brian.sheasby@outlook.com – Page 5 – 2-cheeses-go-rolling.com

Days 73 & 74 – Straight as an arrow we shoot up to Evora . . .

Who’s counting? Twenty-two days to go. This far south with still lots to see and do. We don’t want to aim for home yet. Quiver at the thought.

Solid as a house brick and weighing in at just under a kilo.

We usually listen to our evening playlists through Beastie’s speakers. A few stops ago I change all that. A couple of young campers with their tent quite close to one of his doors. When you’re outside some tracks can just sound like a ‘thump-thump-thump’. I decide to use our portable blue-tooth speaker instead. Save their angst. Position it on a box which resides on the cabin parcel shelf. The one that runs all the way around and above the windscreen and tucks in behind driver and passenger on both sides. Out of the way, but a good ‘sound’ position. Not sound enough though. Last night I forget to tidy it away. This morning neither of us notice it is still perched. An hour into our journey and I recklessly pull up sharply. Off to the side of the road. Want to take a snap. Holding true to the forces of nature it doesn’t stay put. It could have fallen anywhere. Couldn’t it? Course not. It clonks Mary-Ann right on the bridge of her nose. A Mike Tyson hammer blow completely out of the blue. Just like the air which flies in my direction. Can’t say I blame her on two counts. Ice packs keep the swelling down. No bruising – yet. But it will be a week or so before the broken skin heals. No photies till then, then.

Our one night stop becomes two. Gives us chance to see more than a fleeting glance. Evora, for a small town of about 60,000 has a lot of interest. We start with the ‘old’ Roman temple. Not much left standing, so we move on up to the church between the pillars. Seems they were expecting guests. Not quite ready for us though. Caught in the act. Smoke and mirrors have you believe the pointing is in really good nick

We move on round the back. The Chapel of Bones comes as a surprise. Its entrance motif “We bones that here are, for yours await”. A grim reminder. 5,000 monks’ skeletons cemented together. Create quite a moving scene.

Up and outside we catch sight of this angry guy. Can you blame him? With Portugal’s close connection you’d have thought the least he deserved was a Brazillian.

Inside the Museo do Artesanato e do Design (MADE) we find an interesting collection of almost modern day artefacts. Each display cabinet’s contents generously donated by an individual. Some items dated as early as 1910. Most are from the sixties, seventies and eighties. Typewriters, TVs, telephones, calculators, cameras. All seem so ‘babyish’ in comparison to our hi-tech know it all present day gizmos. All necessary first steps though. It occurs that many of the museum pieces are younger than us. Thoughts and feelings about that don’t leave much room for nostalgia!

Day 75 – For whom the bell tolls . . .

When we entered Portugal a week ago Beastie was guided into a ‘Peage’ (toll booth). We had no choice in the matter. He had his number plate recorded. We handed over the details from one of our plastic cards. The idea being that auto-recognition cameras (auto being an appropriate term), identify us whenever we use a toll road. We’ll no longer have to slow a journey passing through a Peage. We’ll be recognised and our card charged. Great idea. Even if we don’t use toll roads.

The 2.25km 25 de Abril Bridge – we approach from the right

Our Lisbon camp is on the other side of the Targus River. The only way over is via this huge suspension bridge. (six lanes plus two train lines). Just before, a bank of Peage booths loom. The two inside lanes show a big green tick on the ground and above their booths. Traffic flows freely through these. There are queues to the remaining six booths. As we’ve already been “clocked”, so to speak, we take a green route. Assuming we’ll automatically be charged. However, once we’re past the point of no return I see a sign saying “It is illegal to cross without paying a toll”. As we enter our booth we have no opportunity to pay. No machine. No person. As we slowly move on through, the green “auto” light changes to red, but the barrier remains raised. I put my foot down. Later, Mr Google informs me that the bridge toll has been privatised.

Overlooking the bridge and river – this Rio inspired Jesus. Erected as a thank you. A show of gratitude for Portugal being spared from WW2.

The cloudy wet day disappears. And once plugged in on site, so do we. Scoot back down to the harbour area. It’s full of people and monuments.

The Discoveries Monument – Padrão dos Descobrimentos

Prince Henry the Navigator heads up his mini brigade of fellow explorers

From on top, the pattern of the square – a donation from South Africa

Nearer the harbour entrance – the Belém Tower

Despite being able to maintain its neutrality during WW2, Portugal has since suffered many losses. Mostly during its efforts to maintain its colonial presence in Africa. Recognition of that sacrifice logged at “Overseas Monument”

The line of monuments are all in easy walking distance. We’re not sure if this bus is going to attract any customers.

Shortly afterwards it’s full. Passes us again. But not quite where we expected to see it!

Days 76 & 77 – Lisboa, Lisbon – either way, it’s at the heart of Portugal . . .

Getting to really know someone well, takes time. It takes effort. You need to discover things about their past. Engage with their present. Learn of their plans for the future too.

I guess that’s why we, like all of the other millions of travelers head for the historic sites first. We like to get a feel for the soul of the place we’re visiting. Feel its pulse. Take its temperature. Cut through the layers, get under its skin. Examine the examinable. Find out what keeps its heart beating. All of this helps to diagnose. Reach a conclusion. However, it’s in the exchanges with the living population that reveal its true state of health. Portugal gets our thumbs up. A big green tick.

Three nights. Two days. Hardly time enough. We start with a convoluted Scoot up into the hilly area of Sintra, north west of the capitol. Eyes raised upwards towards Pena Palace. It tops one of the hills, overlooking Lisbon and its surrounds. A fairy tale Cinders’ Castle.

This hilly escarpment a mesh of one way single lanes. We and they wiggle between the tiny villages scattered throughout. The whole area teeming with tourists. All lining up to visit the area’s three palaces. As we close in on our prize, so does the weather. Low cloud and drizzle dampen our spirits. Can just about make it out. Scoot gets us right up close. He’s so park-able.

At over 1,500 feet up it can often get misty up here . . . pity it’s today

As we wander into the main square, it’s apparent we’ve been beaten to the best vantage point. We catch a couple of ‘peepers’ peeping – with welcoming smiles . . .

Oh, I say darling, isn’t that the Two-Cheeses over there? . . .

. . . unlike the overseeing concierge – “cheese” obviously not on his menu for today.

You know where you lot can gorgonzola off back to . . .

The castle, come palace, wouldn’t seem out of place in Portmeirion. The inner rooms all very live-able and not too OTT – (no central heating in those days) 🙂

Without Scoot on board our touring existence would often become cumbersome. Often, our camp is a little out of the way. Often, the places we want to visit are a little out of the way too. Often, buses, trains and trams not in easy reach. This site no exception. Lisbon is quite a sprawl with twenty-seven percent of Portugal’s population living within. We’re nine kilometres from today’s destination, the old town. No need to check when and where to catch a bus – good ole Scoot! Plus no parking fees. Any small convenient space will do. Next to a wall on a pavement, just off the main drag is where we leave him.

Its structure impressive outside and inside.

So we start with the past. Long, long ago. Spend an hour or so inside the Archeological Museum. It’s actually housed within part of the old Jerónimos Monastery – our next port of call. We skip the hour long queue having bought a combo ticket – sometimes we do do our homework.

No sun today – we only put our sunnies on for the fill-flash . . . (and to stay looking ultra cool)

The other and possibly more dominent religion seen poking it’s head just above the Monastery walls belongs to Belenenses FC . . .

After lunch we lurch and linger into the old town. Interconnected praças around every corner. Praça do Rossio our favourite.

The main pedestrian artery awash with eateries and street artists. All ticking along nicely. Some amusingly strange . . .

. . . others just brilliantly entertaining.

Then before we know it it’s time to head back to Scoot. A cheery wave from the future bids us farewell . . .

Days 78 & 79 – Scenic Sunday afternoon drives, but it’s Monday and Tuesday . . .

Upping sticks like a couple of nomadic Roma becomes second nature when you’re away from your permanent residence for so long. A slick routine develops. No need for check lists. Designated his and her territories. Each with their own set of ‘stuff’ to see to before take off. It’s the same when we come into land.

So yesterday and today sees us heading north. We’re on our way home. Sort of. Just a small distance of around two thousand kilometres or so to negotiate. T-minus sixteen. Porto, our last big city, is going to get turned over tomorrow. Our journey here interrupted with a one nighter at São Pedro de Moel.

The rolling countryside is very English like. If it wasn’t for the occasional olive grove and driving on the right, we could almost be back home. Portuguese drivers are the most courteous and patient we’ve come across. If you dare to just glance at a pedestrian crossing they immediately slow down to let you cross. They expect and anticipate. Very few in any sort of rush. Hardly a horn heard. It’s refreshingly calm. Tail-gating a thing of the past. Town and village speed limits adhered to virtually everywhere we’ve traveled.

Deserted São Pedro de Moel beach and cliffs

The very brisk cold northerly deters us and most from venturing down to sea level. Both end of day walks end sooner than planned. Sunny but cooool.

So today’s short blog is due to the things we haven’t done. Although we did manage to take a photo of each other taking a photo.

Sad? These were the highlights . . .

Day 80 – Our slow amble around Porto gets us mistaken for a couple of tortoises . . .

You get what you pay for. A well known saying that rings true for most of us. Pay next to nothing, then you expect to receive next to nothing. Pay more, then you expect more. It’s all about getting the right amount of value for the money you dish out.

Our day starts with a forty-five minute ride into Porto, on a forty-five foot long bus. We didn’t expect the journey to include an ‘adventure’ section all to itself. A small village is entered. A few people need to be picked up. Like most villages in Portugal there’s no tarmac. Only small very uneven cobbles. These help to calm the traffic – usually. Opposing terraced houses, at the most no more than a foot wider than the bus, create a claustrophobic chasm of tiny runs. Their closeness accentuates the bus’s speed and sound as it ricochets off the walls. The bus cavorts and clatters through. Hardly any sign of hesitation as the driver maneuvers his ‘Beastie” around every twist, turn and right angle. Like a blind-folded mouse in a cheese run he’s all instinct. His wing mirrors acting as his cat’s whiskers. He is the ‘cat’s whiskers’. Our central raised position gives us a perfect view. The visual, sound & movement not dissimilar to being aboard a virtual simulator. The locals totally unaware. Engage in casual conversation. The visitors don’t. They’re all on edge. Tense. Unbelieving eyes widen. Mouths gape and gasp. Hands grip. Knuckles whiten. I’m impressed – taking notes. Should have been taking a video. Too late, we’re through.

Then before we know it we’re ambling towards our first ‘must see’. The São Bento railway station. It’s entrance hall beautifully tiled with past times.

A guided tour of the rather splendid Palácio da Bolsa gets us clicking again. It’s the old Stock Exchange. This ‘Arab Room’, the so called highlight, is still used to entertain famous and important visitors to Porto.

These were my highlight though

You can’t really go to Porto without sampling some of their world famous ports. Can you? Oh yes you can! We don’t indulge. Not really our cup of tea. Plenty to chose from though.

Instead we take the cable car up to the top of the gorge and the spectacular iron bridge. Amble along its levels.

Our pigeon post rewards us with a pigeon’s eye view. We take aim of a different kind. Reminds us a little of Venice – without the huge spoiling liners spoiling our line of vision.

This young lad and his mate, put on a show. They make quite a splash. Over in a flash. It’s going to be a long walk back up. I’m holding his towel . . .

We amble down, quay side. Stop off at the “Beef and Wine” river-side restaurant. We fancy a bit of upmarket faire. Waiters wearing black dicky-bows and also, as we soon discover, dick-heads. (That’s not totally fair) Order taken. “Two roast beef salads, please”. The first waiter brings us some ‘arty-farty’ bread and butter to keep us amused. That’s because, as we’re informed they’re both made in house. Golly-gee. Thirty-five minutes later and we’re still waiting. We know this because Mary-Ann’s keeping an eye on things.

Eventually, the roast beef salads arrive. Or rather, two dinner plates piled high with chopped lettuce; two cherry tomatoes halved – delicately placed on the quarters; four shaver-foil thin slices of cucumber; garnished with five thumb-nail size slices of beef Carpaccio, that look as if they’ve been hammered past the point of no return. Teetering on transparent. Even Giuseppe couldn’t have got them this thin. We ‘tuck in’. (that’s a joke – well, that’s not really a joke, because the joke is on the plates – or is it on us?) It doesn’t take long before I’m teetering too. I see through their plate of Emperor’s Clothes, disguised as daylight robbery. I go and have words. I’m not a complainer. This is against my grain. I’m that mad. But keep calm. The plates are apologetically removed. A waitress assures us that within ten minutes we will be presented with two fabulous roast beef salads and not salads with roast beef. They arrive. What’s changed? Gone are the cherry tomatoes. Replaced with two halves of one large slice. Gone are the slithers of beef – that’s because we’d eaten them before complaining 🙂 😉 – (a ploy I can now recommend) replaced with seven of the same. Topped with their piece de resistance. Their ‘wow’ factor extraordinaire – four micro thin melba toasts – positioned to hide their chef’s lack of finesse.

We cough up 27.50 euros. Leave with our heads held higher. At least two inches higher.

In spite of our lunch time fiasco we love Porto. A steep city, steeped in history and culture. A place you can really take your time ambling around with lots to explore. But don’t, under any circumstances – dare to walk too slowly . . .

Day 81 – Would you like a bit of a pickle with that Cheese-s?

They say that travel by air is most prone to accident just after take off and when coming into land. In between, once you’re up and above the clouds all is good.

It’s a bit like that for us too. Although no chance of Beastie falling out of the sky. Many sites, especially those based in town are often in the weirdest of places. Missy leads us into streets and back-alleys that we would never usually venture down. Standard procedure for take off is overseen by Mrs S. Ensuring we clear all ground based obstacles and assisting and aiding any navigational miscommunications. Once on the open road we switch into auto-pilot mode.

Today is no different. Later we’re crossing borders again. We haven’t really given Portugal our best shot. With less than two weeks in this beautiful country, it’s probably fair to say it hasn’t given us its best shot either. Time now dictates our movements. We continue north and back into Spain. But not before Portugal gives us something to remember her by.

With yesterday’s ‘adventure’ ride into Porto still fresh in our minds we should have realised immediately that Missy’s instruction to “Turn Right” was not right. Mary-Ann checks the virtual map on her lap. Seems it is right. Even though we’re now bouncing into a village on cobbles. Missy is like our Nanny. We rely on her for our every move. She blinks, we blink. She laughs, we laugh. She leads, we follow. She’s turning us into quite a Nanny-State.

Everyone needs a catch-phrase, don’t they? Something that they get known for. Mine is fast becoming “I say old chap. Pardon me, but surely there’s been some mistake old boy” (I’m paraphrasing here). The wider than we need street, soon narrows into a narrower than we need street. The virtual map encourages us forwards. Now we have no choice. Hope for the best. Fear the worse. Worse it is. The village street runs out. We end up at a cross roads. Beastie is brought to a halt. We’re in a bit of a pickle. Going crackers. “I say old boy. Pass the port”

At this point our options are:

Continue forwards across a cabbage patch.
Turn left into a newly seeded field.
Turn right down a dirt track.
Do a 180 before anyone notices.

We opt for number four of course. Our lucky number! We exit the village with no harm done to man, woman or Beastie. Vow never again to go anywhere near a cobbled street in Portugal.

Our Spanish over-nighter at Baiona-a-Guarda is pitch perfect. Manicured and maintained. An Atlantic view. A glass of sangria. A sunny spot.

It even has its own small private beach.

Days 84 & 85 – Everybody likes to hug from time to time . . .

We’re hugging the northern coastline of Spain. Galicia and Asturias regions. On our way towards France and the promise of heat. A goodbye hug. One that gets a little too close for someone’s comfort.

We’d been expecting to find many more Spanish coastal coves like this. It’s taken nearly a whole lap. It’s so sad. This isn’t today’s destination. Just a lunchtime break. We park up route-side. Go stretch our legs. We can smell the sea. Can’t see it. Follow our noses. Come across this one of five beaches that run parallel to this section of today’s journey, just east of Ribadeo. Mental and written note made. “Must re-visit”. Still 100K plus to go. So we do.

Feeling not too disappointed, our site just outside Cudillero offers more of the same. “It’s a less than 2K walk.” says the lady on reception. I check the Wikiloc satellite route. It’s all road. Includes an acute dog-leg. However, there looks to be an off road short cut that will save us loads of time. We start from the man on the left. His viewpoint shows us what we’re aiming for.

The man top left can see that view too . . .

We venture forth. At first all looks good. A little steep. Nothing more.

Mary-Ann’s motto is “Where he goes I go” . . . good girl!

Then not so good. A little coaxing and Mary-Ann is over the water jump.

I have many mottos – one of them being “A little water won’t hurt” . . .

Then we enter the cliff-side section. Isn’t Mrs S doing well? We’re now way past the point of no return.

Another of my mottos “Act positive when those around are having doubts” . . . It seems Mary-Ann may have multiple mottos too. “Why the hell do I listen to you?” for example.

At this point I sift out a suitable thwacking aid. A Little John pole. Something I can create a trail with. A trail that will look and feel passable to Mary-Ann. Thorns, brambles, nettles, weeds and unfortunately wild flowers come under the thwack. It’s now very slow going. After thirty minutes the track turns to face our destination. It’s still a long way off and now not in sight. We’re still a long way up.

The trail virtually runs out. There’s no machete to hand. My pole not really man enough. I turn as green as our jungle, get mad – like the Hulk on a hitting spree. At some points it’s over my head. I don’t let on that I’m wondering if we are too. Will we end up at a dead end. Would another of Mary-Ann’s mottos be revealed?

The final fifty metres brings us out just the right side of a small stream.

Jungle Jane edges down to safety on a trail that wasn’t there five minutes before – deserves a pat on the back . . .

A walk across the beach as the tide comes in and a Cornetto round off the adventure nicely.

No prizes for guessing which route we took back to camp . . .

Day 86 – We bump into an old friend again . . .

One thing I do like about many of the supermarkets down here is the fact that you can squeeze your own fresh orange juice – by machine of course. As in Morocco, oranges are in abundance. However, although our time is now not in abundance, we are determined to squeeze every last drop of it out and make the most of what little’s left.

Another early start to the day – in our terms that means we leave camp by 10am! By mid afternoon we’re pitched a short Scoot ride from Comillas. Apart from it’s old town quarter, we’ve heard it’s also home to another of Gaudi’s (of Barcelona Sagrada Família fame) weird and whimsical constructions – El Capricho. We make it just in time for the 4.30pm English guided tour. Although it’s exterior is somewhat fanciful, built as a summer home, its interior has real purpose. From sunrise to sunset, each room takes it’s turn to welcome the daylight hours. Breakfast facing east; supper west. Aldo, our guide, delivers an astounding amount of information. Words shoot out faster than bullets from an AK047 assault rifle. We really have to concentrate – his spoken English on a tempo with his Spanish.

It’s deceptively big. Tiled sunflowers create a five bar music stave. Iron railings and benches mimic treble clef shapes.

Mrs S comes over all Goldilocks and tests out all the hand made chairs in one of the rooms – seems this one is ‘just right’ . . . .

Our street saunter comes to an end as a drizzle sets in and we head back to Scoot. We have no wet gear with us. It remains no more than that. It remains drizzling for the next twelve hours.

Days 87 & 88 – At last, we take time out to Basque in the sun . . .

Every country’s culture has its own idiosyncrasies. Small peculiarities that set them apart. Curious ways of living lives differently. Most conjure and nurture a fondness. But not all, as we found out on today’s site in Orio.

We’ve been aware of the huge amount of wild birdsong on our Spanish sites. Beautiful none stop chatter from morn till night. So this morning’s extra helping of twittering seemed a sweet bonus. That is until we walked out past our neighbour’s pitch. Four tiny songbirds imprisoned in four tiny barred boxes. Each one unable to see the other. Each one hopping and skipping from front to back; then from back to front. A non stop repetition. Like uncontrollable ‘Drefus’ twitches, minus the comedy. This was no laughing matter. ‘Silvestrismo’ is what they call it. Capturing and caging wild songbirds. For the sole purpose of entertainment. In any language it’s called cruelty.

We’re basking in Basque Country. Summer has finally arrived. Our site is two hundred metres from this glorious beach. Set and secluded between rolling cliffs it attracts visitors and locals by the shoal. We save it for later.

We take the one in five cliff side path. It’s deserted. It’s good to be out alone and in nature. Thirty minutes later and we are no longer in isolation. A steady stream of year five and six schoolchildren chatter past us. Their teachers as pleased as they to be having lessons down at the beach today. Who can blame them?

We edge up another kilometre. A loop out of the question. Do an about turn at an obvious place.

We spot this small allotment on our way down. Perched several hundred feet up on this Atlantic cliff top. Sailor’s side salads?

We finish the day off getting beach baked. Like a couple of oven chips. Turning occasionally until golden, but not too crispy.

Days 89 & 90 – It’s “Adiós Spain” et “Rebonjour France” . . .

It’s just tropical, isn’t it? We can see Calais looming on the horizon and we get a blue hot welcome as we cross back into France. Better make the most of it then hadn’t we?

We’re currently pitched up for a two nighter in the middle of the Landes forest, 15K east of Mimizan. Camping La Clairière in Saint Paul en Born is just about perfect. A great choice by Mrs S. Especially welcome since today’s journey was a long slow horrible slog. More traffic than we’ve encountered on any of our trips. We’re not used to it. Can’t really hack it. The empty pool pulls off the day’s frustrations, as does the pre-dinner Sangria and nibbles.

Our ideal pitch – large, grassy and away from the crowd . . .

The big bluey is still with us when we rise and shine. Mary-Ann has an inkling that there’s a riverside ride nearby. Bikes and brunch get readied. Exiting the site we can go either left or right. We go left. Head into the forest. The sandy track takes some tackling. We really could do with traction control. Easiest gear and light footwork bring us out onto firmer ground in the open. It looks as if the Romans have been this way. No sign of a river.

Eight kilometres further we come across the biggest greenhouse. Operated by Serre Des Grands Lacs it produces fruit and vegetables using renewable energy, on a grand scale – ten hectares to be more precise.

Inside it’s almost as long as our bike ride . . .

A few hundred metres on and we pass a monster ‘déchetterie’, a ‘poubelle’ collecting and converting plant. Waste from all over the region delivered and dealt with. Broken down. Huge heaps laid out, like massive ant hills. All undergoing various stage processing. The end result a ready made supply of manure for the greenhouse.

Compost – almost ready for spreading . . .

We stop for lunch near this sign. Seems we’ve been riding the Camino unknowingly. The blue and yellow clam indicates the way to Compostella.

Once back at camp we round the day off with a walk into the village. This time turn right. 50 metres later. Guess what? There’s the river. Next to it a riverside cycle track!

Days 91 & 92 – We’re not alone . . .

It’s a parallel universe. A mostly hidden landscape of tiny towns and villages. Thousands upon thousands tucked away. Out of sight and mostly out of mind. Lived in and frequented by a minority. Ever open oases welcome the nomadic from near and far. Offering tranquility outside of the frenetic.

For a few short times in the year campsites are overloaded. Young and old, families, couples, singles and pets swell the grounds. Cabins, tents, statics, caravans, campers and MOHOS all vie for the ever decreasing availability. Sharing what’s left of each resource, like a huddled herd crammed cheek to jaw around a mud-hole’s last drops.

Most of our traveling is out of season. We can pick and choose only the best ‘fruit’. Selecting whatever takes our fancy. Interrupted occasionally by bank holidays and families making the most. We are among an elite gang. Those retirees who have. Able to do and go at will. Carefree – or sometimes careless, as in my case where Beastie’s outer skin is concerned. The huge majority of the others in this gang are just like us. Traveling companions. Lifers, so to speak. With their partners of life and for life. Joy seekers and joy givers. All a testament to their long term commitment to one another. Sharing their ups and downs and roundabouts.

And there are lots of roundabouts . . .

The End of Days – Winding our way back home . . .

These final three days have turned us from tourers to campers. With our Thursday morning crossing from Calais never far from our minds, we venture no further than each site’s boundary. We’re winding down too.

Having left just enough traveling time in each day we pick our last few sites carefully. No plans to go exploring. We make the most of this glorious weather. It’s been promised. We’ve waited for it long enough. Aiming to get to each site mid-afternoon. This one – Domaine de Marcilly provides us with our biggest ever pitch. Enough space for at least three other MOHOs. Our evening meal covers nearly every inch of one side. Every so often we move table and chairs. We chase warmer remnants as the setting sun’s shadows coldly snatch them from us.

A couple of hours earlier sees us with the pool and loungers to ourselves.

Our last day ‘sur le continent’ is on us. We hope to finish off our ‘trip’ with an afternoon on the beach – literally a stone’s throw from Camping des Noires Mottes. However, the dip in temperature to 18C, plus the very stiff sea breeze, hasn’t been planned for. We make do with a stroll. These flat stretches, with rows upon rows of wooden breakers, have a history to tell. We pass a German WW2 gun bunker. A permanent reminder to all who pass. Dover bombarded for three years until the Canadians stepped in with Operation Undergo.

Then it’s time for one last stickless selfie . . .

By this time tomorrow – Thursday – Beastie will be parked outside chez nous and we’ll be emptying his belly, before he gets a deserved rest. It’s been a 6,700 miles round trip and so do we. There’s a few repairs required. Nothing serious fortunately, just a few niggly little things.

Then before we know it we’ll be eyeing up how to get to see what Archimedes and his likes got up to in Greece. We won’t let the dust settle for too long. That’s for sure.

If you’ve been with us for the long haul, then thanks for your company.

Hasta la vista . . .

Day 39 – We get a friendly welcome entering Morocco . . .

I like it when people mean what they say and say what they mean. Otherwise I find it all too easy to misconstrue a situation. Mary-Ann says I’m naive.

Beastie gets reversed on to the ferry last. Not unreasonably, he expects to be off first. He’s not. He’s off last. Just as well. We don’t have the full paperwork completed for entry. He’d have held up the queue. Morocco non-nationals have to import their vehicles when entering and export them when leaving. So certain forms have to be filled in. They’re all in Arabic with French translations that we can’t fully translate. The customs officials take over. At one point there are four of them leaning over Beastie’s bonnet. Concentrated con-flab in process. Seems they’re not fully au-fait either. Then Beastie gets frisked. Fire-arms and illegal drones with cameras the big concern. He’s clean – of course. Just as well alcohol wasn’t today’s priority!

Our first priority. Cash and SIM cards. In that order. Park up Beastie and head up towards the Medina. A friendly “Rashid” joins our party of two. We become a threesome. A mix of English, but mainly French exchanged. He’s going to guide us through the Medina. We don’t have any dirhams I tell him. We’ve just got off the ferry. He doesn’t want any money. “We Moroccan people very friendly. We like help visitors to our country”. We draw cash out. All big notes. We feel we should at least give him something. We stop and buy a melon and some oranges to get smaller change. Rashid shows us where the Maroc telecom shop is. Small pieces of ripped paper get handed out by the security guard. Each one with a penned number. Ours is 65. I remember reading that we need our passports to get a SIM card. We’ve left them in Beastie. Rashid assures us our driving licences will suffice. Thirty minutes later we’re fed up of waiting. Rashid does a swap with another waiting customer. Gets us number 56. We jump the queue. Only to be told emphatically passports are a must. Doh!

Back at Beastie I thank Rashid and hand him 20 dirhams. He refuses. I insist. He’s told me about his family. Surely the money will help? Why is he refusing? I push the money back into his hands. “You have a family Rashid, please take it” He repeats over and over “No thank you my friend”. I think he’s being ultra kind. Mary-Ann cottons on before I do. The note is the wrong colour! It transpires he feels his time is worth much more. In fact ten times more. A big blue note requested. He eventually accepts a brown one. Five times more.

We move on. In more ways than one. Take the smooth coastal N1 route southwards towards our two nighter at Moulay Bousselham. Stop off at Larache. There’s a Maroc Telecom shop there. They’ve run out of SIM cards! Get directed opposite to OPPO – a standard phone shop. Leave with happy faces. Orange 4G SIMS on board. No passports or any ID required!

We like Larache. Decide to stop for a coffee and cake.

Mary-Ann only drinks decaff. Else she can’t sleep. We order in French. It’s their second language. We presume they speak it fluently. They probably do. But maybe a slight variation. The waiter serves us two normal. Takes one back. Much confusion behind the counter. A few minutes later he’s back with an instant Nescafe sachet. Tiny, tiny writing we can’t make out. Is it or isn’t it? A young woman kindly intercedes for us. Transpires this cafe doesn’t serve decaff. Mary-Ann settles for a Lipton’s tea to accompany her cheesecake.

The route down is pituresque. Unexpectedly so. Where’s all the sand? Not a camel in sight. Green rolling fields roll by. Nearing our destination we take a short cut. The metalled road is severly pot-holed. More like sink holes. Beastie’s suspension is taking a battering. We’re bouncing around inside like a couple of bunjee jumpers. It’s slow going. The road surface narrows. Starts to disappear at both sides. Then it’s all gone. Friendly faces follow. A few smile and wave. Some cars flash “hello” – or is it “Are you crazy coming down here in that?”

We arrive at camp just before sunset. Like a couple of martini cocktails that have been shaken and stirred.

Bonjour Maroc!

Day 40 – A day of leisure helps us find our feet . . .

We’re anticipating many of the sites are going to be “rustic”. The first one starts here at our first coastal stop in Moulay Bousselham. It doesn’t disappoint.

An interestingly looking toilet block has all the facilities you need. But not quite as you need them.

It looks pretty doesn’t it? But looks can be deceptive . . .

Beastie and three other campers have the site to their own

The tiny resort of Moulay Bousselham is quiet at this time of year. Sandy golden stretches lead across to a sandier “Hengistbury Head” that guards the waterway into the sandy harbour. The lagoon here is famous for its numerous types of bird life. You can hire an early morning “Bird-Man” to take you out and across. Too early for us.

Young men are at work cleaning their morning’s catch. Many sit on their haunches. Knives at work. Others hold flatter fish down on the sand with a foot, to get better leverage.

Not sure if we’ll be eating much of the locally caught fish . . .

On our way back to camp a VW Golf phut-phut’s past us. Engine gasping on fumes. Comes to a halt. Only 300 metres short of the garage. A kind “monsieur” gets stuck in. Then joined by two others to make lighter work. (is there a joke hidden in there somewhere?) Thumbs up all around.

Day 41 – We eat our first Tagine . . . .

Our policy of steering clear of motorway driving is a double edged sword. Slower going versus more interesting.

So we’re taking the slow scenic route. Hoping to get a better feel for this fascinating country and its residents. We take the N1 again. It’s going to be our best route to get down south towards Essaouira. Once there we’ll either head east towards Marrakech or continue south to Agadir. Both a few more days away and not on the radar. Today though, we’re heading for El Mansouria. Ideally placed between Rabat and Casablanca.

The N1 is a national highway with a difference. At times as smooth as a peeled hard boil egg. (Or even one that hasn’t been peeled) At others as rough as any track we’ve encountered in Iceland. Its route cuts towns and villages down the centre. We get to see non city life as is. Close up. What seems a frenetic mix on the surface, disguises an easy calm. Every type of transport utilised. Organic and mechanical constantly vying for road space. Everyone getting on with “business”.

Beastie rumbles on through and by the time we’ve reached Allal Tazi, so do our tums. Smells from roadside eateries exaggerate our hunger pangs. Time for our first tagine. The owner makes a huge fuss of his two European customers. Makes us feel really welcome. The majority of Mary-Ann’s meat gets palmed to the sad faced kitty clawing at her heart strings. It’s simple, but delicious. Washed down nicely with sweet minty tea.

Earlier in the day Beastie loses his first game of “chicken”.

Beastie courteously cowers and breathes in . . .

At the following town the N1 bears left. A fork appears. The road signs are in Arabic. I only know numbers. I bear left. WRONG! Beastie’s being flashed. “Can’t believe it” eyes flash me. Arms wave. Time to do an about turn. The unexpected one way system not suited to Beastie’s size.

The central telecom tower marks the start of the mini one way system

Last stop of the day is Jardins Exotique Sale Maroc. Just north of Rabat. We discover that if Mary-Ann was a tree, then she’d be due to celebrate her three hundredth shortly.

Then it’s time to baptise Beastie. We enter through Rabat’s old city wall.

I have reservations about tossing Beastie head first into the capitol’s cauldron at rush hour, but needs must. He passes with flying colours as does Mrs S. Her map skills improving daily.

One of the quieter Rabat districts . . .

Day 42 – We run out of steam in the capitol . . .

We prove that the saying “lightning never strikes twice in the same place” is a myth. Although we’re not in the same place.

The exotically mis-named L’Ocean Bleu camp is where we’re currently pitched up. The route in, a mysterious passageway through a huge on-going development of six storey apartments. A mad mix of pristine, half-finshed or empty. Inter-connected by an angry grid of pot-holed ridden streets. Beastie enters through the wrong door. It’s in his nature. Interrupts an animated game of boules in progress. A critical point has been reached. Two mark their positions, golfing style, and remove their ball. Then Beastie is slowly and deliberately guided over. Over his shoulder the end-game continues.

Unable to buy a green card for Scoot in the UK and unable to buy one here, means we must rely on public transport, trains, buses, taxis or feet. Scoot won’t see the light of day again until next month.

Following morning our journey into the capitol commences on foot. We have an 8K journey to get to the train station in Mohammedia. No pavement as such. Not much road in places either. We hope to flag down a passing taxi. None pass. 3K on we’re in luck. A “Grand Taxi” waits. A Grand Taxi takes five customers. The cost split between the five. He leaves when he’s full, or if like us you have a train to catch you agree to cover the cost for five. Ten seconds before setting off a couple join us. Then on route a young lad is picked up. We get charged for only our two seats. 50p each. Perfect.

It seems none of the infrastructure over here is completed. It’s all very much a work in progress.

Our train is a little late – seems he knew it would be . . .

Once in town we leg it for Chellah. It’s on the outskirts. Like Malcolm Mclaren’s Buffalo Gals we go the long way, round the outside. From the outside it’s impressive. An ancient Muslim necropolis.

Once inside it’s a curious mix. Families and couples having fun and chilling out. Kids stone and paper painting. Picnickers. A dozen nesting storks almost steal the show. But the show is nestling in the woods . . .

Our walk back takes us into our first Medina. Narrow ways. We don’t have enough eyes to take it all in. Crowds casually mingle with the sellers’ colourful displays of wares. All compete to grab our attention. Friendly “Bonjours” exchanged. No real hassle.

At the end of our day in Rabat. We catch the train back to Mohameddia. It’s a “double-decker”. We sit upstairs – a first for us. We’re worried that we’ll miss our stop. Non of the stations have named platforms. There’s a big electronic sign inside which is updated with the “Prochaine Gare”, so we relax. When it shows our station is “next” we get off. It feels a much quicker journey back, but that’s not unusual, is it? It’s dark by now and everything looks different. Very different. The platform is incomplete. We don’t remember that. Assume it’s not the same one we got on at. To get away from the train we have to walk across rubble and over the train lines, like refugees in a film 😢. We certainly don’t remember doing that. Looking confused and bewildered it’s then someone tells us we’re at Skhirat. We’ve only gone half the journey. We’re still 26K from camp. We turn to run back to the train. Aah. Doors close. It’s gone! We ask the man in the office. “This is the last train for today to stop at Skhirat.” We have to go back to Rabat and catch the last “direct” train of the day. Oh no. Deja Vue – we did this last year at Sorrento in Italy! What to do? Just then a very kind Moroccan takes us under his wings and diligently finds us a taxi man who is prepared to drive us all the way back to Mohameddia for a really good price. Phew!! We live on to tell the story.

Back in Beastie we reconsider tomorrow’s plan. We’re keen not to repeat today’s travel turmoil. Decide to leave this site and use Beastie as our surest way to and into Casablanca. As the biggest city, our Rough Guide tells us it’s usually gridlocked. We shall see.

Day 43 – Here’s looking at you, kid . . .

With eyes firmly fixed on the rubbly “pavements” we walk straight past Rick’s Cafe, so Sam never gets to play it again.

There’s a knack to driving Beastie on these crazy mixed up roads. Hold your ground. Ignore (to a degree) the tooting horns (usually meant as a polite warning) and like a ship being tossed in a storm, stay steady as she blows. So we create our own eye in the hurricane. Slowly moving from A to B. The whirlwind of cars, bikes, dockers, lorries, buses, scooters, taxis, coaches, pedestrians, horse & donkey drawn carts get on with what they do best. Slowly spin around us from all sides and angles. All amiably sucked alongside Beastie in an osmosis of slow-motion, before being shot out at full speed ahead.

We should have realised we needn’t have parked Beastie so far away from our first port of call. We discover a massive empty coach car-park backs on to the entrance to the Hassan II Mosque. We walk the 3K port-way road. Pass ultra modern developments, again left crying out for completion of footpaths. It’s as if they’re trying to juggle too many balls at once.

It’s hard to miss this mosque. It looks huge from the outside.

At 210 metres, the minaret is the tallest religious building in the world

The prayer hall can easily accommodate a full size football pitch and up to 25,000 can pray inside at one kneeling

The below floors purification wash rooms are equally impressive

Our walk back finds us treated with an acrobatic display of strength and balance

Day 44 – Our last port of call on the coast takes us to El-Jadida . . .

The writers of guide books like Lonely Planet and Rough Guides have us believe that there are sites of interest at almost every corner not to be missed, but we’re getting wise to their deceptively descriptive ways.

Of course, there are always exceptions – as this corner “shop” proves

We are becoming more determined not to answer “Bonjour” to the charming “Bonjours” singing out to us from every trader, in every souk we pass through. This opens the door to “Where you from?” “England? Ah, I am part English, or I have a cousin in England, or I lived in Devon when I was young boy” Followed by “What’s your name” & “You’re very welcome in Morocco” – “come visit my shop”. Multi-lingual Abdel, leads us up this particular path. He can sense we’re far too nice to tell him, as Michael McIntyre would say “Go and shove your shopping trolley”. We know we’re in deep trouble when a couple of drinks get poured and what looks like a leather dog’s sleeping basket, ( – to clarify – a leather sleeping basket, not a leather dog) gets placed at our feet and we’re asked to place all the items we want to buy in it before negotiations commence. Mary-Ann, AKA the family accountant has wisely come out with a basic amount of cash for our day’s ramblings. Abdel’s sixth sense picks up that we don’t really have enough cash on us to bring forward his retirement. He allows us to make our excuses on the pretext that we’ll use the local ATM and return later. Keep-net turns. Plop! We’re back in the water. He’s got a bigger fish to fry on the line. A Portuguese man and his friend walk in. He’s fluent in Portuguese too. Aah, Is that right? His granny lives in Lisbon? What? His grand-dad was Eusébio da Silva Ferreira – no way. Incredible.

So we climb and walk the Portuguese Ramparts. Say Cheese. Take a few photies. This one snapped by a young couple with a younger child in arms. He’s Moroccan, speaks Arabic, French and English. She’s German. Speaks English fluently too. Their 2 year old already understands all three! English a formality.

We leave it too late to enter the Portuguese Cistern at 12.45 of course. It closes at 1pm for two hours. Bien sûr. Enjoy the exquisite stuffed sardines for lunch at the boutique L’Iglesia Hotel – a converted church. Its counterpart, the converted American Consul building around the corner, equally charming. (you’ll have to Google for pics!!!) – sacré bleu!

We should have guessed that the Portuguese Cistern was not going to offer too much in the way of entertainment (just listen to me), as the entrance fee was only 10 dirham (less than one pound). Basement reflections offer the perfect photo shoot. We shoot up the place.

We change plans and tomorrow will head east to Marrakech.

It’s have another moan time. We will not be unhappy to leave this “International” camping site. The facilities are atrocious. Diabolical beyond belief. We don’t use them. Prefer Beastie’s on board. A shame, because the site is in a good location and spacious. We just don’t get why, or how they can get away with it.

Even more gross gents’ urinals (fortunately not in use at time of photo) . . .

Dirty, smelly and luckily not in use either . . .

Still, the swimming pool compensated . . .

Day 45 – We go riding the express to Marrakech . . .

Manzil la Tortue is not a camp site as such. It’s an out of town boutique hotel, restaurant and pool complex. Created, we imagine, for the local monied French community. It just happens to have add-on space for MOHOs.

Don’t think we ever imagined bringing Beastie this far – we’re on a red road . . .

We’re getting closer. It’s been another long and tiring drive.We skirt past Marrakech’s medina’s walls. The stunningly impressive red stone perimeter encircles the inner city. It’s rush hour. We daren’t take a short cut through. We need to double back on our tracks at one point when we can’t find or see any camp site signs. At this stage of today’s journey it’s the last thing we need. Eventually find it – we think. Not too sure. The ride into “camp” is way off the beaten track. It’s also on a beaten track. We stop and question ourselves as to whether we’re going to end up doing something really silly and embarrassing – again. Ah well, in for a penny . . .

Beastie doesn’t like white roads, especially when they’re brown . . .

The tightening in the pit of our stomachs starts to niggle. It just doesn’t look right or feel right. If it is down here somewhere then this is the weirdest way in to a site we’ll have ever experienced. The map shows us to be on a “white” road. We know that’s bad. We’ve agreed never to wander off a red or a yellow route. 2k down a winding, bouncy and muddy track we come to an unsigned junction. At least there’s life here. A scooter flies past.

I edge Beastie forward. Yippee. A sign to the left we recognise. Onwards and upwards. A further K and Beastie is now passing alongside the front doors of a row of dwellings. Surely this is wrong? Did we miss-read the sign? Then a gang of four nippers spot us. They rush over. “Bon-bons, monsieur?” We’ve come prepared and duly oblige. They come over all Oliver, but we move on slowly. Then suddenly, voila? A walled bastion. We cross the divide and breath a sigh of relief.

Beastie gets allocated a posh spot and cools down . . .

We cool down too. De-stress by finishing off the last of our sangria . . .

Beastie’s snug position – fifty steps from the pool . . .

It just so happens that today is this place’s birthday. It’s heaving with guests. The music and dancing goes on till mid-night. We’re promised it will be quieter tomorrow. We don’t mind, we have a taxi booked to take us into town.

The thirty five metre pool looks stunning even at night . . .

Day 46 – Omar takes us there and back . . .

Like the coming together of two competing tectonic plates Marrakech somehow manages to maintain its equilibrium. Holding together the old and the new. The haves and the have-nots. The young and the old. The past and the future. The religious and the secular. It epitomises current day Morocco.

Omar our taxi driver drops us right into the heart of the medina. It’s been an interesting conversation getting in. We exchange family situations, world views on peace and sharing, and although Ramadan is still a week away he’s already putting in training. Prayer beads hang down from his reversing mirror with a copy of the Quran close at hand. He’s been daytime fasting for the last three days, he tells us. Impressive.

The famous Jemaa el-Fnaa square is just starting to wake up as we enter. The early morning cloud coverage dissipates and the snake charmers warm their money making mis-fits. Drums, pipes, cymbals add to the growing cacophony. It’s time to take the tourist to town.

Time to wake up those snakes . . . He and his competitors play all day. Only stop when the call to prayer drowns and quietens the whole square.

We follow the workings of this youngster with the blue bag. We call him “the thief”. A trader selling scarves, accidentally drops three. In a flash “the thief” has grabbed them and is off. Running hell for leather. The trader drops his remaining load and gives chase. Shouting. Arms waving. “the thief” panics, drops the scarves and carries on weaving away to safety. The trader picks up his scarves and saunters back to his pitch. “the thief” puts his-self about mingling with his cronies. Acting as if nothing has happened.

Like moths drawn to a flame we venture into the souk. As long as we’ve got some bread crumbs with us we can’t get lost. We practise our smiles and nods. Definitely not our “bonjours”. We’ve only ever seen small scooters or docker mopeds filter through and around the walkers. This guy seems determined to use the souk as a short cut. Even if it means creating a bit of a scene as he bounces over some groundwork planks. It seems all strangely normal.

We decide on a cross town walk to visit Jardin Majorelle. Famously bought by Yves St Laurent. An hour later we arrive to find a queue four deep and stretching back. It’s going to be at least a 30-40 minute wait in the heat. Why does every tourist at the ticket office seems to have more to say than “two please”. We save our dirhams, buy an ice cream and dawdle back. We retake the same route and cross through the “free and fab” Cyber Park gardens. Maroc Telecom sponsored WIFI service points set up throughout. Young and old find shady spots and exercise their thumbs.

Outside the old city wall the other more modern side to Marrakech could have saved our legs. It looks as though not many others fancy their chances either.

Hmm, looks like Boris has been here . . .

At 4 dirham (less than 40p) the freshly squeezed orange juice, on tap from many stalls like this one, is a welcome refresher as the late afternoon temperature starts to soar.

Day 47 – A poolside clear blue day from sunrise to sunset . . .

We’ve never come across a camper-site like this. It’s like the Moroccan equivalent of Chewton Glenn – almost. With proper grass, sun loungers and a fantastic pool. We’d be mad to move on – so we don’t. It’s a no-brainer.

The gentle knock just before 8am wakes us from our slumbers. Two hot and freshly baked khobz delivered to the door. They get sliced, toasted and covered in Dave’s (our friend from over the road) delicious rhubarb and ginger jam. The perfect start to our sunny day of leisure. Cheers Dave!

Manzil la Tortue is so popular, you need to reserve a poolside spot. By lunchtime, virtually all places are allocated or taken. A mix of hotel guests, out of town workers making an early start to the week-end, and us. Campers extraordinaire. The workers appear to be in groups of three to five – females and males. That is goups of young 20s females and groups of young 20s bearded hipster look-alike males. Keep themselves to themselves until a few glasses of wine later. The French love to talk. There is never one still moment.

The pool is the best of any to date. Probably thirty or so metres and no worries about your swimming gear ending up a different colour if you stay in for too long. No chlorine. I can’t resist. Break the calm chatter as I trawl a few lengths. I’m not what you’d call a “tidy” swimmer. My feet spludush a unique syncopated rhythm as my trail sends an alternating splush of water six feet into the air. It’s like watching Moby Dick, but in reverse.

One of the French owners busies himself taking luncheon orders. Returns later for dinner orders. Not many swimming. Poolside legs dangle, drunkenly. Cooling off. The non-stop chatter continues. Only to be interspersed with an intermittent “spludush”

The Frenchies do have some competition on the “chatter front” though. At least twenty or so of their green slimy nemesis namesakes live in a pool-end pond. Although only two to three inches long, their Dizzy Gillespie bubbles reverberate throughout the site.

Days 48 & 49 – A journey of two halves – the first half . . .

No matter how long we stay on one site, even when it’s top drawer like Manzil la Tortue, the feeling is always the same on departure. It’s freedom, coupled with curiosity and excitement of what the journey and next stop has in store for us.

The red wiggly lines on our Reise map (German made and virtually rip proof) [why aren’t all folding maps made like this one?] give us no real clue as to what’s in store for this first day of travel en route to the oasis town of Zagora.

Today’s target – Ouarzazate – get your teeth around that one if you can. It’s a straight drive, or to be exact, a direct drive down the N9 from Marrakech.

It’s a major lorry route. There’s a lorry in front – honest!

Much of the road is being repaired, rebuilt or simply re-routed through massive mountains of rock. It takes us up and over the Tizi n’ Tichka pass – the highest major mountain pass in North Africa at 2,260 metres. We’re up in the High Atlas.

Tizi n’Tichka – taken by a Latvian couple – it was hugely windy

On the way down we we pull in at a remote spot. The small river valley below splattered with wild red poppies.

A Berber woman edges down, river side. Starts rummaging around the stony dry earth. Doubled over, she seems to be seeking out a certain type of green plant. Like a bloodhound she shuffles this way then that. Gathering as she does. They look like weeds.

She’s got enough. Then she’s off, leaving us scratching our heads.

We are just about to climb back inside Beastie when from nowhere a “seller” materialises. Surely he can’t be expecting to encounter too many potential customers out here? Is it going to be his lucky day? What’s in the bags? A mixture of fossils and what looks like small lumps of coal or coke. The fossils don’t interest us, but what’s with the black stuff? He hands one over. It splits in half to reveal it’s inner beauty. We likes it. So HE starts our bidding at 150 dirham. No way! 100dh? No way!! He refuses our offer of 50dh and when we turn away he says “OK 60dh” and as we agree he adds “and a T-Shirt”. Hmm. It just so happens I have one with me that’s gone a bit bobbly on the front by being caught by my bag’s velcro straps. He has that one. By chance it was washed and ironed just yesterday. So it was his lucky day. He doesn’t exactly jump for joy over the transaction though.

Inside Mary-Ann says “Oh, did you see how he just scrubbled it up and shoved it into the bag”.

We wonder did he buy it or find it? We assume he got the better deal.

As we get closer another older boy pops out from behind some bushes. Is this the way in? Yes, he says and point us to a specific route. This leads to a covered way with the village the other side. Suddenly a man appears from the shadows and points to a poster on the wall. 10 dirham. This is news to us. “We have to pay to get in?” He points to the poster again. Not 100% convinced, we hand him 20 dirham and he lets us through.

Over twenty films have incorporated scenes from this village. No wonder. It’s real fantasy material. The climb through and up interrupted by “clicks” at every turn. Up on top we say cheese.

Still curious about that entrance fee I quiz some English speakers. “There’s no fee – we came in over the bridge down there with everyone else”

Days 48 & 49 – A journey of two halves – the second half . . .

Sometimes it’s not about the destination. Today is all about the journey. Easily on a par with yesterdays.

We’re currently pitched up on the Oasis Palmerie site on the outskirts of Zagora. Like many towns in the dry south it’s an oasis town. Swamped in palm trees. Surviving on what the local river provides. However, Zagora’s river supply is also dependent upon the monthly opening of the dam upstream at Ouarzazate. Irrigation from the many artesian wells is paramount.

Once again we have difficulty locating the way in. Stop to inspect the map more closely. From nowhere a smiley face appears alongside Mary-Ann’s window. He’s perched side saddle on his phut-phut. “Where you from? Where you wanna go? Follow me, I know that place” – we obediently follow, even though we have sussed out where we went wrong. Once there he hands over his business card. “Come visit my jewellery shop, just up the road?” It’s been a long drive. We’re not in the mood. “A demain” I reply. His contented smiley face, indicating “job done” sidle-saddles off. Yet another “friendly” Moroccan with a hidden agenda.

Earlier, the start to this morning’s journey is delayed. We take a short detour. Go visit the huge Atlas Studios complex on the edge of town. It’s amazing how realistic the sets are. So much detail. Ultra tough polystyrene comes into its own. When we get back to UK we’re going to revisit some of the films made here, just to see if we can spot some of this scenery. And to say of course “We were there”.

I dunno who I’m sposed to be either . . . . I think it’s called improvisation

Then it’s drive time. Another day of spectacular views. Different to yesterday. This half, smooth tarmac. They’ve completed it. A mix of dead straight and curly stretches disappear into nowhere.

We pass many who are simply able to eke out an existence in these barren stretches

The type of road Clarkson and Co drool over as they let rip in their latest fantasy. Beastie on the other hand is happy at fifty. Then we go up, up up. Then Beastie is happy at anything over fifteen.

It’s a huge up. Laden lorries stagger slowly upwards. Some even slower on the way down. Beastie brims the top. Eager to find a pull in and catch breath. They’re in short supply. We want to snap, snap snap while we’re still high. We do. A large lorry is also parked. Cab hinged forward like a Monty Python head, just before it gets stamped on and squelched. Raspberries all round? I drop down. They look over to me. Concerned faces. “De l’eau monsieur?” I assume they’re thirsty and they’ve run out. It’s bakeing hot. Mid to high thirties. I hop back into Beastie. Reach into the fridge. Don’t realise I haven’t fully engaged the hand brake. Beastie’s three and half ton slowly edges towards a small wall with a considerable drop the other side. I’m oblivious. I’m in my “do-do-run-run-goody mode”. The first I know something’s up and what’s about to go down is when Mary-Ann frantically screeches “Brian, quick, quick we’re moving” Beastie’s too young too die. I fasten my cape and fly (scramble clumsily) over my seat and save the day. Three feet short. A bit like the Saturday Matinee. The caped crusader gets a slap on the wrist.

Beastie doesn’t quite come to a downfall . . . .

The ice cold bottle I hand over gets poured into the radiator. Oh. I miss-read the situation. What a waste. I go take a look. Looks like a mini Turkish baths. Steam hissing upwards, wasted water leaking downwards. I hand over a second, but this time a warm, 1.5 litre d’leau. Don’t think it’s going to do the trick. By the time we leave them to it, a couple of other lorries have parked up and hopefully come to the rescue.

Day 50 – The clocks go back . . .

The first we know about it, is at 3.45am. Mary-Ann looks at her alarm clock. I look at my phone clock. There’s an hour difference. Confused? We will be.

We’re on this really peaceful site. That’s because we’re the only ones on it. Edge of Zagora. Famous oasis town. Millions of palm trees everywhere. Our site has a few of them. They’re great shades. We need them. However, our blood’s simmering, soon to reach boiling point. There’s a marriage party on next door. It only “livened” up when we climbed into bed just after midnight. Every so often, there’s a false lull and we think TG. Then it starts up again. Drums and high pitched drunken squeels Clash. They’re trying to Rock the Casbah.

Apologies, that’s the best I can do after hardly any sleep. We decide to stay an extra night to recuperate. Make it an earlier one.

Rather than visit Mr Phut-phut’s shop, we decide to spend the afternoon poolside at the Riad Lamane Hotel, just over the road. “Road” as in raised baked mud walkway. A hidden mini complex that seamlessly blends in to the palm forest setting.

Not really big enough to swim in, but really refreshing

I “never” drink this stuff. But at 35C in the shade an ice cold Casablanca beer does the trick

Cutting it fine again. Tommy tripod’s ten second rule barely gives enough time

Later, we discover they’d put the clocks back to coincide with the fasting month of Ramadan. My phone auto adjusted. Mary-Ann’s alarm is analogue.

Day 51 – We could get lost out here . . .

Wide brown flat expanses. High red mountains. Huge green filled gorges. All colour and brighten each day’s journey – today is no exception.

We slowly edge out of the Zagora site and onto the baked mud track that runs alongsdide an aquaduct. It looks as if it hasn’t seen water for centuries. It’s forty hours since our arrival. Suddenly “Phut-phut”!!! That bright smiley face pops up again and hope beams in at Mary-Ann’s window. Monsieur Phut-phut, AKA Barnacle Bill, must have attached his-self to Beastie. Either that or he’s been waiting outside the site perimeter wall all this time. Like sticky silky cobwebs these traders can be hard to shake off. At the end of the track he turns right. We turn left!

We’re on our way to Tazarine. Short journey today of 120K. The landscape switches from mountain to expansive flatland. The gathering heat takes effect. Swirling mini whirlwinds spring up before us. Caught up in their own invisible frenzy. Millions of grains of sand sucked up into golden candyfloss twists. They rush about in desperation. Forever searching. Barely floating above the earth like lost souls in this wilderness.

We arrive at our planned stopover mid-afternoon. Big doors firmly locked. Try a couple of numbers. Both switch to Arabic voicemail. We’re on a narrow “this track leads to nowhere” track. It turns out to be a bit tricky getting to point Beastie back to where we came from. Mary-Ann’s help outside at ground level prevents me from self-harming Beastie.

The locked gates do us a big favour . . .

Several kilometres back we’d spotted a roadside sign advertising Camp Serdraw. We head back. Take a closer look at the sign. We’re in luck. A motorhome icon amongst the others. We turn left. It’s barren. It’s bumpy. Very bumpy. We’re seasoned bumponers. We almost enjoy it. Good job we don’t wear dentures. 2.5K into “the interior” and we spot a low level wall and buildings. It’s still bumpy.

Briham welcomes us with a “hospitality tea”. His family own and run this four hectares. A previous farm. In 2004 his father deciding to convert to camping, bivouacs, and excursions when a long dry period threatened their existence. Briham tells us we are near sand. We’re off!

We’re heading for just the other side of those hills. A further 3K.

We dip our toes on this small piece of Sahara

We end what’s been a fab day with a candlelit tajine dinner.

Day 52 – It’s time to get our bucket and spades out . . .

There are certain things on this planet that fascinate man. Ice & Fire. Mountains & Seas. Lakes & Caves – and Sand!

We’ve dipped toes. Now it’s time for ankles. Today we’re on our way to where there’s lots of it. To a place near Merzouga called Erg Chebbi. A mere whisp of the Sahara at about 50K in length. We don’t need that much.

It’s still hot. We’re hoping for clear blue and calm. We want to walk and click. To pose with the sunset pics. The weatherman has something else in mind. The nearer we get, the windier it gets.

We get to within 1K of our destination. Stop at a T-Junction. Consult the map. Would you believe it? Another Monsieur Phut-phut appears out of nowhere. “Where you going? Where you from? I know that place. My cousin has a better place. It has this, that and some of the other. Come see, if you don’t like you can go to your first place. OK?” – “Have you been waiting at this junction for long?” – “No, course not. I’m just on my way back from the shops”. So we follow compliantly. Like a couple of puppy dogs learning how to keep heel. Are we being taken for another ride?

The Kasbah is delightful. We decide to stay. Bide our time around the small sun-trapped pool. But the wind kicks up again. Visibility drops as quickly as the setting sun. No pics this evening. A young German couple and their three kids join us. They arrived yesterday. Seems they had planned on staying at a different place too. That is until they coincidentally met up with Hassan at the same T-Junction. Makes us wonder if any of the other Kasbahs have guests?

Following morning sunrise set for 5.19am. I wake at 5.22am. Not a drop of wind. Creep out of bed and out. Silently make my way “into the desert”. Leave Mary-Ann to her slumbers.

I tread out and head towards the tallest dune within a thirty minute radius. I’ve got it’s apex in sight. It’s a joy to be first footing. I’m like a kid playing in the snow. No need for mitts though.

My high vantage point gets me clicking.

Just before retracing my steps, one of the resident crows appears. He’s out for an early morning stroll too. Of a different kind. Oh to be able to join him.

Downside to being here? The sand doesn’t stay in its place. It gets inside our place. Every exposed surface gets a fine golden covering. Beastie’s been given the final touch, like one of Mary Berry’s dusted mince pies.

I bring back a piece of my own desert art.

Days 53 & 54 – We’re heading towards our last big touristy location . . .

With no chance of Tommy Cooper sending us the wrong way, we aim for Fes. A hop, skip and one tiny jump should do it.

Leaving the sand to do what it does best, we head north. A municipal camper-stop in Midelt lined up. The French have their bikes and baguettes. The Moroccans have their Phut-Phuts and farine. Especially during Ramadan.

You can’t buy bread in the local shops or supermarkets, just huge bags of flour.

The N13 takes us from Erfoud and onwards past several oasis towns full of palm groves lining dried up river beds. The most spectacular on top of the Gorges du Ziz. A lunch stop where we also discover the inside of our prized black coal is fake! Artificially coloured to dazzle and amaze. It did. We still likes it though.

This “bit” standing free from the main edge. Not a good time to jump for joy.

Mary-Ann’s petite frame unlikely to send this edge piece hurtling down just yet.

Following day sees us edge warily. The camp site manager warns about an en route storm. We spot it in the distance. A short lunch break and it moves west. We head north-west and up. Don’t suffer the full wrath. Witness the aftermath.

Up on top the temperature drops to 6C!! Severe rain joined by lightning and thunder. Generates hail. Lots of it. By the time we’re passing through the Col du Zad some cars occupants are out of their cars. We think they’re in trouble. No! They’re taking selfies. Obviously this is rare.

Not everyone copes. Gladly the driver’s OK.

Beastie tucks his tum in and we breath a sigh of relief as we scrape through. On the way down we pass at least forty dogs. Lined up on either side of the road. Waiting for a handout that never comes. Where have they come from?

We arrive at Azrou mid-afternoon. The entrance builds our hopes. The Emirates Euro camping pulls them down again. It’s all show with no go.

We catch sight of one of Tommy’s bunnies. We can see you . . .

Day 55 – Sadly the dream comes to a violent end . . .

It only takes a split second of oversight and the world can come crashing down on your head – or rather Beastie’s – and there’s absolutely nothing in your power to prevent it from happening.

I’ve only gone and done it again haven’t I? Beastie is wedged tightly against a huge tree. He’s unbudgeable. I step down to assess. What’s this? I’m wearing a long thigh hugging ruby red dress? It wildly accentuates my shape. It’s chilly, but fortunately I’m also wearing the fleecy blue and khaki checked lumberjack shirt that Mary-Ann bought me for Christmas. It barely covers my silhouetted credentials. I stagger towards the tree. I’m ankle deep in sand and suddenly I’m wearing matching stilettos. It’s absurdly weird. Yet somehow feels completely normal. I feel a thousand eyes searing into the back of my neck like burning embers and acutely exposed. Oh no. My shoulder length shiny brown hair. It’s not covered. It’s Ramadan. Miraculously my hair is now hidden. My turban bound head makes me look like Pierce Brosnan in The Deceivers. I turn and take in the gaze of the disapproving onlookers. They are dogs. Hundreds of them. All shapes and sizes. Lined up like soldiers on a parade ground waiting for inspection. Only it’s me that’s being inspected. They’re all wearing expectant faces. How’s he going to get himself out of this mess then? Now I’m at the foot of the tree. I have a huge axe ready. I swing with all my force. Like a child’s rubber hammer it rebounds and almost wraps itself around my waist. I try again. Same result. The dogs start howling, hyena like. “It’s not funny!” I scream. Then I’m holding a chain saw. It does the trick. But there’s a but. A big but. The huge tree crashes down with almighty force. Smashing into the roof of Beastie. He splits in half. In unison the dogs raise themselves up on their back legs and applaud . . . .

. . . without warning I’m brought back to consciousness and reality by the resounding crack of thunder overhead and the splattering raindrops bouncing on Beastie’s roof. I lie for sometime going over what my “other-half” has concocted for me while I’ve been asleep. Fragments of the past, mixed mosaically with invention. In that split second seeming so real. I ponder. Slowly tracing the events of the last few days and before. Illuminating my sleeping mind’s view. Discovering where the ideas sprang from. Some pieces from our journeys. Some from the film we watched. Others from the book I’m reading. Not everything fits neatly into place though. I’m left wondering. Do I really have secret yearnings to be a transvestite lumberjack?

We’re in Fes. A short 80K journey sees us arrive earlier than usual. It’s FA Cup Final day. My BBC account doesn’t stretch this far. Ends at the EU border. No chance to close the curtains and shut the world out. We take a stroll around a new “posh” estate. Some houses wouldn’t seem out of place in Sandbanks.

Earlier, the highlight of our journey was the poppy and wild flower filled fields. The sight brought back memories of Flanders and Co. We reflect that even this mass of poppies doesn’t get anywhere near the number of lives lost.

We have a guide (we think/hope he’s a guide) organised for our trip into town tomorrow. Should be fun.

Day 56 – Fantastic Fes . . .

Having tootled around more than a few souks and medinas, did we really need to “do it again”, albeit in a different city? Would this be any different?

The guide for our trip into Fes today comes courtesy of yet another Monsieur Phut-phut. He pulls up along side us at traffic lights. Looks across. Smiles. Shouts “Welcome”. Seems the entrance to Diamante Vert camp site moved two years ago. He knows where the new entrance is. “Follow me”. How kind! Once deposited, it seems he has a “brother” who is an official guide. We agree to a 10.30am pick up tomorrow morning. The term “brother” we learn later is a reference to “brother in Islam”. Our Monsieur Phut-phut, it turns out, is one of many employed by our guide to seek out and capture! All for a small finder’s fee.

A knock on Beastie’s door yesterday evening sowed small doubts in our mind as to whether our arranged guide would in fact be legit. It’s the camp site rep trying to recruit as many willing tourists on a guided trip into town. Heavy frown and head shaking, implying we didn’t do good. As it turns out we did and he is 100% legit.

Abdullah greets us at exactly 10.30am as arranged. He has a “petit taxi” with him. These are taxis only licenced to work exclusively within their named town or city. So there can be no misunderstanding and because we’re more wise now, we lay down the law with Abdullah. We tell him we want this to be a sightseeing trip with information. It’s not a shopping trip. We do not expect him to take us to visit his special contacts.

First port of call is a high vantage point. We get to see the lovely setting of Fes and get to know which of it’s three parts we’ll be going into.

Back down at ground level, the beautiful Garden Jnan sbil whet’s our appetites even more. It wouldn’t be out of place back home in National Trust land.

Abdullah thinks that when his guide days are over, he may become a photographer of tourists.

Abdullah, who is fifty-eight, tells us he’s been an official guide for twenty-two years. Previously he’d been an unofficial guide until he’d got caught and spent a few days behind bars.

We know he’s official, he’s wearing his official badge . . .

We follow Abdullah into the Medina. He’s walked the 9,000 plus streets and alleyways so many times he could do it in his sleep. He delivers a wealth of information. We pepper him with questions of our own. Not just about Fes. He’s open to discuss and answer many things. All with a good sense of patience and humour.

At our request, we halt at this weaver’s stall. He gives us a demo. He’s very proud of his designs. He has a good eye for detail. He also has a very good eye for a potential sale too. A red silk and cotton table cloth takes our fancy. His bidding starts at 850 dirham. Ours at 500. He comes down 50. We go up 50. He thinks that’s funny to copy him. He gets it. He comes down to 700. We go up another 50. Not what he expected. He’s not played Pontoon. We’re sticking. “650 he suggests”. 600 or no sale. A pause. Then it’s a done deal. Smiles all round. We learn later from Abdullah that he wanted to start the bidding at 1400 dirham and that Abdullah had sternly advised him against that.

There are very certain advantages of a guide. Take this door for example. In fact it’s the entrance to two homes. Two door knockers. Each with their own distinct sound. The hand of Fatima, top right on many doors, wishes a good luck blessing on all who enter and leave.

Then it’s off to the famous Chouara Tannery. We’re each handed a stalk of fresh mint on entry. Apparently the stink is unpleasant. We don’t need it. Our nostrils are made of sterner stuff. We get handed over to another guide. Twenty years Abdullah’s junior. He explains everything clearly.

Hides still processed using traditional methods. It’s run on a co-operative basis. Generations of families working their four vats for the good of all. It’s piecemeal wages. The more hides you process the more you earn. Simple and fair. Inside the co-op shop, Mary-Ann is interested in a super soft lambskin handbag. Guaranteed waterproof. It’s more than that though. Our tannery guide takes a cigarette lighter to its surface. Leaves not a mark. Another sale. Another “deal”.

Time is running away with us. We’re impressed with Abdullah’s stamina. It’s Ramadan. No water. No food. Apart from one short sit down for freshly squeezed orange juice, we haven’t stopped. We give him a hint. Abdullah’s on a mission though. “You can do Ramadan with me. It will be good for you!” We’ve had a really fun and interesting time with him. We think it’s been the same for him too. He relents and takes us for a minty tea. It’s a swanky place. We go to pay. Too late Abdullah has.

During our five and a half hours in Fes we learned a lot (or rather got to be told a lot – and now have forgotten a lot) about the city and it’s history. Abdullah learned a lot too. He learned how to put up with my incessant questions. At one point near the end of our visit, when we were all feeling tired, I asked him how an unfamiliar vegetable was cooked. “Do you have this in England?” – “no” – “then why do you want to know? You’re never going to cook it!”. And he didn’t tell me. It was the perfect answer. We all cracked up.

Abdullah certainly earned his rest . . .

Day 57 – It’s a blue ending to today’s journey and our time in Morocco . . .

Stepping outside the European-ness of our usual existence and into an alien landscape, has on many levels been a most rewarding experience. Our final evening rewards us with an act of kindness that expects nothing in return. Something we’ve learned that in Morocco is a very rare commodity.

With our planned over-nighter at Motel Rif duly ignored as we sail by, we gain a day and carry on up to Chefchaouen. A further 70K. It’s still early afternoon. Chefchaouen is our last port of call before leaping back over the Strait.

Personal transport is not a “gimme” over here. You make do. At least the shared fare shouldn’t amount to much . . .

The blue houses of Chefchaouen attract many visitors – homegrown and overseas. We share this viewpoint with a coachload of Koreans. From up here the blue painted walls are barely visible. We can’t see what all the fuss is about.

Camping Azilan is located high above the far side of town . . .

We’ve still to get to the site. We know it’s near. We can smell it. We just can’t see it. No signs to give us a clue. It’s not on our paper map. It’s not on our offline map. It is however showing on Google Maps. That’s not much help when the road to it is up for repair and not accessible. We go Google eyed. Google up this way. Google down that way. The streets are very narrow. They are steep. Porlock Hill steep. A couple of times Beastie’s tyres spin. Traction control needed. We’re getting hot and bothered. Stop again to try and get a handle on where we’re going wrong. Problem is there are no handles. We’ve lost them – along with our humour. Suddenly Roger Moore pulls up alongside. The Saint, isn’t driving a Volvo 1800 S. He’s in a Petit Taxi. “Looking for the camping? Follow me” . . . He picks up another customer on route. Takes us right to the door. Gives us another friendly wave and makes to leave. What!? He doesn’t want any money? Incredible. Now that’s kindness. We flag him down and handover an unexpected bonus. He’s over the moon. Smiles all round. And relief on our part.

Clinging to the overlooking mountain, the small old town is a mass of tiny alleyways. Randomly and tightly knitted together. Two shades of 4-ply applied everywhere. However, you can only go one of two ways. Down and up. We start by going down.

It’s not an exact shade. No Dulux or Crown matchmaking facilities here.

There’s a tension in the air. We can almost touch it. Less than an hour to sunset. Less than an hour before today’s Ramadan fast ends. Less than an hour to dinner. The kids feel it too. Five and six years old scamper around the lanes singing and dancing. Their fervour echoes. Bounces around the ancient walls. Adds to the excitement. Some men exchange harshly spoken words. Probably over something trivial. It’s all in their minds and not in their stomachs. We imagine that as Ramadan continues more and more frayed tempers will snap.

Obviously masking tape is in short supply . . .

It all looks very pretty in the evening’s fading sunlight, even if someone has run out of paint . . .

Day 58 – It’s Official! – Beastie has no broken bones . . .

“Officialdom” and its authority in Morocco are visible on entering every town of considerable size. But never more so than when you’re entering or leaving the country.

Our earliest start to date sees Beastie thundering along and down the zig-zags from Chefchaouen and onwards through the Rif mountains to Tangier. Our 3pm crossing awaits.

We need to time it just right. 2pm arrive at port. 1pm arrive at Carrefour to get rid of our remaining 450 Dirhams. We do it. We’re second in the queue. Ticket and passport control – consisting of being moved on about 50 metres per check, involves four or five stop points all within spitting and eyeball distance from one another. What could possibly change our status within two minutes? At the second “Check-point-Charlie”, the main man has a right Charlie with him. A runner it seems. The main man takes our passports, gives them to Charlie. He then runs to an office. (we think to photocopy them) and runs back a few minutes later. As the main man hands back our passports he whispers “Monsieur, un petit cadeau pour le garcon” What? “Le garcon” – who is a young man in his twenties waits expectantly. Um. We’ve just spent our last Dirhams. “Will Euros be OK?” – “Oui” – I pass over a Euro. He looks shell-shocked. Or is it insulted? In any event I edge Beastie forward. My side mirror reveals him disdainfully showing the main man his “petit cadeau”.

Previously, at check-point one we discover Beastie is in very good health. He’s lead up onto a giant platform. A giant gantry attached to a lorry is attached to the biggest X-ray machine we’ve ever seen. There’s a 4×4 +trailer on the platform too. We hop out and the lorry very slowly reverses backwards. This will make a great photo for the blog. Click. But not for long. “Delete that photo now while I watch” says the man of power. I do as I’m told. Did I say we’re returning from Morocco, or is it Russia?

At the penultimate check-point we again climb down. We’re getting slightly peeved, in a humorous sort of way. Observing and experiencing the paranoia is getting to us. Maybe more to Mary-Ann than me. Three men plus an Alsation. (is there another joke hiding here somewhere?) “What are you searching for?” asks Mary-Ann. The taller of the three ignores her and asks me to open up the garage. The other two reveal to Mary-Ann it’s drugs. “Do I look like I’m on drugs” I hear her laugh – and then, as if just to emphasise the craziness of the thought, she proceeds to do a very weird and frightening impersonation of Pans People dancing to Tommy James & The Shondells’ ‘Mony Mony’. They get it. The taller man doesn’t and has to ask what’s going on. But then joins in the frivolity too. He goes off. Comes back with a multi-tool. Acts as if he’s not satisfied we’re not drug dealers. Intimates he’s going to slice open Beastie’s side. Search for the secret cache in his lining. They’re really enjoying themselves. Any second now and they’re going to turn into the three Goodies and start doing the Funky Gibbon. The Alsation is let loose inside Beastie, but comes out without any sausages. We go on our very merry way.

We shake off any remaining Moroccan dust and Saharan sand and board – Spain Part 2 here we come . . .

T-Minus 6 – Would you like chips with that ? . . .

Doing a weekly Tesco shop rarely appears on a man’s bucket list. However, when that weekly trek rewards you with a free tunnel crossing, it’s not all doom and gloom, is it?

So, it’s once again a big thanks to Mr Tesco and his points & vouchers. Enabling us to chunnel under for no charge. It’s also a big thanks to “Mr Clever” – AKA Roger – our longstanding friend from our 70s Cotswolds days. Roger managed to fix the new electrical hook-up into the side of Beastie. His french fry fingers being more able and dextrous than my chunky chips.

You may recall my handiwork from a botched reverse manoeuvre in Italy, that left our pitched up power source hanging on for dear life . . .

Now ably replaced and ready for action.

Thirteen weeks planned on the road, starting on 26th March with a week of French furrowing that will see us cross the Pyrenees, via Andorra. By the time April springs into view, Spain’s warmer climes will too. Anyway, we shall see.

Day 1 – We can go to the ball? Can’t we? . . .

You know the feeling? It’s Christmas Eve. You can’t sleep. Has Santa been yet? Does he know you’ve been naughty? Will he leave you anything? Stomach twisting thoughts and feelings gnaw away. All excited about what might be, or what might not.

An event free journey over to our usual Black Horse site, a few miles north of the tunnel. Nicely rounded off with a huge plate of pie, roastas, thick gravy and sticky toffee pudding (separate plates) at the Black Horse Inn. One minor blip to overcome on our first leg – find a garage with some LPG. Apparently non to be found in Dorset and Hampshire. Cobham Services did the trick. All other on board necessities previously seen to, before setting off. Beastie had had a full “Habitation Service/Check” two weeks before and passed with flying colours. So, as we strolled (or should that be rolled) back to site all seemed well in our world. Expectations running high as we contemplated and chatted about the places and people we’d see and meet on the other side of La Manche – tunnel crossing booked for following morning 10.20am. It was still early. Film planned and an early night. Magic!

Then, before you could say abracadabra, the carpet got pulled from beneath our feet. Mary-Ann turned a tap on. No water. Just a pump frantically farting. Tiny drops of water spitting and spluttering forth. OMGA. Tried the other tap. Just the same. Tried the loo. Just the same. Out with the manuals. Where’s the pump and tank? Parts of Beastie’s inners get scattered. The supposed culprits exposed.

Pump’s working fine, but I can see through the clear filter cap that no water is reaching it. Remove the big round red screw cap from on top of the tank and peer in. Eyes straining to see something that should be there, but clearly isn’t. That can’t be – I spent fifteen minutes pumping 120 litres into Beastie’s stomach yesterday morning.

Both brains discombobulated. Torches expose nothing damaged or leaking from beneath Beastie’s belly. Decision made for an even earlier night and even earlier wake up call to give us enough time to re-fill and check things once more . . .

TBC . . . .

Day 2 – Sometimes things are taken out of your hands, and you can do little about it. . . .

Now we know how every athlete feels when sitting in gold medal spot. Effort completed, but still one or two competitors waiting in the wings, eager to do their very best to snatch that illustrious prize from your grasp.

Morning arrives. I’m optimistic that it’s a simple problem. Something overlooked in the daze of last evening’s bewilderment. Only one glass of wine not to blame. Mary-Ann is less hopeful. I can always tell. Her eyebrows go all French. Right one adopting an acute angle complementing the left’s grave slant. Brow furrowed as neatly as a French farmer’s muddy rows.

I can even see thought bubbles bobbing above her head, comic style, but this is no laughing matter. “I wonder if he really did fill that tank up?” and “If we can’t find the problem, then there’s no way we’re going across!!”

No doubt she can see mine. “I just don’t get it. I know I filled that tank to the brim” and “In any case, if we don’t solve it now, we’ll find someone in France that can. Lot’s of camping cars over there. No big deal!” and “Whatever, we must make sure we don’t miss our crossing”. Get the picture? Not quite sunrise at the not so OK Corral, but getting there.

Beastie is glugging at the gills. If we could have stuffed one more cc of H2O down his gullet we would have.

“Give it another try – any good?” – “No, Just the same. And now the pump keeps pumping even when I turn the tap off.”

It’s 9.15am and I scratch my head for the ninety-ninth time (no I’m not a savant). Take a look at the back of Beastie to discover a trail of water. Look underneath Beastie’s garage where the heating system is housed and discover a clear plastic penile overflow extension dangling down. It looks like it’s taking a never ending pee.

At that moment an angel appears (actually, a curious MOHO man) He suggests I check to see if the frost safety valve is closed! “The what!?” Seems that when the temperature drops below a certain mark this clever little valve automatically opens and drains the system. Problem is, it’s not clever enough to close itself.

Torch in mouth, I half clamber into the rear garage. It’s chocabloc with stuff that I don’t want to have to remove. I squeeze into position and lean over into Beastie’s boiler room. Arms dangling forwards with hands fumbling around in the dark. Feeling for something that needs to be turned or pushed back in. Backside exposed to the elements, but not emulating the pose of your average builder’s bottom. (i.e. no cleavage on show)

Still TBC . . .

Still Day 2 – It wasn’t supposed to end before it even got started, was it? . . .

Fragile creatures we are. Like seeds blown in the wind. No control. Fatalistic winds sending us wherever. The natural order of calamity doing its thing. Is it better to struggle against it or go with the flow?

The day’s rain has cleared away just in time to welcome the already long evenings. France is an hour ahead of our BST. Enjoying a glass and reflecting over the events of the last twenty hours we agree, and are thankful to that angel who saved us from locking horns, even before we’d had chance to experience Spain’s famous “Running of the Bulls”.

We come to the conclusion that we must test every conceivable working part of Beastie’s interior and exterior before setting off from Angleterre next time..

Anyway that’s all water under the bridge and now we’re sitting pretty near Rouen, at Le Clos St Nicholas camping and counting down the days until we’re in the warmth of the Med.

Well, not that pretty. A mostly wet and dreary deserted site.

So from tomorrow it’s onwards and downwards . . .

Days 3, 4 & 5 – Now we’re skipping along nicely thanks to the à la carte routes . . .

Starters out of the way – almost. Main course to follow shortly. Lots on the menu. Pretty soon we’re going to be spoiled for choice.

We don’t usually “do” miles or kilometers. Never aim to get anywhere fast. Tonight we’re holed up on a fairly muddy site, Camping Les Violettes, just south of Toulouse – it’s been a bit of a trec today. Rounded off with a navigation “complication” on entering the local périphérique system at rush hour and ending up heading back north instead of south. Cost us an hour and 1.30 Euro péage on the A61 motorway.

This site’s saving grace is it’s nearly brand new shower block. For the first time we’ve washed up and showered in as much HOT water as we need. The French notion of hot is more often than not somewhere between cold and warm. Teetering between an espresso and an iced latte. You take it short and quick and therefore save on water and money.

Chateaudun and Parc do Loisirs Le Val Fleuri welcomed us on day 3; Camping d’ Uzurat near Limoges came to our aid on day 4 when the planned site we reached wasn’t yet open for the season. Apart from a few other blips that we’ve become accustomed to, all is now going according to plan. We should be in Andorra by this time tomorrow.

Mrs S, thinking about stepping down into the early morning chill

Mary-Ann’s pain in the butt. (no I haven’t missed out an “a”) is being managed. We make sure we stop regularly and walk for thirty minutes or so. I mentioned to her that this must be what it’s like traveling with a dog. Stopping every so often to go walkies and pee-pee. She turned and looked at me with those big dark brown spaniel eyes of hers and said “That’s fine, so long as I don’t sniff the first passer by”.

Woof, woof . . .

Days 6 & 7 – It’s up . . . and it’s over . . . and it’s down . . .

Snowy white welcoming vistas around every turn as we head up into the worlds 16th smallest country. Our very own moving picture show.

We’d heard last year that there wasn’t much “to do” in Andorra. That is if you’re not a skier or a mountain goat. Happy to have changed our minds and opting to stay the one night instead of the two. With the temperature hovering around zero and an electrical hook up that kept tripping off we were not sad to leave La Massana and the over priced Xixerella site.

The winding journey up . . .

. . . and down being ample compensation.

On a competitive note, we’re thinking of creating a “Silly Billy” list. Under normal circumstances this would apply entirely to me. Mary-Ann’s recent slight of hand “slip up” prompted the idea. When leaving our last French site we’d been given instructions and an exit key fob to use if reception was unattended the following morning. The very simple instruction was – if reception is locked then raise the exit barrier with the fob and then slip the fob through the slot in the locked key fob catching box. This was my job. I imagine you’re ahead of me. Luckily we didn’t have to wait too long for a fob-toting helper to come along.

Mary-Ann evened up the score with a “super-bluper”. At the very chilly Andorra site she paid a visit to the site’s loo. It was a bit of a walk, so she wrapped up and put on her never to be without leather gloves. On entering the cubicle she removed them, tucked them under her chin and proceeded to do the necessary. At the point when she came to flush, she turned around, leaned forward and simultaneously lifted her chin, as she pushed the button. Lightning fast reflexes saved the day and a blockage that would have been hard to explain in Catalan. Fortunately they dried out with no damage done.

We got searched at the Spanish Customs when leaving Andorra. Its status as a tax haven means that many items are much cheaper – especially cigarettes. Beastie could have earned his keep on the black market if only we’d known beforehand. Apparently much of the little fertile land that it has, is given over to tobacco crop.

Then it wasn’t long before the skies started to clear and the temperature soared to 17C as Beastie trundled the road to Camping Vell Emporda at Garriguella. We’re hoping the 40mph gale subsides by tomorrow so we can Scoot into Figueres to check out Salvador Dali’s museum.

Day 8 – The man of many timeless faces cracks me up . . .

We share an interest in “art” – paintings mainly. We admit we don’t always get it. But after spending a couple hours or so visiting Dali’s Theatre and Museum in Figueres we realise you don’t have to. Impossible not to leave infected with smiles and levity.

His moustache was still intact years after his burial, when his body was exhumed.

The short windy Scoot down into Figueres shot us straight as an arrow into its winding centre. A quick lock up and we’re heading to see what Dali’s been up to. It’s a museum of “art” works like no other. We get transported into his world of crazy genius. His superbly painted and illustrated images all seem to be asking questions – like “Would you like eggs with that sir?” or “Maybe a slice of bacon?”. We get drawn in. The more absurd his add-ons, the more you ask your-self, “Well, why not?” Many serious folk were staring and pondering. Scratching their heads. We (mainly me) couldn’t help laughing out loud at the sheer wit and creativity.

Did his friend Pablo Picasso get drawn in too? Did Picasso actually have to sit and pose for this portrait we wonder. If so was he naked at the time? When he saw it, did he smile or scowl?

Was Dali permanently on LSD? Or did his inspiration come from eating too much cheese before going to bed? Or more likely wearing it! Dali, the extreme Monty Python of his day – quoted as saying “… when you are a genius, you do not have the right to die, because we are necessary for the progress of humanity …”

Day 9 – It’s not really hot enough for a doctor just yet . . .

A few years back now, we had the pleasure of being introduced to the Fremantle “doctor”. Baking hot summer mornings being brought back down to barely bearable temperatures by this early afternoon God-send.

Although here in Garriguella it’s not out of the teens yet, it seems this area of Catalonia is running its own version, but on a stronger scale. With high winds forecast today we change plans and decide to leg it rather than Scoot it. A “just this morning” downloaded local “live” walk using the Wikiloc trail App promises an interesting route up into the olive groves and vineyards far above town.

We’ve not used our tablet and its GPS system as a walking tool before. It’s looking good as we trek out of the top of town and into no-mans land. However, as we climb higher I suddenly realise that in my haste to find a decent walk I’d overlooked the fact that unlike a map, a gadget uses energy. This one had only a 29% charge left and was leaking power with every step we made. (As I type this I can hear Monsieur French Fries’ tut-tuts) Not having enough power to complete the route we decide to make up our own shorter version. An ensuing dead-end and a friendly local point us back.

With Dali still in mind and a phrase from an old Dire Straits track (. . . then you get an artist who doesn’t want to paint at all. He just takes an empty canvas and sticks it on the wall) we come across, what in a different location could surely have been perceived as art. However, unlike the artist in the song, at least Dali made sure his works earned him lots of money before his death.

Then we both came over all dilly Dali . . .

And the oh so obvious . . .

By the time we reached camp after a mini Scoot to the local cooperative degustacio, Mrs S (AKA Robocop), couldn’t help herself . . .

Day 10 – It’s not all Guns n Roses . . .

We’ve all got a bit of split personality hidden somewhere inside, haven’t we? Different facets of our own nature come to the fore, given certain circumstances, or the mood that takes hold. At times I can be very compliant and at others, not quite.

We’re currently treating ourselves (more so Mary-Ann [the on-board cheffette extraordinaire] actually). Enjoying a fabulous evening meal at Aux Copains D’Abord in Garriguella. It’s a huge converted barn. Latin jazz and locally produced Gold Star winning red add a pleasant buzz.

Our fascination with Dali not yet done, so a visit to his sea-side house on today’s earlier agenda. With afternoon gales forecast, a bitter early start on Scoot takes us high up into the steep rocky mountains that overlook and hem in Cadaques and Portlligat. We’re well wrapped up. The grey smoke like clouds swirl around us like candyfloss curtains as we snake our way up; then form a solid sunscreen as we edge down. The misty air is cold, not quite nut cracking cold, but just enough to keep every pore clenched tight. It makes for a more enjoyable hot coffee and pastry at the water’s edge though.

We’re not surprised to be delighted with Dali’s home. Sense, silliness and extravagance abound in equal proportions.

Starting with one fisherman’s cottage, Dali ended up buying and converting them all into one special place

Something for kids – really! But it’s Easter, so why not?

With Dali done for the day we Scooted back up planning to drop down into Roses, a few further K down the coast. Not wanting the tricky terrain to get the better of us I’d planned an alternative route which according to the map would pass a view point. However, now useless in this mist. The wiggly way wound into a single narrow lane and passed a black and yellow sign clearly indicating we were entering some sort of restricted area. Quite what, was unclear. I slowed as Mary-Ann intimated she wanted to turn around. Black and yellow painted markers glaring at us from either side. Silently whispering “do you have permission?” That was all the incentive I needed and curiosity did the rest.

A few minutes later and in the middle of absolutely nowhere loom a pair of large black gates. The two on duty Spanish Squaddies stay calm as we approach. Immediately identifying us as non Al-Qaeda-like, their SMGs remain idly slung from their shoulders. “Is this not the way to Roses then?” I query . . .

Day 11 – We’re just getting in on the act, but not sure what part to play . . .

O.K. So it’s Spain. But not quite as we imagined it so far. No more jumping the guns just yet though as we’re only into our first week.

Catalonia is hosting our first taste of Spain and all it holds. We have to try and not compare. Forget France. Forget Italy. It’s difficult though. We need to take is as it comes with fresh eyes and ears . . .

We’re on our way to a “rustic” one nighter at Fornells de la Selva. Halfway house on route to Barcelona. We stop off just north to sample what’s in store at Girona. We head for the medieval quarter and the Museum of Jewish History which has records of the life of the Jewish Communities in Catalonia during medieval times up to their expulsion from the city in 1492.

Entering the city we cross the River Onyar

After, we walk the labyrinth of ancients passageways and up onto parts of the old city wall to take in the views.

A local player adding atmospheric flamenco chords that echo off the medieval courtyard stone

Another local entertains us as he prepares to take lunch

This “rustic” site we’re on – (In camping terms, the term rustic means any view is included as is any severe smell of horse manure. You must expect to receive no hot water and luke warm showers that would hardly wet your whistle) – is out in the middle of nowhere. Once people settle in for the night it becomes so dark that even a black hole could hide and never be found in here. We’re late birds and head off to the shower block in total camp silence. The block has movement sensitive light switches and they’re not on. It’s a total black-out.

I don’t have good night vision, so I’m thankful for a light shining my way as I return. It gets closer and I get dazzled and then hear Mary-Ann whisper “It’s only me. I’ve lost my knickers. I think I’ve dropped them somewhere on the way back” We both head towards the shower block, heads down. Suddenly Mary-Ann stops and says “Oh, it’s alright, here they are” – “Where, I can’t see them” – “No, you won’t be able to. I’m wearing them” . . . nuff said, eh?!

Day 12 – We complete the Dali Triangle . . .

Today we’re darting across to Púbol, shooting a 180 to complete Catalonia’s golden Dali triangle at the castle he bought and gave to his wife.

When he bought and renovated this pretty little hideaway for her, she accepted it on one condition. He was only allowed to visit on special written invitation from her! He did live and work here for several years after her death though.

As quaint and quirky inside as well as out

A garage below houses the 1969 Cadillac de Ville, in which he took the body of Gala, his dead wife, for a last surrealistic back seat ride together. This car is huge. It’s just a few feet short of Beastie’s length. You could easily fit half a dozen corpses in its trunk. It’s a wonder Dali never considered attempting the Guinness book of records. He missed a trick there.

Day 13 – If this was the “other” Grand Tour then . . .

. . . the intro would probably go something like this – “And in tonight’s show –

We catch a tour bus . . .

Image result for Barcelona tour bus picture

a pullover gets a blessing . . .

and Brian gets to drink a gallon of Sangria . . .

Image result for a gallon of sangria

But first . . .

We’re now pitched up for a three nighter, 30K north of Barcelona at the aptly named Camping Barcelona? Situated a further 4K north of Mataro. Work that one out if you can. It’s a huge open and terraced sandy site, separated from the Med by the N-11 and the coastal railway line. The weather is too overcast and windy to think about skinny dipping, but with hotel-like shower facilities, we can think of no better way to get wet.

Luckily, we manage to book one of the last time-slots to visit the Sagrada Família, Gaudi’s “still to be completed” temple. It’s a fifty minute trip down to Barca – oops, I mean Barcelona, Barca is only ever used in reference to “Team a la Messi”, so I’ve been informed. The totally free camp coach drops us right into the centre at 10am. We’ve got eight hours to kill. Now what to do? A coffee and pastry later we’ve handed over 50 euros (concessions) in exchange for two tickets to travel the open topped tour bus. All day hop on and off wherever you fancy – with a running commentary. It’ll save our legs. Barcelona is a massive sprawl.

It’s a long time since I’ve been on a bus. The streets are packed. It’s slow going. In between the inane commentary, such as “On your right you can see the marina. It used to be the old port.” and “Next, we have the Christopher Columbus column. He’s pointing, but we don’t know why he’s pointing in the wrong direction” they fill the time with some dire water music. Problem is, it’s so slow going there’s more music than commentary. Coupled with the rhythmic sway of the bus I’m soon resembling a nodding Prince Charles doing his thing at a Status Quo farewell gig. Then it starts to rain and Mary-Ann nudges me. I spring back into the real world. “Were you nodding off?” (Moi?) “Shall we get off here?” – “O.K.” I reply, “whatever you want . . . ” .

He really is pointing in the wrong direction. He’s saying “I went that-away. Oh! Or maybe it was the other way”

Park Güell offers a change. It’s at the top of the city – literally. Although you wouldn’t notice it from the street plan. (Honestly, Monsieur French Fries) By the time we climb the one in three to the entrance, lactic acid is seeping from our calves and thighs. That feeling of wibble wobble wibble wobble jelly on a plate getting ready to kick in. The view of the city make it almost seem worthwhile.

What goes up must come down, so we head back towards our 18.15 appointment. We pass through an avenue of trees as a flock of pigeons swoop down from behind us. They virtually whiz past our ears. Most take up positions in the overheads ahead. Bombs at the ready. Mary-Ann is concerned for her newly bought scarf. The ground is clean of droppings, so I assure her a central line will be safe. Back at street level the wind picks up, so I decide to put my pully back on. It’s been blessed. The bag probably open by no more than a couple of inches. You’ve got to admire their accuracy. Haven’t you?

It’s time to eat. We order and we notice a blackboard with the chalked word Sangria. “Two glasses please”. We think the young waitress is saying they only serve it by the jug. Plus it’s not much more than the price of two glasses. So we nod. When it arrives, she is having difficulty. It’s huge. I could’ve shouted across the restaurant “the drinks are on us” and we’d still have some left. It’s ridiculously big. Far too big. We wanted to drink it, not bathe in it. We refuse and ask for two glasses only. Some time later she returns with the largest goblets we have ever seen. Filled to overflowing she tries to delicately put them down, drenching the table as she does so. They could easily house a couple of knickerbocker glories. They are not what we expect. Far too much lemonade for Mary-Ann’s taste. I end up drowning, I mean downing them both, hic.

It’s been a long wait, but when we eventually enter Gaudi’s temple all we can say is “WOW”. It’s massively awesome. Supporting pillars deliberately designed as trees, create a stone forest canopy high above. East and west facing stain glass windows spread a contrasting glorious glow throughout.

Gaudi’s legacy is due to be completed in 2026 – one hundred years after his tragic accidental death.

Our long lost walk in search of the hidden underground train station (a separate main line station below the Metro lines, we discover), gets nicely broken by a big bubble display. Bubbles and excited kids cause chaos amongst the adult calm.

Days 14 & 15 – We edge further south . . .

With two weeks away under our belt now, “UK home” seems like another life. Our alter egos left on pause. Placed into frozen animation. Patiently and silently on hold until we re-appear and re-awaken from the dark side of the moon, or in our case the brighter side of the sun.

Leaving Barcelona to its rain was no hardship. It’s good to travel, but it feels even better when it’s wet. You don’t feel like time is wasted. We reach Tamarit Beach Resort, just north of Tarragona, with the afternoon not yet done. Check-in is somewhat OTT. The issue of wrist bands, electronic cards, a rear-view hanger for Beastie and a separate security booth all aim to give the visitor a feeling of safety, but more importantly supposedly deter gatecrashers from using the facilities.

The site has direct access to the beach and the cliff-side coastal path, via an electronically card-controlled gate. We stretch off along the stunning cliff-side walk as an appetiser.

Our first real taste of this rugged coastline

the path takes us past 12th century Tamarit Castle – now privately owned

A kind lady holds the gate for us and grants a card-less return access onto site.

Day 16 – We succomb and Scoot finds a lady friend, perhaps? . . .

With every church door locked and an overpriced entrance fee greeting us at every “cathedral”, we’ve remained relatively relic free so far.

The day is set fair with highs of 17C forecast, so we Scoot the 12K down the coast into Tarragona’s historic section. A mix of Roman and Medieval. Hemmed in on one side by the coast and its railway line leaves us little option but to utilise the motorway-like route in. Not particularly pleasant on Scoot’s tiny frame that gets wind blasted and lorry blasted this way then the other. Even with two on board he does his level best to reach his top speed of 56mph.

After last autumn’s visit to Herculaneum, most Roman sites tend to pale into insignificance by comparison. Tarragona’s ruins no exception and do little to inspire our interest. We walk the ancient narrow streets, some more colourful than others.

Then we succomb. Pay 10Euros to enter the cathedral and get pleasantly surprised.

It’s footprint is huge. It’s relatively small facing facade hiding a museum and beautiful enclosed cloisters too.

It’s a suntrap and we’re not the only ones bathing in the warmth.

I’ve done my arms, now for the neck and legs. Can you do my back please, I’m starting to peel.

With Tarragona ticked off we Scoot over to Reus and spend a couple of hours in the Gaudi Centre. His fascination with the natural world, science and mathmatics the inspiration behind many of his incredible and innovative architectural designs.

Part of the design featured at the top of one of the towers of the Sagrada Família in Barcelona. 1:1 scale (as is Mary-Ann)

It’s past 6pm by the time we head back to Scoot. He’s reluctant to leave. Seems he’s only gone and got himself a girlfriend, we think!

Day 17 – Not the best start to the day we’ve ever had . . .

If our morning’s shinanigans had been tracked by some sky-borne on-looker, then they would have thought some crazy demented driver was on board Beastie.

As we leave this region, it seems inevitable that Catalonia will have it’s independence again someday. We haven’t come across any signs to the contrary. Wherever we’ve toured it’s clear the fight isn’t over yet.

For some time I have been promising myself that I must invest in some sort of cab-cam or head-cam. I’ve been putting it off though – on the basis that as we get better (so we think) at doing “this”, there will be fewer and fewer out of the ordinary situations cropping up to justify the cost.

However, this morning’s start to a fairly long jaunt of around 280K to the other side of Valencia proves me wrong, yet again. Driver and navigator with differing opinions as to the best time to be “snapping/recording” make for tenser on board dynamics.

“Don’t be so bloody stupid, you stupid idiot. This is not the time to be taking photos!”

A short shop at the local Mercadona, then an aborted attempt to fill up with diesel should put us back on the main coastal route. When Missy directs us away from the coast we ignore the ringing alarms bells. Occasionally, she’s known better and all’s been well. An odd OK shortcut here and there has gained our trust. So we obey. A seemingly discombobulated stream of instructions get worship-fully followed. The promise of rejoining the N-340 her carrot. We pass through a residential estate and then past a high school on the very edge of Altafulla. A parked MOHO on the right adds to our misguided confidence as we deem to go where no other MOHO has ever gone before. It gets hairy and narrow as Beastie tentatively trundles over the collapsed dry stone walls on either side. We are mad – in more ways than one. I pull up and consult Google maps. It seems our cause is lost. We’re being directed in a loop! Some choice words of wisdom are directed towards this inane, or rather insane “Co-Pilot”. A little further on a broken chain on the left enables Beastie to cautiously contort and get us pointing back from whence we came. Then suddenly “thwack!”. The nearside mirror takes a hit from a low branch and is left dangling by it’s giblets. I want to wring someone’s neck, but no volunteers are forthcoming. Fortunately it snaps back into place with no real damage done and Beastie eventually edges back to safety.

Any chance of a video or further stills have been censored by the Director in Chief – however . . .

you can follow our route from the High School by copying and pasting this link

https://www.google.co.uk/maps/@41.1478696,1.3767151,3a,60y,16.11h,90t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1s3J8ayQ-M58KFYvg4oL8QPg!2e0!7i13312!8i6656

Day 18 – We go in search of the Holy Grail . . .

It’s now 11pm and blowing an absolute hoolie here on the Devesa Gardens site, El Saler. The day’s end to a very cold and windy trip into Valencia.

We finish the day by missing the 5.25pm bus by a couple of minutes. The thirty-five minute wait for the next gives us enough time to find out how aerodynamic Mary-Ann’s head is.

If only we’d left the National Ceramics Museum a little earlier – but we were pretending to be silly . . .

. . . and Mary-Ann couldn’t resist a photo opportunity . . .

or two . . .

Then these three flirters delayed us some more . . .

The morning’s guided audio-tour of the cathedral was superb. Culminating with the “pièce de résistance” – the Holy Grail, the cup of many a Catholic Carnival.

We’re not ones to get caught up too much in the religiousity of symbols and relics in respect to our faith. Usually, the 2300Kg ginormous monstrance that greets you at the entrance to the museum section, would leave us wondering “why?” or “what’s the point”. “Couldn’t the gold, silver, platinum and jewels have been put to far better use for the good of the local people?”

Then we learn that all of the materials were actually donated by the people of Valencia, as reparation for the many atrocities that occurred during the Spanish Civil War. That’s quite something. Makes you think differently.

Days 19 & 20 – Shock & horror as the temperature reaches 20ºC! . . .

Our short skip down to Gandia raises our hopes as the outside temperature passes the 20ºC mark for the first time. Thoughts turn to getting shorts and T-shirts ready as the week-end beckons and with it some real heat.

We’re trying hard not to focus too much on the weather, but it’s difficult not to. We’re in Spain on the Med coast and it’s supposed to be hotter than this. Plans made and changed as quickly as the swinging weather houses’ boys and girls.

We’re not ones for staying “around camp”. Regardless of the weather, we like to get out and about. We see some couples parked up all day at the side of their camper or caravan. Content to read or doze. Not our thing at all. Especially when you consider the nature of most pitches you end up on. There have been very few “pretty” sites to date. Take a look at the view behind us and the one in front. No room to even get Scoot out to play.

No, this is not the local firing squad wall . . .

With still a couple of hours to kill we take a walk down to view the local beach. It’s impressive. Flat fine sand. No wonder a mountain range of hotels run parallel along its 3.5K length. Toes venture no further than the prom. The sea looks far too cold. Even so a couple of life guards sit high on look out duty.

Many of the sites down this neck of the woods have outdoor pools that are not open yet. This site’s underused 25m indoor heated pool gives me the opportunity to swim off some of the many pastries indulged in so far. I have it all to myself. Joy!

With no traveling today Friday 13th comes and goes without incident. Gandia town a 40 minute walk away and a visit to the impressive Ducal Palace of the infamous Borja family on the agenda.

The walk back to camp interspersed with a discussion on what is fact and what is truth and a game of peek-a-boo. From the sublime to the ridiculous?

We end the day with a laptop film. One of thirty we’ve brought with us, downloaded from Netflix with the very uselful PlayOn app. Six down.

Day 21 – We enter the land of the Winnebago and the semi-ex-pat MOHO community . . .

Every winter, as many as twenty couples pitch up on this site at Guardamar. Doing a six month stretch away from the UK just to stay warm and dry.

On route to yet another “resort” site, we stop off at a Monastery just west of Gandia. An order dedicated to St Jerome, who must be the local patron saint of free entry. It costs us nothing to have a look around this huge place and gardens – that’s why we’re looking so happy.

This “Med” side of Spain is overflowing with permanent ex-pats and fleeing winter-time couples. With shower cubicles that have a footprint larger than our bathroom at home; indoor and outdoor pools; fully kitted out gym; restaurant; supermarket; hairdresser; aqua classes; frequent 50k-100K bike rides plus other “community” organised events we can partly understand the attraction a site like this holds. Those that winter-over tend to own Mammoths – outfits big enough to swallow a couple of Beasties whole, with swollen extendable bellies that double the inside living space.

We pitch up and suss out the local beach. A very long deckway takes us up and over the dunes. The local B&Q must have done alright.

Saturday evening sees the blog develop a glitch . . . 🙁

Day 22 – How could we vote for Brexit? . . .

. . .the question asked of us more than any other while we’re doing the dishes. Our close EU neighbours dumbfounded and worried that it could be contagious.

Up to now we’ve had no answer. Mary-Ann reminded me earlier today of the simple reason why we voted to leave the EU. Obviously, it’s because nowadays none of the other countries give us good scores in the Eurovision Song Contest!

It’s Sunday and we Scoot out 21k to Elche – obviously still in the EU.

Elche is famous for its thousands upon thousands of date palm trees. 70K of which grow in the Palmeral Municipal Park. We’re here to visit the Jardin Huerto Del Cura. There are 2,300 species of palm trees worldwide and 1,000 thrive here. The four acre site delights.

The town is an interesting mix of old, new and quirky.

The local Bellboy’s in need of some new togs . . .

Day 23 – It’s not all doom and gloom . . .

I can be like a dog with a bone. Unable to settle until I’ve settled the problem that’s causing the blog pages not to load. An “invalid security certificate” is doing my head in.

Time to investigate. Phone calls and on-line chats to the hosting provider sees the morning ease by. Mary-Ann reads and relaxes in the morning sun. I can take as long as I want? I get hotter inside as the frustration mounts. Eventually the problem disappears – like magic. I breathe a sigh of relief. My “techie” world back to spinning on its usual axis.

Then it’s time to break out the bikes for the first time. We go off road and bounce and ricochet our way along the seriously bumpy track to Rojales. Stretch our legs. Then ricochet and bounce our way back. We could have done with our jelly pants. Our bikes’ suspension not adequate enough to prevent the early onset of Baboon Butt-itis.

Mary-Ann does a Catharine Pendrel and legs it . . .

Return journey sees us pass by a shepherd in the shade eating yoghurt. The orange grove blossom fragrance fills the air.

Day 24 – We never knew baked beans were so popular in Spain . . .

Scoot, as is any other motorbike, is not what you call aerodynamic. Add a couple of random shapes like ours and being buffeted comes with the territory. You travel within your own permanent wind tunnel. Speed is not the aim. Staying upright is.

Since learning to ride Scoot I’m much more aware and sympathetic towards the vulnerability of the “biker”. Never more so than when travelling a straight and openly exposed route, like today’s. The Spanish wind hasn’t heard of the word sympathy. They get so much of it down here they’ve even named a light pastry a “farton” – I kid you not! It’s tasty but full of air. So, no other option but to use the N-332 for part of our via into Alicante. We get blasted from all angles. Scoot doing his best to keep up with the flow of traffic. Passing juggernauts’ turbulence terrify. Heads suddenly shocked backwards. Powerful invisible waves doing their best to sink us. By the time we turn off onto the calmer coastal road the G-Forces have ravaged and reshaped our faces into a couple of Wallace & Gromit look-alikes.

We taxi along. Take a breather and calm down . . .

The serene coastal road rewards us with a fabulous scene of Alicante . . .

Castle Santa Barbara our first port of call. The Spanish are not brilliant with their “historic” signings. We fumble around the shadowy back streets looking for the lift “up top”. You need to use it. It sits impregnable, perched on a mini mountain that offers spectacular rooftop views of the city and surrounding countryside.

Two beautiful views for the price of one . . .

Yours truly has to get in the act too . . . just to prove I was here!

It’s a tourist attraction, commercial hub and busy port

Come on then you apple-heads – if you dare!

Day 25 – Time to cool off . . .

Today we head away from the touristy coastal region. Adios to Alicante et al. Higher hopes and slopes in mind as we head inland in search of Spectacular Spain.

Our many free, but boring motorway miles – no toll roads so far – have been more bearable listening to Just William stories, eloquently read by Martin Jarvis. With a 90K leg part of today’s plans, we opt for a different tac and choose The Curious Incident of The Dog in the Night-Time. We get caught up in the story. Don’t realise Little Missy’s gone walkabout. Gone and switched herself off. No instructions or reminders forthcoming. We pass our turn off. As it turns out she’s done us a favour. We check the paper “map” (yes, we have got one Rog). Decide on a longer, but shorter cross country course to revive our attention. It pays off . . .

. . . to a degree. We start to get a bit edgy. Should have filled up this morning, but didn’t. The extra miles and cross country diversion cause consternation. No garages out here in the wilderness. Fuel indicator edges into the red. Then the display panel issues its own “red” alert. Five minutes later a beeper sounds – just to give us the heebie-jeebies. As the warning light comes on we are full of regret. A coin toss may be needed to decide who draws the short straw and the long walk to the nearest garage. We make it to Velez Rubio with maybe 5K spare in the tank. Not quite running on fumes. Google maps tells us there’s a fill up there. There is, but there are forecourt renovations in progress. It’s open, but the scaffolding and covering restrict Beastie’s entry. 6K further on Verez Blanco is our only hope. We make it and decide not to do that again!

We’re now pitched fairly high up at Parque Natural Sierra María-Los Vélez in the province of Almería. Hardly anyone on this huge site.

Beastie gets a perfect view of a rising crescent and it’s partner.

Day 26 (am) – Beautiful Bike-ride Before Brian’s Big Birthday Breakfast . . .

You may, or may not, have realised that I am a literal fan of alliteration. I could have probably constructed a longer headline out of “Bs” – but that’s me anyway.

Just over twelve years ago I completed the Holmfirth off road challenge up in Yorkshire with my old school friend Paul Shelton. He lives up in that neck of the woods. I’ve not done any serious mountain biking since. Pitched up where we are I am itching to get out and up into the Sierra opposite the site. Mary-Ann can tell. It’s Thursday 19th April. My 67th birthday. I was born on a Thursday. So I may as well do what “Thursday’s child” is supposed to do. She gives me a thumbs up providing I harbour no thoughts about a before dawn exit from bed.

The sun is just thinking about poking its nose above the distant horizon as I wipe down the heavy dew from my bike. It’s chilly. Single figures. I guess it’s going to be chillier once in the forest opposite, so I tog up in layers. I’ve got a loop planned that will see me edge up a further 1,000 feet from our current elevation. The first forty minutes or so is all up hill. Not particularly steep. Just enough to prevent me from gaining any real momentum.

Nearing what I thought to be the peak of the ride I thought I’d take a video for posterity – 🙂 – or something like that. Playing it back it doesn’t sound like me. It sounds like some old out of shape fart, who can’t catch his breath.

By the time I do reach the top of the loop there’s more steam pouring off me than Tiger Roll at the finish of this year’s Grand National. I strip off a layer or two before I create my very own storm cloud. However, it’s a stunning start to the day with views to match. I feel great.

Thought I’d reached the top of my ride but not quite . . .

One handed MTBing is not always a good thing, so on the way down I chicken out and use two hands to regain control.

Then before I know it, and in a fifth of the time it takes me to get up (so I do really), I’m tanking it.

Back at base camp Mary-Ann has my just deserts ready in no time.

Day 26 (pm) – We pick a picture postcard afternoon of leisure . . .

On the Italian trip I read John Scalzi’s “Old Man’s War” series of sci-fi novels. I’d been introduced to them at our local Christchurch Tip. Three brand new editions of the six book series, were poking out from an overfull skip. A bargain waiting to be grabbed. So I did.

One of the futuristic gizmos available to some of the characters is a BrainPal. A chip implant that enables access to all and any information currently out there. Like a combined Mr Google and Wikipedia – but with enhanced features. Now, more than ever I’m at that st-age where a BrainPal would come in very handy. I want. I need. Therefore I am?

One of the reasons I write this blog and Mary-Ann keeps a daily journal is to help us remember, or is it to not forget? No brainers for a couple of no brainers? “You speak for your-self!” says Mary-Ann.

Scoot does what he’s good at and scoots us out 12K from site. We passed this castle on the way in. One of the prettiest we’ve ever seen. Glorious views. Interior sadly stripped and sold years ago by a previous owner. Many of its objets d’art now abroad.

Stunning view looking over to our favouriite mountain

Down in Verez-Blanco we find that many of the villages have these water facilities. The locals can often be found filling up. This couple had about thirty containers. All being loaded into the back of their car.

Walking around castles is thirsty work . . .

Scooting back Mary-Ann notices a sign “Botanical Gardens 2Km”. We do an about turn. It’s 3.45pm. Closes at 4pm. Free entry. We nip inside. It’s mis-named. It’s a garden of labels. Maybe we’re two or three months too early. Leave at 3.55pm.

Day 27 – An unexpected surprise awaits us in Sierra Nevada . . .

With the assistance of that kind Mr Google and BBC on line weather, Mary-Ann has morphed into our own on board Alpine Clock Weather Girl. If the weather is likely to be fine, the central door opens and she pops outside. Determines the percentage of humidity. Studies the cloud formation. Calculates the wind speed. Estimates the likely high. Decides what to wear.

The forecast is for more strong cool breezes at Sierra Maria. We leave in 11C. Mary-Ann wants to get the “cold part” of our trip out of the way. She knows I want more mountains. We head towards Sierra Nevada. It’s 6C over there she tells me.

As we get closer their beauty comes into view . . .

I keep an eye on the outside temperature. It creeps up. Not down. 15C. Then 19C. What’s going on? By the time we reach our new site at Güéjar Sierra it’s 23C. No wind. 0% humidity. Virtually cloudless. Time to give the Alpine Lass the heave ho?

We pitch up and take a wiggly walk up into town. It’s steep. Gives us a great view of our camp site’s position.

The white building is in the centre of our camp site

With virtually no knowledge of the written or spoken word we feel worse than a couple of medieval peasants. Puzzling over these strange lisping sounds. Unable to piece together even one item on any menu. Yesterday we ate out for my birthday. Three courses of tapas. Followed by Cenamos rabo de buey en vino tinto. We translated rabo as rabbit cooked in red wine. Only it wasn’t. Turned out to be oxtail. Two huge gristly, slightly meaty vertebrae bones.

Güéjar Sierra is just coming to life by the time we reach the centre. I pop into a bar to order. “Sangria” is not on the menu. Oh. Now what do I say? Don’t even know how to say orange juice. “Sin alcohol?” The lady disappears into the back room and reappears with a bottle of Nestea. “Si. Grath-ee-as”. The Weather Girl approves.

Day 28 – We walk on the wild side . . .

I’m starting to doubt the on-board Weather Girl’s mastery. But with memories of Font-Romeu it’s better to be safe than sorry I suppose – hee-haw, hee-haw.

We have a four hour mountain walk planned. Definitely all off road. My part is to play donkey. One minute before lift off the Weather Girl does a quick re-calculation. Her previous forecast now superseded. Rain on its way later. We must take waterproofs too. This also calls for a complete wardrobe change. Plus a couple of extra “just in case” items for Eeyore.

The track lends itself to spectacular surrounding views.

Some way up a mum and baby block our way. Or more likely we block theirs. A stand-off situation arises. We both stand and stare. Who’s going to blink first? We do the courteous thing. Climb a little higher. Just to confirm to mum that veal is not on today’s menu.

“You go first” – “No. You go first. I insist”

We reach “our peak” for today – with not a drop of rain in sight.

The downhill return a little more tricky. Then a little later, Mary-Ann does come down. Falls twice on a particularly loose steep section. Pride and skin intact. Palms and buttocks bruised and sore. Hopefully no real damage done.

Days 29 & 30 – We take our first look around Granada, but no sign of a pomegranate . . .

We’re hanging around like a couple of Grape Apes. Six nights on the same site is unheard of in the 2 Cheeses camping book of dos and don’ts. Needs must though.

First an update. It could have been worse. Thankfully only swollen and bruised. There is more bruising, but that’s not available for viewing before the watershed.

With on average 6,600 visitors each day the Alhambra gets busy. We (I) should have heeded that stat. Ignored it. Thought it’d be alright on the day. Earliest tickets we could find online were for Wednesday 25th. It’s on our bucket list. Can’t be missed. So we have to stay put. Let’s hope it’s worth it. Although that day is forecast rain all day!

It’s a big complex of buildings and gardens. With that in mind we buy a couple of extra tickets to cover all the outdoor areas. Visit them early on Sunday 22nd. A warm sunny day promised. It is. Granada a forty minute bus ride from camp. The Alhambra “hill” a further forty minute trudge on foot.

The many elevated archways capture the view perfectly.

With another dry day forecast we revisit today. Granada Cathedral and Basilica of San Juan de Dios here we come. Both interest in different ways. Outside, before entering the Cathedral, we could physically feel the rush of cold air from within. We step inside. It was like entering a walk in fridge. We buy our tickets and see they’ve come over all Italian. The Idiotic Brigade on show.

We buy the tickets from the man on the right. He says “Please show them to that man just there to gain entry” That man checks our tickets and tears a little rip into them.

The Basilica of San Juan de Dios is completely over the top. Fantasmagorical gold and silver baroque embelishments send your eyes giddy. There’s not a square inch left untouched. The altar is a mass of showy glitter.

My favourite bit? The upstairs floor . . . just can’t remember . . . am I supposed to be going up, or down?

Day 31 – There’s gold up in them there hills, or in our case it should have been snow . . .

Last night’s storm has blown itself out. Early morning calmness greets us. Like a petulant child. Now sitting quietly as if butter wouldn’t melt in its mouth. Looking you square in the eyes. Asking “What? What did I do?”

11pm and we can hear it coming. Whistling down from the higher snowy peaks, as it gathers momentum. Thundering warnings echo out across this high pitched valley. All trappings of camp life securely stored inside. It’s way past 2am before sleeps overcomes. Three hours later it’s still throwing its toys out of the pram. Beastie stays firmly planted. He’s rocked and rolled as if he’s some sort of amphibian and has taken to the high seas. Apart from a severe lack of sleep no damage done. Beastie has taken a bit of a sand blasting.

With intentions of taking Scoot high up into the snowy parts of the Sierra Nevada we tog up like members of Scotts Discovery Expedition. Bulked up shapes resembling Buzz Light Year. I’m excited. Mary-Ann is more reserved. Just wondering how cold it’s likely to be. Helmets on. Gloves on. Ready, steady, plop! Engine won’t turn. Battery thinks it’s Shrove Tuesday. Flat as a pancake. Then it dawns. To open the under seat storage you have to turn the ignition key a quarter past normal start position. It’s also important to return it fully to the off position. Why? In start position the headlight comes on. Whether the engine is running or not. I’d got Scoot ready before breakfast. 75minutes beforehand. Not returned the key to off. My brain starts to bubble over. Can’t believe what its done. Goes into Basil Fawlty mode. Looks around for the biggest branch it can find. None to hand. Even after the storm. Ignores the hammer – too extreme. Someone must pay. No one about to throttle. Just as well. Maybe. Just maybe, I can bump start Scoot. We’re pitched off at right angles to quite a good slope. 80 yards or so. Push Scoot to the top. Hop on. Trundle down. No response from the starter. Still togged up in vain. Try a second time. Still nothing. Time to remove helmet before contents explode. Consult that kind Mr Google. He and his forum friends say it’s impossible to bump start an automatic scooter.

At this point, my brain, AKA “me” starts to shut down. From early childhood days it has never developed a proper coping mechanism for frustrating situations like this. Mary-Ann recognises the signs. “You don’t like being thwarted, do you?” She’s OK about what I’ve done. More pragmatic than I am. She gets on with other things. My frustrations turn inwards. I teeter towards the autistic. Clutching at straws. I remember that mum used to put my torch battery on a heater to bring it back to life. It’s now late morning and contrary to today’s forecast it’s very hot. I remove Scoots battery. It’s tiny – 5″ x 5″ x 3″ Place it in the sunniest spot I can find. Ha! Did I really think that would work? I must have! It didn’t.

Reluctantly I realise it’s hopeless. The day’s adventure lost to one insane moment. Remove all togs. Nearest Yamaha dealer’s in Granada. Then I remember Scoots EU insurance includes breakdown. Check the policy. Homestart included. Phone Carole Nash. Three hours later and with some translation help from reception Scoot is idling nicely. Just to fully charge the battery I take Scoot for a run. Take the route we would have taken this morning. Ironically, seven miles up, the road is closed. Fallen tree perhaps?

The views on the way up and down help to smooth away the day’s ripples.

Beastie is pitched up to the left of the town. The site looks down onto the lake above

Day 32 – It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old man’s not snoring . . . .

On the very day we didn’t want the local weather forecast to be spot on, it is. There’s lots of spots. Wet ones. It’s a miserable, grey and overcast start.

We’ve been told many, many times how warm and friendly the Spanish people are. Not seen much of that yet. Majority of our generation walk around as if they’ve got a nail stuck in their foot. Miserable mouths curved downwards. Look-alike Robert de Niro’s. Auditioning as understudies. You politely acknowledge their presence as you pass. Their sideways glare, silently threatening. “You talkin to me?”

By the time the 390 has dropped us off in downtown Granada the downpour has petered out. An 11.30am slot into the main Alhambra Palace booked. We’re nice and early. It’s not quite 10.15. Told not to be late or we can’t enter. It remains dry throughout our visit.

The Nasrid Palaces are a mass of superb intricate and inspired carvings. Wood, stone and plaster patterns feast the eyes. Minds mystify. The amount of detail is overwhelming. Photo fingers galore. No one wants to miss the perfect “snap”. Many trying to capture the professionals’ perfect images. Adopting strange contorted positions. Digital exposures expose. No crevice safe. Unable to beautify the ancient beauty. With over 100 pics taken between us, in 150 minutes, better to let some of them do the rest of the talking – for a change.

Two cheeses . . . maturing nicely . . .

He needs a lie down. All those intricate patterns make him giddy. At least he’s not snoring . . .

Days 33 & 34 – Record broken, now it’s time to move on . . .

Six nights up in the Sierra Nevada. Six nights on one site – a record for us. But well worth it. With Sun-searchlights switched on to main beam we move back down to the coast.

Short journey of 120K sees us pitched up at the exotic sounding Camping Laguna Playa. Laguna Playa in this neck of the woods loosely translates as gravelly & grotty. Obviously this is not the posh part of Torre del Mar. Like many coastal pitches aesthetics don’t figure in the equation. We’re allocated “Plot 74”. With no intentions of kicking the bucket just yet, we look lively and take a beach-side stroll.

Printed maps never show beaches this colour . . .

It gets greyer. So do we. Will we really stay more than a couple of nights here?

Please, lead me to the golden sands. PLEEEEEEEESE

Many toilet facilities in Spain have movement sensitive lighting. Some stay on for minutes, others just seconds. So if you’re alone in a block, you have to develop multi-tasking skills. For instance, at one site while cleaning your teeth, you had to keep the lights on by girating your butt, Renault Megane style. At our Sierra Nevada site a loo trip proved trickier than most. The other person in the toilet block finishes and leaves. I’m alone quietly sitting. After a few minutes the main lights go off. A few seconds later my cubicle light follows suit. I shake my right arm around. Nothing. I then raise it Heil Hitler style and hey presto. Light. Nine seconds later they’re off again. Sieg Heil. Light. I do this a few times until I realise, although I’m very much alone, and in the dark, this is not very PC. I use both arms. Make my own mini Mexican-Wave. Repeat this action every nine seconds. It proves to be counter productive to the purpose of my visit. An alternative disposition required. Thinks. Solution reached. A gentle nodding of the head, more in keeping with one of the inmates portrayed in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, does the trick.

Today’s fine weather see’s us take time out from our busy schedule and go no further than the nearest set of loungers. About a 300 metre walk. Sea still too cold for a dip. Nothing but grey sand, grit and pebbles.

A truck and a digger trawl back and forth all afternoon. Moving grey stuff from there to here.

Days 35 & 36 – Getting to know the neighbours . . .

Frank, a hairdresser and his wife Doreen, a stroke unit Occupational Therapist are our closest current neighbours. Both German, but Doreen, as she points out, is from the what was DDR (GDR to us). They’re on a three week break, along with their three dogs. A doberman and his two squidgy bodyguards.

The white squidgy has done a runner . . .

Luckily for us, their school English, topped up with English films and pop songs enables their linguistic skills. There are few moments of communication down-time as we drink and chat. At one point in the evening we’re like Richard Dreyfuss and Robert Shaw in that scene from Jaws, when they compare scars and how they came by them. The antics of Beastie and their similarly sized Hymer Corado the source of much shared laughter.

Saturday sees us bike down the Torre del Mar prom as far as it goes. Make a sunny sarnie stop. We’re in luck. Three piece Art Club Band welcome us with their rendition of BB King’s classic “The Thrill Is Gone”. They’re gigging at the end of prom eatery.

Everyone feeling the blues . . . but some apparently happier than most.

Sunday already and we decide to Scoot the 39K into Malaga. There’s a castle and Picasso’s museum beckoning. An hour max should do it. Apart from a short 4K motorway section, it’s a straight, but very windy, coastal road. Or should have been. It’s Bank Holiday week-end of course. One of the on-route towns is blocked off. They’ve got a carnival going on. We spend thirty minutes Scooting around the crazy maze of one-way-only back streets. Like a couple of dumb headless chickens just after the chop.

We are surprised. Malaga has a really good feel to it. A nice Cosmopolitan blend of old and contemporary. The huge footprint of the now ruined Castillo Gibralfaro, perched high above the port and city offer us stunning 360 views. We enter at 2.10pm. Free entry on Sundays from 2pm.

We’re in Pablo’s home town. We can’t leave without paying our respects. It’s now 3.45pm. Short queue. Five minutes later we’re in. Twelve collections in twelve rooms to sift through. Not really our cup of tea. Hoping for something, no matter how small, to connect with. His works not quite abstract. Cubism? No! Absurdism. Seems he loved to chop up the human form, then put it all back together. But not quite as it was. Maybe he missed his calling. Surgeon, butcher, Mafiosi interrogater? Teeth where an ear should be. Headless stark staring eyes looking lost at sea. Legs and arms twisted and contorted like Balloon Benders’ models. Missing toes. Boobs attached to any body part that lacks attention. No doubting his talent. But what was it? Comedy perhaps. We abstract ourselves at just gone 5pm. The queue is now stretched back over three hundred metres. Poor souls.

Then we head back. The carnival escapade has left us short on fuel. We stop to fill up. Money’s in Mary-Ann’s handbag under Scoot’s seat. She lifts the seat. Extracts her bag and goes to pay. Meanwhile a couple of young men on big black beefy scooters pull in. I move Scoot out of the way to allow the first one access to the pump. His money is under his seat too. He lifts it. At that very moment Mary-Ann pops out. Head down as she puts the receipt into her handbag. Walks around his scooter and pops her handbag into his. For a split second her face reveals what her mind can’t fathom. The familiar contents of Scoot’s under seat storage replaced with the unfamiliar. A curious collage. Plastic bottle filled with oil and oily rags. A Picasso masterpiece perhaps? Distorted ripples appear on Mary-Ann’s brow. The young man is dressed from head to toe in black. He’s six feet six. Towers above Mary-Ann’s petite frame. He is bewildered. Is he being hi-jacked? or hi-jinxed? Mary-Ann doesn’t quite come to her senses as she turns her head and peers upwards. A shiny black helmet peers down. Then broad grins are exchanged. Followed by laughter. The scene not unnoticed by the man inside. He’s now outside. We’re all howling. Whoops of laughter. All with a funny story to tell later.

Days 37 & 38 – As Lenny once said, “Well, gwapple me gwapenuts” . . .

There’s nothing better than receiving a gift when it’s not Christmas or your birthday. That’s what it felt like on our “after pitch up” walk about.

We leave the coast and head in land. Head up into the hills again for a one nighter, in view of Olvera. We’re on our way to Tarifa Port. Morroco here we come.

What a surprise. We’d never heard of Olvera. But we’re intending to come back and explore. Stunning setting all around this elevated site. Huge humpity dumpity lumps scatter the landscape, like giant molehills. Walking and cycling tracks criss-cross this way and that.

We take one of the site-side tracks and spiral down. There’s no hedgerow. Just an abundance of wild flowers. Many unknown to us (surprise, surprise). Mary-Ann’s gone to heaven. Reincarnated as David Bellamy, she starts snapping. Forty snaps later, we’re back up top. Info at reception says seven hundred different types of wild flower grow in this region.

say cheese then, to the little cheese . . .

T-24 hours sees us arrive in Tarifa Port. We need to buy our Maroc tickets. Inside the port office two counters face us. A blue one and a red one. I’ve checked on-line prices. The blue Inter Shipping lady quotes us 350 Euros – gulp. We sidle five metres to the right and purchase from the much nicer red FRS lady for 250 Euros.

13.00 ferry booked for Thursday 3rd May, with an open return.

Signing off from Spain for now. Normal service will be resumed as soon as we can organise SIM cards across the strait.

Day 1 of the Italian Job – UK Side

I can fully empathise with the caveman of old. I get him. Living in a cave makes sense. Shelter and security from the elements. Somewhere to eat and sleep. Nothing more natural than a cave.

And especially on a night like tonight, our first, back out “On the Road Again”. Beastie’s our cave on wheels, Canned Heat on tap and more. Though I daresay “you know who” would have something to say if she were hair-dragged off into a dark corner a bit later!

Both bellys’ full. (or should that be bellies’?) [both look weird when written] Coffee and chocolated and well and truly cocooned; cosy and tucked up within Beastie’s inner. Like a couple of newly born kittens, snuggling up close for comfort. Just right when it’s cold, wet and windy outside and pitch black at only 9.30pm. Tomorrow morning’s inverse Eddie Waring crossing beckons once more, scheduled for 11.20am, when we’ll be under & up and on our way to Ypres, for a two night stay.

We haven’t yet got those WW1 memorial sites out of our system (don’t think we ever will) and so we’re intending to add to them over in Belgium, before heading Southbound Again.

During our eight weeks back at the ranch, there’s been somewhat of an ongoing debate as to whether the name “Beastie” is justified or not. One side of the argument is that this name belies the “blessing” we’ve inherited and somehow fails to acknowledge it as such. The other side of the coin of course, sees it as just an amusing harmless nickname, a bit of mannish banter that helps conjure up apt images, when relating certain incidents. It’s the same for us, a lifetime of goodness and one’s character can be sullied for ever by just one single slip. From then onwards only to be referred to as that one who . . . . .

So in my mind Beastie’s already made a name for himself, in more ways than one. But just like Disney’s Beast, underneath his tough exterior lies a warm heart. Somehow, calling him Bertie, or Barry, or Bartholomew, or Bill, or Bernard, or even Basil, just doesn’t seem to cut it for me. What do you think?

Day 2 of the Italian Job – Wipers needed in Ypres

As “green as they come” novices, embarking on our first short UK trip, we just “went for it” so to speak. With a confidence and trust based around complete naivety.

We learned lots within a short space of time. Like cramming last minute for an ill-prepared exam, we just hoped it would be OK on the day. With every little escapade, our tight-knit team of four managed and overcame all obstacles strewn before us. So confidence grew. By the time we returned back home, after eight weeks on the road in France, we were fearless “know-it-alls”. But somehow, we’re not so fearless anymore. Our cavalier attitude has gone walk-about. When preparing for this trip we slipped into “what-if?” mode. What-if we forget the passports? What-if we forget the tunnel tickets, or even, God forbid, what-if we forget something even more important, like the ironing board!!

With our wipers in full use on our run down to Ypres, I recalled a question posed by Nejme a Turkish student, who stayed with us for three months in the late 80s. “Brian” he asked, “what are those two things called, those things like two big bath towels”. Oh how the Turkish car industry has flourished since then.

We’re currently pitched up just 10 minutes walk from the Menin Gate. We take the walk to witness the daily 8pm playing of the Last Post by three buglers from the local fire brigade. Like so many WW1 tributes it leaves you solemn and silent as your heart, mind and soul try to make some sense of what seems utter senselessness.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning, we will remember them.

A little earlier, our noses lead us directly into a chocolate shop – with a difference. Piles of perfectly replicated tools, perfectly arranged, plied our olfactory senses. Like an insect drawn into the clutches of a Venus Fly Trap, we ventured further in, until there was no escape – without a purchase! Pliers, wrenches, hammers, spanners, nuts and bolts all aiding and adding to our anticipated bliss. We are in Belgium after all!!

Day 3 of the Italian Job – A Day in Town – Like Any Other?

We’re not in Italy and it’s not like any other old day in town. We’re in the heart of heartbreak land. Ypres, Ieper, Wipers – whichever way you say it, it leads you to one thing only. That’s death. On a massive scale.

Unwittingly, as if surrounded by marauding “sturmtruppen”, we get ambushed. We should have known better. After all it’s why we’re here. We’re inside the “In Flanders Fields” museum. The superb “presentations” showcase the horror, the misery, the suffering.

There’s no escape. Our minds can’t fathom it. We try to read the “history” to make sense of it. Impossible. We watch, listen and read of individual acts of bravery and kindness. All for the cause. All given for us.

Five hours later we emerge. Exhausted. Bewildered. But fully understand why not one these heroes must ever be forgotten.

So, how long does a man live, finally?
And how much does he live while he lives?
We fret, and ask so many questions –
Then when it comes to us
The answer is so simple.

A man lives for as long as we carry him inside us,
For as long as we carry the harvest of his dreams,
For as long as we can ourselves live,
Holding memories in common, a man lives.

His lover will carry his man’s scent, his touch,
His children will carry the weight of his love,
One friend will carry his arguments,
Another will hum his favourite tunes,
Another will still share his terrors.

Phew. That’s a bit heavy isn’t it? But it gets you like that.

Half way round, you can access the bell tower of the old Cloth Hall, which houses the museum. 231 steps later we’re at the top. Windswept and taking in the view of the town. As we spiral back down, the 49 bell carillon starts up, just as we near the bottom. Too late. Missed it. We head to the cafe. Then head straight back out. Two euros for a muffin (disguised as a fairy cake) and 10 euros for a croque monsieur. Even you know who would have said “Non!”

Ever curious, I wanted to see this carillon in action. On hearing churches’ multiple bell chimes I’d always imagined an army of keen campanologists bouncing up and down on their spots. Teams of zumba keep fit fanatics keeping immaculate time. Sadly, not one leotard in sight!

Day 4 of the Italian Job – Mission Accomplished? Not Quite . . .

We’re aiming for warmer climes, but they’ll have to wait. We still have unfinished business over here.

Each day, we’re trying to kill two birds with one stone – or it could be three? We hope to maximise each day’s mileage, without jeopardising the journey itself. We need to allow ourselves time for a stop or two. Of course that means an early start. 10.15am our record so far.

So it’s an early goodbye to Ypres, without discovering just exactly how many guest bedrooms this place could possibly house – unless they’re a leftover from the astonishing pigeon post that operated so successfully during WW1. I’d hate to be the one tidying up after that lot checked out!

We intend Tyne Cot to be our last WW1 post, but as it happens it wasn’t. Again, words will never do justice. That’s long gone.

The Royal British Legion have planted a field of Passchendaele poppies at Tyne Cot. Messages from all over in remembrance.

Thousands upon thousands of tributes have been sent

We wander silently through the expanse of 12,000 graves.

Then it’s onwards and upwards. Or in our case downwards.

We’ve enhanced our team. There’s now five of us. Pat has an assistant. We’ve brought her on board as extra security. Thanks to the top people in Fiat Ducato’s think tank, Pat thinks we’re driving a Fiat 500 – all 3.5metres. Consequently on our previous trip she constantly tried to “boldly go where no one has gone before.” At times she behaved a little bit like me. Her confident cultured tones disguising the fact she was ignorant of the height, width and weight of Beastie. We think she may have thought she was traveling with a different Mr S.

With an Alps crossing coming up and time spent navigating the Italian Lakes, we’ve invested in Co-Pilot. Residing in tablet form, it houses a “Sheila”. An Oz with an attitude. Whereas Pat politely proffers her instructions, “Little Missy” brashly barks them. A woman at work. She comes from the land down under. She knows about big things.

Low tunnels. Weak bridges. Narrow lanes. Dirt tracks. Farmer’s fields – even Hyper-Marche height restricting barriers – all a thing of the past!

We’ll see.

Day 5 – Right Place, Right Time? Not For So Many . . .

A literal case of deja vue brings us back to another genius painter’s abode, but not before we get side-tracked.

Early starts are becoming a habit as we steam our way south to Essoyes, home and workplace of Renoir. Leaving Belgium behind we’re back in familiar France. An impressive privately maintained memorial, to the ten thousand French soldiers who gave their lives at the battle of the Marne, employs us to halt.

Today, the once a year ceremony, at the “Ferme de Navarin”, is just about to take place. The young soldiers parade their well practiced drills. Some get presented awards. The whole thing brought to a fitting finale with a rousing tribute. It joins their force with those long gone.

We tried our luck in Essoyes a few months ago. Got there five minutes before the “must have” ninety minute lunch break. Moved on, couldn’t then afford the time. So we’re back again and more organised. Tiny, tiny village lanes try to torment us. Beastie’s having none of it. We know exactly where we are and where we’re going to park. No problem. Getting cocky methinks, but it’s a good feeling.

The visual presentation of his family and work life open our eyes to his brilliance and his tenacious character when riddled with rheumatoid arthritis in his later years, yet still painting – even on the morning of his death.

The guided route takes us to a quiet river spot, where he’d sit and paint local women as they came down with their laundry.

Day 6 – Plans, plans and whether . . .

Flexibility. That’s what it’s all about isn’t it? Home on wheels, so what’s the big problem?

With one eye on the road ahead and the other three on the forecasts to where we intend to be in a couple of days time, we make a decision. Intentions of a three nighter at Annecy, backed up with a Mt Blanc trip are shelved. Thunderstorms and snow are on their way. It’s a no brainer.

Aiming for another long haul day we stop off at Cascade des Tufs, south east of Arbois. It’s a stunning pic-nic spot frequented by Louis Pasteur and his family. We slip into snap-happy mode. Why take one when fifty will do. With days (and minds) blurring into one, they’ll bring our foggy future into focus.

Pity we forgot the sarnies. We could do with them. Italy still seems a long way away. We’re our own worse enemies steering clear of the motorways. Pat and Missy have kept us on the not so straight and not so narrow – so far . . .

Missy guides us lovingly up and through the Haut Jura mountains. Pat riding as shotgun. Hairpin bendingly beautiful views. First left then right, tempt the driver to divert his concentration. The on board Beastie “UP” button comes into play. A gizmo of a turbo booster that gives him a kick up the backside whenever he gets out of breath on some of the sharper inclines and curves. We all catch our breath at St Claud. It’s a big, big town. A crazy canyon that should house no more than pretty little hill side abodes. A raging river deep below. Instead, high rise blocks perch high up, precipitously either side. Massive Jenga towers casting their shadows. Blotting out what’s left of the daylight.

We’re aiming for a shadowy one nighter at Villard St Sauveur close by. Rolling to a stop alongside the Accueil, Beastie is being bombarded. A sub-sonic low base rhythm reverberates his innards. Our ribs feel the tickle too. The local rave overflows. It’s Friday evening. We DON’T feel like dancing. The German frau assures us it’ll be over soon. It is, but not soon enough. We’re cream crackered.

All that’s left to keep us awake is the . . . . . zzzzz

Beastie takes a deserved nap too. He’s got to get us up top that elevated road tomorrow morning and higher.

Day 7 – Rolling and Tumbling in Toblerone-Land

With ears popping like a shaken Corona bottle stopper, we go up, up and UP. The rain however, decides to meet us half way, how thoughtful, and comes down, down, down.

With twenty four hours or more of rain forecast we aim to travel as far east as we can today. Easier said than done. The climbs and steep downhills hinder.

We’re going nowhere fast. That’s because Beastie has another useful on-board gizmo. A bit like a 747s reverse thrust. Press the DOWN button and hey presto the engine adopts a new approach as it assists and resists Newton’s basic law and prevents Beastie’s brakes burning up as it re-enters the lower atmosphere. Parachute employment not necessary.

Suisse hier kommen wir

Then we’re up and over and skirting the northern shoreline of Lake Lausanne. It’s really beautiful. We can’t see much of it.

A massive lake that takes us a couple of hours to circumnavigate – is that the African Queen?

Aiming to stop at Brig. Our A.C.S.I. book indicates German spoken. We usually phone ahead. i.e. “I” usually phone ahead. No fear of making a fool of myself. Second nature. Done it many times before. Prep brain for fifth form vocab. Hmm, asking them where the Bahnhof is won’t help us. Nor letting them know that das Buch is on the table. In any event, don’t want to impress too much.

Clears throat as phone the other end is picked up.

“Hello?” Ah, guten Morgen “Ja?” Wir haben ein campingwagon “Ja?” Wir . . . . (frantically searches brain cells for the German word “Need” – perhaps an off the cuff call wasn’t such a good idea) Wir . . . . er, er . . . “Ja?” – “Parlez-vous francais?” Oh – yes, I mean Oui. Nous voudrions une . . . . Or would you prefer to speak in English? . . . Can I get back to you on that?

Day 8 – Time to get Divorced . . .

For better, for worse; in good times and bad times; through the ups and downs; round the many, many roundabouts; in blazing sunshine; in torrential rain; around every route baree; across summits; through shady valleys; I promise to get you there . . . .via roads designated only as roads; to the exclusion of all others; including off the beaten tracks; blind five foot wide alleys; no through roads; height restricted tunnels; weight restricted bridges; farmers fields; single lane mountain passes; toll motorways; especially toll motorways . . . .

Today we head out and upwards from the Alpine town of Brig at 2,500 feet altitude. Only 4,000 feet to go before we’re up, over and through the Simplon Pass. Clouds and mist clear as we reach a view point. Too good an opportunity.

Togged up against the nippy 6C north easterly

He’s got a better bird’s eye view though

It’s all downhill now. In more ways than one. I over-ride Mary-Ann’s first choice, so we head to a site north of Verbania on the shore of Lago Maggiore. It’s supposed to be “off-season”. The lake side road is heaving. It takes us nearly an hour to get virtually nowhere. When we do, there’s only one pitch left for one night only. Oops. We want three to recuperate. We’ve seen good weather’s on its way. Mary-Ann bites her tongue. I make a very quick phone call.

We “engage” Pat to guide us back along the same road, but now south. We can’t wait, so I key in co-ordinates and select “Fastest Route”. Big, big mistake. Little did I realise part of the A26 motorway, skirts and runs parallel to the lakeside route, but much higher up. You’d have thought I’d have learned this lesson by now. Before we know it there’s no turning back and we’re on it. You may think “what’s the big deal?” Well. For one, in Italy (like some other EU countries) you need to buy and display a “vignette” ticket on your windscreen. (we don’t have one) For two, without it you not only have to pay the motorway toll, but a hefty fine too. Just before we enter on to the motorway, we flash past two red outlined circular signs housing motorbike symbols with the words “FINO 249” “FINO 149”. Blymey, what must the “FINO” be for a huge MOHO? Ronnie Corbett’s famous words from Sorry, “Language Timothy”, would have been quite appropriate at this point.

We dodge off at the first opportunity. Down into no-mans land. We now rue the passing of the Rues as we become hemmed in via the Vias. Pat & Missy are sent to Coventry. We just need to get back down “there”. The tiny hillside villages are fed by even tinier lanes. We enter nothing more than a hamlet of a dozen buildings. And into its “Piazza”. All sides about as long as Beastie! There are two exits. To the right a five foot wide option. That would suit Scoot. Ahead and governed by a traffic light on red, a one way through only, signed “Authorised Use for Buses Only” [Autorizzato solo per bus]. In for a penny in for a pound. We edge down cautiously closer and can almost smell the lake. We’re now using the kind lady on our phone’s Maps app. Her linguistic skills are sadly lacking as her crazy pronunciation leads us towards a tunnel. It’s two metres high . . . (!$%**!!) “Sorry”.

We reverse 100 metres or so and by chance find somewhere to park and cool down. I engage Google Earth and zoom in. Not wanting to remain in the wilderness for too long I jump down from the cab and adopt a faster version of an Aboriginal Walkabout and go “Run-About.”Find a Via out. Smiles all round? Not quite yet.

We arrive much later (would you believe?) at Castelletto Ticino. The tiny site has a small, excellent restaurant. Everything on the menu available as a take away. The perfectly cooked sea bass, king prawns, downed with our favourite Turckheim Pinot Gris encourages us to laugh – just a little . . . .

Days 9 & 10 – Time to chill and get warm . . .

If we were actually sardines we probably wouldn’t mind, but so far the Italian sites cram us in like wrapped Geisha toes.

French sites allow minimum 80m2; here we’re lucky to get 40m2. Enough for Beastie plus the awning. Not quite a township. Still a couple of metres between yawning awnings.

Beastie’s third row back, but still only 20 paces from “the beach”

At least the Italian sites allow us the luxury of hot water for showers and dish washing. Many French chaud are faux. Luke warm at a push. Some just froid. Leave us cold.

No chance of that today. We’re warming nicely on the site’s own beach. Toasting in fact. We’re right down at the southern end of Lago Maggiore and its waters are warm. We make the most of it. Miss the opportunity to do a bit of synchronised swimming with an unlikely partner.

Just as well sardines are off the menu today

Make the most of both days here while the weather remains dry and warm. We suspect this is merely the filling.

Day 11 – Over at Lago d’Iseo

Last in means first out – that’s just as well for us, almost. What will tomorrow bring? A smiley face? Not at first that’s for sure.

Another tiny pitch and the most expensive so far. It’s a one nighter, so we don’t grin, but bear it. It’s a short trip today. Arrive early and take a lake-side stroll. We’re at “that” time of life.

The Iseo town church looks as if it’s in need of some renovation . . .

But it’s tardis-like interior proves us wrong,

Its carillon bell tower rings out a short burst announcing 5pm. Its ancient incoherent score, scores nil punti.

Day 12 – One own goal; a screaming thirty yard equaliser; then a last minute loser . . .

The Own Goal: Quite how the Italian MOHO just off to our right and down hill, intended to maneuver off site, was going to be worth watching. A tree stood on each corner of his tiny pitch, plus a concrete enclosed flower bed randomly positioned for good measure. Something had to give. Little did I realise it was us. The Iti’s missus was scampering this way then the other. Shouting instructions to hubbyo. Letting him know how many centimetres room he had at each point turn. All eyes were glued. Waiting for the inevitable. It seemed Beastie might hinder his swing out, so without thinking, I reverse four or five feet. My good turn for the day. She scampers our way and picks up Beastie’s electrical cable which has been snapped out of his side. (Oh dear, oh dear, I tut.) Although we have a 25 metre length, his front wheel snags it and yanks it out. Bringing with it the now broken connection. “It’s OK? Si?” she questions. Aagh!!!

Two of the three pins have come away too. Twenty minutes later I’ve codged a temporary fix that will last until we’re home. (I hope). The irony is, even with my kind gesture, he can’t get out our way. He reverses back into his pitch and trundles the other way, and out!

It seems MOHO pitches are hard to come by. Our next one is situated right on Lake Garda. I email the site we’ve chosen (don’t usually do this), the evening before. Get confirmation of a three night lake side spot. 4K north of Peschiera del Garda.

The Thirty Yard Screamer: On arrival we get allocated our pitch. The last available today apparently. Unusually, we walk down the 100 metres to check it out. We want to make sure there’s enough room to get Scoot off board. It’s perfect. Large enough and with a grandstand view across the lake to the mountains. A German couple are chatting and see us eyeing up the spot. “This is ours” he says. “That’s weird” I reply, “it’s just been given to us”. Both couples immediately turn back and head towards reception. The atmosphere does not feel friendly. To lighten it I jokingly say “Tell you what. If you can out run me back up the hill to reception, then you can have it” He says nothing, but lengthens his stride. Leaves his wife to walk silently along with us. As we enter, we hear him being told that indeed that spot was already booked. “I don’t believe you” he insists. “You want me to show you the emails?” He didn’t see it coming. Top left hand corner. Nearly bursts the net. A Geoff Hurst screamer. He’s picking the ball out of the back of the net before he has time to say “Stinkstiefel”. He thinks it’s all over. It is now!

The Last Minute Loser: I mis-judge the amount of room needed to get Scoot off. Taking her out tomorrow for her first spin.We need to reverse Beastie four feet. What a pain. I’ve already set-up our Al-Fresco awning covered Beastie-side dining area. Fifteen minutes later Scoots off and Beastie’s back in place. Out across the lake, dark clouds are gathering. If they head our way, we could be in for a spot of rain me-thinks. Better put the awning up quickly. Must keep stuff and Scoot dry. A sharp breeze picks up. Sixty seconds later and by the time I’ve got two of the four awning pegs in place, it feels like a mini Irma is pounding us into submission. So this is a squall then. I’m already drenched and fearful the awning is going to get ripped off. I should have attached the new safety straps (bought for just such an occasion), but they’re still in the box. Shout for my waterproof. Hammer the last two long pegs in place. Awning’s flapping away madly, like some demented bird of prey, that’s been caught in a snare. I join it. Hold on to the cross bar to keep it as steady as possible. The gusts pick up a tad more. It feels as if me and Beastie will be lifting off for a tandem para-glide at any moment. We both hang on for dear life until it abates slightly. I let go. Time to get dry.

Days 13 & 14 – O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?

Mary-Ann’s birthday today! As I said to her earlier “I never imagined I’d ever fancy a sixty-seven year old, but I do!!”

Intentions of a day out in Verona, about 30K east. We dry off Scoot. Nip down to the local train station. Get there in good time. Only one very patient multi-lingual lady on duty. Auto-machine doesn’t cater for the trip we need. We wait in line. Patience is a virtue. Especially when it seems every other traveler is making unnecessary small talk with her. We miss our train. Next one due in two hours. We book, but for tomorrow. Decide to explore Peschiera del Garda instead. First impressions can sometimes be misleading. We leave the touristy shops to do what they do best. Slope off along the old town wall to get a taste of the real town. Quay-side is full with gastronomiquers.

The old walled port and town look inviting

Early afternoon clouds over, so we take Scoot out up the coast and into the hills. Let Scoot lead. Not a good idea. Most back roads are dead ends. Make it back to base camp just before more winds and rain set in.

Following morning we Scoot back down to the station. Verona weather promises to stay dry. It’s about due. Knowing a little more of the local lingo would be a help. They say a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. Never more so apt as when the garbled announcement gets drowned out. Whoever is on the other end of the microphone is doing a very good impersonation of an Italian Professor Stanley Unwin. The displayed departure times don’t marry up either. Nothing’s on time. We go for it. It seems to be pointing in the right direction. It is!

Verona is bustling. It’s Saturday. Lots to see though. We bypass the Arena. There’s a show on this evening. Head up towards Miss Capulet’s “supposed” balcony. We’re in luck. She’s in.

The archway leading into the courtyard is an obliteration of love messages. It’s been transformed into a pilgrims’ passageway. A random English one reads “Thank you for your love Romeo & Juliet. My Dave is so dear to me” Que? Hopefully this one is not a poetic romance killer.

Juliet is playing to the crowd. Or is she searching for someone?

Nestling in Piazza delle Erbe is Lambertini Tower, Verona’s tallest. Its 290 steps give us something aerobic to do. The views are worth it.

The exercise has given us an appetite. We relax and watch.

There’s a joint enterprise going on in the city today promoting eastern European countries’ artistic and cultural stuff. It’s different. Various streets and piazzas make way for hay bale races, toboggan rides, poor childrens’ games, wrestling, live music, dance and much more. It’s a good atmosphere.

We round the day off by attending Mass in Verona’s majestic cathedral.

Days 15 & 16 – A parco worth visiting . . .

We’re being tested. Are we real “campers”, or just a couple of tourists driving around in a home on wheels?

Parco Guardio Sigurta happens to be on our route today. A huge cultivated piece of landscape. So massive you can hire a buggy – they’re not quite retro Prisoner-esq, but with no sign of Number 2, or Rover, we’re left free to explore.

Our three hour stop over means we arrive later (7pm) at Lido degli Scacchi, near Comacchio. First ever stop at a “Holiday Village”. It’s got everything and the facilities are superb. We judge a site mainly by how good the wash-up and showering is. We like “hot” water. Generally in short supply in France. Italy is compensating. Just as well now it’s chillier. We decide on a two nighter, to make use of the laundry. While it’s on the go we manage a very brief recce to the beach and then an even briefer dip, before it clouds over and rain sets in for the next 18 hours.

It stayed like this for less than an hour . . . Fantastic beach and superb calm swimming

Cooped up like a couple of pigeons, is not quite how we envisaged spending our days. Ironing (not me!), books, blogging and a film fill the rest of the day and evening. It’s been mixed weather to say the least, but we need to do what starlings do and stretch our wings more.

Day 17 – The sun hasn’t got his hat on, so it’s not hip, hip, hip hooray!

It’s all about location, location, location. Right? But hey, there are other factors that need consideration too. Aren’t there?

We leave Florenze site as we find it. Wet.

Mary-Ann keeps an eye as I steer Beastie through another obstacle course.

Pretty, is not the first word that springs to mind as we meander around this site to check the facilities. Some people have a certain “panache” in their style of dress. Others in the way they maintain their garden or decorate their home. It’s the same on the sites we stay at. The more gaudy the colours chosen for the sanitary blocks, usually indicates “yes, we know it’s basic, with only cold water for showers and wash-up, but hey, look how dazzlingly bright and cheerful the walls look” The previous “village” site had inset sinks and composite worktops, in muted colours, so obviously the bar has been raised somewhat.

A little further down the coast, here at Camping Adria, Riccione, they don’t have a bar, which is why it has a style all of its own. Not quite Beverly Hillbillies, but certainly edging towards it. A subtle blend of adequate, usable, antiquated and derelict, with a bit of cowboy thrown in for good measure. Possibly perfectly acceptable to Jed Clampett before he shot up some Texas T.

It’s good to see that they’re upgrading some of the statics though

Let me continue by saying that Beastie has an inside that actively accentuates the sound of anything that lands on his roof. This is usually not an issue except at night. If a leaf lands on it we hear it. Beastie’s roof is three feet above our sleeping ears. It’s waterproof, but not soundproof.

At home, it’s good when it rains at night and is dry during the day. When it does that here, there are pros and cons. Ideally, we like it to rain in the evening, if it has to. Generally though, it prefers to wait until we’re tucked up. Last night being a typical example. Less than ten minutes after lights out (00.08) and drifting into la-la land. Someone throws a few tiny pieces of gravel onto the roof. Followed by a mumble “I think it’s starting to rain”. Turn over and try to ignore it. A few more get thrown. Followed by a grumble. “You’re not wrong”. Ears pick up. Is it just a passing shower? A cup full follows. “Don’t think so”. Then a bucket full. Followed by an exasperated “Oh hell!” Followed by a cart load full. Pull the duvet over head and stuff face into pillow making sure to wrap sides around ears. Followed by a continuous stream of lorry loads . . . “un-repeatable”

Seven hours and thirty nine minutes later it relents.

Followed by, good news . . . the sun is searching for his hat.

Hip, hip, hip hooray!

Day 18 – Bikes out for the first time . . .

Flat, little wind and brightening skies makes a perfect excuse to break the bikes out for the first time. Madman Shazby doesn’t need asking twice. Time to blow some cob-webs away.

The seven mile beach side bike path into Rimini is sandwiched either side. To our left, hotel, after hotel, after hotel. Like a mini mountain range, they cast an earlier evening shadow across the beach. To our right, each hotel has its own allocated plot. Large size gardens’ worth that hardly eat into the massively huge flat beach. This side is bustling with armies of workers. Hotels closed for the season. They are busy cleaning, washing and tidying. Mini swimming pools, kinder-gardens, beach huts, play and sports areas, bars, sun-loungers, pergolas – all under attack. Winter is coming.

Most set-ups have their own colour schemes

It warms up as we take in Rimini’s old Roman town (no surprise there then). We are fast becoming connoisseurs of Italian ice-creams. This “boutique” parlour offers up an unbelievable choice. They pile it on. We don’t mind.

It’s very posh. But not the prices.

Day 19 – Another border crossing sees us enter the smallest republic on earth . .

A Disney Style, picture postcard sort of place with great views all round.

According to Google maps the “short” trip across country to San Marino should have taken thirty two minutes. Eighty minutes later and Scoot is parked up at the foot of the town wall. Can’t blame Scoot. Italian road signing the cause. Or rather lack of it. Plus the fact that the route in is rather higgledy-piggledy. Stopping every few minutes to establish our location doesn’t help. We could see this high rise from every view point along the way, without seemingly getting much closer. At times we wondered how on earth we were going to get up there. As many hair-pin bends outside as inside.

It’s so quirky here, you almost half expect a real life cartoon character to pop up around the next corner. A rich place in its own right. It rakes in the tourist euros. Half ancient alley-ways bustle with shops and shoppers.

The local force always ready to mop up any sign of trouble

We give our quads a good work out for an hour or two before settling on this little spot for a spot of lunch. Can you spot Mrs S?

Yes, you may ask. Where are our shorts? Still a bit too nippy on Scoot for them. Sunny, but not hot, hot, hot.

Then fifty five minutes later we’re back on the flat. Coast-side.

Days 20 & 21 – Not quite pilgrims, but at least we’re wearing sandals . . .

With a few more days of culture lined up in humpy Umbria, we could have done with packing a mule as well as Scoot.

We’re on our way to Green Village, a few K west of Assisi, lying in its morning shadow. First port of call however, is Urbino. It houses the Palazzo Ducale high up inside. The street to reach it is steep. Really steep. Not quite cable-car territory. A funicular railway would do a roaring trade. As the brow comes into view the build up of lactic acid kicks in. We expect to be greeted by locals touting All Black thighs and Haka faces.

Olive oil not necessary to help the food slide down

Italy has more UNESCO World Heritage Sites than any other country and this is one of them. The huge Palazzo is home to many famous works of art. Raphael’s “La Muta” stands out, Mona Lisa-like, but not quite.

As ever, today’s trip is motorway free. That has it’s downside. In France, you could say one in a hundred roads is not fit for purpose. In Italy, so far, eighty in a hundred would be a fair guesstimate. To the right of the crown and to the left of the (invisible) kerb, ie. the very place where you want your wheels, is a conglomeration of ruts, cracks, holes, undulations and bumps. The roads feel and look like the after effects of one series of mini earthquakes after another. (perhaps they are) After a few more weeks of this we’ll probably start to tremor too!

Today we’re up bright and early (relatively speaking) to catch the 9.30am free shuttle up to Assisi. It nestles a couple of miles away over Beastie’s shoulder. Nobody told us we needed a ticket. So we miss it. The kind young receptionist takes us instead.

The entrance into the main Piazza is security controlled. A couple of young whippersnappers on duty. Automatic weapons at the ready? Religiously search old ladies’ bags, who’ve done well just to get this far up the steep inclines. It’s all out of breath smiles and anti-climax. No sign of any semtex, even if they do appear well padded around their midriffs.

Once inside the Basilica, a different type of security is in order. The entrance sign indicates, no dogs, no photos, no hats . . . no bathing costumes? The mind boggles. Perhaps that’s what the soldiers were really searching for. [“Phew, that was close. Thought they’d got us there for a minute.” – “Me too. Good job we put them on underneath”]

Teams of mafioso silently scan and sneak up sneakily to remind anyone who they think is even thinking of taking a photo. They have their hands full. Fingers wagging like puppy dogs’ tails. This gets me mad. I ready my camera and start randomly shooting from the hip, just to make John Wayne proud. “Silenzio” signs are everywhere. How dumb? There are hundreds and hundreds of visitors flocking around and chattering, almost as loudly as the swirling swifts outside. As it reaches a seemingly unacceptable crescendo, a big-brother voice bursts out over the loud speaker system “SILENCE, SILENCE . . . SHUSH!” Momentarily the chatter is replaced with ironic whispers.

It’s pretty up here though and that compensates

Day 22 – Another day high as kites sees us fly up to Perugia . ..

We’ve come to the conclusion that the ancient Italians constructed their towns whenever they came across a high hill or small mountain. They’d flatten the top. Build a high thick perimeter wall around it to make them feel cosy and secure inside. Well, until marauders came marauding.

Then, they had to add another level of security. So they built a series of mazy zig-zag roads, all seemingly heading upwards and into the “Centro”. At every zig and every zag they added a confusing multitude of mis-leading signs. By the time the marauding garrison of charioteers had manically marched up and down a few times, like bit players in the Duke of York’s nursery rhyme, they’d have enough of this nonsense, give up and go and drown their frustrations in pots of posca.

By the time we’d circumnavigated the block a few times, our necks were starting to resemble pasta twirls. However, we are made of sterner stuff. Plus we have Scoot.

It’s so much easier on our modern day chariot

This Etruscan university city houses the Galleria Nazionale dell’Umbria and we head there first. Exquisite iconic icons fill most of the forty galleries. They typify the extraordinary religious renaissance that still breathes heart into this country’s faith.

As in France, they’re not afraid to fly the flag for their country. Every town hall and many public buildings follow suit. Protective of who they are and what they’ve got. The supermarket fresh produce just one small example. If it’s not grown in Italy they don’t sell it. It makes you wonder if it’s us or them who have been better and fairer player members of the EU?

Maybe after Brexit we’ll fly the flag too . . .

Lunch is followed by a spot of sight seeing around the back streets. We lose ourselves. It’s good to go off the beaten tracks.

Mr S looking as cool as the water from this drinking fountain . . .

Day 23 – A day at the wheel, but it’s been worth it . . .

As each day passes we’re getting to like Italy the more we see of it. Today’s journey is why. It’s not about where we get to. It’s about where we go, to get to.

Beastie’s panoramic windscreen, coupled with raised sitting positions, perfectly position us as we pass view after view after view. We head south from Assisi towards our one nighter in the Parco Nazionale d’Abruzzo. Spaghetti inclines and declines on the menu for today. All very tasty. Leave us wanting seconds.

Beastie’s brought us over those far off mountains; across the valley below; now we’re heading up again . . .

Beastie’s doing his best, but on one of the steeper sections, gets outpaced by a two seater mini pocket-rocket. Steve Zodiac storms past in Fireball Junior. AKA “XL8”. Can’t tell if that’s Robert at his side. They’re probably on their way home. Beastie’s blushes get saved on the downhills as gravity grabs him by the horns.

The site is how we like it. Out in the wild with more than the bare essentials.

Many non-touristy sites becoming less crowded

In fact, from just the other side of the perimeter fence we hear the continual barks from the local brown bear community. We’re striking porridge off the menu.

If the weather hadn’t turned again we might have stayed a few days to explore. So instead of turning East to the rain, we head West to the sun in Sorrento.

Day 24 – From the Forest to the Rumble in the Jungle – as we traverse Napoli

As comparisons go, we couldn’t have moved further from the sublime Abruzzo region. Not quite ridiculous, but certainly crazy.

We came with no pre-conceived ideas. No knowledge of “Italy”, as such. Just the usual fragments of art, history, culture, food and football. It’s like that feeling you get when you open that really special and unexpected birthday or Christmas present. Not on your “must have” list, but now received, you’ll cherish it. Today’s journey’s presents were just like that and kept on flowing.

A few years ago, just north of Birmingham, about a long throw-in from Villa Park, Spaghetti Junction used to confuse and scare the hell out of many a driver. A series of multi-layered Yankee style clover leaf inter-sections.

Imagine quadrupling its current day traffic. Then placing all of those intersections on one horizontal plane, removing all road markings and signing, including traffic lights. Now add pedestrians and a whole bunch (I mean a really big bunch) of maniacal scooter drivers. Then, make everybody on the road really late for an appointment, or very impatient. Finally and just for good measure, take a larger than life Beastie, that obeys every command from Missy, and throw him into the mix. Then re-name it Napoli!

We had previously thought of Nice as “Scoot City”. Not any more. Beastie was having the time of his life. Cut up from all angles. Hooted at from every which way. The likes of him haven’t come this way since the first pizza bake off. Mary-Ann, too tense to capture the hilarious scenes unfolding as we rumbled through. I thought I’d been filming, but hadn’t. Only managing a few seconds, before I was relieved of further duties.

The section above was probably the tamest. Allowing me just one hand on the steering wheel. Did I mention the road surface?

Day 25 – If it blows again, then we’re going to have a grandstand view . . .

Mary-Ann was last seen in Sorrento when she was a young teenager, visiting on a summer holiday with her parents. She wonders if it will have changed much.

Little did we know that when we arrived on spec at this coastal site, that we’d be parked high up staring across the Bay of Naples at Mount Vesuvius. This huge and complex terraced site is carved into the cliff side. It’s also awash with olive trees. We’re pitched between two. On the terrace below, a netted grove hosts a flying circus of pipistrelles. A gang of silent assasins out for the kill.

There’s also a pool and we’re in luck. It’s not yet closed for this evening or the season (like many of the others). I’m desperate to swim off the day’s drive. Just before making a dash for it I pick up two olives that have dropped down. I hand them to Mary-Ann. “It’ll be interesting to see what ‘fresh’ ones taste like, won’t it?”. Then I’m off. On my return Mary-Ann hands me one. “Was yours really nice?” I ask. She doesn’t reply. I pop it straight in and chew down on it. I hadn’t been privy to the TV programme she saw a few weeks ago. Showing how olives get “processed” and made fit for consumption. I was all trust. How foolish. It’s unlike the now beaming Mary-Ann to prank. She got me. Good and proper. The taste is hard to describe. It’s like biting into a really bitter chilli. Its juicy hot flavour quickly ingrains itself into the roof of your mouth. Water, fruit juice and milk eventually do the trick. I owe her one!

Following morning we shuttle down into town. It’s heaving. Unfamiliar sites unable to spark a memory for Mary-Ann. This lot wasn’t here last time.

Virtually impossible to get around without owning one of these

This fella has no problem breaking through the crowds

We take in a brilliant black and white photo exhibition by Raffaele Celentano and stumble across the fascinating tiny Music Box Museum. Mary-Ann can’t resist doing a turn . . . or two!

Day 26 – Herculaneum will have to wait . . .

The local Circumvesuvian line, connects Sorrento to Napoli, via Pompei, and Herculaneum, where we intend to visit today. Another day of strikes throws the time-tables into turmoil with no guarantees.

We arrive at the station in good time and then decide to come back tomorrow. So it’s back to the site. Unload Scoot. A perfectly warm, sunny day. The Amalfi coastal road beckons.

We’ve heard about it from other campers. We know we shouldn’t let Beastie loose on it. We’re intrigued to see what all the fuss is about. It doesn’t take us long. Scoots hips swivel this way, then the other. We follow suit a la the late great Mike Hailwood. For centuries this old Roman road has hugged the rugged cliffs tightly, for fear of dropping into the Tyrrhenian Sea far below. The views are stunning.

Just over half way there – the town of Positano

It’s just over two hours before we’re standing in the central piazza in Amalfi. It gets so busy they control the pedestrian flow with traffic lights. Today is no exception.

If they find a ledge, they build a house on it

Day 27 – Herculaneum – a modern-day town template created by the Romans . . .

The Romans seemed to have got town dwelling down to a T here at Herculaneum. Running water, under road waste sewage, pavements, shops, pubs, theatre, gymnaseum, sports field and posh villas with mosaic floors and elaborate wall frescoes. The residents must have thought they’d got it made. Until . . .

Twenty-four stops and eighty minutes later we step down from the Circumvesuvian line. Like a rush hour crush on the London Underground, but with more to view. Everyone drawn to that fateful place like Eloi.

Seems the Roman psyche hasn’t changed much over a couple of millenia. Herculaneum folk were not fond of eating lunch at home. They set up special food and bar-like establishments around the various town districts. Trend setters for twenty-first century Italians. Their legacy lingers. One street feels familiar. A row of shops with flats above.

Street side house entrance. Road & pavement still in tact and better than many in current day Napoli.

Maybe one of their demi-gods saw it coming

This, one of the posher places. The main living area with matching columns and decorated walls. Dulux matchmaker system not an option. Lavish living at its best.

Day 28 – We couldn’t move on without saying hello to Napoli . . .

An eleven hour day with one or two frustrating moments to test our patience and endurance.

We want to make the most of our last day in this area. We’ve always moved on after three nights. We thought five here would have allowed us a little breathing space. But there’s so much to see. We’re starting to develop sight-seeing sickness.

We pay extra and catch the “Express”. With only six stops instead of the usual thirty four, we save thirty minutes and our sanity. From Garibaldi Station we’re navigating the streets with the help of that kind Mr Google and his Maps app. A couple Gary’s biscuits wouldn’t have gone amiss. I’ve “pinned” Napoli Sotterranea. We arrive just in time for the next English guided tour – so we think. Discover that this is not “the” Napoli Sotterranea we expected. There are three of them apparently. All offer a different experience. The one we want is a forty-two minute walk into the Spanish Quarter. Surprising sights spring up unexpectedly to stir our senses along with our sense of the real Napoli. Inner city living as it’s meant to be.

Luciano eat your heart out . . .

The ingenious Greeks created Neapolis. Homes built from the volcanic rock below. The Romans utilised the underground cavities left, creating an aquaduct water system. Every household with access to fresh water. Huge water reserves only a rope and bucket-pull away. The whole system drained in the late nineteenth century due to contamination, resulting in a huge cholera outbreak. It’s where we’re heading. Luca, our guide, leads us down forty metres into a tiny part of the Napoli Sotterranea. He’s full of jaunty jokes and anecdotes to help us remember the facts and ease the tensions of a couple of claustrophobic women.

The emptied system housed and saved many Neapolitans as they scurried underground when the American B17s bombarded their city above in 1943. Luca, in boisterous Richard O’Brien mode, leads us through the not so Crystal Maze. It’s obvious he loves his work for the Underground Association. An hour later and we re-surface. Eyes squint as if exiting the Saturday morning matinee. But not before squeezing through one or two crevices.

The easy journey back does not round the day off nicely. My fault entirely. A few stops from home and I jump up and out of our carriage. I’ve seen the word Sorrento. Mary-Ann quizzically follows. The doors close. The train moves off. It takes a second to register. The station looks different from when we left. That’s because it is. The full sign reads Piano di Sorrento. Our stop is a few K down line. The next train is an hour away. The conversation develops an edge to it. Signs of verbal frustration being kept on a leash – just. The Taxi-less stand doesn’t help. All forgotten and forgiven by the time we’re enjoying supper in the main square in Sorrento, ninety minutes later.

Day 29 – Didn’t like to, or want to, but had to admit defeat today . . .

Many museums, archeological sites, galleries and gardens are free to enter on the first Sunday of every month. This means that the roads in the vicinity of any participating in this freebie can get busy. Very, very busy.

We didn’t know this. So couldn’t consider the consequences. When you have a couple of bright sparks on board who know their way around this planet’s roads like the back of their hands, you get lazy. You don’t get a real map out. You tend to do that after you reach your destination. So trust is key. Sort of.

We had a long journey south planned. In search of some more sun. The terrain hinders. We’ve hardly seen a straight road over here. The Ancient Romans must have been frustrated. Their town layouts always adhering to an American Style grid system. They couldn’t do that with the roads. Too many mountains. That’s probably one of the reasons why they invaded us. Just so that they could lay down a few Icknield Streets and Fosse Ways. Get it out of their system.

Missy knows we don’t like motorways. In her wisdom, we head north to go south. We obey. End up passing (very slowly) the Pompeii ruins. Two hours after leaving Sorrento we’d gone about 20K. Time to review our plans. As it happens I hadn’t spotted that the site we were heading for was closed for the season. We change course for Paestum, via Salerno. Bad move. Salerno is a very large container port/old town. How the container lorries get down there will remain a mystery. We couldn’t. Virtually all streets are narrow and one way. The type that get me on edge. We edge down a particularly steep lane. End up nose to nose with a local Bobbie on point duty. Eye brows raise in tandem. I didn’t want to see him. He certainly didn’t want to see me. I discern a miniscule shake of the head. I read his mind. “Here come another idiot”. He quickly realises his first few sentences are falling on stupid ears. He can’t speak English. “Parlez-vous Francais?” Then it’s all a confusion of tout droit, à gauche, à droit, head nodding and thumbs up. He gets us onto a motorway heading the wrong way. We end up paying a toll for the very first time. Life is sad. But doesn’t stay sad. We eventually pitch up in the pines of Paestum. Beach side. A sixty second walk works wonders. Flat sands, Calm sea. Calming souls. We take a long walk.

We bump into an ex-US marine who’s served in Afghanistan and Iraq. He’s re-tracing his granddad’s footsteps. Seems Paestum was one of the WW2 landing sites used for the Allied Invasion of Italy.

Days 30 to 34 – Beach bums becoming us . . . .

With the knowledge that in less than four weeks we’ll be doing an Arnie, we decide to stay put. Blue skies. Warm sea. Soft sand. All too tempting.

We awake to discover an invasion force is preparing to march. A Roman army of a micro scale. Scouts appear from within minuscule crevices, laying down their odour trails. One, then another, then another, then another . . . Excited, one millimetre long. A regiment of tiny soldiers following invisible lines. Looking to plunder and loot. Silently scouring for hidden treasures. They’ve done this before. Trained and honed. Precise and orderly. The scouts occasionally falling back to pass on valuable information. Their intentions are in vain. One by one the on-board giant gains the upper hand. Squashing them as easily as Gulliver squashing Lilliputians. There is no escape. They don’t have a plan B. One hour later the few remaining stragglers get picked off. The sniper’s thumb is relentless.

Later we go back in time – 2,500 years. Visit the ancient Greek ruins at Paestum. A twenty minute walk. Three massive temples majestically lording it over the Roman city ruins that lie scattered around their feet.

Following day we play dead. Lifelessly lying. Like browning burgers. Turning occasionally. Not quite well done. The warm waters help to cool and soothe, before more of the same. A wave-side walk brings us to a small sandbank. Thumbnail sized sand crabs, oblivious to our birds-eye view, tantilise and mesmerise us with their interactions. Chin-wagging wonders, before their sideways scurries see them nose dive out of sight. The evening sky brings on a different type of wonder.

It doesn’t get any better than this . . . .

Or does it? . . . .

Wednesday 4th and we’re Scooting high up into the hills. A couple of thousand wiggly feet up at Trentinara. It’s well known Cilento’s Terrace gives us fabulous hazy views before we tumble down to explore Agropoli and then back to base before sundown.

We abandon the notion of heading further south to Sicily. Too far and too little time left. One more beach day and then we’re heading east to Matera.

Day 35 – We may have to put Beastie on a diet . . .

A sensible decision nearly backfired. Thankfully, Beastie drew breath, pulled his waist in and didn’t scrape us through.

What is it about past things and people that fascinate us? Why do we feel compelled or even obliged to photograph everything that lies before us? Like huge Blue Whales, we bask around, mouths open. Gawping and gaping. Phones ready. Pods with iPods. Snapping up anything and everything that takes our fancy. Bellies never full. Feeding off trillions of images that get swallowed whole like krill. Hi-tec hiatus not an option.

So we’re off to Sassi di Matera, to do much of the same. On board memory banks to fill. Along with in pocket ones too. We’re a couple of GBs with GBs to spare. We aim to take a look at the ancient cave dwellings that housed the very first Italian inhabitants. It’s an unusual start to the day. We’re organised. We leave before 10am feeling pleased with ourselves. (Other campers can often be heard leaving by 7am.) We do a big shop and restock. Then we head for a mainly toll-free motorway route that Missy has planned for us. The terrain is very hilly. Almost mountainous. No other direct-ish routes open to us. Many sections take us through tunnels. Others across high elevations. Precariously perched atop concrete fingers that span the gorges. Elongated and harp-like as they take in the valleys’ forms. We’re making good time. Not much traffic in either direction. A number of contra-flows start to spring up where the surface is deemed unsafe and needs repair.

Suddenly and with little warning, we are diverted off the motorway. Directed down. Over one roundabout. Then another. (more about their roundabouts another time). The third roundabout has only one exit. Is one-way and heading back up to get us back onto the motorway. A warning sign indicates ahead, maximum width 2.3metres! (you may recall on another occasion in France a height issue) Beastie is 2.3 metres wide. Snap!! Go our brains. “What the . . . .” Go our mouths. As is want on the continent, we have a car hooked on to Beastie’s tail. Stopping and reversing impossible. The logic defies all logic known to humankind. Around the bend we see them. Two Beastie ball bangers. Concrete castraters. So this is where they train their sopranists.

Mary-Ann is having kittens. She knows how important these “special” moments are in the life of our blog. “Get your phone out. Quick! Take a photo” She obeys. Beastie does too. We edge uncertainly past the point of no return. One mile per hour. Oddly, the trailing car does not sound his horn. (an Italian pass-time). No doubt he’s acutely aware that if we get stuck, so does he. He doesn’t want to interrupt Beastie’s concentration. Slowly, slowly, edgy forward. No more than a centimetre or two to spare. Then we’re through and still feeling confused, but mightily relieved.

Missy must have been having a bit of a fit too. She stayed a little confused for the rest of the journey. Couldn’t get over what had happened. Like us, she’s not programmed for the insane. By the time she’d got us to within a couple of K of our real destination, she’d had enough. Run out of road and decided to dump us here . . .

Some sites are in unusual locations, so we tend to just go with the flow. But no site in sight in this residential estate.

Kind Mr Google did the rest.

Beastie was feeling pleased too, as he pulled in. Unharmed. That is, until I clunked his backside on a concrete post backing in to our pitch. Ouch! “Sorry Beastie.”

Day 36 – The art of high rise living at its most basic . . .

The Italians have had a few millenia to practise living in high vantage places. Starting with these amazing cave-like dwellings. It’s no wonder they’ve continued in the same vein.

Matera town, is like so many others, but isn’t. Balanced like shuffled playing cards. Constructed piecemeal houses form a pretty mono mishmash of rubik’s cubes. Attracts worldwide visitors, including us.

We walked up the forty minute one in six zig-zag yesterday evening, so not wanting to get too fit we caught this morning’s free shuttle bus service. It takes us into the heart of the “modern day” Sassi. A regenerated “Bijou” town, since Hollywood and the Italian government decided to invest. Modern divided from the ancient by a huge ravine. The ancient considered by many Holywood filmaker to be a perfect “Jerusalem” location. Both considered perfect for the tourism “buck” by the local administration.

It’s easy to appreciate the other side’s beauty from both sides of “la Gravina”. We take a walk on the wild side. Follow a rocky track not taken by many. Stumble across this church, literally hewn into the rock face.

Meanwhile on the other side of town we come across another church. This strange looking fella greets us as we enter.

“I say old boy. Has anyone dropped a feather?”

Days 37 & 38 – If Italy was a book, or a film, it would probably get mixed reviews . . .

Like a “brilliant” cut gem, Italy is a country of many facets. Not all brilliant however. Our very limited time here may be clouding our possibly unjustified opinions.

Undoubtedly Italy would receive many more likes than dislikes. But you get the feeling that the people don’t care about certain things. The country has so much going for it. Touring eyes (like ours) find it difficult to ignore the unfamiliar. When the non Autostrade roads that you drive on daily are beaten down to a piece of battered and not so flat pile of rubble, then perhaps you’re bound to just accept that this is the norm. We’ve driven on better roads in Iceland. It’s a wonder that half the population don’t drive an SUV. Perhaps the logic is why bother to repair if it’s only going to be destroyed in the next earthquake.

So, we’re bouncing along nicely on our way to Roma. Up the east coast to Bisceglie. We can almost see Dubrovnik on the other side. We turn west, like a couple of pigeons, in two foul swoops. Stopping midway. High up (again) in the Abruzzo National Parc at Opi. Temperature drops to 6C. No signs of any bears this time. Goose pimples competing with the summits. Today we dive down and down and down. Hit Roma’s equivalent of the M25. Just in time for tea-time rush hour. Joy O Joy it’s 25C. The slip roads over here are like static whirling dervishes. They spin you around and around like gymnastic ribbons. You start to wonder if you’ll ever actually join another road. Then suddenly they dump you with a forty metre “run up” (if you’re lucky), to slip into the main stream. Beastie, who is not capable of doing nought to sixty in less than a couple of hours, is not amused. He does his best. Puts his mass to good use. Rolls out like a bull elephant. Daring the zip-mongers to try him on for size.

On our travels we constantly come across another blemish on Italy’s complex complexion. It’s rubbish. They don’t care where it’s left. No pride. A lack of standard sees them “park” it where they fancy. Streams of litter run wild. Mingling with roadside verges, gutters, pavements, even shorelines.

Scenes like these a great pity. Tinge our sensibilities.

There is some roadside beauty to be found though

Day 39 – We cross another border, into the world’s smallest state . .

Set in about 109 acres with 25,000 visitors per day, Vatican City gives you the impression of being more of a financial centre, but its heart still beats blood and life through the veins of the world’s faithful.

Last time I was in Rome was in 1964! Whoa – time needs to slow down methinks. I’m fast becoming part of history!! A few memories still linger from that school trip. One being the hotel soup. Miniscule pasta twirls swirling around in big bowls of thin warm water. Swimming cheek to cheek with tiny “bogey” size pieces of meat. Aimlessly doing their best to numb the ravenous appetites of a bunch of teenagers used to having piles of “English” chips with everything.

Randomly stopped and engaged in polite conversation by Fernandez, a young Sri Lanken. We suspected a hard sell. However, his recommendation to sign up for a guided tour proved to be good advice. The queues were really massive. Our party of twenty, lead by Sabrina, by-passing them all.

She took us for a walk through the museums. It was not a cakewalk. No time to stop or stare. Phones and cameras cranked in unison. A ten-wide column of snap-happy by-passers. Hundreds of thousands of objets d’art. Too many to take in or capture. And why would you? It seems that the Italian Renaissance period went crazy for art. Especially religious art. I was reminded of the 1970s 10cc line – “Art for art’s sake, money for God’s sake”. True or what?

Outside the museums I spotted my favourite

Since 1506 the Swiss Guards have been the official Popes’ Protectors inside the Vatican. They saved Pope Clement VII’s life. Been paying for it ever since.Their fighting gear obviously cut to ribbons in battle. Sewing not their forte.

Day 40 – When in Rome, you walk and walk and walk . . . .

The size of Rome centre is such that it’s all do-able on foot. Problem is, is that there’s so much to do.

A short twenty minute “Urbano” train ride from Prima Porta into Rome’s Flaminia station drops us into pole position for the prime sites.

First port of call, the massive Victor Emmanuel II memorial building – dedicated to the first king of the united Italy. We are keeping in touch with Rudi & Bille, some lovely friends we met in Sorrento. They recommended a trip to the very top. The reward, a spectacular 360 view of the whole city. We’re not disappointed.

Obviously not the view. It’s us, before the view we view

Lunchtime finds us eating our sarnies parked up on two round cannonballs in front of the Pontifical Gregorian University. It’s lunchtime too for a young “trainee” priest. He’s wearing traditional black. Black hair, black collar, black shoes, black rucksack plus an invisible “L” plate. Coming down the entrance steps he’s approached by a beggar. Few words are exchanged. He walks on, but then beckons the beggar over. Opens his rucksack, takes out his rolls. Shares them. They stand facing. Eating and chatting for twenty minutes. He’s now wearing a visible “L”ove plate.

Man to man; human to human; heart to heart; friend to friend.

If it’s a must have photo, then Trevi Fountain is where you go. The masses are being kept under strict control. One lone ranger. No silver bullet. Just a silver whistle. His shrill spills over most heads. Lost in translation. We’re cracking up. Watching from above. It’s like watching an old black and white comedy, but in colour. Pianoforte replaced by Harpo’s whistle. Calamitous crowd control ensues. One section is “out of bounds”. An EU safety guideline is under threat and needs enforcing. At all costs. As soon as one photofanatic is whistled off, another steps in from the wings. An endless supply of auditioning bit part actors. No one on cue. He may as well have been whistling down the wind for all the good he achieves. Everyone is having fun though. Even him.

Day 41 – We go wild and get ambushed by a couple of prowlers . . .

It had to happen sometime. And with a view like this, this is as good a time as any.

After a very brief phone conversation (conversation isn’t strictly true – although brief is) between a non Italian speaking Englishman and a non English speaking Italian, I wrongly assume a voice on the other end must mean the campsite we’re heading for is open. It isn’t.

Beastie takes us up to the small town of Montefiascone. It’s viewpoint, one thousand feet above the volcanic Lake Bolsena, is magnificent. No other word for it. Takes our breath away. Impossible for a camera image to capture what the eyes see and feel. Here goes.

We zig-zag down. Skirt along the shoreline. We’re in heaven. A couple of K further we’ll be there. It’s a dusty track. A dead end with a locked double gate. Beastie likes it here. So do we. It’s very quiet and secluded. We’re fully loaded. Food, water and gas all on board. We decide to go “wild”. No one will even know we’re here.

We break out Scoot and decide to explore lakeside.

End up in Capodimonte. Expect to find a factory with lots of shops selling the stuff. Turns out this is a different Capodimonte.

Back at base camp, we find a small tabby anxiously waiting to greet us. He’s seen us coming. Our turn to share lunch. The evening bids the day farewell with a spectacular sunset.

There are some things you can never tire of

“I wonder if the tabby is still around”. My first coherent thought, as I step down and out following morning. At first I thought I was seeing double. Then realised I was. Two little heads popped out from under Beastie’s stomach. He’d only gone and told his mate. Mary-Ann went into mumsy wumsy mode. Cooked them up fresh salmon for breakfast.

Days 42 & 43 – Yesterday’s saving gone in an instant . . .

After last night’s freebie and being pleasantly surprised by the reasonable tourist costs in Rome, we are jolted back down by our purse strings in Siena.

Caught off guard you might say. We’re touring in “Low Season”. Didn’t expect to be charged almost double per night to what we’re used to. It didn’t stop there. Almost every “site” that nestles around the exquisite Piazza del Campo is “No Fee? then No See!”

Short trip today. We arrive early enough to book in, get set up and walk into town. Decided to stretch our legs. A very hilly and windy (as in wine+d) 2.5K. Could have taken Scoot. Maybe it’s just as well we didn’t. Looks like parking places may be at a premium.

Coffee and cake time. We duly treat ourselves. As we do, the street-alleys erupt and echo. Multi-coloured Renaissance dressed drummer boys, drumming. Snares rat-a-tatting. Masses of hypnotised children being Pied Pipered behind. No dues due though. Piazza del Campo, host to the famous Palio, is filling up. Families, friends and us eagerly await the grand entrance. It’s the children’s Flag Throwing Competition. Seventeen competing Contrade. All very serious. But a wonderful atmosphere.

Following morning it’s another very hilly and windy (as in wine+d) 2.5K. We’re back in town. Cough up our Euros. Keep coughing. We’re only going to be here once. Aren’t we?

We go high and get a “God’s Eye” view of Siena. Unlike Him, we climb more than four hundred steep steps up the Torre del Mangia . The human fascination with seeing from above propels us.

Moving on from Lazio into Tuscany we expected rolling greens of typical Tuscan scenes with dotted cypress trees. Surprised with this.

Nearest to our mind’s eye was this.

Day 44 – We go flirting with Florence . . .

We’re just about hanging on by the skin of our teeth. Trying hard not to ignore the must see sights. It’s why we came here. Will Florence give us a boost?

Another early arrival gives us an afternoon to explore. We Scoot straight up to Piazzale Michelangelo (his name gets everywhere for some strange reason). It’s an iconic scene. Familiar worldwide. Another one can be ticked off. But well worth it.

Will we really climb that tower and go to the top of the Duomo tomorrow?

Camping Firenza, a ten minute drive away from the centre is one of the most organised sites we’ve ever stayed on. It’s big. Got it’s own restaurant and supermarket. A fabulous pool – closed for the season. No life guard working now. “I’ll be your life guard” I say jokingly. Quick words are exchanged and I get the thumbs up. We return from the view above. The pool is as blue and still as the stillest blue lagoon. A few sunbathers around the edge catching the late afternoon’s fading rays. The pool’s empty. I can’t wait to get in. It feels a little cool on entry. I’m half way up my first length. Hmm, this is COLD. Correction. This is FREEZING! I’m finding it difficult to catch my breath. Heading for the deep end. I’m caught unawares. It wouldn’t look “cool” for the would be life guard to drown now, would it? Last time I swam in anything this cold was in a small Scottish mountain tarn – in the 70’s. I’m a little older now. No wiser though. Start taking in water faster than the Titanic. Just about hang on and reach safety. Peruse the sensible dry ones. Has anyone noticed the idiot spluttering for dear life? Apparently not. Seems I could have drowned and none would have been the wiser. Undeterred, I venture forth again. “Come on” I tell myself “be a man”.

This site is very popular, so the showers are generally pretty busy. This makes for interesting listening. When invisibly cubicled men reveal an unknown side of their character. They just don’t care who’s listening.

They can generally be classified as such:-

The Groaner – He sounds as if he’s been left to rot. Imprisoned with chained wrists and ankles to a dark, damp and dingy dungeon floor. All hope gone.
The Moaner – He’s turned on the shower to discover he’s lost his soap and his shampoo bottle is empty.
The Huffer & Puffer – Sounds like he’s just reached the top of the highest staircase in the world and misplaced his oxygen tank.
The Heavy Breather – Warming his vocal chords and getting in some early morning practise for heavier things to come.
The Tut-Tutter – He just can’t get the shower temperature right.
The Tuneless Whistler – Only know the first six notes of a few popular 70s hits. Repeats them over, while trying to think of what comes next. Then moves on to the next derangement.
The Whistling Warbler – Repeats the opening four bars of The Good The Bad and The Ugly. Over and over and over again.
The Frank Sinatras – With every conceivable arrangement of My Way.
The Gutterels – Last night’s inner fermentations are spewed out no matter what. Coughing up eruptions that haven’t been heard in these parts since AD79.
The Throat Clearers – Sounding as if they’re constantly trying to attract your attention.
The Hummers & DumDeeDummers – Probably doing a bit of cubicle dusting too.

Of course this is all pure fiction. Isn’t it?

Days 45 & 46 – “Florence? Is it time to get off this magic roundabout?” . . .

When the days, then the weeks, start to blur into one and it becomes more and more difficult to recount when and where you’ve been, you start to wonder whether just one more “trip” or “visit” will send your wheels flying off the merry-go-round.

Thankfully, a four hour visit to the Uffizi Gallery is just the tonic. Laura, our effervescent guide, bubbles over with glassful after glassful of interesting tidbits. Brings the painters and their stills to life. Our ears glued to her stories. Eyes to the images. Caravaggio top of our favourites.

Skills capable of 3D Hi-definition photo quality – simply amazing

Earlier, the day starts frustratingly. Big Shuttle has a flat tyre. Little shuttle ferrying the 10am crowds to and fro as quickly as traffic allows. Later, with Florence well and truly “done”, we make our way back to the pick-up point. We’re twenty five minutes early and first. Driver’s already there waiting. Having a ciggy. We order from the roadside cafe and he joins us. He knows a little English and a little French. We have a fun conversation. He also knows we’re first in the queue. Mary-Ann reminds him (and me) a couple of times. Then a couple of couples climb on board. Before we have time to realise, the shuttle is full. All waiting for the driver! Yes, we should have put something on a couple of the seats. Another wait. A frustrating end.

Thinking all frustrations are a thing of the past, we’re aiming for Pisa today. We’ve a train to catch from Florence Central. Shuttle driver (a different one) engages in a long Italian conversation. (short ones don’t exist) Then a couple turn up without tickets. We leave at 10.12am. 12 minutes late. We have a 2K walk from the drop off point. Miss our train by 2 minutes. Next one due in 53 minutes. We don’t think much of Pisa. 18 euros to go up the tower seems steep. Leaning towards extortion. Bus loads being bused in. All with one aim in mind. Millions of Facebook people holding, cuddling, leaning or pushing the tower back into a perpendicular state. Seems pretty straight to me. Mary-Ann tries it on for size. Doesn’t quite fit.

Day 47 – A great day in Vinci, saved from disaster by a superhero . . .

One’s own little spinning world, calmly going about its usual daily business, can easily and brutally be blown off course and into alien orbit. All it takes is the slightest oversight.

With the aim of reaching the coastal area around Cinque Terre we set off early. Planning to call in on route to visit that clever Mr da Vinci’s home town and museum. An hour should do it. We are fascinated by the display of working models and screen visuals. His genius helps us to lose all track of time. No chance of reaching port before dark.

The town of Vinci, set deep in the heart of Tuscany, in more ways than one, delights us with typically Tuscan views.

We decide to “wild” camp again. Doubting if we’ll find a spot quite as perfect as Lake Bolsena. Our route up the west coast is a mass of towns. All lined up like hindering hurdles. Our progress is slow. We don’t mind – it’s interesting. Italian way of life is much different to ours. Families come out to play at 5pm. Roads, streets, piazzas teaming. Shopping, eating, drinking and generally socialising the order of every evening. There are no pubs to go and hide in. They don’t need them. All making the most of what’s left of the day’s warmth. Creating their own warmth.

We pick up some pre-cooked goodies to warm up for dinner later. Moving on we stay alert. Hoping for a spot to park up. A “camper” sign leads us to a car park. One other camping-car there already. It’s a bit of a strange place. Opposite what turns out to be the biggest supermarket we’ve been inside in Italy. However, it’s flat, safe and probably as good as we’re going to find at 7.30pm.

Mary-Ann starts to prepare supper and I pop outside to check for somewhere to let Beastie have a pee. (Hmm – better rephrase that) To discharge the accumulated grey water from our MOHO. As I turn around. the central door crashes open. A fiery Hale Bopp-like ball hurtles out of Mary-Ann’s hands and down towards earth. Ejected as firmly as a drunken gatecrasher. On impact this mini meteorite splatters into flames. My confused and shocked brain can’t quite reconcile the scene. A few seconds later, the ashes reveal one of the aluminium cartons containing part of our dinner.

Our three paper packets of pre-packed goodies were in the unlit oven while we looked for a place to stay. Transpires that Mary-Ann lit the oven thinking she’d removed all three. The oven has a faulty ignition, so she looked in to check it was lit. Indeed it was. Along with the packet! Her superhero speed of thought and action saved Beastie’s bacon. Along with ours. (Although it was actually chicken)