While waiting for parts in France I spent a long time researching altitudes and mountian passes, anything the Pyrennese might throw at us, if we were lucky enough to get that far. Post-engine rebuild Pferdi was confined to a maximum speed of 65 km/h but with our recent history it felt kind of stupid to have a destination at all. The passes between France and Spain were of high elevations and I worried about the climb. I imagined Pferdi groaning up the mountainside in his low, but not low enough, first gear. When he couldn’t take it anymore I saw him exoloding in an almighty release of springs, levers, nuts and bolts, all raining down in violent arcs until they came to rest in far-flung corners of the forest floor. Then I’d sigh and accept that no matter how well it went, a carefree drive in the country it wasn’t destined to be.
Spain was our Holy Grail. If we could reach it we’d be back on semi-familiar ground. Come to think of it, being stranded on the side of a Spanish road is familiar ground for us. This usually had a happy ending, as long as the Guardia Civil were in the area. The first signs for Pamplona appeared when the French Alpine pastures were just gently rising and the far ranges no more than a shimmer of foggy blue. But the trees closed in as we climbed and the switchbacks were enough to drive you round the bend. I began to wish Pferdi’d come equipped with sick bags. We were both listening to every creak and rattle but he held his own even if we couldn’t. We’d no idea how high we were until we passed a 1,075 m sign, and a lonely church in search of a congregation.
This was Basque country and the place names were of another world. They brought me right back to Mexico’s Yucatán peninsula. I thought Pekotxeta, Xmabén, Uhart-Mixe and Maxcanú were all very similar, even if they did come from opposite sides of the planet, and unless you’re Basque or Yucatec Mayan, you might tend to agree. This occupied me for a while until we reached Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port which is a starting point for the French Camino. We’d had to cancel our room there many moons ago but now it looked like we hadn’t missed much. The streets were full of sightseers, motorcycle groups and souvenir shops. I’m not even sure how they all got there because there was hardly anyone on the road, in or out. The last French town was Arnéguy but we didn’t know it at the time and crossed into Spain completely unawares. The border here follows the mountains in an erratic path and it’s easy to see why it took over 200 years to finalize it. We flirted with Spain a while, where it pushes itself up into France, and later said a long goodbye to Gaul as it sneaked uninvited into Spain. I guess you have to live there for any of it to make sense.
If we hadn’t stopped to fuel we’d never have known we’d reached our grail but the attendant kept muttering “Vale, vale” and gave us cash back from the government gas subsidy. To celebrate we ate our sandwiches and watched some gendarmes erect a roadblock below, closing the way we’d just come. Nobody showed-up and by the time we left it was gone. Then it was back to climbing but with every up comes a down and those were pure bliss. We even reached 70 km/h with half the brake on and eventually descended into a landscape reminiscent of Texas.
I’d always imagined Pamplona as a small village bursting once a year with frenzied locals and maddened bulls but it’s big, the capital of Navarre. The busy outskirts didn’t suit my notion of old Spain at all. Not that it mattered because unbeknownst to me, Fran had decided to push on. It was after 4 PM and I silently questioned his sanity. By the time we passed the 18th Century aqueduct at Noáin there was a furious wind and I was looking back in the direction of Bull City with longing. We may have come down the airy mountain but we were still at 450 m and heading into a very empty stretch of flood plain. If we had a third breakdown I couldn’t see any rescue out here; there was nothing but burnt grass, some very nasty clouds and the ever-present wind. I’d read once that murderers get lighter sentences in France if they do the deed during the mistral. That sounded fair enough. In spite of a few signposts there were no signs of habitation. On the other hand there were plenty of deer crossings and tall electricity poles topped with storks and the huge stick condos they call nests.
When the emptiness goes on for a long time you almost despair of reaching anything as mundane as evening commuters forcing a stop at the traffic lights. My breathing only returned to normal when we got to Alfaro. The town loomed out of nothing, its beige buildings the same color as the prairie. The hotel was the biggest thing around and our room overlooked a warehouse with busy workers feeding grapes into metal vats with what looked like garden rakes. It was interesting to watch but not that much; the final product was waiting for me in the bar downstairs. Sometimes hard days are the best because you just know you deserve every luxury at the end of them. The restaurant wasn’t open yet but who cared, compared to France the drinks were scandalously cheap and the olives plentiful. By the time we got comfortable a storm had blown in. Poor Pferdi was sitting drenched and bedraggled in the parking lot but we kept a close eye from under a dripping canopy and toasted what had been a miraculous 330k day.
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We were driving in the full four seasons: rain, wind, sunshine and fog, but also a marvellous blustery cloudscape that raced across fitful blue skies. This made for an uneasy journey. In Segovia the towns looked abandoned, buildings were shuttered and their black lace balconies overlooked endless grassland. It was the kind of country that’s nine tenths sky and one tenth earth. The yellow plains provided no protection but a dog chasing his strays in a large, perfect circle of sheep gave some hope for proof of life. Spain’s interior plateau is high and in hindsight I shouldn’t have wasted my time worrying about the Pyrenees because at the end of the day we reached higher elevations in the places that had no mountains (an odd feeling when you’re surrounded by countryside as flat as Holland). At one point we passed a 1,365 m sign which was a surprise because Pferdi was performing well. But that didn’t mean he was happy and you could tell he didn’t like the low oxygen levels. He registered his protest by slowing down to 40 km/h.
The landscape was always changing. In Castilla y León there was a town and castle built into the side of red rock cliffs. Other times I was reminded of Peru, complete with difficult climbs. It took two and a half hours to drive 100k. Not only were the mountains terraced but there were signs for Trujillo and Jaén, places we’d already visited across the water. Even the buildings were constructed in the same red brick style, but with a more prosperous look. In Cabezuela the streets hung over a rushing brown river and I could feel the clinging damp long before I saw the mould patches staining the once-white walls. I think we got it on a bad day but I liked it, it felt familiar.
Ending another day in torrential rain we stopped in a God-forsaken spot in Ávila called Hoyorredondo. The roads were flanked by grey stone walls and the village was so small you’d be in and out of it before you even figured out how to spell it. There was no sign of accommodations and in the sidecar I couldn’t get enough cover from the rain so the phone stopped working. Two men in a doorway were watching us. They didn’t look very approachable but they knew the name of a guesthouse and directed us 3k further down the mud. It was a converted farmhouse with a warm atmosphere and a cold proprietor. Dripping in the doorway to avoid making puddles on the floor I had such difficulty making myself understood that if it hadn’t been deluging outside I’d have left there and then. I realize my language skills lack fluency but I have spent over two and a half years asking for a room and parking space in Spanish so I do know the basics. Sometimes I can even request a meal all on my own. In the end I think even he got tired of it because out of the blue clarity reigned. “You want a room? Oh, well then, in that case…..” He redeemed himself later, sort of, by serving an excellent dinner with lots of wine and local beer. The restaurant was truly beautiful, with walls of local stone and a roof of wooden beams. Together with the rain outside and the blazing fire within, there was no other place you’d rather be. Even when our two villagers showed up, in caps and clothes as grey as the landscape, their staring from the table opposite didn’t bother us. By that time we were halfway down a bottle of wine and no longer as interested in the local colour as they seemed in us.
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We were avoiding the cities and Pferdi had progressed to 70 km/h but we were still listening to every grunt, grind and groan. He’s a noisy little bugger at the best of times but our confidence was gone and we never truly relaxed. That said it was impossible not to enjoy the views outside the office window for it was never the same thing twice. We’d already crossed the Douro River and now near the Alcántara dam a Roman bridge stretched six perfect arches across the Tagus. The terrain was dry and barren and the water level so low that a thick white watermark lined the islands and inlets. For a long time we followed a meandering string of blue pools. I’d almost dozed off when Excalibur-like, a stone tower rose out of the flat water. I thought it must be a dream, and in a way it was because in what reality does a submerged Knights Templar fortress* suddenly appear? In a drought reality, that’s what.
In Olivenza the milky tiles of the hotel’s portico were stained pink by the setting sun. Squealing children darted between the white columns while their parents drank and chatted in groups. At the table opposite a couple seemed to be conducting job interviews. Three males came and went and we concluded that the last, shortest conversation was the winning candidate. Youth wins out every time (it’s cheap). On our final morning in Villanueva de Fresno we filled up the tank and extra gas cans with as much cheap Spanish gas as possible. Portugal loomed out of the mist and Spain was left behind with a whimper. Nothing changed much except the frequency of potholes and the number of trees (more of each). Majestic gates guarded entrances to unseen properties but with no fences, would-be bandits and wild grasses were left to their own marauding devices.
It had been a long journey to Norway and back, not least because we never got there. We’d stopped 300k short of Oslo but still managed to put nine countries, two ferry crossings and 15,000k under Pferdi’s belt. With his new engine he was in better nick now than when we’d set-off. I’m not sure the same could be said for us. It hadn’t been an easy ride but we’d got exactly what we wanted: never the same day twice. And after the lockdown months, isn’t that a truly wonderful thing to say? We had no regrets. If there’s anything we’ve learned these past Covid years it’s this: plan if you want but don’t predict, and don’t pretend you’ve got your path laid out. You don’t. Or maybe you do. But really, you just never know.
*The Torre de Floripes in Extremadura.