We have chosen to take longer than the 10 days for the extended version of the Raid Pyrenean, as we want to have time to relax after the riding, enjoy the scenery and very importantly, the choice to ride on the small white roads with little traffic.  Here is our trip showing the stages we took and where we stopped for the night.  We are carrying our own camping gear and camp every night, with two exceptions.  We have no support vehicle. We are travelling with two other couples.

We travel to Wakefield ready to get on the European Bike Express early on Saturday morning.  It is rainy but we dodge the showers, our cycles are treated like royalty at the Premier Inn.

Waiting at Mirfield Station

Sat 27 August 2011

It is only a short ride along the cycle path to the pick up point for the bus.  Our travel mates appear, and leave their van at a very convenient car park on a nearby farm.  We turn handlebars and prepare ourselves for 36 hours on the bus.  Sleep, wriggle, talk, read, coffee, channel crossing, dark French motorways.

The Luggage waiting for the Bike Express

Two Bike Express Buses with their Cargo, including two recumbent trikes

Sunday 28 August 2011

Arrive at Narbonne Est at about 10 am, and sure enough Paddy from VeloPeloton is waiting for us as arranged.  He takes us on the five-hour journey to Hendaye, where our tour is to begin.  We could have got the bike bus to the Western side of France but not at the times we needed, so we must add this leg to our already long journey.  He is very helpful and takes us right to the campsite, making sure we are happy with it before he leaves us.

We have chosen Camping Alturan at Hendaye, which is a terraced site with individual plots, only 100yards from the sea front.  This is important as we need to go into the sea before we set off to seal the deal.

Hendaye Beach, very close to Camping Alturan

We wash clothes and stroll to the beach.  The air is warm and moist, and the beach beautiful; a long stretch of clean pale sand with big breakers tossing surfers around, that seems to stretch all the way to Spain.  Nothing we have read about Hendaye prepares us for how pretty it is.  Everyone swims while I paddle; Jim has forgotten his trunks, which doesn’t matter as we are on the nudist end of the beach.  It does mean that there are no photos of this, as you don’t feel right flashing your camera about on nudist beaches.  Later, as the sun sets we stroll along the front towards the Spanish border to find a restaurant after beers at the camp site, looking down to the sea through the trees.  At night, the sea can be heard; a whisper among the roaring snores that roll through the site.

The Bedside Gecko.  He used to pop up from just beneath my pillow and run about above the bed.  I dont mind geckos but somehow I didn’t like the idea of him running over me when I was asleep, so he was persuaded to dart out of the window. He came back once, running upside down with sticky feet suspended from the ceiling, and then he was gone.

The Bedside Gecko

Station and substation handy combination.  Whether you want a train or a bolt of energy, El Chorro Station is the place to come. The station and substation are crammed into the same small area, along with various houses and a cafe.

El Chorro Station and Substation

The Danger of Death

Everywhere you go in El Chorro there are reminders of the delicate balance between life and death, between the grim and the lovely, so if you stop at the station cafe, you will soon hear the story of the murder that took place there, while your bike is parked beneath the lightning bolt signs to remind you that danger is close by.

El Chorro substation

El Chorro Substation

The Dam

The pale green opaque waters of the dammed river Guadalhorce dominate most of the views of El Chorro.  The dam, its conduits and workings contrast strangely with the wild limestone terrain of the gorge, valley and cliffs.

El Chorro Dam Conduits

El Chorro Dam Conduits

El Chorro Dam Conduits

The Railway

The Railway links this small town with Malaga and Seville, not forgetting Bobadilla, and it is via the railway that access is gained to much of the climbing and also to the dangerous Camino del Rey.  At busy periods, there are guards at the entrance to the tunnel, waiting to fine you for trespass, so it is always with a feeling of trepidation that you enter or leave the tunnel.  It is a good idea to wait until you see Spanish people entering and leaving without bother before you go.  Wonderful bridges have been built for the railway and from the tunnel are some of the most exciting views of the gorge and the camino.

View of the Tunnel from the Camino del Rey

Railway Bridge, El Chorro

Warning sign at tunnel entrance, El Chorro

In the railway Tunnel, el Chorro

View of the Camino del Rey from the Tunnel

The Camino del Rey 

The Old King’s Walkway, built for King Alfonso 13 to admire the handiwork of the dam and its workings, now disused and broken, offers a great challenge to climbers, clinging hundreds of feet up the side of the gorge’s cliff walls, full of holes and exposure.  In order to prevent the adventurous form accessing it, the government chopped off the end section that links with the railway tunnel, making access more difficult, but not impossible.  The Spanish government are about to turn it into a tourist attraction, renovating and making it safe for all.  I feel privileged to have walked it in its old decayed state.

The Chopped end of the Camino

The Crumbling Buildings

Many of the building have fallen into disrepair, forming a sombre backdrop or foreground to views of the austere gorge walls.

Decaying House, El chorro

Old Window, El Chorro

The Deserted Refuge, El Chorro

House below the climbing cliffs, El Chorro

House in the upper part of village, El Chorro

Disused Climbers Refuge, El Chorro

Village House, El Chorro

The Cave Dwellings

Natural Caves in the cliffs around El Chorro are inhabited, many of them by climbers, and although the footpath may go right past the terrace of these dwellings, one feels like an intruder passing by, trying to steal a glance into to dark interior to see what might be in there, and how far back the caves go.  Maybe there are secret tunnels right to the climbing.

The flat topped Hill

This landmark was our view from the Finca, having a grand house on the top surrounded by its collection of tall trees, The mood changed with the light but always it looked mysterious.  Large dogs were always ready to greet any intruder at the gate, so there was no question of going for a closer look.

Sunset on the Flat Hill, El Chorro

The bikes were ready to go, – well not quite; Jim hadn’t pumped up his tyres and when he did, his pump exploded all over the kitchen. When this was sorted out, yes, they were ready for action. Even getting up at 4.30 to make bacon butties was a slight pleasure. A large quantity of flapjack and jaffa cakes was stowed around my person and crammed into crevices in the bar bag. When Richard came in the van, we put the bikes in and on, and tootled off for our adventure.

The Footballers Flatlands are dead at six in the morning, (I could picture the wives, carefully embarking on a two hour facial preparation workout; cleanse, tone, moisturise; primer, foundation, eyeliner; etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, while the footballers themselves would be lolling abed, sleeping off any excesses there may have been during the dark hours) so we were able to navigate the rows of lavish housing without obstacle to find our destination, Poyton Lesiure Centre. Here we found friendly marshals, as promised, and goody bags with special bottles and High5 products. The pleasant thing about a sportive is that you don’t have to set off at any particular time, and we didn’t. We seemed to be the only people with; a. bar bags, b. toe clips, c. a peak on the helmet, and d. a platypus stuffed into the bar bag. (Platypus?- don’t ask) Everyone takes it so seriously don’t they? Never mind though, I took pride in the fact that I seemed to be the only ‘older’ lady doing the hundred miles.

We were lucky with the weather, warm and sunny with light westerly winds. What more could you ask for a hundred mile cycle ride? The lanes, once we had escaped the town, were narrow and full of trees, butterflies and birds. Cheshire in her summer frock. Very enjoyable riding ensued as we whizzed and whirred through warm byways, sometimes in close company with other riders, (another thing that distinguishes this from a race) sometimes with not a soul about. The traffic seemed mostly benign, and patient, and the only incidents were Jim’s chain coming off a couple of times, my drinks tube dangling into the wheel (drinks tube? – don’t ask) getting two wasps at the same time inside my glasses, and my bottle cage breaking off.

Feeding stations were below shadowy gazebos at the roadside, with a shady arbour close by for lucky male cyclists to avail themselves of. Ladies had to be more circumspect, and cycle vigilantly, awaiting their opportunity. Mine came when I saw an open field gate with a handy hedge. What I didn’t know until too late was that the vast brown heap inside the gate was apparently composed of rotting animal material.

And so the hours passed; hour after hour upon hour, a whole working day, just sitting on that saddle , wafting the legs up and down, travelling, travelling…. Jim and Richard were strong and good natured throughout, naturally; I of course had a few dodgy moments when the sugarometer needle swung below zero.

We passed through villages with lovely names. Like a lyrical poem I recite to myself: Meadowbank, Foxtwist Green, Peover Inferior, Swan Green, Lach Dennis, Little Budworth, Gallantry Bank, Chorley, (where I pulled a powdered eponymous cake from my back pocket) Aston Juxta Mondrum, Minshull Vernon, and Occlestone Green. The far end of the course passes through Burwardsley, (the candle factory on Sundays remember?) and places such as Tattenhall which are surprisingly hilly when you are expecting a flat course. Never Expect.

The sun kept on beaming, and there was plenty of wildlife to see and hear, birds of prey and an unusually large flock of flying herons. (I just looked this up and it is called a hedge, sedge or siege of herons) After a long time the roads started to seem more hilly as we skirted round the edges of Macclesfield and there were some steep nips up and down various avenues. Then suddenly – Ping! We were there. We had done it, and a giant vat of hot dogs swimming enticingly in brine was before my eyes. The time? 7.40.25. That’s 41,400 revolutions of the ankles, 41,400 twinkles of those toeclips.

Richard and Jim at the Start Line

My Bike, before the Jodrell Bank Summer Sportive

December 2010

One sunny cold day we go for a ride round some of the large dams in the area. Leaving El Chorro and travelling up the Western side of the Guadalhorce Dam, we then turn left up the valley steeply to join the very large dam, – Embalse del Conde del Guadalhorce. We pass the turning for the campsite, Parque Ardales, which looks to be in a very pleasant situation,  and at the end of this, we find a large café by the lake, it is still early in the morning and there is a man having tons of vodka and cake at the kiosk bit out in the foggy cold  with his thick green khaki clothes on.  And mist coming from his breath.  The area is apparently making an effort to regenerate itself and promote the lakes as the Spanish Lake District.  The result is that one suddenly arrives at a new town, with brand new velvet roads, and playful lighting looming out of the mist.

View of the lakes from the D'Esplomilandia area

There is a string of lakes to travel along which are wreathed in the morning fog making it very cold.   The maps we have do not tell us whether we can cycle on these roads and whether they go through all the way to where we want to go.  We think they may not exist or they may be just a rough track too stony to cycle on.  In the event we find  a newly made road at first, and one that leads all the way.  Quiet and scenic, past the Desplomilandes climbing area.  The terrain is extremely hilly and hard work, but even this isn’t enough to warm up my frost nipped feet.  In the end I find a patch of sun and stop to manually warm them.  The town we are trying to get to is Valle d’Abdulajis, where we can return to El Chorro via the road with the big dog, only from the other direction.  We sneak past without the dog seeing us, and whiz down hills to L‘Encantada and so home .  Most days after we finish cycling we go climbing and today we quickly we change and take a picnic to the Los Albercones area, near the Crusties car parking.  There are some excellent routes here.

We nearly cycle to Valle d’Abdulajas, but are turned around before arriving by a very large dog which races along the skyline when it sees our approach and then is waiting in the road for us.  There are numerous encounters with dogs, and when we ask about it, people tell us just to shout at them. One day we cycle to Alora, expecting to catch the train back as it is getting late.  But at the station we find that cycles are not necessarily allowed on trains, so cycle back in the gloaming, passing a goatherd with his muzzled dog en route to somewhere for the night.

On another ride to Alora, quite a long ride, via Ardales and Bobastro,  I have a puncture which we keep on pumping up every few kilometres.

Along the old road to Ardales

Near D'Esplomilandia on the quiet reservoir road

Warming the feet near d'Esplomilandia

Jim on the way to Valle d'Abdulajis

Jim at crossroads on the way to Valle d'Abdulajis

Cycling away from El Chorro

Buttercup Fields and climbing area, Vallee d'Abdulajis

There is much rain during the first days of the stay, and we dart amongst the clouds making the most of our opportunities to climb or cycle.

It continues to rain so we take a train to Malaga, walking to the station so early that it is still dark. We enjoy passing through the gorge and the tunnels on the train, small glimpses of the beautiful organ pipe formations through gaps in the tunnels.  Arriving at Seville we find it extremely wet, – the fields and orchards we pass on the way are flooded and sodden.

Lunch is at an old couple’s tapas bar where we are served with a mysterious eggy soup and hot prawns sizzling in a sea of olive oil.  We look at the magnificent cathedral and go up the tower, round and round and round, peeping out through increasingly narrow slits into the driving rain to admire the dripping gargoyles.  Periodically a rainstorm of monsoon dimensions falls on the city and everyone rapidly finds shelter under awnings, shops and bars.

An evening meal is assembled over several hours and drinks by threading a series of tapas together, in old, dark brown ham-hung bars.  We find a bed in a small hotel in the centre, in room 101, which is very long and L shaped, with windows opening above the road.  To our surprise we only wake at 10.30 in the morning, which is far too late for the things we want to do. Rushing round the Moorish Palace, skipping from shelter to shelter in the renewed torrential rain we have time to admire the filigree wonder of the place, the tessellations and the watery extravaganzas.  Jim says the palace is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

When we get back to El Chorro, as it has stopped raining, we go up to l’Encantada again to climb in a dry period, and later walk out in the wet and dark to eat at the Garganta.  It is New Years Eve, and we are given a lucky bag with false noses and horns in, which later can be used for scaring big dogs.  We visit the communal lounge at the Finca where there is party and have a quick dance. You can see us here on the Finca la Campana blog.

Waiting for the train at El Chorro Station

 The Altar in Seville Cathedral

Winter Pavement eating in Seville
 Bars hung with hams and rich in tapas, Seville

 On the Way up the Cathedral Tower, Seville

 The View from the top of the Cathedral Tower, Seville

The Cathedral, Seville

Seville

View from the Cathedral Roof, Seville

Malaga Station

Our House at Finca La Campana, El Chorro

Monday December 27 2010

With the shutter fastened there is no way of determining when it is light.  Cockerels next to us start sounding the alarm in the early hours, continuing into the late hours, so this is no help.  The damp bed gradually dries and warms up as we sleep.  Jim is on the outside edge: If he rolls off he will fall into the living room.  Without rolling off he gets up impressively early to start making the bikes up out of the suitcases, and a cup of tea.

The house is a beautiful old barn, with personality, well removed from the main area of the Finca, where many climbers congregate around the communal area.  Being extremely rustic, with tiled roof and wood everywhere, it has a great barn door that opens wide onto the land outside, where goats and chickens and sometimes a horse roam.  L’Encantada, the enchanted crag, lies up behind us, accessible via a path that runs straight from the Finca.

Once the Airnimals are assembled, we can cycle in to El Chorro, then over the great dam, excitingly wired with its family of giant pylons, substations, conductors, insulators and pipes, to a restaurant on the other side.  Part of the road has become a mountain track with various floods and winter conditions wreaking havoc on the surface.  The restaurant is full of long haired people and serves an impressively inexpensive menu del dia enjoyed with a bia.  We shop at the supermercado, – that is, a lady pops out of her house with a key to unlock the treasures within and we buy cheese, pasta and brandy, before wheeling away back up the hill to our Finca.

We take photos of the two yellow Airnimals with the vibrant yellow dam workings as a background.  This is the first ride the Airnimals have been on and it is quite exciting.  They arouse a fair amount of interest as we pass by.  We are very pleased with them, they feel like real big bikes and will easily ascend the steep twisting road that takes us back home.

Later, we walk to LEncantada climbing area, which is full of people and Jim tries a 6a+ as a first climb.

View from the Finca

On the path up to L'Encantada

The Noisy Cockerels

Jim and the Airnimals on El Chorro Dam

Airnimals on the El Chorro Dam

Sunday December 26 2010

We have bought two folding bikes made by the specialist British company, Airnimal.  They have a reputation for quality build, and for the fact that the bikes ride like a full size non-folding machine.  We even read reports that some riders chose to ride their Airnimals in long audax routes and even time trials.  The fold isn’t as quick to achieve as with the small folding bikes, although there are two different types of fold, a lesser and a major one.  The major fold involves taking off the wheels, the handlebars and the seatpost before folding the frame back on itself.

Preparing the Airnimals for transport is fun, you get to know your machine by taking it apart, and slotting pieces into any available space within the special suitcases.  The two wheels fit in the lid, and are restrained with a cleverly devised modelling-wire clip that threads through a loop at the top.  The airline state that if the cycle is carried in a suitcase, this case should not contain other items of luggage, so cunning and cleverness is brought to bear upon the interpretation of the term ‘cycle’.  Bags, bottles, shoes, racks and helmet all go into the suitcase.

We fly from Manchester to Malaga, leaving the subzero freezing tundra of Todmorden.   The Ice rink is still frozen in my back yard, and the ice lights are shining bright.  We have one last skate on the rink before we go.  The ride to the airport is slow because of thousands of early Boxing Day sale seekers rushing as lemmings to the Trafford Centre.  As we ascend to the flight lanes, we catch glimpses of Frozen Britain for the second time this year. – no part of the land is less than pure white.  At Malaga airport we wait in a small café for Gary who has promised to ferry us to El Chorro. His dirty white cap is his self-confessed identifying feature and he kindly takes us round a selection of non-functioning cash machines and then to a garage for food essentials.

We arrive at Finca la Campana about 10.30 at night, and find a small barn-type dwelling with a platform bed accessed by a ladder.  It is quite cold and dark.  We need to go and get wood for the stove, as this is the only source of warmth.  From a cold damp pile of rather oversize logs we select some hopeful pieces and transport them back to the house with a squeaking wheelbarrow, negotiating multiple steps. I remake the bed up on the platform, to make it longer and warmer, and Jim makes the fire.  We go to bed about 1.30, not knowing what our surroundings might look like and excited to see where we are when it comes light.

 The Frozen Bath we are leaving behind
Nice chocolates, hope they’re still here when we get back.
The Airnimal Cases packed up and ready to fly.
 We devise all sorts of spacers and fillers to pad the bikes, out and to help prevent impact on the cases.

The Airnimals inside the cases.

A View of the Frozen South Coast from the Plane

The back yard was light and soft, bins and bird tables heaped high with a bounty of the crystalline white material, that was fragile enough to be a gas, and too dry and cold to be solid, or to form snowmen.  So instead, I started to make an ice rink.  A pocket ice rink right outside the back door.  Lying in bed when I thought of it, I immediately longed to get up there and then to start the process.  Would I use a hose or a watering can?  How far should it extend?  In the end, the hose pipe was not an option, as the tap was frozen, and trying to attach it to the kitchen tap led to dribbles and a freezing kitchen.  So I was left with the watering can.  Out I went, silently in the dark, to stand in the centre of the patch, twirling slowly and casting the water from the can.  As a gift from the extreme coldness, the water would freeze within minutes of being poured, my feet would freeze to the ground as I worked, and the new substance sang and sighed as it came into existence. The water formed a shiny glassy smooth surface, that was impossible to move across except on all fours.  So on all fours, the next can was poured and the next.

Every night for a week, more water was added.  Solid from liquid, solid from liquid, the thickness built up, clear and mysterious in the darkness, sometimes obscured by a sheet of new snow which had to be swept away before the next layer could be added. Some of the snow was useful for stopping sinkholes that appeared, letting water drain through before it had a chance to solidify.

When it was finished I made ice lanterns to put round the outside and we waltzed together on the backyard ice rink.

Getting tired, we finally make it. After a glass of pastis I discover a flat front tyre and decide to walk to the municipal campsite. This turns out to be several miles further down the road. And when we arrive proves to be very expensive for a stony, crowded and dirty pitch. We are cross. I have a good shower before lying awake during the night disturbed by the sounds of stray dogs baying, babies wailing, the roar of traffic. We are moving on, rest day or no rest day.

Heavy rain in the night. I remember suppressing my laughter as Guy gallantly struggled to close the outer flysheet – getting wet – all I could see was a white bottom gyrating phosphorescent in the mosquito net. A hot damp long night. Windy morning ride along the wide green Garonne to breakfast at Castelrassin, where we bought a new map with mountains and Montpelier and the Camargue on it. Follow the Garonne valley onwards, now funnelling a hot southerly wind directly at us. Water seemed to be drawn from the pores. I called for an early lunch. Hunger and thirst and fatigue made progress against the wind doubly hard. I cursed along slowly searching for wild cherry trees that I wanted to tear the fruits off. We call an early halt, both agreeing that today’s ride has not been a pleasure. Now at the campsite, cleaned off and relaxing, things seem good again. The campsite has coloured play equipment, novel climbing frames and ropes that swivel round on a pole. Decorative lights in the dusk.