The Frontera land of Extremadura, Merida and entering Andalucia

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Both yellow and orange warnings remained in place the morning we rose to ride 77km to La Garovilla. Meteorological services had referred to it as an atmospheric river / bomb, and reconciling two main weather forecasts, we determined a window of opportunity existed sometime before 2pm. That meant getting up well before the sunrise, which in Olivença was 8.45am (roll on the winter timing late October!). I did not sleep much that night, concerned about our safe passage.



Casa Bari in the old town, a large townhouse type casa with blue tiled stairwell and old lighting, had been a beautiful stay in one of the cleaner spots we’ve passed, pristine Olivença. We’d been lazy enough on the second day to wander the old centre, its gates, and marvel at the lack of tourists. Extremadura was not on the tourist trail today, unless it’s Merida, where eventually we’d end up in the coming week.



I’d resigned myself to farewell the purple pouch. Not even a desperate mission to seek it out near Elvas, 25km one way ride away, led to a result. At least I got to see the bridge again in morning light, although at the expense of being rained on.



So, we left Olivença in the light rain and moderate winds around ten o’clock, after some procrastination over second coffees and messaging. The exit from town was easy, but the ascent then descent to the reservoir exposed us to strong gusts. The forecast was saying 45kph, which was enough to give me a fright, and on a few occasions, a case of drifting to the centre line with my panniers acting as sails. Fortunately, drivers in Spain are incredibly generous with space given to pass cyclists, and occasionally we would have encouraging toots and waves from motorists or truck drivers. And then the odd “what are they doing?” glances.



Crosswinds continued to slow and test us in the agricultural lands from Valverde de Legunes to La Albuera, after which we cruised rapidly to Talavera La Real, covering 20km in 40 minutes with a huge kick of a tailwind. Finding shelter briefly, we realised we’d got about 29km left at 12.30, the deteriorating weather on our mind.



Theres always time for a panaderia when burning energy, and the most popular place in town (pick a town, this one was Puebla de la Calzada) had a constant stream of customers, and any freshly baked items that appeared from the bake house were promptly requested. We took ours 9km on to Torremajor, combining it with a coffee and packed lunch next to a renaissance period church. Convenient shelter, before the clouds darkened and we got blown the last 6km to La Garovilla.



And at that point, stood outside our next casa around 3pm as we waited for our hosts, the bikes had their grit from the day washed off. Buckets of rain fell, in an area that typically is devoid for most the year.



Welcomed by Augustine with a generous quantity of home made lemon muffins, we settled into a thoroughly wet afternoon.



Fortunately the rain had mostly disappeared by early the next day. A local wetland, Esparragalejo and Charca grande were in our sights, P2 forgetting exactly why Montijo was on his ‘must see’ radar when planning so we crossed that off. At the same time, the bikes were in need of a chain clean and lube after the previous days effort. Having calculated 6km to Decathlon from one wetland, I shot off to get some supplies. Parts of Merida’s roads were however closed unbeknownst to my offline navigation, so a 30 minute venture became 60. A wicked headwind faced us to Charca Grande, near Espárragalejos (long asparagus?), and eventually taking quieter Camino rurales back to La Garovilla.



Being a short commute to our next place in Merida allowed a little morning exploration to Las Conchales, 7km from La Garovilla, which on that day was cloaked in low fog. Temperatures were now low double digits, with a spell of settled weather forecast. The Montijo canal travels some distance along the flatlands, and what’s known as CHG (Confederación Hidrografía Guadiana) roads, paved, took us all the way to the outskirts of Merida where we could join a bike path. The ‘ciudad sportiva’ was looking quite underdeveloped as we approached, but soon enough the bridges became visible to guide our way in.



Based near the Roman aqueduct in an Airbnb, we stopped in the riverside park, before meeting our host, and had our sandwiches. Meantime, on a Saturday afternoon in the parque infantil, one child was relentlessly being pushed by his dad. It was a very squeaky swing. I thought of offering up the bike lube. ‘Necesitas lubricación?’ It was so bad, P2 recorded the audio, to humour us at some time in the future.



We bought up big at Mercadona, to tie us over the Sunday closures and three days in Merida. Staying near the Roman aqueduct was helpful (so we could hop over the road anytime for a view) in planning the rest of our stay, and what to add from the visit in 2019.



Ruins and ancient civilisations are always a drawcard for us, so we planned the Roman Art museum on the one open day, to begin. Sundays can be popular anywhere for gatherings, and gradually the scant crowds inside the high-ceilinged space became denser. A few hours on and we headed out to nature, wandering the river island past the Roman Bridge and home again in light drizzle.



Buckets of rain fell until late, in this usually dry area.



Memories of engraved ‘Augusta Emerita’ coins, old glass art, and large carved pieces/ segments of huge pillars from centuries ago lingered. So, the impressive Roman ruin focus continued on our next day, revisiting the open air museum of the Amfiteatro (a site of gladiatorial battles, and all sorts of ancient performance), Arch of Trajan, Temple of Diana, and Casa de Amfiteatro, which had exceptionally well preserved floor tile mosaics showcasing the flora, fauna and viticultural practices of this area.



I’d felt we’d given the Merida area a good shake. For me, extra rides to Proserpina lake (reservoir, used for light recreation), Mirandilla, Aljucen and Alange allowed for early morning misty views, seeing fields of grapevines or olives looking like wetlands with recent rain, and reminiscent of our 2019 ride in from Cáceres, riding on the N630 road again, that traverses Gijón to Andalucía.



The repeat of electrical issues got us wondering if we’re taking our bad luck around Iberia. Strangely, with no other appliances on, the console of the ceramic cooktop stopped on the morning of day one in Merida, forcing water to be microwaved on high for a cuppa, and further developing my skills of filtering decaf coffee grains through a chux cloth into a pot. It’s very effective if you’ve no paper filters! Our host’s companion lent us her ‘plancha’ (indoor BBQ), so we were somewhat set to cook. She was a women of many talents, including taking out the ceramic cooktop and examining the wiring. All with her sprained thumb, recently treated at the physio. We commiserated on dicky thumbs and her history of rheumatoid, which she told, is on the rise in Extremadura.



Villafranca de Barros, ‘French town of the clay soils’, is just under 50km south of Merida. Using the N630, the most part running parallel to an autovía, we coasted gently up and down, over and over, passing rocky outcrops, fields as far as the eye could see of olives or vines, and getting familiar with achey feet (or numb fingers, pick an ailment..) on the long straights. The weather for the most part stayed cloudy, with sprinkles not sufficient to spoil the ride, staying dry on our Almendralejo lunch stop.



Another remote check in done and dusted, and we got acquainted quickly with the electrics of this apartment. This included yet another ceramic cooktop that suspended operation, when the drier, the only other appliance, was being used. We did the full shut down of everything electrical as instructed, and repeated this a handful of times until we checked out the next day.



Nice apartment though. In a bike maintenance moment, a nearby tradesperson spotted me washing both bikes with a water bottle, gesturing to a manguera (hose). One could hose down anything in the garage, useful when the pavement, a main old town thoroughfare, is not even a metre wide.



We bumped our way vigorously over the cobbles and out to Fuente de Cantos the following day. Rain was on the forecast, which luckily came sparingly on the way to Zafra. Some refer to this town as Little Sevilla, due to many arcades, parks and old town plazas. We’d lunch in the park, bought a diuretic at a cafe to use a toilet, and pedalled off on our alternate hilly trail to the palatial Zaguan de la Plata.



Termosolar clad the hillsides and rural scents permeated the town air. The friendly Antonio of Zaguan welcomed us into a beautiful 19th Century apartment, with pendulum clock, wash jug and basin beside the old style bed, high ceilings, and old chandeliers. An enclosed courtyard with garden and a swimming pool made this very affordable luxury at just over $100NZD a night. Sunrise is late around 8.45am, and sundown late comparable to NZ in autumn, allowing us to grab a quick view of the plaza and streets before sunset.



Continuing the serial one nighters to get to Seville, windy was the operative word for our ride to Cala. Casa Clara is in Cala, on our way to way Camas, and soon I got all muddled with the WhatsApp communications that I WhatsApp’ed the wrong Booking.com, only to to correct my mistake apologetically and again estímate our arrival as ‘late afternoon’.



Luckily, I can blame the arduous cycling, of which even at a shorter 49km day, Cala was. It started with trying to to remain upright in winds almost comparable to the deluge day into La Garovilla, west of Merida. Then the 6km of uphill began slowly but surely, to a pinnacle of Monesterio at the 20km mark. No luck trying to locate MonAsterio on google maps here. ‘Everyone knows it’s Monesterio’, P2 said.



Town of many reputable and long running panaderías, I parted with €1.50 for a small piece of chocolate sponge, everything sold by the gram, and what seemed to be almond shortbread. We lunched next to another very old church, all shop shutters coming firmly down by 2:30, before donning jackets and covers for the remainder slog. The deceptive and long downhill, before an undulating 10km uphill, sealed our fatigue that we were very pleased to reach Cala by 4.30pm. And eat that cake.



Grey but pretty, a wander into the village led us to a church, and hilltop castle ruins. Out of nowhere, a young female shepherd introduced herself, gave us some local history, then within seconds she herded her 60 odd belled flock of sheep from inside the castle where they’d gathered (with the cacophony of ringing) and then out and down the hill. Quite the photogenic moment.



We’d anticipated the almost 80km day to Sevilla with some concern, as to if a 6% gradient or 66m rise per kilometre was doable in one particular 4km stretch. One thing we’re learning on this trip, and probably some I’ve done prior, is anything in time is possible, and the mental game is probably more important than physical prowess. Even seasoned riders get tired, and rewards like our daily 15 minute muscle torture, panadería/ cakes, coffee stops and treats like a bit of a lie in or relatively restful days, all count. We’ve started vitamins too, for what they may be worth.



Funnily, the 79km to Sevilla was very achievable, probably as we were fresh, climbing earlier in the day and had the long downhill as an active reward. The hill in question formed part of a Spanish vuelta (cycle race), so we’ll take that as an accomplishment.



Where else can one be welcomed into a cafe, sweaty and with our bikes in tow (as in, invited to walk them through the shop and into a courtyard), just before the 80km mark. Gracias to Cafe Tata in Santiponce for a carrot cake and coffee finish.

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