A Crash in the Highlands
My trip to Spain is a bit of a lottery
My new book ‘North to Norway’ is now out in paperback and e-book. It's a story very close to my heart. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before! If you’re still wondering what all the fuss is about I thought a few excerpts over the next few weeks might give you a flavour of my writing and the adventures I recount in the book. I hope that you’ll want to buy the full version, available now on Amazon.
Ideally, I’d have started my ride from Spain, and maybe taken the short hop over the Med from Mallorca before turning north at Tarifa. I keep the bike in England, though, so I had to go south before turning round. Arse about face, I know.
The search engine claimed that the most direct Tarifa–Nordkapp route was 5,534 kilometres. In reality, it’s longer. No one in their right mind, other than a hardcore long-distance rider, would want to do it in the two days eleven hours (tolls) or two days nineteen hours (no tolls) that the mapping indicates.
The year before, returning to Portsmouth from Spain in the early evening, I’d been talking to a biker from Glasgow as we waited to disembark. I assumed he was overnighting somewhere on his way up to Scotland.
‘Ach, I’ll not bother stopping; I want to see how long I can keep going before I fall asleep on the handlebars.’
I wasn’t entirely sure if he was joking.
I like to challenge myself and it seemed to me that a long-distance ride was a great way to ease myself into a retirement that didn’t involve pipe and slippers. Some people do these long journeys in a single intense stretch, some spin them out over weeks or months. I was going to do it in relaxed fashion over the course of two years. Why rush a good thing?
Once I’d thrown my kit into my cabin, changed out of the hot and heavy biker gear and freshened up, it was out to the bar with a pile of maps, a guidebook, pen and paper. (A tip for you if you’re about to take the ferry trip to Spain: the Commodore C-Club Lounge is a pleasant place to while away the long hours of the crossing. The drinks are on tap and there’s a neverending buffet.)
There was a gentle murmur of conversation as I walked into the lounge which was tastefully decorated with reproduction paintings, including a Velázquez print, sculptures, and some elegant modern furniture. It hardly felt like a ferry, more like an upmarket hotel. I carefully balanced my tray of Beaujolais and Roquefort, tomatoes and crusty French bread and navigated to a spare seat that looked out over the bow. I put my rucksack with maps and guidebooks on the seat next to me. A seagull appeared to hover over the deck, kept aloft by the wind that blew up from the prow. It stayed there for minutes, grabbing a free ride far out into the English Channel, before suddenly darting off as a wave broke hard and splashed over the glass.
‘Is this chair free?’
I recognised a South African accent.
I looked up to find a short, slightly rotund man in his late sixties, his gait slightly awkward, a limp making him lurch towards me.
‘Norman,’ he introduced himself, settling in with a groan.
‘From Cape Town and, er, Gillingham.’
‘I’ll clear the decks for you,’ I replied, removing my rucksack from the chair to give him more room.
I spread the maps out on the table and started to think of alternative routes south from Santander. I could go south towards Segovia, east towards Bilbao and the Basque Country, west into Asturias and the dairy countryside of Oviedo or head for the churches and cathedral of León. I was totting up the distances between the little marker posts, doing a mental calculation of time in the saddle.
Every option was open to me. I felt freer now, happier. In the past, I’d have known exactly where I was going. My satnav would have been programmed, accommodation booked and the bulging folder of maps, hotel bookings, places of interests and press cuttings all ready. My nervousness at letting go of a supporting itinerary had disappeared. For a moment I sat back in the chair, put the map down and closed my eyes contentedly.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Norman.
‘Honestly? I don’t know yet,’ I replied. ‘I’m letting fate decide.’
He raised an eyebrow from behind his thick glasses. I noticed his stubbly beard and pitted skin. He was, it turned out, a biker too. It didn’t take long to find common ground, especially since he owned a blue Honda NC750 DCT, identical to one I’d sold earlier that year. Quelle coïncidence. He was taking his car to Spain on this occasion, touring Galicia and northern Portugal.
‘Spring this year I was on the North Coast 500,’ he said, rubbing his right arm.
I knew it well. I had ridden Scotland’s fabled route in 2021.
‘You know the Tomintoul to Cockbridge road in the Cairngorms then?’
‘The one that’s always the first to get cut off in snow,’ I replied.
He looked pensive and nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s the one. Had an off there. A bad one.’
‘There must have been some snow on the road. One minute I was enjoying the scenery and the next I’m waking up in an ambulance.’
‘Concussion, broken shoulder, arm, hip.’
‘No clue what happened. Bike ended up tangled in a wire fence, deep in the heather. They found me in a ditch; not a watery one, thank God.’
His voice hinted at genuine relief.
‘How do you feel about riding now?’ I asked.
‘Still love it, despite everything. Well, you just do, dontcha?’
His craggy face seemed to soften as he spoke.
‘I’ve done some tough rides in my time—the veldt, North Africa, stuff in the Outback. First real spill happened in Scotland. Ironic, eh? Had to replace the big BMW, that's why I got my automatic bike. Can’t squeeze a clutch lever properly now. Can't hunch over the bars for long stretches either. Makes everything creak.’
He groaned, a dry sound that hinted at the battles his body had waged.
‘But you'll get back to touring, I guess?’
‘Certainly hope so. Right now, Steve, I envy you more than words can say. I can hardly wait to be back on a ferry with my bike again. Like you.’
A warm, contemplative smile flickered across his face.
‘Come on then, where are you going tomorrow?’ his mood visibly lifting.
‘It’s a toss-up between these three routes.’
I explained to him my lottery system. I scribbled Basque Country, Segovia and Oviedo on three scraps of paper, scrunched them up and popped them in my now empty wine glass. Norman thus had the dubious responsibility of choosing my first destination.
‘It’s a novel way to go.’
Before he made his choice he smiled then eased himself out of the chair and hobbled off to get himself another beer.
While he was at the bar, bending down to extract a cold Heineken from the all-you-can-drink fridge, I was suddenly struck with doubt. What if this random method of travelling meant I would have to miss things I wanted to see, places I should visit that I’d read about in my winter hibernation? The Guggenheim in Bilbao was on my bucket list, as was the infamous Civil War town of Guernica, movingly immortalised by Picasso. Would a direct route south make me bypass those?
I overthought things, as usual. Choosing a path meant rejecting others, but who's to say which is best? The joy of a motorcycle is going wherever, whenever. Coddiwompling on two wheels.
Norman reappeared with beer in hand and, thoughtfully, another red wine for me.
‘Seeing as you’re using your wine glass to decide your near future, I thought I’d bring you another. In case you want to have second thoughts. In vino veritas and all that.’
I handed Norman the glass with the chits in it. He made a theatrical gesture with his hands, shaking them as if to relieve tension. Two stubby fingers pulled out a slightly wine-stained piece of paper.
‘You are going to…’ he paused. ‘Segovia! Well, good luck, bru. Stay shiny side up and enjoy it, every moment now.’
© 2025 Stephen Oliver
If you’ve enjoyed this excerpt you can find the complete story in paperback and Kindle format on Amazon.
Normal sounded quite a character. I got into the story.