Hey everyone

Last summer myself (Aidan) and my girlfriend (Maria) spent three weeks riding down to Portugal to be with some friends for their wedding. It was a sort of test run for a big round the world trip we're starting in a few months, and it gave us a chance to test all our gear too.

We've finally finished writing everything up on our blog, where we'll also be filling everyone in on our shenanigans as we head east next march, and I thought I'd share it here too. The following is a much-too-detailed account of our misadventures.....

As we should have expected - but didn't - we got up later than planned. The preparations and stress at work had us relying on four mugs of coffee plus a Revive so we really needed a lie in. Suffice to say we loaded up the bikes in a bit of a rush with no time for faffing around. Just as well we had packed pretty much everything already.

Having watched Mondo Enduro, Terra Circa and Long Way Round, I almost expected a glorious send off, crowds waving, friends almost in tears, saying they'll miss us. Instead we locked up the garage and wobbled down the alleyway behind the houses to the street. Wow the bikes were heavy! We were carrying most of the gear we would be taking on the RTW, except the spares and winter clothes. But we hadn't done the test run everyone says you should do, so I was glad we were just heading to the ACE Cafe for breakfast for now!



Breakfast was big and yum ACE style! But I could hardly eat it, I was so exited. Felt almost like this was the big trip already, and we wouldn't be back for years! Bit nervous too, though. The German in me was screaming that this was far too under-prepared and we hadn't taken any of the eventualities into account! What if...! So I ignored her and tucked into breakfast. We bought a few Ace stickers for our panniers, in an attempt to feel more like proper travelers, and headed back out to the empty front yard.



No big Charley Boorman style fanfare either, and I was glad for it. Just a quiet, yummy breakfast and no-one there to see me heave the heavy bike off the side stand, fuelled up with coffee, ready to lug her to the other side of London. Following the advice from all the other motorcycle traveller books we'd read, we had packed the heavier stuff lower down and tried to distribute the weight evenly. So it wasn't really too bad, and we got used to it after a while.

Couldn't really weave in and out of traffic the way we're used to though, so the South Circular became even more frustrating than usual. Aidan is leading the way. We established a while back, that we preferred it that way round Just before Catford a bus driver pulls up next to him and tells him Catford is completely blocked, we should go round it. And with his passengers no doubt already late and frustrated, he spent a few minutes explaining how we could skirt around, through Brockley and get back onto the A2. Real nice of him

We finally make it onto the A2 and out of London.... Freedom!!! By this time we are quite late, but we want to stick to A-roads anyways. Glad we did, as they led us straight into Rochester. Looks like a pretty town (must come back to explore one day when we fancy a lil ride out!). But this time we have to press on to catch the ferry (the cheaper ticket doesn't allow you to take the next one, unless you pay extra of course).

At the next roundabout we can choose the M2 straight into Dover or keep following the A2. Oblivious that there is a choice to be made, I point grinning at a sign pointing towards "Rain" (presumably a town...?). That also happens to be the A2 so we follow it. I'm not sure whether Aidan thought I insisted on following the A2 or whether he'd laughed at the sign too. To be fair, it was a big busy roundabout so no place to sit around giggling away at the poor people living in perpetual rain. Aidan told me later, that he had been busy trying to devise a way of coaxing stubborn me into taking the motorway after all.

Soon the A2 became tiny and we were stuck behind a van going at a snail's pace! But we had no time to enjoy the pretty places it went through. Our rush was now starting to turn into panic. Luckily the van driver couldn't hear me cursing at him inside my helmet like that was suddenly going to make him do 100mph! So at the next sign we turned round onto the M2 after all, and gunned it as fast as traffic and the laden bikes allowed down to Dover.

Got there just in time. A quick call from the check-in to the boat confirmed that our places hadn't been sold to any other bikers and we could ride straight on. Real nice not to have to wait around The ferry trip was boring. Me and Icebear went outside for the obligatory waving-good-bye-to-the-white-cliffs picture and after that we all curled up with coffee from our thermos and a book.



Before we knew it the loudspeakers announced our imminent arrival. We stuck the overpriced GB stickers onto our panniers (I'm still not sure if you are legally supposed to have one of its not imprinted on your number plate), and rolled off the ferry. Got a little lost in Calais, trying to avoid the toll roads. Well, it didn't matter, we didn't have to get to Paris to visit our friends till the next day anyways and the occasional stop to check the atlas and compass kept us more or less on the right track. Or at least within range of our little A5 printed maps. So we just took it easy, cruising around on tiny D-roads, like the 215, full of gentle forgiving bends, straddled by picturesque towns at here and there, on through golden wheat and barley fields. Went past a sign pointing towards "Champagne" and "Guines". I'm surprised Aidan didn't head straight down that road!

At some point though, contrary to any logic, the road name changed, and we found ourselves riding completely out of range of the little printed maps in our tank bags. To make matters worse, whenever we managed to wiggle our way back towards roads we recognised, (relying on a compass and a very shady sense of direction) we found big yellow signs barring the road, with a series of complicated diversions set up. It was as if whatever god of travel there were had decided that our first foray would be a serious test.


Eventually, the sky clouding over, we had to admit we were hopelessly lost and getting really tired too, not being used to riding all day long. And some more basic needs were becoming more pressing too: we needed cash, petrol, water and wine! But none of the little villages were big enough to sell any of these. A bit of cruising around, doubling back on ourselves finally had us find a little town that provided all of the above. Desvres was small, hilly, cobbled, and host to some sort of anarchic and colourful rally festival - the cause of all the diversions, and our woes. Our bikes filled with petrol and our panniers filled with wine, the world seemed a brighter place, despite the fact that dusk was moving in quick. We decided to head on a little further and then start looking for a spot to pitch our tent.

We suddenly found ourselves on the road we were supposed to be on from Calais, so now Aidan was worried about deviating too far from it in trying to find a camping spot. We had read on various forums that the French aren't too keen on wild-camping, as there are millions of campsites around the country and one should be good and proper and sleep there. I can't remember if wild camping is actually illegal in France or not. Unlike the travelers who had written those blogs, we simply don't have the cash to pay for a campsite or hostel, let alone a hotel every night. There are of course also those bloggers, who said they did nothing but wild-camp. But their voices seemed rather small as we were busy looking for a really hidden spot that we could get the bike to.

We found a tractor trail leading between fields to a small forest. There was a red 'no trespassing' sign which I didn't bother reading and Aidan ignored. So we wobbled towards the trees (after riding into the camping field at the 2012 HUBB meeting our first ever "offroading" experience ). As soon as we killed the engine, a young guy in a little silver Peugeot turns up and I frantically try to piece a french this-isn't-what-it-looks-like excuse together in my head. But its not working and I am envisaging all sort's of mad scenarios of being chased back onto the road by a mad little french car bouncing all over the dirt track. So I pretend to be busy with the bike trying to come up with a plan.

Meanwhile Aidan takes his helmet off and strolls over to the guy with a smile: "Do you speak English?". Yes a little, and of course we could stay there for the night! Just pick up all your litter. By the time I realised Aidan hadn't been eaten alive and made my way over, the guy waved with a smile, hopped back in the car and drove off. That was easy Now I felt really stupid!

Exploring the little woodland to find the best spot to put the tent we realise it's actually an off-road dirt bike track. No wonder the owner came over all concerned when he saw two bikes heading there at 7pm without his consent! Spot found, we just had to ride the bikes over. The track was muddy and we only had road tires. Aidan managed fine, so I set off after him. The bike starts slipping all over the place. I'm shitscared and stiffen up and cling on for dear life! I even forget to close the throttle and head straight for the bushes. Before I know it, the bike heads back onto the path and some dryer grass. I finally manage to close the throttle and come to a stop - upright! So that's what they mean when they say you're supposed to keep the throttle open against all instincts and you'll be fine! I've consciously tried to replicate my first success since on mud and sand, but without success. Invariably instinct won, I slowed down and fell over

We pitched the tent between some trees and tied a tarp to them as a roof under which to cook in the rain. Works really well so real happy with our gear so far! Aidan cheffed up some fishy pasta on the camping stove (that's pasta with tinned fish and tomato sauce plus some herbs and spices) - simple but really yum after a long exhausting day. We drink sum wine, eat kinder chocolates for dessert and write our diaries. Aidan finished before, so he got his SLR and tripod out, and started playing around with those.



Eventually it got too dark to see what I was writing, so we curled up in the tent. Turns out we had picked a really bumpy spot, but were really exhausted, so slept anyways.

So we're writing for the first time in three days; back to the diaries, back in the tent and back on the road. We woke up in Desvres to find that overnight it had bucketed down, overpowering our makeshift porch and pouring over our (now properly tested) waterproof panniers. We treated ourselves to some porridge, pumped up the bikes' tyres, and grimaced as we pulled on our soaked-through helmets.

The bikes packed up, we pointed ourselves towards the dirt track and our route south. Easier said than done, since the night's rain had turned it into a muddy gorge. I gunned the bike and, with a lot of kicking out and praying, managed to slip and slide my way across onto dry ground. Maria is a good deal shorter than me though, and doesn't have the advantage of being able to wrestle the bike around, so when she hit the deep mud she went down. Between us we pushed her bike upright and, with me holding her up by the panniers and her gunning the throttle and covering me in mud, we managed to lead the bike kicking and screaming on to dry ground.

The rest of the route was a breeze. I'd had a day's worth of practice in navigating with the compass and printed maps so we were motoring along nicely, and even hit a really cool spot called L'isle Adam - the road ran through a golf course, then a little village and beside a huge stone wall holding back terraced fields, before a wrought iron gate spit us back out into civilization. Good stuff.


Once we hit the outskirts of Paris it was a different story. The maps weren't quite enough to tell us where we were, and my newly acquired navigational skills were limited to open roads and sleepy villages so we were soon lost. I was fairly sure we were in a north-Parisian industrial estate, but figured I'd pull over and check the online map on my phone - something I don't do often, since it puts a big grin on the face of O2's CEO. As we were checking out the map and planning our next attack on the crazy Parisian streets, a young guy, helmetless and wearing just a t-shirt and shorts screamed past us on the back wheel of a scrambler. We'd seen him occasionally as we tried to find our way - circling the blocks and popping wheelies. A few minutes passed before an ambulance sauntered past, following him at a distance and waiting for him to crash and give them something to do.

Having consulted the map I had a rough idea of where we were - if not where we were going, and we ambled off again. Once we hit the peripherique (the Parisian equivalent of the London Orbital, but less logical and more life threatening), we threw ourselves into a 6 lane roundabout with no road markings (and seemingly populated by suicidal van drivers) and emerged 2 or 3 revolutions later, eyes closed and screaming, but more or less in the right direction. From here we ended up passing the Parc de la Villette - something I had seen often in books and pictures over the course of my architectural career, but had not realised was so close to the centre of Paris. I almost killed myself a few times, having far more interest in Tschumi's park than in the traffic I was weaving around. Luckily I realised that I had missed our turn, so I got to head past it again in the opposite direction and risk my life a few more times. Having somehow found my way back on to the right road I started looking out for the street that my friend Elena lived on. Of course I had completely forgotten what it was called, but I at least remembered that it was something obvious. Rue Paris? Rue France? After about half an hour of riding down the main street at 20mph, squinting at each road sign and pissing off every motorist in Paris, I spotted Rue des Pyrenees, and figured that must be it. I did at least remember the house number and, wouldn't you know it, there was a half empty bike bay right outside the doors to a beautiful art deco entrance with Elena's number on it.


We climbed off the bikes, I lit up a smoke and texted Elena - in the very likely event that we were in completely the wrong area I didn't want to go banging on some poor french woman's door - and sat back exhausted. Within minutes Elena was at her window waving, and then was downstairs hugging us (and I'm sure trying to close off her nasal passages). We got everything unpacked and carried up the two flights of ornamental stairs to the flat, and were welcomed with our first cold in days.


After Elena and Michalis had shown us around - which can be done standing still, since it's a central Parisian flat, so at 50sq.m it's positively lavish - we scrubbed the dirt off ourselves and settled in to a few more s, an amazing baked fish courtesy of Michalis, and a catch up. Elena is Greek, with an upper-middle class English education, a bottomless pit of knowledge about art and literature on the tip of her tongue and a unique view of the world that makes her a great host. We carried on late into the night, working our way through the wine, weed, raki, cigars and mastika, until the miles caught up with us and we started slumping in our seats. Eventually we passed out on the sofa bed and slept well into the next day.

At some point during our drinking session we had decided to stay an extra day in Paris and hang out with Elena while Michalis was at work. So when we did eventually get ourselves out of bed, showered and caffeinated, we headed out onto the metro and into the trendy east quarter. I like this part of Paris. There is no sign of the clichés you remember from tourist propaganda; that's all in west-central. Instead its just loads of cool cafes and bars running the length of a canal that leads you right up to Parc de la Villette. The sun was shining and we wandered slowly. Along the way we discussed Elena's PhD, her strange new obsession with balconies, and the Parisian quirks she had noticed (like their tendency to park by nudging the cars around them, rather than bothering with spacial awareness). A few stops for bubble tea, and s from an ample chested waitress (as Elena was quick to point out) and we found ourselves in Bernard Tschumi's park with a few tinnies and our cameras out, snapping away.


Hanging out with Elena was proving to be a nice relaxing break from traveling and as evening drew in and Michalis finished work, we figured we'd go out for dinner to cap it off. We parked the car in the red light district and settled in for steaks and a few bottles of Bordeaux in a little outdoor carvery-slash-tapas-bar that seemed to be populated by students and general beautiful people. Then back to the flat for another of Elena's attempts at destroying our livers. Over more s, raki, mastika and cigars, we got to discussing high brow literature, art and music, finding that we shared a love of Warren Ellis. The evening quickly degenerated though, and soon enough we were competing to play the cheesiest British Metal; Iron Maiden, Ozzy, Judas Priest and worse. Just before bed I played them a few Mr. Bungle videos, just to **** with their heads and inspire some surreal dreams. I woke up to find a few notes outlining a route out of Paris drunkenly scrawled on the back of a piece of paper, next to the words 'Rotting Christ'. (I later discovered this was the name of a goth band we had found particularly amusing the night before).

The morning started as usual with bleary eyes and coffee. Then a round of re-organising the panniers, collecting freshly washed clothes and having one last long, languorous shower. As we were lugging our stuff back down the three flights of narrow stairs and out into the street, we decided on an impromptu photo-shoot in the hallway, to make use of the swanky art deco background and get some last shots with Elena.


Apart from the aforementioned piece of paper, I had no directions, and no plan for getting out of Paris, so I figured I'd stick the compass in my tank bag, ride around the peripherique for a while (complete with mandatory screaming and wincing) and eventually head south/southwest. It was a nice enough way to travel, though it was getting us nowhere fast, since I was being a bit too careful about following the compass needle, and we often found ourselves in tiny little villages populated exclusively by speed humps and caravans. A stop at Bretigne-Sur-Orge for a coffee, pee, and glance at the map gave us time to come up with a bit of a plan. We eventually worked out a system comprising equal parts compass, road sign, and intuition to lead us relatively quickly through Orleans and Blois and in the direction of Loches along some nice 'D' roads that didn't force us to work too hard. Might not sound too exiting, but it's exactly what you need to wean you back on to the saddle, and shake off the remains of the hangover.

Around about seven in the evening, and we started keeping an eye on the roadside for inviting looking lanes. For the second time on the trip, our first investigation up a little side track led to a really promising camping spot. The trick, it seems is to spot a bit of land in the distance where farmed fields meet a grove of trees. Then you wait to find a small dirt track that leads off the main road and runs between the two. That way you can choose either to find a nice comfy spot in the corner of a field, or a good hidden piece of woodland. It gives you options is the point, and a bit of common sense will usually find you comfortably settled in for the night, and unworried about being moved on by angry locals.

In this case a bit of investigating led us to the farmed side of the road where a small hedge gave us a nice bit of cover while we laid our tent on freshly mown hay. We weren't exactly miles away from civilisation but we figured we had ridden far enough from the main road, and we weren't taking up much space, so it was as good a spot as any. After all the little dirt track didn't look like it got much use. We unloaded the bikes and pitched the tent as a hot air balloon sailed over the yellow fields, giving us a long-lasting, if slightly clichéd memory of rural France. We settled in to the dusk with a couple of bottles of wine, some pasta with sardines, and a bit of cautious optimism that wild camping may not be as difficult as we had been led to believe. . .

We had set the alarm for 7am and eventually crawled out of the tent into a cool and dewy morning, looking forward to cheesy beans on toast (supplies carried all the way from London). The camping stove all set up and ready to cook, it transpired our lighter was broken beyond repair. Despite our best intentions not to forget this time, we had of course not remembered to buy a spare in the supermarket the evening before. Oh well!

Took our time packing up, hoping that the rising sun would dry the millions of tiny droplets of water from the inside of our tent before packing it up. A farmer on a small tractor waved and smiled as he drove past. The a woman with two dogs and another little jiff-jaff turned up. The latter jiff-jaffed his hello and then refused to follow the lady home. We had to walk him back to her. Then I had an idea: "Avez vous d'une feu?" I yelled after her, as she was almost out of earshot. No, "Desolé!", of course not! She didn't much look like a smoker; or maybe my French isn't very French.

The farmer on the little tractor came back the other direction and waved again. Whoever said the French don't like people wildcamping and chase you away...?!? Just as we were almost loaded up and ready to go, a guy in a white van stopped n came over to say Hi. He spoke very few words of English, but with our few words of French and all of our hands and some weird "vroom vroom" noises we established that he used to ride a bike, a Harley in fact. He loved our little camping spot and wished us a great journey

After a quick stop at Lidl for water and some lighters, we got some miles under our belt. The air was still relatively cool, especially in the morning, but the sun was out I was getting more and more comfortable cornering with the heavy panniers but the relatively straight french roads took it easy on me, giving me time to get used to the heavy bike. The indicators had almost completely stopped working though and I'd have to have a look at that soon. Something to do with the switch, as neither indicator nor the little green indicator light on the instrument panel worked.

Stopped in a lay-by and got the stove out to finally cook our cheesy beans on toast Yum! And some coffee of course. Loving the idea of just setting up a little kitchen wherever we fancy!


The wheat and barley fields had given way to pretty seas of yellow sunflowers! And closer to Bordeaux vineyards started popping up. Wine makers had 2m tall wine bottle statues by their gates advertising their direct-from-the-vineyard sales.


In the afternoon it got really hot in the bike leathers! One of the many blinking green Pharmacie lights declared it to be 41°C! Hm..... not sure that's quite true, but definitely hot enough for some ice cream. Sat in an Intermarché car park and munched almost the whole pot of chocolate & caramel ice cream (can't store it on the bike after all )

We made one last push, jumping on the "A"-roads (motorways) to get past Bordeaux. Eventually got off at junction 24 to find a camping spot, as it was already quarter past seven and the sun was going to set soon. But we ended up in a horribly industrial feeling pine plantation area with lots of Private! - No Entry! signs. That's no good!

So off we went, completely exhausted, desperate to find a camping spot, considering almost anything. And so we ended up riding into a super bumpy little field opposite a Bistro, in full view of a growing crowd of menacingly staring customers. When it became apparent that they weren't going to turn their backs and let us camp un-watched and in peace, we had to wrestle our bikes back over the bumps and back onto the road. Bummer! Going to chalk that one up to a bit more off-roading practice then and carry on...

Eventually turned off the road down a little track into a light, easy-going looking pine forest (none of that almost surgical-precision type plantation we had earlier). The ground was almost pure white sand like on a beach and we found a little spot under a little oak tree. Just beyond that the path had been blocked with a little heap of stones, so the owner's obviously didn't want any visitors. But we were well hidden from the road and it was perfectly peaceful Except for the MILLIONS of mosquitos! Aaaarrrrggghhhhh! Deet!!!! We got absolutely munched that evening, even with several layers of anti-mozzie spray!


Had some yummie smoked mackerel and lambs lettuce salad for dinner with cheese, olives and wine for seconds! Yum, yum, yum!!!


Then grabbed some more wine and decided to explore further down the path into the forest. It got real dark in one place where we crossed a tiny river - really beautiful and eerie. Then out into a clearing where there was a fence that looked like it shouldn't be crossed: some sort of military installation (that you can't see on the map of course).

So we turned back and I spent ages trying to take a good picture of the huge yellow moon rising behind the trees. Then we ran from the mozzies and hid in the tent, finishing the wine and writing the diaries by torch light.

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Feeling pretty good, having showered and bought some razors for a shave tomorrow. Not feeling so good about having to pay the princely sum of €9 for a microwaved frozen pizza. We're in a campsite. Having decided that we wouldn't find a spot to free camp anywhere near the city (or the coast, where we wanted to go for a swim and a scrub), and feeling exhausted by yesterday's excursions we decided to bite the bullet and pay to camp.

Last night's spot looked fairly idyllic and made for some great pictures, but the place was overrun with ****ing mosquitoes so in the morning we packed up sharpish and left, due south, with a few dozen love bites to remind us of the downside of sleeping in nice cozy forests. We'd overindulged slightly with the wine to try to discourage the mozzies by raising our blood-alcohol level, so my route for the day was fairly drunkenly plotted and illegibly scrawled on a piece of paper. Despite that we managed to make it through Bayonne, Biarritz, St-Jean-de-Luz and across the border without incident.


The only change at the border was the speed limit, and a slight degree of irrationality by the Spanish drivers. Eventually we made it in to Donostia; a typically touristy, coastal affair, and one that we had no idea how to navigate. So parking the bikes up in a little bay on a side street we set off on foot to have a look around town, get our bearings, and maybe have a cheeky if the opportunity arose. The city has a few nice draws; not least the long main strip that runs through the town allowing you to sit and people watch over a . There's also some decent sculpture by Eduardo Chillida that they are very proud of, and a congress centre by Moneo that at least acts as a landmark when you forget where you parked your bike. We were way too tired for any of that though, so we headed straight for the tourism office, which was much bigger and busier than you'd expect and we had to take a number ticket and wait to speak to someone.

An hour or so later and furnished with a map of nearby campsites and a fresh pack of cigarettes we sat down at a cafe to check our options. It was pretty clear that there was only one campsite anywhere near us, so we jumped back on the bikes and started winding our way up the hills that enclosed the city. Since the map showed the campsite as being just on the edge of town we thought about walking back in for dinner, but as we steadily climbed further and further up the mountain, with no sign of life, that idea began to dwindle.


Eventually we found it. Remote and Elevated. It wasn't as expensive as I'd worried it would be though and we justified parting with our €20 odd for the sake of shower facilities and wi-fi.

After a quick wander on foot (and slurping from a bottle of wine) to check out a few restaurants we had passed on the drive up, and finding them all closed, we had a pizza and a few s in the local canteen. After a game of Spite & Malice and another we settled in to the tent, making use of the free wi-fi to let everyone know we were still alive.

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Left the campsite and headed back down the mountain into San Sebastian with a plan to find the coastal road to Bilbao. It should only be a short ride away, leaving us lots of time to explore the city, which we love so much. (We had been there in July 2010 for the Bilbao BBK Festival. That year it had an exceptional Rock line-up with the likes of Pearl Jam, Skunk Anansie, Rammstein, Bullet For My Valentine, Coheed and Cambria, Gogol Bordello, Faith No More...

But of course we got lost pretty much straight away and found ourselves on a really steep, single lane mountain road consisting solely of hairpin bends. AWESOME!!! It was the most difficult riding I had done so far; absolutely exhilarating, adrenalin pumping, first gear most of the time. Add to that the stunning misty seaside scenery at the bottom of the mountain.... I almost fell off the bike trying to catch a glimpse through the trees. If that is what gettin lost is like, I hope we get lost loads

We finally reach a bigger road and start heading right in the direction. Suddenly things start looking familiar.... Yup, its the campsite again! Oh well, off we go again. No regrets though! The scenery remains amazing as the road keeps winding along the seaside mountain. I had sworn to myself to never let a photo opportunity go by again. But I was so busy having a good time and learning to heave the loaded bike around the bends, we were almost back down the mountain before it occurred to me, that I didn't have a single photo.... oh well, sorry guys, you're just gonna have to take my word for it.

We kept following the winding coastal road - not a straight in sight! Every time there was a sign for a direct route to Bilbao, we ignored it and headed further along the coast.


Eventually we were exhausted and our un-trained shoulders started hurting, so we stopped in a little town for a coffee. Then on we went, only to start running out of petrol, with no petrol station in sight. Hadn't seen one all day on those little roads. Emergency meeting in a carpark: plan hatched to find a bigger road at the first chance. We top the next hill and there is a petrol station all by itself in the middle of nowhere. Phew!

Tonight we wanted to stay in an actual camp site, so we could leave the bikes safely, while exploring Bilbao late into the night. The nearest campsite is in Sopelana. But we really wanted to be within walking distance of the city. So we rode into town anyways. A visit to the tourist information centre by the Guggenheim confirmed that there was no campsite closer by. And all the hostels were fully booked because the Aste Nagusia Festival was on. Good timing! But it meant we had to go back to the Sopelana campsite.

That was almost fully booked too, but because we had bikes (not cars) that could squeeze in with the tent, we got a spot We were exhausted! Nothing that a couple of s from the campsite bar couldn't fix! Put up the tent and quickly did some very overdue laundry.


Then off into town. There is a direct train from Sopelana into Bilbao and because of the festival, it was going to run pretty much all night... Perfect


We had seen a couple of stages and bars along the river in Bilbao, but nothing too spectacular looking, so we didn't have too much faith in the festival. So the plan was to find a little restaurant for dinner and then to bumble about, exploring the city. Got off the train and started heading towards the Guggenheim, bottle of wine in hand.


Walked past an open door where people were sat on benches and cushions watching a big screen. I thought it was a movie but Aidan said they were skyping someone.... cool!

Then walked past a side street where people were spilling out of bars and restaurants into the street. There were lights and flags above their heads across the street.


So we went to investigate and found ourselves in the middle of the festival. The crowds spread all over the quarter and down to the river. EVERYONE was out! Grannys, children, punks, hapless tourists and everyone in between. Young people were having tapas, old men watched a football game, children were holding their grand parents' hands, weaving through the crowd. The atmosphere was one of fun and mischievous revelry


We stopped at a restaurant with a bunch of sixty-something guys singing football hymns. Sounds awful, right? But no hooligans in sight and so it was really happy and amusing.... and they served rabbit! I'm sold


Bumbeled around some more and bought some s in a sweet shop.
Suddenly a big bang.... or two.... or three... and the sky was ablaze with fireworks! I'm not normally a big fan, but these were beautiful!


Heard some rock music playing and turned around. We found ourselves in a more alternative quarter and stood right outside a Metal Bar. Sweet! In we go All smoky and black, with a motorbike amongst the spirit bottles behind the bar. My kind of place! The small place was filled with twenty something metal heads and a few rock chicks. One girl looked distinctively out of place with a where-the-hell-did-you-take-me-on-our-first-date expression on her face. The guys behind the bar had long black hair and one of them was picking rock and metal tunes on his laptop.


We grabbed a and started dancing (well, I did, Aidan doesn't dance unless unconsciously drunk). Got the music guy to play Engel by Rammstein and sang along at the top of my voice. Don't worry, no-one could hear me over the loudspeakers! Then the guy behind the bar started pouring vodka from the bottle down people's throats so I went and got my share A good night! Eventually the money ran out so we stumbled back to the train.

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