Extremadura Bike Tour – Cycling in Spain’s Wild West

I recently did a bike tour in the west of Spain.

The region of Extremadura – to the north of Andalucía and bordering on Portugal, is one that I haven’t explored much.

So when Raúl at Bike Tour in Spain offered me the chance to do a five-day cycling adventure across Spain’s wild west, I jumped at it.

Fresh off the Route of Don Quixote earlier this year, I figured I was still in shape. No need to train.

A couple of weeks before the November start, I took my bike out and rode up a couple of hills outside Barcelona. My heart rate went up to 180, but I didn’t die. I declared myself ready, and packed my bags.

A family of Californians had booked the trip, Raúl said, so I’d be going along with them. And it wouldn’t be much harder than Don Quixote.

But… “Bring gloves”, he wrote. “I anticipate that the early mornings won’t be much above zero.”

“Psh!” I thought. “That cold in early November? No way…”

Extremadura: Spain’s Wild West

Extremadura isn’t a part of Spain people talk about much.

The first mention of it I ever heard (I think) was in Hemingway’s story The Capital of the World, about an idealistic young waiter named Paco, working in a hostal for bullfighters in Madrid:

He came from a village in a part of Extramadura where conditions were incredibly primitive, food scarce, and comforts unknown and he had worked hard ever since he could remember.

I love that line. Things don’t go well for Paco, in Hemingway’s story. But you should read it anyway. It fits a lot of Spanishness into just 5 or 6 pages.

Later, in Madrid, I lived next to Paseo de Extremadura – the street that eventually becomes the A-5 highway, connecting the capital with the south-western part of Spain.

About 12 years ago I went out to Mérida and a couple of other places during Holy Week for some national tourism, and my main impressions of Extremadura were: a lot of rain, a lot of oak trees, and a lot of sheep.

Since then, I hadn’t been back. But the bike tour starts on a Monday in November, from Cáceres – so here I am.

The hilltop city of Cáceres has been populated for thousands of years – possibly since the time of the Neanderthals. Today, it has one of the most complete medieval city centers in Europe, which has been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site.

The amazing city center in Cáceres

In the city center, there are beautiful old buildings everywhere you turn.

Somehow, people in the 15th century could afford to build these amazing monuments that would last for hundreds of years, and that reminded them every day that they were part of a great civilization.

I eat migas extremeñas (a local dish made of bread crumbs, bacon and chorizo) at El Figón de Eustaquio, then go to mass at the Co-Cathedral and listen to the priest tell a story about a widow who makes bread for the prophet Elijah. (Co-Cathedral means that the seat of the bishop is shared with another city.)

A few minutes later, he tells a story about another widow – one who donates her last two coins in the temple, and is seen doing so by Jesus. The moral of all this seems to be that life gives to the giver, and takes from the taker.

But don’t be a showoff about your giving, says the priest. “Dios aborrece actuar para la galería. Dios aborrece el postureo.”

It’s funny hearing a priest in a cream-and-gold robe talk about “postureo”, which is basically being a phony, a poser who does things just to impress.

By the time mass is done, the full moon is out over the old square, and the light is gleaming on the ancient stone.

Tomorrow we ride.

Day 1 – Cáceres to Trujillo

We start at a gas station outside Cáceres, the four Californians and I.

A guy from a bike shop in Trujillo hands out the bikes, along with the helmets, the saddlebags and a little tool kit for each of us. Loaded down with bottled water and trail mix, I head off towards the southeast.

It only takes me a few minutes to take a wrong turn, and when I stop a few kilometers later, I have a text from one of the Californians. “Check your GPS. You’re on the wrong road.”

Ah. So I am. I follow a sheep trail back to the highway, getting muddy in the process, but enjoying the landscape nonetheless. The rest of the day I’m alone, not sure if I’m ahead of everyone else or behind them.

The only town along the way is La Cumbre, and the bar at the municipal swimming pool is closed, so I go right through and start the climb to Trujillo, city of conquistadors.

In the end, today is only 4 hours of cycling. It’s not too hard, but still, I’m feeling the burn in my thighs.

At a restaurant in Trujillo called El 7 de Sillerías, I have what is possibly the best entrecotte of my life.

I remember the food in Extremadura being exceptional last time I was here – so far, I haven’t been disappointed this time either.

After lunch, I briefly rest my legs at the Parador before hitting the town.

Raul has planned this well – I’ve always wanted to stay in a Parador, and the route we’ll be doing has two of them. (Paradores are government-run hotels that are often in scenic locations, and built in old convents and monasteries. Think four-star hotel, but in a centuries-old building on a hilltop.)

City of Conquistadors

Trujillo is the birthplace of Francisco Pizarro – his equestrian statue in the town square calls him, unapologetically, Conquistador del Perú.

Also from here, Francisco de Orellana, “discoverer” of the Amazon river.

A history of the Spanish conquest of the Aztec and Inca empires is beyond the scope of this article; suffice it to say that it’s controversial. Recently, in fact, the King of Spain was publicly not invited to the swearing in of Mexico’s new president, allegedly because he’d ignored a request that he apologize for la Conquista.

(I will mention that the Spanish like to talk about the leyenda negra in response to this sort of criticism. They claim that the British eventually wrote the history of the colonial period in a way that makes the Spanish look like the bad guys, when, in fact, the British were the bad guys and the Spanish were just out spreading Catholicism. You can listen to Daniele Bolelli talk about the conquest of Mexico on the History on Fire podcast and draw your own conclusions. But like I said, it’s controversial.)

The castle on the top of the hill here in Trujillo has some impressive battlements – apparently parts of Game of Thrones were filmed here, and in Cáceres. And the conquistadors came back with money, so the town has some better architecture than a lot of other places.

Mass in Trujillo is in the church of Saint Martin of Tours, coincidentally on November 11th, the feast of Saint Martin. This one has three priests singing and talking about the life of the Saint. Presumably he’s the same guy who gives his name to my neighborhood back in Barcelona.

Afterwards some old ladies have made cookies and brought wine for the congregation. Eleven different people try to put a glass of wine in my hand. I just have some cookies. An eighty year old guy in a flat cap chats me up. I tell him I’m not officially a Christian, I’m just checking out the scene.

He asks more questions. “How long are you in town for?” “Is Trump Catholic?”

He ends with “A ver si te enamoras de Cristo!” as I walk away to find some dinner.

Day 2 -Trujillo to Berzocana.

Here’s a Spanish cultural experience for you… get up two hours before your hotel breakfast, and go out and find the first café that opens in the morning.

You get five extra points if it’s in or near a bus station. Ten points if there’s a couple of guys in reflective yellow vests at the bar. Fifteen points if anyone is doing shots before work, and 20 points if the place is full of local police about to start their shift.

There should be a TV in the corner playing the telediario, several dusty bottles of brandy behind the bar, and a slot machine. Most Spanish towns have this bar, and if you’re in a big city there’s probably one nearby as well. In Trujillo, that bar is Cafetería Anticuario, and it’s on Avenida de Madrid – open from 6AM.

I’m up before sunrise, because today’s route is 55 kilometers to the small town of Berzocana.

A bit sore from yesterday, I start the day early, riding through the dehesa – the typical Extremadura landscape of oak trees and grazing land, used for sheep, cattle and Iberian pigs.

In theory, the black Iberian pigs can sometimes be seen wandering through the dehesa, feeding on acorns.

Some of the most expensive ham here in Spain comes from these pigs: jamón de bellota or acorn fed ham is considered to be the best kind. But so far, I haven’t seen any pigs.

The little road goes on, past crumbling stone buildings, barns, black cows grazing in the sun. After a bit I turn off onto a local highway, the view of the oak trees and the sparkling green grass still wet with morning dew is stunning.

A huge truck stacked with bales of alfalfa goes by. Otherwise there’s almost no traffic. Cycling down the hill is pure euphoria. What exactly am I doing in Barcelona again?

After several kilometers the road goes by a large solar farm. A herd of sheep is grazing among the solar panels.

Aldeacentenera – population 579 – looks like any other town south of Madrid. A bar called el Desguace is open. I believe “desguace” is a junk yard. I get a coffee – they don’t have my snobbish sparkling water.

After the town the big hills start.

This is a natural park of some kind, and the Extremadura region is important for birdwatching.

There’s nothing around but the narrow road, the oak trees and the many sheep. Climbing is hard, and this is a lot of altitude for a guy who lives at sea level.

My head has been hurting, and maybe that’s why. Its like a throbbing pain at the back of my skull, mixed with the increasing pain where my ass hits the bicycle seat.

This area seems to be completely empty. No traffic. The animals aren’t used to people, they run off as soon as I approach the fence. I pass a fencepost with a goat’s horned skull attached to it with barbed wire. Memento mori.

These hills are torture.

I can walk up, pushing the bike, and that’s easier, but 25 kilometers uphill walking is going to take forever.

Finally, I round a corner and spot some pigs. Lots of them. They see me riding up to the fence snd stampede away, snorting. I watch their black butts bobbing off between the trees.

There are a few stone bridges over little arroyos. The hills give way to mountains. This is getting real. I’m probably going to have to cycle over those mountains tomorrow. Finally, I go around a bend and see Berzocana on the mountainside in front of me.

Outside town I find the usual small town road works, a few guys standing around a cement mixer.

Up the hill, the plaza has three bars. Two are closed for the siesta. The open one belongs to the hotel. Antonio inside is the receptionist, the cook, and who knows what else. He makes me some huevos rotos and I sit outside and drink 0,0 until the Californians ride up about an hour later.

Berzocana has a church that’s allegedly pretty nice, but closed. Inside they venerate the remains of Saints Fulgencio and Florentina – brother and sister saints from Cartagena down south – which were found in an olive grove nearby at an indeterminate time during the reign of Alfonso XI.

In other words, it’s another town that’s been here forever.

Day 3 – Berzocana to Guadalupe

I’m up and out of the hotel before 9 the next day.

It’s cold, but I figure once the sun comes out it’ll be fine. The sun has other ideas.

Soon I’m swearing out loud as I ride up the mountain outside town, working my legs into an icy headwind, somehow both hot and cold at the same time.

Those gloves Raúl told me to bring are with the luggage being transferred to Guadalupe. By 9:30, I’m regretting a couple of things.

The first part of the road is a gradual uphill, followed by several kilometers of flat. The weather at this altitude is just getting worse. By the time I get to the first mountain pass the wind is howling and the sun is nowhere to be seen. Today’s big event is a 3km walk up the mountain from 1000 meters to the second pass at a bit more than 1400.

Raúl says to just push the bike, and I do. The high altitude with the cold and the wind makes the scene seem otherworldly. I go through all the emotions, from hilarity to despair, as I push my bike up the cement grade through the fields of chestnut trees. It’s a real slog. Just to have something to do, I count 100 steps, then 120. That should be around 100 meters. A few percent closer to done. Then I start counting again. It seems like I’m getting nowhere.

Freezing cold, I think of all the things I could be doing right now, like hugging my wife Morena, or sitting in bed with a book and a cup of coffee. And instead I’m here, suffering on this hill in bike shorts. The clouds come down and perch on top of the mountain. Ice chips start hitting my face.

At the same time, I’m high enough to see the flat expanse below, with the warmer weather. I could also be having a leisurely ride down there… but here I am.

I imagine my ancestors throughout history. Viking warriors and German onion farmers. Strong red-bearded men scraping out a living in some of the toughest places imaginable, and for what? So I can do this for fun!

I wonder what the Vikings did for fun, or if “fun” was even a concept in their culture. By this time, I’m getting pretty emotional thinking about the hundreds of generations of guys in my family tree, all doing shit way harder than this bike ride.

Back down the hill to Guadalupe

I’m on my fourth bounce from euphoria towards despair when I hear someone calling my name.

I look back, it’s the mom from California coming up the mountain on her e-bike. She catches me a couple minutes later, and I realize we’re close to the top. The scene on the mountaintop is awe inspiring, and also, my hands are freezing – painfully cold and so numb I can barely move my fingers.

The rest of the Californians show up a few minutes later, first the daughter, then the father and son. We’re all giggly with the exertion and the knowledge that the hard part is done. We blast down the hill despite the icy wind, the hail turns to rain and before long Guadalupe appears off to the right, with the huge monastery right in the center.

Again, we’re staying at the Parador, but Raúl has recommended lunch at the Hospedería, another gothic-style monastery building at the back of the Basilica. They seat me next to a table of Franciscan friars with the hoods and rope belts, the whole getup. I have tomato salad with tuna, roasted ham hock, and cheesecake. The things my ancestors went through so that I can eat cake in fancy restaurants are also worth thanking about.

At mass later there’s an altar boy and a couple more friars in brown robes hanging around.

The Monastery of Guadalupe is home to the black-faced Virgin of Guadalupe… not to be confused with the Virgin of Guadalupe in Mexico. Although the Mexican Virgin is pictured in a large painting on the wall, eyes downcast.

This place is apparently a destination for pilgrims, and has been since the 14th century – it’s just that I’ve never heard of it before now.

“El señor es mi pastor, no me falta nada. El señor es mi pastor, en verdes praderas me recostará.”

Like I said, I’m not officially a Christian, but tell me some other place where I can go and spend 45 minutes surrounded by beautiful works of art, hearing a message of hope.

Day 4 – Guadalupe to Navatrasierra

Pedalling uphill out of Guadalupe the next morning is a challenge for my legs.

Then there’s a nice long downhill, followed by a slow climb lasting 10 kilometers.

This one isn’t too hard, and if I were actually in shape for cycling it would probably be an invigorating bit of fun. I’m not too sore from the previous days. But I’m also not in shape for cycling.

The leaves are turning orange on the tall oak trees and the moss growing on the trunks makes the forest look like something from an ancient fairy tale. At the top I cross the Camino Real de Guadalupe, the most important of the pilgrimage routes back to the Monastery.

On the way down the road is lined with cork oaks, then madroños, then at a lower altitude I’m suddenly back in the evergreen oak forest that covers so much of Spain.

A few deer dart off when they see me passing by– this area is big for hunting.

Before too long I’m in town, waiting for the owner to come and unlock the Casa Rural. Once I’ve left my stuff in the room, I head to Bar el Cazador. It’s full of guys in hunting outfits getting tipsy.

Bar El Cazador, Navatrasierra

The ceiling is made of wooden beams, and the wall is decorated with rifles and deer skulls and a goat’s head. The coat rack is made of hairy brown goat hooves mounted on the wall.

The woman behind the bar thinks, for some reason, that I want three alcohol free beers. Initially I don’t, but I end up drinking all three, while digging into a massive plate of huevos rotos.

I love places like this – so far off anyone’s top 10 list of places to visit, but still charming in a rural-Spain way that’s completely unlike anything we have in Madrid or Barcelona.

Outside the bar, I walk past the church and the two-room city hall, then down the dirt path out of town. The silence is incredible. There’s no traffic at all. I can hear the birds chirping, the buzz of insects, the bell on a distant sheep.

Later, back at El Cazador for dinner, I eat goat meat surrounded by pueblo types. These are the conservative rural voters that big-city Spaniards look down on, and they’re all dressed up to hang out at the one bar in town.

Later tonight they’re bringing in 50 people (a whole hunting club, apparently) for dinner, and some flamenco musicians for entertainment. Fun times are assured, but I skip out early – I’d rather be back in bed by 10.

Day 5 – Navatrasierra to Talavera de la Reina

The route out of Navatrasierra isn’t too hard, curving slowly uphill with a view of the farms outside town.

Today’s route is 75 km. That’s long.

I stop and look around at the pass, but the fog is still sitting on the fields of La Mancha below and I can’t see much.

Down the hill we ride along a dirt road past a cattle ranch. The Californians get ahead of me on a gravelly uphill. I stop for coffee in the next town. Might not see another bar for a while.

After that its a long descent over the Rio Huso, between a couple of big hills blackened by a recent fire, and on to the Via Verde de Jara… the old train tracks that go over the Rio Tajo. There are 3500 kilometers of old train tracks around Spain that have been converted into hiking or biking paths, called Vías Verdes.

This one has got a few tunnels with no illumination, one is long enough that you spend a couple of terrifying moments riding in absolute darkness before the light from the other end reaches you.

The towns that Franco built

Finally we get to Alberche del Caudillo, one of the colonies started by the dictatorship.

Franco’s government started hundreds of small towns back in the 40s, 50s and 60s. They’d irrigate dry areas, build a town and give the land to poor farmers. I never thought I’d visit one of these towns, but when I saw the words “del Caudillo” on the map this morning I knew what it meant.

According to a 2012 article in El País, a lot of the towns and villages started by Franco don’t feel much urge to remove the “Caudillo” from their names. I’m sure that’s also controversial, to some.

The whole town, though, looks like it was designed by bureaucrats. The town square has a lumpen statue of a family of farmers. The original colonists are named on a list nearby.

After that it’s 10 kilometers of muddy road and strong headwind into Talavera.

Three kilometers from town a shepherd girl is walking a few dozen sheep down the road. They move out of the way for my bike, parting like water across the bow of a ship. And just like that I’m back in civilization.

Teenagers in tight pants whiz by on electric scooters, druggies beg for change outside the bus station. There’s traffic, noise, and El Corte Inglés. All the stuff you just don’t have in the country.

In a few minutes, Raúl turns up to take the bike and I’m done.

Extremadura Bike Tour wrap-up

As I wrote a couple of months ago, I’ve been in Spain for 20 years now.

And this bike tour across Extremadura was – without exaggeration – one of the best Spanish experiences I’ve had in all this time. The landscapes were amazing, the food was good and I had a great time exploring the towns in one of Spain’s most overlooked regions.

Crossing the mountains was an almost-religious experience of the kind I’ve only had a few times in my life.

So this tour has my highest recommendation.

If you’re in shape for cycling (which I wasn’t) you should be able to do the route without much trouble. The whole thing was about 250 kilometers, over 5 days – with luggage transfer, excellent accommodations, and ebikes available if you’d prefer. Check out biketourinspain.com for all the details.

That’s all I’ve got for today.

Yours,

Daniel AKA Mr Chorizo.

P.S. I hope you enjoyed my Extremadura bike tour story. Shoutout to attentive reader Bruce for his recent donation. If you’d like to give something to the blog and podcast, please stop by the donation page here. Anything you want to give helps. Thanks!