John had a plan. He wanted us to get as far beyond Burgos as possible before looking for somewhere for the night with the result of a shorter journey the next day. To achieve this he picked what looked like a small town some 20 miles beyond Burgos in the direction of Los Picos. I can’t remember what it was called, I do remember that it seemed quite a bit further than 20 miles and that when we located it – tired, aching, cold and hungry - it seemed to be some sort of ghost town, absolutely deserted and shut up, if the wind had been operating on any sort of normal basis there would have been tumbleweed wafting lazily down the main street. As it was nothing so flimsy could have survived the howling gale in anything other than fragments. What this town definitely did not have, apart from inhabitants, was any sort of overnight accommodation – or, if they did, they were keeping very quiet about it. Another obvious thing about the place was that it was miles from anywhere else. On asking the Sat Navs they were confident of the nearest hotel some 12 miles away, at least this was heading onwards and not retracing our steps ( a bad thing psychologically) so we followed the directions hopefully.
We were taken back to the main road we had left, and which we had decided on as our best route to Los Picos, across it and away into empty, rain-lashed countryside. After some distance we met another main road and were sent left on this one, it was the Santander road and so still going where we wanted. The hotel we were heading for was really hard to find and shouldn’t have been, the village it was in was just either side of the climbing, winding road we were travelling, the Sat Nav said it was just there on the left and then – very patiently – that we had somehow managed to pass it and it had better recalculate. A U turn and a careful search revealed a building stripped of hotel signs and other such regalia and bearing, instead, a large banner saying ‘Se Vende’ and giving us a helpful phone number. Even with our lack of Spanish we got the general idea. Tired, aching from constant hanging on, freezing cold, dispirited and worried about how late it was getting we carried on to the next suggestion on the Sat Navs. The next one was five empty miles further and very easy to find; we saw the ‘Se Vende’ sign from quite a distance. And the next. And the next. In fact, anyone in the market for a hotel in a completely abandoned region of Northern Spain this is the place to come, there is a huge selection. We turned the Sat Navs off, there was only one road anyway and we were on it.
At last, having passed and re-passed the exhaustion stage some miles back, we came to a village called Cilleruelo de Bezana and there, on our left was the Hostal El Escudo with what looked like lights on, a bit hard to be certain under black skies and in the pouring rain. The temperature was 4 degrees C. We went in and using the usual hand signal stuff, plus the girl behind the bar did have a little bit of English as well, we discovered that yes, they had a room and would we like a garage out of the rain for the bikes? We were rescued! The garage turned out to be a barn across the road where the bikes nestled either side of some large agricultural machine, the huge doors were locked and they were left safe and dry. Our room was 1940s basic in style but gloriously welcome, we had to share with lots of ants – we didn’t care – the electric sockets didn’t work – we didn’t care – the restaurant didn’t open until 8.30 – we cared, we were ravenous. We were the only people staying and the only ones likely to eat there that evening we thought, but the time was unalterable so we had nearly two hours to wait. We consoled ourselves with several, utterly delightful beers and conversed with the girl who spoke a little English. It turned out that she was from Bulgaria, back home we had just got a new dentist who was a Bulgarian and John attempted to tell her this fascinating fact but, apparently, only managed to convey his urgent and immediate need for a dentist. She started drawing a helpful street map and seemed to be offering to telephone them to alert them of this emergency. It took John some time to reassure her that he didn’t actually need a dentist, neither then nor the next day, and I can only imagine she still wonders why this mad foreigner had started going on about them in the first place then.
Long awaited supper started with Russian Salad – this was a mountain of cream coloured goo with odd bits of coloured stuff and chunks of potato. It came unadorned, straight from a tin and we were given a small mountain of it each. This was followed by some sort of dish of meat chunks sitting in oil and covered in more oil with a side serving of oil already added, there were no vegetables. I don’t know what the meat was, some cut of beef I think, something pretty fatty in its own right without a doubt. Essential gin supplies in our room cheered our taste buds up and we certainly slept well. The next day was the last leg to the hotel in Arenas De Cabrioles, it was only about 80 miles as well – easy peasy – and the weather had to be better, it couldn’t honestly be any worse unless it tipped it down with snow.
Pics of El Escudo, our room and just over the road post-rescue.
, we could enjoy a beer
and a pleasant chat. Unfortunately it is not to be on this occasion as I'm writing this from a fairly chilly Devon, having survived the vile weather and returned from the trip on 6th June. I hope you're enjoying better temperatures than us.
what a muppet I am! We had great weather, sorry to rub it in, low 20sC and we had a great ride out of nearly 100 miles that James recommended - Rocamadour, Gourdon, Domme, Sarlat, Souillac, La Cave and back.
. A little bit more to come yet
