Córdoba, Toledo & Soria
05, 06 & 07 May 2025
Córdoba sounds rarified, aristocratic, tasteful, and dignified, but maybe that’s because the only person I have known from Córdoba was a Spanish girl at college who was rarified, aristocratic, and had way too much taste and dignity for my 19-year-old preference. So it’s a minor disappointment to find a city that manages to seem both modern and tired at the same time. In an overpriced, faded, middle-management hotel on the hinterland, the first room I’m offered stinks of fag smoke, meaning a long trek back to reception to get moved to another. I’m now travelling solo as my Compadre is struck down with something pretty awful in Ronda and is contemplating his options.
I strike out in search of the old town, and it’s deserted, rubbish-strewn, and down-at-heel with none of the expansive squares that double as open-air living rooms for citizens in most major Spanish cities. Just a rabbit-warren of narrow, crepuscular streets other than the odd little oasis with palm trees and a bench or two. It reminds me of the souk in Marrakech that didn’t really appeal either. I find my way to the Hospes Palacio de Bailio and the Arbequina Restaurant for a rather tired, overambitious dinner. It all sounds great, a gazpacho made with asparagus served with razor clams; a seared filet of sea bass with spiced vegetables, that sort of thing, but the flavours are only turned to about a three-out-ten.
I usually manage to get at least one decent photograph of a destination that serves as a shorthand for a visit, regardless of the inherent attractiveness of the place. The one with the faded Coca-Cola signs and dramatic shadow a couple of days ago in Monesterio is an example. But here, nothing. Clearly, one night is not long enough to form a balanced opinion. But if you read these posts, you’ll know not to expect that. There are enough people who seem to love Cordoba and loads of photos of lovely vistas to behold; it just wasn’t my experience and does not seem to hold enough promise to return.
My longtime pal Tom had a previous career as an international house-sitter that allowed him to work as a freelance journalist at the same time. As a consequence, he got to know Spain well and proclaimed the N420 north of Córdoba to be one of the finest roads Europe can offer. He’s not wrong: a 100 Km of racetrack surfaces, easily readable, predictable bends that can be taken at anywhere between 90 and 130 Kmh. And best of all… Almost no one else is on it. Quite how the cost-benefit calculus works for building roads of this quality - only to have them barely used - just adds to the Spanish conundrum.
Toledo lies at the end of today’s ride, and what a sight it is. Approached in the late afternoon sun, it glows with the hue of artfully rusted iron, which may account for why Triumph named their underpowered, corrosion-prone compact saloon car of the early 1970s after the city.
Unlike the car, it’s weepingly beautiful, with bits of it dating back to Roman times. Although meticulously preserved, it is no museum, with cars and scooters squeezing and zooming up and down the narrow streets, respectively, as the city goes about its business. On a stroll around the town, the only depressive note is that McDonald’s, Burger King, and Starbucks have outbid all the other potential occupiers for prime locations on the main square, the Plaza Magdalena.
I could happily spend a day wandering the streets, just taking it in, and I suspect it’s one of those places— like Venice— when you can point a camera pretty much at random and get a decent shot.
The next day is all about tarmac; 239 miles of it with a predicted riding time of six hours. So it’s going to be twisty… Like previous days, many of the routes have been lifted from Ride! magazines’ cache of recommended roads. It’s worth using this to base your Spanish trip on as none have disappointed. On the contrary, many of the roads are amongst the best you’ll find anywhere in continental Europe. For the most part, perfectly maintained, and what little traffic there is, well-mannered and docile if rather doddery, the deeper into the interior you go.
