Cold damp morning. In Spain. In June. 

A lot of my gear was still damp too. But the stuff I was wearing soon dried as I rode along.  And as the day warmed up I was enjoying the ride and keeping warm too. But I became aware of a steady loss of power and, remembering something Ahsan in the bike shop told me, I took to stopping every hour or so to give the little engine time to cool down. That seemed to do the trick and, without the self-imposed pressure to keep pushing on, I enjoyed the day and the mountain scenery more (I actually rode through a small ski region).  

I had hoped to have lunch in Salamanca, where my son Tom studied at the beautiful (and prestigious) University. But the regular stops ate into the available time. And at my age I think it’s better psychologically to focus more on the future, and less on the past. 

In the late afternoon I got caught in another downpour. As I sheltered under the canopy in a motorway filling station, one of the pump attendants invited me into the shop to get warm and gave me a free coffee. Nice gesture, but it suggests I may have been looking rather needy. 

The rain went on and on. Not as extreme as yesterday, but very heavy and unrelenting all the same. And this time accompanied by thunder and lightning. 

At last I checked into a very nice (and cheap) hostal in Mérida, wet and dishevelled once again. The lad on the desk was dressed in a Roman toga. The town is celebrating its ancient Roman heritage. 

Despite the weather, I had made good progress in the last day and a half. 400 Spanish miles behind me. 250 still to go to the Africa ferry in Tarifa - with all day Saturday and Sunday in which to do them. Doubtless I will find something else to worry about though.