Valladolid
30 April 2025
It’s 07:55 on a Wednesday morning in late April. The massed ranks of the Aldershot Scooter Club are gathered on the car deck of the Portsmouth-to-Santander cruise ferry, eagerly awaiting disembarkation. So fevered is their anticipation that they start their poxy two-stroke engines in unison before the hull doors are open, engulfing everyone in clouds of evil-smelling blue smoke.
We think these superannuated Mods look ridiculous and speculate why they bother coming all the way to Spain, given the majesty of the roads and the distances involved are beyond the capabilities of their laughable contraptions. But they are no doubt chortling at the sight of two amply proportioned gentlemen in the autumn of their years, bestriding two of Bologna’s finest, me on a Ducati V2 Panigale and my compadre on his Ducati Multistrada. The former is a byword for a ‘motorcycle-as-sculpture’ and the latter is arguably the most complete bike on the road today, combining off-road ability with city-centre manners; long-range touring spurs and track-day cahonas. Despite this utility, it has the drama and style of a Ducati, who make all their steeds things of drooling, lust-inducing, feminine beauty, which leads to inevitable accusations that most owners (average age is now 56…) are living out an extended adolescence way too long.
Regardless, the long way to Valladolid is made for these machines. The Autovia soars off into the Cantabrian Mountains, followed by a sprint around a lake, Embalse de Aguiller de Campoo, and then long, straight roads with occasional sweeping bends across verdant farmland to Spain’s 13th largest conurbation, an elegant city dating from the 14th to 16th century. The UK equivalent - in terms of population and economic relevance - is Coventry. Both have about 300,000 inhabitants and a reliance on the automotive industry. But there endeth the similarity.
The Plaza Mayor is ringed by cafés, all full but not to bursting point at 19:00, and a meifluous conversational burble fills the air. The relaxed vibe rubs off on us as we contentedly sip two small San Miguel’s over an hour and a half before strolling through the pedestrianised streets to find Trigo, where a five-course plus bits & bobs, single-starred Michelin dinner with matched wines will set you back an eminently reasonable £110 a head. Not a bargain, but in Coventry you’d have to travel to Birmingham for this standard, where you’d be paying nearly double.
Next morning, we look inside the spectacular cathedral and get shaken down for a donation as we leave. There’s a statue outside depicting the Catholic approach to child discipline. It features an androgynous figure in a hooded cape - as favoured by Klansmen - brandishing a big stick, towering over a cowering child. Take a look at the photograph below if you don’t believe me. Maybe the Church of England should give both these ideas a go… Meanwhile, a sponsored run is underway around the city comprising folk of all age groups. Absent from the entire scene is any discernible graft. No economic activity at all other than the cafés serving excellent coffee. It feels like a quiet Sunday morning. I sense that not for the first time will we ask the question: How on earth does Spain manage to be so prosperous and studiously relaxed simultaneously?
