Before flying from Barcelona to London we paid a quick visit to Andorra, a tiny country sandwiched between Spain and France that for a long time had the descriptive slogan of “El Pais dels Pirineus” – “country in the mountains”. To be more precise, this landlocked microstate of just 468 square kilometres is located in a steep valley high up in the Pyrenees Mountain range and inhabited by just 77,000 Andorrans which places it firmly within the top 20 of the world’s smallest countries. Its diminutive stature and isolation has, at times, served it well with Andorra remaining neutral throughout all the wars of the 20th century. During such volatile times, its strategic position provided a valuable transit zone for merchandise by way of a safe corridor over the mountains between Spain and France. This high route was traversed by pilgrims, peddlers, smugglers, Spaniards fleeing the Spanish Civil War as well as WW2 refugees and evaders. Having read part of a blog, written by a group of trail bike riders that had been up the route the previous year, we decided to give it a go.

The road begins in Alins and continues up to Tor, a small village that lies on the border of Spain, before winding its way up to the pass of Port de Cabus at 2,302 m. It then makes its descent through mountain villages and into the capital, Andorra la Vella. On our way to Alins we stopped at the Escalarre Rock Cafe in the small village of Sort. It would have been hard to miss given the rock music being pumped out at full blast in the otherwise sleepy mountain hamlet and navigating the iron guitar-playing sculpture guarding the doorway, we entered the dark interior. A small cigarette-smoke filled space full of long-haired, leather jacket-wearing guys who seemed just as surprised to see us as we were to encounter them. The chef, who looked as if he had been left behind by the ‘Hairy Bikers’, produced some rather robust food at the speed of light which was served up by a slip of a waitress clad in black leather who, if her spacey smile was anything to go by, appeared to be delighted with her lot in life.

Well fed and with ears ringing, we continued for 20km along a twisty, well-surfaced road. On our approach, we were so distracted by the views of snow-capped mountains that we nearly missed the tight turn and small signpost indicating the way to Tor. After a bit of manoeuvring due to Bob’s rather large turning circle, we found ourselves on a single vehicle tarmac road with some alarming cracks and a sheer drop off on the left. We were grateful for the occasional safety barrier but did wonder at the stopping power of the thin string that some kind soul had thoughtfully provided in its absence. The road wound its way up into the mountains parallel to a raging stream of melt water and we found ourselves squeezing past various rock falls and fallen branches before arriving at the abandoned village of Tor.

It was here that the tarmac ended and we progressed onto a soft muddy trail that in a couple of months would probably have baked hard. Heading ever upwards, the route became more challenging; more rocks and more mud and then snow started to appear. Our height at this point was around 1,800 m and we still had another 500 m of height gain before the top and the reappearance of tarmac which on the Andorran side was implemented all the way up to the Col. Bob did his best but soon we were sliding all over the place now with a sheer drop off to the right. It looked as if quad bikes had been in the area and some of the boggier corners were so churned up that it was difficult to get traction. Already in low diff and with tyres deflated, we managed another 100 m of height gain before starting to lose confidence in our ability to reach the top. The time was now 5pm and getting stuck up the mountain for the night was looking more and more likely and so we decided to call it a day. Some sideways reverse sliding followed by a 20-point turn eventually had us pointing downhill and we retraced our tyre treads a little bit astonished at what Bob had managed to climb. Yes, it was disappointing, but it was hard not to smile as we drove back past the Rock Café hearing Tina Turner belting out ‘I don’t Need Another Hero’. Revisiting the blog that had inspired this particular adventure, turns out that the guys hadn’t made it over the top either, although they had got a lot closer than us. I wonder whether it would have made a difference if I had gathered all the information to start with??

Taking a more conventional route into Andorra meant a 100 km drive around the mountain and as time was getting on we decided to pull off down a slip road and set up camp. This particular episode was not quite over however. As we were enjoying breakfast the following morning we were somewhat startled to hear the sound of a horse trotting up the road. Sure enough, a few moments later a stocky, bell-wearing chestnut appeared who veered off the road to come to a halt directly in front of where we were sitting. After a few minutes of eye-gazing he gave a loud whinny, spun round back onto the road and trotted off.

We did eventually make it into Andorra and can tell you that it is utterly adorable. Imposing mountains literally circle the capital and as the ski season had just finished most of the population were donning hiking gear and heading for the hills. We had planned on doing the same but after clocking the duty-free price tags we stumped up the cash for a couple of new phones and spent most of our short stay playing with these ridiculously addictive devices.

When we weren’t gazing intently downwards, we couldn’t help but notice how many Porsche were on the road. Turns out Andorra has the highest number of Porsche Cayenne per capita in the world which probably speaks volumes about its citizens that they prefer a German import over the Renault or Dacia of their neighbours. It was also news to us that Andorra doesn’t belong to either the EU nor the Schengen region and despite formal looking border controls we were just waved through on entry and departure without even having to get our passports out.

As covered in the previous blog, we then travelled to London and on our return to Barcelona airport we were a bit gutted to see that our bikes had been pinched off the back of Bob. Other than starting to feel like some sort of mobile cycling charity we didn’t have much time to dwell on our misfortune as 3 hours later we were booked onto the 14 hour ferry from Barcelona to Porto Torres, Sardinia.

Having been on a few overnight ferries this year, we have been pleasantly surprised, even taking into account the notoriously badly reviewed Grimaldi lines, with the facilities. Booking an overnight cabin seems to be the way to go as they are quite roomy for two, have a private shower and by the time the ferry docks the following morning we usually disembark feeling pretty rested. Just as well as there was no hanging around in Porto Torres - we drove straight up to Santa Teresa Gallura where we caught the 1 hr ferry over to Bonifacio, Corsica.

Corsica is an island that sits 170km off southern France and 90km from north-western Italy. It was under Italian Republic rule for centuries until sold to France in 1768 and the capital Ajaccio, was the birth place of Napoleon Bonaparte. It is not a large island, just 183km long and 83km wide, but what is lacks in size it makes up for in diversity. The interior is wild and mountainous whilst the superb coastline offers up a mix of small resorts ranging from the stylish Porto Vecchio on the east coast to the small shanty village of Girolata on the west.

The 11 km ferry crossing was as short as it was turbulent. Chairs were sliding from one side of the ship to the other as we watched the horizon appear momentarily through the portholes before disappearing just as quickly as the ferry was tossed around. There weren’t too many of us aboard, just a group of Scandinavian, septuagenarian, Harley Davidson bikers and one middle-aged male who spent most of the time clinging onto one of the floor to ceiling poles, occasionally executing a sequence of moves that provided some insight as to how he may have been spending his spare time. The relief at approaching our destination was palpable, as most of us were struggling not to throw-up, but the rough crossing was soon forgotten as we entered through a narrow passage flanked by brilliant white cliffs and set eyes on the old town of Bonifacio perched on the top.

It was a new destination for both of us and as we made our way north we couldn’t have been more surprised. The interior of the island is sparsely populated, the mountain villages isolated and, when we were there, mostly closed. It is a place where wild boars roam through thick forests full of huge spreading chestnut trees and we were soon to learn that they provided the main food for the area. We were making our way to Calenzana, the starting point of the Mare e Monti north, a 10-day trek through some of the remote hilltop towns and small isolated coastal villages, some of which are only accessible by boat or on foot. It took us a couple of days to drive north, the narrow mountain roads slow going and after a couple of early nights wild camping due to the deep snorty sounds coming out of the forest, we arrived at Joe’s place, an ex- French military sniper who had agreed to look after Bob. Call us paranoid, but in a country with the highest crime rate in the EU we were taking no chances.

It wasn’t easy to find much information on this particular walk, most of the stuff online was geared towards the GR20, a mythical trek of 180 km and often referred to as the hardest trek in Europe. Unfortunately, there was still too much snow on the mountains and the refugios hadn’t opened for the season so not an option for us. As far as our walk was concerned we did have the names of the small villages or gite d’etapes (accommodation specifically aimed at hikers) that our trail went through and once we set off it proved to be one of the best waymarked trails that we have done.

It certainly wasn’t a walk in the park. Each day we climbed, often over 1,000 m up and, more often that not, down again. The terrain was often rocky and just to make things a bit more difficult, on day three I took a French tomber (fall) and broke my wrist which meant only having one stick to help with the steep slopes. The accommodation was a mixed bag. On one occasion we experienced a luxurious home stay with probably the best cook in the whole of Corsica while on another we were shown into a tiny room with 6 bunk beds and two large smoking bikers. Every inch of available space was taken up with their leathers, helmets and paniers and although we wouldn’t want to come across as precious, on this particular occasion we turned round, walked out and went further up the road. The tiny mountain villages were rustic to say the least, the food consisting of 100 ways to cook and serve boar, chestnuts and pasta – the latter no doubt a legacy from the Italians. The only vegetarian option on offer was an omelette, apart from one place where it was difficult to show an appropriate level of enthusiasm when presented with a plate of raw leeks and gerkins. But, the scenery was spectacular, both up in the mountains and down on the coastal paths and the fresh fish offered at tiny wooded shacks on the white sands of secluded bays more than compensated for some of the more traditional fare.

For the first week, the temperatures had been up in the high 20°C’s, but three days before we were due to finish the weather broke and we were forced off the mountain due to storms and torrential rain. We had no other choice but to road walk the rest of the way and into our destination of Cargese. As it turned out this worked in our favour as we walked through the charming hillside town of Piana and the Gorges de Spelunca, huge red granite cliffs that plunged down to the Mediterranean and was one of the highlights of the walk.

Corsica certainly deserves its name of The Island of Beauty but it’s people just like the hiking are tough. There is no doubt that they are proud of their reputation as the hard men of Europe and on several occasions we came across cages full of dogs in the middle of the forests that we can only assume were used for hunting boar.

Wrist aside, we finished in good shape and after hiring a car to get us back to Bob due to the lack of any public transport, we once again crossed the Strait of Bonifacio. Sardinia belongs to Italy, is three times the size of Corsica and although not as mountainous it is certainly not flat. The interior is similarly wild and remote but its extensive coastline is much more developed and has some of the Med’s best beaches.

Ever heard the phrase “sardonic grin”? Well it has its spooky origins in Sardinia where a plant used in pre-Roman times to kill old people who had become a burden, produced a smile of sorts on the corpse’s face.

Sardinia is also one of the world’s first identified “blue zones” – an area where there are an unusual number of people who reach the age of 100. This blue zone comprises 17 white-washed villages in the Nuoro province which is exactly where we were headed.

Some time ago, we came across an article promoting Selvaggio Blu, Italy’s most famous and spectacular trek, marketed as a unique experience through one of the most pristine areas of the world. The idea was originally conceived in 1987 by two alpinists who forged a path from Santa Maria Navarrese to the, unaccessible other than by boat, beach of Cala Luna. It took two years to create a route combining traditional shepherds paths with the charcoal burners’ mule paths through landscapes constantly changing due to extensive rockslides and incorporating the ancient “scalones”, juniper walkways that are a irreplaceable legacy of the Sardinian shepherds. Following narrow, exposed pathways often suspended 100’s of metres above sea level and utilising climbing and rappelling techniques, the trail is specified as “suitable exclusively for expert, well-trained hikers, with good orientation skills and consolidated climbing ability”??????

Reading on, it soon became apparent that aside from the physical aspect of the trek, an added difficulty was the total lack of water along the 45km route. This would mean carrying enough for the 4-6 day duration along with sufficient climbing gear to navigate the tricky sections. Despite being up for a challenge, this was a step too far for us and, for the first time, we signed up with a tour company, Explorando Supramonte who specialise in guided tours and logistical support for SB as well as other trails in the area. Due to the nature of the climate, the window for doing SB is quite small and with numbers limited to groups of 12, we signed up as soon as the start dates were release which gave us too much time to dwell on whether or not we would be up to the job and was instrumental to our trek in Corsica by way of preparation.

Turning up with a bandaged wrist was probably not the best first impression but I suspect that the majority of our fellow adventurers were just as pre-occupied as we were in wondering just what they had let themselves in for and so it was a huge relief not to be immediately singled out as a weak link or at least not to have it aired out loud. Our group consisted of two Lithuanian sisters one a doctor the other a biologist, an Irish guy on a sabbatical, three UN workers and half a dozen Italians. Ages ranged from mid 20’s to late 60’s and as the week progressed we considered ourselves extremely fortunate to be in the company of people with easy laughter can do attitudes. They also spoke English well which was an added bonus.

Given the inaccessibility of the route, each morning and evening a rib boat would arrive with provisions and to either collect or drop off our camping gear. The guiding duties were shared amongst half a dozen local guides, a different one nominated each evening to provide dinner and baby-sit us overnight. The overnight camps varied – outside a traditional shepherd’s hut (the centenarian still in residence), next to the beach and even inside a fabulous Grotto which we rapelled down to. It was a tough week where we walked for extended periods over exposed white rock under the hot Sardinian sun struggling to clamber up and down the steep terrain. There were guide ropes in place at times, although not as frequently as we would have liked and on many occasions our guides had to rig up additional safety ropes to get us up the near vertical rock face.

There was one quite funny incident. As we were trudging along in single file we noticed that some of the trees had a rock in the branches. “That looks a bit dangerous” says Irish as he plucks it out of the tree and throws it on the ground, an action that was repeated as we progressed along the trail. It wasn’t until the fourth day that our guide was explaining how the typical cairns used for waymarking were too difficult to see amid such rocky terrain and the shepherds were using other ways to signpost the almost invisible tracks – whoops!

On our return to Santa Maria Navarrese, a couple of good things happened. We received a call from HSBC AU to say that as a result of us filing a complaint, our accounts had been unfrozen, apparently the freezing was an accidental error by one of their staff! However, the fraudulent transactions that occurred back in February had still not been re-credited, which I guess means making another formal complaint. The other good thing was the bike I had ordered online had been delivered and although in kit form it was a sneaky upgrade on the one that was stolen.

The following few days were spent just pottering down the west coast making the most of the quiet sandy beaches before arriving in the capital Cagliari. Ian got lucky and managed to find what was probably the only XL bike on an island of small statured Sardinians and feeling a lot more organised that when we arrived we boarded the night ferry to Naples.