The plateau that is Salamanca ends at the Puerto Pedrales and from there you can see almost the whole of Extremadura spread out before you shimmering in the furnace heat. The descent was long and fast (7% to 9.5%) and the road was good enough to get up speeds of 70 to 80kph. But the trouble with coming down off a plateau is the heat. It crashes into you in waves as if someone is constantly opening and closing a giant oven door in the sky. Tarmac melts. The water in our bottles gets almost too hot to drink and there are bits of your bike that you just can’t touch. Add to this the fact that all the oxygen seems to have been sucked out of the air and you will understand why we are relieved to have finished today.
We have therefore decided that will have to start early from now on and try to finish before the afternoon heat sets in. The Goat tried that last night to no effect though so I give much for the chances of this plan seeing the light of day. I was a bit tardy with the last beer and the Goat nipped off alone in the direction of the hotel. It was locked of course and so when I got back I tripped over a comatose Goat who was getting some shut-eye in the doorway of the hotel. I woke him up and together we attempted to master the technology required to open the door but failed miserably and had to ask for help from a passing senorita who rang the hotel on her mobile and got Luis to come down and open it.
In spite of the late start today’s ride was a good one. We rode most of the way to the top of Pedrales in the company of two Yorkshiremen who were doing a few (pannierless) rides in Salamanca. I say, “in their company,” although I did notice that they were careful to keep half a bike’s length upwind of the Goat.
Now we we’re in a Portuguese bar owned by Christina who has taken a bit of a shine to Martin and tried to fatten him up by the simple procedure of offering him food. “We’re not used to eating proper meals!” protests the Goat as he tucks into his bacalao and chips. Never mind that, by virtue of the fact that we have drunk more than 10 Superbocks (Portuguese beers) we have both been entered into a competition and I am now the proud owner of a Superbock pen and the Goat has his clutches on a deck of Superbock cards with which he is right now planning to fleece most of the local herberts in the bar who are mysteriously hanging on his every word.
Meanwhile the sun has gone down and all manner of characters have started to crawl out of their pits where they have been siesta-ring and are right now filling the bar with confusions and chaos. Try this in a Portuguese bar: mention that you can’t remember the name of your hotel and watch as the whole bar scrambles to investigate the situation. Our plans for an early night seem to be doomed.
