Author: brian.sheasby@outlook.com

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.

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 . . . .

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 . . .

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.

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

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.

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 . . .

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.

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.

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 …”

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 . . .

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.

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 . . .

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.

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

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?!

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.

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.

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

We catch a tour bus . . .

a pullover gets a blessing . . .

and Brian gets to drink 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 . . . ” .

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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 . . .  🙁

 . . .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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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 . . .

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.