BORDER CROSSING (No 1, Entry to Spain at Santander). - Showed my EU (Irish) passport. Waved through without formalities. I think other passport holders needed to collect a stamp. 
 

After so many broken nights I finally slept well on the ship. Probably helped by:
- perfect darkness in my inboard cabin,
- calm seas, and
- several pints of Murphy’s stout (over many hours of course). 

Very decent breakfast with the “lads” and then chatting, drinking coffee and exploring the ship until we arrived in Spain and rejoined the bikes. Someone on a big adventure bike quizzed me about why I am doing this. I summed up my answer by saying that, having got this far, if I don’t do it I will regret it for the rest of my life. One of the lads interjected: “So, not for long then”! 

Efficient unloading process, I was waved through immigration with my Irish passport, no formalities needed, and I was one of the first on my way - around 2pm, smiling in the early summer Spanish sun.  

Wave after wave of big British-registered bikes overtook me on the otherwise almost empty motorway - heading South. Mostly giving one of the bikers’ greetings (which I have recently learned: two fingers pointing down, or a foot sticking out).  

Then the road started climbing, slowing down my little bike on the long inclines, and soon all the other bikes had pulled away.  And as I gained altitude, the sky clouded over and the temperature began to drop. 

Suddenly it began to rain heavily. Cold rain. Very cold. No problem, it soon stopped and I was singing “Here comes the sun”. My quick-drying tropical gear did its job, I warmed up, and all was well. But that was just the beginning.

Darker clouds began to gather and the rain started again. And it became heavier and heavier, until sheets of standing water maybe an inch deep were covering most of the carriageway and it became almost impossible to see anything ahead or in the mirrors. I’m not exaggerating. It was awful. And cold. Really, really cold. And it went on and on and on. 

Next my phone (in a supposedly waterproof handlebar mounting) turned itself off. That was a worry. I stopped and it was displaying a warning about water penetration. I had to take that seriously. Without a working phone and satnav, life would get rather difficult. No point putting it in an inside pocket: I was already soaked to the skin. 

So I pulled off the motorway and found a café where I sat and dripped water. My boots were filled with it. I ordered a hot chocolate but my hands were shaking as I drank, and soon my whole body began to shake too. I accepted reluctantly that I shouldn’t continue. But thank God my phone came back to life, and I could book into the nearest hotel. 

It was a small family-run place attached to a restaurant. The jolly lady owner asked if I was OK. I tried to mumble “Estoy vestido para Africa” but I could barely speak. She apologised that the heating was off - because it was supposed to be summer already. I couldn’t stop to chat, but got straight under a hot shower and it took a while before I felt human again. She knocked on my door and asked if I wanted dinner. Of course I did. 

My clothes (in a backpack on the pillion seat) were all soaked. I have been too focussed on worrying about African weather, never thinking Spain might be a problem. 

Dinner was very good - home cooking produced by someone who cares about food.  And cheap.