Spain II: The Winds of Shame

It would be like old times, the three of us, back on the road. We thought we’d be on the new Honda but at the last minute Portuguese customs came through with Pferdi’s permit. They’d taken their sweet time but then again, he was a Russian-born, US-naturalized vehicle who’d entered Europe almost 3,000k further north during a pandemic. But now he could drive as far and as long as his 19” wheels would take him. It wasn’t an intelligent decision of course. Gas prices were continuing to rise and we had an ambitious agenda. But it just didn’t feel right not to bring him. It would be like going to Disneyland and leaving your kid behind. In the garage.

It was early summer but already very hot. The first night’s stop in Spain had a bronze sculpture of a leg of ham hanging outside of town. It was the closest thing to food we’d see for hours and the first of many missed meals. We never did get the hang of navigating the eating habits of southern Europe. The whole town was shuttered and had that hot, dead air of “High Noon”. One bar was open with a few businessmen drinking in the shade. Across the street three storks watched from their enormous nests on top of two church towers. By the time we’d downed several beers and even more bowls of olives, the businessmen’s wives had arrived and we weren’t hungry anymore. The first restaurants were just opening as we walked home to bed.

Our route was north, up Spain’s western edge. It was nice to see the black Osborne bulls again, even nicer to have the government’s cash refund on gas, but it soon became a dreary journey. Yellowed fields gave way to green scrubland, grey skies and a wind that made a mockery of the heat warnings. It was a steady climb and we picked small towns for overnight stops. The hotels were friendly and quiet as the season hadn’t officially begun. Some villages were deserted, like Pedrosillo el Ralo. The current inhabitants were probably busy working in nearby Salamanca so we entertained ourselves with those of the past. This was easy, the streets were named after all sorts of individuals, professionals who implied some respectability. There was a coloured tile for Manuel Pecellin Lancharro, Catedratico e Investigador (Professor and Researcher), and another for the Royal Transporter whose name I’ve forgotten. It was an austere but prosperous little place that ended in a straight line at the edge of the prairie. The small church overlooked a grassy plain dotted with red poppies. It was closed so we sat on a stone bench under scudding clouds and quietly contemplated nothing much at all.

It wasn’t long before the happiness of the long-distance traveller was shattered. Trying to cover some miles, we hopped on the Ruta de la Plata, the old Roman road joining southern and northern Spain. There was a 25 mph headwind and during a long stretch we ran out of gas. In 143k we’d consumed 20 litres. Even on a Ural, seven kilometres to the litre was outrageous and it took several minutes to realize why we were stopped. This had happened twice before with wind the culprit each time. I should mention here that Pferdi does not have a gas gauge. Well, he does, but it broke a few days after we bought him. When the same thing happened with the replacement, the dealer said not to bother with another as they’re reliably unreliable. Even if the gauge does seem to work, the general consensus is only a fool would believe it. So for the past six years Fran has been resetting the odometer at every fuelling and when we reach 180k, we fill-up. That said, in severe headwinds, it’s possible to find ourselves pushing Pferdi uphill in the Texas desert, like we did in January 2018. Equally possible is finding the tank empty and being yelled at by a raving Guardia Civil somewhere in eastern Spain in May 2021. That little episode had, unknown to us, a decimated piston added to the mix. So here we were again, on the side of the road hoping for a rescue. Oh the shame.

After 45 minutes the Guardia Civil drove by, as Fran, blast him, had predicted. And these two were truly guardias most civil. They didn’t speak any English but I managed to explain. Then I climbed into the back of their jeep with one of the extra gas cans. I’d tweaked my back the day before so it was not an elegant ingress. Scrambling onto the rear seat, face burning, I cursed the indignity of it all (and several other people too). Some miles on, a gas attendant filled me up while the cops told him about Pferdi. When he asked “Is it a Ural?” they looked blank but I said “Si!” (I was getting good at the ole Spanish by this time.) Then that lovely little man proceeded to recite the Ural’s history and my embarrassment at the whole episode was replaced by a warm glow. Back at the bike we’d just got the engine started when the older cop suddenly proclaimed “WE! Are the Guardia CIVIL!” It was quite dramatic. Even the wind paused. He then said I was to write a letter to Madrid and tell them what great jobs their boys in Castilla y León were doing. And off they went, capes flapping.

Learning our lesson we filled both spare cans at the next station where word of our rescue had already spread. Outside of Burgos we found a large hotel on the Camino. Dragging our bags on multiple trips to the second floor involved skirting a wooden altar at the bottom of the staircase. It was crowded with statues of the Virgin and saints resting on white lace. Hugely relieved that we’d got away so lightly that morning, we ordered drinks in the cavernous dining room. We sat alone beneath a painting of yet another Virgin, this one rising into a puff of pink clouds. Behind us on a sideboard, baskets of cutlery and trays of condiments lay at the feet of the Sacred Heart while cherubs and angels either kept guard or counted pats of butter. The silence was broken by the wind whistling through the black and white tiled lobby and the rattling of the glass front door. I don’t know who does the weather forecast in Spain but whoever he is, he should be fired.

In León the map was a mess of squiggles. It would take hours to negotiate the switchbacks but we headed into the mountains anyway. It was a bit of the back of beyond. At a small gas station they made me fill out a form with every personal detail just to get the government discount. But the road was breathtaking, looping through canyons and tunnels, emerald pastures and jagged mountains. I felt excited inside, like I hadn’t felt in ages. Fran and I turned to each other, thinking the same thing: Peru. In the Montaña de Riaño y Mampodre national park we stopped at what must be the most beautiful fuel stop in the world. Beyond the pumps was a shining blue lake mirroring small islands and limestone peaks. I bought a Mars bar just as an excuse to linger. Still reluctant to leave, we ate our sandwiches even though it wasn’t anywhere near lunchtime yet.

The forests of Asturias were abundantly lush and deep green. Someone had been decorating along the trails: creepy woodland sculptures, including a life-size female with an arrow through her head. The hotel was really a large house with a restaurant on the ground floor. From our window we could see both the sign into the village and the one out of it. That’s because the village was us and two other houses. Everything happened in the garden where we ate tapas each evening. There was a sign “Llamas for Sale” and I asked where they kept them but Llama here is Asturian dialect for shellfish. So probably in the fridge. At the weekend, families came for lunch and didn’t leave till dusk. They were dressed to the nines, high heels sinking into dewy grass and children in their Sunday best playing under the watchful gaze of babies. A tough-looking man with a shaved head arrived one day on his motorbike. He asked us to join him for coffee. I’ve seen you in town he said, I like your bike. This was Carlos, the school bus driver. Another day we received a confusing text showing a picture of Pferdi parked outside. It came from the other side of Spain, from the Valencia bike shop that repaired our piston last year. A friend of the owner’s happened to be passing by and remembered hearing about us. He snapped a photo and sent it on to Sergio. ‘Further proof that in a sidecar you can run, but you never can hide.

On the northern coast we got upgraded to a vast, but unfortunately very pink, room. The toilet, the sink, the sateen shower curtains, all a blushing rose. The salmon-coloured bidet jarred a little but heck, they’d tried. Not one, not two but three sets of French doors opened to the balcony. Looking down, the town of Lastres clung to the hillside like a reject from the Amalfi coast. But instead of sleek convertibles with James Bonds at the wheel, all we saw were two women wheeling a child and an old man in a cap. If the right side of town was Italy, then the left was Ireland. A grey stone pier was busy with fishing boats and the smell of salt, fish, urine and engine oil got blasted out to sea from the second tier. The beaches had an untamed air and the forest came down to the sand, like a jungle. One section had dinosaur footprints in the flat rocks below the cliffs. It was a strange place and wasn’t helped by everything being closed after returning from a day’s exploring. When we were finally sick of muesli and sandwiches, and the pink telephone, we left.

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At the ferry port in Bilbao we were first in the motorcycle line. Across the immense parking lot was a small trailer-like café. It served plate-of-the-day lunches and smelled of coffee and vinegar. Outside was brutally hot; the truck drivers had commandeered all the tables in the shade. At regular intervals, the port’s Guardia Civil arrived, as well as another group in different uniforms. Most of them ordered cold bottles of beer (nice job if you can get it). It seemed to be a slow day for everyone and as the line behind us grew, a sense of camaraderie and festivity filled the air. We draped the bike jackets over the spare wheel to air, got out our sun umbrella and books and settled-in. That’s the great thing about sidecars; you’re always home. Around 10 PM we entered the belly of the beast and by midnight were gliding out to sea towards Ireland. On board time stood still. The cabin had a womb-like atmosphere, a watery limbo between two worlds. I’m glad I savoured it because it would be a long, long time before we were this far from the madding crowd again.