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.