Forgive me, dear reader, for not writing quite as prolifically as I do on our Dutch blog. In fact, we have a loyal but obviously very small audience here, and on many days, the statistics show zero page hits… I don’t mean to say: read more often, what I mean is: this is why I don’t write as often as you might expect me to. If ever I was in doubt about the question: would I write if I knew that nobody reads what I write?, I now know the answer ;-)

Now, where were we? Ah yes, in southern France, gazing upon the Pyrenees, wondering whether it would be hard to cross them, secretly afraid that yes, it would be hard. After all, we come from a flat country, and although we were practically born on bicycles, our idea of a steep climb has traditionally been the viaducts that we always seemed to find between where we were and where we wanted to go.

But the mountains you are aware of are not mountains to be feared. We took our time climbing to the pass, we knew that we were going to climb to over a thousand meters, and in the end, the road ended up levelling and going into a gentle descent. Our first night in Spain had been well prepared and we enjoyed the change of scenery and surroundings. On the following day, we were in Pamplona.

A perfect curve to end hours of climbing and ease into a welcome descent

Now, Pamplona is well known for the folly of young men who, once a year, try to outrun bulls that are let loose in the streets, mistaking their brazen stupidity for stunning bravery. Prices of accomodation rise up to five times compared to rates in low season during the one week in which this event takes place. Whoever claims that they come to watch this for other reasons than to see blood being shed is probably not being totally honest.

The Pamplona we saw was wet. On the city’s patron saint’s day, the traditional dance of the giants could not take place because of a steadily falling drizzle, and on the next day, big snow flakes made us wonder how it was possible that only days before, we had been riding in t-shirts. We looked at the weather forecast for the west and Portugal, where we had intended to go. Not good. Cold, rain, exactly the kind of weather our so-called water-resistant, breathable Patagonia jackets had already had trouble coping with. Any other ideas? The Spanish east coast looked better, the south-east looked perfect. Right. No, not right, we’re turning left, not to Portugal but to southeastern Spain.

Foz de Lumbier: a former railway, converted into cycle path

Having made this decision, even the weather seemed to agree. Cool but clear days made cycling a real pleasure, the country opened up and the short distances we covered in the two following days were largely made up for by the sheer beauty of the sights we saw. Rolling plains, bounded by snow-covered hills. A canyon that was cut by a river and is accessible only by pedestrians and cyclists via a path that was made from a disused railway. Flocks of a hundred vultures that circle to gain height, then cross the plains to find new thermals, and circle again. Medieval villages, steeped in history and dormant at this time of the year, ours to discover.

Like Sos del Rey Católico. Liberated in the tenth century from the occupying Arabs, it remained a fortified outpost of the catholic world for centuries. In 1452, Ferdinand II was born here, and when he became known as Ferdinand the Catholic, his birthplace changed its name from mere ‘Sos’ into the longer version that we know today. It is a beautiful, well-preserved medieval village, and a joy to stroll through. Here, dear reader, is where we leave you, because this is how far we have come so far, and it is time to get some sleep. Come visit again some time, we may have more to tell…

Charlotte admiring the medieval town of Sos del Rey Católico

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