Category: Portugal 2026

Complete autonomy, being remote and almost off-grid generates a powerful sense of freedom. Relinquishing ties to modern day living, doing without convenience and certain luxuries is liberating.

It’s easy to understand why some people look for isolation. Cut themselves off from the complexities of being with others and its associated stress. Maybe the monks of old had something.

Long distance hikers and cyclists, will no doubt experience the daily enhancement that comes from being indulgently self-sufficient on each leg of their journey. The fact that at certain times you can be sure that no-one else in the world knows exactly where you are, is empowering, builds independence and can lead to self-discovery.

Not that 2 Cheeses ever feel completely cut off. Travelling with Beastie’s Belly topped up with a variety of communicating gizmos, ensures that.

It can be difficult to move on sometimes. It’s often said that it’s supposed to be all about the journey, not the destination. However, when touring, there are lots of destinations. Some more tempting than others. Campismo Sao Miguel in Odeceixe is one of those. (Oh, now you know where we are . . . )

Like a vivid dream, what should remain as a memorable memory, can often be fleeting. Yet a nightmare, or a distressing event can seem to remain locked and available for recall long after.

The brain seems to operate in a totally indiscriminate manner. It gives no choice in memory matters. When pushed to bring the past to light, it stubbornly refuses. Like a petulant child. Stamps its feet. Demands a sweetie before obliging the parent’s wish. Expects you to perform weird and whacky routines. Just to demonstrate who’s really in control of the situation.

Yet, surely it knows that without maintaining memory, we become isolated from our very self. Its lazy characteristic can all too easily create a lost soul.

Day 25 – Campigir Sao Torpes needs to be wiped from our memories. With Stalag 17 lookalike shower facilities, cold water wash-up sinks that just about manage to cling on to an outside wall and dilapidated pitch, a one night stay is more than enough for two lost souls.

This site’s one saving grace – being within a fifteen minute walk of the local beach.

Day 26 – We move on. Not far. 10K. In search of something better. To Camping Costa Vizir – Porto Covo. Interrupt our journey with a few hours sunbathing. This is how we remember Portugal’s beautiful and rugged coastline.

Is it ever right to keep a secret from your better half? “Well, it really depends on the circumstance and context. Will it cause hurt? Will it seriously jeopardise your relationship? Are you able to live with the secret? If your answers are no, no and yes, then I’d advise you to keep shtum.“

So, that’s exactly what Mr S does. Having noticed this spiky potential game-changer, firmly embedded in Beastie’s driver’s side front tyre, two days ago. With a two-nighter planned at Alferce, Beastie was going nowhere slow, until today. Logic prevailing. Why cause unnecessary worry for Mrs S. These things always get resolved, one way, or another.

Day 23 – Now though – time to spill the beans.

Mr S loads MAPS. Keys “Tyre repairs near me” Checks distance and reviews. Ah, English speaker. Less than one hour away. Perfect. Makes telephone call. Jorge, our saviour, confirms “Yes, come”. We do just that.

The drive over is taken sedately. More so than usual. Potholes not welcome. Every jolt feels like those seconds when you’re charged with blowing up a balloon to it’s very maximum capacity. At every tiny additional puff you fear it might explode in your face.

Forty minutes and nineteen euro later, Jorge has pulled the culprit, plugged the hole, sealed it and sent us on our way.

Then it’s a quick about turn down south. Twenty minutes to Aljezur and Parque Campismo do Serrao. A two nighter. Check-in another bureaucrat’s utopia.

Stepping down into this woody labyrinth of eucalyptus, Mr S’s eyeballs whizz into a tizz. Negotiating Beastie through this perceived obstacle course is going to be tricky. He scans around trying to make some sense of the layout. If there is any. Not really keeping either eye on where he’s walking. Stops. Goes to turn. Heel catches on a tree stump. Causing just enough change in momentum to tip the balance from perpendicular to horizontal. In the space of a nano-second, Mr S transforms into Jenga-man. Timber! Luckily a slight crack on the head, a sore hip, and a dusty t-shirt, mere minor mementoes. Mrs S watches it happen in slow motion. The way she describes the unfolding scene, sounds rather balletic – or did she say pathetic?

Later, the abundance of trunks prove their use.

Day 24 – A less eventful day all round. An a.m. wash cycle before an afternoon doing absolutely nothing, poolside.

Later, Mrs S is relieved of kitchen duties for the evening. After a 1.5k walk up to Altura Steakhouse, she gets more than she’s bargained for.

With Portugal receiving more than 300 days of sunshine each year, it’s no wonder Brits flock here throughout the seasons. That’s more than twice the UK average of around 145 days. Perhaps that’s why we go a little stir crazy under hot azure conditions, at home or abroad.

Most visitors zoom into the coastal regions. Without realising what they may be missing a short distance inland.

Day 21 – We decide not to miss out. Head up into the Monchique Mountains region. Discover that at Alferce, the local council have constructed a beautiful overnight parking lot for touring campers. For €11 per night, it’s a bargain. No showers, but Beastie is well equiped.

Less than five minutes away is the Passadiços Barranco do Demo. Famous for its wooden walkway and suspension bridge. We wait until the hottest part of the day and set out!

It’s not often that more than 50% of a hike is walking up and down steps!

Our pre-dinner apéritif arrives in the form of a local bell-jingling family.

Day 22 – In these very remote parts, there’s absolutely no chance of catching a local bus, uber, or even thumbing a lift as traffic is sparce. So Scoot is put under starters orders. Not that he’s going to race around in any event. Mr S likes to take it slowly. Give time to exercise his rubber-neck. Much to the chagrin of Mrs S. She much prefers to be the one having a gander as we wander.

Scoot wanders into Monchique village. We find the one, built for goats street. And like the grand ole Duke of York we march to the top; then we march right down again.

Having a four year old grandson, Jason, brings many joys. Making short videos for him while touring, is one those . . .

Then it’s a short Scoot over to experience the thermal spring at Caldas de Monchique. The Roman’s loved revelling in its therapeutic waters. We arrive too late. The tiny lush thermal source has been gobbled up by a village hotel and spa.

Our Maps directed 12K Scoot, back to base, a little lumpier than anticipated. Compensates with wonderful views across the hills towards the coast.

With a population of around seventy million, the UK is often regarded as a beacon of democracy. Yet, the majority of people really have little say in matters that directly affect their lives and well being. On average, each one of the 650 elected MPs, represent around 74,000 constituents of voting age.

It’s no wonder that rules, regulations and laws can seem crazy; or unfair; or outdated; or not even necessary; or seem to favour some over others – you can’t please all of the people all of the time. Perhaps, only those minorities that blow the loudest trumpet get their needs met.

The same can be true of red tape and its bureaucratic bedfellow bumkins. Those that revel in detail. The few that interpret and take it upon themselves to ‘deliver’ what’s in our best interests.

We’d read that the Portuguese governing systems are bastions of bureaucracy. Fortresses specialising in crossing t’s and dotting i’s. A natural part of their inbuilt psyche. It filters down. Maintaining order. Making sense only to those that devise and monitor. Why create the simple, when the complex is to hand.

So, on Portuguese sites one and two, we are subjected to a typical example when first registering.

In France and Spain, it would go something like this. “We’d like a pitch for one night please” “How many people?” “Two” “Cats, or dogs?” “No” “How big is your camper?” “7.5metres” “You can take pitch 27. See, here on this map” “Thanks. How much?” “21 euro” “Cash OK?” “Yes” “Thankyou” – then off we’d go to pitch up.

Day 19 – Here, at Camping Albufeira, it’s completely different. They start by asking for both passports. These are scanned. The passport numbers and other details in the passports are then manually entered into a PC. Then you’re presented with an A4 questionnaire which asks you for your name, address, date of birth, nationality, phone number and email. This you must sign.

A similar dialogue now takes place as above. Once everything is in order we are both issued with a coloured wrist band. One of those that’s once on can only be scissored off. To be worn at all times, even around town. Plus a plastic entry & exit ID card. An A4 invoice, plus receipt are printed and handed over, along with another sheet which has to be placed on the dashboard to indicate we are ‘pukka’. Blimey! At this point 2 Cheeses think they may need to introduce a filing system.

With the afternoon all ours, Scoot scoots us down into Albufeira. A deluge of apartment blocks and hotels hem in around the centre. House thousands and thousands of sunseekers. They pour out in force. Taxi’s ferry in youngsters in fours and fives from outlying villas. Beaches, bars and cafes overflowing. It’s the final day of the Premier season. Every establishment with two massive screens on live.

Day 20 – With few inland places to pitch Beastie up, Scoot is not going to be given many sunbathing opportunities. He’s going to have to earn his keep. Today he makes a short loop of 24K. Allows a three village recce.

First stop, Guia and its pretty cobbled streets.

Next stop Algoz. Only gets a mention because there’s nothing of interest. One of those tiny towns that have grown up and around a thoroughfare. No real civil structure, that we could make sense of. No centro. Just a place en-route to somewhere better.

Tunes completes our trilogy. Sitting alongside the main drag, much quieter. We find a quiet streetside spot at Pastelaria Ornelas. Splash out in cash – cards not accepted in most small shops and cafés.

In an era where every click counts, a clever marketeer, working with the help of an AI script editor, can have you reaching for your credit card in the twinkle of an eye. In fact you don’t even need to do that.

That clever Mr Google, along with his friends at Meta, have us covered. They track every left, or right turn. Take note of every click and swipe made. Monitor and interpret every single interaction. Create a digital footprint that walks alongside. Shadows us like a silent spy. Relaying back to base in secret cypher. A constant tittle-tattle of information. Interpreting needs, wants and desires, before re-presenting them in innovative snippets of temptation. They know what we want before we do!

Images, videos, banner ads, pop-ups – just a few of the tempting methods employed to grab, then hold attention. Interrupt screen gawp. Personal, with credit card details safely stored. Forever at the ready. A couple of clicks and you’ve bought into ‘the sell’. Purchase complete. It’s that easy.

A Facebook ‘pop-up’ showing an arial view of Fuseta’s beautiful beaches gets 2-Cheeses scampering for the map. (yes, we have a paper one) Where is this cute little fishing villlage? It’s close. Just over the border, Portugal. We can be there by lunchtime. We do just that.

We’re now pitched up on Camping Municipal de Fuseta. A rectangular site. Divided into narrow rectangular spaces. A converted corner of disused gravel. Greenery helps to shade MOHOs and campers of all shapes and sizes as they make do. For the sake of the ‘sell’.

This short southern Algarve coastline is famous for its sardines. Just like them, we’ve been caught, gutted, packed. We are however, in very short walking distance from the village, harbour and iconic beach.

Stink Bugs? 2

Good deeds have a lot going for them. One way, or another. Inevitably, they bless whoever is on the giving, or receiving end. Like a book-keeping double entry, they lie in wait on the opposite page. Patiently biding time for reconciliation, when everything must perfectly balance. An invisible credit in your favour.

So it was no real surprise after pitching up at Donana Camping Magazon for three nights, when early payback time arrived – in the name of Frank. We’d overlooked the fact that Bestie’s belly was running short of water. With no hot water wash-up facility on site, Mrs S couldn’t contemplate being without such an essential. The nearest water tap 30metres away. Even at a stretch, 3 metres too far. Then, “Let me help you, I’ll get my hose. You can join it together.”

On schedule, more or less. Portugal now in view.

Although this oasis has everything going for it, come Friday afternoon, an invasion of tongue wagging, loud mouthed Spanish week-enders quickly fill up vacant pitches. It’s currently past midnight and there are still children kicking a ball about, while parents gladly natter away. All par for the course.

We move on tomorrow.

Most people, I imagine, experience a point in their lives when they feel they are at the peak of their powers. There exists and emanates a huge confidence in one’s own ability to master all and sundry. Sadly, purple patches come and go.

The same has been true of empires. Whether Egyptian, Persian, British or Roman, they have all come and gone. But it’s not all doom and gloom. Personal legacies, demonstrating what can be achieved can inspire future generations. Similarly, past empires have provided the knowledge, wisdom and building blocks for much of today’s societies. Taking inspiration from what has passed, can lead to innovation and a source for good.

Of those empires now long gone, it is the Roman Empire, that still holds most sway in the minds, hearts and souls of modernity.

Mérida holds a huge bounty of Roman history. It’s no wonder. Having been founded in 25BC by Emperor Augustus. Nowadays civil councils, realise the rewards of preserving, maintaining and promoting their rich Roman heritage, to the benefit of the tourist trade, local coffers and most importantly, visitors.

With only one day allocated, we cough up our visitors’ €34. Focus on the ‘paid entry’ sites.

First stop, the 130 metre square footprint of the Alcazaba Citadel. Excavations and discoveries still ongoing.

Two hours fly by. We head out into the narrow streets, in search of the Temple of Diana. Come across a different type of tribute, to a different type of legend.

Our upward search interrupted by a number of on-going archeological digs. Silently squeezed in, between tidy terraced rows. Dedicated kneelers diligently scraping and brushing a daily thimbleful, or two, from off the ancient floor. Flimsy canvas curtains hang above. Provide just enough shade for exposed crouched backs and necks.

Then suddenly, without fanfare, the top of town monument appears.

Then it’s on to the piece de resistance. Or as they say in Spain “pieza de resistencia”

One final stop – almost.

Definitely the final stop. A magnificent massive organic wall composition.

Life is full of little twists and turns. Some foreseen. Some not. Some more significant than others. A fraction of a second can sometimes be the difference between a good outcome, or not.

Although aware of the idiom, measure twice, cut once, Mr S has often omitted to pause and think for just one second in order to employ that wise principle. Likewise, when a stranger is in need of assistance, he never thinks twice. Mr S (as Mrs S describes) behaves like a little yappy dog. Enthusiastically eager to please and perform. Do his master’s bidding. Tail frantically wagging like a demented metronome. Ears on starters orders. Listening for that magic word – “fetch!”

We’re currently pitched up on a bland, but necessary ‘Camping-Car Park’ site. On the edge of the ancient Roman city of Augusta Emerita. Present day Mérida.

The forced increase in worldwide oil prices, have been offset by the Spanish government (how wise), reducing tax on fuel by 11%. In France, every litre that Beastie guzzled cost around €2.20; whereas in Spain around €1.70.

A pre-dinner amble to view what remains of the once six kilometre aquaduct, the perfect way to stretch off the monotonous motorway journey south-west.

Back at camp, Mr S needs to attend to emptying the chemical toilet. Not the most salubrious of tasks. At the barriered entrance a German couple are looking bewildered. First-timers to this new type of ‘entry by app’ site.

Every web designer on planet earth, seems to adopt their own unique set of confusing procedures to accomplish, quite often, the same simple result. So, when the woman approaches Mr S for assistance, he sympathetically tries to help. Having ‘been there, done that’ some eighteen months previous. However, after fifteen unsuccessful minutes of trying to talk her through the process on her phone, he suggests she pays him in cash and uses his access card to get them in.

It’s at this point Mr S’s tail wags fervently. He turns and jogs away “Don’t run” she shouts. Ha! Mr S is in his element. But. He’s not wearing Nikes. He’s wearing flip-flops. Twenty yards later and ‘ping’ – his right calf muscle tears.

The hobbled walk back to the couple is ironically exacerbated. In just four minutes her hubby has used his phone to crack the entrance system. Their camper is now sitting pretty this side of the barrier.

5 Stink Bugs delimited

Ever since the late 19th century introduction of the phonograph, succeeding generations have been captivated by music recordings of their time. In itself, it brought about the concept and invention of popular music.

Each decade since then, has brought with it different, new and exciting eras of sound. From blues, through to opera, jazz to rockabilly. A musical cacophony of creative genres to strike a chord with everyone’s taste.

For some it can feel like chalk and cheese. A love, hate syndrome develops. Why do some like one sound and others a completely different type? When beat, rhythm and melody all harmonise, people tend to too.

After two evenings of pounding beat, it’s time to move on. Good to know the local birdsong are ready and waiting in the wings to spring into chorus, once party-time is over.

Mr S’s Merlin bird app captures sixty seconds of natty chatter.

We leave El Greco with its surround sound simmering in the distance. Meanwhile we start to simmer as the forecast heat builds.

Today’s planned short journey to Cazalegas Camping allows for a beautiful interruption. A two hour stroll to take in the stunning Barancas de Burujon.

Cazalegas Camping is fronted by a huge restaurant and venue centre, which they describe and name The Complex of Dreams. The camp area as such is a scrawny grid of thin, long pitches. Barely enough room for table and chairs. Few campers are here. Both indoor and outdoor restaurants are brimming over. There’s a birthday party, or more, on the go. How the Spaniards love to party. And how they love to indulge in the latest, loudest dance music.

Mid-evening and 2 Cheeses are wondering what time their dream time will begin. We’re starting to develop a different type of complex to the one advertised just as the (kind) DJ brings proceedings to a halt at 9pm.

Ah. Peace at last.

3 Stink Bugs

His idea, or as Einstein liked to call it, theory, considers the notion that space and time are not separate, but one and the same thing. As a result, the faster you move through space, the slower through time. But that doesn’t seem to equate when you’re late and frantically rushing to make an appointment.

Have you ever considered the speed with which the Spanish utter their sentences, compared to us English? Theirs seems rocket propelled. More often than not, just as noisy. The fact that they co-exist within Einstein’s conceptual Spacetime Continuum, proves that they are capable of speaking many more words within the same amount of given time. Their lightning fast speak can cause time to slow down. Even effecting others in close proximity. Just wait in queue behind a couple of nattering Spaniards and time literally does stand still.

They are not alone . . .

It’s Friday. We arrive and pitch up on Camping El Greco, Toledo. Just to make us feel fully at home, major week-end celebrations break out the other side of camp. An all day party starts to invade and bend the space around our ears. The pounding never-ending beat stretches irritatingly across our Spacetime Continuum. It subsides at 12.15am.

With previous experience of late-night Spaniards, Mr S is prepared.

Day 11 – As the crow flies, Toledo old town is just a 2K flight downstream. By bus, or foot, it’s nearly double. So, a lazy morning is followed by a lazy bus ride. Our Guru underground walking tour is set to start at 2.30pm.

L72 drops us within striking distance of our central meeting point. Within the impressive city walls, Old Town is a collaboration of small open plazas and undulating dark narrow alleyways; silently wishing that the sun might shine their way one day. However, necessary shade providers during the hotter months.

Alberto, four years a Guru guide, navigates our maze-like route in true Pac-Man style. His fourteen groupees in tow of his pink and blue flag.

Alberto tells us that nowadays Toledo life goes on above three layers of its mostly hidden physical history. Roman, Arab and Christian. Each conqueror in turn building on top of the conquered.

Likewise, 14th, 15th & 16th century society was tri-layered with Christians holding power; the Islamic community as the workers – everything constructed then was Muslim built; and naturally the city’s finances were run by the Jewish community.

Many of Toledo’s households have a ‘cellar’ door, leading to a little bit of history. Our tour takes in Roman, Arabic, and Judaic baths.

Two hours later we’re back in the blue.

7 Stink Bugs let loose over two days . . .

Saturday is still party time. Ear-buds to the rescue once more.

The video carousel is sending the world into a spin. Millions of ‘trivia’ creators titillate billions. A constant mobile merry-go-round. Constantly replenished. Digits slide up, or down, left and right. Searching for that next ten second ‘fix’. Perhaps something to save. Hardly ever to savour. Something to share.

Is it any wonder ADHD is on the rise? The more there is, the less time is given over. Thought processes diminish in favour of diminished entertainment. Multiple platforms with diminished responsibilty encourage non-sensical monetisation.

Green Line 5 back into Madrid Centro, gives more than enough time to observe the glary eyed with poised scrolling digit. Mr & Mrs S, with phones safely tucked away, do what all traditional commuters have done for decades long gone. Stare at their reflection opposite. Look down at the different types of footwear. Re-read the one word sign which reads ‘ALARMA’ over and over again. Sneak unsuspecting glances at other passengers. Become expert peepers in broad daylight.

On our way to our timed 12.45 entry into the Prado Art Museum, we pass one of Madrid’s most iconic buildings.

Sadly, photography is banned inside. Based over three disconnected floors, the maze-like interior of corridors and dead-ends leads us in a discombobulated dance. It seems they have put everything on show. Too much to see. This has the effect of creating a weariness. And so one abandons any notion of taking much time to study detail. After ninety minutes Mr & Mrs S can hardly bare to look into another pair of those dark foreboding eyes. If only the Salida could be found . . .

We move onto something more uplifting – the Real Jardin Botanico.

Inside a modern set of artworks are on display

We round the day off with an underwhelming Italian – meal that is. Then spend the next forty minutes looking at feet, or reflections, or signs . . .

4 stink bugs dispatched today

Under the influence of a hypnotist, we can make decisions, but are they truly ours? Currently, according to the latest statistics, before booking a hotel, Air-B&B, restaurant, theatre ticket, tour-guide, camp-site and the like, 84% of people read at least ten reviews before making a decision. If that’s what it is.

It’s no wonder then, that the age of ‘the influencer’ is upon us.

Day 7 – A relatively short and uneventful 215K hop down into Madrid and Camping Osuna. A three-nighter on the cards. A lunchtime ‘Jesus stop’ replenishes our most essential supplies. AKA wine and water.

Today’s tally = 2 Stink Bugs

Day 8 – City stops inevitably lead to necessary decision making. Always too little time and too many sights. The must-see Lonely-Planet list gets shredded. With Madrid centro just under an hour away, a long afternoon is planned between two main attractions. The phenomenal Royal Palace with its 3,418 rooms and alongside, just outside the Palace gates, Madrid Cathedral.

It’s Wednesday, mid-day. Time to make a bit of a fuss about changing the guard. We arrive just as proceedings commence.

Routines well rehearsed. All twiddles present and correct. Sir!!!

Are they looking at their reviews already? . . .

Our delayed timed entry starts below stairs. A series of connected massive kitchens, that in days gone by would have most likely worked around the clock.

No expense spared. Marble, exotic hardwoods, finest silks and furnishings elaborate every nook and cranny of every room. The attention to detail critical. When keeping your head firmly on the job in hand and more importantly, on your shoulders, it’s no wonder such perfection was achievable.

Two hours later and finally, the not quite five star review . . .

Then it’s sarnie time. A nearby low wall, metres away from the Cathedral, utilised. At 2.45pm we climb the steps to enter. Entrance door firmly shut in our faces. Everyday opening hours, 10am to 2.30pm! Still, we save the entrance fee. Next time we’ll definitely go to . . .

Before our Gran Via metro return, we go drown our disappointment with a coffee and chocolate cake . . .

2 – stink bugs released from captivity

It can be difficult to know oneself at times. Out of the blue, you can do something completely surprising and not in character. It’s even possible that others may know you better than you do – or not . . .

Predictability within any relationship reinforces that perceived knowledge of the other. It’s a reciprocal alliance. One expects. The other does too. Behaviour personified. Smooth sailing often the result.

Before set off day, Mrs S always likes to give Beastie’s interior a thorough clean. It’s a woman’s world and all that. The Stink Bug count during this process neared triple figures – apparently. However, despite their French (r)evolution, it seems not all were treated with Liberté, égalité and fraternité !

Unable to squish one directly – a far too juicy treat – Mrs S sent an innumerable number into oblivion by first placing a leaf over each one in turn, before sending them into a far better place . . . which wasn’t France.

Today’s count 13 – 12 alive, 1 not so . . .

A short ninety minutes away from Camping Ezcaba lies Bardenas Reales Natural Park of 45,000 hectares. A dry, dusty, bumpy ride takes in an unexpected landscape, that challenges one’s perceived impression of Spain. Its en-route to our overnighter at Camping Fuente de la Teja, Soria.

Fun over – our two hour trip down to Soria, not quite so warm and sunny . . .

Yet we can only see so far. From day to day it’s impossible to imagine what surprises may lie ahead, or around the next corner. Our minds visualise the future and depending on our nature we see either positive, or negative scenarios.

Regardless, the key is to ‘Give a little whistle’ and always look on the bright side of life.

Day 4 – On schedule, Beastie is left in the capable hands of Theo at GlassAuto. A family run business operating across three franchise units in this region. A two hour job, which with the help of a free loan car, enables 2 Cheeses just enough time for a quick gander into Pau, while Beastie is given a Specsavers onceover.

We head up to the chateau, only to find it closes at 11.45am for lunch! Re-opens at 2pm. France!! We make do with a leisurely stroll through this very chilled city, nestling within sight of the Pyrénées and their snowy caps.

13.15 we pick up Beastie. Hand over €2,400 – that’s the easy bit. Mr S, having organised the replacement before Aviva have officially accepted the estimate, could find his proverbial backside getting bitten. Time to ‘Give a little whistle’?

We head up and over a less mountainous route across the Pyrénées, towards Pamplona. Mrs S obviously less focused on the winding scenery than on the current hot topic of each day.

Day 5 – With the weather-man promising an afternoon of heavy showers, Scoot is kept in reserve for those sunnier, drier climes, which are sure to materialise. Beastie given the chance to be seen as the man about town.

His secure underground parking area is eventually reached. Many of the inner city roads are blocked. A marathon is in place. At one point, Mr S calls over a policeman for assistance. Google translate at the ready. He sees the phone. Beams “What? You don’t speak Spanish!”

Pamplona is famously famous for mainly one thing . . .

The day ends with 8 Stink Bugs having been sent flapping.

A memory is like a 10,000 piece jigsaw, with only 1% of the pieces in their rightful place. A further 4% randomly scattered, yet always at the ready to be repositioned to recreate a more realistic picture of events long gone – should a new perspective be presented. The remaining 95% stay in deep storage. Destined never to see the light of day again.

Day 2 – Another 345K dash south ends at Camping le Rejallant, just outside Ruffec and its pretty watery kayak/sports centre, based around a series of bridge connected mid-stream islands. A perfect way to walk off the day’s trudge.

Apres-dinner relaxation finds Mr S engrossed in the European semi. Mrs S has gone for a shower. The site has little light pollution. As in it’s basically pitch black out there. To complicate matters, all pitches have been delimited with six foot six hedging. A series of off kilter walkways connect everything. If Mrs S was a tall mouse, that would present no problem. Problem is she’s a short Cheese!

At 22.41 my mobile rings. I don’t recognise the UK number. “Hello?” “Cheese, it’s me. I’m lost!” “Where are you?” “I don’t know”.

By the end of today, 22 more Stink Bugs have been given their orders.

Day 3 – Over the last three days we’ve broken our golden rule of ‘No Tolls’ – but it’s been worth it just to save time and make the final 365K to Idron and Camping bar les Sapins. Five minutes from GlassAuto and Beastie’s new windscreen.

18 more Stink Bugs released from captivity during the course of today.

As a parent one must assume that your young child understands what a metaphore is. Else a good night’s sleep would hardly ever follow. The fact that human skin can be host to a multitude of micro organisms is information better passed on at a future date.

With the French computerised entry system down on our side of the Channel, today’s foray under La Manche, got off to a later than dreamed of start. More like a nightmare. With just three days to traverse the length of France to be in Pau by end of play Friday, Beastie will be tested.

We’re now pitched up at Camping les Ilots de Saint Val in Villiers-le-Morhier. It seems we’re also pitched up with a roosting clan of Halyomorpha halys – AKA Stink Bugs, to you and me. They creep out of every known crevice known only to the men who screwed Beastie together.

First encountered big time on our autumn trip last year. Realised we’d brought a ‘few’ back with us. It seems they’ve wintered over within Beastie’s warm interior, like a flock of starlings, without the murmuration. Aware that they’re back on home turf, they materialise from nowhere, like ghouls rising up from their graves. Thriller style, but not quite so scary. Today we carefully expunge twenty.

Obviously it will be advisable to sleep with mouth closed for the foreseeable future !

Fail to prepare, or prepare to fail – an often repeated idiom meant to encourage and emphasise the importance of leaving no stone unturned. Problem is, there are a hell of a lot of stones out there. So it can be super easy to miss the odd one. Especially when it’s hiding in plain sight.

It’s good to make a ‘to-do’ list. It brings you a feeling of being in control. Each task a mere tick away from completion. And as you strike through the increasing number of now redundant jobs, you become envigorated all the more. Itching to strike off that final item becomes a mini-quest. Yet, you can never really relinquish the idea that you may still have overlooked something. Something so obvious to see, it’s staring you in the face . . .

Bottom of the list. Wash Beastie from toe to tail. Head to foot. More often than not he’s a mucky-puppy. So it’s important he looks his best for the big off. At least for the first few days. He may be past his prime, but he still spruces up nicely.

As the final touches are being diligently applied by Mr S, he moves on to the windscreen. After a few squirts of Autoglym’s marvelous Fast Glass, it becomes as transparent as daylight. Unfortunately even more so.

A 10″ zig-zag crack is revealed.

Sacrebleu !!!!