Camino By Bike - part 2

This is part two of my two part piece on the Santiago de Compostela. If you haven't already check out part one.

Santiago de Compostela is the capital of the Galicia region in Spain. You get a sense of history and culture when walking its narrow and winding streets. Outside the cathedral the crowds are gathered to marvel at its spectacle. Those who have walked the Camino lay in the sun with their boots kicked off - a task accomplished. Tourists snap pictures of gothic arches and stained glass windows. Inside the organ stretches out to the heavens with pipes angled horizontally like cannons ready to fire. The dull sound of the chants as the people gathered for mass. We joined a queue to pass behind the altar where you can embrace the apostle (hug a bejewelled statue), an old clergyman sat in the corner keeping a watchful eye. From this position you can see over the congregation gathering below and marvel and the gilded decorations.

We sat in among the crowds below for some time breathing in the spectacle that the church affords, resting our aching limbs and calming ourselves from the intense riding of the day. When the priest started their communion it was time for us to beat a hasty retreat, Alan beaming having achieved his goal of visiting the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela. Having achieved mine by merely riding off the boat in Calais this left Martin and his thirst for Port at the mouth of the river Douro.

We were now riding the Camino backwards along the Portuguese stretch to where it originates in Porto. As we escaped Spain the scorching heat of the Portuguese summer beat down on us. The air was heavy, filled with the smell of the wildfires burning on the hills at the sides of the motorway. We pressed on through toll roads to make distance and give us a chance to catch our breath in the city.

Throughout our time in Spain the roads had been clear and free of traffic. I’ve never travelled on such perfect roads with so few other vehicles. You can ride for miles through dusty desert, sleeping towns, coastal passes and mountain peaks and rarely have to consider “mirror, signal, maneuver.” Such is the blessing of riding in northern Spain. Entering into Porto was a different game altogether.

We’d stopped at a service station to plan our attack. My Portuguese phrasebook in hand we’d spoken to the attendant and she’d offered us the best regions in which to stay. Us having no clue of the scale or population of Porto and fresh from peaceful Spanish coastal towns we duly set off following the directions provided. As we got closer to Porto, and upon realising the time difference between the UK and Portugal (there isn’t one, but there is an hour difference for Spain). We quickly realised we were hitting town at rush hour. Suddenly our sleepy, hot motorway was packed with vehicles rushing here and there in the hustle of city living. Our annual retreat had collided with their daily commute and we were not welcome, nor seen.

“Martin watch that car merging on your right! On your right! Martin MOVE!”Thank whatever deity you choose for our headsets working well at that time, but this was one instance in many. Porto, it quickly became apparent, at peak time is one huge traffic jam and we were right in the middle of it. The directions we had received at the service station led us into the centre of the cultural district and to make matters worse it was a public holiday. We pulled the bikes over outside a trendy bar. Roast coffee grounds, hipster beards and a selection box of scooters outside set the tone of our cultural quarter diversion perfectly. We enquired within whether they knew of any local accommodation, but they did not. Tired, hot and in desperate need of a place to stay Alan resigned himself to ordering us a round of beers while I opened my phrase book and searched the internet for places to crash.

“Olà, fala inglês?” I enquired automatically on every connection. An obliging “yes” or “a little” always returned. What never did return was a vacant room and a place to park our bikes. We were in too deep, too far into people territory and off the “off the beaten track” track we’d been following for accommodation so far. Finally, after many calls and at the dying end of my phone battery we arranged two nights in a single bed apartment with accompanying garage. Our hosts were very accommodating considering the lateness of our reservation and, aside from sharing the one bedroom with Alan and Martin, two of the most prolific snorers (my earplugs stayed in that night) we had an excellent stay in their accommodation.

From the valley side in-front of the Cathedral in Porto you can see over to the breweries all congregated on the slopes at the mouth of the river Douro. The more you look, the more names appear to you: Taylors, Cockburns, Offley, Dow’s - all collected here for your sensory delight and intoxication. We descended the valley and leaving the tourist area found a small local bar on the edge of the river. We each ordered a glass of the finest Port they had available. In the heat of the day the smooth, sweet, cool liquid served a delight in flavour and a perfect culmination to our trip. And so, at 11am, on the sunny banks of the river Douro I had completed my first big trip, Alan had ridden the Camino and Martin sipped his first taste of port wine for the day.