Then there were hills

Spain greeted me with mountains and busy roads, neither of which I encountered in France. They came as a bit of a shock in comparison to the previous few weeks. Peaceful, flat and well sign-posted roads now looked like they would be harder to find.During my pre-departure planning I’d overlooked Spain. Time spent researching whether a Mauritanian visa could be obtained at the border or not, and how suicidal it would be to cycle across the Central African Republic and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, could have been used in learning that the north Spanish coastline is really quite hilly. It’s not the first time I’ve foolishly assumed cycling the coastline of a country will be a flatter and easier option than heading inland.The first climb came directly after crossing the border at Hondarribia - a 10km winding ascent to 500m above sea level. I turned my Ipod on and let The Rolling Stones aid me to the top. An hour and a half later, characteristically soaked in sweat, I reached a viewpoint providing a sweeping panorama back to France and the series of mountains that lay ahead.A Spanish couple walked over to take a closer look at the bike. “I like this”, said the man touching the front rack that supports two panniers. It seemed an odd thing to pay a compliment to, but he then explained he was also a cyclotourist (I guess that’s what I am then) and that it would have been better for me to have headed inland towards Pamplona to join the Camino de Santiago.I knew of this famous pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela, but hadn’t considered following it. “You will find the road ahead very busy”. If he was referring to the network of roads that awaited me at the bottom of the descent that followed, I couldn’t have agreed with him more. He went on to explain that San Sebastian, where I was heading, was very expensive and that the only campsite was beyond the city – 6km up the next hill. It was now past 6pm. I thanked him for the advice and pedalled on, enjoying the long descent, but also now wondering where I was going to sleep. Nothing new here. My options were limited, but I made do quite comfortably on the basketball court of a school. This was a first.The edge of the court provided a fine view below to what I discovered the next morning to be a big industrial mess. This was Renteria, not San Sebastian. Thanks to a confusing network of poorly sign-posted roads I ended up on the Motorway. Dónde está el centro de la ciudad? was what I wanted to ask someone, but they were all speeding passed in their cars.When I eventually found the centre I stopped at the Tourist Information. None of the young attractive women working here were much good with recommending roads to cycle on in northern Spain. “You should take the train”, suggested one. I was about to explain that I don’t do trains, but asked instead where I could find a good cafe with Internet connection. This proved more successful, although I wasn’t expecting to find half the people in here smoking hashish disguised in cigarette filters. Memories of Pakistan flooded back. San Sebastian must be a pretty liberal city I thought.I checked e-mails, updated the website and escaped before the curiosity to sample anything other than the coffee got the better of me.I departed San Sebastian as I entered it – on a hill. This time it was another long one – 8km or so. My progress westwards was really being slowed with this kind of terrain. Even those with the slightest modicum of geographical knowledge could tell me I was cycling in the wrong direction to Cape Town. The progress slowed even more so when another cyclist passed me towards the top and invited me to stop over for the night in the nearby town of Zarutz. We had by this stage been talking for half an hour and I’d explained that my journey was a little more than a two week cycling holiday with a strict time plan.Miquel, this friendly man on his daily commute home, had cycled a lot of northern Spain and quickly re-installed my ebbing enthusiasm to stick to the coastline. “This way to Santiago de Compostela is much more interesting than the inland route”. I hadn’t even said I was going to Santiago de Compostela, but it is assumed that any foreigner heading westwards across northern Spain is going here. Realising I was in no particular rush, he suggested we make a short detour to visit his uncle. “He makes Cider. This will be interesting culture for you”. Indeed it was, even if his uncle’s farm lay at the top of a ridiculously steep hill.More profuse sweating ensued, which perhaps explained part of the shock on the faces of his uncle and his family. I think they were also surprised to hear that Miquel and I had only met an hour before. I understood very little of what they were saying to each other, but then I didn’t feel too inadequate in declaring I couldn’t speak a word of Basque, the dominant language spoken between Biarritz and Bilbao.Three glasses of cider went down quickly, before we continued to Zarutz.  Miquel’s Mum had prepared pasta for dinner. She wasn’t to know that I’d eaten this nearly every night since leaving my friends in France. I accepted second and third helpings with the usual neolithic manner I adopt when it comes to the evening feed.One of the first things I’d noticed about Spain was that the development of roads and buildings seems to be taking place at a pace I’m more familiar with seeing in parts of Asia. The coastal road west from Zarutz brought with it plenty of this recent development, but there was also lots of colourful charm to be found in the small towns that cling to the rocky shoreline.I continued towards Bilbao, discovering that I could avoid pedalling right into the centre by using an Iron hanging bridge to cross the bay. This enormous structure dates from the 19th Century – the first and biggest of its kind when it was constructed. I was admiring it when I heard a voice behind me. “Are you Peter?” I turned to see a middle-aged man. “Can you guess who I am?”Did I know anyone in Bilbao? I then remembered that a week before I’d contacted someone from a  hospitality club, which hosts travelling cyclists. There was one member in Bilbao whom I’d e-mailed to request a night’s accommodation. I said I’d be arriving on Friday, to which his reply had been that he was away that day. It was now Sunday, but quite unbelievably, in a city approaching 1 million inhabitants, my host just happened to be visiting family in this particular district of Bilbao.“You must be Inaki” I replied. I could hardly believe it. The same scenario had occurred last year when I cycled through Naples. There the only member of this hospitality club had spotted me cycling through the streets and invited me to stay. Inaki now did the same. My plan had been to continue out of Bilbao, but  with no idea when I might witness such hospitality again, let alone a decent wash, I tried not to sound too overly desperate in accepting the kind invite.Inaki lived outside Bilbao in a small barrio or neighbourhood of Ortuella. The landscape here is also much under development. Roads and railway lines carve through the hills and modern factories sit on green slopes like large ugly blocks of lego. I tried to be polite in saying it was an ugly mess.A cycle lane helped me navigate westwards from Ortuella the next day, winding its way below the busy motorway overhead. Yellow arrows and signs marked with conch shells denoted that I was following the Camino de Santiago. This northern route is far less popular, but there was the odd walker or two who passed a greeting as I pedalled by.Santiago de Compostela, to where they were heading, is in the far north west of Spain. I had no plans to continue this far west and actually wanted to head away from the coast, which however scenic and quiet in places, is generally too overdeveloped and built-up to be enjoyable to cycle.Someone who will have had his share of busy roads to cycle over the past 6 months is James Bowthorpe. He departed from London in April this year in an attempt to break the Round the World record set by Mark Beaumont. I knew his route back to England was crossing through Spain, but thought the chances of us passing one another were about as likely as meeting my host Inaki. Only a few minutes though after leaving a shop with some bread for lunch I spotted a fully-loaded bicycle speeding towards me. I waved to the lean ginger-bearded cyclist and called across the road. “ James Bowthorpe I presume”. That's at least what I should have said.He looked as shocked as perhaps I did when Inaki called out my name to me. I said I didn’t want to hold him up, days away as he was from breaking the record, but he seemed happy to chat. He had four days to reach Le Havre where he was booked on a ferry back to Portsmouth. I asked how he was feeling. “Tired”, came the simple reply. It’s not surprising for someone that’s cycled over 100 miles every day for the past six months with very few rest days. He’d only been in Madrid a few days ago. I was about to recommend that he take the Iron bridge and to use the cycle lanes through the pine trees north of Biarritz, but then realised that rather than looking for the scenic route, he simply wanted the most direct one. In most places this means using the busiest roads. This is pure misery in countries like Iran and India.I congratulated and wished him good luck before we bid each other farewell. A few kilometres later I stopped at a picnic bench for lunch and thought how very different our lives on the road were. As I write this he must be almost home, where he said his efforts will continue with raising money for Parkinson’s disease.Shortly after this encounter I decided it was time to head inland, opting to bypass Santander in the direction of the Picos de Europa. I’d heard many great things about this National Park and was really looking forward to cycling here. Someone had even dubbed it a mini-Himalaya. Unfortunately I had no way of telling as for the next two days the clouds descended and it rained. I got pretty wet and cold climbing up to Puerto de San Glorio at 1600m. These kind of days are the worst to cycle on.At one point I considered relaxing my frugal budget by checking in to a hostel, but an old stone Church held more novelty appeal and there was plenty of space to dry out the wet tent.By the time the clouds finally lifted I was almost out of the mountains, descending into a much quieter and less built-up landscape. Despite all the rain, the landscape around me was dry and arid as I headed towards the city of Leon. Behind me I could see the snow white caps of the Picos. I almost thought of turning back, but they’ll be plenty more mountain scenery as I head from here towards Portugal.