Category: Spain 2018 Part 2

With no real respite to catch breath in Morocco, the ‘Ks’ are starting to catch up with us. We need to slow down. Chill out. Take some horizontal time out. Become beach bums for a few days. With luck that’s next week-end.

The non days 59 & 61 are not typical. Most journeys have at least one sparkle in them. A sprinkling of hundreds and thousands to brighten the dull. But dull they are. Our own fault in one way. Set our distant sights too far. Beastie bouncing more than 300K in one day not really our cup of tea. But needs must. So we do it.

Cordoba, nestling between layers of travel, causes us to stay at El Brillante. Our first municipal stopover. The only MOHO place in close proximity to town. We check the online reviews beforehand. Just to make sure. Thumbs down given on the basis that the site has poor wi-fi signal. This is not unusual. On many a site folk huddle near to reception. Signal seekers. Heads down, eyes straining. i-pad, i-phone – no signal? i-moan. Some people need to get real. Or get a decent data contract. Or learn how to create their own hot-spot. We want to know the important stuff – do the showers work? – is there hot water? – are the pitches level? – how big are they? Can we buy croissants for breakfast!?

As it turns out, this huge site (200 pitches) is great. Masses of hot water for showers and wash-up. Flat pitch. Within walking distance of Cordoba old town. We walk.

We head for the unusual Mosque-Cathedral – ‘Mezquita’. Unusual because its architecture combines Islamic with Christian. Ancient mosque, taken over by Catholic Spain when the muslims were expelled. Usual trick to knock it down and rebuild a Christian church on top ignored. Not here. Combined both. The result is unusual and interesting.

Next port of call the Museo Julio Romero de Torres. Famous Spanish portrait painter. We loved his work. Photos forbidden. Don’t know why – there’s thousands on line. Then we walk the back alleys in search of the Royal Palace gardens. Get there at 2.15pm. Closes for the day at 2pm! We need to remember to look at the fine print when doing our homework. Still, some of the back alleys are pretty.

The main square, or to be precise, rectangle, gives testimony to the fact that big is not always beautiful. Big and boring we thinks. Cordoba offers us nothing to recommend a return. So we turn and walk away.

Before we can exit, this local witch-doctor thinks Mary-Ann is in need of attention. A quick brain scan and simultaneous pulse check ensues. It’s a sixty second consultation. Crosses Mary-Ann’s palm with a sprig of Rosemary. Expects Mary-Ann to cross hers with a five euro note. Settles for one euro.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You can’t have too much of a good thing. Here however, it’s not that we can’t, more a case of we don’t.

A real case of déjà vu finds us again at one of the best locations ever. Perched amidst stunning countryside. We’re back – Olvera camping.

We’re back for one reason only. And that’s to ride the Olvera Via Verde. The Green Way. Spain has created many. This is supposed to pass through the most beautiful countryside of them all. 38K there. 38K back. Spain’s followed UK’s lead. Converted many old train lines into walking and cycle ways. Before set off, both bikes given a full spring clean. Not a grain of Sahara dust left in sight. Spokes shining brightly. Almost as brightly as my grin when we set off. The downside is that we’re upside and the trackless Via Verde IS downside. Far down. A one in five down. Our return should be fun. 5K from the site and we’re off. Can’t miss the route – follow that arrow.

Then we hit the equivalent of the French Route Barrée. We’re at our first tunnel. What’s going on? No idea. It’s all in Spanish. There are voices from within. I can see white lights. Are they doing roadworks? Perhaps we can squeeze past. We venture in. The worse that can happen is that we’re told to go and shove our shopping trolley. Further in we can see three Spanish cyclists. One is sitting on the floor with his trainers and socks off. Has he hurt himself? No. He’s covered in mud. More than the other two. As are their bikes. We take a look. It’s very muddy. And part of the exit is blocked. ‘It can’t be that bad’ I think,  ‘if they’ve got through, then we should be able to too’. WRONG!

What I didn’t realise is that they’d tried to get through from this end. “I’m not going through that!!!” Mary-Ann states categorically – even though she is aware that I am both the optimist of the family and the idiot. “I’ll just see” is my clutching at straw response. I’m aware that Mary-Ann is wearing her unblemished black trainers. Spose I’ll end up carrying her and her bike through. WRONG!

Not wanting to be thwarted, I tentatively tread. (at this point and in retrospect, it would have been a good idea to leave my bike) At first the ruts are solid and crusty. They hold my weight. My optimism rises. I can see a patch of water ahead – should be able to maneuver around that. Then without warning – SQUELCH. I’ve stepped off the edge of the cliff. My feet get sucked into the glup. It’s leech-like properties pull me to a halt. It’s got a hold of my bike too. It’s useless – a bit like me. I can barely lift my feet up to turn around. The more I tread the more the glup sticks. Impossible to wheel my bike. I lift it and squelch out. “I’m not going through that!!!” Mary-Ann repeats. (amongst other things)  She can see I’m still trying to figure a way through.

. . . but I don’t stay broken for long! The return uphill gets my blood flowing and Mary-Ann’s cheeks glowing. Back at base we break out Scoot and hitch a ride back into town. The top of town to be precise.

The 360 view is breathtaking. Compensates – almost.

We’re behaving like the Elliott 4100 Series computer that I worked with from 1970 to 1975. No sooner had it finished one task then it would immediately ask “Wotnexdo? . . .” Eagerly and patiently awaiting it’s next tele-typed instruction. Constantly wagging its tail until we threw another stick or pulled the plug. Our “wotnexdo” modus operandi needs to be modified. We need to unplug. Just one more “task” to complete though.

Beastie’s uneventful jog into Dos Hermanas finds us 15K south of Seville –  our penultimate on the Spain to do list. Our walk into the small centre throws up only one visual of note – an innovative static tandem.

This morning’s M-132 bus drops us into the heart of Seville. We have high hopes. Amazing architecture attacks us from all angles. We head straight for the Alcazar Palace. A two hour queue wraps itself around its outer walls. We don’t. We head for the fourth largest cathedral in the world. We can’t miss it. It’s just over the road.  A couple we’d been speaking with yesterday said they’d got in after only a ten minute wait. We should have pre-booked tickets for both.

So that’s two buildings’ worth of images and information we don’t need to try and retain! 🙂 or 🙁 ?

Instead we head for Casa de Pilatos. It’s fairly true to say that Spanish Signs suck. Or to be more accurate the lack of them. We don’t get any help. Maps leads us a merry dance round the narrow backstreets. The printed back-up no better. Micro print that Willard Wigan would be proud of. Our aging eyes blur. Why does every street have to be called after someone who has three, four or five names. Villarcayo de Merindad de Castilla la Vieja almost typical. Our heads swivel independently like a couple of rolling chameleon’s eyes. One second looking high up trying to take in the street name, next second looking down at the map, having already forgotten every word except ‘Calle’. And there’s a hell of a lot of streets called Calle de this or Calle de that or Calle de something else.

The convoluted walk is worth it. No crowds. Cheaper. And not bad – at all.

With all 16th century floors being either stone, tile or marble you would have thought they’d simply sweep and mop. But no. However, it seems that clever My Dyson developed his first prototype much earlier than first thought.

The walk back towards the river takes us under the Metropol Parasol. Fifteen minutes searching for the way in and up sees us move on. It’s a weird and totally out of whack structure. Needs shifting to Florida.

Just before our legs give up on us we are re-energised. We enter the Plaza de España. Seville’s pièce de résistance. We’re treated visually and audibly.

We couldn’t leave Seville without seeing a bit of this now – could we.

Or this . . .

 

 

 

 

With just about four weeks of gallivanting left we’re going to have to manage our time more carefully. But first it’s back to basics.

The Mercadona chain of Spanish family owned supermarkets are by far our preferred place to shop. Fantastic range, plus, you could eat your dinner off the immaculately tiled floors that are kept so clean and clutter free. Voted 9th most reputable company in the world in 2009 says a lot about their business philosophy.

We leave Seville reflected in the rear-view mirror and go in search of a nearby Mercadona. None near enough to consider a detour. Carrefour will have to do, with its high French prices. It’s almost 1pm by the time we step out, heavily laden and light of pocket.

With no alternative “non-motorway-type” road options available yet again, we make good, but boring drive time. The last of our Just William stories keeps us sane and sees us laugh our way onto site at Camping Playa Taray, just east of Isla Cristina. Outside of Morocco, it’s the cheapest site we’ve been on at just eleven euro per night. But everything was cheaper in Morocco. Diesel at 85p per litre – now we pay a minimum £1.20. We’re positioned 100 metres from a massive dune protected beach. Aiming to catch up on some chores and some sun – if only.

Above our seating area inside Beastie is a bank of six, very low wattage LED lights. During dinner, one decides to “blow”. The result more dramatic than usual. The glass face melts, marble like. The rear looks more burned up than the back-end of an Apollo capsule after re-entry.

This morning’s cloudy but dry start, starts with a BIG wash. Followed by a little’un doing a big al fresco flattening. She looks happy enough.

But is glad to walk it off . . .

 

430 years ago Francis Drake calmly continued his game of  bowls on Plymouth Hoe as the Spanish Armada closed in. We have to do likewise. Remain calm. Not feel intimidated.

Unmelodious family conversations converge. We try and close our ears to their calamitous continuous claptrap. We’re hemmed in on all sides. Like a wild west wagon train we are now surrounded. Taken by surprise. Strange sounds shoot across our bows. Excited incessant chatter creates an incomprehendable  cacophony. Thursday 31st May – a public holiday. This quiet calm site transformed within twenty four hours. Now bursting at the seams. If you can’t beat them – join them. Time to turn up the music!

This morning sees Scoot scoot us away from the nutty natter. We go exploring. End up in a quite little town, Cartaya, 20K further east. Remove ear-plugs. Relax. Time for us to blow our own trumpet. Crunch on a shared cornetto. Do an about turn. The “over the road” beach beckons. It’s hotting up.

As we step through and down from the dunes, there’s an overhead war raging. The sharp behind our backs northerly is having a head to head with it’s coastal counterpart. The upside is that the clouds are being kept at bay. Downside is that we’re being slapped briskly in the face. Fried eggs struck off the menu.

The dunes create their own secluded sun-traps. We allow ourselves to get trapped. Spend a couple of hours on a low sizzle. A couple of kippers kipping.

Then it’s time to get back to base and turn up the music . . .

 

It’s not often that you get a rude awakening. Especially when it’s mid-afternoon and in public.

Today’s replicated scenario sees us Scoot out to a different town. One that’s been created purely for the tourist and his dollar. Smart apartment blocks set in luxurious grounds inset with designer swimming pools and real tended grass. Locked and guarded by security gates and high fences. Stretch alongside the length of the bricked promenade at La Antilla. Screened by the high rises, the tractor leveled beach is buffeted less from the strong north westerly. We stretch out too. Go there and back. Peruse the parade. Do a lap. Mrs S laps up a couple of bargains. The latter of which I might just allow her to keep on.

Early afternoon sees us back on the actual beach. There’s less wind. Toes and torsos turn to face the oncoming UVs. Ready for action – protection in place. Wind picks up. Sand sticks. We turn over. Try to ignore. Sleep brings success. But not for long. Unknown to me, one hundred metres away, a group are fishing. Some huddle behind their huge brollies. A rogue gust tears one from its anchorage. It sails up and downwind. We’re downwind. It thinks it’s Mary-Poppins. It’s looking for Bert. That’s not me. Maybe I resemble him from up there. Or at the very least my backside does. Its sail loses puff. It tucks in. Starts its swoop. Like an earthbound Peregrine Falcon. Eyes locked on to its target. Going for a bullseye. Luckily I’m lying on my front, or it would have been. One hundred and eighty! Not quite. I don’t get pinned to the sand. Merely jack-knifed into a sudden and confusing state of wakefulness. No damage done. We move to higher calmer ground up in the dunes.

It’s just as well we manage to catch a few zzzs. It’s evening and the Spanish parents are mingling. Seems everyone knows everyone. They’re one big happy family. Having one big loud happy party. They let their kids off the leash. The kids are going bazonkers. So much freedom. The later it gets the wilder they get. We climb into bed after mid-night. Come 12.45am it slowly starts to peter out. That is until a group of trick or treaters start banging on the sides of caravans and MOHO’s. Very funny. What a good game. Can I play? . . .

What with having to contend with two weeks of Roland Garros and now the start of the World Cup, it’s a miracle that this blog has kept going for as long as it has! 🙂 For how much longer, especially with the England games starting to kick in, will remain to be seen.

The last eighty kilometres of today’s coastal road puts us on the Way of Saint James – the Camino de Santiago. The humble scallop shell our guide into Santiago de Compostella as we follow just one of the Camino’s many ‘ways’. We pass many pilgrims on route. In awe of the distance some of them would have traveled. Walkers must cover a minimum of 100k. Cyclists 200K. Each humble endeavour adding to the weight of the prayers of all who have walked before. It’s been ongoing since 812AD.

We head into old town and walk the last two kilometres of the Way. Join forces, so to speak. Groups of walkers in front. Groups behind. Some couples. Some solos. All ages. Many in silent contemplation as they complete this last leg. Or is it just sheer exhaustion. Pleased it’s all over? Or sad? We wonder. Proud? No doubt.

Then once the job is ‘done’ all spirits rise again. The square echoes with lively chatter. Facebook is having a whale of a time.

We walk a bit more. Fresh legs. Not quite sure why we decide to pose. It’s what we do isn’t it? Buildings. Statues. Fountains. Seas. Cliffs. Beaches. Monuments. Gardens. Parks. Lakes.  You name it and we want something to show that ‘ we were there’ .

These two give us the perfect excuse.

Yes. Can you believe it? We were really there . . .

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there are lots of roundabouts . . .

 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hasta la vista . . .