Final Stretch of the Big Portugal Adventure
From the Cantabrian Highway to the M5 ...............
As I took Toby out for his early-morning walk in the still dark, a young pilgrim was setting off on her own, laden with an enormous backpack. Walking the Camino had been a long-held wish of mine; but as I wished her luck, I was glad that now I was heading off in George and not trudging along. But before we set off, we walked a short way up the hill where the signpost told me that I was actually walking on the famous Camino.
As we passed Leon, we suddenly found ourselves travelling through magnificent mountain scenery, all part of the Cordillera Cantabrica. Sweeping viaducts traversed green valleys far below us, where herds of cows were peacefully grazing. As we headed further north, the green hills became vast rocky monoliths – awe-inspiring and breathtaking. My spirits soared and I longed to have the time – and let’s admit it, the courage – to take the narrower roads into the heart of these amazing mountains, the Picos de Europe. But this highway was stunning enough for now. Warning signs to take precautions as this was a Mountain Highway alarmed me a bit, as did the sign saying we were starting a descent of five km. But even more alarming was a sign I spotted, as I entered one of the many tunnels passing through the rocky mountains, saying the tunnel was called Negron, the black one, and was over 4000 metres long. Four kilometres of claustrophobic tunnel! I took a deep breath and told myself it just had to be done.
Signs along the highway told me I was travelling on the Ruta de la Plata (Silver Route). It turned out this is an ancient commercial and pilgrimage path, existing since Roman times, that crosses the west of Spain from north to south, linking Gijon with Seville and passing through Leon, Zamora and Salamanca. It’s used by some pilgrims as an alternative to the French route as a way to Santiago de Compostela.
Soon we’d reached the north coast and were travelling again along the beautiful Cantabrian Highway, with the mountains on one side and glimpses of sea on the other. As I realised we were in good time for the ferry, when I saw a sign to Comillas I took a sudden decision to turn off towards this village on the coast, and let Toby have a run on the beach before we boarded the ferry. But not having had time to put it into Google Maps, I was reliant on sign-posts – which at a crucial moment on a big roundabout no longer seemed to mention Comillas. I dived down a random turning, hoping it was going in the direction of the coast; but as the twisty road descended further and further, ending up at a village called something about La Virgen, I lost my nerve. I remembered a time, decades ago, when for some unknown reason I’d decided to take my three small children into a green bushy maze - while we were en route to an airport to catch a plane! Looking for Comillas would be a crazy reason to miss the ferry; so deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, I gave up and rejoined the highway to Santander.
I still had to negotiate finding the ferry port, which Google Maps and some big yellow signs helped me to do; and soon, with all documents checked and in order, I was sitting in a café having a cup of tea. And congratulating myself: I’d made it! I’d braved the challenge of this solo trip to the Iberian Peninsula, and some 2000 miles later, I was nearly home. The sea was looking quite calm, and we’d hopefully avoided the storm. Toby had had his tranquilliser pills and was already struggling to keep his eyes open, so I was prepared to enjoy the 24 hour crossing.
Which all went well in the end: Toby accepted the kennel without too much fuss, the sun shone the next day and as I lazed in a chair reading a book and soaking up the sunshine, it felt more like a cruise than a regular ferry crossing.
But arriving back in the UK was a shock to the system. First of all the main highway leading to the M5, the Devon Expressway, announced there was a closure, and Google Maps diverted me down the twistiest, steepest, narrowest lanes imaginable. After successfully negotiating those 2000 Iberian miles, was I going to be defeated by Devon lanes? So I pushed George on, with hedgerows hitting him on both sides, and ignoring the beeps of the parking system. Finally we reached the M5 – and at 6 pm on a drizzly Thursday evening, this was the big shock to the system. After the wide, well-maintained and incredibly quiet motorways I’d travelled across Spain and Portugal, this was a nightmare of constant traffic in both directions on all three lanes, bollards all over the place and such a jumble of road signs in a variety of colours that I wondered how any foreigner could make head or tail of. Cantabrian Highway, where are you?!
But eventually we made it. I’m back home, George is unloaded and cleaned out – and after a good night’s sleep (there is no doubt that it’s always good to be back on one’s own bed), with adrenalin still running high and maps scattered around me, I’m wondering – where next? Now that I’ve taken that first step, Laozi’s first step of 1000 miles into the Big Portugal Adventure, I feel I’ve broken through the anxiety barrier. I’ve discovered – well, I did it! I left and I’ve returned. And I loved it. If you can’t solve something, there is usually someone around who can and is willing to help. So hopefully the first step of the next Big Adventure will be with a happier ratio of anxiety to excitement.
I’ve just been reading about the Albanian mountains; they might be a step too far – but who knows? Watch this space!