Category: Northern Spain 2023

An unexpected stranger’s ‘knock’ on the door, can often bring, good, bad or indifferent news. To a degree our generation have been freed from the dreaded ‘telegram’ era. So if it’s not the big prize from ERNIE, a local MP, Amazon, or a pair of JWs, then the police are probably the least expected of callers.

It’s strange how when some form of misfortune occurs, it’s normal to rewind preceding events. Make an effort to understand how this particular point in time was reached. As if that would somehow make sense of what’s happened. Help us to accept the outcome. We list a series of ‘if only’s’ and ‘I could have’s’ or ‘why didn’t I’s’. Imagining a slightly different course of action could have been a prevention. A sort of Sliding Doors syndrome.

Perhaps that’s true in some cases. But often it’s the randomness that’s most difficult to come to terms with. It can simply be a question of ‘wrong place, wrong time’.

REWIND . . . on Tuesday 29th August at 10.15am I took Scoot out for a short ride to boost his battery and to fill up with petrol. In readiness for this MOHO trip. When not in use Scoot is usually stored in our home garage, or Beastie’s. The plan was to pre-load the garage, with Scoot as priority. However, the heavens opened, so I covered Scoot, with the intention of doing it tomorrow AND forgot to put the wheel lock on. If only . . . I could have . . . why didn’t I . . . ???

FAST FORWARD thirteen hours approx . . . it’s not quite dawn. The doorbell sounds. I glance down from our bedroom window. A person in hi-viz stands outside the porch door. My immediate thought is “what the hell time is this for a delivery?” Check the clock. It’s 5.41am.

In fact it’s two hi-viz jackets. The one asks me “Are you Brian?” . . . “Yes”. Then he half turns and says “Is there usually a scooter under that cover?” . . .

According to the police they think the thief skidded and came off Scoot and then left him in the middle of the A35 Lyndhurst Road. A passing motorist had phoned it in.

Whoever it was, knew what they were doing. Front panel ripped off, in order to hot-wire a start.

Oddly, I wasn’t angry. Just frustrated and annoyed with myself. A later prayer for the thief/joy-rider, that they may turn away from crime, helped me not to dwell on the whole situation longer than was necessary.

It’s always a good idea, when faced with a large and possibly daunting task, to break it down into manageable pieces. Concentrate on the immediate. Get that sorted and completed. Then move on to the next. Try not to bite off more than you can chew, at any given moment.

So, with plans laid to be in San Sabastian by next Thursday (today is Sunday) we break the 1,434 kilometers into do-able days.

Day 1 – as ever, like little clockwork soldiers, we march over to Folkestone. Pitch up within thirty minutes of the chunnel. Our previous go-to, given the proverbial heave-ho. Motorhome and Caravan club’s £37 unacceptable. The Caravan & Camping Club’s £27 a bargain !? The run into CCCs The Warren, lives up to its name . . .

Day 2 – as the heat starts to build, the end of the day finds us enjoying a shady spot at Camping Les Escales, Louviers. Earlier, delays at the Chunnel put us behind on our imaginary schedule. Arriving in Calais after 12.30pm (France one hour ahead), not the best of starts. Coupled with road works, we fall 70k short of our intended Chartres stop. Like a couple of runaway trains, we find ourselves dashing ever southwards. Not taking in the rolling countryside. Just happy to see the kilometers roll on behind.

Day 3 – With Camping les Ormes in today’s sights, we step down for a mid-journey leg stretch at Châteaudun. Clear blue and 35C just about what the doctor ordered.

As it’s lunchtime, the town centre, apart from eateries, is closed too. We have it virtually to ourselves.

Camping les Ormes provides our cheapest inclusive overnight stop ever at €9.80. Hot showers; hot wash-up; hot weather . . . plus half an hour’s table tennis a welcome way to ping-pong off the day’s journey.

For this trip, we have a new virtual navigator on board – English posh Henry. The rude Ossie, Jessica, has been given the heave ho. We now receive upper class instructions from this Michael Portillo sound-alike. Whether he will prove his worth as a better navigator remains to be seen . . . if not, we could always take a train . . .

With the gift of prophesy, a wise man would take heed of any portent. Turn over. Close his eyes. Turn his back on the day. Go back to sleep.

Neither of us have that gift. And probably even if we did, we’d ignore our own advice. Especially if offered to the other! It’s amazing how quickly a clear blue sky can suddenly cloud over. Turn into a raging storm. Toss you this way, then the other. Just as if to say “Told you so!”

Day 4 – Another long day in the saddle ends at Salles and Camping Parc du Val d’Eyre, a larger than average riverside site. The smiley lady in reception hands over a map and brief instructions on the easiest route to our allocated pitch. The map has two flaws. It’s not accurately drawn and some pitch numbers are either missing, or in excess to what’s physically on the ground. Without hoo-ha Henry leading the way, it doesn’t take much for us to get lost and totally disorientated.

It’s another reasonably priced French site with good facilities and a pool. Just what’s required to cool down in more ways than one. The riverside walk helps . . .

Day 5 – Henry’s route towards San Sebastian, is destined to take us through Sabres. A small commune in south west France, with a population of a little over 1,000. It’s market day. Or perhaps every day is market day. There seems to be no corner shop, or supermarket. The locals all buying under cover. The array of tempting fresh fruit and veg on offer, a good excuse to give Beastie a welcome rest. And for us to practise our French ‘axon’.

A couple of JWs, stand by their stand. Vainly hoping that at least one person is going to be more concerned about how they’re going to make it into heaven, rather than searching out the best produce for dinner. Believing in the drawing power of their leaflets they remain motionless. As still as a silver painted street artist. They resemble a couple of cut-out dummies, waiting for the next dummy. Yet to realise in Catholic France they have their work cut out.

Loaded with supplies, we pop into Église Saint-Michel.

At this point in time, if we’d have had a cup of tea, or bumped into a stranger clutching a bunch of lucky heather, we may well have received some insight to what lay in store further up the road. But like two of the three blind mice we venture forth.

Hoo-ha Henry thinks he has the makings of becoming the third blind mouse. With half an open eye he guides (not quite the right word) us into the beating heart of rush hour San Sebastian, a massive city, based around narrow roads. It’s a mash of constricted bus lanes and one way streets. Every road lined both sides with parked cars. To make matters worse he’s oblivious to the fact that road works bar the only way out of town on his chosen route. There’s nowhere to pull Beastie up and take stock. Henry duplicates his instructions, no doubt wondering why we didn’t turn into the street that’s blocked. So we do a couple of laps and again we become totally disorientated, lost and frustrated. In cab stacatto chatter bounces back and forth. Not quite as insinuations. Each cheese expecting the other to find a solution. An answer to a question that doesn’t exist.

With some ad-hock guess work, Henry gets ignored and we steer away from the city then point Beastie in the general direction of Igueldo and WeCamp camp site. By now it’s past 6pm and hopes of ending the day pool side, fade with the lowering sun.

WeCamp is a large terraced site. It’s heaving and other late comers are being turned away. We’ve pre-booked three nights. Horrah!! But. To pile misery onto misery our allocated pitch is a joke. Far too tiny for Beastie to manoeuvre onto. It’s a further hour before we’re found an alternative.

Over dinner, we question the sanity of driving all this way to park up on an eight by five plot of sloping gravel and mud.

Plus . . .

Mathematics and its seemingly universal laws, can be used to explain virtually all known and unknown physical aspects of our tiny planet and what lies beyond. Yet for 99.9999999 % of the time, and for 99.9999999% of the living population, at any given time, we only need to know how many fingers, toes and thumbs we possess to get by.

Barely over the border with France, San Sebastian WeCamp becomes our watering hole for three nights. Give ourselves a thumbs up for getting here in what is record time for us. With temperatures hovering again in the mid thirties, a day of rest is on the cards. A lazy morning rounded off with a pre-lunch game of table tennis. The table is on a slope. To keep it level, long legs one end, short legs the other. How did they know to expect us?

We spend the afternoon poolside. Play a game of in and out. Wet and dry. Hot and cold. Perfect.

San Telmo Museum is today’s (Saturday) go-to. We’re eager to discover more about the Basque region. What better way, than by starting with a spot of lunch. Every narrow street seems filled to overflowing with Pintxos establishments. That’s BIG tapas to you and me.

We’re hoping to discover more about ETA and its role in trying to gain independence for the Basque people. The front facade of the new entrance block looks as if it’s pot-marked with bullet holes . . . is that a good sign . . . ?

The museum is housed in a converted monastery. The cloisters and church in immaculate condition.

The museum and audio guide underwhelm. Lack of English info and uninventive displays. ETA and the Basque struggle for freedom hardly get a mention.

We step back out into the elegant walkways.

One hundred and ten years ago the British laid siege to San Sebastian and finally ousted the French on September 9th. Today the sound of a pipe band echoes around every street to commemorate that event.

We do too . . . and make our way back to camp.

It’s far too easy to create and then mount our own treadmill. Hop on board the fast train. Stay on track, with intentions to step down at every station for a look-see. It’s what we’re good at.

With promises made to each other to make this more of a relaxing trip we decide to apply the brakes. Instead, jump aboard the slow train. Two half days of travel see us go no where soon.

First stop at Camping Playa del Regaton, near Loreda, is preceded by a supermarket shop. After pitching up, a short beachside walk, then a late afternoon and evening of rolling thunder, is followed by a night of torrential rain. It’s an unusual site with every pitch covered with a dense canopy from spotty barked Plane trees. Barely taller than Beastie, when he’s on tippy toes. The effect at ground level feels almost Amazonian, creating a dark, dingy, damp, humid atmosphere. All we need are a few swinging monkeys for the scene to be set. No need for any rain dances. If we stay here too long, we’re liable to grow some thick bottom lips. So we don’t. One night of overhead drumming enough.

This morning we dawdle over the short distance into Cantabria and its capital Santander, for a two night stay at Cabo Mayor Camping. A nearby cliffside walk reveals a fabulous sheltered cove hiding the wonderful Playa de Mataleñas. A must visit, weather permitting. It doesn’t!

Back at camp, I have the fab pool dished up all to myself, and like the good little fishy that I am, I go swim-about. . .

. . . twenty minutes later . . . and for the next seventeen hours, it did this . . .

As kids in our day, the old adage, children should be seen, but not heard, was often expected. Speak when you’re spoken to, the rule of thumb – or else. As an adult, biting one’s tongue, rather than proffering an opinion, becomes an art worth cultivating.

It’s an art, sadly, or not, that I find increasingly difficult. Maybe it’s a getting older syndrome. Maybe life experiences give you many more perspectives for comparison. Maybe it’s about time you were heard. I don’t know. What I do know, is that offering an opinion is very personal. Unique even.

In today’s techno age it’s become the norm. Better known as a ‘Review’. And everywhere you travel on the web it’s in high demand. We have come to respect the opinions of hundreds, or even thousands, of people we’ll never meet. ‘Influencers’ are in abundance. Making a living by monetisation. Adverts pop up out of thin air. Selling products we don’t want, or need, or maybe mentioned in a passing conversation, with phone in hand. But WHO exactly was listening? Thumbs up, rule – OK?

Today, the Line 1 Bus drops us off opposite the uninspiring looking cathedral. Its outer façade in need of some serious TLC, IMHO. Or perhaps, the intention is to leave it as is. To show it, as was, so to speak. Remain true to its original design. Never judge a book by its cover, and all that springs to mind. We can’t find out, right now. It’s closed for its afternoon siesta. Re-opens at 4pm. We decide to do an Arnie.

So, instead we nip over to find out what the Botin Art Gallery has to say for itself.

Looking like something straight out of Independence Day, its outer surface, covered with 270,000 ceramic discs, whets our anticipation.

Set over three floors it offers massive display areas. We pay our combined ‘Senior’ entrance fee of €4. A bargain we think. Until . . .

I have a suspicion. Or maybe it’s an opinion, that when an ‘artist’ feels it’s necessary to explain the thought processes behind their work, or what the work is, then it’s not art. Surely art is about the imagination of the creator, laying down a body of work that then inspires the imagination of the viewer. No words necessary.

Floors two and three beckon. We can hardly wait. We take the lift to floor three. The doors open revealing a taped off building site. Now that’s a novel art concept. Confused, we return to ground level. Unbeknown to us, the top two floors are closed due to preparations for the next series of exhibitions. Perhaps this was our lucky day.

We take the outside lift up onto the upper viewing area. It has a fun surprise waiting inside.

Lunch is pintxos – what else of course, then back to the cathedral, for another pleasant surprise.

Returning to the bus stop we pass the main post office – they don’t make-em like that anymore.

Urban living space is at a premium and the skyline testifies to that.

During our lives, we all need a little inspiration from time to time. Something that spurs us on from the present. Help us become more creative in whatever sphere we operate. Whether at work, or at leisure.

Sometimes, inspiration springs up seemingly out of nowhere. Presents itself as a gift. To be used diligently. At other times. it comes only as a result of perspiration. A period of hard work, or serious contemplation.

We move on today, but beforehand, make a short hike from camp, up to Cabo Mayor Lighthouse. Drawn to the light. We’ve heard it has a small art gallery, worthy of a peek. It is. An hour quickly passes in the round.

Fascination with the sea and lighthouses have provided more than enough inspiration for Eduardo Sanz to produce his awesome works of art.

Come 3.30 pm we’ve moved a little further west. Still in search of sun, before it sets up shop permanently. We’re pitched up riverside at Camping Costa Verde, Colunga. An appropriate name for this northern coastline. Verdant it is and we’re beginning to understand why. We’re within a couple of hundred metres from this fabulous beach. We make plans to make serious use of it tomorrow. Weather permitting!

Kids love playing in the mud and getting mucky. Especially boys. Even when grown up, some of us men can sometimes find it difficult to resist the temptation of a muddy puddle, or two.

Bit by bit, little be little, we continue to edge westward. Follow the sun. Knowing there’s no chance of falling off the edge. So long as we keep our feet firmly on the ground. The Basque and Cantabria regions catch a red glimmer from Beastie’s rear lights as we cross over into Asturias. We’re nestled between sea and mountains. Two sun-searchers. Imagined inventions in some strange Greek tragedy. Half flying-goat, half flying-fish. Wanting to burn, but not quite like Icarus, showing no fear of falling into the sea.

There’s a constant weather battle along this beautiful and rugged coastline. Cantabrian Sea versus Picos de Europa mountain range. Sea breeze versus mountain rain clouds. Two immortal warriors in an endless battle till the end of time. Days of dry weather and lots of night time rain, currently the norm. Today starts dry. So this morning we head up into the hills, rather than mountains. Horns and wings not fully formed.

The afternoon’s two hour sunny window comes as more of a shock than a surprise. Playa de la Griega, welcomes our sun-creamed torsos, and its surfers’ waves offer the perfect cool down.

Meanwhile back at camp, an army is at work. All of the residents are preparing to leave. This camp closes for the season in four days. Each year they abscond for four summer months, as this site becomes their second home, creating a shanty ghetto of sunning lay-abouts.

Ancient caravans are fastidiously emptied and cleaned. Awnings and floor coverings laid outside. Brushed and scrubbed until nearly new. Fridges, freezers, cookers, BBQs, boxes and furniture pile up. Patiently waiting their turn for the removal man. A queue of refugee look-alikes, not wanting to leave one single possession behind.

Living miles away from the ‘seaside’, as we used to, there was always two important signs that would suddenly set the internal bells of excitement ringing, the nearer we got to the coast. A glimpse of the sea. The sound of seagulls.

Thirty plus years of living less than ten minutes from the beach, has still not dampened that excitement. Despite the sea being out of sight. The seagulls that swoop and play above our back garden are a constant delight. On a windy day, they take to the sky to show off. Acrobatically ‘sky-lark’ around. Like a noisy gang of teenage boys. Just having fun. Masterfully controlling their flight. Miniscule feather light adjustments magically react to every contortion of air currents blown their way.

Day 14 – Friday the fifteenth. Mary-Ann’s birthday. Our four hour traverse west finds us pitching up for a three night sojourn at Camping Penarronda and it’s wonderful massive beach.

There’s no time to lose. The sun is visible! We can hear the roar of the waves. We don costumes. Apply lotion. Gather towels and sponge-bob mats. Leg it. Go park next to the sea. Attach ourselves to the sand, like a couple of bathing barnacles. Eager for some balmy heat. Ten minutes later we go barmy, as the sun disappears from the day. Undeterred, and determined, we laze for a cloud covered hour. Then walk the beach giving Mr S a good excuse to get in a couple of dips.

Our late arrival on site, partly due to a Masymas Supermarket shop. The fresh fish display is extraordinary. We pick up a couple of cut to order chunky tuna steaks at €14 per kg!!!

By 6pm the heavens let it be known that they are in charge. Thunder and lightning flashes compete with torrential rain. Our noisy neighbours for the next sixteen hours.

Day 15 – The rain eases and stops around 10am. We plan an 8K coastal walk that takes in part of the Camino Way.

We end the afternoon with a virtual repeat of yesterday, sea-side. Well, almost. The sea has done a runner. It’s gone out. Virtually doubled the size of the beach. The sun has ‘gone out’ too. So it ends as a grey day – again.

Day 16 – Today starts as another repeat performance. But in the opposite direction. Looking back, the tide is still out to sea.

3K into the walk, Mr S decides on a detour. Curious to search out a secret, or deserted cove. We drop down almost to sea level. Take a more interesting route.

We think we have this area all to ourselves. But then, as we reach the next small cove that’s Mexota Beach, we’re greeted with pink and brown flashes of human flesh. Hanging and dangling. It’s one of two small and very secluded ‘nudist’ spots. A young athletic looking man strides past us. Pacing out his morning constitutional. Draws a toe-line in the sand. Then full frontals us as he does a touch and turn. I avert my eyes. Can’t speak for Mrs S.

With clothes still in place, and cap firmly on, we cross over onto the massive and more discreet Serantes Beach. On the lookout for a picnic seat.

At this point, we do our own touch and turn . . .

Back at base Mrs S fills the remaining grey hours under cover playing Quordle. Her newly found fascination. Mr S takes off his cap, scratches head and makes his next international chess move.

Our last night at this lovely watering hole, feels and sounds just that. A noisy night of gale force howling winds and torrential rain, do their best to drown out any thoughts of sleep. By morning it’s all blown over and the now calm blue heavens looks serenely down, shrugs it’s shoulders at the rising sun, as if to say “What? What did I do?”

With a diminishing twelve hour day of sunlight, the early morning chill becomes our daily reminder that summer is coming to a close. A reminder that this short trip is doing likewise too.

Day 17 – we delay our pitch-up onto the terraced site of Camping Rodero by a couple of hours. 400 metres down wind is the massive Playa Oyambre. Beastie is left to twiddle his brake pads, road-side, while we go and twiddle our toes, beach-side.

Day 18 – Today our shortish trip of 160K to Camping Sopelana, Bilbao, includes a big top-up shop and an extended check-in period of an hour. On arrival at 3.45pm reception is closed. Obviously siesta time. We queue at the gate. Fourth in line, with three more MOHOs behind. It’s 5pm by the time we’re pitched up in the sun, with sea glimpses. Probably worth an extra bob or two in a Torquay guest house.

With both the sight and the sound overwhelming, Mr S can’t resist. A fifteen minute downhill trundle sees him playing like a local kiddywink in the rolling surf for half an hour. Surfers are out in force as the force of the incoming tide rises, along with the height of the incoming waves.

Back at base camp and drying out nicely, we get ambushed by a local prowler. She’s on the look-out for some Scooby Snacks. How did she know Mrs S always travels prepared?

Has the age of the traditional motor vehicle run its course? Is the hydro-carbon era coming to an end? The amount of vehicles we see travelling around the major roads during our short EU sorties at any given time, would suggest not. Despite what we hear from the political elite. All nations have become ‘beep-beep’ ever dependent.

It’s hard to imagine the emissions effect that over 1.2 billion cars has each and every day. With 500 cities worldwide having populations of over 1million (in 1950 there were just 83) is it any wonder times are hotting up?

We passed by Bilbao and its fascinating Guggenheim Museum a couple of weeks ago. A case of bad timing. Ours and theirs. It’s closed on a Monday. Today is Wednesday. No excuse then.

A twenty minute hike, plus a forty minute metro journey of €1.90 each, ends as we come to surface in the heat and heart of Bilbao. With necks swivelling like a couple of meerkats on the lookout for danger, we go in search of a road sign to tie in with Mr G and his MAPS swivelling triangle. Whoever came up with that one? Is it pointing this way, or that way? Why does it only point the right way, when we’re walking the wrong way? Shade becomes a must, just to see the screen clearly.

The gyratory of Federico Moyúa Plaza is a liquid merry-go-round of traffic. Many of the buses either hybrid, or fully electric, silently float by. A good reason to pay heed of the many equally silent, green light crossings. No one’s left fuming in the fumes. Everyone’s patient. No jay walkers. Its hot, but there is a calm chill in the air. No rush. No push. No fuss. The buses a tribute, perhaps, to having the predominately Qatar owned Iberdrola energy company housed off one of its main arteries.

A huge puppy greets us outside the museum. His flowery overcoat hides his water filled oases.

The whole of the ground floor exhibition rooms are given over to the phenomenal works of ninety-three years old contemporary artist Yayoi Kusama. Her dotty dot creations are quite extraordinary.

Her creative genius lends itself to many mediums . . .

Floor two houses a frustratingly disappointing selection of abstract paintings, by artists who obviously must have been unable to abstract their heads from up their own backsides. We let them remain there, in order to consider a different point of view. Await a new perspective. We turn heel. Can you blame us?

With the natural ageing process, comes a growing inability. In one sense, or another. Either physical, or mental, or both. An inevitability. Difficult to slow down. Harder to delay.

Mental and physical, work hand in hand. Both affecting the other. Adjusting and adapting is key. Not giving up on yourself vitally important too. “After 68, you renegotiate” [John Mayer] Even more important, maintaining a sense of humour. Being able to laugh squarely in the face of that new found inability. Even when you fail to recognise the face that’s staring back at you from the mirror.

Long journeys involve many hours of sitting. So to compensate, we focus on that grey stuff sitting up top. Give our brains a regular work out. Share a daily crossword. Some days we feel like a couple of dummkopfs. Left wordless and speechless. Unable to locate words that have gone into deep hibernation. We know they’re in there somewhere, but the cave seems empty (or, is the correct answer ‘void’?) Frantically play the alphabet from A to Z. Then back again. Emulate a couple of maniacal xylophonists practising scales. Like trying to find just the right combination of lottery numbers, but with letters. Then Mrs S shares her Quordle. Concentration concentrates each day’s journey. Squeezes it down into a manageable size. Time passes as quickly as the passing countryside.

Day 20 – With eyes eyeing the return journey north and its colder climes, our bodies still yearn for the warmer weather south. So we delay. Head south west. Leave the cold wet Atlantic weather front to do what it does best in Bilbau. Head for Zaragoza’s promised sun. We’re not disappointed. A large municipal site Ciudad de Zaragoza is bathed in late afternoon sun on arrival. Before unscheduled rain sets in for a few hours, Mr S has just enough time to make solo use of the 25metre pool. There is good, there is – as Hugh would say.

Day 21 – We walk. Then bus the 19 stops almost into Old Town. Then walk some more. An hour later we’re heading for the Plaza of Our Lady of the Pillar, via the incredible enclosed fish and meat market. It has the feel of a souk. Either side, a huge line of traders’ stalls overflow with variety and freshness. Patient queues at each shop. It’s a buyers’ market.

Goya’s Museum is just around the corner. We forget that most ‘attractions’ have a siesta in Spain. Should have done it first. We get there twenty minutes before it’s shut-eye time. Not long enough. Re-opens at 4pm. We take a riverside walk. Shake off the frustration. Aim for the Palacio De La Aljaferia. That too is feeling sleepy. Re-opens at 4.30pm. In circumstances like this we take the only other viable option. Go search out a coffee and cake.

Ninety minutes of Goya magic are pure magic. Born just 44K from Zaragoza, he’s considered a home bred boy. His family having moved from Zaragoza that year.

Two floors dedicated to Goya’s painted masterpieces, his prints and engravings. One floor to some acceptable abstractions.

We’re definitely homeward bound. Crossed the point of no going back. Though not necessarily no return. Like a couple of meteoroids, destined to become meteorites once back on terra firma. We’re high-tailing it with hot tails. Dragging some heat along with us.

Day 22 – Calais, Friday’s crossing is caught in our cross hairs. That doesn’t mean we’re keeping our heads down. On the contrary. Breath-taking panoramic views of the Pyrenees lighten today’s journey.

Today’s one-nighter at Pyrenees Nature Camping is a thirty minute walk into Oloron Sainte-Marie, where we come face to face with a fellow traveler.

Day 23 – Some days are better to get over and done with. And forgotten ASAP. Today was one of those. A long haul of over 300K is extended by an hour. A Route Baree 11K short of camp sets us following yellow deviation signs that send Beastie literally in circles. As a result Hoo-ha Henry has a melt down. Like a lost soul, he loses his way. Can’t tell his left from his right. Has no idea which way to turn. No scallop shells to follow. Decides to wash his hands of us. Call it a day. Deny all knowledge of our existence. Dumps Beastie on a single lane dirt track in the middle of woodland. (Some camp site run-ins are like this, hence we obey his call signs). On further investigation the nearest camping is a further 10K.

All’s well, that ends well though. Camping La Motte, just east of Montguyon, is a pretty woody site with a small heated indoor pool. Just about long enough to swim away Hoo-Ha Henry hatred.

Day 24 – As sole campers on Camping Les Petites Minaudiers, near St Sauveur, we have the huge woodland site to ourselves. Arriving late afternoon ideal. Mrs S is in fine form for our forty-five minute under cover table-tennis knock about. She just about knocks back everything I throw at her. Like the good little doggy I am, I mostly play fetch the ball. “Woof”

Then it’s time for a lakeside walk . . .

Humans are very clever beings. Yet as characters, flawed in so many different ways. One person may see a flaw in themselves and if they don’t like what they see, will work hard to change. Another may find it hard to see their own flaws. Until pointed out. At the end of the day, nobody is perfect.

The appropriately named Municipal Camping de Chartres, houses Beastie and his imperfect inmates for one night. Neither, under lock and key. Free to come and go as they please. While away some time. While the jury remains out. So we do just that. A planned early arrival enables a saunter along the river Eure. Destination – the ancient Centre Ville and its famous cathedral.

With all riverside walks, reflections dominate the camera’s perspective. Entices multiple stops, like a series of red traffic lights. For the accompanying spouse, patience is a virtue.

The current day existence of Chartres Cathedral, owes itself to one man. Colonel Welborn Barton Griffith Jr (1901-1944). His superiors suspected the Germans of using it for a look-out during WWII and intended to destroy it. Welborn questioned the order. Volunteered to ‘check it out’. On discovering it was empty of Germans the order was rescinded. Ironically, he was killed in action later that very same day, just a few kilometres from Chartres, in Lèves. We found it strange and sad, that he wasn’t mentioned on any of the information boards inside.

She needn’t have. Inside, it seems mammoth cleaning and restoration works are ongoing. Many of the internal structures have been brought back to life.

By the time we exit, unlike us, the evening is still young. It’s warm, sunny and calm. Perfect for a bit of alfresco dining. Just metres from the cathededral, Café Bleu obliges.

The return saunter equally enchanting as the sunset sets in for the night.

We all love and often prefer to be at home. Faced with the familiar, we feel more comfortable. Set routines dominate day to day life. We create our own natural rhythms of how to start, spend and end each day. We enjoy the easy life. Even so, too much of a good thing can become a bore.

No chance of boredom out on the road with Beastie & Co. There’s always places to go, people to see – as they say. Today we do something unusual. We revisit the familiar. Stop off at Claude Monet’s superb maison et jardins. We were last here when still newby MOHOmers. At the end of our very first French trip in 2017. Then, we were legging it back home. Having to cut short our allotted days. Mr S had put his knee out playing table-tennis on uneven ground at Sarlat. Became a hero for the day and hobbled around like a ‘gud’un’.

Therefore, today’s long walk from the car park and through the village was slightly more comfortable and enjoyable.

One thing that can never become a bore – a garden packed to the brim with flowers. Seasons always bringing a change prevent that. We can understand Monet’s love of this place and why his paintings are iconic. Who wouldn’t enjoy living at ‘home sweet home’, when this is it.

Inside, many of his paintings stare out from the sidelines. Encourage the visitor to come closer, take a look. A splodge here, a dab there See how the master did it.

At Camping La Miniere, just outside Forges-Les-Eaux, our day concludes with another game of table tennis. On uneven ground. This time, Mr S decides to change from flip-flops to trainers! Lessons learned and all that . . . .

Extinction is inevitable. It’s been happening since ‘The Beginning’ – whatever that means. Stars, that have been burning, seemingly for billions of years, all have a life span. Energy is not inexhaustible. Nothing is immune from this fact. Everything, whether living, or not, is subject to change. One second, as this, the next as that. The whole universe is governed by this unwritten law.

Everything has a start and an end. So many earth born species have come and gone. Lived and died. Become extinct. It’s still happening. As the most ‘aware’ species (as far as we know), to have inhabited planet earth, we are obsessing over the inevitable. Blaming ourselves even. Unable to see that change is coming. For all. It’s necessary. How else does re-birth occur? One thing is certain, humanity’s time for ‘extinction’ will arrive.

Everything comes from eternity and returns to eternity. As human beings we perceive that in different ways. Either through faith and hope, or unbelief and hopelessness.

Our last evening on the ‘other’ side of the channel, finds us in a new location to our previously preferred Sangatte. Fort Lapin Camping, further up the same coastline, just outside Calais. It’s separated from the huge flat beach, by an equally huge range of sand-dunes. We fancied a change, but of our own making. An early morning Chunnel Crossing awaits us. We’ll pop under and out as two different people. That’s what time and distance does.

If you’re one of the unfortunate few who have logged in from time to time, then thanks for doing just that. I hope you’ve found some pleasure in some of the, as my sister Yvonne likes to call them, “essays”. Like a lost in space voyager, sending out a constant hopeful message, it’s good to know there are other life forms out there, listening in. Regardless of whether they understand the dots and dashes, the beeps and skreeks.

Our journey had its start and now it has its end . . .

. . . so it’s adios from ‘her’ and it’s adios from ‘him’ . . .