Wednesday 18th to Friday 20th May
The morning to get our camper fitted with her new trainers came, 4 x formula 1 quality Firestone tyres, not a cheap exercise, but with 1,397miles under our belts and a further X* miles to go, we thought it best to invest. *X = ((many x many) x LOADS) + 1397, btw. The frenchie mechanics did their usual proficient work whilst we browsed a small open air market and we were soon on our way. Sadly Lizzie suffered from a migraine through the day and new tyres or not the road surfaces in France put me off any dreams of driving the Paris-Dakar rally! We had to stop and chill for a bit before we landed on our feet, again, and drove up the tree lined driveway of a picturesque Bordeaux vineyard, where we were greeted by Isabelle and quickly invited for wine tasting at 7pm. “Do you think you can manage that babe?” I asked, and Lizzie valiantly rose to the challenge.
Off in the morning on the bike to Bordeaux. We wandered our way through the very diverse areas, from the very poorest of folk trading in antique bric-a-brac and 100% genuine tat through to the most elegantly dressed ladies and business men. Wonderfully though whichever area you find yourself in you are never more than 150meters from an enormous gothic church, the grand theatre or the many examples lining the once ultra rich river front port, where even the water filling station was an iconic sculptured font. Our first stop was recommended to us, the Musee d’Art Contemporainee and after trudging through many a Dutch painting in the Rijks museum Amsterdam, many of which I personally enjoyed, we thought we might enjoy a change of pace. We didn’t. Many people, we will call them ‘they’, will try to ‘explain’ to you that “if the art elicits a response, be that confusion, frustration even anger, then the ‘artist’ has done his job”. They are idiots, or at very least they have not been to the Rijks museum in Amsterdam. So many of the indescribable ‘works’ were called ‘untitled’ that I wondered what effort had been put in at all? Even an offshore geologist had to go to university before he stops making decisions. This city doesn’t have the new money flowing into it the way Nantes seemed to, but it’s truly refreshing to sit and drink a ‘demi’, whilst the most diverse crowd wanders by and you can feel the city live. After that fun introspection we took a hilarious tourist train, like those ones you have a fit over at the sea-side when you’re young, and enjoyed backing up the rush hour traffic and mostly people watched some more!
Bordeaux is famous for wine, even I know that, but we really got to taste the difference and so we packed our new cherished rose and claret wines away, said our fair wells to our great hosts and hit the road. We stopped through Arcachon for a touch more memory lane for Lizzie and lunch for me. Big news too, I bought a fishing rod! {Edit over a month has passed and I haven’t employed this equipment yet, rest fishes, rest.....for now. 28/6/11}
1,646 miles
Saturday 21st to Sunday 22nd May
We woke in a delightful ayre in Soorts-Hossegor, a surfing mecca. Into town, a bit of window shopping, bought another cat for the dashboard, we sat and had chocolat chaud and cafe au lait, whilst listening to very smooth funkyjazzrehashes of popular songs and writing postcards, groovy, dude. Post cards posted we went to Biarritz. Hmmm, if you’ve been to Newquay and Disney land then you can imagine the views. The aire we stayed in was a fair trek out of town so we struck out to find some night life. It turned out that struck out was an apt phrase to employ as all the clubs seemed to be shut, we ended up becoming members of the casino and whiling away our free drinks and 40Euros at the tables, oh and arguing the morality of gambling. Thankfully we crossed paths with a young French couple David and Sophie who took pity on our clubbing plight and joined forces with us. More intrigue was yet to be had as we finally entered a club with our comrades and grabbed some drinks, it was around then that we really soaked up the atmosphere of the inhabitants, most of which were dressed in white with red belts and ties. Apparently this is all part of the Basque custom of funerals, I am still left puzzling over specifics of their haute couture?! We returned home the longest, steepest way, but very merrily.
As everything in France was closed on Sunday, we decided to continue the journey south into Spain. Everything was also closed in Spain. This was the hilarious journey where we tried to get our 2m95 van under a 2m90 bridge. Suffice to say reversing the Hippo apologetically out of the bridge into oncoming traffic was a feat in itself! We entered Spain with a lot less fanfare than expected. One minute the road signs said “attention”. The next, “attençion” – subtle, eh? We stopped in San Sebastien for lunch, trying ‘pimxos’ (basque tapas) and strolling through the city. With Democracia Real demonstrators lining the main square and markets teeming with people, San Sebastien seemed full of life and great fun. Our favourite moment was being sung “ayayayayayayayayayayaya” by a harmonica and megaphone wielding nutter, much to the amusement of the other shoppers. The night was spent in our first car park aire in Bermeo, a beautiful fishing village off the beaten track. As it was Sunday, the streets were full of families enjoying a stroll post-church and we tasted the delights of cheesecake ice-cream (I KNOW!) as the sun set over the port.
1,868 miles
Monday 23rd to Thursday 26th May
We woke early in our Bermeo car park home and got ready for a mammoth drive along the northern coast of Spain to Noja, providing D with hours of entertainment at me trying to pronounce ‘Bilbao’. After some twisty windy turns, we arrived in the small coastal town of Noja. Despite our GPS’s attempt to lead us into yet another field, we found the campsite and set up for a long stay, unrolling the awning and hammering pegs into some pretty tough ground. After a beach stroll we sampled the local supermarket wares, buying handfuls of fresh prawns and some unknown fish (not salted cod this time), ready to barbeque that night, complemented by garlic mayonnaise, olives and another round of yahtzee.
The next day dawned grey and damp, so we jumped on the bike and drove to Bilbao. Though roughly 60km away, it took over 2 hours, as apparently Spanish cities are as impenetrable as they were over 500 years ago! Wrong turn after wrong turn, and a scuffle with a truck, eventually led us into the city centre and the Guggenheim museum. The approach to the museum is incredible, with silver-scaled walls reflecting pyramids of light, and rounding the corner to the entrance, we were confronted with an enormous spider, reminiscent of an arachnid-horror film. The museum itself is a testimony to stunning architecture and a clever use of space and dimension. We were treated to exhibitions, exploring journeys and light, including a documentary of over 30 different individual’s stories, set in a room of old tvs and armchairs; a cave made of masking tape, foil and books; and an enormous room filled with giant wood-shavings. Despite our previous furore with modern art, the Guggenheim showed a real thoughtfulness and elegance in its choice of exhibitions and 4 hours later we emerged, amazed and improved. We retraced our treacherous route home and collapsed into bed.
Wednesday and Thursday passed slowly as D had left for the UK for the Rush gig, however, as per usual when left to my own devices, I tidied and made friends! Our next-row-over neighbours were a fantastic couple called Kate and Tom, our age and also embarking on a mad trek round Europe. Both highly entertaining and wise, when D returned, we enjoyed a gourmet food night in the “awning bar” until 3 and 5am (girls and boys respectively). Much love to them and Geoff, their van. Oh, and wasp therapy!
Friday 27th to Wednesday 1st June
Everyone knows the best cure for a hangover is to get up after a few hours sleep, spend a good hour of physical activity packing up an awning in impressive heat and cleaning up the mother of all oil spills inside your van, where the engine oil container has exploded overnight...! Having sacrificed a towel as the new floor covering of the cab, we waved goodbye to our new friends and set off to Picos de Europa via the medieval town of Santillana, just outside of Santander (NB: I have had to be restrained from spitting at the mere mention of the latter city, due to a rather protracted and difficult relationship with the stupid bank). Santillana was lovely, if very touristy, and we enjoyed a rag-tag band and children waving dragon models dancing through the streets, as well as the replica caves. Driving on, we arrived at our Aire in Cangas de Onis, at the foot of the Picos, which although in the middle of another busy car park, had beautiful views and felt pretty secure amongst the other 10+ motorhomes around us. Dinner was an entertaining affair at El Alerbo Restaurante, where we were really looked after by the owner himself (only English speaker) and had home-made puddings thrust upon us!
Despite sleeping with crap Euro-trash techno blaring from the local dodgems, we woke early, visited the tourist office and map-in-hand, drove up into the mountains. About halfway up some ridiculous inclines, we dropped the trailer and continued our stupendous climb up 2-3,000 metres above sea level in our clapped out van. Some might say brave. Others stupid. The Picos de Europa are a limestone mountain range, incongruous against the landscape, left after centuries of weathering. At the top, we continued the trek on foot, walking for an hour around the Mordor peaks, ravines and lakes amid a dropping mist cloud. It was simply breathtaking. The journey down saw me eyes shut, hands clamped to the seat, as D masterfully whipped us round corners to the safety of slightly flatter ground. Suffice to say, I have no doubts as to his driving ability and fortitude, as our engine and brakes squealed and groaned at every twist and turn. Stomach removed from mouth, we drove onto Luarca and Campsite Los Cantillos, set right on the cliff-face, with views directly onto that evening’s sunset. There are many many photos if required!
2,183 miles
As the rain teemed down and the wind buffeted around, Sunday and Monday morning were spent indoors, reading, interneting and planning the journey ahead. After a petrol and GPS debarcle, we left Monday lunchtime for Santiago de Compostela. The latter has always been an important place for me to visit – no, I haven’t suddenly found God – because of Paulo Coehlo’s novel: the romance of a pilgrimage, the explanation of eros and the notion of self-discovery. Poor D got dragged along with me, possibly thinking I’d finally gone mad. We drove through more wibbly-wobbly roads to Boiro, on the coast of West Spain, famous for its strong winds and untouched shorelines. For us, it will always be more renowned for twenty or so ‘elderly folk’, each of whom had a different opinion, insisting on judging the space, helping us park, emptying the water and just generally tutting around all new arrivals with concern in four or five languages. I’m still not sure they understood each other. We settled in for the night on the seafront, amidst wind-shook walls.
2,402 miles
Tuesday dawned as a bright and sunny day, so we set off for an exploration of Boira. With the backdrop of the mountains behind us, we strolled along the beach and marina, taking photos, contemplating some random floating platforms and gathering shells. Awww. Actually, I have promised D a kitsch wood-mounted shell picture for our van. Picture a kid’s macaroni and spaghetti painting... In the evening, our German next-door motorhomers, Andreas and Vera came over for beer and nibbles, which inspired some hilarious conversations amidst their daughter’s babbles over the baby-com.
We rose early and excited Wednesday morning to visit Santiago de Compostela. Sadly, this city was a disappointment. Despite the beauty and ornate facades of the many churches and museums, it was over-run with Catholics, wanna-be Catholics and hiking tourists, whilst the cathedral itself was grotesque. Most appalling were the electric candles. We left the latin-chanting behind, made our way past the Democracia Real demonstrators in the main square, grabbed lunch and drove on to Portugal.
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