I tried thinking positively as I left the car deck and went upstairs. The bike is still rideable after all. My pride may be hurt but it is time to put what happened behind me. I could still ride to Cadiz tomorrow. There I would find a bike shop and have a new wheel built.

I had planned on getting something to eat during the sailing. There is the one cafeteria and as the sailing is not much more than an hour, there is nothing substantial on offer, just snacks. Croissantss and mini pizzas. I have one of either plus a coffee. The sign at the cash desk says "Euros Only Excepted", so I won't get using the dirhams I've leftover. Instead my small few pieces come to a whopping eight euros.

I take a seat and wait for them to warm the pizza. The backpacker couple across from me have the right idea, occasionally taking nibbles from a supermarket bag as they play cards.

I ride off the ferry into strong crosswind pushing me sideway across the quay. Then follow the line of disembarking cars into the shelter of a wall to where the police are checking passports. The rear-wheel is making a horrible squeak each time the buckled rim meets the brake-pad. So I stop and undo the rear-brake calibre, as I'm waved to the front of the line.

"Mucho viento!" comments the young police officer on the weather. He takes my passport and casually flicks through the pages commenting on the stamps "Arhen-tina, Chi-le....." before closing it, handing it back and waving me on.

Riding the short distance from the ferry port into town with the wheel now un-noticeable, I'm at a lost as it is eleven o'clock in the evening and it won't be easy finding a hotel at this time, never mind a cheap one. I pause at a sign for a hostel. Then to the side see sat on a bench a guy with a great big backpack I thought I saw on the ferry. I thought if anyone knows where to stay tonight he will. So I push my bike over and introduce myself.

Slung to the side of his backpack which rests on the ground is one of those bicycle wheel instant popup tents. He is a man of hard to determine age as his face is well weatherworn, has long grey hair in a ponytail and pointy long grey beard. I'm bad at remembering names, but in talking, he is Spanish and speaks no English. He tells me he is a pilgrim. Been to Santiago and is now continuing a walk round Spain.

Across a wooden fence behind the bench is a children's playground and climbing up and looking across I mention it may be a possible place to camp provided we're gone first thing in the morning. He agrees, but says he will go and ask at a bar to the side and see if it is okay. The man at the bar who is taking in tables for the night says the police would perhaps disturb us during the night, but suggests camping in a small car park and takes up a town plan and shows us where it is, saying it is only five minutes walk.

The car park when we get there is down steps and just hidden from the frontal window view of a housing block by an embankment. There is also a high wall along one side providing a degree of shelter from the strong wind.

He has his popup tent up in an instant and backpack and himself inside and I hear a winding noise, while struggling to put up mine against the wind. With the poles in place he comes out to my aid. The noise is a wind-up torch and he shines it so I can better see what I'm doing. With compression of the poles I inflate the tent and he quickly grabs hold of it to prevent take off and the tent tumbling across the car park while I pile the panniers inside as anchorage, then tie the tent to a low breeze block wall at the bottom of the embankment.

He offers me some of his can of tuna and bread but I decline as the pizza on the ferry although small was enough for supper. Then I leave him to wind up his torch and eat and get into my tent for a night of the wind bellowing in the tent. I think if it wasn't for my bodyweight the tent wouldn't stay firm on the concrete.

I eventually sleep. The morning is just as stormy as I look out at the dying streetlights. He has decamped before me and with a tug lifts the heavy backpack up on his back and straightens up. "Hoy aqua. Lluvia" he points at the spots of rain wetting the concrete, then shakes my hand and sets off.

The rain is just an isolated few spots and a threatening vale of midnight blue off along the coast to the east as I ride off out of the car park forgoing the steps we entered by. I follow a promenade around to the street leading uphill from the seafront and there stop at one of the many cafés for a coffee and croissant. The breakfast time TV shows a plaza full of people under a sea of umbrellas in a rain soaked Barcelona. Something to do with Catalonian autonomy in the north east.

I ride up the street and turn right at the top and struggle into strong headwind. I consoled myself that once on the highway I would be cycling west and most likely have a tailwind. The sky looks foul ahead. Like south west Iceland on a usual windy day. Turning a bend a familiar blue and yellow Lidl sign comes into view. I need to stop at a supermarket anyway and it will perhaps be raining when I come out.

As I lock the bike by the shopping trolleys, a big tour bus pulls in to the car park and disgorges its mainly middleaged American holiday-makers. Inside I delight in the language. "I cain't find the big nut cookies" says a big man with a tinged grey beard and curls either side of a bald head.

It has remained dry when I come back out even though it seems it should rain soon. The sky a windy murky dirty grey. And out from the shelter of the front of the supermarket I'm back into strong headwind, but it is only a little further until I come to a triangle with Algercira and Malaga straight on, Cadiz sharp left and as expected, turning onto N340, I've a tailwind.

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It is ninety-seven kilometres to Cadiz according to the sign. Less than I expected and N340 is a good divided highway for part of the way before going to single carriageway with a wide shoulder to ride upon, then becomes a service road for motorway further on. The countryside is thankfully gently undulating and it remains a grey but dry day.

I loose the N340 riding through the streets of Chiclana De La Frontera, the first of a couple of large towns leading to Cadiz and it seems the only way on is the Autovia, the motorway which is legal to cycle upon as there aren't any "No Cycling" signs saying otherwise.

I carefully cross the exit for San Fernando, then the interchange for Seville. The rest of the way to Cadiz is upon a long split of land with sea either side where I'm counting down kilometres from ten on the marker boards at the side, such is the tired jelly feel in my legs. It will be good to spend some time off in the city. Zero doesn't come too quickly at a roundabout and the way ahead is along a commercial thoroughfare where I spot a bakery and stop for coffee.

The lady in the tourist office is inpatient to close for the day as it is gone six, but hands me a printout with a table of hostels and hotels with number of rooms and prices from about thirty euros upwards. I won't be staying in Cadiz long at these prices. Then crossing the main plaza I see a small circular information booth. I ask the lady inside, is there any backpackers hostel here in Cadiz. Yes. Just along that street there. She points at a narrow street off the plaza opposite. When I get there, the price is an affordable seventeen euros per night including breakfast.