The slow traveller

A long, leisurely left-hand turn

Ed Gillespie



Our journey will include a handful of voyages on freighters and I can't imagine that the captains of those vessels will demonstrate quite the level of concern for their passengers' comfort and welfare as the Pride of Bilbao's skipper did. We'll be a much smaller part of the cargo and worth considerably less!

From the cool, green hills of the Basque country, we took the train across Castilian plains to the well-preserved dreaming spires and scrubbed streets of Salamanca, only to find no room at the inn - any inn - due to a major concert in town that night. A venerable Spanish gentleman we approached for directions kindly escorted us through the dark, winding streets. Indirectly, we found ourselves happily propping up Spain's grey economy; supplementing the pension of a smiling old senora by renting her spare bedroom for a couple of nights.

Up before dawn on Sunday for the 4.51am train to Portugal, we rattled across town with the previous night's partygoers, us swaying beneath the weight of our backpacks and them under the influence of the alcohol in their bloodstreams.

The train trundled over frosty mountains in the last icy hours of the night before descending between forests of pine trees and vineyards as our altitude dropped and the temperature rose.

In Porto we lunched lazily beneath a brilliant blue sky by the Douro river, the lovely but ramshackle city teetering on the hill above. A post-prandial perambulation took us over the old iron bridge, out of the heat of the day and into the cool, dark Port cellars of Gaia on the far bank. There we supped the sweet source of the city's success that has fortified its fortunes for nearly 500 years.

After Porto we chugged to Lisbon to negotiate the pushy hash-peddlers of the Baixa and make a twilight foray into the heavily graffitied alleys of the Bairro Alto: 'Sorry shop closed,' read one sign. 'Ninjas killed my family and I need money for kung fu lessons.'

Our dash through the Iberian peninsula has continued in apparent conflict with our 'slow' ethos. However the nature of inter-railing is travelling slowly but almost continually moving on, with condensed, intense experiences at each stop.

Another day and another train took us to the touristic heart of the Algarve. Holiday villas of every shape, size and degree of tastefulness were popping up everywhere, like fungus from an all-pervasive mycelium. We didn't dawdle, just rolled on through for a ferry from seedy, rundown Vila Real de Santo Antonio across the Guadiana river to Spain. Then a bus to Seville, a sweaty route march through hot bustling evening streets to (just about) catch yet another train to take us to Malaga, where warm and welcoming friends awaited.

If we started out heading north from Brixton to Waterloo two weeks ago, we've essentially been executing a long, leisurely left-hand turn ever since, through Spain, Portugal and the unexpected experiences of travelling slow.

Two days ago we got the sleeper train to Valencia, arriving at 5am straight into the thick of their annual festival, the Fallas de San Jose. So instead of wandering cold, gloomy streets in the early hours, we were happily dragged into the festivities. Huge grotesque sculptures marked every street junction, and with cold beers for breakfast we mingled with the dancing, drumming throng, wending our way through town to watch a stunning sunrise over the stark, futuristic architecture of the Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias.

That evening we caught another sleeper train, this time to Paris. After turning slowly left for the past two weeks (like France seems likely to do in its forthcoming general election), we are about to turn to the right. The low countries, Germany and Eastern Europe: here we come. Slowly, of course.


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