Sevilla (7203)

We left the respite of Wes and Lucy's place, grateful for their hospitality.

Since we wanted to ride the scenic route (105 mins longer), we went early to avoid the worst of the heat.

Us, early

The road from San Pedro (yes, Peter Smith, a town named for you) via Ronda and Algodonales, the A-397, is a biker's happy dream. Rising from the coast into the hills, it twists, turns, rises, falls and generally does what bikers dream of.

Then it happens upon the Venta el Madroño, a cafe with a view on a climbing curve whose name, I think, loosely translates as 'Stop here if you've been looking for a break from your ride for about 25 minutes longer than you intended and your arse is aching (and you really want some breakfast)'.

It's a bikers' bar, as evidenced by the motorcycle in the room and the photographs.

Bikes

The terrain on the whole ride was joyous. In pockets we smelled the heat-risen scent of the flora, sometimes thyme, sometimes lavender. We saw regimented olive groves and, as we moved north from the lushness of the coastal hills, the yellow of the dryer landscapes that made both of us think of Don Quixote.

We're in a very lovely apartment in Sevilla now for a week. No more chasing of tails for us.

There'll be flamenco, food and, maybe, football. Aren't we lucky!

Home thoughts from abroad
Whatever you may think, we haven't 'escaped' the parlous goings on in politics in London. We keep abreast of it, discuss it and worry about it - as you do. I feel guilty about being away during this time (I know it's irrational) and, should barricades be required to be manned, don't discount coming back to do so. If you think I'm bonkers, I hope you're right.

Johnson's a buffoon, yes, but he's a dangerous one.

xx