers of the journey presented itself in the form of an articulated lorry lying on its side having recently left the road. The driver had evidently lost control of the vehicle causing it to leave the road and plummet down the embankment of the raised road to lie stricken on it side beneath the road. What was disconcerting for me was that the lorry had left the road in the middle of a long straight. The driver had evidently fallen asleep. Not very reassuring for a cyclist.

I reached Burgos in the early afternoon after descending from the hills once more onto a flat plain and an easy spin into the city. I made for the centre but after finding one refugio closed for the season I spent well over an hour trying to find accomodation. Eventually, wandering through the Plaza mayor I spotted two guys who looked like camino trekers. I approached them and asked if they knew if there were any refugios open in the city. One of the pair, an English guy offered to show my where the city refugio was located. He had a bike which he had just bought for the purposes of completing the camino and was trying it out around town. He had walked from St Jean but had damaged an ankle en route to the extent that he would be unable to continue on foot, but rather than go home he had decided to buy a cheap mountain bike and attempt to complete the camino on wheels.

The English lad left me at the front door of the municipal refugio and bid me a cheery farewell as he pedalled furiously up the next street, evidently intent on burning rubber around Burgos before hitting the open countryside. Inside awaited the most amazing refugio I would stay in on the trek. The warm, dry, purpose built and ultra modern municipal refugio of Burgos was an experience of absolute comfort and pleasure, all for three euro for the night....you only get to stay one night though. The dorms were of an open plan but with sets of four bunks divided by partition walls, and further divided internally by luggage lockers there was a definite sense of privacy to the sleeping area. The place felt like a holiday camp such was the comfort and pervading warmth, even the floors were heated!! For many of the walkers who had spent tough days, and cold nights getting to this point the Burgos refugio was pure luxury.

Sat 7th November: To Santo Domingo de la Calzada

2010-09-06T12:35:00.000-07:00

Given the lack of bed clothes I had a decent sleep last night. I was up early and had breakfast with the Finnish ladies. The Italian guy went off to meet a friend and have breakfast at the next town up the road. After all the wet murky weather we've had lately it was a bright beautiful morning. The sight of blues skies made it so much more appealing to get out on the road again and we all did so with a new eagerness today. I wished the ladies all the best for the rest of their trek and took off into a stiff head wind. It was tough going in the breeze but a lot easier on the mind with the bright sunshine. In the early morning sun the landscape glowed the rocks in the fields shone with a kind of golden glow which helped to distract from the tough physical effort of cycling into the wind.

Between Los Arcos and the next town 7kms up the road (Sansol) I passed a few walkers, none of whom stayed in our refugio so there was evidently more than one accomodation in Los Arcos. In my early enthusiasm on this bright morning I pushed hard up to Sansol which looked majestic perched high on a hill overlooking the road I was on. Just outside the village I passed the Italian lad. Gave him a wave as I passed by. From Sansol its less than a kilometer to the next village, Torre del rio, a tiny settlement bathed in sunshine in a hollow beneath Sansol. Dropping down past Torre I was sheltered from the wind for a short while givin an easy spell on the road but all too soon the road wound its way to the top of a ridge into the full grip of the wind once more.

As the morning advanced dark rain clouds came scudding in from the west. I watched as a dirty black storm erupted among the mountains to the north and deep down knew the bright sunshine would be leaving us once more. I fought hard against the wind in rolling hill country in an effort to reach the city of Logrones before the rain arrived. But I didn't quite make it in time. Outside the town of Viana, 10kms from Logrones the rain started splattering down forcing me to scuttle resentfully into an underpass to haul on my rain gear on. The great sense of lightness and enthusiasm for the day that I had on leaving Los Arcos was gone now. My mood had become sullen and resentful of the rain and, as it continued to pour I descended into a foul temper.

Logrones sits on the western edge of a flat plain. To the south and west of the city the horizon is bounded by mountains which, by the time I approached the city had become obscured by the bad weather. On a hill overlooking the city centre I lost my temper. I have a pair of winter cycling gloves which, I discovered, are not waterproof. To compensate for this I brought a pair of bright yellow marigold gloves to use as waterproof outer gloves in the rain. They function ok but my hands become very clumsy when I wear them. On the hill above Logrones while trying to take a photo of the city I was unable to use the camera. As I attempted to remove one of the marigolds my fingers became stuck, and with that I lost my temper. Cursing out loud in a rage I tore off one of the fingers of the marigold with my teeth, took the photo in a huff an then realised I'd rendered my gloves useless with only four fingers. In a hissy fit I bolted through the centre of Logrones in a strop without bothering to look at the city.

After crossing the city the route took me through parkland, past a woman who took great pains to try to explain to me that she was taking photos of squirrels. 'Good for you, love' I thought as I move along. With the rain passing once more a stiff climb into the hills on the far side of the city concentrated my mind once more and helped to cool my temper. I passed through a field of vineyards on the way to Navarette 13 kms outside Logrones. From here the route followed a rough gravel track alongside a stretch of motorway for a good 10kms sparking off another temper flare as the gravel track reduced to an uneven rutted track that climbed steeply up the side of a hill. Contrary to all the traditions of the Camino de Santiago I cursed loudly as I dismounted to haul the bike up the slippery muddy slope. Cursing everything and anything that came to mind, I failed to notice a group of Spanish walkers who must have thought they'd come across a right nutter. Still, nothing like a rage to calm you down, particularly when you've had an audience to your ravings. The top of that hill brought fantastic views over vineyards and a wide level plain that held the promise of easy riding that restored my repentant spirits. The downhill stretch off that height also allowed me to put a welcome distance between me and the Spanish women.

The latter part of the day brought good roads and a climb up onto a high, open plateau. I followed open country to the town Santo Domingo where I would stay for the night. I spent the last 15kms fighting a very cold stiff headwind, watching black storm clouds descend on snowcapped mountains to the north. The last stretch became a race to reach the shelter of the town before the rain arrived. Sato Domingo de la Calzada lies exposed in the middle of a windswept open plain at the heart of the Rioja region famed for its wines. Santo Domingo sits on the Ojo river which lends its name to the region. I found the local refugio, an old Franciscan monastery building which has catered for pilgrims for centuries. I found a bed in an open dorm with 40 beds. The refugio didn't have a set charge for the night but relied on voluntary donations. There were approximatley twenty staying.

At dinner I fell in with a Korean father and son who were completing the Camino together and spent the evening chatting to them. They were a fascinating pair to talk to. The father a succesful business man, the son a student. Both had good English. I found it touching that a father and son would travel halfway around the world to complete a trek such as the Camino de Santiago. Its actually a popular endeavour for many Koreans to complete. I'm finding the Camino is becoming a bit of an eye opener in unexpected ways. I feel bad that my temper erupted in such a way earlier in the day. In the calm quiet of the dorm tonight I was surprised at myself but after speaking with the Korean guys I vowed to enter more into the spirit of the Camino from here on.

Fri 6th November: Sweet dreams are made of these

2010-09-06T08:26:00.000-07:00

I left Pamplona around 9am this morning. On setting out I wasn't sure how far I would travel this day. In the end today would emerge as a highlight day on the journey so far. I would cover about 70 kms across some achingly beautiful terrain to the picturesques town of Los Arcos. From the pension I made my way slowly through the streets to the edge of the city following blue painted arrows on the pavement and lamposts, which indicated the route of the Camino. Without them I would have been lost. As it was I did go astray for a short while only 5kms out of Pamplona. It was another dull overcast day that threatened a soaking. Heavy clouds sat low on the surrounding hilltops as a mist shrouded everything in bubbles of moisture. The route followed a road to the small village of Cizur Minor from where I proceeded to lose my way. Passing walkers and seeing a cyclist on the road a couple of kilometers ahead of me I became distracted and somehow I ended up on the wrong road out of the village on my way towards a line of hills that formed a barrier across the route west.

In raingear I began to sweat heavily as the road rose up towards the hills but after a few kilometers I began to suspect that I wasn't on the right road. Returning to Cizur Minor I couldn't figure out where the route was going until a couple of old ladies waiting at a bus stop shouted to me and gestured in the direction I should be going. Waving my thanks I picked up a series of yellow markers that showed the route and regained my bearings. The road skirted round the hills I had been trying to climb and rose up into the mists before dropping down to the town of Puenta la Reina. That descent brought an end to my brakes which gave up on me and left me desperqatley trying to slow the bike with my feet. For three kms I had tried to slow the bike with the ever fading brakes, to no avail. Entering a roundabout I was unable to stop, I was just thankful that there was no oncoming traffic otherwise I'd have been in a spot of bother.

Puenta la Reine, Queensbridge. The town itself was as picturesque as the name suggested and deserved a longer visit than I afforded it. The old buildings of the town were composed of a bright yellow sandstone and while the grandeur of the place was somewhat faded with the years the bridge itself was a stately arch providing the western entry point to the old town. On the far side of Punta la Reine the road wound back into the hills with a long slow climb before levelling out into rolling countryside. The landscape here brought a succession of brilliantly coloured vineyards set into a deep reddish earth. Set against the deep clours of the earth the leaves of the vines had turned into a blaze of reds, browns and golds. From a height a succession of hilltop towns emerged out of the gloom in the distance to show the way ahead. The second town, Cirauqui was a beautiful old maze of red-tiled rooves set amidst narrow winding streets that twisted their around the hilltop to the town church that sat perched atop the conical mound that was this ancient town. Surrounded by vineyards the town was originally built by the Romans and appears to have remained virtually unchanged since its medieval days. In the mist and rain the town looked impressive, In good weather it must look stunning. Given the dire state of my brakes I stopped here to fit a pair of replacement pads.

By 2pm I was at the town of Estella, sitting low on the banks of the river Ega. Another ancient town of Navarre it prospered as a major stopping point for pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago and held a royal palace of the Kings of Navarre. Like Puenta la Reina Estella has an equally picturesque bridge that spans the Ega though it gose by the more ominous sounding puente de la carcel, the prison bridge I considered stopping here but, given the early time of day, decided instead to push on to Los Arcos 25kms further down the road. From the edge of town the road rose once more into high ground, up to the town of Villa Mayor some 9kms and 300ms above Estella. A couple of kms below the las climb the village began to peek out over a high sloping ridge which ran up to the summit of the mountain that overlooked Villa Mayor. Crowning the top of this hill were the ruins of a medieval castle half obscured by the base of the cloud layer. Laid out across the hillslopes below the village were more colourful lines of vineyards and it was through a blanket of greens, golds, reds and browns that the last twelve kilometers to Los Arcos slipped by.

I found a private refugio on the edge of town and booked into a dorm which I would share with two Finnish women and an Italian guy. There was no bed linen so I would have to make do with layers of clothes and my grimy, sweaty raincoat for a blanket as I had no sleeping bag with me.... welcom to the Camino!! The pair of Finnish ladies were on a two week trek from Pamplona to Burgos and, given the extent of the wet weather that we were enduring were disappointed, like myself, that their preconcieved notions of a warm bright sunny Spain had been misleading. They had started out from Pamplona with a third member of their party but she was now back in Pamplona nursing severely blistered feet. While the two ladies wandered into town to find a restaurant I set about making dinner for myself in the communal kitchen and then took an evening stroll around Los Arcos. The town was small, old but but beautiful, and under the low illumination of streetlights and a pitch black night sky the brightly lit local church was a picture of haunting beauty. However, aside from the archtecture of Los Arcos the highlight of the town had to be the hot chocolate I was served in one of the local cafes. So good I had two. It was like drinking molten gold. Not your average powdered chocolate and milk this was pure liquid, molten chocolate. As Annie Lennox once said 'Sweet Dreams are made of these'

Thurs 5th November: Pamplona

2010-09-06T04:41:00.001-07:00

I stayed in Pamplona today. I wanted to have a look around this famous city and I had an easy excuse in that the weather was terrible. My first introduction to Pamplona was watching Billy Crystal taking part in the Bull run in the film City Slickers. Most famous today for the celebrated bull runs during the festival of San Fermin Pamplona was the old capital of the Kingdom of Navarre. Reputed to have been founded by the Roman general Pompey Pamplona and Navarre wasn't incorporated into the Spanish state until the 16th century. Today, the bull runs are held through the streets of the old town, around 7am in the morning at which time the streets are thronged with particiapants and revellers. Walking along the old route on a wet November day its hard to imagine the scenes of excitement that the runs generate though, the large and numerous posters on sale in some of the souvenir shops help to conjure a picture of the same street during the mayhem.

Pamplona is a pretty city. The tall narrow streets of the old town huddle around la Plaza del Castillo, an open plaza from which run the avenidas San Ignacio and Juan Carlos III that lead to the modern commercial centre of the town. Stretches of the old medieval walls still survive but it is the route of the bull runs the holds much of the curiosity in exploring the streets. I spent a couple of hours running around the streets of the city but not a bull in sight and the bull ring, like a small, medium sized football ground was deserted and eerily quiet. It wasn't too long before scudding rain sent me scuttling for the nearest supermarket to stock up on food and, as the rain poured down I spent much of the evening munching spanish ham and gathering my energy for tomorrow. Between showers I did make it out to phone home to wish Dad Happy Birthday and to see the old town once more streets under the evening street lights.

Wednesday 4th November: Into Spain

2010-09-06T01:34:00.000-07:00

Everybody was up and packing for the road by 7am. There was a buzz about the place this morning. The sense of a new beginning. I am the only cyclist starting out today, the rest are walkers and all starting their Camino trek from St. Jean. For the walkers there's a touch of adrenalin as many of them are heading into the unknown. The prospect of climbing high into the mountains with bad weather forecast fills most of our thoughts. So there's a sense of anticipation mingled with uncertainty at the breakfast table this morning. Bags are packed with obsessive zeal, checked and repacked as new trekkers fret over their backpacks. For me there is the feeling of starting something new aswell as, after following my own trail down through France, I'm joining the main route to Santiago for the next 800kms. But, after nearly two months on the road the morning routine is more familiar for me. My bags are packed quickly, everything put away into its alloted place. No need to wonder if I have everything packed away. Over a breakfast of tea and bread a comment is passed that I look like somebody who has been on the road for a while. Apparently there's a certain glow about my cheeks. I must be getting fit!

As people finish breakfast and make to leave we wish each other luck for the road and gradually the hostel empties. A Canadian girl who slept in the same dorm as me is having second thoughts about leaving. She arrived with Ivan the Croatian and seems to have latched herself onto him but she doesn't have good gear for the mountains, just a thin waterproof jacket and runners. She'll know all about it at 1,400m if the weather is as bad as they say. I wish the pair all the best for their journey and hit the road. Most of the walkers will see each other frequently, if not every day for the next six weeks but I won't see any of them again. I'm beginning to realise the difference between walking and cycling the camino already. Cycling will be a much more solo effort. I'll see new people each day, but only for an evening. Many of the walkers will form groups as they trek across the landscape to Santiago. Its something I'll notice more and more as I follow the camino westwards.

Leaving the hostel I follow the medieval cobbled streets through the heart of old St Jean under a heavy, overcast sky. On the edge of town I follow the main road into the mountains. I've been told not to follow the walking path with the bike so I'm taking that advice and push along the smooth road surface for the Spanish border. The plan for the day is to get through the mountains and down onto lower ground to Pamplona some 70-80kms away. As soon as I leave St Jean the rain begins to fall and I'm forced to don the rain gear. The rain will persist for the next four hours making the first half of the day a testing experience. The first 8kms however are easy. The road follows a lowlying, steep sided valley to the Spanish border which is marked by a river and the village of Pekotxeta, to give it its Basque name. I was able to spin along at a decent pace, my while raising a whizzing spray from the water lying on the road. From this village the road rises for the next 17kms to a mountain pass above the village Roncesvalles, the start point on the camino for many Spaniards. I must admit it felt good crossing into Spain, nice to see the road signs change from French to Basque/Spanish.

As the road rose into the mountains a couple of villages that clung to steep mountain slopes marked the way. They were quiet, nobody stirred, the only sound was the soft patter of raindrops and running water in the gullies. Windows were shuttered against the rain. In good weather the views from these villages across the valley would be spectacular but this morning, with a veil of cloud draped across the mountain tops and the vegetation heavy with raindrops, there was a sense of gloom which didn't encourage you to linger. I reckoned the sooner I'd get over these mountains the sooner I'd get into sunny Spain. Beyond the second village I passed a walker. It turned out I was on the Camino but had opted for the road rather than the standard trek. I stopped for a chat in the pouring rain. The guy was a jolly Belgian called Luc. This wasn't his first time on the Camino. He works as a social worker at home and has taken troubled kids to trek the Camino as part of their rehabilitation programmes. Luc had decided to follow the trek this time by himself for his 50th birthday and was easing himself into the rigours of the journey by following the road route. After 15 mins of chat I found myself beginning to shiver. The strenuous uphill cycling had left me drenched in sweat and, as my body cooled down the shivering began. I had to end the conversation with Luc and start moving again just to warm up.

The road climbed higher and higher into the mountains. The gradient wasn't steep but it was incessant. There was no let up in the climbing. It began to feel endless. I climbed continuously through the rain for 2 hours. Eventually hunger began to bite and, with it, the cold began to seep through my sodden clothes. With morale beginning to drop I needed a rest. Halfway through one set of switchbacks I came to a lay by and stopped. Parked up beside me was a traffic cop who probably wasn't that impressed to find his morning siesta interrupted by a skinny cyclist stripping off his jacket and drenched tops. Very quickly he moved off. Food and a change into dry clothes was the order of the day. Bread and cheese filled the gap but I had to keep walking around while I ate to prevent another bout of shivering. By now my fingers were so cold they were painful. I had no idea how far it was to the mountain summit but at least with dry layers and the bite of food inside me I could get back on the bike with a renewed sense of purpose. Back on the bike it was less than 2kms before the road crested the longed for mountain pass at 1050m. It was cold. The walkers would have to climb to 1,400 before descending to this pass and I couldn't help thinking of that Canadian girl in her runners and flimsy rain jacket. It was going to be a tough first day on the Camino for her.

A rapid downhill spin to Roncesvalles left me chilled and craving any kind of hot drink in the villages only bar. Tired a sat down as the bar lady brought me a large hot chocalate and a snack from the bar. It was 12.30. After four hours on the road I had only covered 27kms. I half watched a tv mounted high on the wall as a couple of locals chatted with the barmaid over glasses of beer. I don't know whether they were chatting in Spanish or Basque but the rapid 'rat-a-tat-tat' of the language contrasted with the french I had become accustomed to hearing over the past month. To be in Spain felt good. The bar doubled as a refugio for the Camino and in the snug warmth of the bar it was tempting to stay here for the day but the thought of only covering the same distance as the walkers I left behind in St Jean hastened my resolve to get to Pamplona by the evening. Thirty minutes and a second hot chocolate later I felt refreshed enough to hit the road again. I was hastened on my way by the arrival of a boorish English couple who arrived into the bar in a welter of hustle and bustle and loudly demanded a room with a bath. They were on the Camino but it seemed they wanted all and sundry to know. I really didn't want to hang about in their presence so I left. Outside the rain had cleared. It was bright, the air felt clear and fresh rather than seeping cold of the latter stages of the climb.

From Roncesvalles it was 48 kms through the mountain valleys to Pamplona. Though the rain had cleared dark clouds suggested the possibility of more rain to come and kept me pushing on the pedals. Bright green hill country and quiet Basque villages passed by as the high mountain pastures undulated between the higher peaks. Here lay the old kingdom of Navarre which straddled the Pyrenees. It was an isolated mountain kingdom whose sense of independence has been retained by the Basque peoples into the modern era. Part of the greater Basque country the region holds a distinct identity and strong seperatist tendencies which has spilled over into terrorism in the form of the activities by the ETA movement.

A couple of steep climbs brought the road back up to 900ms but the last thirty kms dropped out of the mountains into a long flat valley that led to Pamplona. I came down the mountains in a heavy shower with brakes that were deteriorating rapidly in the wet descent. I whizzed downhill and around hairpin bends with the brake levers squeezed as tightly as I could but unable to stop all I could do was slow the bike down to a manageable speed. I could almost feel the brakes turning into a soft mush. The descent was both exhilirating and a relief to have over once I reached Agoretta, the first village low down in the valley. On this trip the brakes have become a perennial problem, one of the downsides of cycling in wet winter conditions.

In a pleasant contrast to the first half of the day the last stretch into Pamplona was covered in bright warm sunshine. The rain gear came off and I was able to spin leisurely along the road soaking in the welcome rays. Entering the city I made for the centre as black clouds began to gather once more over head. None of the refugios are open this time of year so the next cheap alternative was a pension which I found just as a heavy shower soaked the streets.

Tuesday November 3rd: Into the Pyrenees

2010-03-19T12:52:00.000-07:00

Back on the road today. Expecting a less than easy day as its into the Pyrenees now. I'm heading for St Jean Pied Port near the Spanish border. This town is the jump-off point for the most popular portion of the Camino de Santiago to Compostella. Today's leg is 100kms. Last night I dreamt I was in Tonga. It was a very vivd dream and after waking up thinking I was in a south sea paradise the prospect of hitting the road on a cool wet morning in France wasn't very appealing. I seriously considered not going but, like spending ages trying to get into cold sea water at a beach I eventually took the plunge and cycled out of town south towards the Pyrenees.

Like yesterday the mountains spent most of their time hidden from view under a veil of cloud while I negotiated the smaller climbs in the foothills. I wasn't sure what to expect today. Checking the route out on the internet last night it looked as though there would be some stiff climbs later in the day but for the most part the route appeared to be fairly straightforward. It was mild and wet leaving Pau and in the waterproofs I wasn't long in becoming uncomfortably sticky. The first 20-30kms followed a fairly level valley to the town of Oloron St-Marie after which the road began to enter the Pyrenees for real. After one decent climb the road crested a ridge, turned almost 90 degrees and presented the first proper sight of the mountains I intended to cross. Running east to West the Pyreneed looked like a vast wall that ran between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. Here and there deep valleys cut a narrow passage through the wall. It would be one of these passages that I would have to follow through the mountains. For the next 10kms the road ran west, parallel to the mountains as it descended into Oloron. I skirted around this town, looking for roadsigns for a small town called Naurenx and entered the valley of the Aspe. For 20kms I cruised across flat, easy farmland before turning south onto a minor road, the D125 which led into the mountains.

I was now on one of the old medieval pilgrim roads and would, presumably follow this route into the heart of the Pyrenees to St Jean. I passed a beautiful tiny hamley which still had its old pilgrim hospital dedicated to St Blaise. It was a gorgeous building nestled on the banks of a small river in a small green glen overshadowed by the foothills of the mountains. This was Basque country. The landscape was transformed, roadsigns and were bilingual and the names of towns were depicted in their original Basque form as well as French. Many houses displayed Basque flags. You always hear of the distinct Basque identity on the Spanish side of the Pyrenees but, very definitely, the pride in their Basque identity is very strong in the French region as well. I stopped for a lunch break in Meuleon before the real climbs began. It was sometime around 1.30-2pm. The place felt deserted. I was glad I had food with me as there was nothing open. Only a couple of old men in cloth caps shuffled past the bench wher I sat eating in the town's picturesque main square. I sat by a stately old mansion that bore a passing resemblance to a chateau. A fortress high up on a hill dominated the town. A testament to a turbulent past. Another large Basque flag hung from its battlements.

Refreshed, I set out for the hardest part of the day's cycle. A 5km climb to the top of the col d'Osquich brought the sun out which was a bonus. The high road brought some of the most spectacular scenery of the journey so far. Bathed in sunshine the Pyrenees looked magnificent and not as foreboding as they had done with dark clouds hovering over them earlier in the day. In the far distance snowcapped peaks glistened but hinted at some tough climbs to come. I was sweating heavily in the sunshine on the climb up to the col but for the downhill into the next valley I had on most of my layers. The road rolled throught the next 10kms of mountain valleys. I was expecting to reach a T-junction fairly soon after descending the col but pushing through this next valley, km after km, and with no sign of the road I wanted to be on I began to fear I'd somehow ended up on the wrong one. Fortunately I passed a police car parked on the roadside by the edge of a small village.

Asking for directions to St Jean I found I was on the right road after all but, on leaving the car had my first incident with a dog on this journey. As soon I got back on my bike it appeared from a laneway leading to a farm. As I pushed away from the roadside it lunged for me and I didn't try to outpace it. I got off the bike and kept it as a barrier between me and the dog which snapped and snarled everytime I tried to move. I was getting worried as this dog seemed a little too eager to sink its teeth into me. Thankfully the cops were on hand to foil this particular felon in the act. Its the first time I've seen a police car with its lights flashing and siren wailing to break up a civil disturbance by a sheepdog but boy, was I happy they were there. The driver aimed the car at the dog and accelerated causing the mutt to scarper and with that I was on my bike pedalling like hell and gave the cops a quick thumbs up by way of thanks.

At Larceveau I met the junction for St Jean and the last 15km was an all out push to get to the town before darkness fell. I arived at sundown. It was a glorious evening, after the sun dropped behind the mountains the few clouds that dotted the clear blue skies gradully changed colour from a fluffy white to orange to an electric pink. After some difficulty finding the pilgrim hostel I found the local tourist office and tried to get some directions. It had just turned 6pm and the lady in the office was locking the door as I pulled up on the bike in my cycling gear to ask where the pilgrim hostel was situated. She looked out through the glass door at me and when I gestured if I might come in she shrugged and turned he back on me. I was stuck with no idea where this hostel was so I just sat on the door until this 'wan' came out. When she appeared through the doorway and walked away into the street ignoring me I said loudly 'One Question please' and asked her where I could find 'the albergo for the camino'. Thankfully she got off her high horse and briefly directed me to the building. It was situated in the old medieval quarter of the town on a beautiful old cobbled street. St Jean was a real eye opener, a gorgeous town surrounded by the mountains. I wasn't expecting to find such a gem.

Arriving in St. Jean it feels as though the camino experience is beginning for real. The hostel I'm staying at is an official camino albergo. In order to stay in the albergos on the Camino between here and Compostella a special passport is necessary. To have your trek/pilgrimmage to Santiago de Compostella officially recognised the passport is essential. Each hostel/albergo will stamp the passport to verify that the journey has been completed. Those wishing to can then gain a certificate from the church authorities on presentation of the passport showing the stamps of all the albergos stayed in along the route. I had my passport ordered before I left home so tonight's registration at the hostel is a formality. The old guy overseeing registration of the 'peregrinos' was an avid cyclist so as I filled out my registration forms he checked out my bike with a noticeable enthusiasm. He burst out laughing on hearing the route I'd taken through France and shook his head with amusement as he told me hadn't just followed one of the French pilgrim routes but I'd meandered my way across three of them!! Obviously a stickler for detail, it resulted in a lot of extra writing for this guy as he recorded my route from Chartres to St Jean.

Finally I was signed in. I was assigned a bed number and directed to the accomodation block up the street where I would meet Janine. Entering the building I was surprised to find a room full of people. I wasn't expecting this. After travelling through France and meeting very few in the hostels who were actually travelling it was almost a shock to the system to meet over twenty people here who were about to embark in the morning on the same escapade as me. I met the famous Janine, an old woman, bent over with age but full of robust life and, by Jaysus, God help ya if you cross her. I handed Janine my docket and she showed me to my room. She jabbered away in French and I agreed with everything she said and sure, we had a great laugh.

There's a right mix of nationalities here and it shows the international appeal of doing the Camino, even in November. Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Croat, Irish, Swiss, Canadian. I was the only cyclist, the rest were all walkers getting ready for the five week trek to Compostella. The hostel had a different feel to the regular backpacker hostels. The was a great sense of camaraderie here, very noticeable. Nobody knew each other for the most part but I think, because everybody is starting out on this trek together with all the uncertainty of doing something new, there's a natural affinity within the group, almost a sense of belonging to club. For me there's still that sense of seperateness as I'm the only cyclist but I can feel whatever it is that's in the atmosphere. I'm in a six-bed dorm, sharing with a spanish Basque, Ivan from Croatia who has walked from Le Puy, in France, to St Jean on another occasion and will now complete the journey to Compostella this time. Its a bar bones hostel but warm so after eating most people turn in early, all with the same wish for tomorrow... hoping for decent weather.

Monday November 2nd: Pau

2010-03-19T12:41:00.001-07:00

The weather was terrible this morning, heavy rain fell persistently. Bad weather hit the area last night and is forecast to linger for most of the week. I didn't feel like heading for the mountains in these conditions so I decided to try and see if I could stay on in the hostel tonight. When I arrived yesterday evening I was told by a night porter that I would only be able to stay for one night but this morning I chanced asking the manageress who was on the desk if I could stay on. She said I could but that I would have to vacate the room until 5pm. The reception closes between 11am and 5pm, I would be allocated a new room then. No sleep-in here!

I had six hours to kill around town so between the rain showers and trips to the patisseries before they closed for the afternoon I had my work cut out. Pau is a pretty town, even on a gloomy wet day so, in good weather it must be full of charm. Its a historic town with origins stretching back a thousand years. Pau town centre is perched high up on a hill overlooking the valley of a river called the Gave de Pau. The town dominates a ford on the river which, in times past, gave access south into the heart of the Pyrenees. The town was most likely sited here to control that river crossing. It was fortified in the 11th century to become the medieval capital of the province of Bearn. One of the main attractions on the southern edge of town, where the old cathedral sits, are the spectacular views over the countryside. In good weather the Pyrenees must provide a spectacular backdrop to the town. Unfortunately today heavy clouds obscured the mountains. Alongside the viewing balcony the novel sight of an old funicular lift that still operates gives pedestrian access between the old town and the modern lower suburb in the river valley. I was tempted to take a ride on the lift but with little cash on me and a choice between this lift and some pastries in a local patisserie my stomach won out. I kept my cash for a couple of tasty flans I had my eye on!!

Blue skies emrged in the afternoon as the heavy rains lifted long enough for a wander around the old network of streets that lead to the local chateau, the Chateau de Pau. It provided the birth place for Henry of Navarre who became Henry IV. He was a contemporary of Francisco de Cuellar during a turbulent period of French history. At the time of the Spanish Armada a bitter civil war was being fought between Catholic and Protestant factions for control of the monarchy. Henry of Navarre was leader of the Huguenot faction and ultimately, on his accession to the throne famously converted to Catholocism remarking that 'Paris is worth a mass', and all lived happily ever after until the French Revolution!! Napolean was another famous resident here, using the chateau as a holiday home.

The town was quiet as another heavy raincloud began to gather overhead. As raindrops began to splatter the pavement I came across an English style 'tea house' that was open and took a grateful opportunity to dodge the shower with a welcome warm mug o'tae. An English tea house seemed a bit of an oddity in this rural part of France but the owner informed the area was popular with English tourists. By 4pm life returned to the streets once more. I took a wander up to the town square, the Place de la Republique. Carnival-like music blared out across the square from a pair of loudspeakers so I sat down on a nearby bench hoping I'd have some sort of distraction to kill the last 45 mins while I wated for the hostel to reopen. A couple of kids climbed in and out of an antique looking carousel as shoppers streamed in and out of an adjacent shopping centre. I'd picked up a couple of pastries from one of the patisseries but by the time I finished the second another cloudburst sent me scurrying for cover.

The hostel was full this evening, probably the liveliest spot in town. There's a university in the town and virtually all of the residents of the hostel are students. While I made my dinner I got chatting to two lads. It wasn't my French that was passable, nooo, sacre bleu! they had decent English. Of course, the topic of conversation became the familiar one now. They were curious as to what was taking from Ireland to Spain on my bicycle. I spared them the history lecture. As to sleeping arrangements, I didn't get a room to myself tonight. I had to share an 'apartment' with another lad. There were two rooms, his room had the toilet while mine had the shower so it was an odd arrangement.

Sunday November 1st: Toulouse to Pau

2010-03-14T05:26:00.000-07:00

Mohamed was up at dawn again for his morning prayers and seeing as I was awake it didn't feel it was right to be lying there listening while this guy went through his morning rituals a couple of feet away. I decided to get up and go out for a stroll and maybe pick up an early breakfast. However, as I made to leave the room I found myself in a quandry. Our door keys for the room were of the credit card variety. Once inside the room you had to insert the card into a slot in order to activate the lighting. It was my card that was in the slot. This left me with a slight problem. On leaving the room I would need to take the key with me which, as a result, I would leave Mohamed in the dark. I wanted, out of courtesy, to tell him that I was taking my key but that would involve interrupting his prayers, something I really didn't want to do. Knowing the lad's strident views I was fearful of upseting the Hiberno-christian/Muslim 'entente cordial' that had been established between us by metaphorically stepping on his toes. I turned towards the lad who was kneeling towards Mecca in quiet contemplation on his prayer mat. He had his back to me, his forehead momentarily resting on the mat as he recited the morning litany. A sharp intake of breath by me as I was on the verge of interrupting the prayers but I bit back my words. I hesitated, inhaled again but held back once more from saying anything that might disturb Mohamed. This was bloody awkward. I really didn't want to make any cultural 'faux pas' with my Islamic acquaintance. If he was Christian I wouldn't care. I'd be picking my nose, burping and farting happily but not with this lad, nope, there wasn't a peep out of me. It was ridiculous, here I was standing impotently holding my breath, one hand waving uselessly before me, like Basil Fawlty fearful of annoying Cybil. Between prayers Mohamed knelt upright. 'You may take your key Basil' he said wearily, almost Cybil-like. I withdrew my key. 'Ahh, emm, yes, thank you Cybil, everything's under control.' I replied. 'I'll just run along now' as I slipped out the door.

I went downtown. I stopped off at the train station to check out the timetable for Pau. I was stressed. For some reason, I don't know why I had decided I wanted to take a train to Pau rather than cycle. I think, perhaps the detour to Carcassonne had added more cost to my budget than I had anticipated and I knew it would be a two-day cycle for me to Pau with an expensive night in the middle. For some reason I reckoned a train to Pau would negate those costs. I wanted to be in the Pyrenees. I'd been long enough in France. I wanted to be in Spain. I regret that now but at the time it made sense. I bought an evening ticket to Pau.

Back in the room Mohammed had finished his prayers. We chatted briefly as I gathered up my gear. I had to vacate the room by 10am but the hostel management were happy to hold my things until the afternoon. I wished Mohamed all the best and hit the streets to look around Toulouse. I wandered around the centre aimlessly for the afternoon killing time. I was despondent. Already I had regretted buying the train ticket. I was blowing the integrity of cycling all the way from home to Cuellar but at the time it didn't really occur to me. Sometimes its strange the frame of mind you fall into. There's a popular Sunday market around the city cathedral. I had been to it 16 years ago on the last time I visited the city. I'd tasted a mango for the first time at this market so I took another stroll through the stalls to reminisce. I took into the city museum to fill an hour and then otherwise moped around town.

I took the 5pm train to Pau, catching my first view of the Pyrenees en route. The train arrived in Pau in the dark. After a week of gloriuos weather the fine spell was about to come to an abrupt end. I left Pau station to cycle across town to the local Hostel as sharp winds were blowing. Nearby trees were losing leaves like confetti covering the road in a carpet of dead vegetation. The evening streets of Pau were virtually deserted and I arrived at the Hostel just as the heavens opened. I was assigned a room to myself. I showered and went to bed. I was in Pau but I wasn't happy with myself. I just wanted to go to sleep.

Saturday October 31st: Carcassonne

2010-03-14T05:01:00.000-07:00

I was awake early this morning. Last night Mohamed asked me if it would be ok for him to say his prayers in the room. I said no problem so I was awake at sunrise as Mohamed unrolled his prayer mat to commence the first of his five daily prayer sessions. It was both fascinating and a little disconcerting to be present so close to a muslim at prayer. I don't know why. Maybe with all the negative press associated with Al-Queda, Iraq and Afghanistan our perceptions of Islam have been coloured. But to see what amounts to a small everyday occurrence for every practising Muslim seemed to be something out of the ordinary for me. Obviously, I didn't stare....

I went down to the station and picked up a ticket for Carcassonne. I had an hour before the train departed so I had a quick walk around town. I picked up a couple of pastries for the journey, more gateaux Basque and took a wander down to the Place du Capitole, a big open plaza in the centre of town a ten minute walk from the station. The plaza, so named after the 'capitole' the seat of local government since the 16th century. Composed of pink brick in a neoclassical design the capitole is a very distinctive building running the length of one side of the plaza. Today it houses the city hall and makes for one of the popular sights in the city centre. In the plaza I spotted two members of the New Zealand Rugby League squad out for a morning stroll around town. Two Kiwi fans approached them for a brief chat and to wish them luck for this evenings match against France. The Kiwis would be considered strong favourites for this match as, until lastnight, I didn't know France even had a national squad. I saw a poster in the hostel advertising the match and I reckon I might go along to it as I've never been to a live Rugby League match before.

Carcassonne is a 45 mins train ride from Toulouse. The train arrived there around 11.30am and myself and a sizeable crowd of sightseers were deposited on the Carcassonne platform. I had 3hours to look around before catching the return to Toulouse so I didn't hang around the 'New town' but went straight up to 'La Cite', the walled medieval city perched on the crest of a hill overlooking modern Carcassonne. It was 16 years since I last visited this place and it hadn't changed in the intervening years though it was busier today than it was back in January 1994. Medieval Carcassonne is one of the iconic attractions of France along with Mont St. Michel on the Normandy/Brittany border.

The hilltop site of the old city has been occupied for over 3,500 years. Two thousand years ago the Romans erected walls around the settlement and the city has remained fortified since then. In the 13th century the city served as a stronghold of the cathars, a religious sect savagely crushed by the Papacy during what became known as the Albigensian crusade. The city fell after a seige during the year 1209. During the later medieval period the city was garrisoned as a French Royal outpost in the frontier region between France and the kingdom of Aragon. By the mid-seventeenth century the city had lost its military significance. The merchant elite in the town increasingly moved their residences to the lower town and the city walls were left to fall into disrepair. By the mid-nineteenth century they were ruinous. In 1844 however a project commenced to restore the walls and rejuvenate the old city which bore fruit in the rise of the town as a tourist destination. In 1997 UNESCO added Carcassonne, the three thousand year old town, to its list of World Heritage sites.

Your first sight of the city walls town as you cross the Aude river from the lower town can be quite breathtaking on a good day. You emerge from the narrow streets of the modern town on to the old pont vieux and before you dominating are the ramparts and towers that look like something out of Lord of the Rings. All of the city continues in that vein. The shops, cafes and restaurants that line the streets are very touristy but it is very easy to overlook that and the views from the old ramparts over the surrounding countryside can be quite stunning. Its one of those places you have to visit at least once. I spent three hours wandering around the old medieval streets of La Cite. It is one of those places you can let your imagination run loose. I stayed as long as I could before racing back to the train station to catch my return to Toulouse.

By 3.30pm I was back in the big city and took a wander over to Trvor Brennan's pub - De Danu. Ex-Ireland, Leinster and Toulouse rugby player Brennan has settled in the city and decided to stay in Toulouse after his retirement from top level rugby in 2007. The pub was busy this afternoon with three live rugby matches being shown simultaneously. A group of Kiwi rugby players were in the pub, obviously over to follow their National team in this four nations tournament involving France, England and the Aussies. It looked like they had been involved in a challenge match with a local club this morning and were now having a drink with them before heading to the stadium for the international in the evening. The place was full of rugby players, all pumped up and muscular, too muscular. To the point that many of them had hunched shoulders. Each appeared to be keen to show off their physiques and all wore thin, tight t-shirts. England v Australia, part of this tournament, was on one of the tvs so I watched it to see would it whet the appetite for going to watch the match. In fact it did the exact opposite. I can't take to Rugby league, I found the game boring, on a par with American football. Give me Rugby Union any day of the week... and I aint a rugby head. I decided not to go to the match. I left De Danu after a pint, its a nice pub but on this occasion there were just too many pumped up muscle heads for my liking. Anyway I wouldn't be a big fan of French rugby.

Back in the hostel I spent the evening chatting to Mohamed. He's married with a baby and finding it difficult travelling to France to complete his studies. He likes his football though its a Tunisian league team that he follows. The finer points of my sky Blues were lost on him (They're often lost on me too!!) Cov were beaten 3-1 today and things aren't looking great on that front. Somehow we ended up talking about religion, perhaps it was my curiosity with the whole Islam thing but I ended up doing the listening for most of the rest of the conversation. Mohamed put forward why Islam was superior to Christainaity and Judaism. What really came across was an inherent hostility towards Judaism. Whether that was a personal opinion or whether his views represented generally held views among Muslims I don't know but after listening to Mohamed its easy to see why there's trouble in the Middle East. If this guy's opinions are generally held then most Muslims despise Jews and are also deeply distrustful of Christians. The Koran, apparently is the only pure text according to Mohamed. While he studies in France he says he has always felt a certain attitude towards him and others, that as Muslims he is stigmatised. He blames the media perception of Muslim's as terrorists for colouring attitudes in France. He is also convinced the media is controlled by Jewish interests and agendas, and so the circle of hostility is continuously fed.

It was both a fascinating conversation and one that was distinctly unsettling. For me religion is something worn rather loosely, a more relaxed, occasional addition to my life rather than an all-encompassing expression of how I live. It a more abstract idea of how I should live with certain occasional attendace to mark Easter, Christmas, weddings and funerals with the odd Sunday thrown in to keep Mum and Dad happy. For Mohamed his religion is the central cornerstone of his life. His views are so much more forthright than mine. But, I think, the unsettling part of his opinions were how uncompromising they were. Everything was black and white, right and wrong, no middle ground, no leeway. Maybe we have become more ambivalent about the subject at home but there is the violence of recent history in the background of our thinking, where the topic of religion and politics is a fragile one best tread gently. I don't know any Jews and I doubt very much if my companion knows any either but as we ended the conversation I suspected that if I had been and Jewish and not Christian we wouldn't be sharing the same dorm. Suddenly my imagination began to run away with me. I began to wonder just how far that degree in electronic engineering could be put to use but that was being a tad harsh. Was that the influence of the media agenda colouring my own reaction? who knows. As I said before to meet a fervent Muslim for the first time and to hear this was both fascinating and unsettling, and to think, had I gone to see that Rugby League match I would have missed it. Just for the record, the Kiwis hammered the French.

Friday October 30th: Montauban to Toulouse

2010-03-14T03:44:00.000-07:00

I was up early had breakfast and hit the road before the Canadians stirred. I was in two minds whether to stay in Montaiban and just make a day-trip by train to Toulouse and Carcassonne but, I think, thought of Having to share the small dorm with that couple for another night was enough to push me out into the fresh air. I now knew the route I should be taking down to Toulouse and, ironically, had been on the right track yesterday when I decided to turn back. My instincts about the road I was on had been correct but I didn't have enough confidence to keep going. Without a map I was too cautious, too afraid of going in the wrong direction. This morning there are no doubts at the back of my mind I know the route I have to take. I'm obviously someone who needs to be organised in advance to have a certain peace of mind.

Back out on the edge of Montauban the sun had just risen over a ridge in front of me causing a light mist to rise in the fields. It was cool but there was promise in the air of a bright sunny day to come. It was an easy road today. Quiet roads and flat land with a sprinkling of small villages to pass through before the outskirts of Toulouse was reached. I had been cycling for 90 mins when I arrive in Labastide-St. Pierre a small village with a bustling patisserie. I bought a gateaux Basque. Gorgeous and straight in to the top five list of French pastries. The list is beginning to grow.

At Fronton the road meandered through a network of small country roads to meet up with the D820 running from Castelnau-d'Estretefonds into Toulouse. The only climb of the day came outside Castelnau but aafter a sharp downhill into the town I left the quiet rural roads behind. The D820 from this point into Toulouse was a fast, busy route buth thankfully the drivers were very tolerant. There were a lot of HGVs which made for an uncomfortable time in the saddle, particularly the last 11kms into town as commuters jostled for position. It can be nerve jangling when the big artic lorries are alongside you within a feet or two. I began to curse myself for not having taken the train. It was my own fault for being in the middle of such a dangerous road. On the edge of the city the road came to a flyover at which point it appeared as though the road was joining a motorway. I exited to try and find a quieter route into the city centre.

Thirty mins later I was back at the junction having had no luck. I bit the bullet rejoined the main road, got over the flyover and found a lesser road running into the centre. From here it was a case of following the Boulevard I was on. I wasn't even sure what I was going to do next. Would I stay in Toulouse? Would I get a train to Carcassonne and stay the night there? I really didn't know. At one set of traffic lights I saw a sign post for one of the city's train stations and decided to follow this street which ran alongside one of the canals that ring the city centre. A few minutes later I arrived at Gare Matabiau, the city's main train station. I had been in this station 16years ago while inter-railing and spent a day in Toulouse but I recollection of this station or the neighbourhood around it.

It was a beautiful day. People were sitting out on the pavements in the station forecourt sunning themselves. Ther was hustle and bustle on the streets around. I found a town plan mounted on a board outside the station and began to figure out what I was going to do next. I had an adress for a hostel that, I discovered on the city plan, was only a few streets from the station. I decided the handiest thing would be to stay in Toulouse. I liked the idea of spending the night in Carcassonne at the heart of a beautiful medieval city but the most practical thing would be to stay here and visit Carcassonne by train tomorrow. That was my decision. I found the hostel, a large modern building, at the top of a steep hill and booked in for two nights.. This was the minimum stay. I was allocated a bed in a 2-bed room. I didn't do much for the rest of the day as tiredness got the better of me. I slept for a couple of hours in the afternoon and got some food in the evening. I took a wander back to the train station and picked up a timetable for trains to Carcassonne. I'll head there tomorrow.

Up in the room I found I was sharing with a lad from Tunisia called Mohamed. He was a very quietly-spoken electronics engineer and a devout Muslim to boot. After a certain initial reserve or hesitation he turned out to be a sound lad, certainly more interesting than the French-Canadian couple in Montauban. I spent a while chatting with him. He had English and was keen to practise it. He's heading to Loughborough University in Leicester in the next few weeks for a conference but is waiting for visa clearance before he is assured of a place at the conference. He's not overly confident of being granted the visa.

Thursday October 29th: Cahors-Montauban

2010-03-13T12:18:00.000-08:00

I hit the road for Toulouse around 8.20am on a good bright sunny morning. I thought I'd be out earlier than this but I can be painfully slow getting out sometime. Cycling down Boulevard Leon Gambetta there was plety of life about on the streets. I crossed the pont Louis-Philippe and followed the road through a gap in the surrounding hills and headed south for Toulouse, around 100kms from Cahors. I had prepared myself for another day of climbing through hills but it turned out to be quite the opposite, a pleasant surprise.

A few kms out of Cahors the road levelled out. One short climb and the road opened onto a gently undulating plateau. After 20kms the countryside descended onto a level plain and the next 40kms was an easy spin through fairly flat countryside. After the last few days in hill country it was a joy to be cycling through easy country once more, particularly with the Pyrenees to be tackled in the next few days. I stopped in a village called Realville for a pastry and picked up the most unusual french pastry I've tasted yet, a flan brioche. It slips into the top four pastres I've tasted in france alongside the offerings from Brive, Patay and Cambrai.

I reached Montauban around midday and headed through the town centre for a brief look as I passed through. Once in the city centre I hit a small problem. The town was bigger than I had expected and without a map I wasn't sure which was the correct road to follow out of town. I had no map of the place but I found a large town plan mounted up in one of the small plazas. The only road it indicated heading towards Toulouse was a motorway. There were other lesser roads for Toulouse, there had to be but my road map of France didn't indicate them and neither did the town plan which really only depicted the town centre. I decided to follow my nose and see if I could find a minor road heading in the direction of Toulouse. It was hot again today 23-24c. I managed to get a cold bottle of water in a petrol station on the edge of Montauban and, boy, did it go down well. The road out of town led to a junction for the motorway which was no good to me. I made my way through an industrial estate, eventually stopping at a roundabout with a couple of exits leading to nearby towns but I had no idea if these towns were on my route or not as they didn't feature on my map. I did know there was a hostel in Montauban so I decided to turn back.

Heading back into Montauban I wondered would I bother going to Toulouse at all. My main reason for heading there was so I could make a trip to Carcassonne, the famed picturesque medieval city. At a junction I passed a signpost for a town called Auch. I knew that I could head for this town and follow an alternative route down to Pau in the Pyrenees. I had planned to head to Pau anyway after visiting Toulouse. That was an option. I cycled out the Auch road but the next signpost on that road indicated the distance to Auch as being 85kms. It was now after 2pm. It would be dark in 4 hours. Not nearly enough time for me to cover that distance. My mind was set. I'd try and stay in the hostel in Montauban tonight and figure out where to go from here. I cycled back into the town centre, found the local tourist office and got directions for the hostel. I booked in and got a bed in a four-bed dorm.

I spent the afternoon exploring Montauban. It's a nice town, alright for a couple of hours wandering. The town took the Protestant side during the wars of religion around the time of the Armada back in the sixteenth century. It was a stronghold for Henry of Navarre whose house I had visited back in Cahors. There's a couple of nice sights around town, one of the plazas, completely enclosed by a covered arcade and the Pont Vieux, a bridge over the Tarn river which flows through the town. In the evening I caught a gorgeous sunset over the river which was probably the highlight of the stopover. Back at the hostel I was able to look into accomodation at Auch, the cheapes of which was 64 euro per night - ouch!! That ruled Auch out of the reckoning. It was back to Toulouse which had a hostel. I decided to sleep on that thought and put off the decision until I'd wake up tomorrow morning and see how I'd feel.

When I returned to the room I found I was joined by two others. I'd been told I'd have the room to myself for tonight so I wasn't impressed when I discovered I'd be sharing with a couple. It appeared as if they'd taken over the room, their gear was spread out and they were having a meal. It was awkward. I don't mind sharing with others but I don't like being stuck with a couple. I always think they should be given a room to themselves. Sharing with a large group is preferable to this. The vibes weren't good. I said hello and when I got a reply in French I thought 'you can stuff yer Bon Soiree', and left the room to eat downstairs. I got into a huff for the rest of the evening. Its funny how tiredness can transform itself into such petty tantrums. Its also funny how childish you can be when you're forty!! Thankfully there was little or no subsequent contact the couple who turned out to be Frech Canadians. Still, My mind was made up by the time I went to sleep. I'm not hanging about here.

Wednesday October 28th: Cahors

2010-03-12T00:18:00.001-08:00

I stayed in Cahors an extra day. Its on the Camino de Santiago trail. There are plenty of posters advertising the fact down at reception. The hostel here is huge. It part of an old seminary complex or some sort of religious institution. Thats the vibe I got when I arrived here yesterday. The dorms all seem to be 4-bed rooms but I had a room to myself. The place seems to be used by stidents and workers. Everybody else here appear to be long term residents. Cahors is a lovely town. I honestly thought I'd do a lot of sight seeing today but I lay around for the early part of the day, dozing and reading. My energy levels aren't great this past week. I went out in the afternoon for a couple of hours.

The town is around 900 years old. Much of the old town remains intact alongside the modern quarter which is defined by a long avenue that serves as the main thoroughfare through the town. The town is hemmed in on three side by the river Lot which flows in a wide loop around the town. Cahors was a prominent town in the middle ages and was noted for its money lenders. The town was also famed for its 'black wine', a dark red wine. By the end of the Middle Ages however, the city had lost its economic importance but local wine production continued nonetheless. The vineyards were hit badly in the late nineteenth century by the 'Great French wine blight' and then in the 1950's they were almost all wiped out by heavy frost. Today there has been a resurgence of the wine industry here but growers use a different strain to the grapes that produced famed medieval wines.

The old medieval quarter is very popular with tourists and the reason I stayed the extra day here. It really does have the feel of an ancient town with narrow streets, fine palatial homes and old timber framed buildings. A 16th century house belonging to Henry of Navarre (King Henry IV) still stands. But the most striking sight in Cahors is the 14th century fortified Valentre bridge. Its as pitcuresque a bridge as you're likely to see. It spans the Lot river and provided one of the principal entrances to the town for centuries. Its a pedestrian bridge, retains its cobbled surface and is rightly closed to traffic.

There's a nice relaxed atmosphere in Cahors. Everything feels very laid back. There are plenty of cafes, bars and restaurants on the main avenue that do a brisk trade. One thing very noticeable in Cahors is how, in France, the day is marked by food. There is a particular time of day for a particular type of food, much more so than in Ireland. At breakfast coffee is served in a bowl into which bread is dipped. Ive seen this a lot in the hostels. At lunchtine most people gathered at the bars and restaurants for steak and chips or pasta with a glass of beer or wine. In late afternooneverybody seems to be back in the same cafes for expressos and a chat berfore running off to the boulangeries to buy their baguettes for their evening meal at home. By 7pm all the boulangeries and cafes were closed, indeed, just about all of the town shut down apart from a couple of bars. I haven't spotted an Irish batr in Cahors yet though there is one place decked out very like one. It has everything bar the Irish name and looks to be a popular haunt for the locals.

That was my look around Cahors I went to bed early, ready for the spin down to Toulouse in the morning.

Tuesday October 27th: Brive to Cahors

2010-03-12T00:00:00.000-08:00

Another beautiful day for the hop down to Cahors. Another 100km leg through hill country along the D920. I left Brive around 8.20 and had a stiff climb into the hills right out of the centre of town. 5-6kms into the hills I came to the very festively named village of Noallie. I couldn't help thinking of Christmas but very soon after this village the festive feel ended abruptly. A few kms beyond Noallie the D920 which I was following ran adjacent to the A20 motorway which runs south to Toulouse. A couple of kms further and my road ended as it was crossed by the embankment upon which the A20 ran. This abrupt ending of the road didn't feature on my road map. I had passed a junction a km or so back but there weren't any bridges connecting with the route I wanted to be on. According to the map another road, the D820 joined the motorway at the next junction up which I could follow down to Cahors but it would mean following the motorway for 3-4kms. I didn't know of any other way around my problem so I decided to take the motorway knowing there would be risks involved. I sped along the hardshoulder as fast as I could. Thankfully I wasn't on the motorway for very long and hopped off at the next junction to pick up the road I wanted to be on. No sooner had I joined the motorway than the expected howls of protest began from passing traffic, mainly the truckers. Five lorries past by blaring their horns at me and a driving instructor who must have kept his hand on the carhorn for a solid 30 seconds. Like a fish out of water I made it to the next junction and happily took my leave of the motorway.

Relieved to be on a regular road again I was just happy I hadn't seen any cops. My relief was premature. Ten minutes and a couple of kms later the boys arrived. I was on a roundabout preparing to exit and checked behind me for oncoming traffic when an unmarked car approached with two cops scrutinising me closely. They gestured for me to pull over then stuck on the siren and flashing lights and swerved in to the side of the road blocking off half the exit off the roundabout. It looked like these guys were milking the moment, as if I was going to outrun them!! I began to think 'Here we go'. My first thoughts were that somebody who'd passed me on the road had phoned the cops so I was annoyed. I'd already fixed the driving instructor in my mind as the most likely to have 'shopped' me and I was cursing that person to high heaven. 'Cagney and Lacey' stepped out of the car looking just a little too eager for my comfort.

One of the two began talking to me in French. I told him I didn't speak French so he reverted to halting English asking if I'd been on the motorway. I explained the problem I'd had in trying to cross the motorway. He gave me B/S lecture abou the danger of being on the motorway etc, as if I didn't already know that. I stopped litening to him then. He recaught my attention when he asked for my passport and enquired if I had any money. At that point I became very defensive.
He told me I was going to be fined for being illegally on the motorway. I was disgusted. By now I was a few kms away from the motorway. I'd been on it for 3-4kms yet 'Phyllis and Barbara' still felt the need to chase after me and fine me. At least I'd get a receipt for the amount I'd hand over - Happy Days. I sullenly handed over the passport and money to one of the cops while the other relayed my details to their homebase. To top it all they didn't have sufficient change to give back to me and one had to drive into the nearest town to get change for a couple of twenty euro notes while the other stayed with me. They were loving it. It was a great laugh for them. It was an expensive detour for me. I suppose I just hated being caught.

The annoyance of that fine made the next 25kms disappear. I was in such a temper before I knew it I was in Souillac, the next town down the road. I must have spent an hour or so cursing those cops and their evident enjoyment at having nabbed an english speaker. But my worst ire was reserved for the person I reckoned had snitched on me, my imagined worst enemy, that collaborating driving instructor!! I eased my wounded pride with a couple of attractive pastries at the first patisserie I spotted in the town.

After Souillac my temper cooled down but so did my energy levels. The road became a slog with some long climbs into high country. The consolation for the energy sapping effort was some spectacular countryside and some panoramic vews. In the afternoon the temperatures rose to 22c. I had forgotten how tired you can feel on a bike. Some tough memories of America came flooding back. Parched thirst, weary limbs and the taste of exhaustion lingering on your tongue. Today was a tough day to be in a huff. It was an effort to keep the pedals moving at a reasonable rate and the sight of another sign that showed another climb for the next 1500m wasn't pretty. I was forced to dig into the well of resolve in order to get me across some of the last hills before Cahors. I left Souillac with 63kms to go to Cahors. The next 40kms must have taken two hours. I was struggling hard. I stopped at one picturesque village and sat on a bench for 40 mins trying to summon up enough energy to keep going. I still had 33kms to go but, as luck would have it, when I got back on my bike the hills petered out. There was the odd climb but those last kms into Cahors were the easiest of the day. The final 2-3kms brought a steep downhill to the edge of town. I made my way into the town centre. There was some sort of festival, a carnival was in full flow with arcade rides and amusemements and souvenir stalls filling the town square. I followed a busy street hoping to find a sign for the local hostel but a woman walked me to the local tourist office where I got a set of directions and a town map. I got to the hostel around 5pm, relieved to be off the bike for the day. I was wrecked. After a shower and a change I found my way in the dark to a nearby patisserie and stocked up on bread and pastries and got directions for the only supermarket that was open. First impressions of this town? After a tough day on the road the people here seem to be lovely. Cahors is a really nice laid back kind of a town. After a short stroll around town I felt the place was worth a second look so I decided to stay for a second night.

Monday October 26th: Brive-La-Gaillard

2010-03-11T06:30:00.000-08:00

A quiet day today. I had another look around town. The weather was glorious. So good that I began to wonder if I'd made the right choice in stopping here. The town centre is pretty though, very pretty. At the heart of the town is a 12th century churcvh dedicated to St Martin and it was around the chapel that the town grew. Today Brive is very much a rugby town. There is a clothes outlet owned by the famous rugby player Serge Blanco who played for France in the 80s. He'll always be remembered for the sensational winning try in the world cup semi final against the aussies in '87. I presumed he must have played for Brive but I found out in my favourite local patisserie in town that he played for Brive. A bit of a faux pas on my part there! The flans here rate in the top 3 pastries I've tasted in France so far. I gorged myself on them today. So much so that I forgot to use my camera today so I only have a couple of shots of the place. I must have gone down to the patisserie three times during the day, and had two at a time. The accomodation worked out cheaper than the pastries!

Sunday October 25th: Chalus to Brive

2010-03-11T05:28:00.000-08:00

Great to see good weather this morning. The roads were still wet after yesterdays rain but there were flashes of blue in the sky. It looked promising for the road down to Brive. I was up early and had breakfast. I wasn't the only person staying last night judging by the number of places that were set in the dining room. What ever the lady of the house set before me I ate. I ate til I was stuffed and hit the road good and fresh after yesterdays rest. I felt good as soon as I hit the road. There was a climb directly out of the village but my legs felt good and I had energy that had been missing yesterday. Everything was positive today. By now I was used to the hills. For the past few days I kept wishing I was back in Belguim, in flat country. Those kind of thoughts can be negative when you have a lot of climbing to do. You begin to resent the next hill and that brings negative energy. It becomes harder to get through the day when you're in that mindset. When you're knocking out the miles day after day a positive attitude ie essential. Yesterday, for whatever reason it was missing and I suffered badly. Thankfully today its back, the resolve is good and I'm looking forward to the spin down to Brive.

Pushing through hill country the weather opened up into a bright beautiful morning. After yesterday's rainfall the colour of the surrounding countryside was deep and vibrant. There was a myriad of colour. Shades of green , brown, yellow, red and pink lit up the hills. There were a good number of cyclists out on the roads this morning, all out for their Sunday morning spin. As they streaked past on their fast road bikes all looked intently at my mountain bike and the gear I had loaded on the back. They could have said hello though.

The first target for the day was a town called St-Yriex la Perche. I couldn't pronounce that name so I reduced it to Y-Rex, much easier. It turned out to be a gorgeous old medieval town. I ended up stopping for an hour to wander around its streets. I queued up in one of the local patisseries to pick up a couple of pain au chocolate and pain aux raisons for a mid-morning snack. There was a good crowd out strolling the streets in the sunshine before they drifted off in groups for Sunday lunch. I wandered about in no hurry. I reckoned I was nearly halfway to Brive. I had covered 30kms from Chalus and reckoned it would be another 40kms. I climbed out of Y-Rex up to the top of a hill and found a signpost that indicated 70kms to Brive. Yikes! I wasn't expecting that. Still, I wasn't under pressure I had plenty of time to cover the distance before evening (more than I realised at the time).

The weather was fantastic. The weather was really warming up after mid-day and I found myself taking off layers in the sun. The only source of discomfort were my mountain boots which were still wet after yesterday's soaking. While the rest of me basked in warm sunshine my feet were wet.

I discovered I was on the 'Route de Richard Coeur de Lion' so named to commemorate the return journey of Richard the Lion heart from his crusade in the Holy Land. He went on crusade with the King of France to regain Jerusalem against the might of Saladin, the great champion of Islam. As King of England he had inherited much territory in France. Part of his inheritance was this region in the foothills of the Massif central. During his absence in the Holy Land some of the Lords of the region renounced Richard's authority and prepared for a defence of their lands against his return. When he did come back the most famous crusader knight of his generation attempted to regain control over the region and crush the rebel Lords. In a battle to regain the castle at Chalus, the town I left this morning, Richard was mortally wounded after being hit by an arrow. He died in the arms of his mother, Eleanor of Acquitane, on April 6th 1199.

The roads levelled out onto a high plateau for much of the afternoon. I passed through a succession of pretty villages, each with its own chateau. In Gandon a car with a loudspeaker mounted on the roof circled the town announcing a circus performance for the afternoon. I was getting tired by the time I reached Pompadour and was in need of a rest. It was the perfect place to stop, a small village beside a magnificent chateau on the top of a slope overlooking a large equestrian park. In a carpark beside the castle was a mobile chipper, not just any hot dog stand, a French one. I ordered poulet frites and while the lady behind the counter prepared my meal I noticed a clock that read 1.15pm. According to me it was after 2pm. The lady said the time was correct. I realized then that the time had changed. A guy standing beside me waiting for his order began to chuckle as he had seen my puzzlement. It turned out he was a Scots man who had retired to this area. He was from Glasgow and had moved to Pompadour two years ago and had no regrets. He loved the lifestyle. I collected my food and moved off wishing the Scotsman all the best and headed for a wall nearby to have my food facing the chateau. This was great, probably the high moment of my time in France. A day spent cycling through spectacular scenery following the footseps of one of the greatest knights of the medieval period and now sitting carefree in the warm sunshine with chicken and chips beside a magnificent chateau. And now I had an extra hour in which to complete the journey.

It was 40kms to Brive and the Hostel reception didn't open until 6pm. For the first time on this journey I found myself sauntering along the roads. The poulet frites hit the spot and I digested my meal as the landscape undulated for the next 20kms until I found myself on the edge of the plateau. I came into a small village perched overlooking a deep valley. There was a festival taking place. Parked cars lined the roadside and families made their way towards the local town hall. A brass band was playing and strains of the Maura O'Connell song 'those were the days' wafted over the sounds of crowds of people conversing. Kids in fancy dress were ushered by their parents towards where the music was playing.

The next few kms were great a long fast descent into a low-lying valley after which the road levelled off for the last kms into Brive. I zipped through Varetz, the last village before Brive and joined a dual carrigeway which led towards the city centre. I was at the hostel by 4.30pm after a brief look around the town. With 90 mins to kill before the hostel opened I decided to swap tyres on the bike. The rear tyre which has been carrying all the weight was beginning to show signs of wear while the front tyre was still relatively unworn. It was a good time to switch the tyres. 6pm Finally came around and I got a 3-bed room to myself. After dinner I went back into town for a wander and phoned home. Its a really nice town, so much so that I decided to stay on tomorrow, its only 13 euro a night in the hostel so its all good today.

Saturday October 24th: St. Junien to Chalus

2010-03-11T03:10:00.001-08:00

I slept well but was very tired this morning. I had the alarm set for 7am but didn't get up until 8am. It was a dark morning. I really began to wish I'd booked for a second night but it was too late to be thinking that way now. I had to hit the road. There was a heavy fog outside while I had breakfast but as I loaded the bike a heavy drizzle began to fall. It didn't feel good at all. I pulled on my waterproofs but I wasn't looking forward to the journey today. The next hostel south is at Brive over 100kms away so that was my intended destination today.

I hit the road with very little resolve. The journey started with a steep downhill out of St. Junien to the bridge over the local river and then a stiff climb out of of the river valley into hill country set the tone for the day. It was a very wet morning yet you couldn't say it was raining. Very fine droplets hung in the air as if suspended there. Rather than falling as rain they merely stuck to you as you passed by. It produced the same end result though. It was hot and sticky in the waterproofs. Every part of me was wet from moisture or sweat. The landscape was the same as yesterday, hilly. Everything was shrouded in that fine mist and the clouds seemed to hang from the tops of the trees. My legs had no energy in them today. My pace was slow, languid and monotonous.

After two and a half to three hours, a couple of villages and a good many hills later the rain had started to fall heavily. I got soaked, not because my gear was leaking but because I was sweating so heavily. By 12.30pm I had coveres only 30kms and had reached a small town called Chalus. I saw signs for a couple of hotels on the edge of town and my resolve to keep going just ebbed away. I really didn't care what a hotel room cost I just wanted to have a shower and lie down. When I saw a B&B in the centre of town I felt like I'd struck gold. It was 45 euro for the night but I was happy to pay it so I could lie down. The man of the house brought my bike around to the back of the house to store it in his garage and then conducted me through the house and checked me in. He had a vaguely familiar look about him that I couldn't quite place at first. Later it dawned on me he was a dead ringer for the actor Armand Assante. By 1pm I was asleep and didn't wake up until 5pm. I went to a nearby supermarket and stocked up on food. I was too tired to do much and spent the evening lying down reading before drifting off to sleep once more around 9.30pm. I needed the rest but I could have stayed in the hostel at St. Junien for one third of the cost. Still, I was staying with a filmstar and the bed in the B&B was far more comfortable. Can't dwell too much on the cost. Plus tomorrow when I start out for Brive once more I will be 30kms further down the road!!

Friday October 23rd: Poitiers to St Junien

2010-03-11T00:41:00.000-08:00

I didn't want to hang about in Poitiers. I wasn't sure of my route out of town but the lady at reception was kind enough to photocopy a map of Poitiers for me and highlighted the route I should take out of town. She phoned ahead to St. Junien to confirm the booking was made there. She was a very pleasant person, very good with those of us who had stayed the night in the hostel. After a period of meeting some awkward people I'd started grumbling about all things French fortunately, she proved I shouldn't give up hope about the country just yet.

There was a heavy fog this morning and very little breeze. It took longer than expected to get out of Poitiers. Its a hilly town and me climbing slowly through the narrow streets didn't help the traffic situation. I had to pull over a number of times to allow lines of traffic pass me and avoid a logjam in the centre of town. Eventually I got out onto the road to Gencay. Its 100kms from Poitiers to St Junien so I divided today's route into three stages. The first 25kms to Gencay, after that 44kms fo Confolens and finally 30kms to St Junien. The first stage down to Gencay involved a haphazard blundering route along mist laden roads. There was a cycle path running close to the road but once a village was reached the path veered in a wide, sometimes confused, loop around the locality before rejoining the road on the far side of the village. After I blundered around the first couple of villages I got fed up of these detours so I decided to use the cycle path in the countryside between villages and hop onto the road to cycle through the place. At least that way I'd get to see the towns I was passing through. In the fog with windows shuttered and nobody on the streets most of the villages felt deserted. Before I reached Gencay the cycle path had ended but by then I was most definitely in quiet rural countryside.

I reached Gencay after what seemd an age on the road. Its a small pretty town perched on the top of a hill overlooking a river. Approaching the town you cross what looks like an ancient stone bridge, on the right sits a large ruin of a castle guarding the river crossing, In front houses, stepped one above the other, cover the lower slopes of the hill. Over the bridge the road rises, wrapping itself around the hill to climb to the town centre perched on the crown. At least there was a bit of life here. The shops were open, people walked the streets and there was traffic on the roads.

The next 44kms to Confolens were tough, not helped by the fact there were kilometer markers marking the roadside. Despite myself I counted each and every one. I started feeling tired so I divided the stage into blocks of 15kms just to make it easier mentally. I forced myself to ignore the markers and, this eased to road to Confolens. It was hilly country. There were a godd deal of small climbs to be made and gradually, as the day progressed, it seemed as if the climbs became progressively longer. Maybe I was low on enrgy but I seemed to be climbing all the time. I hung on to the thought of reaching Confolens and I knew, psychologically, once I'd reach that town that I'd have the back broken on the day's journey. I stopped about 10kms in a gorgeous small village for a rest and some food. I ate my food on the steps of an ancient Romanesque church. The place, yet again, seemed almost deserted. What life there was here seemed huddled into the local bar. At least there were plenty of cars parked outside it. All the buildings in the village were built of a warm coloured sandstone andthe idyllic feel to the place was set by a pretty humpbacked stone bridge that crossed a pond next to the cafe. All the villages in this area have ancient looking churches and stone faced buildings. They help to give a sense of character and timelessness as you pass through them. The fact that you rarely see anybody on the streets adds a touch of mystery to them.

By the time I reached Confolens I was happy. I was tired but I knew I had the bulk of the journey behind me. The mind games had worked. It was easier to stay positive now that I knew there was only 30kms to go. However, the hardest part of the day still lay ahead. The hill became larger and the climbs became steeper. One hill got the better of me and I ended up walking to the top. Still, the road wasn't battering me in the way it did at times in the U.S. The hills remained a struggle though. Halfway up one clmb I pulled into a village and saw a grocery shop open so I went in for a banana and a fizzy drink just to give me a bit of a sugar rush. I was told in the shop that it was only 8kms to St. Junien and boy, was I relieved to hear that. Once I reached the top of this hill I knew it would be better. I ate the banana and drank the orange fizz got back on the bike and struggled to the top. I passed a small chateau oon the crest of the slope and outside it an old, fat man stood staring at me as I struggled by. He looked at me with an expression as though I 'd just come down from Mars. His expression was so intense once I got a little up the road I felt I had to stop and see if he was still watching me. I looked back at him and, sure enough, he was still staring at me so I smiled and winked at him. That broke the spell. He turned around slowly and wobbled down the street halting to look back at me once more before disappearing around a corner.

That climb turned out to be the last of the day until I reached St Junien. I joined the main road to Limoges for a few kms before turning off onto a side road for the last couple of kms into town. This road felt strangely familiar, so did the landscape. Poor land, rushes, ditches and the road surface looked typical of the road surfaces at home. neglected, uneven, the odd pothole. I could have been in north Leitrim or west Kerry. This was not the kind of road that I had become accustomed to in France. I wondered what St. Junien must look like.

One last climb got me into St. Junien, another town perched high on a hill overlooking a broad river valley. The hostel was on the edge of town so I didn't see the town centre. It was in an old, old house next to the site of an ancient abbey. As it turned out I was the only person stying tonight. Iwas very tired after the days exertions. Checking in I paid for one night but asked the lady who managed the place if it would be ok if he decided to stay on in the morning if I was still very tired. She said she had opened the place espcially for me and that if I was going to stay on she would prefer to know tonight. I asked her if she knew the weather forecast for tomorrow. With a shrug she said 'The same as today' but in a way that let me know she'd prefer if I moved on. Energy levels and weather conditions factored largely in my decision making. I was very tired tonight and suspected I would be tomorrow and I wasn't very confident about the weather. Rain had descended shortly after my arrival in St. Junien. I felt a little pressurised in to leaving tomorrow. Anyway the hostel had a haunted house fell to it. It wasn't just quiet. It was very, very quiet, almost eerily so. Once I had eaten I hit the sack. I was too tired to do anything else.