Unexpected steep climbs made Patrick Collinson feel his break in Extremadura was as tough as next weekend's Tour de France, but Spain's best Paradors were fine compensation
There are several reasons why Extremadura is the part of Spain least visited by the British, and being hundreds of miles from the nearest beach is one only of them. The parched and infertile flatlands have long been a byword in Spain for brutal poverty. Centuries ago, they were the recruiting grounds for the conquistadores escaping for a better life, of sorts, in Latin America. Today, with the construction boom over, unemployment has reached 33%, and whole villages sit idle.
My Madrileño friends (I lived there in the 1980s) always recommend trips out to Toledo and Segovia, of course. Cuenca, maybe. But Extremadura? On a bicycle? In the summer heat? I'm heading, they tell me, down Spain's road to nowhere.
But the starting point for our week's cycling tour, Oropesa, 100 miles west of Madrid, is a charming pueblo of whitewashed houses and cobbled lanes, and rather more bustling than the economic gloom would suggest. It is dominated by a 15th-century castle, now a state-run Parador and my luxury home for the night. This is cycling for the middle-aged and middle-class. A taxi takes your bags ahead to the next palace hotel, while you enjoy a soft pedal through country lanes.
Well, that's how I sold it to my cycling partner, Neil. I ride my bike to work most days, about a 12-mile round-trip. I'm 51 and progressively podgier. Neil's not a cyclist, but he's only 43 and jogs regularly. This is the sort of activity-lite trip designed for people like us.
And on day one, it is. As we set off, the temperature's a perfect 25C, with a cooling breeze on our backs. The countryside is greener than I could have hoped for (Extremadura, like Britain, has had almost its wettest ever spring) and the distant mountains are snowcapped. The roadside verges are ablaze with poppies and lavender.
Well, that was the first 30km, anyway. Those mountains, asks Neil, we're not actually going up them, are we? No, I reply, we can't be. This cycle tour is graded "moderate", just one notch above "leisure". But another 40km later, most of it uphill and we have invented numerous and unprintable words to describe our saddle-sore backsides. Neil is convinced a Japanese camera crew is secretly following us, filming a suicidal endurance test, taking Banzai bets on who will crack first. I keep mumbling that I'm sure the brochure said something about cycling for softies …
Extremadura, we've learned, is not flat, or at least not the bit our route takes us through. When we arrive in Jarandilla, exhausted but not especially elated, the Parador (like most, either a converted medieval castle or a convent) is a blessed relief. A few years back I stayed in the one in Ronda, magnificently located on the edge of the gorge, but charmless inside. North of Málaga, the one in Antequera was little better than a Travelodge, and the one in Granada just too sniffy and pricey. But those in Extremadura are the chain's finest. Curiously they are all rated four-star, when by most standards they are evidently five-star-plus. Dinner is in vaulted gothic or lavishly baroque rooms and sets you back under £20 a head, with wine at under £3 a glass (and as little as £1 in the bars outside). Being far from the tourist trail, Extremadura sets its prices to suit Spanish visitors, not people from northern Europeans.
Next day, with the Almodóvar-esque receptionist exclaiming, "No lo creo!" (I don't believe it!) at our route, and with our bottoms on the verge of a nervous breakdown, we set off for Plasencia, nearly 60km away, on back roads.
Our route to Plasencia takes us hurtling down the mountainside and past river gorges. We realise the designers of this route torture you (a little) at first, then start rewarding you with treats. Plasencia is a revelation. Given the tens of millions of foreign visitors Spain welcomes every year almost nothing is "undiscovered". Yet maybe this really is it. A walled market town, unspoilt by tourism, with a lively market square, and the most stunning Parador.
But Plasencia is just the taster. The Plaza Mayor in Trujillo, two days later, is breathtaking and on a par with the Piazza del Campo in Siena, yet virtually deserted. Our final stopping point, Cáceres, is a genuine Unesco world heritage site. And all are virtually Brit-free. Only after three days did we come across another British couple, birdwatchers heading to the Monfragüe national park for the cranes of Spain, who live mainly on its plains.
On the frontline of the Spain's reconquista, the fortified cities are a mix of Moorish and Christian influences – they fell in and out of each other's hands over the centuries. Later, the booty the conquistadores brought back from Latin America created towns and cities that, at their time, were the most magnificent in Europe. Palacios, conventos and iglesias virtually topple over each other. In Trujillo, the vast hulk of the Moorish castle lies almost abandoned. It's a steal at only €1.40 entry, although you might have to wake the ticket man up to get one.
But the warring history of the region and its relative poverty has left it depleted of the pleasant little roadside villages that are such a boon for the casual holiday cyclist. Trujillo and Caceres sit proudly atop outcrops on otherwise near barren plains. We trudged to Trujillo along a new road of commendably high quality, but cursed the cars speeding past uncomfortably fast. Stop-offs are few and far between, and carrying large amounts of water is essential. On hot days, we learned that an early start was vital, so we could hit the next Parador by 2pm and collapse into a siesta.
And don't forget to bring the lycra. The Mamil (middle-aged man in lycra) look has never in the past appealed, but like pilgrims on their knees wearily reaching Santiago de Compostela, the sight that lifted our hearts most as we came into Plasencia was a cycle shop. Yes, they sell padding ...