Word Of Mouse

Seville is a city every bit as beautiful as its reputation: a maze of winding cobbled streets, elegant houses and open parks filled with orange trees and date palms. We found a place to stay after a bit of searching, booked in for three nights and heaved a sigh of relief: as Ali has already alluded to, the last stages of the ride into Seville were full of interest (basically involving negotiating several motorway junctions).

We saw the cathedral on the first day, climbed the Giralda tower for a stunning view out over the city, tried out one of Spain's few vegetarian restaurants for lunch and spent the afternoon wandering by the river. The second day, we went around the Alcazar, a diverse and beautiful piece of Islamic architecture full of quiet tiled halls, open courtyards and peaceful gardens.

Day three: we retrived the Brambulator from her nesting place behind the coke machine, saddled up and set off. The ride along the wide straight boulevard out of Seville was deceptively easy, owing to a large traffic jam that stopped all the cars from coming that route. All went very well until the edge of town, where the same problem that we had discovered earlier made itself apparent. Seville is a city ringed by motorways. Getting in or out without going along a motorway is almost impossible. I was starting to suspect that it might actually be impossible. We cast around for a while. A road that seemed very promising was suddenly blocked after several miles by a military installation. Another road ended in yet another motorway, this one in the course of construction. Ali wisely vetoed my idea of lugging Bramble over the crash barriers and going one junction along the motorway. Finally we discovered a dirt track that led in more or less the right direction, and we were eventually able to rejoin the other road on the far side of the military complex, having progressed maybe a couple of miles which had taken about two and a half hours.

After that, the ride was much easier. We stopped for lunch in a roadside picnic spot, infested by teenagers skidding around on mopeds. You could tell it was a picnic spot by the mountains of litter lying all around. We ate quickly and carried onwards through flat and lowlying reclaimed swampland, now given over to cotton fields. We arrived at the small town of Las Cabezas de San Juan around half three, and decided that that was enough for one day.

Finding somewhere to stay was an unwelcome challenge. Cycling up the hill to the centre of town, such as it was, failed to reveal any possibilities. I noticed a sign to a hostal pointing along a road out of town: we followed it but came to the edge of town without finding it (the following day we left town on that road and we never did find it, so it was a good thing we abandoned the quest when we did.) We formed the object of interest, and occasionally derision, for many of the bored youth of Las Cabezas: laughing at us made a change from their other main activity, bombing up and down the narrow streets in large numbers on their mopeds. Finally Ali spotted another hostel sign. We went to reception. Deserted. Someone behind the bar said that a receptionist would appear at half five. We sat down to wait and compare aches and bruises.

Just as we were getting ready to give up and leave someone appeared. He started to go through the formalities with us, but before we could get very far the process was taken over, rather to his annoyance, by his friend who, although he spoke considerably better English, was also fairly well drunk. Needless to say, checking in took quite a long time. There were many jokes made about my age (very old) and appearance (surprisingly similar to Osama Bin Laden). At one point I thought he was actually going to write that on the form as my name, but fortunately better sense prevailed. Ali kept hinting that maybe she should try filling in the form herself to save time.

Eventually that was done, we were installed in our room and Bramble safely locked up in the courtyard. We had a picnic supper on the food from our pannier bag, took a brief walk through the cool evening air and collapsed.

Next day was the start of the slow climb up into the mountains. We could make an early start as luckily we had taken the precaution of settling the bill the preceding night: checking out of The World's Least Efficiently Run Hotel could have been just as long a process as getting in. A long gradual ascent towards the rising sun started to reveal more details of the landscape around us: flat lands to the west, rolling hills to the north studded with occasional groves of oranges or olives, and to the southeast, outlined in misty blue, the range of jagged mountains towards which our road was heading. After a sudden climb, we stopped for lunch near a small chapel at Nuestra Senore de las Montagnas, picnicing beneath an olive tree and admiring the view as it opened out. Another brief stop in El Bosque, to look for a map (unsuccessfully), have a coffee (me) and replenish our now empty water bottles, and on to Ubrique for the night.

We only just made it to Ubrique. The road climbed and fell, climbed and fell, ending with a tough drag up to 400m followed by a sharp descent into the town itself. Whether due to the coffee or a sugar crash, by the time we stopped I was trembling. Luckily we found a hotel very easily. The town is pleasant enough. It seems to exist by selling leather goods: shops selling articles in leather were everywhere. Finding any kind of restaurant on a Sunday evening proved impossible, so we had a rather indifferent meal in the hotel. I tried to put out of my mind thoughts of the next day's ride, which looked to be another tough one.

In the event, it was not too bad: we climbed 250m up to a ridge through open fields of bone dry and parched grass, then descended gradually along the side of the ridge through mature forests of cork oak which cast welcome patches of shade on the road. Either side we had lovely views of the wooded sides of the valley and in the distance high mountain peaks. After reaching what we judged to be the top of the ride, we stopped and cooked rice and beans for lunch.

The afternoon was a bit tougher than expected, ending in another of these river valleys that seem to promise an easy descent but actually consist of climbing up and down the sides of a steep gorge. Despite having carried an extra two litres of water, we were down to the last few tepid mouthfuls at the bottom of our last bottle by the time we reached Jiminez de la Frontera which, in contrast to having a non existant campsite marked on the map, had decided to ring the changes by having a campsite which, while unmarked, did exist on the ground. We put up the tent for the last time, deciding not to use the flysheet because it was so warm and dry, and watched the sun go down behind the hills.

The final day's ride to Gibraltar was short and easy by comparison. We got to Gibraltar and crossed the frontier in the early afternoon (having been delayed slightly by attention-seeking behaviour from Bramble who, with barely five miles left to go, had picked up a puncture in the back tyre - only the second puncture of the trip). As we were crossing the airport runway (the only route into Gibraltar by land) I suddenly realized what the sirens that had been sounding at the side as we passed must have meant. I looked around. Surprise: no more traffic. We were alone. I glanced nervously at the sky, and pedalled faster. After what seemed like forever, we were through the barriers on the other side, past all the traffic in the other direction stopped at the barrier, and once more we were on British soil.