Spain...

Beware, small yappy dogs...


The following night I was in Spain and the weather improved. I sat on the beach near my campsite and stared up at the stars. The scent of the sea mingled with that of the orange grove behind me. Out at sea, in the darkness, the navigation lights of dozens of boats winked like a string of cheap Christmas lights, green, red and orange. Above me Orion, one of the two constellations I can recognise, pointed with his sword into the blackness to Africa. Somewhere over my shoulder I knew the North star would be shining but I didn’t turn to look.

Spain was as ruggedly beautiful as I remembered. Arid mountains seem to rise up, seemingly at random, amongst the plains of vine and fruit tree plantations. The remains of moorish forts scatter the landscape like broken teeth on mountainous gums. The dust makes my throat hoarse and chaps my lips.
Such is the landscape the Spanish drivers habit of not bothering to pull fully out into the next lane when over taking a bike and his assumption that the stopping distance of a VW Golf at 140km/h is six feet do little to dampen my enthusiasm.

Eventually, on my last full day in Spain, I reach the Sierra Nevada. The road climbs over them and suddenly I am no longer in a warm Mediterranean environment. It’s freezing and I haven’t layered up properly. There is snow by the side of the road! Soon I’m riding through a landscape I’d associate with a Canadian winter, not the south of Spain! It starts snowing and I’m laughing out loud in my helmet, trying not to let my violent shivers affect my control of the bike. ‘Fantastic!’ I think, this is what adventure’s all about. Giving you what you least expect and showing you the world is full of surprises! The surrounding mountains are wild and unspoilt and for the first time on the trip I really don’t mind the pain of the cold in my hands and feet.

So, now I’m in Morocco. And , what a surprise, it’s cold, windy and wet! But I’m heading straight for the Sahara, hopefully it’ll be a little warmer there!