I needed to sharpen my wits to avoid any early morning mishaps on loose, chalky rocks as I left the hotel grounds. I also need to revert to a closet sized room with articulated lorries backing up outside before I get too accustomed to all this finery. I’ll be wanting sheepskin padding for the seat on the bike next.

 

Day 7 Hellin to Calatrava

 

I stuck with the faster A-30 instead of the more winding A-301 for the first stage of my day’s run. I crossed from Castile de Mancha region into Murcia just before turning right on the RM-714 and continued towards Lorca on this quieter road. Tropical palms dot the roadside and escarpments to the right track your journey for several miles, before petering out and starting a new one. The surrounding white, clay subsoil may be broken, brick-sized and brittle but there’s plenty of cultivation to remind you that civilisation is never far away. I never did encounter those black mountains close up. It’s surprisingly flat and perfect for riding, there’s no traffic to speak of and the bends just unfurl as you lean gracefully without blipping the throttle. To get around Caravaca de la Cruz I joined the RM- 15 for Murcia. It’s a dual carriage way that ends shortly after the southern exit for Caravaca. The road begins to climb up into the hills and returns to the lovely, easy, laid back ride I was enjoying before the suburban interruption.

As I have found on all routes, there are plenty of fuel stations and cafes. I never did let my gauge light come on before stopping for a refill however. I’m on the RM-711 now, it changes its reference without warning. I ride through a couple of small towns where they have overhead lights that stay red until you get within 10 yards and then change for go. At first glance they have no other purpose than to break your rhythm. But they usually reveal a concealed road on one side or the other. I had to pull to a stop at one but the light remained red. A lorry screeched up behind me and blasted his horn. I saw him in my wing mirror waving me to ignore it. As I let the clutch out the light changed anyway. But I’ve followed cars that just ignored the red and ploughed on through, so I’m not quite certain of the etiquette. I’ll stick to obeying, unless a juggernaut is hurtling up behind me.

The sun was getting a bit sure of itself again and blasting heat from all filaments. Time for a pit stop. The Asador Murciano restaurant had placed itself in exactly the right spot. I sat outside in the shade. The coffee was good and the bottled water refreshed the necessary parts as I took in the expansive views to the distant hills.

A mile farther along is the tiny town of La Paca. Sunday bikers had flocked here to congregate at the cafes on the street. Families in their Sunday best had congregated outside the church. Once clear of the town I upped into fourth and then fifth gear and resumed the rhythm of the ride. In less than 20 miles I was at Lorca and looking for the road to Peurto Lumbrreras. It’s a busy road and therefore, time to increase concentration. I have entered the province of Andalucia. This is a clue that translates as, ‘It is going to get much hotter’. The town of Vera comes and goes and I stayed on the E-15 or A-7 as it also likes to be called, until the A-340 road and the sign for Sorbas. I had to keep my eyes open for the turning. It had gotten so hot that my GPS kept switching itself off. Even my phone revolted and warned me when I tried to use it to check the mapping. The device was burning my fingers like a hot plate. I turned it off and burned my nipple when I put it back inside my breast pocket.

This was becoming a bit unpleasant. I’d get my road atlas out, if I didn’t think the paper would spontaneously combust in this blistering heat. I kept checking to see if I had my integral sun visor down. It was so bright I needed sunglasses and my sun visor. I passed through a couple of long tunnels which didn’t help with re-focussing before I finally clocked the turning for Sorbas. I want off this lava flow called the A-7.

This A-340 road is way more entertaining as it climbs up between the hills, leaving the valleys way below. There are occasional olive groves and tiny plots of vines but otherwise it’s quite barren up here and it was quite some while before we crested. I’m heading inland now. I’m going to meet those black mountains after all.

Vera was only 5 miles from the coast, I will not be that close again until I’m back at the Atlantic. As I rode through Sorbas, I passed a café where a large gang of leather and sleeveless denim clad Hell’s Angels had gathered. That takes me back to the early 1970’s. They didn’t die out, they all moved to Andalucia. This road leads all the way to the Circuit de Almeria. I pull into the parking area and shelter the bike under a palm tree. I secured my luggage with a chain and stood in the pit lane to watch guys and maybe girls blasting Fireblades and R1’s around this lovely track.

This is the hottest and driest race circuit in Europe, right up here in the Tabernas desert. I can feel it. I’m still wearing my heavy armoured jacket. There are bikes in all the pit boxes, being tuned and polished. It’s a track day and the machines are roaring down the home straight faster than I can capture with my camera. It is a terrific circuit and also the home of Tito Rabat, the MotoGP rider who practices daily when he’s around. MotoGP and even BSB teams use it for testing, though I don’t think it will be of help much on the Knock Hill leg of the BSB calendar. I was told that the layout is shaped like the boundary lines of Almeria region. It looks to me like the silhouette of someone reclining on a sunbed. The locals are very proud of their track and quite rightly so. It’s another example of just how seriously the Spanish take their Motorcycle racing.

I lingered for quite a while as I’ve only a few miles more to go to reach my ‘habitacion’ for the night. I’m staying in Calatrava which is just before Tabernas about 8 miles away. The name, conjures up the Calatrava watches made by Patek Philippe, the value of which are equal to a king’s ransom but the Hostel Calatrava is a transport café offering overnight accommodation. Like a cheap watch, it does exactly the same thing as it’s more expensive counterparts. The room was fine, if fusty, I had a great view of the coal black hills to the north, a comfortable bed and enough room to swing a bungee strap. My bike was locked safely away around the back of the complex, which was reassuring. Before sunset I took a walk down a lane that lead to the barren hills. I passed lots of bungalows, few inhabited, some unoccupied and many falling into disrepair. They were lovely homes once, with swimming pool, water well, trellised patios and in one case a Roman style courtyard complete with statues. Rusty fencing and giant padlocks restricted human access but nature was slowly claiming back her terrain. The décor in the restaurant was quite smart and the food was good. The waiter was a nice lad called Juan and because I was the only diner, he was happy to linger and practice his English as we talked about bikes, racing, Tito Rabat and his student days spent in London.

As I settled in my bed for the night, I reflected on yet another brilliant day’s riding. The heat was something else. I’ve seen my phone shut down but not the GPS. It’s a good job my 52-point checklist included several navigational aids. I’ve ridden 180 miles today. My lodging, including food and drinks, set me back £32. Cheap as chips and nothing was greasy. Tomorrow I’m going somewhere, not too far, from here that’s completely different from anywhere I’ve been so far and more than mildly amusing. ‘Yee Haa’. I can’t wait.

 

Day 8 Calatrava to Antequera

 

Saddled up, I’m sure my bike snorted like a stallion as I started the engine and headed off like the Lone Ranger in search of Tonto. My alluding to good old Western movie terminology may be contrived but not misplaced this morning. I’m heading out of town and into the Sierra Nevada in search of Fort Bravo, Tombstone and a Native North American Indian reservation. It’s all of five miles away from the town of Tabernas.

 

The Billboard at the entrance is so large a blind gunman with the shakes couldn’t fail to hit it. The 1 kilometre long, horrible dirt road, with potholes, ruts and rocks bigger than Boulder City, gave me the shakes, as the bike snaked all the way up to the customs border entrance. It was a little after sunrise as I paid my 20€, entrance fee. “Thar’s still bandits in them thar hills”. I parked up at a wooden cross beam that just asked for leather reins to be slung over. I had to make do with kicking the side stand down and leaving it in gear. I’m now standing in a mock Western cowboy town which was used for filming Spaghetti Westerns until the 1980’s. The actors have all be run out of town and now it’s a tourist trap. Not all the actors have gone, of course, only the Hollywood hombres. Several guys, dressed up in chaps, Stetsons, cowboy boots and carrying guns in holsters were leading horses from the stables to the fields. Hardly any other tourists were here yet. I had the place all to myself. I wandered around snapping at everything. The mountainous backdrop is perfect and the clapperboard buildings and duck board sidewalks took me right into the heart of what we old uns’ all saw in the movies throughout our childhood.

I’ve been to cities where real wars were raged: Berlin, St Petersburg and Albert in Picardy. Many buildings that survived bombardment still show the scars of ballistics. As an idiot, my mind was telling me I should be seeing splinter fragments, bullet casings and shotgun holes in all these buildings. I recall John Wayne and Paul Newman and all the other tough guys firing endless bullets from a six gun without reloading from these very buildings. The bad guys in black hats falling out of windows and off rooftops. I expected to see ropes from all the hangings in the barns and hay lofts. But of course, there were none. Brains play tricks sometimes.

Outside the saloon were two women in tourist attire having a smoke. Inside, a posse of cleaners and bar staff were preparing the place for the day’s visitors. It was so cool just wandering about. During the day, the ‘actors’ carry out gunfights and give buggy rides to the glee of the punters. I’m just happy spending an hour and then getting back on my, err, steed and moving out before sunset to a little house on the prairie. There’s no Bonanza in hanging about to watch grown-ups play cowboys and Indians. The Fort itself is pretty basic but with the right camera angle it can look as impressive as any cavalry charge would on the five, somewhat pathetic, teepees that are camped on the next ridge. Time to hit the trail and quit the puns.

I rode away worrying about getting bucked off like a wrangler on a bronco (shut up Eddy) or a puncture due to the horrible track and was pleased to reach the road unscathed. There are at least two other similar western attractions in the vicinity with much the same theme. Maybe another day eh? But it was fun to go see the place.

I headed on to towards Guadix. This is a good road and the miles were eaten up quickly. I arrived in the town before midday and needed coffee and a snack. Everyone around me was eating churros so I ordered the same. The waiter seemed surprised when I asked for one. They are quite large but maybe I should order two. No, I stuck with one. ‘Uno’? ‘Sie, Uno’. He brought me seven. Ordering two would have meant me facing fourteen. I gorged and ate four. They were good. I was happy to move on to Grenada but sitting here now writing this up I know I should have researched further on this town. I targeted Guadix for the route through to Grenada to avoid motorways. It would have been a stopping point for the night if I had kept to the schedule I’d sketched out earlier in my planning. But I didn’t think Guadix had anything interesting to offer over Tabernas and Fort Bravo.

I’ve now discovered that Guadix has a bit of history that goes much further back in time than movies made in the 1980’s. It has more than 2,000 habitable dwellings that date back to Neanderthal times. In fact, there are other towns in these mountains with cave dwellings and the inhabitants don’t mind being referred to as Troglodytes. You can even buy one for yourself.

It just helps to know they exist, before you ride off never to return. I’m kicking myself. One thing this trip has taught me is that there are surprises all across this amazing country. It’s probably the same for every other country for that matter. I’ve stumbled on so many impressive features and places on this trip and found so many more when cross referencing my notes since I returned home.

Oblivious of my folly, I carried on towards the awkward looking by-pass I need, to avoid entering the city of Grenada. I’m cutting through Grenada Province now, which roughly translates as, ‘this bit is hotter still mate’.

The A-92 takes me virtually all the way to Antequera. I’ve just booked a hotel there and am now a day ahead of my schedule. I had included a few rest days during the tour but I’m enjoying the riding so much I’m adding miles each day where I haven’t already pre-booked a room. It will leave me with a shorter ride tomorrow because I have something special planned. After that, I have a pre-booked stay less than 20 miles beyond. Right now, I’ve just got to get up and over these mountains and through the outskirts of Grenada. We climb steadily to as much as 1,300 metres. The air is cooler and the views across to scattered pueblos on surrounding summits never ceases to amaze me. The view down into valleys at toy town sized villages is butterfly time in the tummy. They look like clumps of mushrooms along the forest floor. I’m still coming to terms with the lorries that race along and the cars that do double my speed. The wind was picking up today and I was beginning to look forward to getting to lower altitudes, until it actually happened. Coming out of a wide channel on the summit of the mountain is breathtaking as the city of Grenada comes into view. I now know what airline pilots see from the cockpit when they dip below the clouds. My downward projection was swift, with sharpish bends and extra lanes accompanied by a rise in temperature that felt like walking into in a sauna wearing a duffle coat. Weather reports were quoting 40 degrees Celsius on most days.

The descent to a mere 400 metres as we merged with heavy traffic from the left and the right just added to the attack on the senses. There’s a lot of industry here: Mostly quarries and heavy machinery. I spotted trucks carrying house sized cubes of marble as well as high sided trailers loaded down with aggregates. The combination of thundering juggernauts and suicidal salesmen in Mercs, Beamers and Audis make it feel like you’ve poked a hornets’ nest, and they’re all pretty angry about it. I know it’s going to be hot because the road signs offer directions to Cadiz, Seville, Cordoba and Malaga. That’s like having heat settings on an oven instead of numbers. In disgust, my sat-nav switched itself off again. Maybe I should smother it in Factor 50 in the mornings.

The road remained hectic all the way through to the turning for Grenada Airport. I took the notion that, the faster I went, the quicker I would be safely away from this chaos. It worked. The bike’s engine was making up for any hot wind that was missing my ankles. I felt like I was riding with a dozen hair dryers pointing at every part of my body.

I think it was when I reached the slip road for Fuensanta that the traffic eased and I could breathe out. All those empty roads I’ve travelled on since Los Arcos have turned me into a softie.

The rest of the journey was much more relaxing, I spotted the turning for the A-7282 without the help of my sat-nav and pulled into a petrol station at the roundabout. Next door is a very nice café that looks more like a private country house. I parked the bike under an awning and strolled down to sit at one of the tables in the walled off garden. I had a wonderful lunch of tapas with appropriate refreshments, thankful that I had gotten through the turmoil of Grenada’s outer reaches and ready for the last stint to my next hotel. The road from here was great, all the way to my hotel 7 miles away.

I spent the rest of the day close to the hotel. It has a restaurant and a nice bar, quite smart décor and good sized, well furnished rooms. It’s more suited for business guests and is a bit of a walk from the old city. I didn’t fancy dining in the hotel and the only other eatery within walking distance was a fast food burger outlet. I wasn’t overly hungry and wanted an early night anyway. It was gone six o’clock but the heat was still oppressive. I changed into tee shirt and shorts and went to explore the vicinity on foot. I stepped over a single line rail track where the road across was chained and padlocked on both sides. Beyond was a cluster of about ten houses and a hangar sized garage. What surprised me was, there was no other road out of there. I had hoped it was a short cut into town. It led nowhere. It just stopped at some bushes. I had to turn back. How very strange that these obviously, occupied and well-maintained homes had such a restrictive access.

Walking into town was a non-starter, I could see it way up on the hill. It would take me 45 minutes at least along this busy suburban road. I would melt. I slinked back to my room, carrying a bag of burger mush and fries. My day ended on a bit of an off-key note really. I had crammed a lot in over the 150-mile route but the mixture of the hectic stage of getting around Grenada, the heat refusing to abate and the rather sad ending with a garbage meal eaten in my room of a really lovely hotel took some of the euphoria away. The hotel Lozano set me back just £35 plus breakfast and a few refreshments, so it was still a big success on the pocket. I’m not complaining. Tomorrow will be totally self-indulgent. I’m only 17 miles from my next stopover, what will take up a good part of the day should have me howling at the moon.

Next: Spain by Motorcycle Pt. 5

Tags: Eddy Smith, Motorcycle Routes Spain, Motorcycle Touring, Motorcycle Touring Spain