All Music by “Under the Skin”: https://open.spotify.com/artist/0AvLxd0MOteC026aTgu8KX
Intro music by NRA lab, Audio File ID: 119647
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The day starts with a modest attempt at “breakfast in bed”. As we roll out of Peralta, the village is still asleep, recovering from a week of festivities. Only a few fluorescent-vested workers are sweeping up the road and dismantling the chaos of yesterday’s bull runs. The wooden railings are still there. The party is over.
But ours is just beginning.
We ride straight into Rioja—into vineyards so vast they seem to stretch into next week. For hours, it’s just us and the vines. We steal a few grapes, savour the sweetness, and pretend we know what “hints of leather and spice” taste like.
Then the road turns wild. What looked like a scenic shortcut is really a bruised and battered farm track, cracked by rain and littered with stones sharp enough to test our tires—and our tempers. The vineyard workers cheer us on, clearly amused by our overloaded bikes and dusty struggle.
Eventually, I convince Wim to follow the Camino Verde del Alhama, promising him a smooth old railway route. Spoiler: it’s not. It’s a rollercoaster in disguise—climbing, dropping, rattling through one of Navarra’s most untamed valleys. At least the river stays loyal, flowing quietly beside us, while cliffs rise like watchtowers on the other side.
By afternoon, we reach Castillo de Inestrillas—a fortress carved entirely into the cliffside. It once protected villages from invading armies during the Reconquista. Today, it’s crumbling, quiet, and somehow still full of presence.
Then comes the final climb: sun-blasted, endless, and brutal. We push through with whatever strength we have left. At the top, we collapse. That’s it. We’re done.
Hey everyone, we are Lean and Whim, a couple from Belgium. We have set out on an epic cycling journey from Belgium all the way down to the southern tip of Spain, over 2,750 km in 32 days. Join us in our video diary as we ride through stunning landscapes, tackle challenges, and experience all the surprises along the way. Subscribe and hop on for the ride of a lifetime. I serve breakfast in bed, though that sounds far more luxurious than it really is. As we ride out of Peralta, city workers are already hard at work scrubbing away the last traces of yesterday’s bull runs. We pedal uphill on the quiet asphalt road, dodging the occasional squashed tomato. Yes, tomatoes fallen from the back of trucks that rumble past, stacked high with crates of fruit. A red trail of evidence left behind. She get Our path fears into a vineyard, one we won’t leave for the next 2 hours. We have entered the vast Rioa wine region. The vineyard we are paddling through is endless. I have never seen such a massive stretch of uninterrupted finds, not even in France. Rioa is one of the world’s most celebrated wine regions with a centuries old reputation for producing wines of distinction. The star of the show is the tempanillo grape which gives the wines their signature aromas of red fruit spice and subtle hints of leather or vanilla. For once we give into temptation and pluck a few grapes from the vine. Maybe they carry all those refined notes why lovers rave about. Maybe not. All we know is they are sweet, sunwarmed, and perfect. What first looks like a pleasant path through the vineyards turns out to have taken a beating in recent months. Heavy rains have washed parts of it away entirely, leaving sections that are simply impossible to ride. Even beyond the water damage, the trail isn’t exactly kind. Sharp, uneven stones make it tough going for cyclists like us. These tracks were never meant for bikes. They are not official cycling routes, just rough farm roads winding through the land. even. The vineyard workers look surprised as we pass by. Maybe they have never seen fully loaded bikes rolling through here before, but they seem delighted all the same, cheering us on with lively Spanish encouragement. I don’t quite understand, but fully appreciate. Heat. Heat. N. Heat. Heat. Heat. Heat. Up until down up N P N P N I a n D. Once we leave the vineyards behind, I make a strong case for following the Camino Verde del Alama. Whim agree mainly because I insist it follows an old railway line and therefore must be easier than the steep, uneven vineyard trails we just struggle through. At first, he is happy with a more or less forced decision. The path winds through one of the most untouched and scenic corners of Navara. On our right, the Alama River keeps us company the entire way. On our left, dramatic cliffs rise straight out of the earth, tall and sudden. There’s a strange kind of comfort in being held between rock and river. But to be honest, this is no railway bat. A roller coaster track maybe. The path constantly climbs and drops. Sometimes over smooth gravel, other times over loose stones or deep eroded ruts that make riding a gamble. You can lead us on an old kind of course. Doo dance. Small. Yes. Hold it. D up doo. D. Doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo. Yeah, we’re good. I’ve been prepping whim for days for what comes next. The Castillo de Inastas. More than a fortress, it is a unique cliffside dwelling carved entirely from rock. Built in the early Middle Ages, it served as a defensive stronghold, guarding the valley and nearby villages against invaders. During the chaos of the Reconquista, when Christian and Muslim forces battled for control over the Iberian Peninsula, this place played a crucial role as lookout and refuge. The name inastas comes from the Latin inastilas meaning in the stones. A clear knot to the rocky ground on and in which the castle was built. Its rough natural surroundings gave it an extra layer of protection and made it nearly impossible to conquer. When Vim finally sees the small remains clinging to the cliff, he seems a little underwhelmed. Maybe he expected more. And yes, today it’s only a fragment of what it once was. But to me, the Castillo Diasta still radiates something powerful. Stories of struggle, courage, and survival. High on a cliff where the wild winds call, carved from the mountain. Ancient and small. Not built with bricks nor crown with gold. A stubborn stone and stories old. A silent guard of valleys wide. It watched the years. It turned the tide. While armies clashed in dust below, this rocky soul refused to go in Laser. There’s an end to ancient names. It’s not those that hold the crown. It’s what survives when all falls down. The past may fade. but doesn’t die. It lingers here where eagles fly. And though it’s broken bare and thin, the fight it held still burns within Las there’s no end to ancient names. It’s not the walls that hold the crown. It’s what survives when all falls down. So let them scoff or turn away. The soul of stone is here to stay. Not every legend needs a throne. Some live forever carved in star. Heat up here. Lings have started. The final stretch nearly broke us, but somehow we both reached the top. We stop because there is simply nothing left to give. One more paddle would be too much. Luckily, we find a beautiful wild camp spot just a few steps away. High, dry, and perfect. A couple of hunters drive by in a jeep and wave as I cook something warm on our little stove. Not long after, we hear gunshots echo in the distance. As long as we are not what they are aiming for, we’ll sleep just fine.