Testing the senses in Shanghai to find China's best antitourism and off-beat secrets. Dry and sometimes funny observations from a fixed gear roller, food eater and photograph taker.

We’ve been told that the North coast of Spain is a sliding scale of gastronomy. To the left; quality produce. To the right; preparation excellence. Somewhere in the middle and the perfect balance, they say, is Asturias. The coast itself doesn’t feature on the folklore and this is seemingly for one good reason. The Picos de Europa.

In my home town of Doncaster, we live on the east side of the Pennines. Whenever the weather is bad we blame the mountains. When the wind blows west, the clouds get penned in and downpour. Meanwhile, on the other side in bloody Lancashire there’s uninterrupted blue skies.

So it is in Spain. You enter the south side of the Cantabrico tunnel sweltering, lathered in sun tan cream. Five minutes later you surface a few hundred yards from the sea wrapped in fog and scrabbling to turn down the air conditioning. Thank god for Playa Catedrales.

This stretch of the Galicia coast needs no sunshine. People don’t come here to bathe but gaze at what history made. Emerging from the coastline is a cannon of rock cliffs and formations where sandbanks jut up against layers of prehistory. Melodramatic maybe, too long in the car definitely, though here is a bewildering place where land and sea have battled for a couple million years.

Rising out of the waves (along with a couple of brave souls) is a complex of naturally formed caves, arches and rocky columns. Crashing waves echo around the cavern walls as the tide comes in. Connected pools fill and drain to form new paths through the cloisters. It’s holy. The Cathedrals.

Far less holy, back to earth and down the road is Cudillero, a tiny fishing village perched in a tiny bay on the side of a hill. Cudillero is painfully picturesque, worthy of one photo that must be taken a thousand times daily by the tourist influx. Reminiscent of Tuscany’s Cinqueterra there are a dozen exquisitely cute, homogenous restaurants, each with a cobble-side view, grumpy waitress and chalkboard set menu. Beyond reversing up and down the car park to defend a free space; you can’t go wrong.

Which is fine – but is this the finest balance of cuisine and preparation? Honestly no. The pork lomo was tough, chorizo normal and prawns average. Everything came with fries and was instantly forgettable. The search goes on.

Few more photos in my flickr account

We covered 80k today in a ride eastwards out of Shanghai to the sea.

From Century Park there’s a canal that heads east in a straight light, along the nort side runs a path which is almost continuous for the 40k stretch. Whenever you get to a dead end – head left (northwards) to a a parallel road. It’s pretty self-evident if you use your noggin. Map here.

Leaving the city behind and entering the countryside is a good feeling, even if the ‘countryside’ is basically the French Concession with a few chickens running around. Whilst it certainly moves a few notches towards rural, the city still manages to keep up the pace with some enormous housing projects underway.

We must have passed 300 shops that sell windows frames, 4 million plastic buckets, the Sydney Opera House, Florence Piazza della Signoria and one camoflage radar ball.

At the coast swells the murky brown depths of the East China Sea at the mouth of the Yangtze. A half dozen brave souls have come to swim – or be bashed against the wave breakers, it’s hard to tell. Every 15 seconds a plane cruises overhead on it’s descent into Pudong International. No arcades, no fish & chips, I’d been duped. Still, nice to breath in the fresh sea air and have a paddle.

Just to the south of where we were looked to be some great roads for riding – tree lined and smooth surfaced. We were short of time and already blanching in the midday sun, so set for home. That can be next time.. or the time after next if our plan for tomorrow comes through.

Round it all off with a quick tour of expat-haven JinQiao to wash off any scent of culture and you’re golden (or extremely red if you forgot sun-lotion).