There’s no riding on the last day. The bikes are done — panniers packed for the final time, everything strapped down and accounted for — and what’s left is just time. Unhurried, uncommitted time in a town that feels like it was made for exactly that.

We woke to another blue morning in Santillana del Mar and had nowhere to be until the afternoon. So we didn’t rush.

The walled garden of the Parador de Gil Blas on a perfect June morning — ancient stone, fruit trees, and not a single reason to leave quickly.

A Last Morning in the Old Town

The parador garden was glorious in the morning light — fruit trees casting long shadows across the grass, the old stone walls warm in the sun, the kind of quiet that only exists in places that have been standing for six hundred years. We sat out there with coffee for longer than was probably necessary. Nobody complained.

Then out into the old town itself — cobblestones underfoot, the medieval street winding down between stone buildings that have barely changed since the 15th century. We looked at the collegiate church, wandered the alleyways, found a café and had another coffee. Then lunch — a proper, long, unhurried lunch at a table outside with the sun on our faces and no particular schedule to keep.

It was the kind of morning that earns its place in the memory — not because anything dramatic happened, but because it was genuinely, quietly perfect. Good company, beautiful surroundings, and the pleasant weight of everything we’d ridden still sitting in our legs.

The Road to Santander

Mid-afternoon we loaded up for the last time and rode the short stretch up the Cantabrian coast to Santander. Forty minutes. A gentle coastal run — the sea appearing and disappearing between the hills, the air carrying that particular Atlantic saltiness that arrives when you’re close to a big crossing.

The port at Santander was busy — bikes from all over Europe queuing in the holding lanes, that familiar mix of adventure bikes, tourers, and customs, all with the same road-worn luggage and the same slightly dazed end-of-tour look. Everyone heading home their own way, carrying their own version of the same kind of trip.

The Santander ferry terminal — dozens of bikes from across Europe, all heading home. A large cruise ship towers in the background.

Boarding the Ferry

We boarded around 4pm and rode the bikes down into the lower decks — the clunk of the stand going down for the final time, the straps going across the handlebars, the ignition going off. And then upstairs into the daylight, and the ferry pulling slowly away from the dock.

Standing on the deck and watching the Spanish coastline recede is one of those moments that’s hard to describe accurately. Bittersweet is the word that always comes to mind — a mix of satisfaction, gratitude, and a very mild, entirely manageable sadness that it’s over. The hills of Cantabria sitting there in the afternoon light, the last of Spain getting smaller, and two weeks of extraordinary roads already starting to settle into memory.

The ferry bar — Guinness, crisps, big grins, and a Wild Roads t-shirt. The perfect way to debrief a 13-day tour.

We found a table in the bar, got the first round in, and settled in for the crossing. The conversation was easy — the kind of natural, flowing debrief that only happens at the end of a proper trip. Favourite moments, best roads, which hotel was the standout, who nearly dropped their bike and where. Stories that would get slightly better with each retelling over the months ahead.

Across the Bay of Biscay

The Bay of Biscay in early June is usually calm, and this crossing was no exception. By evening the coast was long gone and there was nothing outside the porthole but open Atlantic — the kind of grey-blue infinity that puts everything into perspective. The clock on the cabin desk said 21:19. Spain was already hundreds of miles behind us.

21:19. The Atlantic through a porthole. Spain already far behind, home still a long way ahead.

Everyone arrived safely the following afternoon — bikes unloaded, helmets off, kit bags dragged to the car park, handshakes and hugs at the terminal. And that was that.

Fourteen days. Roughly 2,200 miles. Ten riders. From Plymouth to Santander to the Picos to Galicia to Santiago to León to the Basque Country to the Pyrenees and back again. Every one of those miles on roads that deserved to be ridden properly.

It was, as it always is, absolutely worth it.

If you want to ride this route with us — the Picos & Pyrenees tour runs across multiple dates in 2027. Small group, fully guided, all logistics handled. You just ride.