*not actually official at
all.
Portugal, in
contrast, remains a favourite place to visit. The people have a tinge of amity
and engagement that reminds me a bit of Australia: helpful, but not too much
so. Staying with Sao near Ericiera was as much a treat as always – the best breakfast
fruit bowl in the country. A larger one was pressed on us as we left: “I got up
early to pick them, I know you like the fruit.”
From there
we rolled up through the Minho, green, green Portugal. This was a new landscape
to the Glamorous Companion, though I’d visited it years ago with my friend
Bonga. In retrospect I’m a bit embarrassed that we didn’t explore more, even
just in surfing terms: we surfed pretty much the same break every day, in an
area I now know is rich in waves. Mostly I surfed standup, but once in a while
I managed to find an un-lifeguarded beach and get out on the mat. Image below,
shot by the GC from the comfort of her beach towel – which is why it’s rather
distant.
One change
in Portugal: the people have, in general, got tremendously fat. It was like
Chubby Night at Brighton’s Wild Fruit night club, all day, every day. I think
they must have spent the EU cash on cakes. The country’s similarly bloated with
empty property: beautiful modernist apartments and houses, all unoccupied, all
for sale. Someone somewhere made a bundle on this, but it’s not – of course –
ordinary Portuguese, who are suffering badly.
The
highlight of non-Basque Spain was probably Galicia. It’s a wild, wet, rugged
country, where the grain stores have to be off the ground to keep them safe
from vermin and damp. Two or three jaw-dropping surf breaks, out in the far
west, made me think this would be a good place for a full-on surfing
exploration.
The Basque
lands always feel like a good place to be, and after a not-particularly wonderful
time in the rest of Spain, it was very welcome to reach them. The coast road between Zumaia
and Zarautz is an Amalfi? What Amalfi?
treat, and the campsite in Zaratutz is a real gem. A few days there to recharge
in the sunshine, and now we’re in the Pyrenees, waiting for Wiggins with about…
actually, I have no idea how many other people. We’re camped in an enterprising
farmer’s field near the top of the Col de Peyresourde, and there must be at
least 1000 other camper vans within sight already, more arriving all the time.
I can see about 10% of the col from where I’m sitting. Go figure.
I rode up the col this morning, feeling slightly out of place among the lycra and carbon fibre, then sat in the
sun at lunchtime, alternately writing and watching the amateur riders going up
and down the route the pros will travel at double-quick time on Wednesday. All
the lovely bikes on display gave me that terrible itchy-credit-card feeling.
Oh no, not
again.
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