What Real Cyclists do while the rest of the world sits on its Fat Arse.

Where men are men and bikes are white.

The key to this is stealth. You don't want to alert all that wonderful wildlife and glorious landscape; all those shy and timid cooks in their delicate habitats; those auld fellas slaving over a hot still, tinkering and adjusting here and there. Oh no; none of this planning and booking malarkey - no; its up and at 'em, hit 'em on the run before they have time to get all startled and flee. And so it was with us, a flurry of fone calls on the afternoon of the 28th, and I found myself climbing onto the 8.32 at Burgos Rosa de Lima train station the following morning. This enormous and largely empty folly was the scene of yet another attempt by RENFE to scupper our hit and run guerrilla tactics. They'd changed the timetable again, only by five minutes, but in early morning Vitoria it was enough to make Jaime and Amaia have to sprint up the platform and scramble on, very demanding at seven a.m.

            As guerrilla cyclists we are veterans at combatting this kind of foolishness, so we contented ourselves with a suitably feeble early morning display of “outraged of Tunbridge Wells” and pretended to go back to sleep. And thus it was that we were able to surprise a beautiful fox and watch his flight over the snow; three beautiful Roe Deer who crossed the road in front of my nose; a Wild Boar charging disgruntled through the gorse; cormorants perched, wings spread out to dry, for all the world like old men reading the morning paper; a heron here, an egret there, a woodpecker’s dipping flight. We caught several cooks in their prime and savoured their succulent stews; we sipped in silent appreciation distilled spirits, both pure and those laced with honey. We climbed magnificent snowy mountain passes, through the silent stillness of ancient beech forests, bursting out onto views of unimaginable beauty – unimaginable, that is, to those polishing their arses on the sofa.



Valle de Cabuerniga

Spanish people will tell you that their national obsession is food. Its not; its talking. Even on trains at ungodly hours of the morning. Thus it was that we woke the pretty girl opposite. We changed trains, did the shopping necesary to go into the wilds of Cantabria, and set off up the cycle track to climb the puerto Palombera. Spain is a high central plateau ringed by mountain ramparts, so climbing from the landward side is nothing like climbing the great puertos from the sea. It was as perfect a winter’s day as you can get; crystal clear shining air with the sun beaming away above. Up we went gazing across the snowy slopes to the ski station and the  Pico Tres Mares, Three Seas Peak beyond. A flash of colour caught our eyes, “Fox!” We followed his flight up the field and down into a river bed. “He might come up out of there.” said Jaime and we saw him emerge and sprint off. He crossed the road and we saw his spoor climb the bank and up into the forest.

Up at the top we played silly buggers with snow balls and Jaime tried leaving his impression in the snow bank, but it wasn’t ‘avin’ it, the snow was way too 'ard! Onward and downward, twenty kms of that special spell beech forests cast; a soft silence punctuated by dripping snowmelt and birdsong. A cathedral like stillness; a rushing meltwater stream at every bend and curve; silvery soft trunks tower like sentinels above a carpet of crunchy copper coloured leaves. Its prayerlike; devotion.

All morning and afternoon Amaia had been worrying about the last part of our journey; the lad on the fone had told her the last 2 kms to the youth hostel were vertiginous. I scoffed at the idea, people in cars, what did they know; I reassured her that 2 kms was only 2 kms. We could walk up pleasantly and enjoy it. It'd be a doddle.

Later, over dinner, we decided we were never going down ever again. We would simply have to do without daily necessities like bread, banks, books and beloved ones down the mountain. It was a nightmare; more vertical than vertiginous. Later we heard that a local, a bit loose in the head, had hurtled headlong to his death having missed one of the corners. It was that steep! The youth hostel was basic; one big room with an open fireplace and a pile of mattresses; but it was the view from the biggest picture window I’ve ever seen that made it singular. Right across the valley and up to the pass we’d just descended. Incredible.

The wilds of Cantabria proved to have two restaurants and bars and several posadas. A pre prandial vino was deemed the order of the evening and so we went down the pub. For it was; a pub. The lads were taciturn, as was our landlady, to the point of being rude. A fine home-cooked dinner was had by firelight, logs blazing, with fancy French liquor choccies.

The next morning we made a friend. She abandoned a little light pottering in her garden to amble over the road and gesture expansively at our route to Barcena Mayor, she was very explict and gave us to understand that it was a gentle hour and a half stroll. After we’d arrived some three hours later Amaia christened her Abuela Atleta or Granny Athlete. The walk was wonderful, all forest and slopes, wild horses and rushing streams. The village too was beautiful, but a bit museum like; the Cotswolds at 4,000 feet. We made another friend who showed us around his workshop as we admired his handicrafts. Beautifully decorated hand carved walking sticks and all sorts of other implements, all made of local beech, ash and pine.

That evening the atmosphere in the pub was a little livelier. We sampled the still’s delights, orujo; Jaime the clear dangerous stuff, I tried the honey variety. The lads conducted an impromptu sobriety test. The long and winding road to the door had to be done in a straight line; actually it proved to be more of a challenge for those conducting the test to get the door open than those suspected of being the drunks to walk through it.



"Bells on bob tails ring"

The morning brought those beautiful deer skipping up the bank to clatter across the roadway and scatter safely in the forest above. A local farmer put on a show; how not to get the cows out and off to the meadow – like naughty children they scarpered in three different directions before he got them up through the village onto the road and down into the meadow. We climbed the puerto in still perfect conditions, a harmony of birdsong and dripping branches accompanying us, the thaw now well advanced.

We were off to collect Leire and stay up above in the altogether colder world of the plateau. New Years Eve, dinner stealthily cooked in our crowded room, a misty midnight ride to fireworks and fancy dress as the bells bonged out the old and bonged in the new.



a-Bustling in the Hedgerow?

Shift change; Amaia off to study, Leire all set to ride. The mirror still waters of the enormous Ebro embalse reflected forest and snowy mountain. Up front I heard a-bustling in the hedgerow, and pulled over just in time to see a bristling muscle bound boar break cover and batter off up through the gorse to the forest. Having never seen one of these nocturnal animals in the wild, I’ve now seen two in a month. Years ago, grape-picking in Provence, while wandering the hills I once came face to face with a huge male, tusks and all; I can still see those tusks. They impressed me mightily in the seconds it took me to note the fence between us.

            We climbed the puerto Magdeleña and suddenly emerged onto one of those thousand year views; views that stay with you all your days. It’s a little like the Lakes in Cumbria, massive mountains behind, steep, steep valleys below, slate roofed summer cabins arrayed in friendly rows like rural miners cottages up on the the top of the world; the valle del Pas, and its famous cabins.



Cabañas pasiegas.



Halfway down this wonderful hidden world we were distracted; well it was cold, really cold now, and we’d been in the mist up in the forest, caldo, broth, was calling, and once in Roberto’s splendidly simple establishment the siren smells of cooking reminded us that it was downhill all the way now and we were well in advance of the dark and, well, hungry ……… and, most importantly, there was cocido Montañes on the menu. We’d been subject to several days of temptation by now, and all of a sudden the flesh was weak.

Well, it was fabulous! Considerably more fabulous than the poor example in the picture. A base of beans augmented with freshly chopped greens and all stewed slowly with chorizo, fatty bacon, and in prize position, in a masterpiece of presentation, a thick slice of morcilla de Burgos. If you add a pretty, friendly, chatty waitress, misty mountain views, a bottle of red, a main course and home made puddings all for a song, well, you’ll understand why I say that Restaurante Roberto in San Pedro del Romeral (942 59 55 93)  will occupy a special place somewhere in between my stomach and my appetite until I get to go there again!

The Pig Products in their raw state.

We hurtled down half the world to the river and valley bottom. Reaching our destination we stopped at the first building – a hotel. All appeared to be shuttered and closed for the New Year holiday, when Leire noticed a light; the family holiday meal was being eaten in the restaurant and on ringing the bell we did the swiftest bit of business I’ve ever been privileged to take part in Spain; we asked the question, got a very quick affirmative, were shown the room, a 50 Euro note changed hands and our hostess was off back to the bosom of her family. Not so much as the hint of paperwork, no ID requested or seen, no tour of the premises, no sales talk, breakfast suggestions, nothing. Normally all this, in the land of chat, takes a goodly while, can take an age and has been known to take for ever. We were way too full for dinner and settled for a stroll and listened to feuding owls under a palm tree by winter moonlight.

Real men with a real stew!

In the morning Jaime fired up the trusty Trange and made toast while I prepared a slow Tupper-full of muesli and banana; our luck with the winter weather had finally run out. The sky had come down to greet us, mist and cloud combined. We dithered and dawdled, we dawdled and dithered, until we could neither dawdle nor dither no more. And its funny; even a Welshman traumatized by 40 years of rain was soon fired up, the endorphins buzzing around the brain with the simple joy of spinning the pedals, the rushing river beside us, our constant companion as we sped down the Via Verde del Pas. The chirimiri, or drizzle, metamorphosed into mist and we began to really enjoy it as Jaime got the bit between his teeth. Almost before we knew it we were trundling down country lanes all cormoranted and be-heroned nearing our destination, another climb, puerto de Alisas.

This one was different, totally different. We’d known all morning it would be an ascent into the cold wet world of cloud. Cantabria is like Wales; names like between waters, three waters, both waters and the splendidly all encompassing between more waters, abound. Everything is covered in a good thick layer of mould, trees harbour mosses and lichens, the colour scheme is green and grey. We’re talking a world of water here; damp, misty, fecund, verdant, humid; these are the applicable adjectives.

We went into it with our eyes open, rain gear on, spirits high, climbing legs well trained. And it was good, Jaime spotted a bus stop with a fireplace, the passing cars were careful and well lit, cowbell tinkled through the mist. The thing is we hadn’t bargained with the descent. By the time we got down to Arredondo we were frozen, the posada didn’t have any rooms and when one of the locals suggested we try the bar in Ason, we grabbed at the idea like any self-respecting drowning man at the nearest straw. I’d been there see, some years ago with the gang, walking, in the middle of winter. We’d stayed at a casa rural owned by the lady at the bar, I didn’t know for sure if they had rooms above the bar too but I remembered she was friendly and cheerfull.

Orujo de miel.

It was pretty much dark by the time we climbed the last 4kms up to the bar and I opened the door and entered – blinded by the steaming up of the glasses as is traditional in times of crisis. It was shit or bust; disaster or rescue, 20 kms more in the cold and dark, freezing half to death. Did they have a room, we were three.

            “Yes, did I want a triple, or a double and a single?”

I explained about having stayed in one of her casa rurales and she offered me one of those too. Later as we parked the bikes in the basement where the boiler warmed the heart of the establishment, she showed us their albergue, “For the mountaineers and so on,” she said, almost apologetically for the poverty of the stark bunk beds, seeing our looks of familiar appreciation, she went on “you can stay here if you like, its all the same to me.” We felt it would be too stingy to move our bags downstairs and deny our rescuer a portion of her profit.

Note the lack of label - clearly the good stuff; home produced.

Showered and changed with all the wet stuff hung around the upper floor we descended for dinner; it was the perfect antidote to our disaster. The perfect remedy for our poor bone chilled bodies. She asked us where we wanted to dine and we opted to stay in the warm and comfort of the bar rather than the dining room. It was like eating with the family really. The food was as good as the day before and the orujo was homemade. The Boss was doing the end of year accounts at another table; daughter and boyfriend were sent on their way to study in Santander; we were the only people in. It turned out that the boss had passed us that afternoon while we were having a chocolate break by the river over the other side of the pass, psyching ourselves up for the big moment of the day. Wine finished, pudding to be digested, the dangerous clear stuff was brought into play. Jaime opted for the real stuff, orujo blanco, while I stayed with the honey version I’d enjoyed the last couple of days. Our saviour then gave us to understand that the orujo de miel was for poufs and nancy boys, maricones who couldn’t hack the real stuff, the clear pure liquid. This was greeted with howls of laughter as all week I’d been accusing all other cyclists, clean and comfortable on their pristine mountain bikes of being maricones, poncing about without so much as a saddle bag let alone climbing big passes with a full set of panniers on like us!