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!