Sunday:
Last night the tribes of Aragon were gathered on this hilltop in the Pyrenees. We are encamped outside a castle with a few other motorhomes like a mini army while from the inside came the sounds in the night of a bigger army psyching themselves up for war. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?
Actually, this popular tourist spot and motorhome aire, hosted a rave last night; something we weren’t aware of until we were woken from our happy slumbers by noises that would awaken the dead. I haven’t looked yet, but if Joshua was able to bring down the walls of Jericho with trumpets then I’m expecting to see these castle walls in a heap of rubble this morning. I need another strong cuppa first. Grrrrr.
Later:
That was Ainsa, in the Spanish Pyrenees. The walls hadn’t fallen down when I looked, but I bet they’re a bit less sturdy after that racket. Not wanting to risk another sleepless night in spite of the place having everything either of us, or the dogs, could ask for (mountain bike and hiking trails, quality food and gift shopping, free space for the dogs to run around) we packed up and headed into the mountain passes, destination France. Just as well, maybe. Gareth’s plan to stop there a couple of days to do a bit of biking while I enjoyed some browsing would have meant him trying to tackle some of the most challenging trails possible. It turns out that Ainsa hosted one of the Enduro biking championships back in 2018. He doesn’t have enough padding for those kind of fall-offs.
We did start to worry a little about the route we’d chosen. Some of the motorhome forums informed Gareth that it is rather hairy, especially the climb down on the French side that really tests your brakes. The tunnel at the top of the pass, too, is described as unsuitable for trucks. Ms Sat Nav thinks we’re a lorry so......(read ‘gallic shrug’ there). The reason for our choice of route was a last-chance Spanish Lidl to supply the nice vino we’ve been enjoying. The one at Huesca was undergoing a make-over so we diverted to the only other one possible without having to go back to Zaragoza. Barbastro is the gateway to one of the most scenic routes through the mountains, and, oh boy, did it deliver! Some of it was pretty scary, but good old Hymer, captained by my sleep-deprived but able valentine, got us through. We’re now parked up in the French foothills in a quiet little aire (so far, fingers crossed) at Preignan. Time to open some of that wine.
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