flected the lighting making the whole
area look like gold. I pored over my
workshop manuals, drinking balloon
glasses of Spanish brandy.
Next morning I adjusted the carbu-
rettor, again.
At Merida, a Roman city, the sun
came out and I thought I was home
and dry but at Seville the bike cover
blew off in a gale and the rain lashed
down. I stayed in a charming old pub
where an enthusiastic, if misguided
man asked if he could buy my bike.
There had been times on our world-
wide travels when I would gladly have
given it away but I told him it wasn’t
for sale.
Despite always running well in the
mornings, by the time I reached a suit-
able destination in the late afternoon,
the Enfield misbehaved like an over-
tired and fractious child. Just at the
time when I was street-creeping for
a hosteleria for the night and strug-
gling with one-way traffic schemes
and road signs in Spanish, it was at
its worst. The call for help went out
to biker friends on the internet and
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