The irony isn't lost on me.
Been on deck and so so pleased the temperature is much kinder.... and we still have 6 hours of southbound sailing to go.
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Meant to be 50ft waves, sea serpents and iceberg though.... bloody millpond. |
Santander was warm and sunny, felt like I had over insulated on the car deck, sweating under umpteen layers whilst waiting to ride off. I waved adios to Amy as she awaited her tannoyed instructions and I hit that sunny road. It was good to ride in Spain again, the unfamiliar signs, sights and smells and the warm sun on my back...felt really good.
The plan was for us both to drive to a small hamlet just outside Pamplona for the night, 3 hrs max. Thought I’d be needing to shed a layer or two en route, but within a couple of hours, felt the snap of cold yapping at my neck, toes and ankles. The snow dusted peaks of the Pyrenees appeared alongside as my heated gloves were called into action.
The roads are smooth, winding and with so little traffic, just accompanied by the beautiful rumbling hum of the Triumph's 1600cc twin at 3500 rpm, sounded like the pulsating drone of a V1 Doodlebug (without the engine cut I hoped). 2 hrs in and the sun starts to drop while the early icy moon hangs above the mountains. bit like a zombie film, as I raced to safety before sunset, when the flesh eaters come out to play (or it just gets really cold and icy).
The big roads shrank and became narrow winding racetracks (splashed with wet patches to keep me alert and my brakes warm) as the sun sank down below the now blackened hills. Just enough light and dry road left to heave the old beast around those tight bendy hills to give me some pure, simple reward for those boring, exhausting motorway miles before.
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| Handlebar muffs look silly, but proper essential! |
Amy greeted me at our rustic recluse.
We are the only staying guests at this lovely rural hotel stuck high (enough) in the Pyrenees Basque Country, but we are treated like old friends by the staff and local beer swillers.
Amy carries a bottle of Pinot in her bag for such occasions, filling up her emptied glass from the bar, so she ever only buys one drink...but can carry on drinking for hours.
She started to question her tried and tested tactic when she realised the cost of a glass of nice local white here was £1:20p, a bit less than her Sainsbury’s Pinot Grigio in her bag.
Food simple but good, we hadn’t eaten since breakfast so ready for scoff. The noodly soup they served was from a giant bowl left on our table, to help ourselves many times over.
Iberico Secreto (Iberian secret) was yum yum. Some slightly fatty but mega tasty cut of port flashed grilled like only country folk can do...could have been horrible, but was a true treat!
Amy’s Spanish is much better than my tourist rep, but neither of us could understand anything on menu. Receptionist didn’t understand simple request (in Spanish) for a room with bath and all the friendly locals saying hi or bye or goodnight, just spoke in tongues, like we were in the wrong bloody film! Just never appreciated how Basque differs from Spanish...not just a tweaking dialect, but a wholly different lingo....as Amy pointed out very succinctly.....’it’s like Welsh!’
Here you go...
English: Will you please let go of my chorizo
Spanish: Por favor, suelta mi chorizo
Basque: Txorizoa joango zara
I can see why E.T.A wanted independence so much, they're a completely different race.
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