I have been unable to get the energy together to create blog posts via my phone during the last almost 3 weeks of bush tucker trials cycling the Camino Ruta Via de La Plata, veering off to the Camino Sanabres north of Zamora, 960ish kilometres, from Seville to Santiago de Compostela.
Incredibly, the best laid plans of mice and my good self plus those of my cycling supremo companions, came to pass and now, 20 days later I am back in my van on a comfortable campsite in Seville with a café con leche, laptop keys under my fingers and the next few hours set aside to reminisce. It’s actually been cloudy and abit of mizzle – only the 3rd day of this since my arrival in Spain mid-August.
I’ve decided to start with the ending which was mammoth for me in itself. I had already forseen that taking the bike back on the train from Santiago to Seville would be a challenge given its weight without the battery and unwieldy size. Add to that the weight I was carrying in my rucksack and bumbag, and the fact of not being able to take this luggage with me to the loo/cafes etc; the need to pass all pieces of luggage through a scanner; the need to change platforms; the journey requiring a change of stations in Madrid, with 8kms between …… Nevertheless, I had obviously thought it was doable.
But before le grand depart, I had to move accommodation in Santiago, my cycling buddies having their own varying arrangements at this point, and made the wrong decision to grab at a single room in a central small hotel on the 3rd floor without a lift assuring the reception that my bike would be in a bag, I could get it up the stairs and convincing them to break their rules and allow me to store it in the room. This was before I then found online a seemingly well-organised bike storage place for 3eu per night; I decided not to change the arrangements I had put in place. I managed to get the bike in its bag up those stairs, and collapsed on the bed for a time, sweat pouring down my face and everywhere else. The night’s sleep was not good as I struggled to put the getting of the bike bag down the stairs the next morning and impending journey out of my mind. As I recount all this detail I have to laugh from the comfort of hindsight.
The day before departure I went down to the station in Santiago to suss out how things would work. I was there 1.5 hours early at 9:00am the next day, first in the queue. I quickly realised that I would have to drag the bike in its bag (a requirement to transport bikes on high-speed trains, and only these would take an e-bike) across the platforms etc, thankfully either smooth tiles or polished concrete. The bag did survive but would only take one other such journey, which would be without me!!!
My trusty e-steed and luggage is in the foreground
My train at 10:30am was fully booked, with many pelegrinos of all different nationalities travelling to Madrid with their luggage. I had no idea what the storage facilities would be within the carriage, but having at least got the bike bag into carriage 3 doorway, I then went to my carriage 4 reservation once everyone else had got on, and then was able to move my bag into the generous luggage area of my carriage. Due to the number of travellers with luggage to scan, the train departed at least 30 mins late. No problem I thought as there would still be an adequate!!! 1 hour transfer time at Madrid. I had not taken it for granted that I would get through scanning with 2 bike batteries in my backpack, and total luggage weight well exceeding the rules, so I was somewhat subconsciously over confident by now. Stage 1 beginning had been successfully navigated.
The journey was as I had hoped, tracking back through the beautiful wooded green hilly landscapes of Galicia. The train reaching at times 300km per hour. I could recognise some of the landscapes and locations we had cycled along until Zamora, marvelling at the distance and heights we’d scaled.
For the arrival at Madrid, I had resolved to get the bike out of its bag on the platform, and make it wheelable. This did eat into the transfer time remaining. On reaching one of the concourses I selected at random, brain firing like a whirling dervish, I observed chaos all around, major works taking place, and getting to a taxi rank with long queues and no big vehicles, I made the decision that I stood a better chance of reaching the next station in time by cycling, rather than navigating the metro system or finding an amenable taxi driver. This was based on subconscious assumptions that there would be good cycling infrastructure as per in Seville. Given that my bike was now constructed and carrying the luggage, I had first to find a lift to get it down to street level, not easy in the mele. Following satnav as best as I could, the cycling was hairy, along major thoroughfares with traffic lights every hundred metres, always seeming to be on red, one of which I finally blatantly ran, and I had to re-position my luggage on the bike on one occasion, honked at by a bus driver trying to get down the bus lane.
I’m sure though that this is nothing compared to the mayhem experienced daily by a good friend on her scooter travelling around Phnom Penh.
Rather than giving into the knowledge that there was no way I was going to get on my scheduled connection, I flew down major thoroughfares at top speed, battery-assisted, brain lacking in function due to knackeredness. I reached Madrid Atocha station at the time of departure, and behaving as if I still had a chance of unpacking the bike, getting it into its bag, dragging the luggage to the right scanning/platform zone (having found it) in this major station, and getting on my train, I caused damage (only temporary) to the scanning conveyor belt – after the bike had got through successfully. Then I had to go and get my ticket changed to allow me on the next train to Seville. By now this was in 30 mins. Knackered doesn’t go anywhere near describing my state at this stage.
This train looked definitely and thankfully under capacity, but the carriages were two big steps above the platform. I could barely get the bike up them. I had got confused about the carriage I was aiming for on the new hand-written ticket, convinced it was no 4, which was in effect missing. I got the bike into carriage 3 which was nearest, and now with 5 mins to go I ran down the platform to ask an attendant where carriage 4 was. On looking at the ticket together, I now saw carriage 8 was my reservation. No chance in hell was I getting down the platform. I took a seat in carriage 3 and then constructed via google Translate my explanatory narrative including that there was no way I could now move my bike bag up the train, as I awaited the same attendant to come and check tickets. Thankfully, that didn’t happen.
A fantastic journey ensued, which I did try half-heartedly to appreciate, through very different dry plains, becoming more varied into Andalucia, only stopping at Cordoba, and the best thing of all was that no-one came and claimed my seat. Arrival at Seville felt at last reassuring. I had cycled in and out of the centre from my campervan storage/overnight place twice before, on the city’s good bike lanes, so I decided I would again use my bike to my home from home.
What a difference in emotional state as I cycled confidently on the final achievable leg to ‘home’ – anticipating re-gaining my van in Area Parking Caravane, bordered by the dual carriageway, a high-speed rail line, and under the nearby airport flight path. What comfort it held out 🤣. Across the ring road is a retail park. Reassured, having spotted my van and quite a collection of others as I approached the location, I stopped at the McDonalds and enjoyed a Big Mac, ice cream sundae, and an iced tea – only my second drink of the day bar abit of water I was carrying, to minimise the toilet visits.
My home was there and as I had left it. Next time – just hire a car and do a two-day drive. I’m knackered just having relived all of this and typed it with my still sore arms.
