Day 3 - 25th April - Bilbao to Puente la Reina

Sliding Dawes...You've seen the film, now ride the bike!

"What could possibly go wrong?!!" I uttered in response to a comment of Peter's as final docking manoeuvres where under way at our berth in Bilbao. Peter's final check of the route south to Bilbao station on our map, revealed that the vital bridge link across the river seemed unsuitable for bikes, so last minute replanning was hurriedly completed. This did not seem straightforward. Roundabouts were orbited several times, and hazardous railway lines delicately crossed and recrossed without mishap. John Y confidently led the way north, which felt somewhat counter-intuitive. "Prepare for your first cycle on a motorway Simon!!" shouted Peter from behind me. We pedalled furiously up a spiralling ramp with far too many bright blue signs to instil any confidence that he was joking. Thank goodness it was early on Sunday morning, as our indiscretions may go unnoticed. I envisioned our trip coming to an abrupt end, either by being thrown in a damp Spanish clink, or welded against the crash barriers as Raspberry jam. The detour north added unfortunate distance to our dash to meet our train departure, but the motorway speed limits boosted us on our way. Few honks on horns from startled drivers, and mercifully few juggernaughts thundering through the narrow tunnels, far to close for comfort. The aroma of burnt coal dust as we passed through the intensely industrial backdrop, reminded me of Teesside, Grandparent's hearths, and the Welsh narrow gauge railways of childhood holidays. A welcome slip road to normality led us towards conventional streets towards our goal. As we huddled round map for clarification, a Spanish police woman pulled up to help us on our way. Good job she hadn't seen us earlier!

Red lights slowed our progress, until desperation greened them to our eyes as we raced to find our train. Minutes flew faster than the miles, and with yards to go we realised our quest was lost. We stood in the station entrance forlorn. John Y disappeared. There would be another train at three in the afternoon, which would connect with ours to Pamplona, so all was still achievable. Urgent yelps from John Y from the top of the escalators sent us scurrying for Platform 7, as he had discovered our train had not yet left. We found him with beaming, full-faced grin, standing by a waiting train, underneath the platform sign. Our momentary relief was cruelly dashed, when we pointed out the sign was for Platform 8. Platform 7 was Train-spotterless!

Standing in awe of the proudly spectacular stained glass window, portraying Bilbao's mighty industrial heritage, the clock reminded us it was time to re-book our tickets for the later train......or so we thought!

First ticket station clerk put hands up in horror, not their problem, nothing to do with them. We deduced after further probing and translation of gestures, this was the local ticket office, and we needed one further along the concourse. Off we wheeled. Here we met Spain's equivalent of Little Britain's "Computer says NO!!" John A has done sterling work with the Spanglish, but this pert, non-smiling, unswerving ticket-retaining operative had him beaten! Aghast at the apparently devastating negative answers to his questions, we engaged the services of a helpful Spanish-speaking Brit. Her aged eyes diverged to port and starboard simultaneously, cunningly keeping an eye on both sides of the conversation.
"Can we change our tickets for the 15.00 train?"
"NO!"
"Can we buy new tickets for the 15.00 train?"
"Are those your bikes?"
"Yes they are, we need to take them with us to Pamplona"
"No bikes on trains!"
"No bikes on trains?!!"
"No bikes on trains!"
"Is there ANY way we can get our bikes to Pamplona by train?"
"No"
"Do you have any suggestions for alternative ways to get our bikes to Pamplona?"
"No!"
"Really? None at all?"
"You could ride them...."
Our stalwart Brit. was dumb-founded, turned to us and said "You have a problem, she has no personality!"

Thanking her for her efforts, we sloped off on the down escalator for coffee and half a ham bun, which we later realised was our only breakfast. Emergency re-planning committee was convened. Hiring of van was ruled out, as it was Sunday and the offices were still shut. A quick scout around the station revealed nothing more that a few groggy local buses. The remaining option was to take the Ticketmistress' advice, so we got on our bikes, and aimed for Puente la Reina!