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...