SPAIN TO NORWAY ON A BIKE CALLED REGGIE
Copyright Andrew P. Sykes, 2017
Cover artwork by Andy Mitchell:
Inside cover photos by Andrew P. Sykes
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To Dad, for teaching me how to ride a bike.
CONTENTS
Not all those who wander are lost.
J. R. R. Tolkien
(as graffitied on a wall in Salamanca, Spain)
PROLOGUE
It was Thursday 9 April 2015 and I was standing on the edge of the Isla de las Palomas, less than a kilometre to the south of Tarifa, in southern Spain. For a few moments, my body was host to the southernmost human heart on the continental mainland of Europe. I was Europe's most southerly man. The plan was to cycle from this southernmost point of Europe to the northernmost point at Nordkapp, in Norway, 71 degrees, 10 minutes and 21 seconds (or, to keep things brief, 7110'21'') north of the equator. It would be a journey of just over 35 degrees.
In December 2014 I had said goodbye to my teaching colleagues for the final time. 'Teacher quits to cycle 5,000 miles on a bike called Reggie' was the announcement blazoned across an inside page of the local newspaper. At least if my cycling endeavour were to end prematurely, I would have moved on to pastures new and the readers of the Henley Standard could live the rest of their lives in blissful ignorance of my failings. I packed up my belongings and headed north to the county of my birth, Yorkshire, where, for several weeks, I procrastinated.
A long cycle from A to B in Europe wasn't complicated to plan. I needed to travel through seven countries: Spain, France, Belgium, Germany, Denmark, Sweden and Norway. As I had done on my previous continental cycles, I would be following routes on the EuroVelo network, this time a combination of EuroVelos 1 and 3. Equipment-wise, I had most of what I needed from previous trips, including my bicycle, Reggie: a Ridgeback Panorama World purchased five years earlier for Crossing Europe on a Bike Called Reggie (a journey from southern England to southern Italy). The Robens Osprey 2 tent had, despite its slightly sagging back end (it wasn't alone on that score), served me well in Along the Med on a Bike Called Reggie (a second journey from southern Greece to southern Portugal) and would hopefully do the same again. I had upgraded my panniers but most of the equipment was tried and tested. I was ready.
On Wednesday 25 February, six weeks before my planned departure from Tarifa, I flew to Malaga, Spain. The final piece in the jigsaw that was 'Career Break 2015' (which deserved to be the name of an Ironman triathlon) was to learn some Spanish. Although a secondary school teacher of languages, I spoke only French. By basing myself in the Andalusian city of Cdiz, where I had enrolled onto a five-week Spanish language course, I would hopefully be able to plug this gap in my CV and have a nice time doing so.
Alongside the learning, there was plenty of time to explore. One weekend, along with three fellow students, I embarked upon a short road trip of Andalusia: Arcos de la Frontera, Grazalema, Zahara, Vejer de la Frontera and the surfing paradise of Tarifa. Much to my annoyance, I discovered that my intended point of departure the southernmost point of Isla de las Palomas, or 'dove island', near Tarifa was inaccessible to all but the Guardia Civil, the military police who had a base there. I wondered what the peace-loving doves made of that.
The Isla de las Palomas had clearly been erroneously named: not only did I not spot any doves, but it also was most definitely not an island as I understood it. Perhaps prior to 1808 it had been. That was when a broad causeway had been built, linking it to the continent. In 2015 after more than 200 years of continuous connection to the mainland, I think it is safe to say that it was no longer a proper island. A sign at the point where the causeway met the 'island' informed visitors seeking the southernmost point of the continent that they had found their destination. But they hadn't. There remained half a kilometre of rocky land beyond the closed gates of the military base.
Not being permitted to set off on my quest from the real southernmost point of Europe had perturbed me. The teachers back at the school suggested I ring the tourist office in Tarifa to see if there were any possibilities of being let in.
'Hablas ingls?' I enquired.
The woman on the other end of the phone did but there was to be bad news as well as good. Yes, organised visits were permitted but they didn't coincide with my planned departure date of Thursday 9 April. Was I prepared to hang around until the following week? She suggested, somewhat sceptically, that I should contact the Guardia Civil directly.
'Estimada Guardia Civil de Tarifa...'
It sounded like grovelling but the teachers assured me it was just the formal way to do these things in writing.
A week later, a response arrived. Much to my relief, it wasn't a 'no' more a 'quizs' or 'perhaps'. I was instructed to seek permission from the Parque Natural del Estrecho.
'Estimado Parque Natural del Estrecho'
I was learning to grovel quite well.
Four more days passed. Then, an email arrived.
'According to decree 308/2002 of December 23 2002 approving the Management Plan of Natural Resources'
It appeared that I was in.
There were, however, conditions. In order not to infringe decree 308/2002 (etc.), it would be necessary for me to 'realise a project aimed at promoting environmental understanding and education'.
So, here we are at the very start of our journey across the European land mass from the southernmost point the real one to the northernmost point. As you read, please bear in mind that in addition to this being a book about travelling, cycling, geography, history, politics and no doubt a few more topics thrown in for good measure, I am under legal obligation by order of decree 308/2002 to promote environmental understanding and education. So, once you've finished reading this book, please make sure you recycle it. Thanks.
