Saddle Up E-Book

Angelika Gaufer

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 422

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Saddle up! 8400km solo on the bike, along the Atlantic Coast, from the South of Portugal to the North Cape of Norway, one summer long. Follow the merry Tour d'Europe through delightful encounters, culinary delicacies, breathtaking nature experiences, minor mishaps and luxurious nights under the stars. In addition to the cycling adventure, our author fulfilled one more dream - you are looking at it. "Sporty, challenging, a fair bit of adventure, fun to read!" Jonas Deichmann, long-distance exceptional athlete and Spiegel bestselling Author "A text that inspires and always brings a smile. For explorers of all ages." Paul Maar, Author

Leseprobe

The best journeys of discovery are not made in foreign lands, but by looking at the world with new eyes.

Marcel Proust

Table of contents

PART I ALWAYS ALONG THE ATLANTIC COAST: FROM FARO IN PORTUGAL TO BAMBERG

At home

The preparation

PORTUGAL

Jila and her family

SPAIN

Galicia

Asturias

Cantabria

The Basque Country

Philippe, Jean-Jaques, Pascal and Josephe

FRANCE

Bernhard

The bracket

Andrea and Michael

Michel, Françoise and - Marie

BELGIUM

HOLLAND

GERMANY

Gertrud

LAST DAY

PART II FROM BAMBERG ACROSS THE POLAR CIRCLE TO THE NORTH CAPE

GERMANY

DENMARK

Benny and Kira

SWEDEN

Gregor and Erik

Ingvar

Maria

NORWAY

ARCHIPELAGO, CAPITAL, MUSK OXEN: THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS TO THE SEA

Sissel, Ole, Simen and the whole family

Evan and Pepe

Annika

LONELY, BEAUTIFUL, DAMAGED BIKE: ALONG THE KYSTRIKSVEIEN ACROSS THE POLAR CIRCLE

Astrid

Alessandro, Giacomo and Matteo

Kristin

Across the Arctic Circle

SLEEPLESSLY SPECTACULAR: LOFOTEN AND VESTERÅLEN

Christoph and Marvin

Solhov and its inhabitants

FINALE: THROUGH FINNMARK TO THE NORTH CAPE

Dieter

Gianni and Paolo

THE LAST DAY AT THE NORTHERN TIP OF EUROPE

NUTRITION

EQUIPMENT

Packing list

Additionally, exclusively on the southern part of the journey:

Additionally, exclusively on the northern part of the journey:

Bicycle and bag / carrier systems:

For cooking, eating and sleeping

THANKS

SUPPLEMENT

PART I

ALWAYS ALONG THE ATLANTIC COAST: FROM FARO IN PORTUGAL TO BAMBERG

At home

I admit I was tired.

Tired of endless meetings, discussions that revolved for hours around details that in my eyes had no relevance. Tired of states of alarm to which everything had to be dropped ad hoc. One crisis followed the next. Crises justify immediately rounding up staff, with high concentration, without regard to the actual planning, and assigning them new tasks. Were these crises, or were they made? My risk assessment was different, more relaxed, and so over time it became increasingly clear: I am wrong here. For the last two or three years, I had been thinking about how I could best get out of this situation: a top-paid, demanding job as a press officer in the industry, with colleagues who are smart, capable and inspiring, excellent benefits for me as an employee - salary, holiday, further training, pension scheme, support in case of illness. Valued, well networked and in absolutely safe channels. You don't give up a job like that. Not for good reason. And yet: I was missing something, big time. I worked a lot, and my job basically had the highest priority. I never left work "early" for a private project, holidays were scheduled to fit the company's needs, and so much energy, thought and passion went into my work that I felt there was hardly any ressources left for leisure. I fell into unplanned weekends, unplanned holidays, a lot of private things simply became too much for me. In all my irritability, sudden anger and a latent feeling of being overloaded, I basically felt clearly that something was going wrong. Privately, too, I felt under pressure. I supported where I could, in cases of illness and bereavement, with financial needs, in my clubs, with the older generation. I delivered. I fulfilled expectations. I was small and felt smaller and smaller.

At the turn of the year from 2021 to 2022, I simply wished for an easy new year.

At that time, I had no idea that this year would bring big changes. Of course, I also noticed that the company was not doing quite as well as it had 13 years ago when I had started. The outlook for the future was less rosy and the share price was crumbling. In my division, the current product portfolio was doing well, but the development was stuttering, so that all the hopeful products that were to be launched in the next few years had to be shelved one by one.

It was clear that we could not continue with this number of staff. When I was offered a job on the other end of the world, as we all had to be flexible now, I turned it down and signalled that I had no family or financial obligations and would find it comparatively easy to leave the company. This statement came spontaneously at the end of a development meeting and I hardly believed myself what I had just said after the somewhat distraught face of my boss in the US had disappeared from the screen. My uncle had told me not to send a signal to the company when I told him, who himself had a steep career in industry, that I felt tired. Now it was sent, the signal. It only took a few months, then the echo came: I was on the list as part of a major global restructuring in which almost 30% of the jobs in my field were cut.

Fortunately.

I made a plan.

The plan was to cycle through Western Europe, from the southernmost tip of Faro, Portugal, to the northernmost tip of North Cape, Norway. As much as possible along the Atlantic. A plan for one summer. It turned out to be more than 8400 kilometres. More than 60,000 metres of altitude. About 100 days. 9 countries. 5 flat tyres, 3 broken spokes, 2 battered panniers and a rim that needed replacing. I left 5kg of body weight on the trail.

And returned with a calm mind, a full heart and a kind view of the world.

The preparation

We came to an amicable agreement, as nothing had happened. I stayed a while longer to finish a few projects and at the same time planned my time off, which was to begin a few weeks later in May.

The list that had to be worked through:

1. Buying a suitable bike and waiting for it to be delivered in the tight market situation.

2. Think through the packing concept on the bike and get suitable panniers.

3. Buy things I would need: A small light tent. A good mat. Powerbank and holders for navigation devices.

4. Download an upgrade of the navigation software, arrange for an upgrade of the data volume for planning on the road.

5. Finding a subtenant for the flat.

The plan for the itinerary itself was simple, because it had been ready for three years. At that time, I had applied for a sabbatical for this project and also got it approved. But the plan went back into the drawer and the approval into the wastepaper basket because, among other things, a job option within the company was taking shape that I simply wanted to prioritise. And it was a good thing. Because now the starting position was a bit better. I had a decent financial cushion with me. And I would be free afterwards and could once again design from scratch.

But let's take it one step at a time.

PORTUGAL

On 8 May 2022, my plane took off from Frankfurt to Faro. I had a big goodbye round behind me. In the company anyway, with family, friends and acquaintances. I was showered with a mountain of gifts and good wishes for the trip, and not everything could find its place in the small luggage. Last farewell phone calls on the way to the gate. And then it was off.

The world from above has always been exciting and special in itself, and this time my heart leapt as I crossed the white peaks of the Pyrenees. And then again when I saw the sandy beaches from above, announcing the destination of the flight: Faro at the southernmost end of Portugal. It was warm when I got off the plane. My luggage consisted only of a large cardboard box in which both the bike and the panniers had been placed. It was delivered safely to the bulky baggage claim and the first extra was a fully equipped assembly stand next to it, where I could assemble my bike at my leisure.

Fit the front tyre, screw on the mudguard, refit the handlebars and screw on the saddle and pedals. Make sure that the handlebars are centred and at the right angle and that the saddle is aligned straight and screwed down at the right height. These hand movements were practised. There was a proper standing air pump, because the tyres must not be fully inflated due to the low air pressure at flying altitude, otherwise they would burst. Tyres inflated, panniers clipped on and I was on the bike. I set the navigation system to Faro, city centre.

The six kilometres led along a dirt road, and I was immediately struck by the flowering cacti, bougainvilleas, verbenas and orange trees with their lush green leaves and thick fruit. The vegetation here was a splendour at the beginning of May. Both the wild flowers and the cultivated plants in the gardens. Nature was colourful and full and inviting. I rolled into the little southern town and put up for the first night in a very well-rated hostel. There I got another proper toolbox, as a few readjustments were hard to do with the small toolset from my luggage. I stowed my luggage in a locker in the 9-bed women's dormitory and set off, passing a pretty little church with storks nesting on its two towers.

These first steps were a little cautious and tentative. Ahead of me: a huge distance and several weeks on tour. For the first time in my life. During the semester breaks, I was mostly on the assembly line to finance my life. Now the moment had come for a long journey, and on top of that I now had not only time but also money. Still. So many weeks away from home. On the road alone. That was new territory. I wandered around the town a bit and wanted to take an excursion boat to an offshore island. Boat trips, that was a safe bet - because I just always liked them. There I acclimatised, had a drink on the beach, wandered around and enjoyed the flocks of seagulls and the solitude of nature. In the evening, I rolled down to the harbour once more by bike to eat. A restaurant right by the sea, a grilled dorado, and I tuned in. A few metres away, a live band was playing cover songs, and they played really well. At the sign of the place, I had another photo taken of my bike and me, and a little boy climbed in. So that was the start. The first day. I stayed until the band had played their last song, dancing. A good start. Warmth, sea, sports boats in the harbour, tall palm trees above me and the full moon.

In the dormitory, I woke up at two in the morning and thought: "If there's someone with Corona here, I've got it!“ Of course, that would not have been a good turn of events, to remain alone in quarantine in a hotel somewhere without being able to take care of myself. And I had something planned for which I needed an ablebodied person. So, as a precautionary measure, I put the subject of shared rooms to one side during the first week. One thing was clear: I did not want to jeopardise the success of the trip negligently. I was to take good care of myself and my body during the entire time, from sun protection and Covid 19 prevention to stretching in the evenings. Likewise, my bike received proper care: cleaning, checking air pressure, cleaning and greasing the chain. I didn't know this meticulousness and foresight about myself, and so I was happy about this new discipline, which arose all by itself and out of the thing. The guiding principle was: If something goes wrong, then please do it in such a way that I don't have to admit afterwards that it could have easily been avoided.

The next day I started early towards the west, the destination was Aljezur on the west coast of Portugal. 109 kilometres and 900 metres of altitude difference through the Algarve. The ride was beautiful and it was hot. I rode a lot off-road, and sometimes I had to push, because with a few centimetres of deep sand you had no chance with the heavy bike. At noon, I made a two-hour stop at the beach. Swimming in the fresh Atlantic, cooling off, resting in the sun. The temperature was well over 30 degrees. The navigation device in "gravel bike" mode guided me along small paths, along wetlands and lakes where many bird species lived. A pretty picture. And I saw a flock of flamingos standing there. Not as you know them, in pink. They were feathered in light grey. I enjoyed observing this abundance of birds and bird species there on the spot. In the evening I checked into a simple four-star hotel, with a very tasty dinner in the restaurant opposite. That was already a good and relaxed start.

And already, on the big map of Europe, I turned from the south coast of Portugal to the west coast, heading north. This area was called Alentejo, and it was very beautiful. The tourist places that existed in the Algarve had disappeared. The area was simpler and more pristine. We passed cork oaks that had probably been harvested not so long ago. The bark, several centimetres thick, had been peeled from the trunk. Portugal is one of the world's largest producers of cork, and cork production there, conversely, is a relevant economic sector. The trees grow to be 150 to 200 years old and can be harvested about every ten to twelve years. The quality of the cork peaks in the second, third and fourth harvests, and the raw material is used to make bottle corks or also as insulation material. The floor in my nursery was made of cork, as were the soles of the flip-flops I had with me. A beautiful material that also felt good.

That night was the first in my tent, at a campsite a little above the sea, after about 110 kilometres of walking. In the evening, I rolled down to the sea, walked barefoot over the wooden planks and onto the beach. There, as the sun was setting, I sat down on a deck chair in a beach bar and stretched my feet in the fine sand. A small cool beer called "Super Bock" beside me at the little table. The world was alright.

I enjoyed Portuguese cuisine to the full. Everywhere there was the wonderful typical latte, galão, freshly squeezed orange juice, and pastel de nata, a small custard pastry on puff pastry. On top, if you liked, a pinch of cinnamon. Life was cheap, 7 euros the campsite, sometimes 1 euro at the bakery for a small black coffee and a pastel de nata. The first ferry of my journey across the river Sado to Setúbal had just left me. So I had the pleasure of passing the time with small delicacies in a beautiful, well-kept eco-resort. In general, the Portuguese cuisine reminded me in three respects of the rural cuisine in my home country of Franconia: plenty, hearty and inexpensive. For cyclists, it was a good starting point, because without an engine, with a bike and luggage weighing a total of 30 kg and a daily average of more than 100 kilometres, a lot of energy was burnt up and had to be replenished.

Today I reached the first road block. I drove as the navigation system guided me. The road got narrower and narrower, and suddenly I was in front of a continuous, almost waist-high concrete barrier in front of a small bridge. The bridge did not make a good impression, it looked very dilapidated. So I tried to get back onto the larger road. There I found myself in a roundabout, and the only road in my direction was an motorway for motor vehicles, explicitly closed to cyclists and donkey carts, built almost like a motorway. So that was not an option. There were no bypasses. So back to the bridge. I hoisted the bike with the luggage over the concrete barriers and pushed where it looked reasonably stable.

I placated myself as usual with the thought "This has to be closed off for insurance reasons, that doesn't mean it's dangerous". Whether this thought was also true in Portugal, I didn't want to discuss further with myself for lack of alternatives. Everything went well, the track was bumpy and I was relieved to find myself back on a road that was easy to drive on.

On this day, after the dormitories, I gave up something again: The gravel bike function in the tour planning. True, it was nice not to ride only on asphalt roads. But too often I ended up in terrain where the path either disappeared altogether, became an ankle-deep sand track or was so steep that only pushing was possible. With all my love. That was nothing. So from then on, normal bike mode and roads.

After 118 kilometres in Vila Franca de Xira, I had to do a small roll backwards in the evening. Unfortunately, there was only one accommodation available within a radius of many kilometres, a small dormitory with four beds in a hostel. It was occupied by three people. One person was already in bed when I entered the room in the afternoon. An elderly man who was obviously very exhausted and sleeping fitfully. I was a little worried. This encounter represented my first meeting with pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago. On the advice of a cycling friend from home, I had obtained a pilgrim's passport so that I could also find accommodation without any problems. I didn't want to cheat or get cheaper prices. He said that there was often simply nothing else than pilgrim accommodation. And since I would be doing the entire Caminho Português between Porto and Santiago and then east of Santiago de Compostela on the Camiño del Norte along the Spanish coast, I got the pass. And if I had already landed in a pilgrim's accommodation today, then I also wanted to try the pilgrim's food. A big colourful salad as a starter, a dish of bacalhau, which is salted, dried fish that is then softened again in water for processing, and a dessert. Wine and water are served, all for little money. In the course of my journey, I was to learn that bacalhau, something like a national dish in Portugal, most probably came from a place many thousands of kilometres further north. For weeks later I cycled through this place, the centre of dried fish production in Europe: Norway's Lofoten Islands. Although the processing of bacalhaus was widespread in Portugal and corresponding dishes could be found on every menu, the entire product was imported from the North Atlantic.

The next day, the route led away from the sea and a little inland. Lisbon was not far away, and I wanted to avoid it as much as possible. I had already visited the capital of Portugal several times, and this time I wanted to avoid the juggernaut of the big city as much as possible. I was looking forward to another city a little further north: Porto. For there I was expected for the first time on the trip, by Jila and her family, with whom I would spend two nights. Inland it became hot, and outstandingly scenic. Avenues of plane trees shaded small country roads. Morbid mansions threatened by decay lined the way. Vast colourful meadows bloomed in yellow, white and with fiery red poppies, and small, hardly used roads wound through them. Gentle, wooded hills lay along the way. The road crept up through the forest, and it finally became so steep that my transmission could no longer withstand it. Or rather, the combination of gearing and my strength and condition. So I dismounted and pushed. This was a stroke of luck, because I was to see a large, beautiful bee orchid on the side of the road. This type of orchid is extremely rare in our latitudes, and the flower was shining beautifully. It was imitating a bee, so that it could be approached by bees for pollination. I was very happy about this find, because it reminded me of my mother, who had taught me from an early age about the wonders of local botany. It was not the last beeragwort of this trip, as there were many orchids to discover in Portugal at this time of year compared to Germany. But it was the first and remained the most beautiful one I saw on the trip. Sometimes there were a few isolated orchids, sometimes a whole meadow full of many different types of orchids, with bee-ragworts, small-flowered tongue-worts, summer-worts, pyramidal orchids. Many areas here simply remained natural meadows, not mown and apparently they had not yet seen any herbicides either, so that they blossomed wildly and colourfully. A wonderful sight. When I had finally pushed to the top of the knoll, I got back on and rolled down the mountain on the other side on my bike.

I whizzed downhill and soon came to a small town, and suddenly I was standing at a huge church and monastery complex in the middle of the town. Surprises were one of the wonderful things about cycling. With the path as a destination, cyclists often get to places they would not otherwise have gone to. True gems and treasures awaited them along the way, off the beaten track. And if you were on the road without much advance planning, you found these treasures quite spontaneously, like the monastery of Alcobaça, a Unesco World Heritage Site since 1989 and one of the most beautiful and famous monasteries in Portugal. I was happy to take the time and visit the Cistercian monastery, which was very worthwhile. The massive high nave welcomed in simple beauty, unpainted, and had a simply calming effect, also as a cool oasis in the shimmering heat. I looked at the church, and in the front room I came across a richly decorated and ornate stone tomb. It reminded me of the imperial tomb of Heinrich and Kunigunde in the cathedral of my hometown Bamberg. But only one person was buried here, not a pair of lovers. On the opposite side of the nave, however, was a second richly decorated tomb. Even as I walked over, I thought to myself, "That must have been a couple...". There was indeed a woman lying here.

Pedro on one side, Inês once across the nave opposite. And indeed, it was a tragic love story between the two, for which Inês was even murdered. It ended in 1360 in the bizarre incident of Inês ' corpse, exhumed and dressed in coronation robes, sitting next to the living Pedro on the throne. The court had to kiss Inês ' cold hand and swear allegiance to her before she was reinterred. So now in the monastery the two sarcophagi of King Pedro and the rightfully recognised Queen Ines are opposite each other. Supposedly arranged so that the two can look each other straight in the eye at the resurrection.

Another highlight of the monastery was the kitchen. The bright colours of the tiles and the bold sweep of the flue were reminiscent of Art Deco, a real surprise in the middle of a medieval monastery. The cloister with its green oasis of plants was wonderfully restful and the elaborate azulejos (with a warm, buzzing s at the z and a warm, buzzing sh at the j, and again a warm, buzzing s at the end) a real splendour. I really liked these tiles that the Moors had once brought with them, the word comes from Arabic and means something like "polished little stone". In the monastery they told whole stories, cobalt blue on a white background. Initially found only in palaces, monasteries and aristocratic houses, they gradually conquered the exterior facades of urban houses as well, mostly in white and blue. The colours became more and the tiles relief-like, which made streets colourful and there was always something to discover. The Portuguese still love their azulejos today.

In the evening I moved into a very nice room in Marinha Grande, after 105 kilometres and about 1100 metres of altitude.

The fifth day of my journey took me first to a meadow full of orchids, I could make out four different species. The fauna was also quite something today. First I encountered a beautiful swallowtail, a large butterfly that is protected and that I had not seen for years. Then came the highlight in terms of storks. Every day I encountered many. On buildings, on poles, on dilapidated houses. Once, when I turned 360 degrees around my vantage point, I had nine nests in view. But that was to be topped today: On a single pole of an overhead power line there were 26 stork nests in all. And on the next mast they were nesting just as diligently.

On this day, I had planned a small diversion, for which I had to overcome about 50 additional kilometres as well as a few metres in altitude. I wanted to go to the venerable university town of Coimbra, Portugal's Qxford. There was a reason for this, because even before I set off on my journey, the head of my library in the small town of Gundelsheim asked me how I was doing with a lecture about my trip. I hadn't told her about it, but some of the volunteers knew about the project. So word must have got around. Of course I was very happy. And today I wanted to go to Coimbra to send a postcard to the ladies from there. Because in the University of Coimbra there is the most beautiful library in the country. On three floors, with halls in different colours and artistically carved shelves made of rosewood and ebony. Here, knowledge breathed at the level of the 16th to 18th centuries. For most of the books came from this period. False doors and funny ladders reminded one of Harry Potter. It was a worthwhile detour here. Outside, a group of students in black gowns were happily celebrating their graduation. A nice group picture for the graduating class, in the middle of the university's wide courtyard, high above the valley of the Mondego river.

Shortly before my accommodation, a simple, clean motel, I drove a drawing pin into my tyre. Unfortunately, I didn't leave it in, but pulled it out of the tyre and casing without thinking, which resulted in the rapid total loss of all air. I pushed another 700 metres to the accommodation and then first decided to have dinner in the barbecue restaurant next door. I ate a lot, greasy and hearty. Two tables next to me sat a man. We exchanged a few words in German, he was a pilgrim from near Ingolstadt. I invited him to sit with me, which he didn't accept quite happily, he trotted up to the table. But then he thawed out when he enthusiastically told me about his experiences on the Way of St. James. It was the fourth time he had made the pilgrimage, he was in his mid-50s, his wife and daughters could not understand his passion. He, however, was completely inspired. Finally, he pulled up the short sleeve of his T-shirt and proudly displayed his tattoo of a scallop shell with the dates of the four paths he had already walked. What heals is right, I thought to myself with a certain inner distance. But basically it was, and if he and his family were all happy - he wasn't hurting anyone in his enthusiasm. Except perhaps himself, because he had problems with his ankles, which were already quite swollen. But he was smart enough to want to cover the following stages by public transport and to recuperate for a few days on the beach further north.

Jila and her family

Today was the day to go to Jila and her family. I was looking forward to seeing a familiar face, to being expected, to the family connection. And I was also looking forward to a day of catching my breath, doing laundry, and visiting Porto with someone who knew the city well.

But first I fixed my flat tyre. On the way, I found a bike shop and was happy to buy two new tubes - as a reserve. That day it got up to 39 degrees. After about 100 kilometres, I arrived at the beach and at the children's birthday party, because Jila's daughter turned 2 today.

The birthday party welcomed me warmly. This was a situation I was to experience many times during the course of the journey: I was marvelled at and admired for the project and the performance on the bike. I heard the word "admiration" often and in different languages. This time it was a friend of Jila's who was also part of the birthday party with her family. She peppered me with questions when I arrived. I first went into the sea to get rid of the sweat and to cool down. Then I slowly got used to the company, as I had hardly had any people around me for many days now. Jila and I were happy to see each other again, it had been a long time since we had last met. We worked together in the same office in Berlin more than 10 years ago. After that, our paths led us apart, she to Vienna, and me to Franconia. It was nice on the beach and we had a relaxing evening. Jila had cooked wonderfully, Persian, her father came from Iran, and I ate and ate, luckily there was enough for everyone. Her partner's flat was huge, on the top floor, and you could see the sea from every room. The door knobs in the flat were big crystal balls. One of my bicycle shorts was now hanging on a hanger on the crystal door knob to dry. I slept in the nursery of the five-year-old son who was to be a great help in getting the bike back into shape the next day.

In the morning I started to clean the bike: The arm of a lamp in the courtyard was just the right height and was converted into an assembly stand, with my bike dangling from the saddle. This way I could clean it perfectly, chain and pedals rotated freely to clean the cogs, chain, sprockets and to grease them afterwards. I also had to do a bit of wrenching, and my young interested assistant picked out what I needed from the mechanic's kit.

We had good conversations. The children's father told me a lot about Portugal, that he also liked the Alentejo very much, what good wines grew on the Douro River, how much tourism and with it the prices had increased recently. He loved his country, that was quite obvious.

The following day we visited Porto and I liked it extremely well. Husband and daughter had gone to visit the grandparents. Jila, her son and I took a detour into the city. How pretty it was, very mountainous, with lots of azulejos on the houses. The railway station was one of the most beautiful I had ever seen, Art Nouveau, in yellow and white and with blue and white tiles. If it wasn't for the electronic display board, you would have thought you were in a magnificent station of a rich city, at a time when cars and planes didn't play a big role. Even the branch of a well-known fast food restaurant was worth seeing like a monument. We wandered through the city, looked at the cathedral, and in the evening the master of the house offered me a wonderfully soft port wine. Everything was good. After the rest day, I had another nice destination, because a friend of Jila's ran an exceptionally beautiful pilgrim hostel on the border with Spain. It was a very long way, over 137 kilometres, and I had a lot of respect for it. In the meantime, however, part of my preparation was to look at the wind forecast. As the wind was supposed to blow to the north for once, and relatively strongly, I took a chance and booked myself in. It was nice to be expected and to know that we knew each other, even if only from around the corner.

The near encounters with neighbours from Maternstraße in Bamberg, mother and daughter, who were just there on the Way of St. James, also did good. Although we had missed each other on the route, we kept in touch, sent each other pictures, commented and shared recommendations. They both stayed at Julia's hostel, the Albergue Quinta Estrada Romana, a few days after I did, and I think they liked it just as much as I did. It was nice to be connected locally, even in a foreign country.

So now we continued, hugging Jila, saying goodbye, setting off with a tailwind and in thick clouds. Across the Douro near the sea, the ferry connection indicated in the navigation system was not operated, so there were a lot of extra kilometres in the direction of the city, across the river via a footbridge and back along the river in the direction of the sea. The weather was mixed on the way north. The route was beautiful, always along the sea, exclusively on cycle paths. Sometimes through small towns, sometimes in bays, always the Atlantic, always waves. Wave riders tried their luck. And I was able to take advantage of a small gap in the clouds with sunshine for a drink in a kiosk restaurant right by the sea. Almost exclusively locals were sitting here at this time of year.

The sea had become my companion. I loved it in all its forms. Whether stormy, gentle or, as here, with high waves. For this tour, I had chosen the Atlantic as my companion, because I had always been fascinated by the wild sea. Of the idea that there is nothing there for thousands of kilometres and then America. The Mediterranean bathtub is also beautiful, with its small waves and the many people who cavort on the beaches. But here, that was just special. Rough. Enormous. Often roaring and raging, with high waves, spray and salt in the air. With long beaches where it got lonely as soon as the weather didn't invite sunbathing. The sea on the Atlantic dropped quickly to extreme depths, as it did later in Norway, where this geographical feature allowed me to meet the largest marine mammals, the whales.

Today, north of Porto, it was changeable. In the morning I had a small fall: I was rolling towards a zebra crossing, a car was coming, and as I was unsure whether it would stop, I braked at the last moment and couldn't get out of the clip pedals in time. There I was, lying like a bug on my side at the beginning of the zebra crossing, well protected by the panniers. Nothing had happened. The car, which I wasn't sure would stop, rolled into a parking space, both people got out and came towards me, as did a gentleman in his best suit from the other side. They were all concerned if something had happened to me and they cared. I realised this fall was no accident.

I was just a bit insecure. For me, it was also a thick board to drill, at the beginning of such a long journey, alone, and I was simply still moving shakily. Overall, I was not yet driving freely and courageously, but carefully and extremely structured. The structure I gave myself was "6 days riding, one day break". On average, more than 100 kilometres a day. I kept it up for a fortnight. After that, the structure gave way to feelings and circumstances. Distances and rest days were determined by external and internal factors - weather, terrain, sights, body feeling, joy of riding. It was much better and freer and looser, and at the end of the day I even managed more than strictly according to plan. Again, something I gave up at the beginning of this trip: After the dormitories and the unpaved surface, now the strict daily and weekly distance targets.

The last thing I should also give up this week, I would not have thought possible before the trip. Always, the minimum standard so to speak, and also very critically eyed by others, was the issue of fresh cycling clothes for me. I had no understanding whatsoever of how someone could put on cycling clothes a second time after a whole day's activity in them. In my eyes, only men with a slight tendency towards strong smells and a leg towards homelessness did this. And then... Three jerseys and cycling shorts in the luggage, tedious and time-consuming hand-washing, in damp cool weather with problems getting the clothes dry overnight: I suddenly belonged to the community of people who thought that cycling jerseys and cycling shorts could be worn a second time.

It rained more often during the day, including in the afternoon, when I stopped for a break in a small town. I got a stamp for my postcard to the library, threw the card in, and then looked for a dry and warm place. At a bakery-café, I ordered two pieces of cake, one with lots of custard, one with lots of chocolate, and a nice hot galão. I was warmed up again and off I went. In the afternoon, the sun peeked out of the clouds, and with it came an incredibly strong tailwind. I felt like I just sat on my bike and let myself be blown forward. This experience alone was fantastic and gave me great pleasure. Because speed, here on the bike, with wind around my nose, that's what I like.

The route was varied. Wide cycle paths led through parks along the sea, small towns lay picturesquely in bays, shade under trees on cycle paths with a view of water and waves. And then came a beautiful corner that made my heart swell. Just before the Rio Minho flows into the sea, I spotted a beautiful bay. Wide, with a sandy beach, at the other end a pointed mountain, in the water a castle. Succulents along the way were in colourful bloom. What a beautiful place. Again one of the moments for which this journey was worthwhile.

When I turned my back on the sea and rolled inland along the Rio Minho, there were a few funny coloured boats in the water right at the beginning. Then I continued upstream along the cycle path for about 30 kilometres. Into the interior to Julia's hostel. Finally, heavy rain threatened again, but it didn't catch me. After 156 kilometres I arrived, moved into the beautiful single room in a historic, detached building, freshly and lovingly renovated. After the shower I felt splendid and dinner was also an experience. For there was a communal meal, vegetarian, so that everyone is well "served", at a fixed time, at a long table. And each guest gives what he can and wants. The long table was beautifully set, with blue and white tablecloth, plates of different sizes, wine and water glasses and olives. To start, there was vegetable soup.

At the table: nine people, pilgrims, from all corners of Europe and beyond. A young, lively woman from Israel with many dark curls, who was walking the Camino de Santiago for the second time and asked if she could help in the hostel for a fortnight towards the end of her journey of several months. An elderly, reserved and refined gentleman from France. A young woman from Ireland who had terrible blisters on her feet. An adult son and his father from Germany who cheated a bit and took the taxi in between. A somewhat esoteric-looking young man from the Czech Republic with a full beard and long hair who usually stood outside the door smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. And an older man from Austria, also a multiple pilgrim, who had lived abroad for a long time. At the head: Julia's husband, Portuguese, he had cooked for us. And me, the only one who just happened to be on this pilgrimage route of the Camino de Santiago. The evening got off to a lively start. After large mountains of spaghetti with tomato sauce, lots of wine and a delicious dessert, the conversation slid in a direction where different opinions began to emerge. I think it was about vaccinations and whether they made sense, in general. I was in favour, most of the people left the conversation on the way, and the Austrian who had travelled a long way reported at the end that he had overcome cancer several times and that it made no difference to him whether one was strapped in the car or not: fate decided. The young woman from Israel tried to mediate a little. As expected, there was no consensus at the end of the evening, so we all retired satiated, but not in the same rapturous bliss of pilgrimage together.

The next day, I removed the Way of St James sticker that had been sent to me with the pilgrim's passport from my pannier. It was a great colour match, blue and yellow. I took it off, because I was simply not a Way of St James pilgrim. Nevertheless, in northern Spain, in the pouring rain on a long climb, I was to have something like an inspiration. You could also say, an experience of God. I rode up the mountain, soaked and pedalling in the most adverse conditions imaginable, inwardly content and in good spirits. And then a thought emerged clearly and powerfully and decisively from the stream of many thoughts. It became something absolute, clear, a guiding principle. It was: faith, love and hope are something good. This thought stood there, warm, dry, and in such a way that nothing could harm it. No laconic "he who believes will be blessed". No sarcastic: "Hope is a lousy traitor". No sabotaging thought on the subject of love, of which I knew many, such as "love makes you blind". No.

Faith, love and hope are good things. So it was, so it is and so be.

The next day, after a simple breakfast, Julia and I had a long chat. Like Jila, Julia came from Germany and was married to a Portuguese man. She also had two small children with her husband. The place, the actions, the words - everything was coherent, Julia seemed to have arrived and to be content in this new life. That was beautiful.

After just three kilometres, again in the rain, the next flat tyre. Oh great. That's how it was. Fix it, ride on. After a few kilometres, I crossed the Rio Minho, which was also the national border. After the river, I proudly photographed my bike, after about 800 kilometres, in front of the first new country sign.

SPAIN

Galicia

Right on the river was Tui. The town looked beautiful with its imposing cathedral on a hill. As I had lost quite a lot of time, I decided to continue. The weather was uncomfortable and I didn't want to get cold. That day, I entered Galicia, and it became quite mountainous. I didn't make it all the way to Santiago de Compostela that day, the combination of crappy weather, challenging elevation profile and not starting until around 11am after the chat and tyre repair had me looking for a hostel even before Santiago. The choice fell on a well rated historic country estate. To get there, the road climbed steeply once again, and I also had to overcome a moment of intense fear. Just before I arrived at the remote hamlet, a pack of medium-sized hunting dogs shot towards me barking loudly. The owner at the end of the meadow called them back, but to no effect. One of the dogs came so close that I feared it would make a dash towards my calf in the next moment. So close that I intuitively kicked at him. Fortunately I didn't hit him, he let go of me.

I was often asked if I had ever felt in danger on my journey, usually by older people. Usually they had in mind that all sorts of things could happen to a woman travelling alone. Before my trip, I said placatingly and with deep conviction: "Nothing can happen to me that can't also happen to me at home. And I chose Western Europe for a reason, not Pakistan." This assessment was to prove correct. Nothing happened to me at all. A few times I was actually scared: in traffic, when cars came too close to me. Here I have bad memories of about 30 kilometres of motorway in Portugal. Narrow, without a shoulder, with lorries thundering past by a hair's breadth. Cyclists were a rarity in Portugal anyway, especially over land. I couldn't do anything myself, except ride as fast as possible to escape the danger zone and tell myself that everyone saw me and would be considerate if things got tight. And after the traffic, dogs, off-leash, barking loudly and rushing towards me, were the second trigger for moments of fear. Otherwise: nothing.

In the country estate about 20 kilometres from Santiago de Compostela, there was even a small pool. The young owners were exceptionally friendly and conjured up a simple and very decent cold dinner for me consisting of salad and a sandwich platter a la española: chorizo, manchego, olives and wonderful air-dried, darkred jamon. I arrived towards evening and first found something in the historic cosy room with bathroom that was unexpectedly to become the highlight of the wet, exhausting day: a bathtub. It is almost indescribable how very simple things can become a great joy, because at that very moment they are about the best thing that can happen to you. Like a hot tub after a wet, cold day on the bike. Or newspaper to stuff your soggy shoes with. Old cloth to clean your bike well, and simple things like that.

The next morning, the young owner proudly showed me parts of the estate: a typical Galician old stone drying kiln, no bigger than a coffin in floor plan, roofed, the long side walls made of slats that were tightly mounted but let the air through. She explained to me that maize, for example, was hung up in it to dry and preserve. Another sight was a circular, windowless building that had a few outlets just below the roof. Inside, a kind of stone shelf was built up to the ceiling, all around in a circle. With small, square compartments where wine was now stored. It was one of very few buildings of its kind in all of Galicia, an old dovecote.

Then I set off in the direction of Santiago de Compostela. The weather was slightly better. I reached the city on a hill, pushed my bike a bit through the busy streets, enjoyed the shop windows full of pilgrims' stalls and local specialities, from scallops in chocolate to bocadillos with thin slices of Iberian ham hanging long and appetisingly out of them. The cathedral looked very imposing, even from the outside. My bike ducked small and reverent under the richly decorated façade. The interior shone in gold and silver, magnificent and overloaded, with a sea of sacrificial candles. I liked the atmosphere in the church, so I pondered for a while and also lit a candle for my deceased. Funnily enough, Santiago de Compostela Cathedral was the only place on my trip where a mask had to be worn in the summer of 2022.

In the evening, I checked into one of the simplest accommodations of my trip. In the middle of the countryside, in a place called Guitiriz. A lot of very simple rooms with wet rooms. A huge hall for large parties. Rooms with half board for 50€. And the food was of corresponding quality - low price, low quality. The quantity, on the other hand, left nothing to be desired. A whole bottle of unlabelled red wine was put on my table and then it was all meat, lots of it, hot, fatty. All the same, "hunger stuffs it in" (a Franconian proverb). That evening, I was overcome by a little loneliness. That was not the only time in Spain, and I later realised why. It was the language I didn't speak and the fact that hardly anyone spoke English. I simply couldn't communicate with anyone. The Iberians also seemed a bit hard and closed to me; after the droll Portuguese with its sibilants, the Spanish seemed as hard as a machine-gun salvo.

The next day, we continued through to the north coast. The day was exhausting, it was mountainous and it rained again and again. Nevertheless, I was looking forward to arriving on the north coast again, to the next 90-degree turn of the compass direction. Up to now, I had travelled a bit to the west on the first day and since then always to the north. Now it was eastwards for the next week. I was also looking forward to the accommodation for the night: the Parador in Ribadeo. I already knew the Paradores, a Spanish luxury hotel chain. I liked the concept, because the state had founded the chain to renovate old castles, fortresses and monasteries, to put them to good use and to bring them back to life. A few new ones had also been built. That was the only time I needed, or rather misused, the pilgrim's pass. I used the pilgrim rate. An extra €12 for an upgrade and I had a huge suite with a large conservatory facing the sea. In the little town I got a snack, sat down with an ice cream at the playground to catch a bit of life and then just relaxed in the room. And another bathtub. I passed the time with a bit of fun and games: at the hotel car park there was a section with individual garages, the gates of which were equipped with a radio push