Zamora to Toro - 22 miles

This morning the sun had not penetrated the city's narrow, high streets when I set out to explore first thing, and after last night's busyness they seemed deathly quiet. I wandered an older quarter near the cathedral before heading to the Plaza Mayor to sit in a cafe from where I looked out and imagined Lee's fatigued, early evening arrival into that main square nine decades ago. He spent only one night here and personally I think he may have missed out. In that time he fell in with German students until the small hours. My night here was less taxing, more focused on food and rest than parties.

Cathedral 

This morning I have an easy day with twenty-two flattish miles to Toro. There are three routes from Zamora: a motorway I can not use; a national route, like an A road, I do not want to use; and a local road, 'the old Villaralbo Road' (a village on the way to Toro). It may be concrete but with its long straight sections, its exposure and its relative isolation I can imagine it once being the dusty track mentioned by Lee.

It was an easy ride. I left Zamora over the old thirteenth century bridge and looked back at the old city sitting on its rock cliff above the Douro, a timeless view of light stone and red roofs so different to that of my arrival here and one that might have even today looked familiar to Lee. It was then a short ride alongside the wide, brown river to pick up my route. I had planned to stop in one of the villages I passed - Villaralbo, Villalazan, Peleagonzalo - for coffee and a light lunch. Each were tiny, each a group of dirty white and faded terracota buildings lining dusty streets. And all were shut and silent. So I cycled on. Between the villages was mainly agricultural land - rapeseed, young green wheat, pasture - although the occasional piece of industry was dropped in for good measure: a small gravel pit, a clutch of prefabricated industrial units, a field of solar panels. I was paralleling the route of the Douro which flows between Zamora and Toro but for the most part it lay hidden across the fields surrounding me and behind the thin strip of trees that lined its banks.

Zamora - 'The' View

I saw Toro from far off, a blur of heat-hazed red sitting high above the plain on its rust coloured ridge ('…liked dried blood on a rusty sword.' in Lee's words when I read them later). As I got closer the buildings slowly became defined - the castle and the vast St Mary's church the most obvious - until I was cycling, and then pushing, my bike up a steep back-road to the town.

Toro and Douro

The main street of old town Toro is dominated at one end by St Mary's Church and at the other the clock tower and an old city entrance. Between the two it is all stone pillars and wooden balconies, aging brickwork and timber frames. It oozes history and character; unlike Zamora there is no modern building to be seen. Old it may be but poor it certainly isn’t and the main street is a collection of bars and restaurants and artisan food shops. A few people were sitting outside those bars and restaurants on my arrival although I got the impression things were winding down. I was correct: when I asked the accommodation owner for a restaurant recommendation he told me that everything would be shut from this afternoon because of a town holiday. I have now been caught out by national, regional and now town holidays and I am wondering what could be next. Nevertheless, by the time I headed out to explore on my bike shortly after, I was stocked up on cheese and meat and fruit and had enjoyed a light lunch of morcilla (Spanish black pudding) in one of the bars.

Main Street

Main Street

St Mary's

My ride took me to the castle, still commanding the edge of the ridge. No longer a ruin, it stood out bright in the sun but, today at least, it was not open. I looked down upon the flat Douro plain, a patchwork of greens awaiting summer to burn it gold. And I looked for the cafe Español where Lee hid from the sun on arrival although it seems to no longer exist. I headed further out to a more modern Toro where shops were open and bars were busy and I tried Toro wine in the company of two Frenchmen. It had been recommended to me by the bar owner who fed me when I stopped wet and tired in Galicia and it was apparently the wine taken by Columbus on his voyage to the new world. 'Like a gunshot to the head' was how the bar owner had described it. I guess he drank a little more than I did.

Castle

Douro Plain from Toro

Back in the old town the cafes and bars were now shut and the outside tables had been packed away. Apart from a handful of people it was deserted. Whether hiding from the sun or having headed elsewhere I did not know but I took my cue and headed in to prepare for tomorrow and the coming weekend.