On the road

Driving

Today was a travelling day. We had intended to leave early and drive through to Coimbra, but after the last night festivities, we had stayed around chatting, and had to steel ourselves not to say, “...well, maybe just another night...”.
Jamey looked at the Merc with Mark, and discovered the radiator is shot to pieces. The cooling fins have fallen off like the needles of a christmas tree. Coimbra, apparently, is the place to get it fixed. In the meantime we have to ensure the temperature of the engine doesn't reach 100 – if it does the engine could auto destruct. We decide to chance it and hook up, driving off after emotional goodbyes, and I film the hair raising journey down the mountain, watching the scenery change constantly as the light catches and casts shadows on its slopes. I look at the track leading to Priedamo carved into the mountainside from the other side of the range, amazed by the fact we have just driven across it, saddened by the fact we might never go back...


We are driving West, towards Orviedo, then south to Leon. We have to climb 1500metres over 40 kilometers, on a constant incline. The temperature gauge crawls towards 100 as we strain up, sometimes at less that 20 m.p.h. It takes over an hour to travel the distance, but eventually we get there, passing through tunnels bored into the rock, to arrive at the peak. We drive along the plateau of Spain, looking out at the vast flatness of it, such a contrast to where we have been. As night slowly falls, we watch the sunset in the east, the clouds beautiful red and black silhouettes against the orange sky. Then the darkness. We haven't organised a campsite, this is not the part of Spain that is used to tourists, and very few of them exist, non are marked or mentioned in our book. There is no way of knowing where to stop. There are no stopping places to set up in, if there are we can't see them. Eventually, just before Zamora, we stop in a petrol station and ask (in spanish) if we can park our caravan in the space behind the building. “nostromos vamos en manyana...' I say off my own back, and the man assents enthusiastically. We plot up behind the petrol station, make dinner, play cards, read stories and wait to see what tomorrow will bring.

High Plains Drifters



The station we stopped at in the pitch darkness turns out to be beautiful in the morning. Like midwest America – vast, flat and dusty, men with rifles make their way into the fields, mad dogs bark wildly, echoing over the plains. The sun is shining, and all around is nothingness, as far as the eye can see.


We plan to stop off at Salamanca, then cross the border to Portugal through the Beira Alta, round the national park near Guarda, and then through to Coimbra. It looks like a days driving. We start off early, high spirits, music playing, waving to the petrol attendant as we go. We drive and drive, stopping for lunch at a service station. Fish Soup gourmet style, filled with half crabs, prawns, clams, a treasure trove of seafood in a bowl. Arriving at Salamanca, we manage to smash the extendable wing mirror we bought before we left. Parking with caravan attached is problematic, reversing in particular is a nightmare. There seems no logic to it, turn one way and the van turns another, turn the other and... who knows where it will go. We haven't worked out the pattern yet (surely there must be one?) . I persuade Mark we'll deal with the breakage later, and we head into Salamanca for lunch and a snoop.

It is as beautiful as the guide book tells us. Amazingly well preserved and complete. The girls take pictures and film each other under the hugh swaying cypress trees.

I manage to get sucked into a tourist shop and buy the girls flamenco dresses for Christmas. Mark buys 'hornazos', a pie to beat all pies, thick of crust and containing enough meat to feed a family of four for a week. Delicious.

We head off, later than expected, and drive and drive, past the border, into the strange alien landscape of Portugal. Virtual scrubland, dead trees everywhere – they have had no rain this year, and the effect is devastating and depressing to see.

The land is covered by giant boulders, like a giant's playground, and we swing up towards Guarda, the highest city in Europe. It is huge. The road swings away and circumnavigates the mountain, and down we go. Again we notice the dark approaching, and panic slightly, after last night we had vowed to stop before dark. It is so stressful, the roads curve, there is nowhere to stop, if you pull off the main drag it might be impossible to turn with the caravan . We have really sketch directions to our next stopover, and arriving in the dark could be problematic, particularly as the maps we have are far from accurate and the signs in Portugal are pretty random. The darker it gets, the sparser the signposts become. None of the places they point to appear on my map, and the places we are looking for are not on the signposts. We drive on and on, hoping Serpins will appear in neon lights and it will all be over. After 2 hours driving in the dark, and various attempts to ask the locals directions in Portugese, and a couple of calls to Hugh, our host, we arrive up the track, mad dog barking, and camp up on his land. The relief of knowing we can stay here for a few days is immense. The kids will be able to catch up on some work, and we can complete some running repairs on the van and the car.

And relax...



Coimbra

How can two countries, sharing the same peninsula be so different.


We wake the next morning to clear blue skies and frost on the ground. As the sun rises the earth steams. We get up and walk around. Hugh will not be back until lunch so we have time to explore. It is not remote in the same way as Priedamo, where could be, but we are in woodland, in a valley. The land is terraced, and sectioned by clumps of olive, cork oak and bamboo. There are caravans and converted busses dotted around the various crumbling buildings.


Old bikes, a London taxi, sofas and other dusty furniture sit like relics around the place. A reminder of times past. Mark wants to go, I want to stay. The thought of spending another day on the road is abhorrent. This place is beautiful, and the children have already found toy tractors and go carts, Silvie is rushing down the rutted track at 20 miles an hour screaming with laughter and Frida has started work on a 'mechanic's workshop' in the bamboo clumps. The sun is shining....

Mark is persuaded, and Jay arrives, Hugh's son, ginger and charming and cool. He talks about his plans as if he knows us, drops some stuff off, tells us where to get provisions, and leaves.

The kids are persuaded to take time out from their perpetual play time and write in their diaries. I snoop around, looking in the windows of the vans and busses. There is a Safari, bigger than ours, all decked out on the inside with wood panels, 'EXODUS' in the front window. A bit of traveller history.

Hugh arrives smiling. Before long Mark and he are engrossed in car talk. He isn't overly concerned about the radiator.

A visit to Lousa, the nearest town follows. It is so different to Spain. The houses hug the streets, the town is beautifully clean and well kept. Children are playing in the school, going about their business in a calm relaxed manner. An old woman comes up to the children, concerned that they are cold (they are wearing tee shirts) and we laugh at the notion that it could be considered cold by anyone (It is 18 degrees). We shop, go back, and after the children are in bed, go to meet Hugh properly. Ex of Archaos, inventor and rider of the stilt bike (google it), he tells us of the fate of our old blue volvo, sold to the group in the nineties. Covered in shells and used in the act - well maybe. We shared stories of Royal Delux and La Fura Del Baus, and chatted the night away.


We visit Coimibigra, a ruined Roman town 30 minutes drive from the homestead. Frida and Silvie disappear, checking out the jacuzzi, baths, fountains and mozaics, asking question after question, reading the information on the signposts. We wander and wonder, considering wether to slip one of the Roman column bricks that are just lying around into out bags. We find one with a dogs paw print impressed into it. What a lovely sight. The girls are entranced with the idea of the Roman dog. But no. We leave it where it's been for the last 2,000 years.

After another evening at Donkey Island, we prepare to move on the Steve and Sabine's place near Odemira. It will be two days drive, and we organise our stop off point. We will definately stop before dark. We plan to stay in the car park at Os Alamendres, a stone circle near Evora, and leave early (midday).


Night driving.

It gets dark before we arrive at our destination. We stop in a layby, but it is too close to the road, and the road is busy, so we drive into Montemor-o-Novo, and stop in the car park. It has a toilet, and is next to the municipal park. I take the girls to run around while Mark rearranges the caravan for sleeping mode. They have run ahead, and suddenly reappear in a state of excitement. There is a small amphitheatre with a dancing fountain, light show and piped music tucked round the corner. They dance and run, avoiding the spray. We go back to get Mark, who is stressed and miserable, and worried about sleeping in the car park - even though Hugh has told us the Portuguese aren't bothered. I tell him to bring a bottle of wine, then cover his eyes as the girls take one hand each and lead him to the spot. We sit and chill as they use up all the energy they have stored over the day, then have the noisiest night's sleep so far.


The next morning, we decamp early and make our way to Os Alemendres, the stone circle we had planned to camp next to. First we have coffee at the local cafe, then while wondering whether the car and caravan will make it up the track, watch two coach loads of school children dissappear up it. The town is desserted and the kids smash the ice covering the puddles that are still in the shade, whilst in the sun it is gloriously warm. We arrive to find the school children swarming like ants over the stones, scuffing about in the dust, climbing on them, kicking them absent mindedly whilst checking out their phones. It was not the experience we were hoping for. I cook eggy bread and egg on toast for Mark in the caravan, and they eventually leave. So we hang around for a couple of hours, with the place virtually our own. Taking pictures, shooting film, dressing the girls up in their flamenco dresses for the beauty of it, watching the sheep run past bells tinkling,





Afterwards, we moved on again towards Odemira where we will be staying with Steve, Sabine and their three kids for a week or so.

Happy Christmas, everyone!

Asturian Enders

Welcome to Priedamo, land of the free.


















Meet JAMEY, 31. Owner of a County 4X4, six wheel, raised wheel based ford transit, trail bike, joint owner of a 17ft german caravan and the green house in Priedamo in the Asturian mountains. Nerves of steel and a taste for adventure. The Dude. He is married to



















JANE, 25. Loveliness personified, dreamer, builder and dead ringer for Ottilie. They are sharing the villiage with




















NIC, erudite, death defying owner of the blue house, and



















CHRIS, 47, dog lover and owner of FLUKE II.


As Jamey would put it, "it's all a bit sketchy up here", the days go by, the evenings are filled with wine and smoke and words, and it feels almost impossible to get anything done. So we do very little, the hangovers are blown away on the first venture out of the caravan in the morning, leaving a pleasant vague feeling which lasts until the next session.

The village is one of the highest in the range. From here you can climb to the nearest peak and see the sea to the north, the Picos de Europa to the south, and everything in between. The road is cut into a mountain with an almost vertical drop -certain death is all I can think of as we drive up it, and we have driven up and down it on numerous occasions now (Mark focussed, the children discussing matter of factly, the possibilities of survival if we go over the edge, and me with a frozen smile on my face.) It is literally at the end of the road, and visited only by the owner of the cows and its inhabitants. The village itself is a small clutch of farm buildings and houses in various stages of dilapidation perched on the top of the Asturian Mountains. It is the most remote spot we have ever visited, it is idylic and beautiful and peaceful. The only sounds the bells round the cow and sheep's necks, and the screech of the occasional vultures. The constant, muffled chiming is calming and deters us from listening to music or making noise.

During our stay - we have been here for over a week, we have climbed the nearest peak, visited the nearby beach (about 30 minutes drive from Priedamo) and helped around the place. But mainly we have been chilling out and listening to stories - Nic's near death experience with an aeroplane propellar, Chris' shaggy dog stories, and J&J's travelling tales, gleening information about the local area and places to visit en route. Generally experiencing life on the commune. The girls are in heaven. Up and out every morning, skipping up and down the mountain roads, walking far away from the house up the mountain sides. One day they built a den and we didn't see them all day, they were so wrapped up in their own world. They put on a firework display for the whole villiage (all six of us) and we spend the night round the fire eating sausages and bread, chatting the night away.



























They write in their diaries about their adventures, and learn about the mountain wildlife, the geography of the area, how the clouds sit in the valley for days on end, and learn a smattering of Spanish, which will serve them well on our way back up north after visiting Morocco.



Jamey takes Silvie on two motorbike rides up the winding mountain roads, off roading down the slopes, and she is totally delighted and excitied. He shows her how to measure the electric current in the caravan, and how it changes when extra batteries are added, and learns by asking so many questions that she makes everyone feel dizzy. Frida and Jane plant trees and plants that she has brought from England, and shows them the best local spots to play. Chris will chat to them all day, letting them help to make the fire and look after Fluke. We don't want to go, but we will have to push on. We cook dinner and chocolate cake on our last evening, and everyone eats, chats and drinks, and we discover they know the man at our next stop in Portugal. We baulk at the coincidence.

It is heartening to think of the serrendipity that bought us to this beautiful spot. A chance exchange with Jamey in the queue to embark on the ferry – admiring each other's rigs, and then again as we prepared to get off the boat. It seems they were also booked in for the ferry on Wednesday, but car trouble prevented them catching it. They describe the life, the area, the plans and fill my head with ideas. It would be tempting just to stay here. I can see it in my mind's eye, just dropping out and taking a whole new path in life. It is so beautiful.

First days

We have been in Spain for two days. Off the ferry at Santander after meeting Jane and Jamey who have invited us to stay at Priedamo, their villiage in the mountains. We have vague directions on a post it note stuck roughly to the map book. Santander is straight forward enough to negotiate, and we drive on to Santilliana, supposedly the prettiest villiage in Spain and follow the parking signs to our first mistake. We take the wrong street and cannot turn the caravan to get out. Mark reverses with me shouting instructions from the rear, and we manage, somehow to crash into the sign and smash our rear indicator into the bargain. I wait for an irrate Spaniard to come out screaming, and panic at my lack of language, but nothing happens. Noone seems remotely bothered and we eventually reverse out to the car park opposite, look at the town and get some lunch, using every opportunity to practice our Spanish.

Onwards to El Rosal, a beachside campsite on the coast where we are planning to spend our first night. We arrive to find it shut, despite the Rough Guide's statement that it is open all year. It is adjacent to a massive open space, surrounded by sand dunes and woodland, and we decide to camp here, next to the beach. The kids are delighted and strip off to their knickers immediately. They spend an hour or so splashing in the Atlantic, making channels to capture the waves, and generally being careless to the fact that it's only a few degrees warmer than England. Behind us the sun sets on the Picos de Europa, snow capped, golden and stately in the distance.

We are woken in the night by some local youths, doing handbrake turns next to the caravan, it sounds as if they are right upon us, then they drive away. In the morning we see the tracks they have left, barely five feet from the caravan. We are told by a fellow camper that this practise is fairly common, and a way for locals to discourage people sleeping overnight in public areas. Fair play to them, I suppose. Friday turns out to be beautiful. The girls go off to play in the little woods, making a splendid bed of moss and campfire while Mark and I superglue the indicator casing back together. Our main concern is getting stopped by the Guarda, we have been told so many stories about being fined on the spot for any infringement. It is unlikely we will be overtaking anyone in our old banger.

The town has a causeway over the estuary, and local lore has it that if you hold your breath for the length of the bridge, your wish comes true. We manage, blue in the face, and I wish for our luck to change. it seems we have had nothing but worries and bad feelings for the last three weeks. We follow the signs for the car park and again manage to get stuck. Under the watchful eye of the students of the local school, hanging cool with their sultry good looks and ciggarettes, we reverse and drive off like pros, deciding we will no longer take the caravan into the Spanish towns, they are labrynthian, narrow, steep and twisted, often leading to dead ends, with no turning places. Best to park on the outskirts and walk.

We stock up on provisions, ordering cheese from the shop keepers, and go for a drink in a local cafe. We decide to take Jane and Jaimey up on their offer. So we find the note, check the map and head off. The instructions are vague, and only one of our mapbooks has the local town on it. None have the villiage marked, and the only instructions we had were to go to Nueva and take the road up the mountain. We stop and ask directions, part Spanish, part sign language, and the man points us in the right direction. We make our slow assent up the foothills. The road is steep and narrow, we are slightly nervous about the terrain we will encounter, but it soon becomes apparent that once the journey up has started, there is no way back. The road is so narrow it would be impossible to turn. The views become breathtaking, the sun spills through the dips in the mountains, almost tangible, and the road climbs and narrows. From one side of the valley we can see the road clinging to the mountain on the other side. The sun shines in our eyes blinding us both as we turn the corner from one side of the mountain to the other. By the time we reach the tiny road leading to the village, I am almost in tears. There are hairpin bends and no barriers but at last we turn the corner to the breathtaking views and with relief, see our hosts with their caravan, just down the road. We park the rig.
Everything is beautiful...

Viva Espagna

28.11.07

We have finally embarked on the ferry. Our cabin is on the 6th level, pink corridors, carpets, doors and bedding, much to the girls' delight. We had a slap-up dinner, justified by the fact we no longer have to return to the UK half way through our trip, and went to see Pirates of the Caribbean in the onboard cinema. However, the rocking of the boat is too much for the kids, and Frida is sick seven times during the film. She fills four sick bags and we pile them up neatly in the corner, warm and heavy, for disposal after the feature. She is so brave and quietly heaves into her bags between scenes, pale faced and weak. We have the cinema to ourselves, and watch the film with growing confusion. It is so crap. It is turgid, boring rubbish and I sorely regret chosing to see it when we could have watched the sun go down over the Bay of Biscay instead. Afterwards we return to our cabin and I stroke her face til she falls asleep, then try to stop Silvie from her incessant chatter about the construction of the boat and the bunks, and the strength of it all. When she is still and quiet I look at her, in her bunk, and watch as her eyes glaze over and finally, slowly close, and she is asleep.

Mark and I pop out on deck, via the bar and cabaret, looking for the preferred route from Santander to Portugal. There are so many mountains and we worry about driving up them, and how slow we might have to go. But for the first few days we will chill, stay on the coast, maybe get a bit of good weather and take our time. The night is mild, we see the moon moving upwards the down again with the rocking of the boat, watch the white trail of the boat behind us marking out where we have been. We will be in Spain tomorrow, finally..

Turn Around

We have had three days of anxiety and panic. Stuck in a campsite on the outskirts of Plymouth, with practical problems galore. We have realised how totally disorganised we have been. The computer has been playing tricks on us – not charging the battery- the oil dip stick has become unstuck, the wheel clamp we have borrowed has a padlock and we have no key, the insurance company are still insisting we return to England after 90 days, then come back and continue for another three months rather than taking the full 180 days in one go. We have been walking around with knots in our stomachs, wondering what on earth we are thinking of, running away in a knackered old caravan pulled by a twenty seven year old car. Headless chickens.

Today however, everything comes into place. The girls are so happy, so pleased to be on an adventure, so laughing and happy and funny, they lift our spirits and bring us together despite our differences. In Plymouth Mark wins his battle with Norwich Union and they decide we can stay away for the full 180 days without a return trip – a massive weight off our minds. We traul the charity shops to find cagoules, boots, various stuff we have forgotten, but they are crap. Six in one street selling various tut made in third world countries for the western customers whims. They are sterile and soulless, trying to mimic 'new' shops. Oh for the days when you could buy other people's discards for next to nothing. Now it seems there is someone deciding what is and isn't saleable, acceptable, useable for their target customers. Poncing themselves up for the middle classes looking for a bargain. There was a time when they existed for a dual purpose. Making money for charity and providing stuff for the 'have nots' in the community. Recycling in action. Now they fly their products half way round the world to bring us all the ethnic gift items we crave.....



We will catch the ferry tomorrow. We are so close we cannot miss, and in fact the three days of living in the caravan have been infinitely useful and lovely. Getting up at the crack of dawn, seeing the sun rise in east, turning to see the moon behind, fading slowly as the morning progresses. Cold and misty, birds singing. Nature is a beautiful thing. We should cherish it.

The huge chimney in the distance belches out smoke, thick and grey, 24 hours a day. Plymouth is awash with ugly retail and trading estates, making more useless stuff for the population to buy. Can't wait to get out.

Capitalism, who needs it?

False Start

The day started well, awake at 6, dozing til 7, leaving at 8, all of us on a high. We drove off, with Shippy filming us on her phone, waving and emotional, and soon out of sight. The car was like a dream, cruising along the motorway, music playing, looking out the window at the beautiful somerset countryside, the sun low in the autumn sky, filtering between the branches of the passing trees, glaring into my camera lens.

I don't know what went wrong, but suddenly, after a mere ten word exchange, we weren't speaking, and the vibe had gone. It seemed the road went only up, and the car performed magnificently, good practice for the Spanish mountains. At one point we slowed to thirty, second gear engaged, but she climbed and climbed onwards and upwards. We arrived at Plymouth with 15 minutes to spare, filled up with diesel then went to find the port. We had allowed ourselves four hours when the journey should have taken three, we were self satisfied and confident, but when we arrived at the ferry terminal, it became obvious that we had made a mistake. Wrong time. I had read the arrival time as the departure time. Despite our good intentions, we had missed the ferry. We saw her waiting as we cruised up to the port, but she was departing as we arrived. I can't describe the feeling of self loathing, of waiting so long already only to be faced with another set back due to my own stupidity. I did scream like a madwoman for a full ten minutes – such a drama queen.

Thirty minutes and a cup of coffee later, we sat in the port eating lunch in the caravan, deciding what to do for three days until the next one. Wild camp on Dartmoor? Vetoed by Mark. The guy at the ferry terminal offered us a pitch in the carpark, or the wasteland next the sea, tempting (not the carpark!) but we take the safe option and find a campsite and embark in our first night in the caravan since February.

I can report that it is very cosy. Right now the girls are sleeping in their bunks after hot dogs and chocolate, yahtzee and stories. They have explored the site, climbed the trees, rated the toilets, practiced morse code with the old war time torch Mark has lent them, and seem not too disappointed.