To the Spanish border

April 7, 2012

ferry from Caminha to A Garda

The sailors who journeyed up to the icy waters in the Gil Eannes - it doubled as an icebreaker - must gave been as tough as old boots. Although I have a plug-in electric oil-filled radiator in my bedroom/cabin, the steel floored-and-walled bathroom don't and with the hot water being just a tad more than tepid, it's a particularly quick shower for me.

Rain fell during the night. It's hardly a surprise, but I hadn't covered my seat, so it's soggy.

The hostel does't do breakfast, so I pop back to the place where I had a sandwich yesterday - a modern, all-glass establishment that fronts the water and which has wifi that works. Still yet to open up, I sit outside and hope the sun will dry the seat by the time I've had a toasted sandwich and a coffee.

A couple of British backpackers are wandering about and come to have a chat. They're walking the Portugal part of the pilgrim trail and like me, they've been disappointed with their experience. Some of their route was actually on a highway, and they comment that the cars were fast. Tell me about it.

I follow signs for Valenca out of Viana - it's going to be more of the N 13. Near the edge of town is a crowd, gathered around watching something burn; it's an effigy strung up in a tree, the metal framework containing fireworks that go off with a very loud bang as I'm getting my camera out of the saddlebag. With it being Easter weekend, the tourism office told me about a procession the night before and this must be some related Catholic ritual.

It's nice to find a bike path beside the N 13. It isn't signposted as such, but that's what it seems to be. I ride along it until it fades away into bumpy dirt.

There's a decent shoulder to ride along on the 13. It isn't far to Valenca, around 40 km or so, then I cross into Spain and ride east, following the valley of the Rio Minho.

When I get to Montedor, only a dozen kilometers into the day, it seems like a good idea to turn off and see where a side road leads. It's cobbled, as they tend to be, but then the square blocks become rocks, laid flat but pretty bumpy.

It takes me down a cul-de-sac at the end of which are a couple of old windmills, low ones with conical roofs that look very cute. As luck would have it the sun comes out just as I'm taking a snap, after which I retrace my wheel-tracks back to the N 13 and pedal north some more.

The sun vanishes as quickly as it had appeared and it feels chilly so I wear my fleece jacket. A stiff breeze is blowing off the sullen Atlantic and my arm-warmers prevent me from it feeling really cold.

From the N 13, the resort town of Ancora can be seen spread along the coast, way below, and I regret not making the turn to drop down to it, imagining there's a little café near the sea front where I could have had lunch.

Moledo is not far ahead, though, and it's also visible from the wide road, against a backdrop of a cone-shaped mountain that looks volcanic - like Mt Fuji - a dramatic piece of geography in an otherwise flat-ish landscape.

Dropping through the cobbled village, I cross the railway tracks and reach the Atlantic. A few smart restaurants are congregated at the end of the short promenade and I go into the end one and order a toasted sandwich and a Sumol, a Fanta equivalent.

The sky fluctuates from bright to somber and when I leave it makes me wonder if I've made the right decision. There's a good chance it's rain before long and rather than climbing back to the N 13, I take a path that leads into some pine woods. My hope is it'll take me north.

It does.

After about 20 minutes it comes out at the sea, which looks more like a lake, it's so calm.

A boardwalk edges the water and I ride along it, until its arced path eventually meeting the main road. There's now a concrete path to cycle on by the water, so that's what I take instead of pedalling along the busy N 13.

A place called Camina, which does't mean a thing until I look at my Michelin map, fills a junction a mile later. Then a sign for a ferry rings a bell and I can tell that it's possible to reach Spain's most southwestern tip by water, so ride back and find out what the score is.

The ticket seller says something which no doubt means hurry up as it turns out I'm just seconds away from missing the crossing. For a euro the ferry zips me across a few kilometers of sea to reach Camposancas, Spain. A green sign simply states this is Galicia.

It's all happened so fast, I'm flummoxed as to where to head for once off the boat.

Today's ride: 36 km (22 miles)
Total: 1,668 km (1,036 miles)

Rate this entry's writing	Heart	2
Comment on this entry	Comment	0