We arrive at the campsite in Granada and it feels fantastic. We have regained our freedom, but unfortunately it is considerably more expensive. We realised one of the reasons we'd stayed so long in Jatar. We make up camp, gypsy style, (to deter 'the wrong sort' from parking too near) and check out the facilities. A warm shower block, lush -we have only come across this twice on our whole trip. Me and the girls anticipated the forthcoming event with great excitement. Frida and Silvie decide to pass the time by practising flying, inspired by an old broom and a stick they find dumped near the caravan. Frida realises it is a game, but Silvie seems to be taking it a bit more seriously. There is a shop on site, we can book our tickets for the Alhambra and when the kids have gone to bed after their ritual story time, we realise it is St Valentines night, so we celebrate with a 2 euro bottle of red wine and loud music, courtesy of the first electric hook up for nearly four weeks. It feels good to get our lives back, we can continue with our journey, but it's all a bit sketchy from here on in. The evening is balmy, Our ticket for the Alhambra is not till 2 the next afternoon, so we can relax.
Next morning we put on our best togs, gather our sketch books and catch the bus for the Alhambra. The sun is shining, the city is beautiful, the Sierra Nevada shining in the distance. We have a coffee, then make to pose for our first photo. Bugger. We have left the battery charging in the caravan. Our entrance to the Alhambra is in 2 hours, so I hop on the bus (because it's my fault) and go all the way back to the campsite – hoping that it will be somewhere obvious. Eventually I locate it in the Silvie's underwear drawer. It has only taken 10 minutes, but my heart rate has doubled. I go back to realise that my attempts to save money by going back alone had been foiled by Mark spending 15 euros on a picnic. Nevermind, the photo session can begin immediately. 
We make our way up the hill towards the Alhambra, collect our tickets and quickly notice that we are not allowed to take our picnic into the palace. We munch it in the courtyard before we go in, then realise there's no-one looking. Everything is beautiful, the location, the buildings, the vibe. We wander around the fort, talking battle strategy to the kids, looking at the amazing views. Silvie mainly wants to go in the barred areas, but doesn't have the guts, even when we dare her. 
Eventually our entrance time for the Palace of the Nazrids arrives. We start by getting told off by the ticket puncher because we've joined the wrong queue, then push in the other one and have to wait for 10 minutes. It outclassed anything we had seen in Morocco. Sitting in the first room, we got our sketch books out, but soon realised there was nothing you could draw, there was nothing to focus on so we waited for the many too many to leave the room and got into the vibe. The further into the palace we moved, the further removed from ourselves we felt, as if our worries and stresses were melting into the walls
We made some pointless attempts at taking photographs of the intricate decoration, but as Mark said, 'you can't take it away with you'. So we imagine how cosmic it would be to live somewhere like this. It is truly a thing of beauty, and it wasn't busy. We felt suddenly vindicated in our decision to travel in the winter. It was worth it just for this. 
Eventually we are forced to leave by Silvie's bladder and move on to the gardens, the views and the fountains. A lovely day. We take the bus home and are delighted to find Emma waiting for us. She has managed to escape, and after the emotional reunion, she tells us the site has wifi. This the second thing of great beauty in the day, but obviously not in the same league.
Silvie is still practising her flying technique, convinced by now that she can travel further whilst flapping her arms than when she doesn't. She keeps on practising We cook pizza and after the kids are in bed, delirious with happiness at the reappearance of Emma, drink, email Roger, still stuck in Jatar, reminisce and make a plan. Emma has been texting and e-mailing old friends in Calpe to find somewhere we can stay together. Nothing works out, so we set off anyway – we'll find somewhere. We are moving north together, a mini convoy, she in her Citroen Berlingo, us pulling the love shack. We get off by mid day. She is going to speed ahead and find somewhere for us to camp, which seems like a brilliant plan to us. She is going to follow us out of the city, but we lose her at the first roundabout - eventually reappearing 40 minutes later, and passing us like a blue flash then disappearing into the distance. After numerous texts, we meet her in Villajoyosa after dark, rendezvousing at the chocolate factory, then she takes us to the wasteland car-park that is to be our new camp.
Emma's plan is to sell her van, then use the funds to get to South America and see what happens there. She is 25 years old and carries her life around in a rucksack, making it up as she goes along. She could fill a book with her mad cap stories, despite her unassuming demeanour and has fabulous tips on how to get by with no money, including charging your electrical items at public toilets and washing your dishes at petrol stations. As we have no remaining clean crockery, we try this out, getting a mouthful from the female attendant when we come out– but it's too late, the dishes are clean. 
We spend two days together in the car-park, visiting the reservoir which is 100 meters up the road, watching the processionary caterpillars marching in formation across the gravel. and just getting our lives back . The girls, inspired by Emma's travels spent a whole afternoon practising their driving skills. It is at this point that I check my bank balance in the local cyber, and realise our finances are dire. Rome, which where we had planned as the crescendo of the trip, may have to fall by the wayside. We resolve to spend no more money on campsites or eating out. It's wild-camping, cabbage and potatoes from here on in. Kate, my ex-boss has offered us the use of her house in Toulouse, so north it is, and while Emma stays around to follow some leads for selling her car, telling us she may have an interview in London for a job in Peru, we decide to make a bee line for the border.
The coastal road is built up, but nothing to compare with the horror that is the Costa del Sol (also now signposted as the 'Costa del Golf', I kid you not). We stop to make lunch and pick up a local bloke who wants a lift to the next town.The kids sit silently besides him 'til he gets out, then spend half an hour amusing themselves with the camera.
We are stopping overnight in Tarragona, in the car-park of the roman viaduct, 4km outside the city. We arrive, as usual, in the dark and are followed up the slip road by the guardia. We just act nonchalant – it's not against the law, and there are no signs forbidding it. After they've gone we eat and sleep. In the morning we go to explore the viaduct and to our amazement discover that you are allowed to walk over it. It'd never happen in England. After walking over it twice and wandering around the site for an hour or so, it's back in the rig and off to Figueres – we have an appointment with the Dali Museum. The weather has changed, the further north we drive, the more wet and grey it becomes. We start to see the positives of Jatar.
We arrive in Castello D'Empuries, 10km away and find a lovely spot near the cathedral to camp, then go to have a look around ,walking the windey streets, going in aforementioned cathedral and spoiling ourselves with a coffee out. It is getting dark so we return to the love shack and set up. Almost immediately our happiness is shattered by the arrival of the local boys in cars. They are practising hand-break turns and parking right next to the caravan.
I go out and say ola, then another car arrives throwing gravel all around and starts talking to the first lot about us. I can tell this by the aggressive tone of his voice and the regular repetition of the words 'caravana' and 'camping'; Poor loves, obviously not much to do in these parts. Me and Mark sit on the bonnet and roll a fag – wondering what they'd do if we asked them if there was a problem. The first batch are arguing our corner, encouraged by the girls waving sweetly out of the window at them, and eventually, presumably realising no one's scared, they leave never to return. Me and Mark spend the rest of the evening thinking up ways to park the caravan in front of the museum – and come up with the idea of a travelling exhibit – 'Salvadore y Gala en Vacationnes'.
We could put eggs and a sign on the caravan with a cup for donations. when the coins dropped in we would open the curtains of the van to reveal Frida sat on the bed brushing her hair. Silvie would go out and practice her flying, Mark would play dead in the front of car, and lean on the horn when the money fell in the cup, and I would walk in and out changing my outfit every time. We could even earn the entrance fee. It seemed like a lot of hassle when the morning came, so we parked in Lidl car-park and walked instead.
The Dali Museum has come on in leaps and bounds since we were there last (17 years ago), no more dymo labels. No more clip frames. the girls looked round entranced by the nutty sculptures, putting their 50cent pieces in to see the little machines work, and laughing out loud at the absurdity of it all. Money well spent. We left, kids inspired, and ran for the border.
