South South West: Marseille to Cordoba – Originally Published: Cordoba, July 2021

Last sunset in Marseille 

Maybe it’s because I’m Irish. Cold winters, wet summers, the occasional sighting of a pale, watery, semi-mythical sun between brief breaks in the relentless drizzle. Two dry weeks in July – that was a lovely summer, wasn’t it? Or maybe it’s because I’ve been tricked into some romantic notion of a hot wind blowing across a barren sunbaked expanse, of endless days of merciless, inescapable heat. It’s the summer memories of trekking over blistering sand dunes expecting to see Lawrence of Arabia materialise like a mirage over the next burning crest. It’s the childhood journeys driving across the plains of Spain and seeing everything in 35mm with Ennio Morricone on the radio. It’s probably all of this. All I know is that for me, there are few better feelings than turning the key in the ignition, swiping down the visor, and pointing my front wheel south.  

After six moths in Marseille I was desperate for that feeling. And so, saying goodbye to my friend whom I left alone to do battle with the estate agent, I fled the warren of winding city streets and sped towards the motorway. A last glimpse of the Mediterranean through gaps in the olive strewn hills, some wild goats grazing by the roadside, and there ended the French adventure. From here my sights were fixed on the border, only four hours ride away.  

Sunset in Catalonia 

It was about six o’clock when I crossed into Catalonia. After an early start and a frantic morning, I had been tired and hungry and still stressing about the apartment inspection in Marseille. But all of this seemed to stay on the other side of the Pyrenees. As I descended into the warm Catalonian evening I could feel my chest and shoulders relaxing. I still had 200km to ride, but after the busy and tiring motorway from Marseille, the drive was peaceful and calming. The mountains were a blue shimmer of far-off rain in the low sunlight, and the air was clean and smelled of pine. It was heaven. The bike felt equally happy and seemed to drive itself as we twisted our way out of the hills overlooking Vic and the heart of Catalonia opened before us, spread out as far as the horizon.  

Camping in the silence of Parc Natural de Sant Llorenç del Munt i l’Obac 

They were closing up the campsite when I rolled in. I heaved myself from the saddle and stretched my cramping legs and back. I didn’t notice the tanned, white haired gentleman approaching me until in a deep friendly voice I heard “and what can I do for you? This is a beautiful machine”. This was one of the owners of ‘Camping la Tatgera’, an absolutely stunning spot in the red hills on the edge of a national park. I had the place to myself. The friendly gentleman chatted for half an hour as the sun sank in the sky turning the clouds a fiery orange. Camp set up I raced to Navarcles, the nearest town. It was nearing ten o’clock but thankfully in Spain this is still serving hours. They eat late here, a blessing for weary travelers after a day on the road. A startled family of wild boar scampered away from my approaching engine. It was cool in the hills and the shadows were melting into the dusk.  

I hadn’t eaten all day, something the waitress obviously didn’t glean as she took my order looking progressively more worried.  

MM93 Fanclub 

I slept better than I had in weeks and woke energised and excited. Really, the journey was beginning now. After a quick breakfast in Navarcles and some brief chats with curious locals in broken ‘Spanglish’, I hit the road for the first stop – Cervera. Heading west the jagged outline of Montserrat slipped past, and soon I was parked outside the Marc Marquez fanclub in Cervera. Here, in the hometown of the eight-time MotoGP world champion, there is a permanent exhibition in the local museum dedicated to the famous rider. He is sometimes called ‘The Ant of Cervera’ or ‘The thunder of Cervera’. I very much enjoyed wandering around, being so close to the most powerful motorbikes in the world. You can’t help but be impressed. The wall-long cabinet of trophies and medals makes sure of that. It’s true, he’s a bit of an overachiever.  

But then it all went wrong. Pulling into the Repsol garage for petrol I spied not Marc Marquez, but his dad, on the phone, getting his car washed. Such a surreal sight. You see a person on a TV screen every second week in different locations around the world, and then there they are, right in front of you, washing their car. It’s jarring. So that’s my excuse for putting diesel in the bike. Not much of an excuse I suppose, but this is definitely up there as one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. I got a hundred meters from the garage before the BMW suffocated and chugged its last. Bewildered and in denial that I could’ve done such a stupid thing I walked back to the garage, knowing that I had picked up the pump second to the left and sure enough, it was marked unleaded. It must be a different issue. Not once did I think to do the obvious: look in the petrol tank. 

Jaume to the rescue  

With the help of my remote support team (Marina), and a kind lady working in the Renault showroom outside of which I had stuttered to a halt, we tracked down the town mechanic. She drove me to his garage in her car, explained the situation, and two minutes later I found myself in his van driving back to the abandoned bike. This is Jaume. He owns ‘Moto Jaume’ in Cervera, a small garage in which he works alone surrounded by the innumerable husks of deceased vehicles, machines and various once-motorised contraptions. It’s the type of place BMW engineers see in their nightmares, but it was to be my holy grail. Jaume did the obvious – popped the tank, stuck his finger in and held it dripping under my nose. “Gasoil, gasoil” he said. I had to confront the unthinkable. Every ounce of pride dissipated in an instant. Jaume was still looking at me, probably wondering how this young incompetent islander had even made it this far. With Marina’s help translating we decided to bring the bike to the garage and there, after lunch, clean the lines and plugs. All I could do was go for a beer. So I did.  

Nearly done 

An hour and a half later I returned to Jaume, ready to begin on the cleaning. Instead, I found him bolting on the last fairings. He stood up and switched the ignition. The BMW roared into life and Jaume revved her, beaming at me. Waves of relief cascaded over me, and after a brief search around the garage floor for an elusive bolt, we backed the bike out of the door onto the empty street. Whilst loading her up, Jaume told me he and his wife had an Irish friend living in Cervera. His name is John, Jaume informed me as he called him. Unfortunately John didn’t answer. Set to go, Jaume jumped in his van and told me to follow him. He guided me to a self service petrol pump on the edge of town and made sure I noticed the €1.20 per liter price. I certainly did (that’s very cheap!). I think he also wanted to make sure he wouldn’t have to drain my tank again. Thanks and goodbyes said, I pulled out into the heat of the open road. If this episode had to occur somewhere, I am so thankful it happened in Catalonia. Here I experienced only friendliness and good-natured people, and I was sorry to leave. 

But I had hours to make up. It had just gone five o’clock when I left Cervera. It was hot and the road belonged to the trucks. Past Lleida, Zaragoza, the dusty plains seemed the stretch to infinity. The road forever disappearing into a haze ahead. As the sun began to set the road to Soria became quiet and empty. Up into the mountains, through sleepy villages and around sweeping curves, I could finally open the throttle and let the BMW loose. She responded gratefully, gulping in the cooling evening air, chasing the lengthening shadows. But the night was setting in, and there was no way I would reach my intended camping ground in time. Luckily, I could make Soria and a campsite there just before nine o’clock. A quick supper of patatas bravas and a beer, then sleep. 

Numantia 

It was cold that night, but not altogether uncomfortable. And besides, I was excited for what the day would bring. First stop Numantia – the notorious Celtiberian city laid to waste by Scipio Africanus in the second century BCE. Little remains but vague outlines of the ill-fated peoples dwellings; some modern reconstructions and an audio guide aid the visitor in understanding the story of the site, of the proud Numantians who refused to bend the knee in the face of their inevitable defeat. It was moving, as these places always are. But my reflections were left with the stones for as I rode away my mind was already racing with anticipation for where I was headed next. 

Sad Hill 

I had been looking forward to this for a long time. I grew up on these movies; I must’ve seen them dozens of times. I am sure they have played no small part in leading me to this moment, reveling in the open road, the empty spaces and the wide blue sky, following in the path of the sun and feeling like the luckiest person in the world. And so it seemed fitting to come here, because here is where a rare moment of magic was created. It is THAT scene where, after nearly three hours of anticipation, the ultimate climax of pure cinematic genius and musical mastery combine to grip you, awe you, energise and enthrall you. I wont give any spoilers. It is epic, that will have to do. The film is, of course, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, and this is the site of the grand finale, the closing act, the infamous cemetery duel.  

Sad Hill 

Every time I watch this scene I am a kid again, giddy and awestruck. Others obviously felt the same because the location was voluntarily restored by fans in 2016 for the 50th anniversary of the films release. Known as ‘Sad Hill’, it is gradually gaining note as a niche tourist attraction. That said, it is still fairly off the beaten track, and within ten minutes of arriving I was the only person there. It was perfect.  

And so feeling like an outlaw I rode away into the midday heat, and the midday sun… 

Aqueduct of Segovia 

Sunscreen is a marvelous invention – it’s a pity I didn’t put any on. By the time I started to feel the hot wind scrape over my skin like sandpaper it was too late. With great pain I pulled on my rough bike jacket to protect my burnt flesh, over my red arms and around my raw neck. So long as I remained absolutely still it was fine, otherwise… I pulled into Segovia around six or seven and took a look at the famous roman aqueduct. I decided against dismounting and taking a walk around – I was in too much discomfort. However it certainly lives up to its reputation, bisecting the plaza with its immense stone grandeur, casting regal arched shadows over the rooftops. There is only one campsite in Segovia, and at €20 a night they must’ve realised that too. Riding through the gates I spied a beautiful Honda American Classic with stickers framing the windshield and shining black leather saddlebags on its flanks. I pulled in near it and waited for the invisible biker to emerge and commence the inevitable mutual admiring and complimenting of one another’s bikes. A common language isn’t necessary here – it’s a well practiced and choreographed ritual. 

Making friends 

To my surprise, who approached me was a flip-flopping, swimsuit clad gentleman not in the slightest bit laden by the near eighty years he certainly had behind him. The better part of a century probably separated the years of our births but by our mutual passion we instantly had more in common than most strangers can ever hope to reach. We chatted easily with the help of maps and exaggerated body language. The campsite, though expensive, was well equipped. “I stayed here ten years ago and it was only €15”, my new friend complained. A shower and beer were in order. I watched the elderly biker lovingly clean and polish his ride before covering her for the night. “I bought her new twenty years ago” he said, “We’ve done 200,000 km, and I never felt a single one”. I looked at the BMW caked in dust. At this point I’d have to drive her into the swimming pool to get her clean. It can wait until Cordoba.  

The walls of Avila 

Wishing each other well, we parted ways in the morning. The sunburn was worse, it always is on the second day. Luckily the road to Cáceres‎ is straight, except for a mountainous stretch before Plasencia, but the pain was quickly forgotten there in exchange for stunning views and twisty roads. The plan was to stop for lunch in Cáceres‎, however by the time I arrived the town was deserted. Nothing was open. For an hour I drove through tiny streets, waiting at traffic lights of which there was a ridiculous amount for such a small town. Hungry, in pain, and not a small bit pissed-off I resigned myself to a convenient McDonalds. You can’t say globalisation is all bad news. I pressed on towards Merida, just a short hours ride on the motorway. I entered the town following the ruined roman aqueduct – a taste of things to come. The campsite was a bit out of town; a rough and ready place, cheaper than the previous night thankfully, though not by a huge amount. Campsites are surprisingly expensive in Spain. A familiar rumble briefly drowned the noise of children playing in the pool as a black American Classic wove through the eucalyptus. It was the biker from Segovia, clearly on the same route. Once again we performed the sacred ritual of inspecting the bikes and talking about the road, and as the sun set we retired to our synthetic refuges.  

The circus  

The fourth and last night in the tent passed easily. I woke early, lathered myself in sunscreen, and headed into Merida for breakfast. A short time later I found myself standing in the roman circus where chariots once clattered and crashed in pursuit of victory. Roman Merida is a treasure. I cannot recommend it enough for history enthusiasts, or even just for a day of casual sight-seeing. Be sure to get the all-in-one ticket for €17, and restrict walking outside to the morning and evening, unless you feel like being barbequed. The city was founded by the first roman emperor, Augustus, for the veterans of his Hispanic legions. Its importance is reflected in its ruins: a spectacular theatre, a mighty amphitheater, a massive circus and a majestic temple are certainly the highlights.  

The theatre of Merida 

That said, the ruins are everywhere. Roman brickwork stands alongside equally impressive sites dating from later eras such as the time of the caliphate and the later medieval Christian kingdoms. A festival of classical theatre is held in the city every year, bringing life and drama into the ancient theatre two millennia after its construction. A stage is a stage regardless of its age and this one, by continuing its purpose, threads together centuries of change with the one constant we recognise as untouchable by the passing of time – art. From the first red handprint on a cave wall to the first click on the red YouTube button, our desire to create and share in one another’s ideas persists. It is fitting therefore to reflect on our fundamental nature in such a place as this where you can feel especially close to the past. The ghosts of a tunic wearing audience pass through the same stone passages, filtering among the shorts and sunglasses, all eager to enjoy the show.  

The roman bridge – the longest in the world 

As the day grew hotter, I decided to hit the road. I had booked a hotel in the middle of nowhere and was anxious to discover if it still existed. It was €28, hence my suspicion. But I arrived to the sight of people eating and a full carpark – I think it must’ve been the only place around. Extremadura is very rural and depopulated. But the landscape is gorgeous and the people are friendly. I was dying for a long shower, some hot food, and a pillow. I got all this and more. It was a very pleasant way to end the trip.  

The final day came and I had one last stop to make – Cancho Roano. Hidden away in the Spanish countryside is this unique archaeological site of debated function. What isn’t debatable is the excellent job that has been done to preserve and present this site to the public. It surprised me – I was expecting an open site in a field. Instead, a state of the art visitor center has been built to provide context to the curious visitor and offer explanations for this one of a kind site. I will write a more detailed piece on Cancho Roano for those interested! For now though, the journey was coming to an end. Cordoba was roughly two hours drive away, and I was looking forward to the easy ride in this beautiful part of the country, being back with Marina, and arriving in Cordoba in time for lunch and a siesta! Marseille seemed a lifetime away. Now begins a new adventure. I look forward to sharing it with you.  

Until next time,  

Ferdia