er, and with a "I'll help you, Pet!" he
got the Enfield going. Neither was it
sunny and warm, but 'Hey! It'll warm
up the further south I go'.
It didn't, and not heeding advice
to avoid the mountains, over the
Cantabrians I went and encountered
snow. Like a winter wonderland with
no traffic, it was absolutely beautiful
but the bike was still jerky. I fiddled
repeatedly with the carburettor which
I was convinced was the cause of the
bike’s malfunctioning. I stayed over-
night in a mountain village called
Puentenansa at a price on which I
could have lived for a week in Mexico
or Mumbai. Setting off in the morning
I wondered why a farmer stared at me
from a field, then realised I was on the
wrong side of the road.
Before descending from the stun-
ningly pretty mountains, with their
challenging narrow, winding roads,
I stopped and surveyed the scene in
front of me across the plains below. It
was truly dismal. Low cloud the colour
of gun metal filled the entire vista over
endless, flat, winter-nude country-
side. This region is called La Mancha,
which in Arabic (they lived here for
hundreds of years) means ‘dry, wa-
terless land’. Not today it wasn’t. I was
cold and my boots leaked. Time for
the heated inner gloves I’d bought! I
connected the terminals to the battery
and set off. The effect was astounding
and I smiled with comfort and relief. I
wouldn’t have cared if I got electrocut-
ed when the rain soaked through my
outer gloves.
The rain fell on the bleak plain, in
the dreary towns and villages I rode
through, on the storks in their pent-
house nests, on the bare olive trees,
the bank-burst rivers, and the desert-
ed roads. But the rain in Spain fell
mostly on me. The waterproof map
was a boon; otherwise I’d have had a
pocket full of papier mâché.
Trying to laugh at the situation be-
came harder and only the thought of
meeting my daughter and the naїve
belief that eventually it would stop
raining kept me going. Then, when
sheltering in a café, I saw the news on
TV. Floods in Jerez, people being res-
TRAVERSE 74
cued from their roofs by boat.
I pressed on south staying at me-
dieval Medina de Rioseco where, in
torrents of rain I fell off the bike and
was admonished by an elderly Span-
iard who clearly thought I shouldn’t be
riding a motorcycle if I couldn’t han-
dle it. From frustrated, disappointed
me, he received a mouthful of indig-
nant English in return. A finger-ges-
ture was useless as I was wearing
two-finger motorcycle gloves. Much
to my embarrassment I passed him
several times when trying to find my
way out of the town’s equally medie-
val traffic system. I gave him my best
scowl which he probably couldn’t see
through the rain-splattered visor.
Entering Salamanca, a helpful mo-
ped rider at traffic lights led me to his
friends’ hostel. Just round the corner
from the massive, impressive plaza,
I was their first customer and as res-
toration was still taking place, the
Enfield was allowed to reside inside
amongst the rubble. I spent an enjoy-
able evening in a bar overlooking the
plaza where the wet cobblestones re-