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.

The chill winds have been blowing

Feb 4th

Portugal is going to miss us; the Brits, that is, when we Brexit. We’re in Alvor, west of Portimao, another town on the Algarve coast with a lovely long sandy beach. The town is geared to providing for tourists with such a proliferation of bars and restaurants that the hungry motorhomer is spoilt for choice. Shops selling Portuguese pottery and goods made from cork are on every street, too. Below the town, next to the shore, the motorhomes gather in huge numbers, like an army laying siege (except the motorhomers hardly look very threatening and the town actually wants them ransacking their shops; provided they pay of course). 

So places like Alvor will really feel the loss of trade if the freedom of Brits to spend their retirement in Portugal is curbed in any way. All talk of ‘three months’ is not going down well with people we talk to who spend so much of the year here. One guy, Martin, only goes back to Britain once a year for just 2 weeks to get his van MOT’d.

We heard on a Portuguese radio channel that regardless of the outcome of Brexit, British travellers will be welcome in Portugal and that Portugal will adapt its own laws to accommodate us. They must be pretty worried, tourism being so essential to their economy. 

We’ve had a week of not-so-nice weather that started week last Saturday night while we were sleeping atop the mountain at Foia. We had learned how important a water-shed Serra De Monchique is for the region, with moisture from the Atlantic clouding in on the north side and dumping itself on the rocky slopes to provide water for the more fertile valleys on the south side. And we found out how that works as the winds got up in the night, howling around the communication masts and threatening to blow the van over; or so it felt. Gareth assured me it sounded worse than it was, but his own nervousness was infectious! The cloud was so thick we couldn’t see more than a couple of feet in front of us, but Gareth was determined to get us down off the top before things got any worse. I couldn’t imagine what ‘worse’ might mean. We secured everything, managed to keep the dogs from blowing away, and gingerly set off into the cloud to head down the road, me staring intently at what I could see of the road edge and drop off! As the road wound down to the south side we came out of the cloud and sighed with relief as we entered the town of Monchique at 7 am. The local Intermarche was as good a stopping point as any, and the little cafe there was just opening up. A bonus was an attached laundromat so we were able to do a couple of loads of laundry ( I do love freshly laundered bed sheets). 

A biting wind reminding us that it is January, even if we are in Portugal, and with a not-too-promising weather forecast we stocked up on provisions and headed for another, more sheltered little aire in a village called Alferce. All around was the aftermath of the forest fires of last summer; forest floors greening under the blackened skeletons of trees and along the road, melted signs and views of hillsides laid waste. Nature is so resilient, though. Many of those ghastly black trunks were showing green sprouts on their branches. We wondered whether the communities are in mourning, however, given the quietness of Alferce and it’s sister villages. Certainly some of the homes there had been in the path of fire as it tore through. One at the end of a street had been completely destroyed while its neighbour’s had escaped except for a melted lean-to. Another, beautifully situated with views out across the hillsides, sat collapsed in on itself accompanied by a burnt out excavator. We saw a pile of charred honey frames, another sad sign of casualty, all the more poignant for what we learned about the use of honey locally. In Alferce there are two small shops and one that seems to specialise in the local ‘drop’. As far as I can tell, it is a liqueur from honey - mead of some sort, but as no one was in attendance in any of those establishments, we didn’t find out.

There was little to do in Alferce, it seemed, unless it’s partaking of that mead stuff. The bus shelter appeared to be the daytime meeting place of those ‘last of the summer wine’ sorts. Each had their own seat pad - a piece of cardboard. Outside one of the cottages a little old woman in a pinny stood with her back against the wall and a young man, her grandson maybe, stood alongside,  both of them staring silently into the street, like statues.

Portugal continues to puzzle us. The petite and bijou aire we stopped in is neatly paved, landscaped and with free water and drainage service. There is a bbq area and dishwashing facility as well as a public toilet. Quite an investment for a couple of motorhomes. Adjacent is something we’ve started seeing in a few of these rural places - a large communal clothes washing area, with sinks, rubbing stones and numerous washing lines. It was clear from the laundry hanging out there that it is the local community using the facility, not the little group of transient motorhomers (how many motorhomers wear embroidered pinafores and crocheted bed jackets?) A lot of effort seems to have gone in to making an aire in a community that still lives without the modern conveniences that so many of us take for granted. We’ve seen motorhomers with their own washing machines, for heaven’s sake! Mind you, the tiny homes around us there, in Povo da Baixo, probably don’t have room for washing machines anyway. (Btw, Google translated ‘Povo da Baixo’ as ‘the low people’! We guessed that really it refers to the lower part of Alferce, but during our stay we enjoyed thinking of ourselves as ‘the low people’).

After a couple of days waiting out the rather cold, wet and windy weather we decided to make a move in order to recharge everything. We found a small, private, fully serviced aire at Caldas de Monchique that was a delightful little haven in the midst of what remains of the forest. Most of the people there were French, including a ‘lady in a van’ who has taken on the role of assistant to the owner every season. She told me how she and he had fought off the fire last summer and how Monchique itself had been evacuated. She told me how frightened she’d been and how she’d had to subsist for a month on whatever stores she had in her van. She didn’t want to leave the aire in case the police stopped her coming back. There were road blocks preventing people returning for a month after the fire.

I know that forest fires occur naturally and serve a cleansing purpose; like getting rid of killer caterpillars for instance and giving other species a chance to thrive for a bit. But the lack of birdsong gave the place an eerie feel. Apparently 49 homes were destroyed altogether. I don’t know anything about the wildlife casualties, apart from the bees, but we met a Portuguese man who chatted away at us, and as best we could guess, he was telling us about the fire and how it had now put paid to hunting. 

Portugal is in a bit of trouble for a number of reasons, it seems. Water-saving projects are being implemented on the mountain as the area faces hotter summers, stronger winds, forest fires and drought on account of global warming. The trees themselves have been a source of controversy since the introduction of Eucalyptus from Australia, apparently to help prevent soil erosion and to create paper milling industries. Inevitably this has impacted on the indigenous cork trees which have provided income for both large and cottage industries. While the Eucalyptus is supposed to be fire resilient, in a really hot fire its oil burns fiercely and is harder to extinguish.

So now, facing the challenge of global warming, a declining paper industry as well as a declining need for corks by the wine industry, poor Portugal is in a bit of a bind. No wonder they’re worried about Brexit.

Anyway, after a couple of days in the hills, we headed down to Alvor on the coast planning to spend a few days stocking up and waiting out the weather before heading west and slowly making our way north to be home in time for Reuben’s sixth birthday in March. The winds have now dropped and the sun is shining warm again, so we’re heading west tomorrow.

Faro ‘nuff (just chillin’ around and about in Portugal)

Another red dawn; seen from the highest point in the Algarve - Serra De Monchique. We’ve been taking it slow since my return from a quick trip back to the UK for Richard’s surprise 40th (some of you must have been puzzled by my appearance on FB a couple of weeks ago).  Gareth remained in Portugal with Bess and Pwdin, enjoying the sun while I gathered with the family, catching up on hugs and celebrating another milestone. My son is 40!! Another reminder of how quickly the years roll by.

It was such a lovely occasion and well worth braving my dislike of flying for. Amazingly, the return trip Faro to Manchester was actually cheaper than what it costs me to get to Stoke-on-Trent from Swansea; and quicker too if you don’t count the three and a half hour bus ride from Manchester to Stoke that should have been just one hour (something to do with a lorry load of illegal immigrants escaping onto the M6). 

After a weekend with the whole of my brood (even William had made it over from Canada, though without Izzy, sadly) I was aglow. Meanwhile, in Faro, Gareth was free-camping and trying to deal with a problem we hadn’t foreseen - that of how to manage when your infotech malfunctions and/or you have no access to power. While we’ve been away his phone, with so much stored on it, died, and then the special charger that enables him to charge his laptop from the van battery burned out. The laptop was critical for a number of things, not least for filing his tax-return. In an information blackout he ‘patiently’ awaited my return with a new charger we ordered while I was back in Blighty. I think he was pleased to see me as well as the new charger 🤔

Although I’ve been quite critical of some free-campers in Portugal there are lots of places where it is tolerated though few are supported with water and drainage services. The huge aire at Faro, at the end of the runway (surprisingly peaceful, in fact) is in a lovely location and popular therefore with motorhomers in spite of there being no services. It’s close to the beach on Faro island, and with lovely nature walks along the estuary full of bird life, fishermen and cockle pickers. (I am proud to say that over two days I walked the perimeter of the intriguing sand-bank island. It’s sad to see, though, that its little communities, simple shanty villages, are slowly disappearing as the sea eats away at the land.)

Now, there’s nothing like free-camping to make you think about things we take for granted at home, like power and water. We are intrigued by the number of full-time motorhomers we have met and how they manage. These people come in all shapes and sizes. At Faro a young family that included a couple of teenagers were living in a converted old bus. A youngish French couple with an eight year old daughter have been living in their van for two years and travelling around VERY slowly in order to keep costs down. We’ve met single travellers of all different ages, as well as couples like ourselves using retirement to see a bit of the world, or a bit of Europe at any rate (goodness knows how Brexit will affect that!)

Everyone, except us, has solar panels. Why we thought we could manage without, we can’t say. Needing power to charge up phones, laptop, iPad, vacuum cleaner, torch, Kindle, hot tub (as if!) we needed a camp-site. Also, I wanted a good shower and decent laundry facilities. Our water tank is copious enough but when the only source of water is nearly a mile walk away, it has to be carefully rationed. Had we brought a bike or two, we could have done what other free-campers at Faro were doing each morning - heading over to the public facilities at the beach taking bottles for filling and their toilet cassettes for emptying. So many of the vans around us were huge and they all seemed to have additional transport with them, whether it was bikes, motorbikes, scooters or a small car on a trailer. For some reason it amuses me to see a fella struggling to cycle carrying his toilet cassette and a couple of 5 litre bottles of water. That might be Gareth if we do this again next year!

Anyway, from Faro we took off to a funny campsite called Mikki’s Place in Pera, near Albufeira. In the middle of nowhere a big community of motorhomers and caravanners were all tightly packed in, and it was a good place to get serviced and battened down for a period of cold, windy weather. We had our first rain there, too. Mikki is a potter and an exotic bird lover, so the place was an artistically ramshackle and quirky place full of ramshackle and quirky people. Maybe we are too - ramshackle and quirky, that is.

Next stop was by the beach at Armacao De Pera; four Euros a night in a car park including water but no power. Conserving our resources (including finances) brought on boredom. Conserving battery power meant limited use of our infotech and once I’d finished reading the book I’d bought on the plane back from UK I resorted to a crossword book for entertainment. The beach was lovely and we could have joined the other crazy Northerners sunbathing in sheltered spots were it not for the antics of Bess and Pwdin. Bess, determined to engage anyone she could in a game of throw-me-a-stick, had to be kept a close eye on, and Pwdin, little tramp that she is, scavenged, nose to the ground, around every rock, stone and other people’s belongings.

Armacao De Pera is a typical Algarvian seaside resort where the old town has been engulfed by big apartment blocks. The seafront parade is nevertheless very pleasant and it has lots of fish restaurants, cafes and bars. The aire is a good place to stop over in a motorhome (provided you have a solar panel, of course) because of its proximity to these and other essential services such as food stores. Unfortunately the aire appears to be a temporary thing as it is scheduled for another apartment block to be built on it. Such is the way of things here. 

One day we were intrigued watching motorhome after motorhome piling in to join us. We learned that the police had just moved people on from a place further along the coast, and the free-campers were having, reluctantly, to part with 4 Euros a night not to be prosecuted for illegal camping. It seems down to the whim of the police whether free-camping is tolerated or not.

We have had some really hot weather, but the wind can be chilly, and when the sun goes down, the best place to be (failing a nice warm bar or restaurant if you can afford it) is snuggled up in the van. Wine is so cheap here it brings a glow to an evening, but doesn’t do much for the brain power needed for a good game of Scrabble. We have become keenly aware of our dependence on the infotech as much for entertainment and information as to keep us from arguing! We’ve also found, annoyingly, that when we have power we often have poor data signal and when we have good data we have limited power! If Brexit enables us to do this again next year we will have to be much better set up and organised. Yeah, yeah!

So, at this moment we are parked up in Foia, a free aire with spectacular panoramic views of the Algarve. A huge fire burned through this area of forested hills last October, the charred remains of trees, stark in the sunshine. Surprisingly few homes seem to have been destroyed, though. On the top here, we are surrounded by huge communication masts, so who knows what the signals are doing to our brains, but the sun is warm and it’s very peaceful. On Sunday the west coast weather is set to change so we’ll back track to somewhere sheltered. Maybe I’ll have better signal then, and some power, so I can post this. Funny how being amongst these masts doesn’t do anything for our phones! 

Tarra for now, folks.