Almeria

02 & 03 May

My hotel is in the Centro Paseo district of Almeria which has a slightly faded, early to mid-20th-century elegance to it. Wide, tree-lined pavements teem with cafes, all encouragingly busy without being rammed. Nice. It’s what the towns of the Cote D’Azure could be if they weren’t so overrun and weepingly expensive.

To the east, Santa Rita is a high-density, low-cost, low-rise residential district. In the early evening, the smell of sizzling meat, garlic, and tobacco smoke blends with the scent of spices that waft out of neighborhood shops. Music spanning the breadth of the Mediterranean spills from apartment balconies while in various chainlink-enclosed squares, impromptu football and basketball games are underway, often played with dazzling skill and fierce intensity.

This is not a wealthy district but there’s a sense of calm contentment. So nobody pays any attention to an incongruous, lone tourist picking his way through the grid-iron streets to the setting of Tony Garcia’s Espacio Gastronómico.

Tony’s 'gastronomic space’ is on a wide, modern thoroughfare and adjacent to a smart contemporary hotel. It could be transplanted from Copenhagen, such is the discrete luxury. Surfaces shimmer and glasses gleam amidst the blond wood of elegantly functional furniture.

Given the grandiose title, it's slightly disappointing not to be greeted by the great man, dressed entirely in black and possibly referring to himself in the third person.  Instead, a slightly younger version of Stanley Tucci but with the same level of avuncular affability pours me a generous measure of chilled Manzanilla and sets the tone for a totally unpretentious dinner.

Each course has no more than three ingredients. Rich, buttery avocado balanced with salty sardines & fragrant olive oil to start followed by Iberian pork - cooked pink as only Spanish pork can be - with seared green padres peppers and tomato. Everything is top-notch, as it should be, given that we are nudging Northern European city centre prices.

To round things off, Tony eventually makes an appearance. He’s an imposing figure (yes, dressed entirely in black…) and performs his art of preparing the individual cuts of meat and fish before passing them to his brigade for cooking. His stage is a workstation front and centre of an open kitchen, before his adoring public.

Now sated on all counts, I meander back through now quiet Santa Rita. Conventional wisdom is that Spanish cities only come to life late in the evening yet it's barely 10:30 and waiters are straightening chairs and collecting glasses. But the Amalia barra exterior near the hotel is still busy and a final glass of wine beckons before turning in.

The mountains north of this Mediterranean town are renowned for being motorcycling mecca. The route from Huércal to Níjar features frequently in various journals, along with Spain’s own Stelvio, the Alto de Velfifique.

Both roads are undeniably magnificent but - like Stelvio - I struggle to understand who really enjoys them. Unless you know each and every blind turn and can remember where the sticky black tarmac gives way to dusty, polished granite, discretion always - as it must- win over valour. Telepathic powers to foresee oncoming Spaniards on the wrong side of the road are handy also, As a result, it’s more 70% frustration and 30% exhilaration and I hoped it to be the other way round.

True, I came across a herd of Italian GS riders having a whale of a time as they wobbled around the switchbacks at a stately pace. But if you’re looking for that cocktail of brain chemicals that only gets served above 60 MPH and at over 30-degrees of lean, there’s not much for you here. That said, I’m typing this as a second Cruzcampo pression works its magic on my aching frame and the overall sensation is pretty damn fine.

It’s maybe I’m just not good or brave enough as a rider to enjoy these roads. If that’s the case, I wave the white flag in surrender and hope to be still doing the same thing in twenty years’ time. Whatever. Next time I’ll just flatter myself with the A-349 between La Noria and Tabernas as this is as good as life on two wheels gets for us mortals.