Traverse 06 - Page 75

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 TRAVERSE 75