And so we left Camping Ain and set a vague course for south. The roads were initially very broken, which threatened to cause yet more metal fatigue for the wiring of the Nav, but this quickly passed and soon we were on a glorious ribbon of tarmac that was freshly laid and no doubt paid for with limitless EU money. We soon caught up with a bunch of French riders who were out for a bimble, so I managed to blast past them on the mighty CB250. Paul reckoned they were just chillin', I reckon they were just slow. After a couple of hours we stopped to soak it all in.
Spain.
It was so different almost straight away. Exotic, even.
Things managed to get even more righterer as we headed into the plains. Bloody loved Spain
at this point. We also found that La Paul has a lovely little pub (Bar La Paul) with
very friendly staff, sausage egg and chips were had plus a glass of lager. The owner of the pub demanded a photo with us afterwards, if all of Spain was going to be this welcoming then we were in for a very good time indeed.
Oh yeah, it was also my 30th birthday that day. This fact completely passed me by at the time, such was the excitement of good roads in exotic locations.
After riding for far too long into the evening we gave up finding a camp site (do we never learn?) and checked into a hotel, more out of desperation than anything. The hotel was Hotel Caserío de Vadillos in Puente De Vadillos and was something like €30 each to share a room for the night. Mr Pape had said don't bother camping in Spain as hotels were so cheap, he was kind of right. He was also kind of wrong though, as the food was actually pretty nasty starting with cold ham soup, main course was bacon or something slathered in grease and dessert some slightly boozy custard. Even the beer was bottled, nothing on tap. Thankfully there was a TV showing the weather, it showed constant rain over the Picos - we'd made the right choice! The breakfast in the morning was toast (yet more bread..) and individually packaged cakes, very Spanish yet also totally unwelcome. In the morning we made our excuses, said goodbye to the large dog who lived outside the front door and, with high spirits, we set off further into the unknown. Well, I did.. I watched in my mirrors for the next 100 metres or so but no sign of Paul. Did he drop it pulling out the driveway? Nah that's not like him. Did a car drive straight into him, perhaps? The hotel entrance was on a particularly nasty bend. I turned around and headed back with a degree of trepidation..
His fuel pump had stopped pumping.
A little back story: Paul had bought this VFR 9 months previous as a non runner, which turned out to be the fuel pump not working. He bodged it with a semi-repair and then, because it was working, forgot about it. I guess it's an easy trap to fall in to.
If we were in the UK I probably would've made sure the recovery people were on the way and then left him and gone home, but out here there was no chance. I had to sit around until he fixed it using parts of a ball point pen.
While I was sitting at the side of the road, I idly pulled on the engine bar of my trusty little CB250. A bike that was seemingly unbreakable, that could be offroaded with abandon, that never gives any trouble.. I shouldn't have looked.
"OH MY GOD. OH MY FUCKING GOD. THIS MOTOR'S ABOUT TO FALL OUT."
Paul sensed the genuine alarm and rushed over. It was bad. The top engine mounts were broken right through, both sides. Did this happen when it fell
over back at passport control? Had it been like this for ages and I
hadn't noticed? I have no idea.
Here is a video of the whole lot moving, taken when safely (!) back
home:
Clearly all the bolt holes for the engine and mounts were badly ovalled too. It was emphatically agreed that I should find a garage to get some help on the matter and so I left Paul to his little bodge job and gingerly carried on to the next village Canizares, hoping my bike wouldn't fall to bits underneath me.
I found myself in a village square and gently left the CB on its stand. The locals didn't speak a word of English but I was directed to a building in the centre where the local councillor worked or something like that. I made my way inside and climbed the stairs, only to be confronted with a closed door. After around 5 minutes a toilet was flushed and I met the man who could speak English and help! I explained I needed a garage for some repair work, so he took to the phone and made several enquiries. He couldn't
find one. I was told to go to Piegro, the next decent sized village, as there might be something there.
Ok, anything is better than this current situation..
The man at the Repsol petrol station in Piegro who again spoke no English told me to go to the church,
and then down slightly to a man who can "solder". This led me to a window making place. I circled round Piegro again, but the directions led me back here. It must be it..
The bloke refused to weld up the top mounts due to all the petrol
(which is fair) but he did make me a bolt for the bottom mount out of
all thread and a couple of bolts. He also shoved a 13mm spanner on me,
knowing I might need it to get home. I tried to give him €5 but he
wouldn't take anything, despite having spent half an hour trying to help
me and getting covered in oil and grime in the process. Thanks dude. He most likely expected me to set off straight for home like someone with sense, but that's not how we do things.
At least it got me home..
After a couple of texts in the baking sun it was decided that Paul would meet me here, but he never turned up. After some more texts it transpired he'd run out of fuel on the way over because he
had bypassed the fuel pump and then found that only the very top of the tank
could be gravity fed into the carbs. I met him at the now familiar Repsol, where some
kind Spanish person had given him a lift to get a jerry can and some
fuel.
A little further on from the Repsol we found a proper garage where Paul could fix his ultra reliable 90s Honda in a more convincing
manner as that kind of tank range would be a constant burden. It turned out to be a couple of melted/broken wires in the pump
due to his doing half a job originally.
It was not a small task, especially in the Spanish heat.
This was the first time Paul threatened to go home. I busied myself by riding around the village, marvelling at the way the low gearing of the CB250 allows it to climb very steep hills with little effort and at the lifestyle of the retired local men who sat around a public pool drinking lager. I also eventually scored some parma ham and bread off the local butcher for some sandwiches, which were delicious because it was a real struggle to get - the bread was the butcher's personal supply!
Eventually, with some supplies from the garage, it was back up to strength. The CB was doing
alright with it's new bolt too, I was happy with it. Sierra Nevada still
beckoned, so we set off into the evening.
We eventually ended up at a really quite marvellous hotel in Lezuza, €25 a night for a room and we could put our bikes in the garage round the back. Cheap beer in frosty glasses happened. Good food, including deep fried pancake things and hot chocolate for breakfast. Yes to Spain. Not too keen on the petrol station attendant trying to sell his knives though.
The next day, after laughing about how Paul had fallen asleep while on the phone to Beth that night (is he ever not on the phone?), we continued south - yet further into the desert. The complaints about it being too hot continued. You can take the
boy out of Yorkshire, but not the Yorkshire out of the boy. This was in
Ubeda.
Look at his fed up little face. He'd be happier if it was 8C and lightly
drizzling.
Bloody hell Spain, where have you been all my life.
Some sort of dam. Of course the watey's edge was sought. Of course Paul was also straight on his phone because we had stopped. Something wasn't quite right with him by this point but I ignored it, perhaps he was just tired. Perhaps he didn't like leading, as we were using his phone and not my Nav by this point. There was an awful lot of phone use though..
The other side. Everywhere and everything was so dusty and dry.
Here is a video of the run down to Gentle Penis (oh ok, Penos Genil), some great scenery and roads were passed through that day:
Soon we were tantalisingly close to the Sierra Nevada. Spirits were once again high after a great day of riding through desert and eating amazingly greasy roast chicken from a van in the street.
It was decided that we set up camp at Gentle Penis and then go do the Big One with no luggage. We soon discovered that camping in Spain is a challenge because tent pegs simply don't
work, the ground is not soil. Lateral thinking is required, this was to
become a recurring theme. The basic premise is to just tie your tent to whatever you can, if it stays up then you win.
After hastily buying some crisps and biscuits from the camp site shop (the sun was low in the sky, there was clearly no time for proper food) we set off for the summit. This would have been easier if there were any signs for it.
There's not a lot up there..
2500m up, on the Veteta road on Sierra Nevada, near Granada at the bottom of Spain.
And one with Paul, why not. He did spend an age trying to get this shot.
Here is a video of the climb up the Veteta, of course the CB fell on to reserve on the way up just to add some excitement to the proceedings:
After faffing about trying to find our way back to Gentle Penis (having still not filled up, eek) we eventually found the road back to the site. In the camp site car park Paul stopped,
complaining about the bike smelling of fuel. Except he hadn't stopped,
the bike had stopped itself - at least one of the floats was stuck wide open. Apparently his bike had been running like crap all the way up the mountain, he'd just been blaming the altitude - and quite rightly, at the top the CB wouldn't even tick over. What are the chances of it making it back
to the camp site like that? He had until noon the next day or we had to
stay another night, so after a night of pizza and beer and hungry, meowing cats the clock was ticking the next morning..
This was the second time Paul threatened to go home. I busied myself by faffing about having a long shower and trying the best pain au chocolat ever, with Nutella in the middle. The woman behind the counter knew they were good, by gum she was right.
Yes, that's a stick for levering the carbs off. I was just glad
this wasn't happening to me. The CB250 may have been a total utter death
trap but at least it never actually stopped moving and I didn't have to
do anything like this. Also one of the trumpets in the air box fell off with very little provocation, clearly Paul wasn't the first person to have been in there.
At exactly ~12:20 or something the float needles and seats had
been looked at, poked and put back together. The staff understood and we
got away with it. Nice work Sir, good job these 90s Hondas are so
reliable or we could've been in a spot of bother(!).
Video of the GR-3201, the road away from this camp site:
We rode back up the way we'd come, through some incredibly hot canyons that must have been 40 degrees, and made good progress. Paul seemed happy once again and spirits were still high, even though we could only go 2500m up the highest road in Europe. In a most uncharacteristic fit of sensibility we decided to set up camp at around 6:30 PM, having grown weary of the last minute panic we normally inflicted upon ourselves when we still hadn't stopped and it was getting dark. This is Camping Cabana, somewhere, a nice site actually. Just camp wherever you want.
The bar had taps but they were just for show, the only beer available was Amstel in little red 330ml cans. A ridiculously thick and stodgy spanish omelette was procured despite the language barrier and semi-enjoyed. Eventually it was just us and the remaining staff so a local liqueur was handed out, of course Paul was all over it but I didn't want any - Paul didn't enjoy this non-drinking at all. He also didn't seem to enjoy the way I made the barmaid giggle while he failed, which I of course enjoyed immensely.
One thing we'd noticed near Camping Cabana was that the rio's had almost run dry, mere trickles of streams. The toilets at the campsite therefore had no spare water, so you can't flush toilet paper - you have to put it in the bin. An interesting experience.
We carried on the next day, much the same as the last.. Spanish greasy spoon for lunch, absolutely delicious.
The roads for most of the way are like this, just great:
Unfortunately there is a lot of litter in Spain, as there is in
France. This is beside a layby. It almost makes the UK seem clean.
There is also a near constant smell of shit in Spain, I don't know
if it's because everything is too dry to rot or what. I'm not sure if
you'd ever get used to it.
Near Lake Caspe, Spaghetti Western country. You could swear blind you were in Arizona.
As it was getting dark we followed a recommendation from Paul's phone that there was a camp site near Lake Caspe. Thankfully this was one of the times it actually told the truth! Yet more creative tent pitching ensued, I bloody love me some engine bars.
A romantic meal for 2 was had, while we shared a bottle of red - bizarre. There were also lots of small cats about for some reason. Afterwards we retired to the bar where we stayed until it closed much too early, and went back to our tents that had been rained on. Paul's was set up like a hammock due to the impossibility of getting tent pegs into the ground so he possibly had a bad night, it wasn't mentioned.
The next day we carried on to Andorra - what a strange place that is. They still pretend
to have passport control and everything. Right from the beginning Paul overtook me and stayed ahead, which was out of character - something was up but of course nothing was said. We did the CG-2 high
road, it's about 2400m and goes out of Andorra - it was cold and cloudy.
The high roads were really starting to lose their appeal, they're just cold and difficult and often wet. A video of
the top of the CG-2 and some nice winding Pyrenees road on the way down:
Every time we stopped Paul was straight on his phone again. Something wasn't right.
We eventually stopped at some very French camp site in Estavar, a Spanish enclave in the French side of the Pyrenees. Of course as soon as the engines were off Paul was back on his phone, I gave him a couple of minutes but then he looked up and snapped at me - "Well have you booked us in yet?". I smirked in disbelief and went inside, some schoolboy English later and we were in. Paul shot off inside while I put my helmet on, when I got inside the site I had no idea where he'd gone so I pitched up a couple of spaces away from the toilets. I put the tent up and still had no idea where he was, so went for a walk around - he'd hidden himself round the corner. Even stranger, he hadn't come to see where I was.
The picture above is from the morning after, but the night before
we went out in search of food. All we could find was drink, which wasn't
too bad, but then as we were walking back to the camp site Paul stopped. Did you hear that? What? A clink of pool balls. A bar game! Sure enough there it was, and so we did find food.. And more drink. And more drink.
We spent the night talking English to some people, Sergei had spent some time in Margate and considered himself to be rather gangster while his friend was an obvious scumbag and his girlfriend, Laticia, was stunning and cute (Jacque, you are my favourreet!"). I spent the night mostly talking to Laticia (obviously) while she ignored Paul, which I imagine annoyed him just as much as last time. We stayed so late and drank so much that the bartender was slumped over asleep at the till and the dog was drinking out of the toilet:
I left at about 3AM
when I came out of the toilet and saw that Laticia was now sat at another table, bored and on her phone, but she had clearly been ordered to move - this should have been a sign that things might take a turn for the worse but I just thought that meant Sergei had become overly jealous and that I may as well go back to the tent if I can't talk to her any more. For some reason Paul stayed a little longer, though I remember thinking he was going to come back with me. Unfortunately at this
point the other guys stole Paul's phone off him, but he didn't really
notice at that moment because he was too far gone on all the drink - it probably didn't help that he'd been flashing it about all night.
I was woken up after eventually finding my tent by Paul outside, "Jack Jaack I've lost my phone and my wallet heelllp". I thought he had probably just fallen over in a ditch and we'd find it all in the morning but no, the phone at least was stolen. I think he found his wallet in the morning.
As you would expect with any teenage girl, the loss of his phone
destroyed his mind.
The next morning I got up, went round to Paul's tent to find silence. So I had a wash. Brushed my teeth. Faffed about. Filled my water bottle. Faffed some more. Checked again - looked no different. I started to take my tent down, and Paul walks in from the site entrance, croissants and pain au chocolats in hand. Ah good, everything's back to normal.
It was not good news. He'd got up early, been into town and reported his phone being stolen to the local police before heading to the library to remotely brick his phone through google. He still actually seemed okay at this point. I happily ate the pastries and started to pack up the tent again.
While packing, Paul rides round, all his kit on and all his stuff bungied on. This was strange.
Him: "I'm going home".
Me: "Really?"
Him: "Yeah, I'm doing a Rob."
Me: "Oh, okay, see ya"
Him "Yeah bye"
And off he went. Clearly he'd had some kind of break down and the loss of his precious phone had pushed him over the edge but I'm no person to try and get help from. At the time it was obvious that I could not stop him, so I just had to deal with the situation. I was
now on my own, with a death trap of a bike in the Pyrenees. The only
consolation was that it was at least an old, trusted, well known death
trap. Actually there were two consolations - I was also in the bloody Pyrenees! Ha.
There was no toilet paper supplied at the camp site so I set off (on my own, sob!) in search of some facilities. Such is the glamour of touring..
Normally the plan for September is a trip to the Eifel region of Germany, the bit next to Luxembourg, where a great week is almost always had by all. The plan for 2017 was different though, a camping trip to Austria was on the cards. Me and Paul were both to reach our 30th birthdays the week before that trip was due to happen, and the Monday of that previous week was a bank holiday. A plan was hatched to see the Pyrenees, a place we had both been semi-seriously joking about visiting for years, and then join the others in Austria. This is what happened..
One L reg CB250 and one H reg VFR750 on the Newhaven to Dieppe
night ferry. Adventure awaits. We set off from Newhaven at midnight, just as my newly fitted sat nav started to play up. Perfect timing.
CB250 starting mileage - 89130, just about run in. I have just had a new
Cheng Shin fitted to the rear and noticed the new cush rubbers I put a
lot of effort into fitting are utterly destroyed. I pretended I ain't seen
nuffin' and set off on it anyway because no other bikes were ready to go on a trip like this.
The CB was very unstable on the sidestand with all the luggage on,
possibly for reasons that would become apparent later on. Getting off
the ferry and into passport control I dropped my passport on the floor
because I'm incompetent, put the bike on the sidestand, went to pick up
the passport and turned around to see the bike toppling over. I nearly
held it up but not quite.. Thankfully the engine bars and panniers meant
there was zero damage, a first for me I think. Or was there zero
damage? Hmm.
Eventually we were vomited into France in the middle of the night, where it was freezing cold and surprisingly misty. The Nav was flickering on and off like a good 'un, which distracted me so much I went round a roundabout on the wrong side and then almost crashed. Eventually we ended up in a small town, looking for some breakfast. Ahh France, land of pastry..
And small, strong coffee.
Paul made me cane the poor old girl down the motorway to our
stop at Limoges as he was fed up of the weight of his bike and something
about minor roads meaning we could still see Dieppe after many (and it was many) hours of
riding. The old girl took exception to this, leaking oil everywhere and
requiring a little TLC to add some working clearance to the rear
sprocket bolts, which due to mega rubbish cush rubbers from Wemoto were
now grazing the inside of the swingarm as the whole lot was wobbling about. Thankfully our planned stop off near Limoges was a house owned by a bloke that Paul works with, where his wife (Shelly) and a friend stay. This Mark bloke is well into his 80s Hondas which makes him a decent fellow but this also meant he had a kitted out workshop begging to be used. This was fortunate. Drink was drunk, and plans made for departure the following day.
As you can see, I have a
delicate touch:
Sitrep: It's a death trap already. The lack of cush rubbers means all the strain is put on
the hub of the wheel, I just have to hope it doesn't break off/up! Also
the clutch is slipping quite a lot when cold. Oh and the exhaust bandage
didn't enjoy the motorway at all, and is now blowing a lot again so she
sounds more like a tractor than a bike. Also France was already hot and horribly humid, there was not a lot to recommend it.
Being slightly hungover from the previous night, the day drew on until Shelly finally appeared some time past noon (a little bit drunk, too) and our promised curry lunch finally arrived. It was very nice but by the time we were done it was being pointed out that it was surely too late to go now and there were still little bottles of Kingsbrau to be drunk. Oh okay then. Plus the company was good, old man Rob with a ridiculous Barnsley accent consistently took the piss out of Paul while Mike had ridden his CD250U across a lot of Europe. Everyone got more drunk. We quickly learnt that drinking is all there is to do in the Limousin. Rob, who doesn't do afters and is a self confessed alcoholic, was drinking by 10AM. The night degenerated until Shelly announced I reminded her of Mark and that I must be homosexual, which was less fun than Rob's jibes at Paul. Eventually even all the wine was drunk from the box and we were down to some horrible liqeur which hardly ever saw the light of day. Never mind.
The next morning we finally left. A month before the trip I had met a Mr David Pape at work who seems to be a guy well into his adventure biking and he seemed to be friends with a certain Mr Sam Manicom, a name I have seen mentioned several times since including by Ren at BAT and at the end of Elspeth Beard's book about her tour around the world. Mr Pape recommended Rocamadour as a nice place to see on the way down through France.. We found it very touristy, too hot and humid, choked with traffic and basically sodded it off very quickly.
We pushed on south, the aim was the Pyrenees. We ended up not being able to find an
open campsite while we headed straight into a storm that was over the
Pyrenean mountains with the most ludicrous forking lightning and blackest clouds.
And then rain. Eventually we camped on some grass by the side of the
road at a tiny place called Pinas because we're a couple of incompetent twats.
Not exactly peaceful..
After rewiring the Nav at the aftermarket power connector (this would become a daily ritual) and losing a screw in the grass (so annoying) we quickly packed up and left before we got shooed away. We made good use of the facilities at a local boulangerie and Paul bought himself a little cake after realising it was his birthday! We pressed on south, through the foothills of the Pyrenees and then finally into the proper mountains themselves.
We headed for the D26 in the Pyrenees proper, a road I had seen years ago on Streetview and was fairly adamant about riding. The reality did not match the expectation, it may have been high but it was very much like the Hardknott Pass - very steep, very twisty, very slow and covered in sheep. Eventually we made it to the top..
Which was just a bit cold and wet. Humph.
Back down we came, into the Spanish side. Back into the warm, and
along one of the best roads of the trip. Many twist, such zoom. We followed a route recommended by ADAC that I had loaded into the Nav, but it was all much the same - sweep and zoom. It was better than the French side though, somehow - not as tight, more sweeping.
We headed for Camping Ain near Jaca on the personal recommendation of Rob M, and he was right. It was good. The facilities were good. The lager in large frosted glasses was good. The food was good, though I was getting quite fed up with bread by this stage. What was not so good was that Paul got a message from his missus stating she had managed to be pushed sideways along the motorway by a lorry and that now she would be using his precious Peugeot 205 GTI. Neither of these things helped with his fragile mental state.
Mountains. Never gets old.
At this point I got a text from the Big Man explaining that Austria, the original
plan, was off and everyone was staying in France the next week. This
meant that, at that point in time, we felt like we had all the time in the world.
Picos? Bit safe. Sierra Nevada, the highest paved road in Europe? All
the way down near the bottom of Spain? What say you, Paul?
"I'd do it".
I tightened my chain, which didn't really work (I'd learn why a bit later), added some oil, stripped back and rewired the Nav again and off we popped.. See you in part 2!
