Feliz Navidad

Reading “Watling Street” after my book expert cousin referred to it on Facebook, I am in reflective mood. Friday 13th 2019 was a disaster for some and a cause for celebration by many others. Boris Johnson’s government has achieved the necessary majority for a mandate to finally “get Brexit done”. Sitting here in Spain, idly looking for a glimpse of what life is supposed to be about, John Higgs’ words capture my thinking : “Perhaps our current division is a necessary stage in the emergence of a new national story. Other countries think we are crazy, of course, but haven’t they always? It would be a small price to pay to find ourselves part of a new, living myth”

The Witches’ Cave

The Witche’s cave, El Berro

The theme of Watling Street is that if there’s such a thing as a British national psyche, it has evolved out of stories, myths and legends that go way back in time. It is still evolving, of course; fed by the stories, myths and legends of our present times too. And in so far as it could be a shared psyche, the tendency of mohomers to gravitate towards fellow countrymen (and women) when abroad has been borne out by our time in El Berro. The election result was inevitably a talking point, and given that those of us Brits here enjoying Spain are clearly Europhiles (or at least Spain-o-philes) we all groaned through last Friday morning and felt embarrassed in the company of our Spanish and other European companions. Keeping our heads low, we all shuffled about our business hoping no-one would again ask us “Why?”

The good news is that sterling is up and suddenly we have more Euro’s to our pounds. Let’s see how long the bounty will last.

We have definitely fallen in love with El Berro and the mountain park it nestles in, Sierra Espûna. It has many stories of its own, of course. We’ve learned how people had to move away in the Franco era, many to France, and how the children and grandchildren have started drifting back, reclaiming family property and finding ways to make a living. The old men and women we see around the village will all have tales to tell, and I would love to hear them.....if I had enough grasp of their language to understand. We were given a link to a YouTube film of El Berro in Spanish, but which was, nevertheless interesting to see. ( You Tube: Contrastes - Guadrilla del Berro)

One the greatest stories (THE greatest?) has to be the Nativity story and, as we discovered last winter, the traditional way to celebrate Navidad in Spain and Portugal is with nativity scenes. Gareth and I were awed by the one we saw in Mertola last year (see Jan ‘19 blog) and here in El Berro I was privileged to share an invitation to view one in the local church (Iglesia Nuestra Señora De los Dolores De El Berro) . The tableau ran the whole length of the church, each part of the story told in intricate miniature detail. The work involved is mind boggling, especially given the fact that after a couple of months it will be dismantled. I am including in this blog some photos of the tableau taken by, and kindly sent to me by Sue, our British camping compatriot.

Iglesia Nuestra Señora De los Dolores De El Berro , miniaturised and placed in the Nativity

The Nativity is a wonderful story to remember each year, whether you believe it or not. It is one of those stories that reminds us to be more than just human. It reminds us to reach into that better part of ourselves in wishing for peace and goodwill to all mankind. And it goes far beyond Britishness, linking us across many cultures.. I am very grateful to the people of El Berro for letting me see their beautifully modelled re-enactment. And on that note, I wish everyone a very happy Christmas.

El Berro, miniaturised 

Rock on El Berro

It was all change here last weekend. We’re still in El Berro, enjoying the mountains and the convenience of this campsite, but the peace and quiet was shattered when the Spanish turned up in their hordes for Constitution Day. It was also Feast of the Immaculate Conception so feasting and socialising spilled into the village and all around. The weather did the honourable thing, too, bringing sunshine and warmth to the occasion. 

Apparently, the warmth we’re experiencing now is more typical of this place than the colder, wetter weather of last week, and now that we’ve surrendered the car we are back to lazing in the sun and planning hikes that we don’t need a car to reach. Before returning it, we took the opportunity of driving up to where the road reaches its highest point in the park and then hiked out to the ridge for a spectacular viewpoint. At 1450 metres on Chico we had the best seat in the house, so to speak. It’s a shame the cloud blocked our view out as we got to the top; just our luck, though we did get some glimpses of the village way down below and the plains of Murcia further down and beyond. My vertigo kicked in at that point. We got a bit lost on the way down too. Gareth, with the map and the camera, worrying that we might still be walking in the dark if I didn’t hurry up, hustled me downward as I tried to keep my footing on the steep, loose, rocky paths. I really didn’t fancy a long painful and ultimately fatal tumble down into the canyon below. Whether it was because he kept stopping to take photos or had misread the map, we lost our way and ended up retracing our steps and then labouring up a long steep ascent back to where we’d left the car. Phew! Yes, we managed to get back before dark - just, and the bar did well that night as we sank some of their painkilling alcohol.

From Mount Chico looking down across the Leiva canyon

We also managed a hike up into the canyon itself, the Barranca or Valle de Leiva. We watched little colourful dots on the 200 metre cliffs - climbers whose ascent was painfully slow-going and giddyingly high. And then, to our surprise, a couple who we’d watched on the rock appeared behind us on the valley-bottom path striding along, their day’s climbing done. I just had to ask how they’d got down. Gareth asked if they’d abseiled but apparently they had simply come down ‘the path’. We have yet to find out where and what sort of path this might be, but it does boggle the imagination.

The dinosaur footprint in Valle de Leiva

Having done a stock-up shop while we had the car, we don’t feel any compulsion to leave El Berro. We will, though, next week. We will shake off the tentacles that are tightening their grip on us and look for a new stimulus, as was our intention with this ‘travelling life’. Mind you, I’m a bit suspicious that, really, Gareth wants to go shopping for a mountain bike and that we’ll be back here again for Christmas. He’s now had a taste of the trails having been loaned a bike and taken to one of the top spots by one of our neighbours. Mike, the generous guide, has, for the past 20 years spent every winter here in his caravan. He hikes, bikes, climbs, swims and he’s 76.

What else have we done? Well, we’ve been enjoying the company of other long-stay campers here and it’s a great way to learn about a place. The noisy throng in the bar is a great source of information, gossip and amusement. It’s a small village where everyone, Spanish as well as  numerous British and other settlers, knows each other. The campsite is very much part of the community here too. The other evening, over quite a lot of vino tinto, it seemed relevant (to me anyway) to explain the meaning of one of Wales’ most rousing songs. I’m not referring to Calon Lân, my nation’s anthem, but another, sung with great gusto at Rugby games and with a fervour that suggests the Welsh should not be tampered with. New Zealand has the haka, Wales has “Sosban Fach”. As I did for our companions the other evening, here is a translation:

The little saucepan is boiling on the fire

The big saucepan is boiling on the floor

And the cat has scrammed (scratched) little Johnny

Mary-Anne’s finger is hurting

And David the servant isn’t well

The baby in the crib is crying

And the cat has scrammed little Johnny

(chorus) 

There you go, boys; that’s told you! 

It’s the altitude, stupid

Stupor or stupidity? I’m not sure which best sums up my state of mind at the moment. 

Parked up on this mountain top we have fallen into a sort of routine that isn’t marked by the time on our phones (we rarely check). We wake when the light through the gap in our skylight blind finally filters through our eye lids. We batten down the hatches when the sun has set behind the mountain and the air temperature drops. We wander into the bar when the sound of cheerful voices drift up with the seasonal scent of the log fire. We fall asleep when the wine bottle delivers drips instead of a glassful and we eat when the stomach juices tell us to (it’s usually Gareth’s stomach that signals mealtime, by the way, and on my time-scale those mealtimes seem to come around rather quickly). The things that intrude on my mental vacuousness are pings and pangs related to the family at home.......plus a howling dog guarding an empty house on the mountainside and mourning its lonely state. 

El Berro is a rather special place. Most of the other campers here are keen mountain bikers, well equipped for this far-ranging, steep and rocky terrain. The age profile of the active hikers, bikers and climbers around here makes us wonder what happened to us, given that we have only two good hips between us and one of those is a metal one. Each morning there’s the regular sight of Lycra-clad skinny septuagenarians bootling off in search of a new trail and ridge-top. We’ve had to hide our one-and-only bike rather than risk derision - it’s an old one that Gareth has fixed up as ‘emergency transport’. It wouldn’t even cope with getting us safely around the village here, given the state and incline of the roads. The bike written off and Hymer still resting after her own ‘hip operation’ (the wheel bearing) and from the shock of the road to this place, we’ve nursed our arthritic limbs and wondered how to explore this beautiful place. Our solution? No, we didn’t head off to Decathlon, the sports shop in Murcia, in search of some high-tech mountain bikes; we hired a car. 

There’s always someone around who knows a-man-(or even a woman of course)who-can and Pitu (his nickname) duly arranged for delivery to the site of a diesel Renault Cleo that enables us, with the dogs, to get up on some of those ridges ahead of the aged-but-super-fit scramblers. It’s a pretty good scrambler itself, as so many of the roads around here are dirt, gravel and steep. We’re rather glad now that we didn’t bring the car we bought with a view to towing it behind the MH; it would not have coped in this environment. 

So the hire car has enabled us to get about and see this part of Spain without dragging Hymer into inaccessible places. We’ve driven all through the forest park right to the top of the mountain, Espuna; well, almost to the top, which is a military communications site, so entry is barred. We’ve driven out into the Barranco (canyon) Gebas, a huge and fascinating moonscape-like area which channels the water from the mountain. We marvelled again at what the geology shows of its own timescale compared with ours and wondered when this place gets the sort of rainfall that carves out such a landscape. Last night we found out, and it’s still bucketing down! We had intended going down to the market in Alhama de Murcia, the ‘local’ town, but the thought of getting caught in a landslide has rather put us off!

The car enabled us to wriggle into last weekend’s Black Friday shopping mayhem in Murcia when we went off in search of our dogs’ special food (as I said, stupor and stupidity sums up our present mind-set and we hadn’t absorbed the hype). We’ve been able to scout for our next camping spots along the coast, and have found some very promising ones. We were able to park up at the sea-front in Aguilas where motorhomes would not be allowed and enjoy a paella under the shade of a seafront cafe awning (it was actually more a rain-cover on this occasion). 

                                              

Next Monday the rental company come to take back our little Renault friend. As with all things here, the longer you want something, like a campsite pitch or a car rental, the cheaper it gets. We’re already wondering why we didn’t ask to have it for longer. As regards the Hymer and the pitch she’s on, she seems pretty settled and in no hurry to negotiate those hairy, scary hairpins back down the mountain, so........maybe we’ll stay a bit longer. We came for the sun but hey, ho -  it might be stupid but even in the rain I’m enjoying the stupor.

                                                                             

Living high

Ibuprofen, paracetamol and a 141/2% local Murcia red was a requirement after our recent hike to see a dinosaur footprint. It was worth seeing, too! That, along with so much of Spain’s geography, brings home the age of the Earth and the momentary status of human history in comparison. It makes flippin Brexit look like a pointless waste of our time for sure!

We are in Sierra Espûna, Murcia. This is a Nature Park and the site we’ve settled in for the week at El Berro is at an altitude of 630 metres. The magnificent peak in the middle of the park is nearly 1600 metres with vertical sides! The park is the creation of Ricardo Cordoniu, a 19th century philanthropist who, returning to his home region after living in Madrid, was horrified at how denuded of trees it had become, so he set about planting new forest around the mountain, Espuña. The park is certainly lovely. It is a haven for wildlife and a playground for hikers, mountain bikers and hang-gliders. Getting here, though, motor-homers have to take a deep breath and suffer a rattle of a ride on the road up to the village and the campsite. Also it is colder here than down at the coast.

It was even colder in the volcano park in Catalûna that we ventured up into. This is the second time we’ve been drawn to the mountains even though we came seeking sunshine and warmth. Hymer must be wondering, too, why we keep dragging her to these places. Poor thing. She had to go to the Fiat hospital in Figueres for a new wheel bearing and as soon as she was fixed we took her off up into the mountains, to the volcano park. The cheese seller in a little market in pretty Besalú had said we should visit Rupit, and the long, windy drive up from Olot rewarded us with glorious autumn red deciduous woodland; the forest floors a vibrant red, crispy carpet. Simply stunning!

Rupit, again a town at altitude (and therefore cold - yes, we had frost and snow up there), was fascinating. It’s a tourist draw, for sure, being built into and onto the jagged rock. The rock strata made natural stepped streets in and around the medieval buildings. A wooden suspension footbridge takes you from the car park across the river into the village (I am such a wimp on those things, and the dogs were quite unsettled by it, too). Cosy restaurants glowed from within the thick dark stone window reveals and the bakery there had my mouth watering with all of the local delicacies on offer.

Rupit 

Our experience of places in Catalûna left us with the impression that it is a prosperous region. No wonder the Spanish government is so determined to hang on to it. In the northern quarter of that region, the Independence movement is evidently strong, as is the anger over imprisonment of their democratically elected leaders. We narrowly missed getting caught up in a many miles long traffic queue where protesters stopped traffic on the main route between Catalûna and France for 30 hours! Another Brit we spoke to had been held up for 8 hours on his way in from France. 

Besalú 

In our five days there we didn’t encounter any angry protestations ourselves and in fact found everyone we spoke to delightfully friendly and helpful. A doggy day-care centre looked after Bess and Pwdin very comfortably while we visited the Dali museum in Figueres, and where we had a dog-free lunch (such a treat). I was sorry to be leaving the area, with it’s special regional character. We’d happened across a couple of events while staying at Peralada that delighted us - a street, drum-accompanied procession featured a dragon that became a dancing firework display, a giant dancing goose and a giant donkey. Another evening we watched the town inhabitants dance in the plaça to a lively little orchestra. 

Dali’s ‘Doris Day’

                                                                                  
Much as I would have liked to visit Barcelona, we gave it a miss and like the other snow-birds we picked up the trail south in search of Vitamin D. Murcia, here, doesn’t seem to be as well off, though Valencia and the coast seems affluent enough and is well populated with Brits and other Northern Europeans, too, of course. 

Drawn to Denia and Xabia because of a lovely week I’d spent with my dear departed aunt when she rented an apartment there one winter, we got Hymer into a sticky predicament and Gareth into a bit of a mood with me for once again finding challenging places to navigate with a motorhome. As a passenger, though, I could enjoy the spectacular views.......stifling the instinct to share them with him, my mouth firmly shut to contain the “oooo”s and “oh, look at that!”s of course.

Benidorm and Alicante were spectacular views in terms only of their skyscraper madness. The coast line is beautiful enough, if you don’t look at the massive concretisation along it. It made what we saw last year of Malaga and the Costa del Sol look positively restrained. Gareth did point out, though, that the craggy-ness of the man-made landscape somehow reflected the craggy-ness of the natural landscape where the looming massifs rise dramatically out of the plains. 

We had a stop-over in a very nice paid-for private aire (Area 7) in St Joan Alicant overshadowed by what seemed to be mostly vacant skyscraper blocks before heading for where we are now. And here in El Berro, we have found the kind of r&r that soothes the soul, clears the head and opens the mind to new ways of being. There are periods of perfect silence here that are like a salve to the itchy brain. The air is perfumed from the herbs growing naturally everywhere, and for the time being we have made this our retreat. Our souls are catching up with us, Hymer is also having a break and the dogs are loving the walks. I now understand the claim this place makes that “Once here you won’t want to leave”.
(More pictures to follow)

Catelonia!

“Catalonia is not Spain!” Said the cliff-side as we negotiated another hairy hairpin ascent out of a rocky inlet town. So we have to watch our p’s and q’s then (or is it our c’s and z’s? Where’s that guidebook?)

Advised on his on-line forums not to risk having to take out a mortgage for a wheel-bearing repair in France Gareth reckoned we should continue our journey on and into Spain. A workshop in Figueres could be the place and the Dali museum is there too; what a happy coincidence! The drive wasn’t too taxing for Hymer initially. We drifted along nicely along the French coast and through Perpignan, the Pyrenees across our horizon like a ragged blue ribbon. 

Mountains form natural borders and this one between France and Spain is a good one. Tunnels  have made for “freedom of movement” in these modern times of course, for freight, commerce and itinerants like ourselves. The tunnels, though, are mainly for the toll routes. Ms Sat Nav’s “easy, non-toll” route had poor Hymer grumbling about her sore bearing as we climbed around the Pyrenees where they meet the Med. The views were lovely, and so are Gareth’s biceps after his work-out on the steering wheel. We weren’t the only motorhome negotiating this spaghetti route, either. Like bugs on a leaf stalk, we all climbed around and about munching through the kilometres on our way southwards.

We crossed into Spain - sorry, Catalonia - through an old graffitied border control point at the top of a col. There were guards all over it, but not apparently doing much. They were all just hanging around for a chat it seemed, and certainly weren’t interested in us. So we continued our up-and-down journey across the rest of the mountainous border until we reached the coastal plain, and a straight road brought us to our night stop, a fully serviced (no leccy) aire at the entrance to Peralada.

Peralada is a restored ‘medieval’ town with a clock tower bell that sounds like someone banging an old frying pan. There are a few little shops including an expensive artisan bread shop, and the cobbled streets turn into rivers when the heavens open. You know what they say about the rain in Spain? Yes, we got a soaking, and so did our artisan bread as we splashed back to the van. Thanks to the library of films and music that our good friend Jock (Alan) had collated for us we spent the evening watching a film on our new Smart TV. You’re a star, Jock. 

Btw, last winter we didn’t have a TV, thinking we could do without. We hadn’t realised how long and cold the nights could be, even in Andalusia and the Algarve. This time I’ve brought more reading material and entertainment that doesn’t all rely on data. Oh, and we’ve (ahem, Gareth) also fitted a solar panel which is working well to keep everything charged up, including the vacuum cleaner (no excuse now for a mucky van).

Today, Saturday, the sun is shining, Hymer’s wheel didn’t fall off and it’s a big world out there, with lots to explore.

..............

Post-script: Blogging on

Many years ago I kept my parents entertained with letters home from trips and adventures. My mother kept those letters safely in her desk along with those she’d had from her own parents about travels in Europe. Unfortunately those letters disappeared during the house clearance that followed her passing, and I would dearly love to have kept them myself.

Letter writing has died, replaced by social media which is what now informs us about each other’s whereabouts and antics. I first joined Facebook in order to follow the adventures of my Canadian nephew and nieces as they set off on their adventures on the other side of our planet. It’s now part of my everyday communication, of course, as it is for so many of us. This blog began as an intended on-line letter home for my cyber-savvy family as well as a personal record of our travels. It is probably every bit as ephemeral as those letters my mother kept and which disappeared with her breath. Nevertheless, I am touched by the number of friends and family who are for the moment following it and, I hope, enjoying it. 

Still seeking sunshine

Why did the 20 ft tall chicken cross the road? Answer: Because who’s going to stop it?

That was in Bresse - the 20ft chicken. Bresse is proud of its chickens, apparently, and this monster stood alongside the road with a definite intention-to-cross poise. European food producers love to advertise their local specialities with huge metal structures road-side or hill top. The chicken I cooked last night in the thermal cooker must have come from the same metal stock - it was solidly built and far from melt-in-the-mouth! 

A long drive down through the Rhône valley and then on Monday we arrived, like river silt (I could do with a good shower), in the Camargue. It is Europe’s largest river delta where the Rhône meets the Med. The rain is still with us, though we have finally met some sunshine and warmth. The Camargue, on the west side of the French Riviera, is the land of white horses, flamingoes, birds of all kinds, bull breeding and bull running, pink salt lakes, wineries and......mosquitoes. Some of them have dined out on us. 

We parked up in a 13 Euro per night beach front aire just outside Saintes Maries de la Mer. In May a huge and colourful gypsy festival takes place in this town as the gypsy saint, Black Sara, is honoured. It’s not far from Nimes and Arles where Roman amphitheaters and other ancient remains are a tourist draw. A nearby fortress town, Aigues Mortes, also attracts tourists for the views it provides of the pink salt lakes from its ramparts. A medieval fort, it died as it became more and more cut off from access to the sea by build up of river silt. Apparently at some point in the C14th it was resurrected as a prison, then became a town in the C19th and now a tourist attraction.

Tuesday

After a bit of a muck out while the morning was warm and sunny (and the mozzies weren’t too much in evidence) we headed off again across the Camargue towards Aigues Mortes. Google info tells me that the name means “dead waters” but Google translates it as “dead highs”, so there you go. In my imagination we were going to visit a ghostly relic of the past, sinking slowly into the brackish waters of the salty delta. In fact it is a bustling town, well set up for commerce and tourism. The walls around the ‘old town’ are in excellent nick, and the ramparts provide for a circular elevated walk around it (for 8 Euros, but no dogs allowed). To satisfy my magpie eye we sauntered through the cobbled streets, taking in the smells intended to entice tourists into the bars, restaurants and souvenir shops. The one that succeeded in drawing me in was a condiments shop - a wonderland of all things for the culinary art of adding flavour. A couple of expensive salt-related items and a bag of red Camargue rice and I came out 17 Euros lighter and minus the tapenade Gareth thought I’d gone in for. 

Wednesday

In spite of the aire we were in being town-centre and right at the gateway to Aigues Morte (20 Euro per night inc services; no leccy) we’d had a peaceful night. Continuing our route south we headed towards Montpelier across the scenic, salty lagoons in bright sunshine, had an argument with Ms Sat Nav when she lost the plot (probably something to do with a new road she didn’t recognise) and eventually found ourselves out in hill country, circumventing the busy sprawling towns of Montpelier and Narbonne.  Hymer is grumbling again. It rather looks as though the wheel-bearing fix we had done before we came away hasn’t been done properly. Great! Gareth’s evenings are now being spent trawling the Net for suitable repair services.

Anyway, our night stop in Peyriac de Mer (an aire at the local recreation ground) provided the first real treat of this trip. Old salt lagoons that are now conservation areas have boardwalks and paths for keen walkers and leisurely strollers. It’s possible to swim, too, the salt (twice as salty as the Med) providing buoyancy. The lagoons are quite shallow, the largest being 4m at its deepest. The dogs bounded about, scaring the ducks and paddling before we found ourselves in the little town. We suspect that most of the homes there are holiday pads and some are very well appointed with things like electric gates. The little bar drew us in for some chat (very incompetent French on my part), a couple of local beers for Gareth and a very nice glass of white for me while the dogs charmed the local soaks. They were clearly interested in our dogs’ hunting pedigree (we’ll have to keep a close eye on our Bess and Pwdin!)

We board-walked back to the van across moonlit waters, the yellow lights of the little town mirrored quay-side. French wine does wonders for the joie-de-vivre but I wonder how many mohomers succeed in staggering back to their rigs without getting wet.

Thursday

After a lazy start, we decided not to move on today. The weather is quite cold and grey but we fancied a real leg stretch and this locality, Peyriac de Mer, south of Narbonne, is really interesting to walk around (check it out on Google maps - it’s fascinating). A cold stiff breeze kept the mozzies from biting, we all had a good workout and overview of this place, ate pizza at the little cafe in town and then snuggled up in a nice toastie warm van. Tomorrow we try to hunt down a repair shop for Hymer.

                                                     
                                                                   Aigues Mortes

                                                                Where’s Moggy?

Big Trip Number 3

Decisions, decisions, decisions. It’s not just parliament that can’t make one - we can’t either. We did, at least, make the decision to get off our indecisive island nation before Boris’s do-or-die (in a ditch) deadline of October 31st just in case a no-deal scenario would prevent us from getting out with the dogs. In order to do so, and fulfil our lifestyle plan of winter travel in a motorhome, we’d had to obtain, at additional costs of course, papers and insurances for the pooches that if still in the EU we wouldn’t have to provide. Well, we’ve got those bits of paper now, and as of this week we don’t have to think about any more Brexit related paperwork until January (shame we paid out for it all ‘just-in-case’ 🤨)

So here we are, after a couple of days parked up near Calais, waiting for the outcome of the EU decision whether or not to grant us an extension, now bowling along through Eastern France on our way south to some sunshine. And it’s such easy going, stopping off at the thoughtfully situated and provided-for aires at little towns along the way. French wine goes down easy, too.

Back when we were thinking about this winter’s trip, I casually mentioned that a trip to Greece would be nice. No sooner thought and uttered, than my diligent other half (Gareth, of course) set about planning said trip. It would take us through Slovenia, Croatia, Albania and Montenegro, the latter two being handy places to sit out some time if a cliff-edge Brexit meant we couldn’t have more than 90 days stay in EU countries. He bought insurance cover for the purpose and we set our minds to a ‘bit of an adventure’. 

Something else popped up, though, when we were doing our final planning in Calais, that threw a spanner in the works - the need for winter tyres if we go into Croatia. Hmmmm. An evening looking at the relative costs of different itineraries (including possible ferries across from Spain and Italy to the Peloponnese) and we abandoned the plan in favour of a ‘to-hell-with-it’ approach of “let’s head for Barcelona and see how we feel when we get there”.

Aside from all that, we have fallen back easily into traveller mode. The Hymer, with all of Gareth’s gizmos and adaptations fits snuggly around us. Everything, including the dogs, fits neatly into place. We’ve got lots of new cushioning, too, for the old hips, knees, shoulders and bums. We’ve  enough bits and bobs to help us deal with most situations (except winter tyres, of course 🤨).

There is always the emotional wrench of saying goodbye, though, especially as the little ones will have four months development under their belts before we see them next. FaceTime, Whatsapp, whatever, helps a bit with that, I suppose.

We had a lovely send-off evening with friends back in Broughton caravan park and they watched us scurrying about in foul weather getting ready for the off as they prepared for a winter back in their own houses. Camping on Jess and Owen’s driveway the night before leaving Swansea, was the last opportunity for some family hugs but Owen’s face as I gave him instructions on what to do in the event of our sudden demise, said it all - “That’s the last thing I need you to go and do, Mum! I’ve enough on my plate without having to sort out your affairs!” So I gave him my ‘important stuff’ box and left him to carry on with finishing their new kitchen extension.

Before leaving Blighty, we met up with Nick and Lynda, a lovely couple we met last trip, and who’ve also opted for a life as mohomers. It seemed the most natural thing in the world - two campers each containing an itinerant couple with dogs parked up together for a pub meal and the company of watching Wales play South Africa in the Rugby World Cup. Wales lost, but the pleasure of our rendezvous more than made up for that.

Writing this now, glass in hand, dogs snoring and Gareth surfing the net for inspiration, travel seems to me to be like dreaming, it goes where it goes, shape-shifting, fleeting, dissolving, indeterminate.......

Btw, Gareth is now, as I write, suggesting we go to Morocco!!!

Friday

It’s All Saints Day and raining (tears for the dead?) and, wouldn’t you know, The Hymer is threatening to die on us. We’ve been hiccuping along through the valley of the Marne, stopping every couple of miles for Gareth to twiddle under the bonnet and get soaked. This area, between Reims and Dijon is very scenic, its summer woodland foliage dying in dramatic colour. Sadly, it failed to get Gareth’s admiration, preoccupied as he was with fixing Hymer. I tried to make myself useful without having to get wet, so stayed inside in the warm ready to sweetly pass Mr Fix-it a tool or a cuppa. I think I did a good job......

So this evening we have limped into an aire in the walled hill top-town of Landres. Someone came up with the bright idea of an automated entry for a big, new aire which is conveniently situated just outside one of the old town gateways. Unfortunately, the entry system is faulty and we, along with a little huddle of other cold, damp mohomers had to wait for technical help to get some of us in and some of us out. What a faff!

Anyway, we’re now settled in for the night and Gareth thinks he has finally fixed Hymer’s little problem. Ok, where’s the gin....?

PS Some of my ‘regular readers’ (ahem) may have wondered what happened to this blog after the last instalment back in February. The short answer is that we bashed our way back from Portugal to be home in time for Reuben’s sixth birthday, as we’d promised, saw lots of interesting stuff along the way (the Douro valley, for instance) and had a great tapas night in San Sebastián. The blog went on the back burner.


 

Sun, sea and..........

In this blog I was going to tell you that we’ve ‘done’ the Algarve, from Faro, anyway, along the coast and how we really enjoyed the south west corner; unspoilt coves like Boca do Rio and the peninsular town of Sagres, praias Amado and De Bordeira, all the way to Vila Nova De Milfontes. I was going to describe our trip inland to see something of the Alantejo, Portel with its Moorish castle and Evora, a beautiful old walled town with a fabulous aqueduct, a very old university, palaces and chapels, including The Chapel of Bones (Capella dos Ossis) in the Igregia De Sao Francisco - a real curiosity! 

I wanted to tell you about Bessie and how we’d had to find a vet after she’d had a series of fits and we thought we’d lost her; how the excellent attention cost just £150 - peanuts compared with what we’d have paid at home. Poor Bessie! Little does she know how grateful she should be to that lady vet.

I wanted to describe the area around Lisbon, so highly populated and where the wealth is, it seems. South of Lisbon, across the Tejo, it feels like the world is made of concrete and the sun is blocked out from the streets by huge tower blocks. The famous bridge across to the city itself, though, is spectacular and had I not been having to fiddle with Ms SatNav at the time, I might have taken in more of the view.

I wanted to paint a picture of the western corner along the shore of the Tejo; lots of affluence, fancy restaurants, more lovely Atlantic sandy beaches and Sintra, Portugal’s equivalent of Portmeirion village, but bigger,  much more dramatic and less well cared for (graffiti!).

I could tell you how easy it has been to free-camp. We’ve had so many beach car-park night stops with views and sounds of the sea that I have lost count. For all that I have criticised free-camping, it’s not always easy to find places to stay otherwise, so we’ve done our best to be considerate while enjoying the freedom of ‘Home is where the Hymer is’ as we move around this lovely country (I saw that quoted on a Hymer the other day - I might crib it for ours). At this time of the year it seems that motorhomes are tolerated, even welcomed, in many places.

I could tell you a bit about Nazare where we’ve been parked up the last few days watching the huge Atlantic waves that it’s famous for, and the big wave surfers. We have a grandstand view of them and the awesomeness is hypnotic. But what I most want to write about here is the despair I felt after hearing a news item yesterday evening. 

I have been doing my best to reduce our use of plastic, and we always recycle. It has been much harder while travelling and I’ve been feeling very uneasy about having to buy our drinking water in plastic containers. The news item was that in a remote arctic habitat, plastic was found in a bird’s egg. WHAT???? Looking out on this vast and beautiful ocean, I don’t see the wreckage we have poured into it, but it’s there, in vast proportions. What have we done?

On the news I have also heard about the young 15 year old girl who has been on a school-strike, protesting at the politicians’ failure to give environmental crises enough attention. I applaud her, and am mightily impressed by her bravery. She has inspired others, too, and I gather that there were similar strikes by primary and secondary children all over the UK recently. But what is the ‘adult’ response to their action? Most of the concern appears to be how schools should respond. As usual, it’s not about what the protest is about but what policies apply - should parents be prosecuted, etc; after all, these kids are missing out on their education! Ffs, how are the National Curriculum and exam pass grades going to help them in a world that is showing all the signs of serious ill health, calamity even? I am sick of hearing politicians banging on about Brexit, wasting our tax revenue on stupid arguments and petty concerns when we should be dealing with the one most important thing for the future generation. And, Trump! Stop belly-aching about that stupid wall and do something for the planet! 

I can’t write any more. I’m too upset. I will attach some photos that show some beautiful bits of our world.......how they are for the moment anyway.