The day began with a lurch. Not the bike this time, but us. Both of us woke up resembling budget mannequins from a chiropractor’s waiting room—stiff, creaky, and quite convinced we’d aged 30 years overnight. But true to form, we laced up our running shoes and decided to jog into Tordesillas for sunrise. Why? Because that’s what intrepid travellers do when they’re sore, sleep-deprived, and semi-lost in northern Spain.
Now, “running into town” might sound romantic, but when the town is roughly the size of a service station forecourt, we’d basically covered all major attractions within five minutes. Church. Plaza. Juan’s bakery. Still, the morning air was fresh, and the streets blessedly empty, so we looped around a few times to feel we’d earned breakfast.
Back at camp, we checked the weather. And that’s where things took a turn. 23mm of rain forecast—twice. Once tonight, once tomorrow. Now, we’ve camped in the rain before. We’re not made of sugar. But camping on dry, compacted, very possibly prehistoric clay is a recipe for what geologists refer to as “instant swamp.” The kind of surface that doesn’t just get wet—it liquefies, eats your tent pegs, and floods the porch like it’s trying to float you
Cue frantic googling for alternative accommodation, during which we discovered that 95% of rural Spanish lodging is either a castle charging €300 a night or a shack once owned by a goat. There is no middle ground.
Frustrated, we paused to boil the absurd number of eggs we had bought the day before. Why seven eggs each? We’re still not sure. Possibly we blacked out in a protein-fuelled fugue state. Regardless, it gave us something to chew on – literally – while we hunted for a room that wouldn’t bankrupt us or come with a pet rat named Paco.
Eventually, we found it: an apartment in the middle of nowhere. Perfect. No one to bother us, a kitchen to cook in, and the added bonus of not needing to smile politely at other travellers while sitting in wet socks.
We packed up, climbed onto the bike, and headed off under heavy skies. The first two hours were what you’d expect from Spain’s lesser-known interior: wheat, flatness, more wheat, the occasional confused cow. But then: bliss. Just as we were beginning to lose the will to live, the road narrowed, the land lifted, and we slipped into San Leonardo de Yagüe and the Sierra de la Demanda.
Suddenly, it all made sense again. The tarmac curled through thick pine forests, every bend an invitation. We picnicked in a natural park, surrounded by big birds of prey doing majestic circles overhead, possibly eyeing our boiled eggs. It was glorious.
Then, on to Molinos de Duero – an absolutely charming village that smells of woodsmoke, pine, and faintly, possibly, of 15th-century smugglers. We’d found our bolt-hole. The apartment was simple but dry. And, miracle of miracles, it had a bath.
After a brief respite, we re-donned our waterproofs and set off to the local shop to stock up on supplies. Everything was extortionate. One onion cost roughly the same as a ferry ticket. But we didn’t care. We had wine. We had a roof. We had clean clothes and working WiFi. We even had a thunderstorm for dramatic effect, which we watched, wide-eyed, from behind thick glass, hot chocolate in hand, smugly dry.
And then – lightning, thunder, sideways rain. All night. All the next day. But we were warm and safe, and the waterproofs continued to perform with the stoic dignity of a Royal Guard. We ventured out only for groceries and a run and returned for baths, terrible films, and the cheeriness that comes from knowing your tent isn’t currently being flattened by gale-force winds.
In the end, none of it had gone to plan. But travel rarely does. What it did give us was a firm reminder that being flexible, and having the odd luxury to fall back on, can turn a potentially miserable day into a deeply satisfying one.
And, of course, that 14 boiled eggs in a single day is probably one too many.
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