Travels Without the Flea, France and Spain 2013
- Thread starter katyotter
- Start date
The whole demeanor and outlook on life changes when you get some sun and a blue sky.
Enjoying your story and pics. Especially enjoyed your excitement at the birds spotted
Enjoying your story and pics. Especially enjoyed your excitement at the birds spotted
katyotter
Registered user
Absolutely right Paul, a bit of sun makes all the difference, and thanks for your comments. Last episode due soon! 
Found last year if weather is against you it can soon become a bit of a chore.... Pleased you found sun in the end though, great report n pics....thanks 
katyotter
Registered user
That's exactly what it was for the most part - an endurance test! Thanks for your comments, it's always nice to get some feedback
Elle
Registered user
just caught up with your report, thank you for sharing 
It seems Spain had a terrible start to their summer - several friends have reported torrential rain and unexpected snow on higher ground
But looks like you went to some great places nevertheless
PS - what / who is the Flea?
It seems Spain had a terrible start to their summer - several friends have reported torrential rain and unexpected snow on higher ground
But looks like you went to some great places nevertheless
PS - what / who is the Flea?
katyotter
Registered user
Ah! It refers to a book by Jim Perrin, travel writer, where he goes on a journey by motorbike and therefore - necessarily - without his Jack Russell called Flea who normally accompanies him and appears in the title of another work "Travels With the Flea". Our dog Ted is a Jack Russell so it seemed an interesting title at the time but I'm not so sure now.........
One more episode to come but I've been snowed under with other things to do the last few days, tomorrow or Friday for definite
One more episode to come but I've been snowed under with other things to do the last few days, tomorrow or Friday for definite
katyotter
Registered user
Day 15
5th June
In which we have a very hot day – we meet Dean and others – a Spanish Omelette maintains the standards with aplomb – our lust for French food is bitterly disappointed.
Up to Signor’s breakfast – a vast tray containing six slices of tasteless cheese, six pieces of hard-to-the-point-of-unchewable, unidentifiable meat, six slices of Madeira cake (cuddled up next to the meat), six slices of hard Spanish bread and a basket of confits – just for the two of us. I’ve already recommended this Posada as a great place to stay for comfort and friendliness, I must also here recommend it for anyone who likes to eat vast quantities of very uninspiring food, this is definitely the place to come. Unfortunately, we‘re in the camp of preferring small amounts of the utterly divine. After making a reasonable stab at it so as not give offence we packed without hurry and set off in the hot sun (yes – hot sun) to cover the 20 odd miles to Santander and the ferry.
It was a pleasant and easy run and we found the road in to the temporary ferry port without difficulty. A query to some sort of gatekeeper sent us down to a roundabout approaching a small lift bridge where we came upon a slow lorry grinding to a halt at some lights that had just turned red it seemed the bridge was ascending. It did this pretty quickly and a boat went through so we remained on the bikes expecting an equally speedy descent. After a few more minutes we turned off the engines, another few minutes and the side stands went down, another five minutes and we decided to get off for a stretch. Another five minutes with absolutely nothing happening and we began to recognise the lack of any urgent need for readiness so it was helmets off, then coats off, a sit on the wall next to us and then a lie-down on it. We must have waited well over half an hour in the hottest weather we had yet experienced on our holiday and with not a scrap of available shade. Eventually the bridge started a slow descent – no other craft had passed so no theory could be presented for the reason for the delay. At last we crossed and arrived more or less immediately at the Brittany Ferry booth, our plan was to check in and then leave the bikes in the queue in the compound while we went off to mooch around Santander, the ferry wasn’t loading until about 7.0pm and it was then only noon. Four other bikes were already there and, shortly after we’d parked up, there were four more behind us. It was absolutely baking hot and we took off as much clothing as possible, luckily one of the new arrivals was staying by his bike so we were able to leave coats, boots, helmets etc. under his watchful eye while we went in search of lunch.
The town was literally just across the road and we soon found a likely looking bar with shady umbrellas. We had a drink and then consulted a menu – most things seemed to be some kind of burger which I didn’t fancy, John had one of those being unfussy (from Yorkshire) and I chose a Spanish Omelette. I imagined the latter would be full of interesting things as well as the standard potato and onion constituents. When it came it was the size of the plate and so about three times my expected portion, however I tucked in being pretty hungry. Three forks full were enough to seriously diminish my enthusiasm, another two removed its last vestige. Whoever had created this ‘dish’ obviously considered onions a luxurious expense - despite serious excavation I could only find four or five tiny pieces - potato however was there in plentiful amounts, egg too as you would expect but absolutely nothing else; it was the blandest dish imaginable. It was very fortunate that John had been given several sachets of tomato sauce which he’s not too keen on, as I was able to nick the lot to pour on mine to make it edible – even so I only managed half. Heading back for the bikes we discussed with keen anticipation the yumminess of French food in the posh restaurant on board the ferry ( another little treat whenever we’re on an overnight), the thought that we only had to drool for another few hours was delicious.
At the compound at least another forty bikers had joined the queue and it was interesting wandering round chatting, it was particularly nice as we had only seen one to talk to on our entire trip until then. It soon became clear that we had chosen the wrong countries, everyone else seemed to have had great weather – everyone else had been to Portugal. One of these was an American named Dean who was on an NTV Revere with a somewhat home-knitted screen and a helmet liberally decorated with reflective stickers in over-enthusiastic compliance with European law. Our ferry was going to land in Plymouth around 4.0 pm the following day and Dean, finding we were pretty local to that, asked whether we thought he’d make Lands End - “somewhere in a place called Cornwall I think” – by evening.
By the time the ferry started loading the bikes there must have been a queue of over a hundred. Actually boarding was fraught with several inexplicable delays where we had to wait, fully kitted up, engines purring, until something inscrutable happened to allow further progress. Eventually though we were on and securely tied down. We went in search of a beer, then our cabin then swung by the restaurant to have a look at the menu and indulge an anticipatory drool. We tried to book a table as we usually did to be told they wouldn’t take bookings that night as the actual sailing was very late and they would be closing before then, we were advised to just turn up. So a nice shower, a change, a bit more beer and we were back at the menu board honing our choices. The difficult decisions made we headed through the doors only to be met by the Head Waiter telling us the restaurant was now closed. It was then 9.18 pm, on enquiry we discovered they had closed at 9.10. Bitterly disappointed, starving and utterly incredulous at the idea of closing in such a random way, we made our way to the café. Here we found the chefs in the process of tidying up as they closed in three minutes! We just had to have whatever was there which manifested itself as the dregs of some dire potage made principally of fat and ashes which had no business being on a French ship in the first place. If we needed a last straw we now had it – by the bale load. John could eat it, he’s from Yorkshire as I said, but there was no way I could. So it was a bag of nuts, some of the essential gin supplies, a walk on deck and then bed on the last day of our holiday.
The wait at the lights.
5th June
In which we have a very hot day – we meet Dean and others – a Spanish Omelette maintains the standards with aplomb – our lust for French food is bitterly disappointed.
Up to Signor’s breakfast – a vast tray containing six slices of tasteless cheese, six pieces of hard-to-the-point-of-unchewable, unidentifiable meat, six slices of Madeira cake (cuddled up next to the meat), six slices of hard Spanish bread and a basket of confits – just for the two of us. I’ve already recommended this Posada as a great place to stay for comfort and friendliness, I must also here recommend it for anyone who likes to eat vast quantities of very uninspiring food, this is definitely the place to come. Unfortunately, we‘re in the camp of preferring small amounts of the utterly divine. After making a reasonable stab at it so as not give offence we packed without hurry and set off in the hot sun (yes – hot sun) to cover the 20 odd miles to Santander and the ferry.
It was a pleasant and easy run and we found the road in to the temporary ferry port without difficulty. A query to some sort of gatekeeper sent us down to a roundabout approaching a small lift bridge where we came upon a slow lorry grinding to a halt at some lights that had just turned red it seemed the bridge was ascending. It did this pretty quickly and a boat went through so we remained on the bikes expecting an equally speedy descent. After a few more minutes we turned off the engines, another few minutes and the side stands went down, another five minutes and we decided to get off for a stretch. Another five minutes with absolutely nothing happening and we began to recognise the lack of any urgent need for readiness so it was helmets off, then coats off, a sit on the wall next to us and then a lie-down on it. We must have waited well over half an hour in the hottest weather we had yet experienced on our holiday and with not a scrap of available shade. Eventually the bridge started a slow descent – no other craft had passed so no theory could be presented for the reason for the delay. At last we crossed and arrived more or less immediately at the Brittany Ferry booth, our plan was to check in and then leave the bikes in the queue in the compound while we went off to mooch around Santander, the ferry wasn’t loading until about 7.0pm and it was then only noon. Four other bikes were already there and, shortly after we’d parked up, there were four more behind us. It was absolutely baking hot and we took off as much clothing as possible, luckily one of the new arrivals was staying by his bike so we were able to leave coats, boots, helmets etc. under his watchful eye while we went in search of lunch.
The town was literally just across the road and we soon found a likely looking bar with shady umbrellas. We had a drink and then consulted a menu – most things seemed to be some kind of burger which I didn’t fancy, John had one of those being unfussy (from Yorkshire) and I chose a Spanish Omelette. I imagined the latter would be full of interesting things as well as the standard potato and onion constituents. When it came it was the size of the plate and so about three times my expected portion, however I tucked in being pretty hungry. Three forks full were enough to seriously diminish my enthusiasm, another two removed its last vestige. Whoever had created this ‘dish’ obviously considered onions a luxurious expense - despite serious excavation I could only find four or five tiny pieces - potato however was there in plentiful amounts, egg too as you would expect but absolutely nothing else; it was the blandest dish imaginable. It was very fortunate that John had been given several sachets of tomato sauce which he’s not too keen on, as I was able to nick the lot to pour on mine to make it edible – even so I only managed half. Heading back for the bikes we discussed with keen anticipation the yumminess of French food in the posh restaurant on board the ferry ( another little treat whenever we’re on an overnight), the thought that we only had to drool for another few hours was delicious.
At the compound at least another forty bikers had joined the queue and it was interesting wandering round chatting, it was particularly nice as we had only seen one to talk to on our entire trip until then. It soon became clear that we had chosen the wrong countries, everyone else seemed to have had great weather – everyone else had been to Portugal. One of these was an American named Dean who was on an NTV Revere with a somewhat home-knitted screen and a helmet liberally decorated with reflective stickers in over-enthusiastic compliance with European law. Our ferry was going to land in Plymouth around 4.0 pm the following day and Dean, finding we were pretty local to that, asked whether we thought he’d make Lands End - “somewhere in a place called Cornwall I think” – by evening.
By the time the ferry started loading the bikes there must have been a queue of over a hundred. Actually boarding was fraught with several inexplicable delays where we had to wait, fully kitted up, engines purring, until something inscrutable happened to allow further progress. Eventually though we were on and securely tied down. We went in search of a beer, then our cabin then swung by the restaurant to have a look at the menu and indulge an anticipatory drool. We tried to book a table as we usually did to be told they wouldn’t take bookings that night as the actual sailing was very late and they would be closing before then, we were advised to just turn up. So a nice shower, a change, a bit more beer and we were back at the menu board honing our choices. The difficult decisions made we headed through the doors only to be met by the Head Waiter telling us the restaurant was now closed. It was then 9.18 pm, on enquiry we discovered they had closed at 9.10. Bitterly disappointed, starving and utterly incredulous at the idea of closing in such a random way, we made our way to the café. Here we found the chefs in the process of tidying up as they closed in three minutes! We just had to have whatever was there which manifested itself as the dregs of some dire potage made principally of fat and ashes which had no business being on a French ship in the first place. If we needed a last straw we now had it – by the bale load. John could eat it, he’s from Yorkshire as I said, but there was no way I could. So it was a bag of nuts, some of the essential gin supplies, a walk on deck and then bed on the last day of our holiday.
The wait at the lights.
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katyotter
Registered user
More pics and a post script tomorrow, then "That's all folks"
katyotter
Registered user
A closed French food restaurant when you've been subjected to Spanish
, nothing worse
, nothing worse
katyotter
Registered user
katyotter
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katyotter
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katyotter
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katyotter
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