rpaluchm-blog

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So I’ve made it as far as Tangier by bike, which in actual fact isn’t very far, given that I set out from Spain over a month ago, and I can still see it in the distance. A couple of these photos are from Tetouan, the beautiful view of the city with the mountains behind, the guys all discussing/arguing about the best way to load the van while traffic piles up behind (was a really funny moment we started helping these old guys load heavy stuff into the van and then loads of people got involved. It was very light hearted and we went to one of their houses for tea after figuring how to fit the last chair in) and the huge cemetery with old city walls.

The rest are in Tangier, the room we’re staying in with the bikes (I put this in because Izy is just so beautiful). The house of some musician from Guinea, Cote deVoire and Senegal, that Renaud made friends with while I went to watch the big Rabat vs Tangier clash. We hung out with them for hours because Renaud is an amazing musician and they had a lot of traditional instruments for him to try, so they played together for the day while I got a free concert in a living room.

I’ve been in this internet cafe for a long time so this is it for now. Hopefully I’ve given you a good idea of how my time so far has been, but I have one last story that I think sums it up best. Sitting on a big lawn on the side of the road coming into Tangier, a woman with her two kids walked passed me to also enjoy the sun on the grass. She looked very friendly, and gave me a big smile as she came passed. She was obviously a little curious about me and Izy, because she kept looking at the bike loaded with luggage, lying on the grass. I was a little ahead of Renaud on the cycle from Tetouan so was waiting on my own. After 5 or so minutes, the three of them got up to leave, and as they walked passed me again, one of the little girls started waving at me. I waved back, at which point she let go of her mums hand, walked straight over to me, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Her sister, following her lead, dutifully followed suit and came over to give me a kiss as well. Their mother had a huge grin on her face the whole time, and we all continued to wave at each other as they wandered off down the road. It was one of the sweetest things I’ve ever experienced, and I think presents a fitting picture of how the Moroccan people have welcomed us with open arms since the day we arrived, without a second thought. 

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All in Chefchaouan again, the day we went for a three hour walk up, and two hours down, the mountain. Was absolutely stunning, all the more so because on the way up we were basically just walking in the low hanging clouds so we couldn’t see a thing. When we got to the top, we broke through the cloud cover and had the mountains all around us. I took countless photos of the views, so even narrowing it down to 10 was difficult. We just sat for a few hours at the top and watched the wind blow the clouds around us, hiding and revealing the mountains. It felt biblical.

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After leaving Bab Berred we flew down the hills into Chefchaouan - the fastest I got to was 59.7Kh on my GPS. It was a really beautiful city. We ended up staying for over a week, wandered all over the city, ate delicious food, and met lots of interesting people. The pictures speak for themselves for more or less.

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A lot of the places we stayed in the RIf had a similar feel to them. To be honest it just made me feel quite sad a lot of the time. I can get very caught up in the books that I read while I’m travelling, because I’m lucky enough to have the time to give them proper attention. As such they have a significant impact on my mood and the ideas that I travel with. Currently reading Frantz Fanon’s “The Wretched of the Earth”, a difficult and crushing read really as Fanon breaks down for all to see the processes of colonisation, how independence movements are forged with violence, their isolated successes and eventual crushing failures as mistakes are made and history repeats itself, can provide a difficult backdrop for the way I’m percieving the world around me at the moment. Especially as he focuses on Algeria, a country whose French colonial influences are closely aligned to that of Morocco, with strikingly similar outcomes that I can see right in front of me when I talk to people about what is wrong in Morocco.

For all that, if there is one thing that you can guarantee will pull you out of the mire when youre feeling a little down, it’s Moroccan people. Staying in Bab Berred with a family of 5 for 3 nights was one of the nicest times I’ve had since being here. We were pretty nackered by this point in the journey, having climbed, ridden across the top, and made it to the western side of the Rif mountains before coming down again towards the coast. So for three days, we basically just stayed at home and became part of the family. Mum made us delicious food, non stop, all day, every day. We hung out with dad in the garage, tinkered with the bikes, and watched him repair cars. We chilled with our brothers in their local spots, drank coffee, watched football, and smoked. We even went on one ill fated visit to a mosque which one of our brothers was sure wouldn’t be a problem, but upon stepping inside the mosque, the Imam made it immediately clear that it was. Having already been led inside the washroom, with shoes and socks off at this point, it was a very awkward moment that we did our best not to exacerbate by simply doing what we were told, washing in the appropriate way, and going to pray. 

Me and Renaud were both very sad to leave Bab Berred, and would’ve stayed longer but for the fact that the family opened their home to us with such unquestioning kindness that we felt we couldn’t accept anything more from them.

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These are mostly taken in Ketama, although the two guys leaning against the car, the final picture with Renaud and another guy with the hills in the background, and the town, are in Bab Berred. I’ll get to that in the next lot of pictures.

Our stay in Ketama was pretty brief, and we mostly spent it walking in the beautiful mountains around us. Ketama is famous for one reason, it’s at the capital of the huge hash industry in Morocco. As a result, people have a lot of ideas about it being a very dangerous place, with constant caution and awareness necessary when there, or so we were told. Perhaps it was far less scary because we had a couchsurf arranged, and we met him pretty soon after arriving so there wasn’t much opportunity for us to get into some kind of a bad situation, but there really didn’t seem any need for concern. Everyone we met was really welcoming and friendly. 

The state of the town is pretty deplorable though. It just seems like a place that the government has totally turned a blind eye to, allowing whatever goes on to continue un-opposed, in return for little to no investment of any kind. Pavements and roads are not built or unfinished, water regularly stops running, and work of any kind outside hash production is thin on the ground. It seems a sad state of affairs, and during our time in Morocco there have been ongoing protests, although people keep showing us live feeds, photos and videos we’ve not actually seen any protests firsthand, concerning the habitual neglection of the north which dates back throughout the history of the region. The actual trigger for the protests was the death of a fisherman trying to retrieve his supposedly illegal catch of fish from a rubbish truck that the police threw away (https://www.theguardian.com/world/2016/oct/31/morocco-protests-after-fisherman-crushed-to-death-in-a-garbage-truck), although they’ve taken on a much wider view of the problems mainly with healthcare and education in the Rif. These started a long time ago now, almost a year I think, so there’s not so much obvious tension now, but we’ve been told a lot about the nature of the government - ignorant and or unconcerned about regional problems, interested only in maintaining power and helping those in inner circles, and powerless in the face of the king regardless of political agendas - unwanted police presence, and chronic under funding for public services in the areas of the north we’ve travelled through. Problems and concerns of the people here are sometimes staggeringly obvious, and they’re not being addressed.

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These are from the start of our journey into the mountains of the Rif. France really impressed me with the scenery, Spain then raised the bar very high with its endless mountain ranges, buuut, Morocco wins, you’ll see. 

Our stay in the charming Hotel Aljadid in Bni Hadifa, our first stop after Al Hociema. It was small little town on the East side of the Rif mountains. Lots of agriculture there as you can see from all the tractors in the middle of town. That picture was taken sitting in the cafe of the first guy I spoke to upon arriving. Asking the first people walking passed me if they spoke Spanish and knew of any places to stay, one of them did, and he quickly took me to his cafe, and before leaving quickly after, got is frend to come and take care of us. He was very nice, although concerned to rush us through everything. The rest of our coffees, taking us to the hotel, taking us one by one to the public showers. It was a hectic hour or so, and we didn’t really have any time to just sit and rest after the cycle. So despite our new friends insistence that we should go for food immediately, before it got too late and everything closed, we agreed to meet an hour later, at the hote. 

It was during this time that we had another curious encounter with the police. As we were getting ourselves together before meeting our friend to go and get food, I popped out of the room for a moment, and almost walked into the hotel manager who was rushing to our room. When arriving at the hotel, he only spoke Arabic to us. In that moment he just said, “Police. Check passport.” At which point they emerged behind him walking down the corridor. Nothing in particular happened, they just looked at our passports and asked me especially a lot of details about my home address and my parents names and details. The policeman spent a very long time staring at the page of my passport with my American visa, and seemed quite intimidatory when talking to me. This may have just been a language barrier, because he seemed more at ease when talking with Renaud in his more confident French. When he finished checking our passports he lightened up and said if we had problems of any kind to come straight to the police for help. There was something very uncomfortable about the whole thing though, especially given that we’d only arrived in Bni Hadifa 2, maybe 3, hours before they found us in the hotel. Also the hotel manager, and our friend who came back half way through the encounter, I could see were quite tense, standing silently during the whole exchange. 

Again, everything was fine, but it does leave a lingering concern for the authorities. They just feel more empowered and unpredictable here. It keeps you on your toes though and it’s just one of the many facets of Morocco. Also since getting to the bigger cities and leaving the Rif region, we’re now just another set of tourists who are less noticeable so never cross paths with the police.

The other photos are a mosque in Targuist, and then getting back on the road after camping in the hills for a night, where Renaud is sitting with the view in front.

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These are in Al Hociema.

Was a great town, very chilled out. It was also the end of our route along the coast from Nador before we headed inland, and up into the mountains. The people were of course all amazing. We couchsurfed with a very nice family of 4, and the photo of the cafe was a really nice afternoon. We returned to a cafe we’d been to the previous day with two guys we met up a hill overlooking the city. 

Arriving anywhere with our bikes loaded up (we were changing to another couchsurf at the time), people are always intrigued and quickly come over to chat to you. It was no different when returning to the cafe. What starts with one friendly local asking you a few questions as soon as you arrive, quickly turns into 6 or 7 guys settling in around you with a tea or coffee, another 6 or 7 coming and going, juggling they’re stool on the street with time at the cafe, and passing the whole day sitting, chatting, and watching the world go by. Conversation always consists of a mixture of French, Spanish, less English, and mine and Renaud’s smattering of Arabic. 

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So I finally made it. Al Maghreb! The Morocco! Setting out on the 5th of October (with a couple of returns to England in the middle) my tentative plans to get to Morocco actually materialised. There’s just too many tings going on in my head at the moment to be able to discuss everything, so I’ll just upload some of my favourite pics, and accomppany them with some thoughts.

Izy and Rafika waiting patiently to board the ferry and leave Europe (no need to comment who’s more hansom, we all know). You can probably guess the picture from the boat is our first sight of Morocco. The others are some pictures on the road from the first couple days, kids fixated on the football, and then me when I stopped to drink some water and Renaud cooking up a storm in the flat we had for a night in Tazaghine (actually a bit of a strange place. The people were all great, but we had our first uncomfortable encounter with the police coming into town, being warned by two seperate police officers that we shouldn’t stay, it wasn’t safe for us, and there was no accomodation anyway. After the second such conversation with an ‘autorite locale’ officer, as he kept telling Renaud in French, a local who spoke very good English came up to us once he had left us alone saying, "That guy was an agent of the regime. Trying to scare you away. Fuck him, this fucking regime. You have the right to stay wherever you want. It’s not so beautiful here like you thought (raising his eyebrows) not like in England.“ Long story short, we found a place and everything was fine, but since then, we keep seeing and experiencing things that reveal a little more the sinister nature of the authorities in Morocco, keeping an eye on people, even if you’re rarely the subject of their attention because you’re a tourist.) 

The other pictures are with the guys we couchsurfed with during our first two nights inr. 

During our two nights there, a lot of people were coming and going through the flat, wich was the room you see in the pictures. We hung out with our host and his 3 closest friends the whole time, and met numerous other people. They were all extremely friendly and intelligent guys that we had long conversations with about the state of the world and the differing conditions between Europe and Morocco. This was very eye opening, and the things we talked about during those first two days have reccurred almost every day since, in so many of the conversations we have. It is worth precursing the topics of these conversations by mentioning the phenomenal ability of many Moroccans to be able to communicate in 2,3 or 4 languages. I appreciate that there are many problematic factors that contribute to this, none more so than the not so old history of colonialism, but coming from the UK, where language is given such little value, it never fails to astound me.

On one long walk into the mountains behind Nador, one of the guys explained to us that coming from Nador, none of them had any options. Of the guys we were with, 3 of them study/ied Economics. None of them enjoyed the course, and when asking why they all did it, one of them responded by counting on two hands the number of courses available at Nador university. University is free here, but they said the quality of education wasn’t so high. When asking about the literacy rate in Morocco, they were fairly sure it was about a 50/50 split between those who can and can’t read. A quick google search reveals it to be a 67 percent literacy rate (https://www.unicef.org/infobycountry/morocco_statistics.html), although it was around 58 percent ten years ago (https://www.moroccoworldnews.com/2015/10/170473/illiteracy-rate-in-morocco-decreases-to-32-percent/) with a huge disparity in the literacy levels between those living in the under invested rural towns and communities of the north, and the large cities and tourist destinations of the South.

Talking to the guys we stayed with in Nador, they were all so painfully realistic in their expectations of life, adament that Morocco cannot offer them anything in its current form. They are destined never to leave, because obtaining a visa is virtually impossible (something we have undoubtedly heard from at least one person on a daily bases since arriving), and living here is not an option either because there is nothing for them to do, "You can’t live in Morocco, you are just surviving". I’m not paraphrasing here, it is an exact quote from a 23 year old economics student, who speaks Arabic, fluent French, very good English, whose real interest is photography and editing, and yet feels he knows that there is nothing for him in the future. Despite this seemingly bleak outlook, they do not discuss these topics as if they are resigned to them. Of the students, none of them had any real desire to leave. They are proud to be Moroccan, and hope that it can become something else in their lifetimes. 

Throughout our trip we’ve also met numerous people who have no desire to spend one minute longer in Morocco than they have to, and have tried numerous times to cross illegally into Europe. The details of which are pretty hazy as conversations concerning this topic don’t tend to go much further than somebody telling you that they’ve tried to go to Europe without succeeding, and leaving it at that. 

Negativity regarding Morocco is very common among the people we’ve met. What leaves a much greater impression however are those people born and raised by this country supposedly categorised by problems. From my first day until now, despite the sometimes sinister backdrop of the state, I have an impression of Moroccans as some of the most immediately warm, overwhelmingly generous and generally happy and freindly people I’ve ever met. I want to make that as clear as possible, becase the openness we’ve experienced during numerous couchsurfs, or just encounters on the streets of the cities, small towns and rural villages we’ve been to, only fill me with a positive impression of those people so ignored and habitually neglected by the powers that be in Morocco. As such, there is a lot that I see and have experienced that can make me sad, angry, or a little scared, which is what I tend to focus on when I sit and reflect on the things around me. So I want to make clear that any negative things I may write about here, pale in comparison to the positive sense of people that I have in Morocco.

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They upload in a strange order but these are a few photos from the end of my time in Spain. The cave house (where I lived for a couple of months and could write a lot about the family and things that we made during my time there, but for now a couple photos will have to suffice), the amazing cycle (when I was actually a little stressed and lost but still had the foresight to take some photos) through these red rocks, and arrival at San Pedro, a beach in the South East of Spain. I was only there for five days, but it’s an incredible place only accessible by foot, with the photo of the Cabo de Gata in the disctance taken on the walk there. 

Going to San Pedro turned out to be the most fortuitous decision, because it was upon staying there that I met a fellow cyclist called Renaud.

We met the first evening I arrived at San Pedro, although we didn’t speak much then. I bumped into him a couple of times whilst camping there, but it wasn’t until my penultimate day that we actually sat and had a conversation. We sat on the side of the cliff where he’d set up his tent overlooking the beach, and a little further out of sight, Morocco. After talking to him for a short period I quickly saw a long awaited trip playing out in my head. It was of course the perfect idea! We had both cycled, him from France, me from England, through Spain, as far as we could before running out of land. We’d both gone on our own, but were now sitting together, looking out at the sea with Morocco lying less than 6 hours away by ferry. When I crossed from Portsmouth to Le Havre at the start of my journey it took 8 hours, so at the time it really felt like I was almost touching North Africa.

After chatting for 10-15 minutes about the difficulties of travelling by bike, Renaud confessed that the hardest thing he found on his travels was to be alone. At that precise moment, I was ecstatic, as I fully appreciated the opportunity the universe had so perfectly put together for us. As if I’d just found under the sofa the last piece of a puzzle I’d been interminably working on for 4 months (becauseactually the closer I got to Morocco the more scred I was of going). I responded after a short pause, “So what do you think about Morocco?” Clearly this was a bit of an obscure question in the moment, so after taking a second to think, he responded that it seemed like a cool place and everyone he met who’d been there said it was amazing and he had to go. He was a little afraid to do so on his own though, and it just seemed a little too much of an unknown quantity (I paraphrase, his English isn’t so fluent). Another tick, these were my thoughts exactly. Next question, “What do you think about coming to Morocco with me?” Again, this was a big jump in the conversation, but I could see straight away that the idea had landed. Some brief trepidation was easily set aside by my asking, “Why not, porque no, pourquois pas???” to which he responded, "Yes … You ask me why not? So I ask me, why not? And, why not?" And so, that was as much organising as it took to make the decision to go to Morocco. After returning to the cave house for a few days with Renaud, we booked our tickets, and after knowing each other for a week or so, took a ferry from Almeria to Melilla, and crossed the land border into Morocco, with Izy and Rafika in toe, leaving Spain and the rest of Europe behind.

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Some thoughts on three months travel

Sitting in Plaza de Espana, Sevilla, I contemplate almost three months travel. Tomorrow, I return home for the first break in my trip. I have some trepidation about stopping my journey, for fear that I will be less inclined to continue, although I am reassured by the fact that it took the great Don Quixote and his loyal companion Sancho Panza three attempts to see through the long road of Knight errantry that they set out on. 

In recollecting my thoughts, some of my fondest memories come from the periods I spent following the same paths that Don Quixote and Sancho Panza forged through Castilla la Mancha.

The beginning of my journey in Spain was certainly a low period following the incredible five or so weeks I spent in France; the constant rain I faced upon entering Spain, my first sight of the Pyrenees as I crossed the border bringing genuine fear at the prospect of having to deal with such ranges, a contributing factor to my decision to take a train from San Sebastian to Madrid, a choice that brought an enormous amount of guilt with it, and hung over me the entire 7 hour train journey, and following two days I spent in Madrid. This was a period that I gave serious consideration to returning home. But, in managing to find a Couchsurf in Toledo, I decided to undertake the cycle there, and of course, felt immediately better for jumping back on Isambard. Not only this, but the constant references to Don Quixote for the following week or so of my journey were hugely reassuring and provided me with greater conviction in what I was doing; a sense I had lost upon crossing the border. During the day I would do my best to catch up with him, or at least where he was in the book, pedalling through the numerous references and checkpoints dedicated to him along the Ruta de Don Quixote. At night I would do my best to extend his lead over me, tracing all the locations referenced in the book on my map. Where he had been, and where I was heading. Playing out a game of cat and mouse that spanned centuries.

I went to Consuegra and faced head on those same Giants that Quixote faced, plaguing the town's people with their terrible, rotating wings. I returned to Plaza Zocodover in Toledo to see where those men, later freed by Don Quixote, were shackled against their will for crimes they had the liberty to commit. I winded along the same roads, endless plateaus, and steeping hills through the Sierra Morena that the greatest of all Knights wandered with only his shirt. Undergarments lost, along with his sanity, due to the most rational of all motivations upon which Knight errantry rests; love.

Although Quixote was from this point coerced back to his home town in the East, feeling it was time to follow my own path into the world of Knightood, having learned the most important lessons of how to conduct myself in the spirit of Don Quixote, I followed the road South.

In forging my own way through the noblest of callings that is Knight errantry, word of my endeavours had returned to the Isle from which I orignially set sail. As such, an old friend who was pursuing a course of almost equal nobility to the path of Knighthood, that of the advocate, had become hungry to see how the letter of the law was applied in the most fair and equal of all courtrooms, the open field. The young scholar, named Stephen Ogwell, took to the skies, and joined me in the great city of Córdoba. For four days, we undertook great exploration of a city steeped in Roman, Christian, Muslim, and once again Christian, history. Our endeavours opening his eyes to the world beyond the great metropolis of London. Arriving with a quil in one hand, he returned home with a sword in the other. For if the law could not be upheld with good sense and intelligence alone, the righteous Knight can resort, as a final measure, to the strength in his arm and courage of his heart; qualities that cannot be found in even the deepest pockets of the corrupted. After this great reunion, with ensuing festivities and celebrations attended throughout Córdoba by those residents lucky enough to bear witness to the visiting Knights, we parted ways, with Stephen heading West to Sevilla to put into practice those lessons learned of Knight erranty. 

Continuing the solitary life that all Knights lead, I headed East, deeper into the heart of Andalusia - the most enchanting of all Spanish beauties. Having fallen head over heels for her, I took to the great public libraries of the region, trading the will of Isambard and the open road as my guides, for that of the written word. In so doing I hoped to find a noble cause I could serve, and provide opportunity to properly appreciate the surroundings I now found myself. Researching those places in need of a Knight, I found a small piece of land recently assumed by that of a fellow country woman in Vera, Almería, just east of Andalusia. Seeking to create a place of refuge for all manner of travellers, her untamed land in the Spanish desert of the South East required the labours of a committed Knight to tame the land and provide suitable refuge for weary legs. In addressing the owner of this suitably noble project, I offered my services and found a place to commit my time and efforts to bring to order an inhospitable environment. This would also provide Isambard some much deserved rest, as well as my increasingly fatigued legs (On my travels through Spain I've been informed that it is in fact the second most mountainous region in Europe after Switzerland - which has honestly been a killer. It also makes me think back to my preperation for this trip which was the perfect balance of readiness for what I was about to attempt, and ignorance as to what was to come so as not to be disinclined to go for it.) 

At this point in real life, as I was writing in my notebook, three Italian girls stopped me for a moment to ask if I could take a photo of them. This provided a natural break from another underwhelming attempt to recreate the endlessly intriguing writing of Cervantes and his eternally entertaining heroes. This break was a particularly poignant one, because it immediately drew my attention to a theme I’ve come across throughout my time in France and Spain. It is the most brief and seemingly meaningless encounters that I enjoy the most, and often hold onto most vividly in my mind. Encounters where those participating only exchange a few simple words (mostly on my part for lack of vocabulary) and some nice smiles, that for some reason always engender an overwhelming sense of contentment. I don't know what it is that I find so warming about such interactions, but there is always something special about them. While the long hours I have spent with new people during overnight stays, drinks, or other meetings have been special, I always enjoy the briefest encounters most. Often these come during my times spent wandering around markets in France and Spain. This has been one of my favourite pastimes, as it often feels like one of the most authentic places to spend my time. Maybe it is the sense of community that these places engender that I enjoy so much. Although those attending also seem to have very little personal connection, they are joined in the acts of meeting at a specific place to talk, trade and share in the produce on offer, often brought from local providers. Watching people make their careful deliberations as to which leek is in fact the healthiest of those on offer is always a pleasant way to spend a morning. For myself, I take my time wandering around each stall, doing a preliminary scope of which fruit looks the best. Having made my own careful mental notes of which ones I liked the most, on my second lap around I then return to those stall to inquire about prices. This also provides opportunity to put into practice the small collection of phrases you have accrued at the time, asking and comparing prices, trying free samples, and often getting little extras due to the sheer quantity of fruit I often buy (It's always just so delicious!). Small exchanges between myself and the stall owner in these moments give me a happiness that is difficult to describe, so I won't try to.

What I think will be easier to qualify is the sense of good in people that I have been exposed to during my trip so far. When leaving England, like many at the moment, I struggled to reconcile a positive sense of people with the realities of the world. In my studies, I would try to write essays that criticised conventional academic thought that argued for the inherent self interest of people, coming from my desire to believe that people, ultimately, care about each other more than they do about themselves. Really though, I was more cynical than optimistic in my perceptions of the world. On my travels, and time spent Couchsurfing in particular, I have been stunned by the openness, warmth, and desire by those I’ve stayed with to help a complete stranger. 

I realise that the fifteen or so occasions I’ve spent the night at someones house is not a representative sample from which to draw much wider conclusions of people generally, but from the experiences I’ve had, in the setting of one person on their own, in completely unknown surroundings, looking for some help, support from strangers has been commonplace. Without question, time and again, I have been welcomed into the homes of people who have no need to put themselves out for me, other than a natural desire to do so. I've been given a place to stay, food to eat, and often much more. Some of the people I’ve stayed with have welcomed strangers into their home on a number of occasions, others had never done it before, but always, the reception was the same; great happiness at being able to help someone who needs it. Sometimes I would be offered a key to the house within minutes of meeting those people who were hosting me. Whenever this happened, I was amazed that a person would be so naturally trusting. This is always engenders an incredible feeling, and I'm not sure writing these thoughts in such general terms quite portrays how much these encounters have given me a far healthier opinion of the kindness of strangers. Not only this, but it has certainly given me far more motivation to open myself up, and offer the things I have to those who may need it. As I discussed with the guy who I Couchsurfed with in Bordeaux, Couchsurfing is certainly a human face of technology, and brings people together in an incredible way. If you are so inclined, and have the means to open up your home, I would strongly advise you to join Couchsurfing. Each nights’ stay has something unique to it, and some story or aspect worth telling. Since I can't cover all of it, and don't think I have the ability to keep you reading for that long even if I wanted to, I will conclude my thoughts on it in the most general and broadly applicable terms. 

When rolling up to the front door of a person you have never met before, as soon as they open the door, the encounter often feels more like seeing an old friend for the first time in years, rather than staying with a complete stranger. Food is a hugely important part of both French and Spanish culture (in a way that feels far more tangible than it does in the UK), so there is always a meal involved. It's usually simple, something which I realise is the key to a good meal, and always delicious. You then sit and talk for hours at the table, with the family, couple or individual with whom you're staying, and learn about each other. How you're meeting came about, where you've been in the world prior to that moment, where you want to go after it, and what you think about the world more generally (For the specifics of each stay you'll just have to ask me, and we can sit, have a meal, and I'll tell you about it).

This brings me to another theme that I have felt throughout my time in France and Spain. That those people with whom I have met, spent time, and shared something with, be it food, drink, a cigarette (sometimes of the herbal variety), or just conversation, often hold very similar thoughts and feelings on the world to me. Whether conversation is made up of fluent English, or a smaller collection of words and phrases and a much larger proportion of gesticulating, I have never felt a great sense of difference between myself and the people of varying nationalities that I've come across. Now I appreciate that nobody is reading this for my discursive, unsubstantiated political views, but, inevitably, the topic of Britain leaving the EU was a regular occurrence. Almost always, my French or Spanish counterpart would feel the same way as me, both of us expressing great sadness at the chain of events currently taking place in the UK. Rather than delve into this point, I will simply conclude it by saying that my time on the other side of the channel has made me feel quite intensely that Britain leaving the EU, in whatever form it does, is a mistake of prolific proportions, regardless of the financial outcomes; life is about far more than money.

I'm now a little burned out, and want to enjoy my last day in Sevilla, which is just as beautiful as I have been told since literally my first day in France, and on a regular basis ever since. Sitting in the Plaza de España on such a sunny day, writing in my notebook, next to a busking Spanish guitarist has certainly felt like time well spent though. 

I will quickly finish by actually giving you some information on what I've been doing recently. Before coming to Sevilla to fly home for Christmas, I was working on an eco campsite project in Vera, Almería, so haven't been doing so much peddling over the last couple weeks. Life on the campsite was even more stripped back then it was during my time cycling. We had no running water or electricity. As such, you were very careful with everything you had or used, mainly water because it was so dry there and keeping plants alive was a priority, because we didn't have much. Meals were vegetarian, and simple, but always hit the spot after a day labouring in the December sun of Amería (which still took the temperature to 20-25 degrees every day). There were seven of us on the land, about a football pitch and a half in length and width, and all responsibilities were shared. We hadn't met prior to arriving on the campsite, shared bell tents as well as everything else, and it felt very much like a fairly cohesive community. I've left Isambard and most of my stuff there, and will return in the New Year. The group of people there will be totally different, but I imagine that life will not change so drastically, and I will find myself again in a minimal setting that is more comfortable than many I've ever found myself. I'm leaving Spain tomorrow, but having my stuff left in Vera is hugely reassuring as it means I know I will be returning soon. Cervantes took 10 years to write his second book of Don Quixote. I will resume my own road of Knight errantry in not much more than 10 days. In his hugely significant work, that brought two of the greatest fictional characters to life, the second part manages to improve on a hugely entertaining first. I hope my journey will follow the same pattern, with my return leg seeing even greater adventures follow the host of memories I've already gained.

The busker to my left has just finished, and now, so have I... For now

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And so at the third time of asking, I will start, and finish, Don Quixote. Until now he has lain quietly, undisturbed, in the depths of my rear left pannier. Kapuściński and Herodotus have so far kept me company with their outward looking, thoughtful perspectives on the world and its unknown corners that has helped me find my feet in alien surroundings. Now, sitting tall upon my bike as i approach the Basque country, I turn to one of the bravest and original adventurers to help guide me on my own quest to try and save the world singlehandedly.

Following the man of La Mancha, my travels take me to Spain. To trace his footsteps, and go where he has gone. To right wrongs, rescue damsels in distress, and reprimand those who deserve it.

The solitary knight errant, with his trusted steed (that is to say trusted after £100 pounds worth of new chain and rear cassette had to be ordered and fitted this week in Bordeaux). As I set out on the final leg of my meandering through France, I leave Izy behind. Crossing the border into Spain, sticking as close as I can to the coastline so as to avoid the undoubtedly beautiful though ultimately exhausting Pyrènèes, my bicycle will take on his full and proper title - Isambard Kingdom Brunel. A name only befitting of the machine that has proven his worth at every stretch of straight, curving, inclining and declining road. His namesake, who completed some of his greatest and enduring feats of engineering in Bristol, seemed the ideal choice for the bike that was itslef made in Bristol, and since carried me effortlessly (for the most part) through France. With Isambard beneath my feet, all roads will fall.

The vast stretches of desert in the Estremadura to the West, the headwind of the Levant as I head South, and the foothills of the Spanish Pyrènèes as i head North back toward the French border. Each presenting varied and unkown trails to traverse, all filling me with excitement, and of course a hint of apprehension, at what lies ahead. As I sit in Bordeaux, the last major city on the South West coast of France before reaching Spain, I am told increasingly of the beauty of the Basque region; Biarritz, San Sebastián and Bilbao are all regularly mentioned. Each person I talk to is envious of what lies aead of me and my efforts to continue chasing the sun.

But at the moment, I am still in France, and somewhat saddened by the prospect of leaving. I will now drop my underwheling attempt to emulate Cervantes (apologies to those who found it boring but, this is my blog, and i enjoyed it), and try to recount in brief some of the highlights of the past 3 and a half weeks of my Frenchcapades...

(Sorry for not writing more, but this was a part from one of three attempts to finish my second update on my travels but I haven´t managed to finish each time I start. Anyway seeing a statue of Don Quixote and Pancho Sanza I thought I would just copy the bit above that I wrote about a week ago. I do intend to upload a second post soon but it takes me a while to write them and uploading photos was much more mindless and easy although no less time consuming (currently have about 350 photos to choose from). I hope you at least enjoyed seeing a small part of the things I´ve come across over the past month or so.)

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Super cool garage/bike shed where I got new parts fitted for my bike in Bordeaux before the final leg of my French trip

Nice stretch of Road outside Mimizan, penultimate town I stayed in in France.

Grey horrible day, on the industrial outskirts of Bayonne, just next to Biarritz where I spent my last night in France, I caught my first glimpse of the Pyrenees. Was a very intimidating sight. 

The only picture I got when crossing the Pyrenees (bit of a stretch to say this as I avoided them as much as possible but I did still have to do some climbing).

I made it!

Climbing mountains, crossing borders and contemplating. Life is good right now!

Fresh squid bought from the market that morning and prepared at home for dinner, does it get any better?

Delicious dinner with my lovely hosts

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Eerie sign on the outskirts of Bordeaux.

Another great church and spire with a cool flea market in foreground.

Dune du Pilat in Arcachon just outside Bordeaux, by far one of the most stunning places I´ve ever been

Gone but never forgotten

Beautiful surroundings just outside Clermont-Ferrand

Why I really went back East 

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Beautiful rolling hills coming in to Limoges. Again doesn´t do it justice.

¨In order to have good beef, you have to have good grass. In order to have good grass, you have to have a lot of rain.¨ In Limoges they´re very proud of their beef, and very willing to put up with the generally grey weather for it (this photo is a bit decieving as the weather was pretty grey the three days I spent there).

Amazing seafood stand at the market in front of the Cathedral in Perigueux.

Izy with said Cathedral that inspired the Sacre Couer in Paris.

Wine country as I was approaching Bordeaux.

Glad I´m going the right way.

Beautiful building in Bordeaux, me ´n´ Izy obscuring the view.

You guessed it, another Cathedral, and the spire next to it with beautiful blue skies behind

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At the gardens of Leonardo Da Vinci´s last house before he died they´d built loads of the designs that he planned and drew out centuries ago but was never able to make for lack of technology at the time. That particular structure was a tank he thought up centuries before the first ones ever appeared in wars

Nothing but a hot air balloon on the horizon

went a bit ferral with all the fresh air

Cathedral, Basilica, and sunset in Tours

Roger, the Spanish biker from Barcelona I hung out with at a campsite outside Tours

Went for a kayak

Nice church and sunset in Poitier

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In brief:

Me on a huge pile of turnips (saw these piles throughout my first couple weeks)

The long road ahead

Just outside Orleans (It was ok but I preferred the new one)

Cathedral in Orleans, one of my faves

My neighbours for a couple days

Nice stretch of road all to myself

My favourite cycle so far between Orleans and Tours. Unbelievable weather, and cycling along the Loire river for most of the journey through beautiful old towns and incredible scenery the whole way. None of the photos I took do it any justice but this last photo gives you an idea of the weather

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Couple pictures i’ve taken on my phone. I’ve basically taken all my photos on my digital camera but i didn’t have time to go through and upload those. These still give you some idea of what i’m up to