Journal

I was going a little crazy.
My business had taken a downturn and the neighbours were making noise all night. Karen had been working a lot too, and so we were too tired to talk to each other like grown-ups.

Then one morning in Hastings England, we had a kind of epiphany.
It was a moment of such clarity that neither of us will ever forget it. We both knew that the life we had was not ideal, as living on a cramped housing estate in the relatively poor town of Hastings was not what we wanted from life. We knew there was a lack of opportunities to live elsewhere in the UK with the money we had available. We knew that the only way to change things and break out of the rat race would be to go abroad where our money would stretch a lot further. We liked the idea of a quiet country existence with the help of the Internet we discovered many potential places to visit.

It would have been easy to follow Karen’s parents to Gandia, where they had two flats, one of which they offered to us to buy, but it was a beach apartment, surrounded by concrete, not trees and fields. We decided that was not what we wanted. Therefore, the long preparations began, towards a journey of discovery and excitement.
We both had small businesses, many things to sort out and loose ends to tie up, so the process of leaving was a long and difficult one. We would have to take great care to ensure that we settled all our debts first.

The very first step was to decide how we would travel. This was a case of either a caravan or motor home, because being mobile was going to be important. We would need to cover as much territory as we could and stay in places we liked for as long as possible in order to find a suitable potential place to live. We knew that it would be no good basing our decisions on a daytrip, or a short break, so wherever we stopped, we planned to stay for up to a week and really look around to get a feel for places.
We decided on a caravan because of the ability to leave it on a site all set up, and use the car for driving to places of interest.
The caravan we chose eventually was perfect. All we needed to do was test it out, and make sure we could adapt to life on the road as old age travellers. Not that old though.

Our first outing was a short trip to Oxfordshire for a week away in the country.
What follows is a record of that trip and another one later that year, which were the basis for much of what occurs in these pages. The humour is sometimes a little dark or surreal, but the things that happened were actually a little dark or surreal at times.

Sunday April 24th 2005.
We arrived at the site near Banbury at around 1pm after a 3-hour drive towing the caravan for the very first time. I did not find it difficult towing although the concentration level required was far higher than normal driving and even when I was an ‘expert’, this was still the case. The car seemed at first to be getting very hot and I found myself watching the temperature gauge like a hawk because I had never seen it move above normal before. It quickly became apparent that the heavy weight behind us was going to have a big effect on performance, bigger than I had reckoned on.
The hit on diesel consumption was considerable too. I soon foresaw the need to recalculate all the budgets concerning costs for the future journeys, ones that would make the current one seem like a trip to the shops.

The campsite was in a lovely location, and as we pulled up at the reception area, we could see that we were right to have chosen the place. We took the dogs (Tia and Sammy) for a much needed comfort break and as we led them towards the lush green grass that they enjoy peeing on so much, we spotted a life-sized plastic sheep at the entrance to the office. I wondered at the significance of this and if we had come to Wales perhaps without realising it, or that the owners had some sort of fetish…!
Unfortunately, Tia had other impressions, and started barking furiously at it. The sheep obviously took no notice, but several elderly campers looked our way with annoyed expressions on their faces. Luckily, she calmed down a little when Karen went right up to the sheep and pretended to pet it as though it was alive. A tasty dog-treat also helped to get Tia’s attention.

The site was quiet, and with seven days to go before a busy holiday weekend, it seemed the perfect place to practice our skills in setting up camp and raising the awning.

We had the pick of nearly every pitch, and we decided on one that backed onto hedges on two sides and was in a secluded corner of the site. It looked perfect, and we slowly got ourselves pitched up, and ready for an evening of camping style food and beer.
We had a toilet and shower block a short distance away, and it all seemed to be going rather well when all of a sudden we noticed movement on the grass and out of nowhere, there were huge rabbits all over the place. Well of course, they came from the many hidden rabbit warrens in the hedges, and being springtime, there were many young, slow and inexperienced rabbits as well!
The rabbits munched on grass as they filled the foreground and looked extremely fat and lazy. I swear we could actually hear the sound of them grazing on that rich Oxfordshire grass, and Tia, being a typical terrier, had absolutely no control over her reactions and the barking (which was more of an excited yelping really) drove us mad after just a couple of minutes.
She had to remain on the leash all week, poor girl.
Karen had nightmares about rabbits swarming all over the caravan, and of being unable to open the doors or windows. They could after all have been trying to gain access and munch us up to turn us into those little pellets that appeared on the grass.

The dog-walk around the site included a grassy bank riddled with rabbit holes so large that we feared Tia would go right into one and then she would be stuck. We also kept checking to see if there were any hobbits present. They really were that big. We did not meet any hobbits that week, so they must have been away visiting dwarves.

I decided to raise the awning next morning, as I was a little burned out from the concentration of driving with the caravan for the first time, and because the cold beer was having an effect on me that would have made it impossible anyway!
It turned out to be a terrible idea, because during then night it rained hard, and because we had chosen a pitch in a low corner, well…yes…you guessed it... we had to swim to get out of the door.
Perhaps that is an exaggeration, but there was a small lake there, and our Wellington boots were out of immediate reach in the outside locker.
However, returning later on after a long walk in the countryside, and a drive into town for supplies, the ground had dried out sufficiently for operation Awning-Up.

Now you have to bear in mind that we had no experience of this particular bit of camping craft, but the reason we were doing all this, was to learn all the necessary skills to be able to survive abroad in the future. We got it wrong twice.
I pulled it through inside out, and then not far enough to keep it even, but the third time it looked good.
Up went the poles and the stays, and all of a sudden, our living space was doubled.
Karen and I had succeeded in putting up a heavy canvas awning in the middle of a muddy field in Oxfordshire and we felt good about it. That lasted at least a couple of days!

Next day we spent a pleasant morning strolling along the Oxford canal, with the Canal on the right, and a small river flowing beside us on the left. It was an angler’s paradise, and daydreams of fishing poles and bulging nets of fish filled my head. The canal had at least one lock on the length we walked on, and as we passed it the first time, there was a barge going down a level with a woman on board and a man turning the mechanical levers that wound the gates open.
In the tranquillity of our surroundings, it seemed strange to hear the obscenities that came to our ears that morning, and a little worrying that the man issuing those words was apparently on the verge of a coronary if his facial colour was anything to go by. We watched from a safe distance, and when they finally floated off, we could still hear the ranting, and we amused ourselves by trying to imagine what could possibly have caused such outbursts in the first place. I reckoned he was angry because his partner promised him sexual favours and then ate raw onion. Karen thought it was because they were lost and the man refused to ask for directions!
She thought they were lost!
They were on a bloody canal! The thought of that made me laugh.

When we returned to our room with a thousand views, there was another caravan close to ours with its awning stretched nice and tight, and a man standing next to it with crossed arms, and a smug satisfied expression on his face.
His first comment was ‘I just put this awning up all on my own’. He rubbed his hands with glee (which is now available from all good camping stores) and walked towards us eyeing our awning critically.
He then advised me to change a few things to get the best out of it, and then his mobile phone rang and he walked off talking to his wife, telling her how clever he had been and taking all the credit for our awning in the process. What a cheeky bugger!

Over the course of the next few days, Peter Perfect, (as we called him) regaled us with tales of his exploits. They not only bored us to sleep, but also seemed to scare off the rabbits. He called me over to tell me about his new extra large aqua roller container and to explain the problems caused by a waste container being smaller than the storage container. He also very proudly informed me that he had something that I did not have, (a personality disorder no doubt) the thing in question being a sonic mouse repellent. ‘Every 15 seconds’ he said ‘this little thing emits a signal that makes rodents run away’.
‘Far more useful’, I said, ‘would be to have it send out a beam that would give us the raw material for rabbit stew.’
Whoosh went the wise crack, straight over his head!
I was nevertheless impressed with his knowledge of caravanning. He seemed to know his way around the complexities of getting set up for a relaxing holiday, and I had absolutely no doubt whatsoever that he could set a world record for the shortest time that it takes to get someone to really want to punch you.

I learnt a few valuable things from him like choosing a suitable pitch taking into account prevailing winds etc. He suggested that I take great care to avoid a situation where snow could drift and block the vents for the fridge, because they expel all the exhaust from the fridge. I suggested that no one should be crazy enough to be out in a caravan in 4ft snowdrifts in the first place. He looked at me in a funny way and changed the subject back to him again.
By the time he left, I had the distinct impression that he could arrive on a campsite anywhere in the world, and at the touch of a button, his caravan would automatically level itself, erect the awning and cook a three course dinner while he was busy showering away the stress of the 30 minute drive to get there. I also thought he was the type of person who loved to talk about people behind their backs. Of course, I would never stoop so low…

That night, it rained again.
That same night our awning started to gather the aforementioned precipitation and the roof began to bow.
It rained for hours; it was a gentle but persistent rain that slowly filled the awning until there was enough water to cause a slightly worrying problem.
I awoke with a start to a loud crack.
I jumped out of the bed. (This was no mean achievement in itself, as the bed lies across the rear of the caravan, and Karen likes the side that is near the toilet in case of a midnight emergency while the other person has to pray that morning will arrive before the full bladder becomes overfull!) I rushed to the light switch, and by the meagre light of our 12volt system, espied a sorry sight.
There was our fine awning lying in a wet muddy heap, and the only good thing was that Peter Perfect was sound asleep, and missed the whole thing. I suppose I could have blamed him for giving bad advice.
Luckily, it was simply a matter of rearranging the poles. They needed stretching a little to create a tauter roof, and I did it in ten minutes. I crept back into bed, and reassured Karen that all was once more fine. It was not an easy job to get back to sleep that night. I kept turning my head to look through the window to check the awning roof, and although it seemed fine now, I just could not relax.

Next day other campers joined us in our field. They set up camp at the top end near the dog walk, overlooking the dog poo bins. There were two caravans and they pitched up right next to each other and erected their awnings so they almost touched. Aaaahhh…. how lovely. They could share everything: beer, barbecued food, wives…

Now it so happens that the woman in the campsite office recommended a long walk in the country starting at the village of Deddington. It is a good ramble of some 8 miles, I am pleased to say that it was the most scenic walk I had ever been on, and we hardly saw a single person, so the whole experience was one of quiet and beauty.
However, when walking 8 miles in springtime, and expecting rain at any moment, do not, I repeat do not wear Wellington boots. They were great for the first two miles, but very soon after that, they became like lead weights. My feet felt like a church roof.
I walked the rest of the way in total silence. I could not talk because my feet were hogging the conversation. With every step, I could hear a sound like ‘oh shit…oh shit…oh shit’ coming from the direction of my feet.
Stoically I bore the pain and muscle fatigue until we arrived back at the car, and then in celebration of not walking any more, we ordered drinks from a bar, and meat from a butcher, and then went back to the caravan for a typical campsite barbecue.

It was not long before the field at the campsite started to fill with campers arriving for a long Bank Holiday weekend. The sun suddenly put in more appearances, and the temperature increased to a degree that several campers began to walk around in various forms of semi nakedness. This I find is tolerable if the person who is displaying the nakedness is young, fit and female. The problem is that most campers do not fall into this demographic. I guess it would have been fair to say that the average age on the sites we visited was approaching retirement or well into it. (I do not wish to describe in detail these scenes to avoid making people feeling ill, but please feel free to insert your own ideas here………….!! )
My good woman and I were very sensible. That is to say, she tends to feel the slightest chill, and so stays wrapped up until July. I had only packed jeans, jogging bottoms and t-shirts to go with my Wellingtons and stout walking boots, so I spared everyone the sight of my white wobbly bits.

The weekend passed slowly, and we did not go far. We simply went on short regular walks with the terrierists and enjoyed the holiday atmosphere. We noticed a thing that turned out to be particular to English campsites. Whenever someone new arrived, the old sweats suddenly appeared outside their caravans with comfortable chairs and cold drinks, waiting for the show to begin. They would enjoy the sight of a good struggle, and sit there in appreciation until the best moments had passed, and then finally get up and offer assistance to the poor beleaguered arrivals. We also found that it was entertaining, and funnily enough, the guilt soon passed!
The evening of the Saturday was a beautiful one, and in fact, it was, on reflection, quite humid. It was certainly more humid than we thought, and the result was a wicked thunderstorm that came in the wee small hours, and in the morning we realised there was no electric power. The whole site had been affected, and the owners quickly got the mains power working again. There was however, still no power inside our caravan. We checked fuses, got a couple of neighbours in to see if we had missed anything. After a frantic time changing all the fuses for new ones and looking in vain for something we might have missed, we gave up. There was still no electric in our caravan. Nothing, nada, bugger all.
On that holiday Sunday, we weighed up our options, and as luck would have it, another camper had called out an emergency repair company, and we asked for assistance in diagnosing the problem.
They tested and prodded wires and switches before announcing that lightning had struck our caravan!
We felt shattered by this news. We knew the warranty had expired, but we did not know the extent of the damage or if it would be easy to repair, but we hoped fervently that, our insurance would cover the cost. We also hoped that the service centre would complete all the repairs in time for the next adventure in late August.

We were lucky that the weather was warm for the next two days, because not having power meant not having heat.
After a lovely and very eventful week, we packed up and drove back down the motorway to Hastings, and we were talking positively about the future, because after all, it could not get worse, right!
On the way back, I found out that a head wind could slow down a car towing a caravan to a crawl. Sometimes it was the same driving downhill, it can be nearly impossible to pick up speed in some conditions.

That was the end of our first holiday in our caravan.
It turned out that the insurance covered all the repairs, and that it was all ready in time for the next even bigger trip.

We really enjoyed that first week away, even though there were teething troubles while we were slowly being acquainted with our holiday home. The lessons learned that week were invaluable, and the confidence gained from the towing and the general usage put us another step further along the path to our sunny future. It is with a wry smile that I think of the mistakes we made again on the next holiday, and the comical situation that came out of it, that at the time was far from comical.

Saturday, Sept 3rd 2005.
We spent the two weeks leading up to our summer holiday deciding what not to take! This was going to be a longer trip, and much further, so it was important to get the contents of our baggage right. I had purchased several things from eBay to use on our trips away, and they proved to be most useful acquisitions. I found an excellent gas cooker/barbecue, and a bargain solar panel that the service centre installed in June 2006. I also got myself a very good Swiss army penknife that turned out to be worth its weight in platinum.
We had chosen to have two weeks in the north of England, firstly a week in the Lake District, then a week in the Yorkshire Dales. Knowing that the service centre had repaired the caravan in good time enabled us to go to the storage place regularly and spend time organising and changing, and then re-organising and changing back, or just sitting there in peace and quiet away from the noisy council estate that was our home.
Catalysts to our getting away from England were the actions of our neighbours and their children. We had long disliked some of the things they did, and we almost exploded in nuclear fashion when they built decking in the rear garden that was 2.5 feet higher than the original patio, and meant that they could look over our fence into our lounge. I was hoping for a double barrel shotgun for my birthday, but instead, we spent the money on higher fence panels.
On one occasion, their bullmastiff attacked me without provocation, and luckily only tore my shirt, but it attacked a child a few weeks later. Unfortunately, the vet had to destroy the dog, it was very sad.
Their children deflated all the tyres on my work van, and that was the final straw. My neighbour found a portable air compressor and managed to inflate all the tyres for me, but my feelings changed forever.
If we had ever thought about the possibility of not leaving to start a new life, then these events became the best of reasons to keep the plans alive and push them forward.

Anyhow, the day approached for our journey north. Karen had been working on the clothes packing for days and hardly a moment went by that did not include a question like:
‘Andy…would you like to take 3 extra pairs of boxer shorts, or 2 extra t-shirts?’
‘Shall we take the 6 million tog duvet, or just a thin blanket?’
There was no doubting that Karen took the whole business very seriously, the decision not to pack the kitchen sink (because the caravan already had one) was a relief, and the main problem was deciding into which vehicle to stow everything. I knew that most of it should go into the car, as the caravan had a strict limit to the weight it should carry.
I worried that the sheer volume of belongings was too heavy for our poor car to drag around with the caravan in tow.
I was worried that driving north, it would be uphill all the way.
Then it was suddenly Saturday, and we had done all the work of packing. We had taken care of all the logistics and the businesses were safe hands while we gallivanted. After a seemingly long and tedious last Saturday at work, I drove us to the storage field and began the process of hitching up and checking all the safety measures.
I backed the car up to the hitch, and soon realised that the tow ball was higher than it needed to be for joining the vehicles together. I turned the jockey wheel until it reached its furthest extent and it was still too low!
I decided to show Karen just how strong I was, because the only way to solve the height problem was to physically lift the caravan hitch off the ground, loosen the jockey wheel and let it fall a foot, and then tighten it quickly. It worked brilliantly, and I only hurt myself a little bit. I also managed to conceal brilliantly the pain from Karen, as I did not want her to think me weak!
Having hitched up, we were ready to roll. It was 7.15pm, and the plan was to drive about 180 miles and then stop for the night. We were about 45 minutes behind schedule, and I was hoping for a good clear road to start us off.
10 minute later the air turned blue. There was a tailback on the A21, how very unusual!
As it turned out, there had been an accident further on, and the police diverted everyone onto another road to circumnavigate the problem. We thanked our guardian angels that it was not us in the accident. As we turned off the A21, another man with a caravan signalled us going the other way. He was no doubt letting us know that the queue was terrible the other end too.
We finally got under way, and drove the next three and a half hours without incident, and as my eyes started to feel tired, we found a suitable stopover. Watford Gap was our home for the night.
It was of course, an excellent choice. It was a lorry park, and so from a point of view of safety, it would be first class. You do not go round picking fights with hairy truckers!
I found a good place to park, in a rather tight spot surrounded by articulated heavy goods vehicles. After a couple of moments relaxing, we realised that we would not be able to stay there, because I seemed to have chosen the only place that was next to a lorry that was chucking out mega decibels via it’s generator. The lorry was a refrigerated truck that probably cooled its cargo of furniture!
Karen had a face the length of Cornwall, and so without saying a word, I started the engine and moved to another spot. It was next to another lorry, but it was quiet when we pulled up.
We got out of the car to find the cash desk, as we needed to pay for the night’s accommodation, and on our return to the car, we realised just what the man in the other caravan had been trying to tell us all those miles ago. We had in fact set off with the roof light open, sticking up into the night air, causing a large amount of drag that probably burned our diesel at an even greater rate than before! We were very lucky that it opened in the direction it did, because if it opened the other way, we would have had a permanent hole in the roof. We were twice lucky that it did not rain!
We locked the roof light, and ate a cold supper. Then it was time to settle in for the night. It was also time for the generator in the lorry next to us to belt out its chugging symphony as it gently cooled its precious cargo of cheap jewellery. The service station charged 8 pounds for the night, and that was value for money folks! I mean where else (apart from most evenings where we lived!) could all night background humming and vibrations have entertained us for that price.

We slept fitfully and set off early next morning, hoping to arrive at Park Coppice at about 1pm.
We would have done too…if it had not been for the idiot driving…and taking a wrong turn. When the instructions say ‘take the A590 until you reach Newby Bridge’, then that is what you do! OK!
Did I do that though…oh no. Old clever pants found an alternative route that brought us into Coniston from the north, and that was something that the Caravan club really did not recommend.
We quickly found out why.
Believe me, that road was not suitable for people towing any sort of trailer, let alone a 7-metre caravan. We had to swing our wing mirrors in or we would have lost them, and because there was a large caravan immediately behind us, we had no rear view either. We were driving almost blind!
How I managed to get to the campsite without knocking any large chunks out of us or anyone else I will never know. It was a white-knuckle ride and poor Karen had ten very white knuckles things. She kept saying things like,
‘For god’s sake, the A593 is surely just round the next bend’.
Her hands were gripping the seats of the car so hard that the marks are still there today. Every few minutes we had to get past groups of elderly people doing a charity walk, and the refreshment tables that appeared every half-mile. Some of the silly old beggars even walked in double file!

Suddenly I spotted a sign that said ‘Caravan site 200yds’.
The sign was a cheerful brown and white, which bore an uncanny resemblance to my underwear.

It turned out that the road we were on actually was the A593. This ‘A’ road was a lot worse than many ‘B’ roads I had driven.

We arrived at Park Coppice in one piece physically, and many little bits mentally. However, we arrived on time and were eager to check in and start a new experience. As we drove through the gates, it quickly became apparent, that the rest of the camping world had arrived there first!
The queue before us was lengthy, and the people on duty were obviously in no hurry, so we took our time and walked all round the site with the dogs to choose our pitch. I seem to remember that Tia chose the pitch on our behalf by squatting for a poop on number 272.We most likely would not have chosen that pitch, but we felt it would be awful to see another camper there later, knowing what Tia had done. Naturally, we cleared up after our dogs, but you know how it is.
We returned to the site office, not for the last time that week, and finally booked in. We spent the rest of the afternoon setting up, settling in and having a cold beer.
Soon after setting up our pitch, it became apparent that something was amiss. The fridge was not getting cold, the water was not getting hot, and the battery meter was looking a little on the low side. All of a sudden, we started having nightmares, and stress levels started creeping up to a dangerous level.
What was going on? Had the repair to our electrics not gone as it should have. Had they not tested it before letting us have it back? Karen was beside herself with worry, and so disappointed that she actually phoned Dave, her step-dad in Spain, on her mobile. Obviously, he could do nothing, but it made her feel a little better.
We tried to enjoy our favourite meal, Butter Chicken, but although it was a tasty evening meal, and one that we never usually fail to enjoy, the circumstances spoiled the whole thing.
We spent a worrisome evening reading our books by flashlight, and that night we slept worse than when a juggernauts cooling system serenaded us.
Next day, we organised ourselves. We took everything that needed charging to the office, where we explained our situation and they obligingly agreed to charge all our electrical belongings. When we returned later on having been out exploring, the battery meter was looking a little on the low side, so another evening of worry looked likely. I cooked us a lovely full English breakfast for dinner and we felt a little better because the Cadac gas stove, (one of my eBay acquisitions) was working really well.

Next morning we decided to investigate the nearby ‘Cumbrian Riviera’, Lake Coniston. We walked into the village along the shore of the lake and took the ferry across the lake, and the dogs loved every single minute of it. We climbed a long steep hill into Grizedale forest, and consumed a picnic ravenously. It was a beautiful day for walking and so we went home the long way, and when we finally arrived back at the caravan we collapsed and forgot all our troubles.
When camping in the Lake District, there are virtually no supermarkets within easy reach, so you need either to take food with you or live on local produce. This we discovered was very enjoyable and the word ‘local’ was very true.
We actually met several sheep and cows on our rambles that were later lining the shelves of the village butcher, seriously, Sheila the Sheep and Claris the Cow to name but two.
That night though was a tough one, as Karen felt stressed, so it is a good thing that whenever one or the other of us gets that way, the other one stays calm. She could see that I too was getting more worried though, as I kept inspecting the battery meter and tutting.
It was going up and down like a yoyo depending on what we had turned on. It was very difficult to remain calm.
Karen said I would have to call the repair centre and complain that their work was shoddy.
Again, we read by flashlight.

It was some time later in those previously mentioned wee small hours, that I had an idea. It meant disconnecting all the cables and starting from scratch. This I did in the morning with a faint well of optimism in my heart. It was during the process of disconnecting everything that I discovered what the problem was.
I am such a bloody fool!
When it says on the mains electric plug-in point, ‘plug in and twist’, then that is what you should do.
Not me…oh no…old clever pants rides again!
I did not have on my reading glasses when first plugging in the electric supply, and so I missed that vital instruction, ‘And twist’.
Naturally, everything worked perfectly after that little revelation, the fridge got cold, the water got hot and the battery got fully charged. From that moment, we relaxed properly and started to enjoy all the facilities of our little home on wheels. Karen could now also do her hair using her mains powered hair straighteners, and thank god for that! Her hair was beginning to take over the whole caravan.

On the Tuesday, we did a little tour of the Lakes, and firstly we drove to Hawkshead, (the most beautiful village in England in 1998) and wandered around gawping at the scenery and enjoying the attention of the locals who loved our dogs. It seemed that the people we met recognised Tia’s ancestry, being partly Lakeland terrier. It was also becoming clear that there would be a shortfall in our budgeting for this holiday, and it was due to the parking charges we encountered almost everywhere we went. The average was £2.50 for a couple of hours and it went mainly to the National Trust. If you stop several times a day it soon adds up, but I suppose that it was better the National Trust get our money than some other organisation.
Getting to Hawkshead was fun too! The roads are small winding and steep, but it was very satisfying to arrive there in one piece. It felt like a trip through the tubes of a hamster cage.
After Hawkshead, we drove to Sawry (Near and Far), to spend some time in the house of Beatrix Potter, the world famous Hilltop Farm. After another fiver duly paid, Karen entered the historic house and came out wondering what all the fuss was about, as it seemed very tame. Apparently, it was charming but not inspiring. The garden contained rabbits, but there was not a sign of Mr. Macgregor. How disappointing!

The next stop was Lake Windermere, and we found a superb picnic spot on a hill overlooking the lake. At the top of a flight of steps, there was a delightful ruin, which was actually a party venue for the posh folks in the 1700’s. We clowned around pretending to be posh and inviting everyone to partake of splendid buffets of spit roasted venison, stuffed pike and suckling pig. We then sat down to a meal of nuts, seeds and ham sandwiches.
Windermere looked beautiful from our vantage point, and not nearly as commercialised as we thought it would. It seemed unspoiled, and we hoped it would stay like that.
When we got back to the caravan, there was a lovely warm spot for us to get out our easy chairs and read peacefully in the late afternoon sun. It was quiet until another camper who we dubbed Gobby Gary, started speaking at 500 decibels into his mobile phone. He apparently needed some bar stools, the number of Victoria Price was 01…whatever, and we soon felt that we knew his business better than he did.
Everything went quiet again, and for a few minutes, we closed our eyes and relaxed, but the RAF had other ideas.
Two fighter jets zoomed overhead at about 6 inches above treetop height. I believe I actually ducked.
Later, after speaking to a few other campers, it became clear that the jets only started flying over when we arrived!
I am not paranoid. I am not paranoid. I am not paranoid.

That evening I cooked marinated Turkey pieces on the Cadac, and we ate them with a kind of risotto. (Note to self: when marinating meat, make sure the spice mixture is what you think it is. It should not chilli be powder).
I seemed to get through a lot of chilled beer that night.

Wednesday was market day in Kendal.
We found excellent fresh fruit and vegetables, and some nice minced beef. It was a typical market town and had plenty of character, so it a little more than just a pleasant day.
Mind you, Karen put my patience to the test because she spent time browsing her way through all the shops in town while I stood outside with the dogs. I was trying not to get to close to the butchers shop where Sammy suddenly got an idea in his head that a thick juicy steak was preferable to the bowl of dry food that he was expecting later on.

A couple of strange things happened back at the caravan, for instance; curtain ties and drawers left in a different state to how we last saw them.
Karen thinks we had visitations from entities.
I think we had memory lapses or maybe some magic mushrooms.
Karen decided to dry our socks in the oven! This prompted me to use the Cadac even more instead. The oven never seemed quite the same again.

That night it rained incessantly. I was still aware of the fact that my skills with the awning were not exactly perfect yet, and so I slept fitfully, expecting at any moment to hear the noise that I heard once before in the middle of the night.
I awoke at one point and could see that the awning was indeed bowing, and I politely nudged Karen to get out of bed, and waited a moment. I poked her again and said ‘come on love, I am not asking for sexual favours here’.
There was still no response.
Water was accumulating fast in the awning and I tried one sharper poke with my finger, which she met with a knee jerk to my unprotected shin.
I limped out into the awning rubbing my shin and switched on the light to closer inspect the problem. Good job I did, because the bow was heavy and the collapsing moment seemed to be fast approaching. The solution appeared to be to push the water over the edge gradually. Fortunately, this worked and a few minutes careful work solved the whole mess.
The rain eased up a little, and I managed to sleep a little. In the morning, we took the poles down and adjusted the canvas a little, then the poles went back up and I never had another problem like that again.

Next day, Thursday, we got up early and went for a drive to Buttermere and Crummock Water. As expected, there was some awesome scenery everywhere we looked. We found a lake round every corner, and views that astounded us. We were trying to find a recommended stopping point to take some photos, but I missed it somehow so we kept driving until we needed a comfort break. I really do not who was the most desperate to go, the dogs or us. We stopped by a beautiful mountain stream in Honister pass, and using whatever cover was available, we answered nature’s call. Honestly, I swear on my Grandmothers soul that the wind changed direction the moment I started to pee and that is the story I am sticking with!
On we went and discovered an absolute peach of a picnic spot on the shores of Crummock Water. We relaxed in our lightweight chairs and enjoyed the autumn sun on our faces, and the free parking we had found next to the road.
ZOOOM…the bloody RAF had found us again. Three jets this time. Was there to be no escape?
I am not paranoid…
It is strange that in what we thought of as an isolated location, we seemed to meet plenty of walkers (thank god my trousers had dried out) and we were a little disappointed that even here, out of season, we could not find anything like solitude. Looking out over the water and seeing in the distance the dark Fells, made us think that the places, which could offer real solitude, were probably the places that were not easily accessible from the main roads.
Sitting there surrounded by such natural beauty with the sunlight falling onto the water at fine angles may have inspired poetry in some people, but I am no Coleridge.
(The memory is still firmly in my head though, and every time I look through these memoirs, it comes back as strongly as ever).

Next day, we went to Ambleside and Rydal Water. The walk around Rydal was a pure delight, but the National Trust car park on the other hand, was not.
We had to part with another £2.50, unfortunately, we only had notes, and there were no change machines. I only had a fiver (as I had safely tucked away all my twenties in my boxers) and so we dithered, not quite knowing what to do for the best.
Then I spotted a sign that promised free parking, and thinking it was a different car park we wandered over to have a closer look.
It was not.
It was in fact a man in a trailer who we dubbed Jolly Gerald, and he was trying to sell us membership to the National trust.
60 pounds and free parking was ours for a whole year!
Did we take up his kind offer?
We did not!
He did inform us that as long as we had a ticket, the car park staff did not actually check the time it expired, so therefore, we could buy a ticket and take all day if we wanted, and the 2 hour limit was only a notional one.
We returned to our car and searched all our belongings for yesterday’s ticket, and trusted to the fact that they did not check the ticket too closely. We stuck the old ticket on the window and walked off, trying all the while not to think about wheel clamps and large fines.
The instructions for the walk round the lake appeared to be ambiguous, and we felt we were going in the wrong direction, so we queried the instructions with Gerald, who in very Jolly tones said, ‘Well now, I will come with you and see’.
In a couple of moments, he was scratching his bald head and saying, ‘thee’d do best to follow t’other path then, it looks like they’ve buggered this one up again’.
To be fair, this was no more than we managed to do! Give me directions for a simple walk round a soccer pitch and I will inevitably end up looking around me in panic and retracing my steps to look for that missed turning that was not signposted clearly enough in two-foot high letters.
Never mind, we got back to the car park without getting too lost, and the dogs had a terrific run off the lead for the first time since we had arrived.
Back at the caravan, we were enjoying the extra space in the awning, and the whole structure now seemed secure having survived a windy night.
It is true to say, that when you give a woman some space she fills it with something. Karen filled our awning spaces with a great many items, which included the fruit and vegetables because of the overnight coolness outside, and the fact that our fridge is very small. It was easy to grab anything quickly if needed. We were living healthily that week.
This also applied to the slugs that found their slimy way into the awning, as they were obviously healthy eaters too.
I heard Karen scream and ran to the rescue, only to find that they had found my smelly trainers as well. Perhaps a type of fungus in my shoes attracted them; god knows what else it could have been! I shouted at them, ‘SALT’ and waited for them to slink off, but they did not budge. I could have cooked them in a little garlic and white wine…
Friday came, and Karen expressed her desire to see Tarn Hows. It was a wonderfully warm sunny day, so a good picnic was packed and off we drove, negotiating Hawkshead Hill again on the way. (If there is one place that I hope I never have to ride a bike up, it is Hawkshead Hill) We arrived eventually at Tarn Hows, and having parted with another £2.50, we saw a sight that made both of us go
‘Oh my God’
It was utterly beautiful. It took our breath away, and we stood there for a few moments speechless. Whether it was the sunlight and the way the trees filtered it or the reflections from the water or whatever, we were captivated.
The RAF shattered the silence (no paranoia here) and as the jets disappeared over the horizon, Karen’s phone rang and broke the spell again. It was her son Dan, asking if we wanted to buy tickets for Lee Evans in November.
Hmmmm…ask Lee Evans if he wants to buy tickets for our next campsite arrival. It will be just as funny!
The dogs had another good run off the lead, and Sammy lost his Bioflow magnetic collar, £30 down the toilet.
Oh, Bugger!

Back at the caravan later on, we had to start thinking about the impending trip over the Pennines to Wensleydale. (Cheese and Wallace & Grommit)
We spent Saturday walking round Coniston and packing for an early start next morning. We had really enjoyed our week in the Lake District, and could now look forward to a week in North Yorkshire where there would be Dales and Waterfalls, and old men wearing flat caps playing dominoes and eating hotpot. (There was no stereotyping there then!)

Sunday dawned bright and cheerful. We stowed away all our belongings for the journey, walked the dogs, hitched up, and drove to the reception office where we had to hand back the key for the toilet block. It was tempting to sell it to the smelly campers in the adjacent field who had far worse facilities, but fortunately, common sense prevailed.

Look out Yorkshire we are on our way.

Our arrival at Brown Moor was on time. In front of us on this occasion, were a couple of elderly men who were clearly daft as brushes. They were trying to book in for a short stay I think, and the people behind the counter were unable to understand a word.
It must have been an old dialect or else they were being deliberately difficult because they knew there was a queue behind them. Bloody-mindedness or senility, take your pick.
Eventually we got ourselves booked in and we went off to look for a good pitch. The site was very busy, and we could only find vacant pitches at the bottom end of the site. ‘Bottom’ was the operative word.
My god it was like a Dutch oven after a curry, but only if the wind was in the wrong direction, and in this case, the wrong direction was the way it blew all the time. It was coming from a farm just the other side of the boundary wall, and there was a lot of heavy agricultural machinery there too.
Nevertheless, we pitch up in a place just a little further away, and two hours later, we had everything done, awning included. You could have played the drums on our awning it was that taut.
For the rest of the afternoon we explored the surrounding fields with the dogs, and ducking to avoid the low flying jets (not paranoid) that had found us yet again.
It was funny you know, we went to the north to get away from the noise and hubbub of the south, only to have our ears assaulted on a regular basis by firstly the RAF, then a gobby phone user, and now there appeared to be some heavy work going on at the farm over the wall. It was in many ways a memorable day, even if it was only memorable for the rumbling sounds of the farm machinery next door, and the pungent aroma of sheep shit!
We awake to rabbits. Not the Banbury type of rabbits, this was altogether different. Far a start they had myxomatosis. Even dogs refused to kill these disease-ridden creatures; they needed putting out of their misery quickly.
The village we were near to was Hawes. (The pronunciation was Whores.) I realised then that this was the reason why northerners pronounced my hometown’s name as Looz, when it is know by everyone else as Lewes (Lewis).
Hawes was a truly charming village and it was only a 10-minute walk to get there. We found our first waterfall in the centre of the village, and this would be the first of many. The recent rainfall meant it was bonus time for waterfall visitors, and we had some spectacular treats over the next few days. Our frame of mind at this moment was a great improvement over the previous week, and the lessons learned had been fully absorbed, so this was the pay off, a week of uninterrupted pleasure (except when the dogs interrupted us) in a beautiful region in Yorkshire.

The first day trip was to Aysgarth falls. It was not a long drive nor was the walk too strenuous to negotiate, but of course, the choice of car park was our first mistake. On arriving at Aysgarth, we found a car park that seemed to be just right, in other words, it only cost £2.00. We also found Helpful Harry, the car park attendant. He told us that if we came back and we had been longer than the allotted 2 hours, then all we would have to do would be to pay an extra £1 for the all day ticket, and there would be no harm done.
Oh how we searched for him on our return 3 hours later.
Oh how we cried when it seemed he had buggered off for lunch at the pub.
Our £1 stayed in our pockets. He was a very helpful man though. Before we went on the walk, he gave us a full-length bulletin on the fifth test match between Australia and England, and we only asked for the latest score.
A little way down the road, we found an even better car park that left out the long steep hill to the first one. Never mind, the exercise would do us good.
The falls were spectacular, and the only problem seemed to be that there were no words left to describe the sights that we had not already used a thousand times. The thesaurus was falling to pieces through overuse.
I was not yet out of expletives though!

We found a place along the river that was in a scene from a famous film. Picture a river with white water rapids and two men fighting with large sticks. Do you remember Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves? Bryan Adams at No1 in the charts for 16 weeks was not a complete waste of time then!
Next day was market day in Hawes, and we welcomed the chance to try a few local delicacies and because a dreary rain had started to fall, we had nothing better to do. The dreary rain turned into a downpour that was so heavy that much of the rain fell twice. (Bounce!)
We replenished our stocks of food and read about 25 books. I took the opportunity to listen to some of my favourite music on the mp3 player on my Palm OS handheld computer.
The evening developed into one of the windiest of our camping lives, and it had nothing whatever to do with the curry I cooked that night. It blew a gale and the rain was still coming down in sheets. It was tough getting to sleep because memories of other times kept coming to me, but in the end, our awning did exactly what we expected it do. It stayed put, stayed dry and stayed staid.
It was our first successful night with the awning raised in nasty weather, and it felt very good.
Next day we decided to stay local again. Diesel was getting very expensive too, and being on a budget, we thought we had better not go too far, but more seriously, there were shortages of fuel (due to strikes I seem to remember) which could potentially cause us problems driving home, so we tried to conserve resources until we could be sure about the availability of fuel.
From the site, there were several options open to us, and the leaflets and brochures telling us about all the best places to visit were plentiful. It took three hours to decide to go and explore the wonders of a place called Hardraw Force.
It was only two miles across muddy fields, and the place drew us like a magnet because all the rainfall would make the waterfall very memorable. The fields were difficult to cross, and the tiny stone stiles that were common in this part of the country were ridiculously hard to deal with, partly because we had two dogs on the leash and because of all the sheep that our terrierists yelped at as we passed them. They tried very hard to make us slip in the freshly laid sheep shit that also seemed to be a doggie delicacy.
The river we walked beside was the Ure, and I loved the look of it from an angler’s perspective. It was hard to stop thinking about casting a line into those running waters. However, the worms stayed in the earth undisturbed, and as I had no tackle with me, my daydreams dissipated too.
We negotiated our way across fields that were inches deep in sheep poo, so our boots would need a good scrubbing later.
The sheep poo did not stop us.
The steep hills and difficult stiles did not stop us.
The fast flowing streams running across our path did not stop us.
We arrived at the village of Hardraw and although the falls were only half a mile further on, we could go no further. The Green Dragon public house stopped us in our tracks.
The Green Dragon had the only access to the falls, and the only way to get to them was to go through the pub and pay the entrance fee.
What a bloody cheek!
It was going to cost two quid each to gain entrance and we had left the caravan without a farthing between us.
How greedy is that? You have a pub that has an exclusive path to a tourist attraction and you want to charge people for the privilege?
Just make us buy beer for gods’ sake! Some places just do not recognise what makes people tick.
We walked back past all the obstacles previously mentioned and started thinking about our second assault on Hardraw Force. It did not involve guns or anything like that.
We drew up and executed the plan for the second attempt on Hardraw Force the following day.
We decided on a full-scale cross-country assault from the rear, so the effort involved was considerable, but looking back, there were some unbeatable views of the Yorkshire dales. We whipped out our camera after just 20 minutes walking, when we stopped for breath after a tough climb, and turned to see a splendid view of the Ure valley and the village of Hawes. Karen was snap happy, but at this particular moment, she was snappy and unhappy! There was a problem with the memory card, or so we reckoned, and the photo opportunities went begging. I guess we should have checked the working of the camera before setting off, but we did not, mainly because the only other time we had any problems was with the batteries and the batteries on this occasion were fine.
As the trek proceeded, we saw fantastic landscapes of lush greens of many hues, and alarming clouds that looked set to unload their cargo on the world, and in particular, us. The fields were dotted with sheep and cows, and we had to pass through several fields that were full of sheep. That was the easy part; it was when following the track through a field of cows that the fun began. The cattle seemed to be friendly and inquisitive, and they wanted to follow our progress across the field. Call me old Mr. Paranoid, but it felt like they were herding us and pressing us into a corner with no escape. We saw our escape route via a little stone stile, and forced our way towards it. Tia was barking excitedly and obviously wanted beef for lunch. I looked over my shoulder as we reached the stile, expecting to see a bull pawing at the ground, ready to charge and expel us from his field in his own way, but I could only see what looked like gentle cows, which, as anyone will tell you, pose no threat to anyone whatsoever.
We squeezed our way through the ridiculously narrow opening of the stile, and entered another realm of sheep shit. The feeling of safety was quite a relief, and looking back into the other field, protected now by the stone wall, we realised that the cows we had been trying to escape from were not cows. This was mainly because we could now see the bits that cows should definitely not have. They were of course young bulls, and so not any real danger, but I think we both shivered a little with relief, as they had not yet had the chance to develop a taste for walkers and small dogs.
I started laughing aloud when I saw that Karen was shaking, and got a clip round the ear for that. I laughed even more and received a second clip that made my ears ring. It was funny though, but only because having a stone wall between us and the cattle allowed a certain amount of hilarity that would not have been possible a few moments earlier.
A little further on was the hamlet of Simonstone, and a long downhill stretch into Hardraw. By the side of the path there were some genuine hand carved walking sticks. They were fashioned cunningly from the branch of a tree that had been cultivated in local soil, lovingly hacked from it’s parent and turned into a stick so fine that we parted with a fiver (that’s right, two days parking fees) for the privilege of owning one. There was a sign with the sticks that asked us to leave the money in an honesty box, and so we did.
We were now within a stones throw of the Green Dragon, and so the halfway point of our walk was before us. I started to salivate, imagining the cold beer that waited for me, and patting our pockets to ensure the presence of some ready cash, we marched at double time to the bar for refreshments and waterfalls.
Having partaken of the golden brew, and a chilled juice, we passed through the rear part of the dingy old stone building that looked and smelt very traditional right down to the reek of ammonia in the WC. The real fire in the main lounge was throwing its warmth into the room, and also its soot and smoke. For a moment I nearly lost sight of Karen who was standing right beside me, but the atmosphere created in the bar by all the above, gave an impression of age and convention, which in this age of constant change, was unusual to say the least.
The final mile to the falls was pleasant enough, and the sound of the falls reached our ears long before we actually saw them. The Force was worth every ounce of effort, and we gazed into the crashing waters for a long time before turning back and heading for the picnic tables.
That evening was pleasant and quiet, even the RAF stayed away. They apparently had lost interest in us.
The next day was our last full day, because the Saturday we needed to start packing and preparing for the journey south. We visited the village of Askrigg, a lovely little place where they filmed for much of the TV series ‘all creatures’ great and small’.
It was only about 9 miles from Hawes, and so it was an easy last trip. We found a wonderful village butcher, and bought a very cheap bag of prime steak for the barbecue. There was a river running right beside the shop and we enjoyed the sight of its rushing rapids from inside the shop while we waited for our steaks to be cut from the cow in the back garden. (OK, just kidding, but they were fresh!)

The long trip home was easy and uneventful. I was not looking forward to leaving our caravan in storage and preparing it for the winter. I was looking forward to the next chapter. I was ready for the nest challenge, and that was going to be the big one.

A happy family event took place in April 2006. My little sister got married to a great guy called Nick, and the wedding was at Amberly Castle in Sussex on April 12th.
My little sister Mandy suddenly became Amanda. I believe this had to do with the surname being Munday!
The weather on that day was brilliant and more spring-like than many that had preceded it, and when we arrived at the venue our first sight was of the groom polishing his Rolls Royce (it’s true, I kid ye not) dressed in jeans and T-shirt. He looked as cool as the proverbial cucumber.
Amberly Castle looked fabulous under blue skies, and it was the perfect place for the marriage. It must have cost an arm and a leg, but the whole day was wonderful. The ceremony went smoothly, and during the signing of the register, my niece Hannah sang a Kate Melua song, which completely blew my socks off. She was brilliant, 15 years old and the voice of an angel.
The photo shoot consisted of about thirty thousand photos, which fortunately did not feature me, and six that did. We then adjourned to lunch, which was really a wedding breakfast because of the time of day. We had the most wonderful meal that never seemed to end.
During the first course, I looked over to Karen, who seemed to be struggling with her plate of oak-smoked salmon that I had devoured with such gusto.
She turned to me and said ‘this fish, it is not cooked very well is it?’
I nearly fell off my seat laughing, and informed my fellow diners of the comment, which earned me a cauliflower ear from the good woman.

The drive back to Hastings was quiet because Karen fell asleep, and so she missed the interesting range of new curses I uttered negotiating the rush hour traffic on unfamiliar roads.

As most people are more than happy to tell you, there is a big difference between saying you are going to do something and actually doing it.
Karen and I had been speaking regularly to all our friends, family and customers, to let them know of our progress, and to assure them that we were thinking everything out properly.
Several months had passed since the last trip with the caravan, and everything was coming to a head. In January, we put the house on the market, and received offers right away. We started in earnest looking for buyers for the businesses. It seemed that luck was on our side in these things, and although there were a few hiccups and a betrayal or two on the business side of things, we were moving rapidly towards the day when we would be jobless, homeless and debtless.
In retrospect, the way we handled the business dealings could have been better, and I lost a lot of income because I was honest with my customers about my future. They deserted me and went to the competition. I think the reputation I had built up was a good one but when word gets around that someone is going, you either find that people queue for clearance bargains or they just do not come in at all.
Month-by-month, and week-by-week, we packed our belongings into boxes and moved them to a spare room at the house of Karen’s dad. It was not hard work, but it was slow because we both worked full time and only really had Sunday to do any real work on it.
June came, and the sale of the house was two weeks from completion. I met a woman who wanted to get a stall in the market we worked in, and she finally agreed to take the businesses on. The only revenue we received from this was for the value of the stock. The manager told us it was not possible to raise cash based on the goodwill or reputation because we were renting a pitch in a market and did not own anything bar the stock.
The next two weeks were frantic at times. We were packing and working and preparing all day and night it seemed. When the big day finally arrived, it should have been a piece of cake to clear the house, and move into the caravan, which was set up on site at Crazy Lane, Seddlescombe, ready to accommodate us until the channel crossing in late July.
The day itself was sweltering, and there was a large amount of sweat generated by wheeling boxes and manhandling furniture up a 50yd slope and it starting was taking its toll. I could not ever remember feeling so tired physically.
At last, it was over, and we handed the keys in to the estate agent in the same moment that we had confirmation that the money was in our bank account. We stood there for a while on the pavement outside the agents shop in Hastings unable to express our thoughts. It was not until we parked at Silverhill and got to a café to have lunch, that we finally realised the weight that had been lifted from our shoulders, and could understand that what we felt was the intense surge of excitement that accompanies liberation. It was soon time to return to the caravan!

June 16th. 2006.
I decided not to carry Karen across the threshold of the caravan, partly because I was a little exhausted from the exertions of moving out, and partly because the door was not really wide enough to admit a man staggering with a woman in his arms. (Or indeed a man with a staggering woman in his arms)
We sent our deepest thanks in silent thought to all those who had helped us in whatever way they could, and a cold beer started to help me overcome the nerves that were manifesting themselves when the elation of completion wore off. We had done it. Idiocy or adventure, madness or lucidity, many of our friends and family could not decide, but it was not their decision, it was ours and we only wanted their moral support, something, which I felt was lacking in many ways. My family in particular was unable to grasp our motives, and it felt like we were always having our sanity called into question. They were a little negative and all I ever really wanted was for them to just say ‘go on Andy; go for it and good luck to you’.
I wanted them to wish us well and pray for our success, but apart from my youngest sister, I truly believe they considered us candidates for the funny farm. I love my folks just the way they are, but a bit of encouragement would not have gone amiss.
I could understand the feelings of jealousy because not everyone has the courage to do the same, and I could understand that they were frustrated at us for abandoning them. However, this was our journey and no one was going to spoil it for us.
We had to use the shower in the caravan, not only was it better than the crappy site facilities, but also it was 20p a throw in the site showers and the hot water in our caravan was already paid for. Call me tight I do not care!
Karen looked tired, and that was mainly because she had done most of the packing those previous few weeks. She was definitely the driving force, and most of the credit for our present situation must lay with Karen, because this massive achievement would not have happened if not for her. With the credit laid firmly at her feet (and other less obvious but nevertheless vital parts of her anatomy) I began to feel a little less guilty about being the one who almost gave up at one stage and realised that what we had done was the work of a pretty strong team.
I like to think that I am strong in most respects, and one occasion back in May allowed me to show a side of me that I did not get to show very often. It is fair to say that I like a beer or two, and any sort of party is an excuse to get inebriated. We had an invitation to a barbecue at Pete and Lisa’s place, and it was special in a couple of ways. It was a chance to get to know a few people a little better, Pete’s 52nd birthday, and a confirmation that Pete would be the buyer of my Pet-Food home delivery business. This though would be different because Karen expressed a desire to let her hair down and so I was the designated driver. Dan and I were to ferry Karen and Jenny back and forth, and to endure that wine induced drunkenness that followed. We arrived at 2pm and quickly found that the host and hostess seemed intent on consuming as much alcohol as possible, and they encouraged Karen to keep emptying her glass too. It was not too long before the party was in full swing, the food was excellent, (apart from some horrible sausages) and the company left little to be desired (although one particular fellow seemed intent on hamming it up as a fake Australian, complete with hat and corks, Fosters lager and phoney accent. I believe that he turned out to be our host’s son!).
We met some old friends and I was introduced to some people I had not met before.
I talked to a couple that lived in Goa India, and were keen on building a soccer stadium and laying a grass pitch for the local footy fanatics. (It was a two-year plan, and by now is most likely complete.)
The host’s parents tried vainly all day to keep the music down to a decent level.
Late arrivals to the party were a couple that looked a little peculiar. The man was short, barrel-chested and sounded gay; the woman had close-cropped bottle blonde hair, sounded Irish and was definitely butch.
I was getting a lot of stick from fake-Australian-guy regarding my soccer allegiances, and it did not take long for others to join the discussion and the insults started getting a little personal. I debated the points in sober adult fashion, all the while pretending that each burger and sausage consumed by my protagonists, contained heavy doses of laxative.
The music became louder, and the Ramones 70’s punk style music filled the air, as did the vibrations of the decking while drunken dancers bounced up and down on it. Then it was the turn of Madness, and the sight of fully-grown inebriated men doing pogo dancing was hilarious. I laughed my socks off.
As the evening progressed, the peculiar couple became a little more verbose, and it turned out that the man was not gay. He was a woman originally, but now had masculine bits.

Karen had asked me to remind her of the time at about 6pm, because there was something, she really wanted to go home and watch. I did this three times and each time I received that wide-eyed stare that drunken people specialise in that never actually meets your own eyes, but seems to wander around taking in everything else and then forgetting it. I had never seen her quite this bad, and redoubled my efforts to get her home. Dans girlfriend was also worse for wear and we worked together to get them into the vehicles outside. Eventually, they managed to tear themselves free of the party and Dan and I shovelled them into our respective cars and drove to our homes. Karen was unusually quiet during the drive home, and when we got out, I actually had to manhandle her all the way down the slope to the house where she was immediately ill in the downstairs WC and missed her TV program. I tucked Karen up in bed, having virtually carried her upstairs from the bathroom where she had hugged the toilet in a sickly embrace, and made my way to the kitchen to see if there were any stray cans of lager in the fridge that needed consuming before they passed their best-before date! I was in luck.
I then returned to the bedroom, fetched a large bowl, bath towel, and left her with instructions to bang on the floor if she needed me. I never heard a peep!

What the campsite lacked in facilities, it more than made up for in surroundings. We had the most wonderful views of the rolling South Downs from the windows and sunshine all day after 10am when it cleared the trees.
On the second day, Tia escaped during a visit from Karen’s brother Shaun. She knew exactly where she wanted to go, and that was the storage field that was home to a hundred caravans and a million rabbits. I saw her dash behind a caravan and ran over to it shouting at her to stop. For some unknown reason she did just that, and stood waiting for me wagging her tail. I know Tia well enough to know that normally, even if tethered to a cable emitting 40000 volts whenever a rabbit appeared, it would not stop her obeying her natural instinct to run after it.
It was only a few days away from the trappings of modern living, and I was beginning to miss the on-line community that I enjoyed. I was (and still am) a member of a discussion forum called Brighthand, which brought together people with a common interest, and a wicked sense of fun. It was not easy to adjust to a life without this type of luxury, but in the weeks and months to come, it became easier because I focused my mind on other things and experiences.
The site was full of wildlife and a few big dogs that enjoyed barking madly at our terrierists. They might be small, but try telling them that. If we staked them outside on their cables, they believed themselves to be a match for any size of dog that came within woofing distance. We did not need an alarm system with the dogs present. The locals took to avoiding our little area, so I suppose that terriers are just as intimidating as Rottweilers when aroused.

About a week after selling the house, we managed to complete the transfer of the businesses, so a few tedious hours had to be tolerated doing stocktaking and agreeing figures with the buyer. I swore to avoid retailing or any form of buying and selling for the rest of my days. 30 years of it is enough for anybody. I was preparing myself for other things and the question of what would it be frequently crossed my mind. I briefly considered being a gigolo, but it would he difficult enough finding women willing to pay for my company without the problem of explaining it to the Mrs. afterwards.
No…no. Perhaps I could develop writing skills and learn to use a pen again. I had heard that the pen was mightier than the sword, and I was not good to anyone in a fight, so writing should be right up my street.
Karen has her own skill set, and the future for her will no doubt involve healing using Reiki, aromatherapy massage and reflexology.
I met a guy called Robin Lown at the market that read my palm and told me my future involved catering. I enjoy cooking for the two of us, and I love food of all sorts, but catering is not really an option to me, unless everyone likes curry, chilli beans and lasagne all the time. I know I do!

June soon turned into July, and we were lucky to be enjoying some of the best weather that England had to offer. The early days of the month were very hot, and I thanked my lucky stars that we did not work in that indoor market any more. It was a sweathouse with glass panels in the roof and it felt more like a greenhouse than a warehouse!
We were actually getting a serious suntan before even setting foot in Spain! We acquired sun lotion from the local Sainsbury at half the price that you could buy it for in Harrods.
The unfortunate thing about summer in England is the horrible humidity that draws the sweat you of you in buckets. I had a nasty little red rash on my chest caused by the heat, but luckily, someone had given us an Aloe Vera plant, and as it did not seem to be thriving in the awning, we used it as nature intended. To add injury to injury, something bit or stung me right at the top of my right thigh. It looked bad, and looked as though it would develop into something nasty. I was allergic to wasp stings, but the last time that happened was 25 years past, when a bee sting made my arm swell to the size of a Swarzenegger.
Overnight the affected area swelled and grew to the size of a saucer, and a large blister developed in the centre of it. If I ever found out what did it, I would have bitten it right back!
Must have been an elephant fly!
Karen knows a thing or two about natural remedies, so she smothered my wound variously with aloe and oils. Karen also told me to take vitamin C garlic capsules and nutriflow electrolyte supplement.
She did not allow me to have beer or wine! Nor was I offered antihistamine, but in the end, the swelling gave up and went away as did the redness, and the leg returned to normal.
Years ago, Karen might have been burnt at the stake for possessing that knowledge, but it would have been pointless, there is no meat on her at all.

The dogs were having a great time in this period because we were not working; we could take them to the beach for a good run almost every day. At low tide, they loved running at full tilt across the soft sand, taking little boys balls (tennis balls of course), and they were getting more adventurous in the sea. Tia, who would always run from the first sight of a wave, started wading in up to her knees. Sammy would just run in regardless, and end up totally out of his depth and have to swim back. I truly believe that when they docked his tail, they chopped a few inches off his legs too. Tia would bark madly at Sammy for daring to do what she would never do, but I think she remembered the time when I decided to find out if she could swim by dragging her into a friend’s swimming pool and swimming along beside her until she reached the edge. She had never forgiven or forgotten as she ran away from me whenever we get near water.
One morning Tia went absolutely mad, and started barking at the bumper on our car. I think some other animal must have peed on it, because she refused to go anywhere near it until we had washed it with hot water and disinfectant.
We had plenty of chances to improve our barbecuing skills and perfect the choice of sausages or marinating of chicken for grilling on the Cadac. It was a wonder that all my clothes still fitted after entertaining as many friends and family as we did. We used these occasions to say goodbye privately and personally because it was not going to be so easy when we got everyone together at the leaving party. We were very grateful that the weather allowed so many opportunities to cook outdoors, as most recent summers had been far worse, but in the end, I had to admit that it was very boring doing the same things repeatedly.
July 28th.
Leaving Party at the Robert de Mortaine, Hastings.
By the time we got to this event, we had already realised that the scheduled leaving day of July 30th was unrealistic. There were still a few things that Karen needed to do and so we put back the date of the Channel crossing to August 12th.
I was stunned when Karen made me remember a discussion we had 2 years before in the kitchen of our house, in which we wrote down a date in affirmation of the desire to leave England in the belief that this would cast the whole thing in stone. The date we wrote on a piece of paper and put in the kitchen drawer was August 12th.

The leaving party was a great success. All our friends came and enjoyed a barbecue provided by the pub. We thought that catering for 50 people would be sufficient, but loads more turned up than we expected. Perhaps they just wanted to make sure we were actually leaving!
My family arrived said that I looked in great condition. I told them it was the Bob Martins tablets. My mother thought we looked relaxed and healthy, but then she is mad as a hatter.
(She is extremely theatrical and never pays any attention to what you say, but then my sister and I never pay any attention to what she says either. Still, she smiles a lot and never forgets my birthday!)
There were never-ending photograph calls, which later on, gave us so many great memories, but evening passed all too quickly and we had to say our goodbyes with many tears and much laughter.

All my life I have been in sales one way or another, and my experiences have included both retail and wholesale, and from my deep well of knowledge I can honestly say that customers of every type are always wrong and always a pain in the backside. (I can also admit to being dangerous with a hammer. Never give me a power drill. There will be holes everywhere you do not need them.)
The weeks in the lead up to leaving England were rife with opportunities to learn a new skill, and I found a new side of myself that had always been so deeply buried that it took a party of archaeologists a month to dig it out. We had a leak in the shower room and I fixed it. The awning collapsed again because of a damaged, but I managed to fix it and put it up again.
The once impossible jobs were now beginning to seem a little less intimidating.
OK. I had to admit that a professional started the shower room job, but by watching closely, and taking note of the steps he took, I learned enough to figure out what might have gone wrong when the repair did not work, as it should have. To cure the leak, they advised us to buy a new tap for 40 quid. This we did and the shower still leaked. I bought five quid’s worth of new pipe connectors, took the assembly to pieces and installed the new fittings. Oh my god! The leaking shower was not leaking any more.
Mind you, I had screwed and unscrewed the whole thing about 8 times by then, so it was am miracle that there was anything left for the screws to bite into.
Unfortunately, my pride lasted only a few days. On July 31st, we needed to get the caravan to a workshop for a final service and the fitting of the solar panel. When we got the caravan onto the site again and set everything up once more, the bloody shower leaked worse than before. I remember blaming Tia for peeing on the carpet because the leak was no longer contained in the shower room, but upon closer inspection, I realised that she would have had to be a contortionist of major abilities to have peed where I later found damp patches.
There was a nasty stain on the carpet caused by the leakage, and it squelched as we walked over it. We had to use the horrible site showers or be smelly campers. We waited in all one day for a service person to come and see if it would be possible to repair it on site.
The service person came and went, and the result of his examination was that the tap was cracked and needed replacing. Therefore, the replacement tap that replaced the replacement tap needed replacing. Just how unlikely was that?

We met some wacky people during our stay at Crazy Lane!
We spent two months there in total, and in our limited experience we had found that generally speaking, campers were either friendly or generous, or both and also well behaved. There were several full time residents at Crazy
Lane, some of who were nice ordinary folk who made the stay pleasant. We spent many happy moments chatting to them while the dogs barked furiously at us for ignoring them. I really do not have a clue what most of the conversations were about thanks to the dogs barking, so for all I know we could have been discussing quantum physics.
Other people were less social, and in some ways rather odd.
Blue-van-man was one such fellow. He used to appear at random times and gave the impression of setting up for a long stay, and then disappeared for days on end until the next time. I tried to speak to him once, but he ignored me pointedly and so I did not bother again.
Mad Max was another strange character, who dressed in shorts, long socks and open toed sandals. His hairstyle was reminiscent of Max Wall, and everyone within a 300yd radius could hear his choice of music. It was usually a type of country music involving duelling banjos and line dancing themes. They came with a thumping base line that really did your head in at 7am.
There were some young medical students staying for a few days and they were very nice people.
Two of them, JD and Elliot, came over to our caravan one day and said that they had heard that someone was ill, and they wanted to know if they could be of any assistance.
We said ‘thanks’ and pointed to Tia who had been suffering from something that turned out to be a kind of tonsillitis.
The students immediately diagnosed that she was a dog and returned to their tent to consult with the others. Funnily enough, they thought there was nothing they could do for her!
They were obviously unsure how to dismantle the tent because a few days later, they went back to their studies and left the tent up until one of their fathers appeared to take the tent down. Let us hope that none of them becomes a surgeon!
Late July is a busy time for campsites, but it came as quite a surprise to get back one evening to find that the whole field was full of tents. I had no objection to that, but I nearly came to blows with one idiot who had pitched his tent so close to our caravan that I could not even get to the water butt without tripping over his guy-ropes. There were kids sleeping in it. When I say sleeping, well, what I mean is, they were in it, but not much actual sleeping took place if you know what I mean. The following morning we were relieved to find they were packing up and move on.

August arrived and there would be a double celebration. Dan and I had early August birthdays, so we went out to have a meal at the local pub in Seddlescombe. The anniversary of my birth started with a text message from my friend Ed, and although I understand that he works while I do not, at least all the other messages I received that day arrived at a decent time! Then I had a shower, and realised half way through that I had forgotten to fill the water butt the previous night, and so ended up standing shivering in the cubicle and lathered up to the wotsits, while Karen tried in vain to fill it from the stand pipe for the first time. I stood there until normal service was resumed which took about ten minutes, but forgot that the water would be freezing cold because the water heater takes 30 minutes to reach temperature.
Still, a good healthy cold shower was just what I needed to shake off the cobwebs.
The day consisted of a trip into Hastings to collect my new reading glasses, and a special present to ourselves, which was a portable DVD player. Entertainment on the road was not likely to be easy to come by, so we travelled with as many DVDs as possible, and the player was perfect for our needs. It meant we could leave the heavy and mainly useless television (we did not anticipate being able to get any channels anyway) in England and travel a little lighter. The player was a dual power player that would happily run from a battery or the 12v cigarette lighter socket in our caravan and car.
We dined that evening at the lovely Brick Wall hotel in Seddlescombe, and had a superb meal in olde surroundings.

Over the following few days, we made sure that we had everything required by law to travel in France and Spain. I certainly did not want French or Spanish police to stop me for doing something stupid like driving on the left!
I checked the speed limits and tried to learn the road signs so that I would be able to follow them more easily. The routes for the journey was always flexible, in that we knew we wanted to go to a particular place but were in no particular rush to get there. I spent hours poring over maps and trying to get an idea of how we should get from one place to another.
One particular problem seemed to be the acquisition of headlight deflectors, and a template showing where I could fix them onto the headlights. All the leaflets were ambiguous on the subject, but fortunately, the main Citroen dealer came up with an old copy of the one we needed and the panic was over. It is a well-known fact that the whole world drives on the wrong side of the road, and because we were going to be driving on the wrong side of the road ourselves, we had to make sure that our headlights did not blind traffic coming towards us at night. The deflectors are really just plastic strips that deflect the beams in towards the right instead of the left.
We also bought a few last minute things like a spare water pump, because we had no idea if we would be able to replace a broken one in France or Spain.
The next few days seemed to fly by, until we finally found ourselves taking down the awning and neatly packing it away for future use on the continent. We decided to give away some of the things we had been using at the campsite, and this helped us to organise things more quickly, as we did not need to find somewhere to store them.
This was on August 11th and the last night in England was a largely sleepless one due to the excitement of the coming adventure.

At last the day arrived that would take us from being wannabee travellers into real ones.
I had arranged with Ron, the site owner, to move the caravan the night before leaving so that other campers did not block us in. As we started to hitch the rig to the car, he approached us to offer us good luck. He was a very nice man, and it was he and his son James that helped us out with some of the problems that we had inside the caravan. It is a shame that at the time we stayed there that the facilities were so rough because in the coming year there was to be an upgrade, which would no doubt make a big difference.

As we drove away from Crazy Lane, we reflected on the previous two months of leisure with a certain fondness. As we drove east towards Dover, we encountered deteriorating weather conditions. It started blowing a gale and raining. I started imagining a very choppy channel crossing, but more immediately, about getting the dogs settled comfortably in their travel cage. We arrived at the port early, and that was bad news because we could not get an earlier crossing because we were towing a caravan. They told us to turn round and come back later as there was no parking available. Somehow, we negotiated our way out of the port and drove back out of Dover trying to find a place to park for an hour or two in the driving rain. We found a lay-by after a few miles and parked between two Lorries. We soon had the kettle boiling and a sandwich in hand. We were sitting in the lounge of the caravan enjoying them when a long note on a horn sounded behind us. I sipped my tea and took a bite of my sandwich and the horn sounded again. I looked out of the window and could see a large lorry blocking the access road to the lay-by, and a driver jumping out and rushing towards us. We wondered what was wrong, so I got out into the road and the driver came right up to me and made it very clear that we were using his place. He was foreign and did not speak English, but his gestures were clear enough, so I decided to try to make him a translation of understand that we would move in five minutes. I was very aware that large hairy truck drivers surrounded us, and that no one picks a fight with one of them, let alone a whole squadron of them. Therefore, we finished our meal and grudgingly moved to another lay-by, where truckers did not disturb us, but what still disturbed us was the fact that the dogs just would not go to the toilet.
We got soaked through, and try as we might, they just did not want to do it. How long can you walk up and down in the pouring rain waiting for two small dogs to realise they are supposed to relieve themselves, and not sniff all the disgusting discarded rubbish left by other motorists? Eventually we gave up, and time was pressing, so we got them back into the cage and I helpfully held an umbrella over Karen while she dried the dogs as much as she could, but the rain cascaded off the umbrella right onto Karen’s neck. I got a right telling off for that one!
The dogs were going to have to wait until we were in France, and then they would be able to pee wherever they found the opportunity to, just like the French!

Although it rained and rained, and the wind blew and blew, the crossing did not seem to be particularly bad, and when we arrived in Dunkerque, we did so without feeling at all seasick. The sailing time was 6.30pm, and the arrival time was 8.30pm, which in French time was actually 9.30pm so it was dark, as well as being wet and windy. I never actually gave that a thought as we passed custom control and drove into the Normandy night. The port exit was a little confusing, and I intended following the other drivers who naturally must have known the way out. Unfortunately, a large truck managed to squeeze into the gap between our car and the car in front. I ended up missing the exit and following the lorry by mistake, which was bloody hilarious because several people followed me, thinking that I knew the way out! We found ourselves in a huge lorry park, and from there, I turned round and found the exit straight away, and we were off at last on the adventure of our lives.

August 13th 2006.
Having spent a windy and rainy night parked outside a service station on the road out of the ferry port, we were somewhat relieved to find our first proper destination coming into sight as we drove into a small French village called Blangy le Chateaux.
The trip from Dunkerque had been scary being our first time on continental roads, and we had to deal with gales and driving rain, which forced our wide mirrors into the side of the car. There were trucks coming past us at speed and the whole rig was swaying badly in their wake, so I said to Karen that we should find somewhere to stop and wait until daylight. We could not go any further because to be quite honest I was scared rigid by the conditions. We saw a sign for a service station so as we needed fuel anyway, we pulled off the motorway and found an empty car park and an empty kiosk at the pumps. I had no confidence in the pay-by-card automated service and believed absolutely that the bastard thing would swallow up my card and leave us stranded with no means to get money! With the wind and rain howling round my ears, I made my way to the nearest grass with the dogs, and let them do their thing. The diesel could wait until the morning; the dogs however could not.
Later that night as I walked the dogs again, I saw that several other people had parked caravans in the same area as us. This was cause for considerable comfort, and gave me back an element of self-belief knowing that others had the same opinion of the conditions that night. I hated the thought of being a wimp.

The morning was much brighter and so with a little more joy in our hearts we refuelled and breakfasted, and then made our way towards the first French site. The journey went pretty well until we suddenly realised that we had missed a turn off somewhere. We ended up in Le Havre and went round in circles vainly trying to get back onto the correct road. We did not have a clue which way to go because all the road signs seemed to want to take us in the wrong direction. Eventually, clutching at straws, we saw a sign for ‘camping’ and followed it hopefully.
The site was a municipal one, and looked like a shantytown filled with gypsies and undesirables. We stopped outside the office, and with many backward glances to check that no one was trying to steal our rig, and investigated the office to see if anyone was home. The office was empty so we were clueless as to our next move. We stood there in misty drizzly conditions waiting for some inspiration to strike us, trusting that nothing would strike us too hard.
It seemed like hours before the miracle occurred, but in reality, it was probably only a few minutes. We saw an English registration plate on a car coming through the gates and so we waved him down.
The man driving could have been a pig or an angel, but lucky for us he turned out to be the latter. 10 minutes later, he was driving out of the gates and into the town with us following. The idea was to guide us back to the turning we missed.
We should have gone over the river on a bridge called ‘Pont du Normandy’, but naturally, we went past it, and now we travelled towards it courtesy of the man in front. He waved to us as we passed him onto the road he wanted us to take but two minutes later, he was back again. God alone knows what he was thinking because we had immediately taken another wrong turn, and fortunately, he had stayed behind us and realised that we had gone wrong again. We could have thanked him properly if we knew how to contact him again, but he disappeared into the drizzle and we never saw our guardian angel again.
This time it went smoothly, and we found ourselves crossing the river and heading towards our destination. We allowed ourselves a little giggle and it all seemed a little more pleasant then. The time to start relaxing was approaching and as we booked in at Blangy le Chateaux the stress fell away and the time for using what little French I could remember (from lessons thirty years in the past) was upon us.

Blangy le Chateaux was a small Normandy village with charming cottages and green fields all around. It was very wet and muddy in most places, and the first impressions of the site were not favourable.
We booked in for two nights only, and started pitching up.
I purchased a bottle of local wine from the site stores and drank most of it that evening. I know that I had a wonderful nights sleep after that!
The problem was that my immune system went to sleep too and the next morning I had a horrible summer cold starting in my head.
On August 14th, we actually saw the sun again. The difference it made was amazing, and the campsite suddenly looked idyllic and perfect for our short-term requirements. The whole area was beautiful, and the lake on the site was full of fish, so I could watch people catching lots of them over the next few days. We increased our stay to four nights, and went off to discover the village and the footpaths around it. Two minutes after leaving the site, we arrived in the heart of the village and found that it offered everything we needed. The little shops were selling local meat, fruit and vegetables. They made bread too and of course, there was an abundance of wine.
From the patisserie, we bought some cakes for tea later and baguettes for lunch. The general store provided us with fruit and wine, and as we queued to pay, a man in front of us started a conversation with the cashier that was obviously hilarious if you understood French. He left the shop with a gay looking flourish and a clever quip and the cashier turned to us and said,
‘voislesslvordofkgfhksasdveeoottf…’.
I replied ‘Je ne comprends pas, je suis Anglais’.
This appeared to satisfy her, and she spoke much slower when asking for the money, and pointed to the amount on the register. I said under my breath ‘yes, thank you, but I am English, not an imbecile’.
My summer cold was making itself felt, and I counted my blessings that my body had managed to delay the start of it until we had arrived somewhere safe. It would have been even scarier trying to concentrate on driving in those weather conditions while blowing my nose and coughing snot onto the windscreen. I guessed that the adrenalin high caused by all the excitement of the last week had passed and had allowed nature to catch up with me. Well, that and three quarters of a bottle of red French wine!
The wine incidentally, cost 4€. That same bottle from a supermarket later that week cost 1.2€. I guess that serves me right!

With the sun shining once more, we could dry out all our wet clothes and towels. My exposed legs were soon turning red again, but not before offending the French with their whiteness!
The site had many trees that provided us with shade, but there were enough gaps to let through the August sun and give us some glorious afternoons. Because it was not busy, we had enough space to spread out into other pitches with our sun chairs to soak up even more of that sunshine. It had gentle warmth though, not like the heat of the sun in Spain near the Mediterranean. It reminded us of England and of how close to England we still were. There were no thoughts of regret or of homesickness though, it was a relief to be finally free of the old ties.
The people staying there were mainly English, but there were also Dutch and French there. A large part of the site had static caravans in place that were permanent holiday homes for their owners. In fairness, we hardly knew they were there, but they would get negative feedback from any English tour guide.

The name of the site was Domain du Lac, it had English owners and the restaurant looked good. The whole atmosphere was one of relaxation. So laid back it was on occasions that it was impossible to find anyone to help us. The owner only worked when he wanted to, and spent the rest of his time consuming wine with his friends in the bar. I want a job just like that!
Out of interest, we decided to check out another site in the region that would have been our second choice if there had been no spaces at Blangy le Chateaux.
The name of that other site was Camping du Lac. It looked imposing at the entrance and had a huge Lake along the driveway to the office. There were large grassy areas and open spaces, but when we found the caravan area we were shocked to see how cramped it looked. There were tourers and static caravans crowded together into what looked like a wagon train circle, so there was no possibility of privacy. It looked more like a Centre Parks holiday camp, and to us was very undesirable.

We reached the final day of our stay at Blangy le Chateaux and went for a long hike into the Normandy countryside. It had rained overnight so we dressed for bad weather and regretted it soon because the sun came out bright and hot. (Note to self: When walking in a foreign country, stick to the path you are supposed to be following. Do not abandon it half way round and pick up another track that looks like it will take you in the right direction, even if you are certain that it will cross the original path at some point. You will get hopelessly lost, and the locals will refuse to help you because you are sweaty, smelly and English and your dogs will not stop barking at them!)

We took an evening meal at the site restaurant because we were so tired from the afternoon’s exertions. It was quite good although the steak was a little chewy, but the people on the table behind us were very opinionated and they dominated the whole restaurant. They complained loudly about the steak, so it must have been a dodgy batch and they seemed to talk about no end of dogs, but pedigree dogs can have many names so it might have only been two brutes in fact!
They were obviously posh and had money because they cared not about how loud they were, or how much they spoiled the evening for everyone else sitting down for dinner.
Karen thought it was hilarious, and she could see them as her seat was facing their table, whereas I had to build up a mental picture of them. I imagined the loudest lady as being blonde and horsey, but when we left the restaurant I could see that she weighed about eighteen stone, was white haired and ugly as a pig wallowing in shit. The wooden floor under her seat appeared to be buckling, so we left hurriedly before anything disastrous could happen!

Next day we moved to a site in the Loire valley for a few days of Chateaus and sunflowers.

August 18th, Ingrandes Sur Vienne.

We were actually having a holiday while we were in France because the cost of property there was beyond our means, and France was merely a lengthy point of interest on the map. Therefore, we enjoyed what was essentially a sightseeing holiday while we were there.

It took five hours to drive from Normandy to Ingrandes sur Vienne, so Tia and Sammy spent the majority of their birthday in the travel cage. We decided years before that they should have the same birthday. Tia came to us as a five-week-old puppy and so we knew when she was born. We had no idea of Sammy’s birthday at all because someone rescued him from some yobs that mistreated him. They got cuddles instead of birthday cake!

Only once did we lose our way on our journey, and that was at Tours, where we missed a turning and we had to jump onto the motorway toll road until we found the N110 again. We drove 220 miles through scenic countryside and found that the French love an opportunity to stop for a break and a picnic in a beautiful place.
There were subtle changes taking place all the time we drove south, but the rain seemed to have attached itself to us permanently. The nights were far more comfortable than they had been further north and there were sounds after dark that reminded me of hotter climates. The constant chirrup of crickets filled the early evening air.
The fields full of magnificent sunflowers that were just approaching the end of their beauty and drooping a little in the afternoon sunlight dominated the view from the car. If our journey had been just a couple of weeks earlier, we would have seen these plants in their full glory, but it seemed somehow sad that the day was approaching when they would all be cut down and the seeds would be distributed to different parts of the world for consumption by birds and humans. Much of the harvest was destined to become oil.
The majority of holidaymakers had already gone home so we enjoyed the peace and tranquility for the three nights that we stayed.
The routine of setting up the caravan had been well and truly established by that time, so we got the jobs done with a minimum of fuss and absolutely no standing around looking silly and saying ‘what shall we do next’, at least, not much.

The campsite was in the grounds of a magnificent Chateau. The owners were English speaking French and they proved to be very helpful. They obligingly gave us plenty of information about the best places to visit and directions to get to them. They had an Internet connection there that was free to use for an hour and a shop in the grounds that sold the essentials at high prices. We bought butter for twice the going rate, and beer for more, but it saved a trip to the shops that were several miles away.
After an easy first day of doing nothing much, we ventured into the wilds to try to find a forest walk. The owners of the site told us that the village of Oyre would be the place to start our search and so along with the dogs, we set off to explore the area. We found forest galore but no indication of anywhere to stop and walk, at least there were none that looked like they led anywhere other than a gingerbread cottage.
There were occasional turnings into the woods but they were all signposted as being suitable only for 4x4 vehicles only. That was my interpretation anyway. My understanding of French was minimal and so they could easily have said ‘no 4x4 vehicles’ or ‘horse and cart only’ for all I knew. In all likelihood, we shall never know!
The never-ending drizzle that followed us everywhere seemed to lighten a little and the sun started breaking through.
We eventually arrived at a little town that we immediately fell in love with, situated on the banks of the River Vienne. La Roche Posay captured our hearts with its bubbling river full of trout and chub. The bridge to the south of town gave us a view of the river up and down stream that was as good as any we had seen in the UK. The river divided into three parts with small waterfalls, and we attempted to follow the footpath on the riverbank, but it ended in a private area that was fenced off. Other attempts to follow the course of the river through the streets of La Roche Posay also ended up going nowhere.
We felt a bit let down by this, as we both love walking beside rivers and waterways, but had we spent more time exploring the area, I am certain we would have found some lovely footpaths to enjoy, but we had a loose schedule and a plan to follow. We both needed to find a WC anyway, so we headed off to the town centre.
We found a public toilet on the street by the town’s petanque square, and it lived up to all the expectations of French WC’s. They were holes in the ground that smelt pretty awful, and so we passed up the opportunity to wee and walked on.
A wedding party marched through the street from a church making us feel scruffy, so we high-tailed out of there and visited the supermarket to replenish our supplies, but the prices there were disappointingly expensive.

The following day we went to Saumur and the great Chateau at Chinon. The first stop at Richelieu was not really scheduled, but we needed to find a WC, and that we did, but also an interesting town with gates at all compass points. It was one of the Bastide towns that were built to a formula that radiated outwards from a central hub with all roads leading towards the centre. Of more interest were the beautiful gardens that we found outside the walls of the town dedicated to Cardinal Richelieu. They were splendid in all respects, being huge and well maintained with canals throughout and footpaths all around. Karen took advantage of the moments with her camera and camcorder. We had a picnic in the gardens on some seats among the rose bushes and then drove onward to Saumur.

I soon noticed that there were almost no parking charges and that ticked a few boxes in my book. There were a lot of people out at weekends during the end of August, and they would have been prime targets in England for making a lot of cash out of with parking fees, but here it made a pleasant change to park up and just walk off without having to search for a hungry bloody meter that needed feeding. It was a conscious decision that we did not use any toll roads in our trip south, the ordinary national roads were excellent for an easygoing drive, and they had far more things to look at on the way as well as being free!
We chose to park in a car park on the banks of the River Vienne, the same river as the one near the campsite and La Roche Posay. It was a tributary of the River Loire and a joy to behold, especially if you have fishing in your blood as I do. My angling genes went berserk looking at the water flowing smoothly beneath the bridge we stood on and seeing anglers lining the banks in competition. We watched a while and the reward was the sight of struggling silver slabs swung swiftly towards the waiting anglers’ hands and into their nets.

The town of Saumur was lovely. The pavement cafes bustled and served very strong coffee. Karen insisted on taking a long climb into the Chateau grounds for some better shots of the town and although I complained loudly that it was a bloody long way up with two terriers trying to pull you in every direction on earth, the effort was worth every drop of sweat that we spilled.
We stood there breathing heavily in the warm sunshine that had taken over from the persistent rain, and drank in the sights below us.
The view took our breath away so soon after getting it back again.
The stunning vista before us revealed towers and minarets, spires and battlements, and the sun beat down on us as we admired the stonework of the Chateau and the other buildings in the town. It must have been a fine place to live and work, and as we descended back into the town once more, we gained more understanding of what it must be like to be French and to enjoy that particular way of life. We could feel the subtle rhythm of life there, and realized how lucky we were to be in no real hurry. We could imagine ourselves being a part of this richness and culture, but we knew it would be impossible considering our current financial status. We felt like peasants, but the townsfolk treated us like lords because they wanted all the Euros they could make us part with, and who could blame them!

The following day we just lazed around and used the on-site swimming pool, which had some bizarre regulation that forbade the wearing of swim shorts while in the water. I imagined skinny-dipping and hoped that I would see plenty of Mademoiselles also forbidden to wear swim gear. It turned out to be some stupid thing about having to wear trunks instead of shorts for the sake of hygiene. What possible difference could that make? Apart from giving most men the appearance of having no genitals when emerging from the cold water I mean! In the end, as there was no one on duty at the pool, I just dived into the cool water in my usual shorts and waited for the sirens to start.
They never started, and no one appeared to be enforcing this strange rule, so I enjoyed whole experience
The games room had Ping-Pong and Scrabble. Karen trashed me at Scrabble and I claimed that the tiles had all the wrong points on them and that was my excuse for the sound thrashing she gave me by 150 points. I mean, what sort of Scrabble game has a ‘W’ worth 10 points, and then magically gravitates to the ‘triple word score’ square on every occasion?
There was a TV and a small library in there too, but I was not in the mood for either as I stomped back to the caravan.
Never mind. It was to be an evening of rump steak cooked on the barbecue and a night for planning the following day’s journey into the Dordogne.

Tremolat. The Dordogne Valley.

The journey from the Loire Valley was around 225 miles, allowing for a small detour at Perigueux when we circumnavigated a roundabout eleven times trying vainly to negotiate our way from there to Le Bugue. We were getting slightly dizzy as we went round in circles looking for some telltale sign that would provide a small clue as to the correct route. I seem to remember that it was a matter of pure luck that I chose an exit at random from that roundabout and had only driven a few miles, when something familiar appeared on a signpost. The relief we felt in knowing that we were actually going the right way was indescribable, so was the language that filled the car during that fretful thirty minutes. Suffice to say that it involved many expletives.
(The trick is, apparently, to make sure you leave any town/village/city on a road leading to the largest urban area in the region you are heading for, and then afterwards, pick up the correct exit onto the road for your actual destination. Looking for any other places can be futile, and fruitless, as we found to our cost at €1.18 per litre of French diesel. Planning a route from one region to another now involves recording the names of all and any towns or that appear within 100 kilometres of our target. It is still possible to go wrong, as the exit slip roads are sometimes so badly signposted that you can be driving along happily one second, then an exit flies by, and you see the name of the next target town in your peripheral vision. The panic starts! You now have to find the next roundabout or slip road to turn around and put it right. The trouble is you never know if there will be a roundabout or other suitable turning point within a reasonable distance. You start re-reading the maps and wondering if there might be a way of not repeating the same mistake again. There is no way!
You are stuck in an ever-decreasing circle of doubt, and an ever-decreasing tank of fuel, when............TRA-LA............the name of something familiar from your chosen route, appears unexpectedly and you both relax to the point of not having coronary problems for a few more kilometres.)

Nothing could stop this because I had stubbornly refused to buy a Satellite Navigation system. Ha!
Karen told me to calm down and not let stress affect me so much because she did not fancy a trip to hospital to visit me in the coronary ward.

After a drive through beautiful French countryside involving steep mountainous roads and tight bends, we eventually found the small village of Tremolat, and missed the clearly written turning to the campsite because it was in Martian. We did a U-turn down a side road, which gave me the chance to perfect my reversing technique, narrowly missed a bus stop, and a short while later arrived at the site.
We asked if we could have a look around before choosing our pitch. There was an English-speaking girl on duty when we got there and she made us feel welcome straight away.
We got directions to the tourers pitches; we entered the site and stopped with mouths wide open at the sight before us.
Oh My God.
It was heaven on earth.

We suddenly realized that we had landed in heaven. We found a place to pitch up on the banks of the Dordogne and made plans to have the lounge window overlooking the river. It would have meant being around 15ft from the water, and it would take a lot of pushing and pulling to get it there.
The river flowed leisurely by reflecting the trees on the opposite bank and the arches of the bridge a little way upstream. It was wide and lazy, a bit like me.
The sky was blue from horizon to horizon, and not a rain cloud in sight.

We decided to spend a whole week in this garden of paradise to get nice and relaxed. The grass was a little sparse and worn away after a long holiday season, but the red earth was generous in quantity and quality. The moles loved it, there were molehills all over and Tia tried very hard to dig down into them. I swear the ground gave a bit as I plonked down my size tens onto it, and I had this picture in my minds eye, of a vast underground network of tunnels containing small blind furry creatures. They were scurrying around in the dark, trying to avoid drowning at the hands of the young moles opening a tunnel at a depth that would allow the cold waters of the Dordogne to rush in, and to avoid being eaten alive by terriers that did not know that moles tasted disgusting!

We had a large hedge surrounding us on two sides that gave us a degree of privacy, but it made the manoeuvring of our rig into the right place a nightmare.
I unhitched at an angle that should have meant it would be an easy job to push the caravan into position, but I got that wrong big time.
There turned out to be a small invisible rut in the ground, over which, our caravan due to its weight and length, just would not move. I grunted and groaned, pushed and pulled, rocked and rolled, but the bugger stayed right where it started. I could have just set up in the position it was in then, but the door would have been facing the wrong way and the view we wanted from the lounge would have been behind us. We really wanted to see the river from the comfort of the lounge. I gave up my brave efforts and skulked off in defeat to see if anyone on site could help us. Karen meanwhile dutifully readied all the stuff we needed for that evening.
At the reception, the English-speaking girl had gone off duty. In her place was a grim looking girl of well over six feet in height, and she loomed. There was an older woman there too, and she just ignored both of us.
I tried my French and got nowhere.
I mimed and spoke broken French at the same time and got some response. The older woman finally made a phone call or two and she told me in fractured English to go back to my caravan, I think. I believe she took pleasure from my discomfort and deliberately waited until the last moment before getting involved.
I returned to the caravan and while we waited, we drank tea and consumed cake.
A little while later, we met Jean-Paul Gardener. He was marvellous with his big French belly flopping out over the waistband of his Levis, and his muscles bulging in anticipation of the work that needed doing.
He got our caravan into position almost single handed, and as I applied the handbrake, I wondered if the thought ever crossed his mind that if he carried on pushing, we would only be able to watch in despair as our room with a thousand views rolled gracefully into the Dordogne. I shook him warmly by the hand and thanked him; I hoped fervently that presenting him with a huge amount of the local currency was not what he wanted.

I checked the handbrake again, and fitted the wheel clamp, so if he got any ideas about coming back for revenge while we slept then it would be all the more difficult to get it.

I erected the awning that evening and that was the next job. The effort involved was considerable but it was a bloody good thing that we did it.
That night the rain caught up with us again and the following morning it was muddy and mucky outside the protection of our awning. Being that wonderful red earth made everything it touched look like it was always that dirty. It was great for growing grapes and sunflowers, but bloody awful to keep out of the caravan.

That first night was a night of interrupted sleep. Many things went through our minds as we tried to drift off, and although we were more than happy with our current situation on the perfect campsite, we had terrible dreams of handbrakes, huge Frenchmen and watery graves.
The first day on site consisted of sheltering from the drizzly rain that had annoyingly caught up with us yet again, so it became a good opportunity to read a book, listen to music and write in journals. The dogs were restless and needed a good long walk, but that would have to wait.

On Wednesday, our second day in Tremolat, we wanted to discover what the village was like and so we walked with the dogs into the centre of the village. The shops had everything we needed and we found a nice bakery with excellent bread and cakes. This made Karen very happy, as she is a sugar addict.
There was a public toilet in the main square and Karen needed to use it. I waited in the square and filmed some of the buildings. There came a muffled shout from behind me, and the sound of Karen’s voice reached my ears. It appeared that she was having a problem or two with the toilet, and something rattling inside and I realised that she was probably trapped. I shook the door and shouted, ‘Are you Ok in there love?’
The silence that followed urged me to reconsider, and I tried again with, ‘Don’t worry love, just think calmly about which direction to turn the handle.’
A moment later, a red-faced Karen stepped onto the street and laughed aloud.
This was fortunate, because any other reaction would have been disastrous. I again imagined a watery grave, this time along with heavy footwear.
‘That bloody toilet needs idiot proof instructions in English.’ she said.

The sun shone down on us that day, and the dewy mountain morning soon turned into a dazzling day, which made a visit to the campsites’ swimming pool seem like the most sensible destination. The pool area looked lovely and although the water was a little chilly, it was also refreshing and we enjoyed relaxing in the sun chairs afterwards. The sun felt fantastic on our bodies as we lay there, a pleasant break from rain and wind. We returned to the caravan for lunch, found a sunny spot on the south side of the caravan, and settled down for an afternoon of getting sunburn.

Some other people arrived who were English and we offered to help them place their caravan, but they needed no help getting into position because they had an electric mover installed. I stood and watched the whole operation and wondered why I had never considered such a thing. The answer came to me in a flash. I was too tight to shell out for one, similar to the Sat Nav thing, and too stubborn and proud to admit that it might be a good thing to have, again, similar to the Sat Nav thing!

There was plenty of activity on the water when the weather turned better. We saw kids on sailboat bicycles and adults in canoes. They came past us all day long, some quietly enjoying the beauty of their surroundings, and some raucously holidaying on their way downstream. They all went round a sharp bend in the river and disappeared.
They never came back.
I imagined a sudden nasty current dragging them all towards a huge waterfall and sweeping them into a mass of white water, never seen again. I wondered why there were no search parties sent out and no sirens blaring to warn others of the impending danger. Then some spoilsport told me that there was in fact a point downstream where they stopped, disembarked and got into a bus to be ferried back to the starting point. I suppose it was easier to do that than paddle against the current all the way back.

The next morning, bright and early, Jean-Paul Gardener started to wreak his revenge upon us for the lack of remuneration on that first day. He appeared as we sat down enjoying breakfast, and the first thing we knew about it was the chugging sound of his tractor as it came past our pitch and stopped by the waters edge. We could see Jean-Paul and an associate wearing wading boots and carrying chains, looking into the water where there appeared to be an old jetty, broken and disused, sticking up out of the water. They were obviously going to drag the old bits of timber out with tractor by using the chains, and the men were busy attaching the chains to the largest timbers. Jean-Paul then sat on the tractor and put it into reverse.
The tractor took up the slack in the chains and began to strain against the timbers in the water.
The grass under the tyres folded back, and dirt shot out from the rear end and hit the hedges close to us. It soon became clear that the machine was not powerful enough to do the job, as the timbers stayed firmly in place. They realized soon enough that they would have to return with larger and heavier gear, and so they left us in peace…..for fifteen minutes.
When they returned, they carried petrol powered hedge cutting gear, and proceeded to trim all the hedges around us.
We sat inside our caravan and plotted our next move. Karen suggested something involving tar and feathers, but where would I find a supplier at that short notice?
In the end, we went out to get another kind of supplies because the cupboards were looking a little bare.
There that showed him!
A little while later, we set out for a trip to Beynac and Sarlat.
Beynac, (which we finally arrived at via BarcelonaJ!) was buzzing with tourists and we happily added ourselves to that category once we had located parking and paid the due fees.
The walk into the town centre was easy as it was downhill but the climb to the Chateau at the top of the hill was a real struggle. We met an English couple halfway up and took the chance to recover for the second leg. We chatted for ages at a pavement café, consumed fragrant coffee with delicate French pastries, and then with renewed strength, finished the ascent to the Chateau. The view from the walls at the top was amazing. We felt as though we could see the whole of France, but perhaps the views in spring would have been even better. The month of August was a great month for holidays and such, but with the harvest just around the corner, everything looked as though it was going brown and dying, whereas in spring, the same view would no doubt give the impression of new life and vitality.

Sarlat beckoned us onwards, and the crowds were again present, but the atmosphere was charming and jolly. We parked on the outer edge of town and walked with the dogs because having driven into the center of town it was obvious that parking would be difficult to find. It was a long walk but the dogs enjoyed it and even Sammy, who jumps at the slightest thing sometimes, seemed more relaxed than usual among the crowds that milled through the narrow streets.
There were street performers to laugh at or listen to for those that understood French and attractions for those interested in history and religion, but we satisfied ourselves with a good look around and a sit down at a café to watch the world go by.
We ordered coffee for ourselves and water for the dogs, because to do it the other way round would be stupid.
Almost every town in France had pavement cafes and most of them after having us as customers suddenly found they had a loose table leg or two. There may have even been one or two missing a leg altogether.
This was because we used to tie the dogs to a table leg while we drank coffee or ate pastries, and invariably, at some point someone would walk by a little too close to the dogs and they would jump up barking at the intrusion. I bet if we went back to those same places now, there would be a big sign saying ‘NO DOGS’ and ‘NO ENGLISH’, in French of course.
No, I am kidding, the French love us English really.

It was soon time to go and take the regular exercise of going in the wrong direction.
This I managed in no time, but unlike other miscalculations, this one at least proved profitable. We actually found a better and quicker route back to Le Bugue, and it rewarded us with the sight of a wonderful little town called Campagne, which we would certainly never have seen otherwise.

The weather had been kinder to us than it had for ages, and we were enjoying ourselves immensely at this point in our journey. Another thing that struck a chord with me was our constant proximity to water in the form of lakes or rivers. (I always felt happy close to a body of water, so maybe it was therapeutic, but whatever, I know that if you believe something is doing you good, then in all likelihood it is. The exceptions to this are obviously any things made with alcohol, sugar or salt and fatJ.)

Karen had been keeping herself busy writing her own record of the journey, and also of the meals we ate and the seasonal things like fruit and berries and plants growing by the side of the road.
I teased her by mentioning things I saw on the side of the road too, like blades of grass or dog poo.

The Friday of that week saw another change in the weather.
It rained again but even more heavily.
It precipitated for long periods and generally fell like stair rods.
It rained cats and dogs, pussies and puppies and whenever it fell, it fell on us.
It also fell on all our camping gear spattering it with that rich red loam that the moles adored so much.
It was as though we had suddenly arrived back in England again and it brought back some rather unwelcome memories.
I wondered whether at some point in my life, I had upset a powerful magician and this was his vengeance. I vaguely remembered calling Paul Daniels a stupid prat on one occasion, but that would not account for the filling of the sandbags and the raising of flood walls that would soon be required if the rain kept coming at that rate. (And anyway, it was pretty a accurate comment)
I waited for the Dordogne to burst its banks and carry us away to the waterfall, where we could join all those canoeists that were already there.
The morning dog walk that day was not a happy event. The terrierists were none too impressed with the towelling they received when they returned, but there was good news to come and it could not come quickly enough!
The rain eventually settled into a gentle rhythm of simply falling downwards as it was not heavy enough to bounce any more. It became a drizzle and the river looked like a filthy muddy brown that anglers learn very quickly to avoid, and other folk just think looks disgusting.
I took the breakfast things to the communal washing area where I espied a Frenchman washing some whitish-grey bulbous things of the champignon variety. Having established via a series of acrobatic mimes and semaphore that they were indeed of the edible sort, we started making plans.
We had both spotted fungi growing in the fields near us, and we assumed that they were either magic or poisonous, but with the knowledge we acquired that day, we realized they were field mushrooms and we knew of a good many ways to consume them.
That evening, armed with carrier bags and flashlights, we scoured the campsite from field to field and returned to the caravan empty handed.
The bloody swine had picked the lot!
He had cleared the shelves and wasted my time, the selfish ignorant pig!
How dare he pick all the mushrooms and not leave us as much as a stalk.
The next evening, we reciprocated. We picked the lot, cleared the whole site, washed them, chopped them into bite-sized pieces and then ate them.
Ah, revenge tastes so good, especially when fried with garlic and butter.
Later that same evening, we chortled merrily as we watched a flashlight sweeping back and forth out in those same fields, knowing that Monsieur Mushroom was in for a disappointing night. I prayed to whichever deity that happened to be listening, that we would not come down with indigestion or the squits in the meantime.

Earlier the same day, we visited Bergerac. The town had a terrible write-up in our tour brochure, but I remember once going to see a film that was widely condemned as being crap, and it turned out to be brilliant. With that in mind, we went to Bergerac with open minds and in all honesty, we found it to our liking. There was plenty of parking, some of which was free. There was a clean shopping precinct and a riverside on which we had our picnic. A lovely little coffee shop which also served delightful crêpes, and there you go. Worth a visit in my opinion, and I do not believe anyone would be disappointed.
We returned to our caravan to find we had acquired a new neighbour. There was a large motor home with German registration plates and some people beside it relaxing in the afternoon sun (which had appeared miraculously from behind a heavy grey sky) and I approached them trying to say good afternoon in German and English, but they rewarded my attempts of friendliness by totally blanking me.
Later, we witnessed the man and his frau working on a marine craft of some sort that turned out to be an inflatable yellow canoe. I conjured mental images of a yellow canoe falling into white water at the foot of the falls.
Inside our caravan, we sang ‘we all live in a yellow submarine’ and barely whispered the words ‘periscope up’ before we collapsed in a snotty heap on the floor, with the dogs crawling all over us and licking every piece of exposed skin. I just could not get the image of u-boats out of my mind, or the sound of that famous Beatles song.
We wanted to go back into the village to post some letters and to reward our good humour with a generous portion of cake from the patisserie, so we crept out quietly and avoided looking in the direction of Capt. Goering, who was still working on the torpedo tubes.
We took the camcorder with us to film some of the architecture in the village, and to do some serious posing in front of the comical public toilets that almost trapped Karen inside a few days earlier.
It was typical that the bloody camera stopped working that day, so the video diary had to go on hold for a while. Karen was distraught because this was her project and until we could either find a repair shop or buy a new one, there was no way to record our experiences on film to share with all our friends. (Of course, what happens in the real world is that every person who gets to see it makes a mental note, between yawns, to avoid you in future, or in certain circumstances, to fake a power cut.)
I shared her misery, but became more determined to record on paper all our adventures in greater depth to compensate for the lack of visual records. It is with great shame that I admit to failure in this undertaking.

We returned to the caravan with a bulging paper bag of cakes and put the kettle on for tea. We must have been outside talking to another camper or something, I cannot remember, but when I went back inside to answer the kettles whistle, there were two things that struck me immediately. One was the absence of cake; the other was two guilty looking dogs! The constant lip licking was the biggest give-away, but and the grains of sugar that still showed white against the tan of Tia’s coat, definitely helped to identify the perpetrators! I am reasonably sure that Tia took the cake because Sammy had little legs and lacked the ability to jump onto high places. Mind you, even if he had the legs, he would not have the brains. No, it was definitely Tia.

They did not look for their dinner that evening, and we did not offer it, so we forgave them and decided to reinstate food rations at breakfast the next morning.

The Sunday of that week was marvellous, because we day-tripped to Marqueyssac, to visit ‘Les Jardins Suspendus’, which is not a comment on lacy French underwear, but beautiful hanging gardens.
The entry fee was fully justified and we soon became lost in the maze of carefully clipped hedges and wonderful views of the chateau at Beynac that we had been to a few days earlier. Another splendid view across the valley of the Dordogne was of Castlenaud jutting out of the rocky landscape in imposing fashion.
It was excellent walking through the hedges and the footpaths went on for several kilometres. At the end of the footpath was the thing that drew most of the visitors to Marqueyssac. It was the incredible view of Perigord, the Dordogne and a village carved out of the very rock it was built on.
The promontory was called The Belvedere and was situated 192 metres above everything else, and on a clear day you could see Battersea Power Station, and our old house in Blighty…………….
I awoke from that awful daydream in time to stop Sammy from taking a suicidal leap onto the rocks below, and swore that from then on, I would wear a hat to protect me from sun-madness!
Sammy for some reason regularly got it into his head to leap onto things (as long as they are low enough) without any thought of the consequences. Blind faith it may be, but pure stupidity is more likely in my opinion.

The hanging gardens were followed by a drive to Domme, which is an award-winning village built on a hill with incredible views from the top that rivaled its neighbour at Marqueyssac. A Bastide town was impossible to get lost in, and this town was another of those. I thought it was very unfortunate that the authorities of such a lovely tourist attraction should allow the cheap tat that we saw for sale at every corner, ruining the charm of the place. It was very busy and we made for the highest road, Rue d’Hopital, from where we could see most of France.
After a swift drive to the viewpoint afforded by the Cingle de Montfort of the Chateau Montfort, we went home to the comfort of our room with a thousand views.
I wanted to cook curried chicken that night, but my failure to pack the curry powder meant that I had to combine the individual spices that we had with us and pray to glory that what happened next was edible.
It was.
Je suis une genious.
We found a load more mushrooms that night. Take that Mr. Frenchman!
Next day was a lazy day, and packing up for the next leg of our journey. We decided to once more stay away from the coastal area and head for the Pyrenees.
There was bound to be some driving involved and more taking wrong turns no doubt.

As we drove out of the campsite, the man we knew as Jean-Paul Gardener waved us good-bye, or maybe it was a French insult, but in my minds eye I still saw him trying to tug a trashed timber jetty with his tractor that tragically was too tough! I silently wished him good fortune in his quest to remove those timbers.

The Pyrenees at Oloron Ste. Mairie.
True to form, what was potentially the easiest drive so far went horribly wrong at Pau. (Pronounced PO!)
There really should have been no problems getting to my chosen (yes, my chosen site) of Lescar just west of Pau. We drove for four hours faultlessly before hitting Pau, and just when we thought that the roads were being kind to us, disaster struck in the shape of another vaguely signposted roundabout.

Approaching Pau, we believed we had covered all the options, exit roads to all the satellite towns, major routes and so on, logged and followed faithfully. We looked in vain for our route at this particular roundabout, but it revealed nothing. There was no point trying to apply logic to the situation so we flipped a metaphorical coin after the fourth circumnavigation, and chose wrong! We were heading east, the opposite direction to the one we wanted.
We rejoined the original route and chose again, this time by using Tarot. Again, we ended up chasing shadows and driving through frighteningly narrow streets to get back out again. We eventually found the road into Pau again and tried another direction based on ‘eenymeenyminymo’. It took us away from the city and heading towards Oloron to the south of Pau. Where?
Karen said she remembered a site in Oloron that would be easy to find, closer to the National Parks of the Pyrenees than Lescar, and sounded rather nice. ......!!!!!????? This was the choice Karen made before offering me the chance to pick the next site.
This sounded suspiciously like witchcraft to me, and I wondered if we would still be trying to get out of Pau today if it was not for a childhood rhyme.

We pulled up at Camping Gite du Stade Thirty-five kilometres later. It seemed OK at first sight, and as we had been driving for nearly seven hours, and my nerves were at shattering point, it seemed a good idea to pitch up and assess our options.
We did all the necessary work with the help of some French folk and an English overnighter, and it was then that I looked out the window at the back of the caravan and for the first time at ground level, beheld the Pyrenees. Awesome was the only word for them. We had climbed many a hill on the way from Normandy, but nothing in the world could compare to the sight that was before us.
Next morning, we took stock of our overall situation, and decided that we would stay for a week on this site. The facilities were good, the shops were close and the sights to see were easy to drive to from here.
A quick visit to the supermarket to replenished our supplies and then we had a lazy afternoon doing Spanish practice.
No, I do not mean learning the language, I mean learning the correct way to siesta. We got quite good at it after a couple of attempts.
The town centre was actually fascinating, although we needed several visits to understand properly where everything was in relation to everything else in town. It was complicated but also rewarding, because we found several wonderful bridges across the river, which gave me a chance to see shoals of silver fish, flashing their excited way up the current in the search for food. The French take great pride in their bridges, and the flowers that adorned them were very attractive.
A map of the area revealed a nice looking three-hour walk through woods to the local village of Esteqial, and we drove off to find it with the dogs in a mood of anticipation.
Of course, we never found it until we were going back to the campsite and by then we had been walking for hours trying to find it anyway.
We drove back to Oloron and tried to find a Jardin Publique in which to take our repast. Again, to our feeble minds it seemed an impossible task to navigate to the correct place, so we found a little car park in the centre of town, and Karen set off by herself with map in hand, to try to find the road with the name that we needed. Blimey, she was gone for ages, and what with me parked in the car park reserved for the local Court for Instant Justice, and not being able to see where she had gone, I started sweating a little. I could have been up before the magistrate for illegal parking before she returned.
In the end, Karen found the right road and so we had our picnic in public gardens on the outskirts of Oloron. It was home to many species of tree, several works of art (including a twenty-foot steel bed made for Napoleon and Josephine apparently), some splendid views of Olorons finest buildings, and an old people’s rest home that was in disguise as a cafe and nearly fooled us into sitting down for coffee.
Soon it was time to go back to the caravan.
The next trip out was to the very famous St Jean Pied de Port.
It was famous for being the start of the spiritual trek that is the Camino trail, and ends at distant Santiago.
We parked on the outer edge of town to avoid the busy centre of town. Unfortunately, Sammy escaped my clutches when he lunged at another dog and took a small bite from its nose. We were devastated, and having checked that little angelic Sammy was in the same condition he started out in, tried to make sure that the other dog was also OK. Luckily, it was, and the owner was really understanding about it too. I do not know what the French word is for muzzle, but I am almost certain she used at some point in her reply.
Sammy then started limping and looking up at Karen with that old sad expression that he has perfected when looking for sympathy. She, of course, fell for it and picked him up. I, of course, ignored it, and got a telling off for being a bad owner.
We then trekked upwards in the blistering sunshine, a steep muscle-wrenching kilometer to the citadel, and having got there, we realised its potential. Under instructions, I then trekked downwards to the car again and drove it to the summit. It contained our essential supplies! It was a more pleasant journey the second time I have to say and it brought about the possibility of eating our meal in a much nicer place.
The area at the citadel, nestling in the clean atmosphere of the heights was perfect for a picnic. The old citadel seemed to be a place of learning of some sort, and therefore out of bounds to mere tourists. We enjoyed the time we spent there, and ate slowly, relishing the sun, the citadel and the ambience.
The way back down to the main town was not at all perfect.
We were expecting steps down to the river, but all we could find was rough tracks and we were unsure about where it led to because there was no one to follow down, so we gave up and drove instead.
I found a nice shaded parking place at the north end of town, we walked back into the centre of St Jean Pied de Port to admire the beautiful cobbled streets and the historic gates that marked the south, and north ends of the town. We enjoyed ice cream and took photos on the bridge over the river, and of Karen paddling in its waters. There were several pilgrims setting out to walk the Camino Trail, who we wished good fortune and even better footwear. They departed through the gate at the south end towards Spain, and plenty of good hostels we imagined.

We decided to explore a little more locally, and we eventually, to our delight, found a park in Oloron St Peé, which allowed us to spend many happy hours just laying on the grass and walking beside the river, as well as swimming in the cool clear waters of it.
The dogs got their first real off the leash run here in what must be three weeks, and they absolutely loved it. The locals gathered here in numbers during the afternoon, but apart from a German family setting themselves down right in front of us and making the dogs go crazy every time their kid wailed, we enjoyed almost every minute. We went there three days running, mainly to avoid having to drive back to Pau and relive the nightmare, but also as a special treat for the dogs.
On the final full day, we drove down the main road towards the Col du Somport tunnel, a route we would travel very soon to get into Spain. Yes, I had enjoyed the time spent in France more than I had ever thought possible, and it had given me experiences that were impossible to relate to people properly, especially in writing where my imagination sometimes gets the better of me, but it is only fair to try!
The road seemed fine; the mountains seemed large, looming and local. The village opposite Borce was Etsaut, and it attracted our attention due to its National Park status and available walks. We enquired in my stuttering French if there were any walks suitable that were not too difficult for our dogs and us.
My memory now tells me that the girl there heard something that was the exact opposite to that.
We started walking up a steep but friendly and wooded road, and after about 2km we reached a car park, which, had we chosen to, we could have driven to, and found that from there the road turned into a track, going upward still. The ascent did not bother us; but the degenerating path that went from the width of a small road, to the width of a mule track inside 1km certainly did. There were no side rails, and there were sheer drops to our right. The dogs kept sensibly to the left.
Sammy is sometimes a very jittery little fellow and I am certain he picked up the thoughts that Karen was thinking, because suddenly, having been carefully picking a steady path next to the cliff wall on our left, he lunged in panic towards open space and certain splattering on the wicked rocks below. It was a scary moment for Karen and I know she was grateful to have with her, the handmade walking stick she had acquired in the Lake District in England. Not that she used it to batter little Sammy for endangering her life, although I would not have blamed her in the least had she done so, she used it to steady the two of them and achieve balance instead of taking a quick way to the bottom.
We passed a lone backpack left strewn on the path, and were startled to see a head popping up from the edge, to which a body was attached, that was clinging to a rope that tumbled over the edge into the abyss. We jumped somewhat at the sudden rising cranium, and said 'bonjour'. I think the climber was concentrating on survival too much to appreciate our civility, but the crunch of boot on shale turned our attention to a group of youngsters walking up the trail behind us. It also reminded us of our current inappropriate footwear, and so we retired back down the long slope to our car. The walk back down was scarier than the upward trek, and the muscles we used to keep a brake on proceedings soon complained loudly, and bitterly of their treatment.

We have met some fascinating people on our travels so far, but one particular Belgian sticks out in my mind, and he was only with us for a single night before moving on to other adventures. He had been in the merchant navy, and had therefore seen a large proportion of the world as part of his job.
I was somewhat amazed to hear him talk of incredible caravan tours, which took in Turkey, Morocco and Tunisia, and other exotic locations. I was about to enquire about the amphibious nature of his caravan and tow-car, when just in time, the word 'Ferry' sprang into my mind, avoiding an embarrassing silence in pure Flemish.
He went to great lengths to tell us how he had managed to keep clear of trouble in all his years on the road. I tried to remember all the great stuff he told us, but all the time he was talking, I just kept thinking 'bloody know-it-all'. I want to find these things out for myself.
How ungrateful is that?
Anyhow, I managed to keep in mind the advice on proper route planning and keeping calm in the face of adversity.
I also managed to forget completely all this in future adventures, but at least the chance came my way to become a better and more capable traveller. At least the thought was there.

When we had to leave this French paradise, we found that the other Belgians opposite us, were more than willing to lend a hand hitching up our rig, especially as I made a total pigs ear of the job myself. They were very pleasant elderly people, who were waiting eagerly for us to leave with our noisy terriers, and would therefore do everything they could to hasten said leaving! They made sure that the whole thing went smoothly, and when the locking jobbie on my hitching gear would not drop into place, I started sweating as only I can. The fourth attempt at last brought success, and the look of relief on my face was nothing compared to the ecstasy on the faces of our Belgian neighbours.
We waved goodbye, and said sincerely meant cheerios that were at least sincere on their part, and then off we drove.
We drove down the main road into the Pyrenees. We went towards those mountains with only one thought in mind. Would big Bertha get us to the top without any problems?
The next stage of our journey would bring us into Spain, and there was to be a meeting with very familiar people.

The road leading up to the Col du Somport will be hardwired forever into my little brain. We had driven for an hour before the approach climb made itself known. I said to Karen 'well, looks like a bit of a climb then, old Bertha will not enjoy this much'.
How true that turned out to be.
The approach to the tunnel was a very long, and in places pretty steep road. It seemed that, at 20mph, it would take hours to climb it. What also turned out to be a head-wind, made the whole experience a heart stopper when watching the temperature gauge get close to the point of tea-making heat, and with no place to stop and cool her down, there was no option but to drive on until the tunnel appeared straight ahead.
Eventually, of course, it did. It was almost like an epiphany, with the mouth of the great tunnel coming out of the mountain air like a vision of glory, and right there I nearly became a born again human.
Inside the tunnel, it continued to climb, but without the head wind, it became possible to pick up some speed, and soon we were coming to the crest of the hill, and then joining the downhill race into Spain. First we saw the light of day, and then we saw the Spanish landscape, and then it became clear that the journey to Spain had been achieved with us all still in one piece, and we gave thanks for that.
It also became clear that the world had not changed at all in the time we spent inside that huge tunnel.
It was like France, only in Spanish.
Well, after all, what did we expect?
My first experience of life on the road in Spain was when a Spanish cop decided he wanted to check me out. He spoke furiously fast, made several strange gestures, and then having checked that my headlight deflectors were in place, waved us on, at which point I chose my words very carefully. I believe he was trying to tell me to keep my headlights on while inside the tunnel, such as I had been doing in every tunnel I had ever driven through.
'Merci...au-revoir', or words to that effect. That earned me a withering glance from Karen. I checked later, and sure enough, withering had indeed taken place!
Heap powerful medicine woman!
I would have to spend considerable resources now to get the withering reversed, and maybe if I did and said the right things, a little improvement would come about.

We drove further into Spain, and at some point on the road to Pamplona, we stopped for a bite to eat, a swig of chilled water and a necessary comfort break for the dogs and us. They would now have to learn to whine in Basque or Spanish.
Lorries were coming past us at a rate of knots that made the caravan rock and roll, and there were so many of them. This must have been the main supplies route for the whole of northern Spain, maybe even the whole of Northern Europe. It was a very busy road.
The very first Spanish town we saw, from a distance looked like it was a very large wart covered with smaller warts.
It literally, stuck up out of the landscape like a giant mosquito bite, although it was not red and enflamed, but it did look unusual.
It was striking, the ease with which we could navigate the roads in Spain. The junctions all made sense, and it made driving a real pleasure. I prayed that all over Spain, there would be blessings in the same vein, and after all, to my way of thinking, it was a damn sight cheaper than Tom-Tom.
The town of Estella magically appeared as a direction on a signpost, and we gratefully followed the arrows to reach our first site in this country. The target town soon appeared and it was not long before we were wondering yet again if the turning we had taken was correct. It was after seeing a signpost for the site that our nerves settled, but the approach road was a little unusual, and it seemed to be taking us nowhere. The campsite was in fact, nowhere.
At last, the gates were before us, and we checked in and pitched up, including the awning as we were expecting guests and the extra room would come in handy.
I cooked up some chicken and sausages on the Cadac, and we feasted hugely, making sure to leave some for Dave & Maureen. We did not know exactly what time they would arrive, but when they did, they would not go hungry.
It was around 9pm when they got there after an eight-hour drive from Valencia having done an airport run. I would find that length of drive tough, even without the caravan. Hugs and kisses preceded sharing of food and drink, which then turned into stories and yarns, which soon turned into yawns and stretches. They slept in their car next to the caravan, with the intention of finding accommodation the next day. As it turned out, there was none available, so they slept on site in their car for 4 nights, despite the offer of a lifetime to kip down in the awning. (I mean, who could refuse.) Although it seemed a little rough on them, they survived fine. We had no seats in the back of Big Bertha due to all the bags and necessities that we carried, so they drove us into Pamplona, to find Carrefour and buy a new camcorder, and Vodafone SIM card for Spain.
That was a laugh. We found the camera we wanted, which was compatible with the type of film we used, and I tried to buy it. Firstly the Spanish was a little above our heads, but Dave managed to work out what was being said, and it was then I realised that to make any major purchase in Spain required either my driving license or passport. Good thing Dave was carrying his ID, as neither of us had any on us. Next, we purchased a Spanish phone SIM card for cheaper calls and texts.
The ridiculous thing about our travels so far was the cost of calling and texting home. It seemed that a top up on Karens PAYG on o2, while in France, meant that a single text message cost over £1.00, instead of the expected 40p. What a rip off!

Anyhow, all set up now, we went shopping for some food, I cooked up a special Bolognese style meal, and we dined like princes and princesses.
The peace and quiet of Lizarru camping was shattered one night by a live band playing somewhere in the town of Estella, and when the wind blew in our direction, the noise at 4am was deafening. Then, at not such an unsociable hour, but noisier still, was the sound of someone tidying up around the site cutting all the overgrowth of hedge. We referred jokingly to the incident as Juan the handyman wholeheartedly having a heft at halving the height of a hedge.
Even more worrying was the smell that kept wafting over us, most likely from a factory in the lane that led to the site. It actually smelt worse than anything else I have ever smelt, and that includes some very niffy post curry latrines. We believed that the stink was some sort of fertilizer, or an ingredient of it, which made me promise never to eat food grown in Estella.
It was great to get such full use from our little oven, and the Cadac, as we did for those four days. One evening, we cooked two pizzas, chips and beans, and after shifting the pizzas around from shelf to shelf, it was all ready and devoured with gusto. (This was very cheap at Carrefour.) ((Humour...ha ha))
After four pleasant days and nights, we went our separate ways, with Dave and Maureen going back to Gandia and us continuing our journey into northern Spain. Destination either Laredo or Santillana del Mar. Unusually for us, we did not have an actual site to head for. We had no idea of how long it would take to arrive at the nearest site, but if we made good time then we would continue on to the furthest one.
See you there.

Arrived Sat 9th September.
It looked like a very pleasant site, with plenty of trees for shade. The owner spoke a little English, and we spoke a little Spanish, so between us we managed to say 'hi'.
The weather was much cooler than Navarra, and rain was in the air. The awning went up, and with everything in its proper place, sure enough, down came the wet stuff.
The facilities were pretty much up to scratch and the town of Torrelavega was only a short drive away, and there being a Carrefour in town, it was only a short while until we checked it out.
The next day, our first full day, was Sunday, so a visit to the historic town of Santillana was the order of the day. We walked around for a couple of hours to get a feel for the place, bought some local sausages and cider, and went home, but not before Tia had a barking fit at some leather handbags. We reckon she saw animal spirits warning her that she might end up like them, and to run away right now. OK, that is ridiculous! There is only enough skin on her to make a purse or two!

Monday we drove to Torrelavega and shopped for essentials. When we got back, we drove into San Vicente de la Barquera. We were immediately smitten by the town. It just seemed that everyone was smiling, and the street side cafes were inviting and the people friendly. The harbour looked pretty and contained large shoals of grey mullet, which I have caught in England in the rivers. It was really just a picturesque little fishing village, but something about got into our hearts. I found Wi-Fi in a coffee shop, and straight away started downloading stuff that I could not or dare not get through my Bluetooth connection on my mobile phone.
On a clear day, you could see mountains surrounding the town, but this only happened once in our three visits, so the postcards that showed this in its true colours were all we had to prove it.
Another very nice town was Comillas, although we did not realise it until later. The first time we went there was just gave us a fleeting glimpse of the place, and a run for the dogs on the sandy beach. Nothing wrong with that, they loved it. A walk along the promenade revealed nothing of the towns charm and so it was back to the caravan for the rest of the day.
Karen was getting itchy feet about now, and really wanted to spend more time looking around St Vicente. We decided to look for a closer site and checked out several.
Pechon was ideal, but too steep and narrow to get to easily. What a shame. The site had fantastic pitches overlooking the sea from a height.
The next two were instantly forgettable, and as you will see, I cannot recall their names.
Then there was Camping Rodero and Camping Oyambre Beach. Boy, we were in a pickle choosing between them. They were 300 metres apart and had similar features, but the one feature that swung it in the end was the 500 metres of sandy beach at Oyambre. There were fewer facilities, or rather less well appointed facilities, but it had WC's, it had showers, and it had washing up and laundry available, so what the heck. It only delivered 3amps of electric mains power, which will run the fridge, lights and water heater, but bugger all else. We decided to try out the solar panel and save 3 Euros a night on the power. I knew it was going to be a little trickier with only 12volt for power, but that was the reason I got it in the first place. Cheaper site fees and anyway the fridge ran on gas, and so could the water heater and obviously the lighting would be fine on 12v, but there would be no toaster or hair dryer or Hoover. We could charge some of our small appliances on the 12v with the car chargers I had bought on eBay so there should be no major problems. After all, toast can be cooked using the gas grill; there was an electric power point in the site toilets for a hairdryer, and charging the camcorder, plus my shaver. We could easily use a stiff brush and dustpan to sort out the worst of the muck in the caravan.
Having made the decision, it was simply a case of packing up and driving about an hour to reach our new home.

Welcome to Oyambre Beach.
We arrived on Weds 13th September, a little after 1pm, and leisurely I set us up for the longest stay of our travels so far, nine nights in all.
Much later in the day, after having sat outside eating our lunch in the awning, and admiring the lovely view of the bay and sandy beach, two French caravans arrived and parked up inconveniently in from of us and blocked our view of bay.........
The owner spoke nothing but Spanish although he did all he could to help us understand what he was saying. His eye movements and facial expressions told us most of the story, but because he spoke nice and slowly, the rest of his meanings eventually became clear, and we learnt some useful Spanish by talking with him.
The decision to use gas to power the fridge and supply any heat we required, meant that our Calor bottles would empty quite soon, and as Calor is not available in Spain, we would need to buy a Spanish regulator, bottle and gas to replace our empty English bottles.

The next day we drove into the village and soon realised, there was nothing there for us tourists, it was people’s homes and many wonderful views of the beach. It was good real estate, but way too pricey for us mere mortals. The area we were in was a national park, although our very first impression of the place with the tide out, was that it looked just like the Dead Marshes from TLOTR films, and we looked in vain for hobbits.
The knowledge that it was somewhat special made us look at it a little differently and we walked across the swampy path to the beach area and got a new perspective on the place. It was indeed very beautiful, and there was an abundance of wildlife.
Back home for curry. I wished I had brought some fishing kit with me, not for the first time on this journey. It would have been a different dinner that night had I packed my poles.

We went on a long trip the next day, part of the way into the Picos de Europas, the most scenic mountains money can buy!
We started by going towards Ribadesella along the coast, and the reward was the second most beautiful fishing village we had seen so far. The promenade was very long and clean, the beach was well looked after, and the surfers looked ecstatic. We made a note to revisit here when we planned our later routes. The car park beside the harbour made an ideal picnic spot, and I would imagine it would be very difficult parking here in the high season, even more so than now. I say that because, in order to stop motor homes and caravanners getting in to the car park, the local authority had put in place the most restrictive entrance I had ever seen in any car park anywhere. We had to retract the wing mirrors to be sure not to damage them! It is pleasing to know of a place in this world that only allows thin vehicles to pass, and I watched with a sense of great anticipation, as a large white van made its way towards the portal, and squeezed past with millimetres to spare on either side. The driver must have been a regular.
Back inland we drove to what would become another or our favourite places, Cangas de Onis. The woman in the tourist information office was so helpful that we could not shut her up.
She helped us find our way about town, where we saw some delightful riverside views and an old Roman bridge. Further along we saw a fallen tree which was half way across the river and which tempted some goats on the far bank to walk along it part way across the river. Karen wants to keep goats, so we filmed these ones as a reminder.
We decided to go on further into the mountains on the advice of the tourist info woman and visit Los Lagos.
These were lakes high up in the Picos de Europas, and Karen expressed a wish to have a gander at them. The drive to get there was very eventful. The road quickly became narrow and steep with sheer precipices on the right, and jagged rocks to the left. I am pretty sure that the jagged rock principle applied to the right as well, if one was unfortunate enough to leave the road for any reason, after having taken ones eyes off it for a short while to admire the scenery. We stopped at one of the special parking spots to do just that safely, and to take pictures of a large cow blocking the road, in the hope that 1: the cow would move, and 2: the temperature gauge in the car would fall back to normal.
The first thing we heard when we opened the car door was bells. All the mountain cattle wear bells and when visibility is low, you always know when a cow is near. A couple of others joined this one and they grazed happily on the roadside. When they moved onto the paths off the road, we were amazed at how narrow they were. Three inches is all they looked! We were further amazed at the agility of these animals, and although the word graceful is hardly suitable for the majority, if not all, bovine animals, these creatures exuded grace, balance and dexterity that belied their clumsy appearance. They turned 180 degrees, and did it as if they were in a ballet. Their bells played Swan Lake, and they floated around on their hooves as if pirouetting on ice. OK, it took the time it takes an oil tanker to turn around but we were too far captivated to think about getting the camcorder out!
Karen and I eventually got back in the car and drove higher...and higher. Karen, as mentioned before, is nervous of heights, and the further we climbed, the more she became fidgety. It was a long way up, but we reached the lakes at last and stopped to explore.
More in the way of sunshine would definitely have made the journey worthwhile, because at the top there was nothing to see but cloud. A small lake appeared in front of us for a few seconds, but in the time it takes to find ones camera, it had gone inside a cloud.
Friday we journeyed to the town of Reinos, and had a little side trip to the source of the mighty river Ebro. When we arrived there, it was on the site of a roadside restaurant, which proclaimed proudly to be at the source of the river. When we found the right path to it, (god knows why, but to us Brits, it seemed crazy not to plainly point folk in the correct direction in the first place) we descended into something different. It was very special. The atmosphere was cathedral-like in its spirituality, and we marvelled at the quiet and reverence in this beautiful place.
The Ebro is a hugely important river in Spain, and the significance of this was obviously part of the reason for the feeling we got, but all rivers start somewhere!
At the actual point at which the water first started running from the underground mountain source and into an over ground river, we discovered a shrine in a niche in the wall. It appeared to de dedicated to a group of cyclists killed in an accident somewhere close to here. Well, that would explain the atmosphere I guess. The people must treat this spot with utmost respect and gravity.
It was a little surprising that picnic tables were quite close by, but people have to eat, right!

When we got back home, there was to a blockade. The two Frenchmen had driven off to be replaced by three German motor homes which had arrived during the day and encamped themselves right in front of our pitch, thereby once more, blocking Karen’s favourite view of the beach. She was most indignant, and nothing I could say would cheer her up. Despite the fact that they were perfectly entitled to stop exactly where they were, she was all for getting me to ask them to move over a little, just a few feet...oh go on...please.
Anyway, time moved on, and the weather changed. It became much chillier and rained rather a lot. It also started blowing a gale, and the sea changed completely in the space of an hour. So did the campsite.
At the first hint of wind and waves, surfers appeared out of nowhere, and took over all the pitches nearest the beach. We could tell them a mile off, what with their boards on the top of their vehicles, and all these particular vehicles seeming to be the same type, i.e. VW camper.
It must be a tradition between surfers, that you cannot appear anywhere and surf unless you have the right attire, the best boards, and the same type of van.
So this was surf town eh...well we can show them a trick or two...riding the waves with just our bodies. Oh, yes.
Believe me, it is possible to be carried several feet by the right wave, unless your name is Karen and you weigh eight stone, in which case, you may get thrown all the way to the golden sands, and possibly further. Still, it is great fun whatever your choice of vehicle, but having a board of some sort has its advantages.

On the Sunday, our first gas bottle expired. I still had the best part of another Calor bottle, but the fridge was eating through it faster than usual, as we had not hooked up the mains power. I attempted to buy a new bottle from the site owner but as I had no regulator yet, there was no way to check it was the right bottle. I spent a long time in the owners’ office listening to the stream of Spanish and watching the careful gesticulations and eye movements, so I think that was what we were discussing!
The next thing to do was drive to Santander to find the caravan supplies place and buy a new regulator. What an adventure. I could have saved us virtually a whole day and about 40 Euros if I had known then what I now know.
I could have got one in Carrefour if I had realised that you can find them in the hardware section there, but no, off we went to another part of Asturias called Mureidos. When we finally got there, of course there was none in stock. Please return tomorrow. The young man serving us spoke quite good English, and had I been doing his job, would have done it with the same courtesy and efficiency that he did his. That is my opinion and not that of my ex customers, who would no doubt say, 'what crap, he was rude, discourteous and inefficient'.
The weirdest thing was meeting someone with a very familiar face. Karen recognised him straight away as being the owner of the Santillana site from a week ago. It really is a small world. He apparently was part of the same family that owned the caravan shop too.
We then went back to Santander to find the seafront. It was sunny and hot so we followed the signs to La Sardinera, which turned out to be right, and the promenade we found there was one of the best we had seen. There was free parking, which in a big city on a seafront location was unbelievable, and the place must have really bustled in the high season. As it was, there was nothing open really, but there were people on the sand taking advantage of the beautiful weather. Some of them were playing the popular Spanish beach game of bat & ball, but the tempo at which these people were playing at was incredible. There was a group of four, two youngsters and two in their fifties at a guess, and they played like tennis pros, hitting the ball back and forth as if they hated the damn thing. It drew our attention for a while anyway.

As mentioned, we had to return to Santander the next day to pick up the Spanish regulator, and this we did, along with something Karen had been hankering after for weeks now. Ever since seeing a large water container with a tap at the bottom, in a supermarket in France, she has wanted one. At Santander Caravanas, we duly acquired one, at what seemed afterwards, a huge cost! I guess it kept her happy for a little while.
When we got back to the site, the owner, bless him, had left our new gas bottle outside the caravan, all ready to be hooked up. We went straight down to the office to pay, and he then walked off in a hurry to fetch the handy man, which was apparently obligatory, in order to fit the regulator to the gas hose correctly. I could have done it myself easily, but better safe than sorry I guess. We now had a supply of gas to last several weeks, and renewable too.
To celebrate this achievement, because make no mistake, this was no easy thing to achieve with someone who cannot understand a word of English, Karen cut my hair in the toilet block. It took ten years off my age, and with a little hair gel strategically applied, gave me the look of a young Tom Cruise.
If of course, he had graying hair and carried an extra forty pounds.
However, in the lowering evening light there was a definite resemblance!
We walked on the beach later, and due to all the winds stirring up the Atlantic, there was a whole load of red seaweed dumped right on the sand, and you could not swim in the water without feeling like your legs were being wrapped up in something disgusting.
The seaweed delighted the local farmers. It was an annual event apparently, and they queued up with their tractors and trailers to collect this bumper harvest from the sea, and then trundled off to tip it on their fields to use as fertilizer. Then they trundled back for more. This went on for days and the amount of weed never seemed to decrease, but the farmers were not complaining! There are some fields in Oyambre (and all along the coast where the weed appeared) that are rich in nutrients and will grow fabulous naturally fertilized crops. There are fields near the campsite that will also have extra fertilizer on them, courtesy of two small terriers.
On the next day, Wednesday, we decided to get a little adventurous. So, buoyed by our success with the gas bottle, we tried our hand at communicating with an estate agent in the town of Cabezon, who we were referred to by a man in San Vicente, who we had tried talking to reasonably successfully a couple of days earlier. Cabezon would be more likely to be within our price range than San Vicente, as it is 30km inland and the beach resorts are always more expensive. It did not seem possible to find anything that either suited us or was affordable at that time, but the area is desirable.
We returned back home to relax but a German motor homer was playing very loud music. It was like being next to a disco and yet, no one raised an eyebrow. This man had a wife and young daughter with him and he was acting like a teenager. What a selfish idiot!
A German shepherd dog and his owners were in a car behind us, which we only realised when Tia started barking madly. They had no caravan, no tent, just a car with a little tarpaulin stretched on a rope to a nearby tree. It was weird. All three of them were holidaying in just a car.
I almost had a catastrophe that night. I nearly set fire to the awning barbecuing my chorizos, which to the uneducated are rich meaty spicy sausages, made with pork, paprika and garlic. In addition, lots of fat.
I tried putting out the flames from the fat with some water I was drinking.
What an idiot, I was lucky that the burning fat did not spatter all over me. Instead, I should have turned off the gas!

Here is the JRR Tolkien inspired verse for the occasion.

Lord of the gas rings!

One ring to cook them all:
One ring to heat them:
One ring to burn them all:
And in the darkness eat them.

Oh deary deary me.

On Thursday, we went to San Vicente for last time. We needed cash for paying our bill at the campsite. For some reason, the man refused to allow payment by card; he would only accept cash for stuffing his mattress.

The final day at our little haven dawned sunny, and warm. The waves were still quite big but they did not prevent us from having one last swim.
I played games with Tia on the sand, forgetting how excited she gets, and ended up with red raw legs where her sand covered claws caught me. By God, her claws would need a cut before long!
While eating a particularly pleasant cheese and onion baguette, a familiar van hove into view and stopped in a familiar spot.
It was one of the Germans from earlier in the week, but I wondered if he was alone or if he would spread out his towels on the grass and wait for his friends to arrive. I enquired politely about his companions and it was just as well that I did because they were relations.
I carried on packing our things away for the move to Luarca, with an awning that was nowhere near dry and no chance of making it dry. I did like putting away wet gear, but it would have to be. It would only be a few hours until I got the chance to dry it anyway, so into the bags it went.

Los Cantiles, Luarca
This was a lovely site perched high above the rocky shores of Asturias, and we looked out over a sheer drop towards a lighthouse which lit up our evenings somewhat, now and again, and again.
Los Cantiles was owned by a German lady and her Dutch husband, and on arrival (without any navigation problems at all!) we saw a pretty reception area and all the visible parts of the garden and site were covered with huge Hydrangea bushes which were carrying massive heads of pale pink and blue. I thought they were Rhododendrons until the owner informed me what they were.
We booked in and they allowed us the luxury of speaking in English, and they told us very clearly to be careful of the Hydrangeas. The penalty for ignoring these instructions was ten days in Colditz and immediate cessation of beer rations. The pitches were a good size, but access to them was limited quite a bit by those bloody Hydrangeas, so we had to be very careful. Having chosen our new home, we pushed the van into place with the help of a lovely couple, but we never had the chance to get to know them as they left that night. We damaged very few of those huge flowering monsters and because the guards did not appear to escort me to the dungeons, I thought it went unnoticed!
We arranged the caravan so that the front-end lounge was looking over the sea, and 8ft from the edge. It was lovely at night with the curtains still open, to look right out across the ocean, and to hear the waves crashing upon the rocks below. Rocks = no surfers.

The first night, we met Herb and Paula from Holland, who were travelling a very similar route to us, and who were on holiday until nearly the end of October. It is sad that we never bumped into them again as we did with some other campers, but we have an email address, so they will hear from us whether they like it or not!
I helped Herb to position his caravan. Karen and Paula chatted as only the female of the species can, and they were obviously of a similar ilk when it came to work too. I happily left them to it.

The location of Luarca was in a deep valley, and we walked from the site about 2km with the dogs and an English couple called Rick and Jill, until we came to the top of a hill. Down in the bottom of the valley, was the harbour town of Luarca, and from the hill it looked very interesting, but excessively far to walk, and too steep to entertain walking all that way on that particular evening.
We said goodbye to Rick and Jill who were on their way to Luarca to enjoy the culinary delights of seafood. We retired to our room with its view of the lighthouse.
The stay here represented another few days on only solar panel, and we totalled 13 days and nights using free power, but it got to the point where we needed heat overnight because the autumn started feeling a little chilly. When we felt cold, we hooked up to the mains and paid the bill.

We used Luarca to travel deep into Galicia, and enjoyed some fabulous excursions, which showed us the beautiful sights of the Northern coast.
Our first trip to Ribadeo was the next day, and we decided to stop first at Navia to get a look at another old fishing village. It was not to our taste. Too industrial and smelly, and I am not talking about the smell of fish either. It was just not to our liking. On the way out of Navia, I took a road that I assumed led us towards Ribadeo.
It did not.
I drove for half an hour before finally admitting my error and conceding defeat to a rapidly narrowing and steepening mountain road that gave us both the feeling of being a little unsafe. Therefore, we had to go all the way back to Navia, and find the right road.

We found Ribadeo and it was raining hard so our first impressions were a little off the mark perhaps, but it was big and busy, even on a rainy Sunday. We lunched briefly in a side road and then turned about to continue our trip up the coast. Just past Ribadeo, Las Catedrals was on the beach a little way off the main road. We really wished we had stopped there for a bite to eat, as it was lovely. Dramatic coastline of rocks and sandy beaches combined with well-built paths and steps, made this a perfect little haven, and there was even a reminder of England. No not the rain, but a feature in the rocks that was very similar to Durdle Door in Dorset on the south coast of England.
A few kilometres further on, the sheer beauty of the coast here surprised us. The sea appeared to be almost Caribbean blue, and the sun appeared as well to give us a better view of the area. As the North Atlantic crashed into the Galician shore, it must surely have thought it had died and gone to heaven.
The next town we stopped at was Viveiro, and this place had that quality that made us want to return and fully investigate it. A huge municipal camping site was open all year, and we quickly checked it out but soon realised it was more suited to tents instead of large outfits like ours.

I cannot tell much more about Luarca, as my notes have been lost, but suffice to say that the owner of the site mentioned something about petals on the ground near my caravan, so I pleaded guilty and they let me off with a suspended sentence. I also remember meeting a Dutch guy in the washroom who played pro soccer, and he was searching for property as well. I bet his budget extended a lot further than ours did. I nicknamed him Ginola after the French international, because of his long well kept hair and love of mirrors.

Becerreà.
Tucked away in the mountains, this little campsite promised many things. In the camping guide, it said there was solitude to be found and superb mountain vistas. We travelled towards our new retreat with hope in our hearts that here was the peace we had been looking for, and who knows, perhaps a location to explore more thoroughly later when we came back to search more for property .
Naturally, the path to ones hearts desire had to be strewn with danger and adventure, and that was exactly what we got on our travels to Becerreá.
We negotiated our way to the town of Becerreá and found the required route into the countryside. It became clear then that our journey was about to become interesting.
A mainly forgettable journey along the main Spanish highway suddenly turned into a frightening drive along a tiny road with steep drops on the right, and no protection barriers.
The wide carriageway we had become accustomed to had been replaced by a narrow and quite steep in places, little mountain road. Karen was getting very anxious, I fought to remain calm as the road carried on for 17km, and although that is not a vast distance to cover, it was stressful to do it with a 7-metre caravan in tow, and not know what was around the next tight bend. We met trucks coming towards us whose drivers appeared not to realise they were on a small bendy road, and did not seem inclined to slow down to pass us either.
The funny thing is, we did the same drive several times afterwards, without the caravan, and it never seemed as scary as it did that first time. The unknown is a thing that unhinges your brain sometimes, and I think it is safe to say, that overall, we have stepped outside our comfort zone and left it a lifetime behind us, so we have grown in many ways. The experiences are changing us bit by bit, and I believe we are different people now and hopefully in my case, a better one. I know that I am a greyer one!
We arrived in one piece and decided to let the Caravan Club know that their write-up on the site directions were a little misleading, and to replace them with our own report, which would serve to make caravanners aware of the situation. There is no way I could imagine anyone bringing a caravan with them to Spain if they were novices. Even so, the shock of dealing with the type of road to this site made us realise that even an experienced driver plus caravan would be pleased to know in advance that the road was a little more difficult than just pointing the steering wheel and going.

When we arrived, and managed to get onto the site and pitch up, we breathed in some fresh mountain air, looked about us and relaxed.
This state of relaxation went on for the whole stay. Estherl, the young girl looking after the site all by herself, was very friendly and again it was speaking Spanish or nothing. There was no one else camping there, so all the facilities were ours to use. We had plenty of supplies for a few days, so did not need to go into Becerreá just yet. The view from our window was lovely. The weather was not perfect, but we could enjoy some warmth and dry days, and the dogs loved it for the walks they had. The mountain pastures were the grazing ground for a small herd of cows. The cattle herder moved them to a different field every day. They came down steep paths with bells a jangling, and ever so slowly appeared on the road right in front of the caravan. A large German shepherd type dog and a little old woman with a mule herded them. I could not see how they ever managed to graze at all. It took all day just to get from the pasture onto the road, and then back up again to the fresh grass. I bet their milk and butter was good! Tia barked very loudly every time they passed us. I do not think they took one bit of notice of a small terrier shouting at them in English! Not even the shepherd dog looked impressed, although it may have just been deaf.
We ate in the site restaurant one evening before we left, and Estherl cooked us local trout and steak. It was a fabulous three-course meal for 8 Euros each.
The chestnuts were abundant too, and they roasted up a treat. We had both forgotten how good they were and have since had them several times.
Just outside the site, a row of chestnut trees grew that produced tiny chestnuts. They were plentiful and sweeter than many we had sampled to that date. We left Becerreá with a good supply of them.

We needed to get some shopping after a few days, and although there was a small supermarket in Becerreá, we drove into Lugo to find Carrefour. The town centre of Lugo was undergoing some restoration by the look of it, because some of the streets were very full with large trucks, and police were there directing traffic, which was heavy. Carrefour was of course on the outskirts of town, and therefore we did not need to visit the centre at all, but as we were there....
The river that ran past Lugo was pretty and we found a long waterfront walkway that we took advantage of with the terrierists. It was perfect for a picnic of fresh baguette and ham, cherry tomatoes and a sprinkle of sea salt.

The caravan needed a good wash before we left for the holy city of Santiago da Compostela. There was no way on earth that Karen was going to let me haul my ass out of here and venture forth to Santiago with all that country mud that was spattered all over it. Think of what the priests might say. The last day in Becerreá was rainy and cold, but the van still needed to be clean, so I did my best under difficult circumstances. The first ten miles on the road undid all that work and I cursed loudly.

Santiago
Camping As Cancelas- Santiago, Galicia.

Having driven from the rain of Becerreá
, and the solitude of the mountains, we woke up with a start as Santiago hit us full in the face with its vibrant mixture of large shops and warehouses on the outskirts, to its confusing roads and bustling life on the inskirts. Moreover, it was still threatening to pour down again at any moment.
I found the site without any fuss, and we pulled into a very steep driveway, where I assessed the situation, and drove over to a flatter spot to park. I got out to look around. We chose a pitch on the second level of the terraced site, and I went back to the caravan to drive into the chosen spot, telling Karen to wait for me there.
Disaster struck.
I informed a Dutch motor home driver of my intended manoeuvres, and then promptly turned the steering wheel the wrong way and on my blind side as I pulled away up the slope I heard an unusual noise followed by frantic whistling from Dutch.
I had scraped the side of my caravan against some roof tiles on a low-level notice board roof, and broken four or 5 tiles, but worse ...I had comprised the integrity of the outer GRP skin of our home.
Holy shit...I was furious with myself and inconsolable.
We gradually came to terms with the situation, and realised that it was possible to make a quick fix to protect the van from ingress of water.
I went to inform the site owners of the accident,(they were more than kind, and totally understanding) and put a layer of black tape over the damage, checked it was waterproof, and made a note to get it fixed as soon as we got to Gandia.
Phew...not too much damage done, at least everything was roadworthy, and no one got hurt. It was not long before we heard tales from other campers of misfortune even worse, so we accepted the mistake as something to learn a valuable lesson from.
We also met Jef and Gill whom we met at Luarca the previous week, and they told us of one poor camper with a brand new caravan, who managed to bounce his vehicle off two walls when trying to negotiate his way into a site, and the damage was heart-breaking.
It was good to catch up with familiar faces again, and we wondered how all the other folk we had befriended, were faring in their tours.
Santiago de Compostela was a very busy city, and the campsite was in a constant state of flux, as people arrived to behold the sights, and then checked out the next day to discover new attractions. The main attraction here was naturally the Cathedral where all the big Catholic services take place. It had a huge square at the front, and it filled with pilgrims and tourists all day long gawping at the Cathedral. I gawped, so did Karen. It was the most fantastic piece of architecture we had ever clapped eyes on, and that was only the outside.
Inside it were the most incredible designs and displays of wealth, which reminds one of the awesome powers of the Church, especially in this country.
There was a mass taking place, and we did not film it out of respect, but we did capture some lovely footage of the parts of the building that were most eye-catching after the mass was finished.
Back outside, was the milling throng of pilgrims, who had trekked over 500 miles to get to that point, and they were fair game for every seller in the town. There were truly far too many little souvenir shops, and they did spoil the holy atmosphere somewhat, but wherever you find a crowd, you also find the hawkers in abundance, and that is a fact.
I mused upon other facts or idle speculations, like about how easy it would be, to buy a load of hiking kit, jump in a car and drive to the city limits, then pretend to have walked the Camino Trail in its entirety, and then expect the kudos that genuine hikers can claim.
I am basically a wicked person though. I will stoop to any level to belittle something that has loopholes.
The restaurants seemed very fairly priced with all things considered, and if not for the two terriers, then we may well have sat down to a three course meal of fish and meat followed by dessert and free wine and coffee, all for 9.50€. That was incredibly good value for money when you consider the situation and I am disappointed that we did not have the chance to try it. Darned dogs!
We then retired to our humble room to partake of cheese baguette and olives.
We drove to Noia and Sanxenxo the next day to asses our options for moving on.
Noia was a nice enough site but very steep and difficult to get into and out of, so after our recent problem, decided against Noia, and headed for Ribeira, which was listed as being very desirable.
It was.
The site office was like a pet shop, with birds in cages and dogs being lazy, until that is, our Sammy had a go at the poor little dog that came out to greet him and Tia. It looked like a cross between a Bulldog and a Pug, and was sweet natured, and would not be put off by Sammy's pain-in-the-arse antics. We wondered around falling in love with the place, finding a shower block that would not have been out of place in a 5 star hotel. You could detect the scent they used to keep it smelling nice from a long way off.
It seemed a little boggy on the pitches we looked at, and that was putting us off, until we discovered an area that looked green, grassy, dryer and higher than the rest. Then the guard dogs started barking loudly and ferociously, and the kennels they lived in were right next to the pitches we wanted.
That was a no then.
I should stress that everything about the site appealed to us, apart from the pack of dogs and the muddy bits, but those two things were enough to send us on to Sanxenxo.
We spent the next two hours trying to find this site, and after speaking to several people and getting different directions from them all, I was pulling my greying hair out in frustration. The caravan club guide gave us directions that were incomplete at best, and down right stupid at worst. When we finally arrived at the place, we knew it could have been so simple to explain how to find it, with only a couple of extra lines of info written to our guidebook.
The site we found was not what we were really looking for, even though there was a couple of nice pitches overlooking the Atlantic and the rocks below. On the way back to Santiago, we were nearly tempted to return the following day because it was the best of the three we had seen, but in the end, we headed for Santa Tecla. We sincerely hoped that the guide description was accurate as it had easy to follow directions. We arrived back at Santiago and packed up the awning in case it rained. Good decision as it turned out. I took the dogs out for their early evening walk and anther familiar face appeared out of the gloom, and I said 'Hi', but he appeared not to recognise me. It was the Dutch soccer player from Luarca. I was certain it was he. Later on when the dogs had their last walk, we bumped into him and he knew who we were when he saw Karen. Typical ladies man!
It was his birthday, and he was waiting for a friend to come and have a meal with him to celebrate. We chatted and got more web addresses from him, and then said goodnight.
We left in the morning and he was still asleep at 11am when we chugged south. We left a note on his windscreen with our email address, and who knows, maybe we will hear from him.

A Guarda
Camping Santa Tecla, A Guarda.
We arrived in the early afternoon of Friday 6th October 2006, with the intention of having a 2-week stay in the site that heralded as being the hidden jewel of Spain.
We had no problems finding the site, so it was not that well hidden, which was rare indeed!
I have to admit though, that coming off the main Motorway onto the A Guarda road (or La Guardia depending on where you were raised), at Tui, presented us with the opportunity to cross the border into Portugal. Unknowingly we left Spain after crossing a narrow bridge, and saw a road sign in Portuguese. Now we do not know any Portuguese, but I guess the words 'Welcome to Portugal' rather gave it away. Karen advised me to find a place to turn around, which I very soon did, but we can now claim officially to have travelled to a third country on our journey, even if it was for a grand total of five minutes!
Our first sight of the site, as it were, was one that caused us some degree of concern. To whit, the gates were closed to the point of err...closure. I looked at Karen and she looked back, and we both recognised those looks, which were dangerously close to desperate. It was an all year open site and the gates were supposed to admit weary travellers. Panic always sets in when you see something unexpected like not having a secure place for the night.
I decided to back up a little to stop blocking the road, such as it was, (It was only just a road. The ruts and potholes would be a car killer to the unwary) and get out to have a look around. The moment I opened the car door, was the very same moment that the automatic gates swung open, and with a squeak and a lurch, they let us pass. My heart lurched back to a less urgent rate of pulse.
A whirlwind of a woman greeted us, talking Spanish at us with a mixture of gestures and semaphore, reminding me of the windmills of England, or even the wind turbines of Spain, although even in high winds these green energy machines move at a stately pace. This was not the case with our host though. She beckoned us inwards and understood I should drive the caravan round the corner and then get out to have a look at our new home. She managed to have a complete conversion all by herself. We were impressed...with the site as well.
There were a large number of caravans there, but most were being prepared for winter storage, and we saw plenty of good spaces available for us to pitch up for a fortnight.
The human whirlwind introduced herself to us as Jacqui, pronounced Quacky.
She owned a small dog called Suave, of which Softie I believe, is the correct translation. There is no translation necessary, nor indeed, should there be, for Jacqui.
We set everything up as usual, and found the site facilities to be encouragingly brilliant. There was a place to wash both car and caravan if needed and proper disposal points for water and toilet waste. A washroom had it all, water, benches, hooks for hanging clothes etc and toilet paper in abundance. This last item was most unusual, because in all the other campsites we had stayed at, you had to take a toilet roll with you or risk utter shame and embarrassment.
We love it to be sure, because as you will no doubt be fully aware, such luxury for us travellers is beyond our ken.
There were bonus points awarded too, we were utterly alone.
No other campers were there, so the site was ours. OK, some folks came in at the weekend to prepare their caravans for the winter, but aside from that, I suspect the closed gates kept other would be companions away from us. It was either that or the place was not that popular at this time of the year.
Certainly, the first night brought torrents of wintry rain, and it even ran over the sandy soil into our awning, causing us worries at 2 inches of depth, but quickly enough, it sank into the sandy soil and dried up.
Saturday morning dawned, I got the eggs a-scrambling, and the toast a-browning, and then having feasted hugely, we drove into town to check out the local shops and scenery. It was still pissing down, so umbrellas, raincoats and long trousers were the order of the day. It was cool enough to leave the dogs in the car, thank goodness! We tried finding the post office to send some heavier than usual envelopes back to England, and several people offered us directions, until we eventually got there and added some useful direction vocabulary to our Spanish.
It was market day in A Guarda, but it was only a clothes market. Even so, I managed to find us half a kilo of huge chestnuts while Karen chatted on the pay phone to her friends and Dan. We roasted the chestnuts later, consumed them with relish, and burnt fingers, but not ketchup!
Later, the sun broke out and the weather improved sufficiently to start talking about topping up the suntan. We had a lovely afternoon absorbing late autumn sunshine and observing Portugal across the river Minho.
Funny really, one morning we were breakfasting inside our caravan at a site in dismal dreary sopping wet Santiago, the next morning, I could see another country from my front window.

Sunday dawned foggy. Portugal was not visible, but I am sure it was still there.

The sun kept trying its best to put in an appearance, and eventually it broke through beautifully.
Please forgive my constant commentary on the weather, but after caravanning in almost 2 weeks of rain and gales, it is so very welcome, and we can again dry things properly, and smile a lot inanely, as us Brits tend to do when abroad and getting better weather than our friends and family back home!
Sammy was sick today. He may have eaten something off the ground, we do not know, but he was ill twice, and developed a very healthy appetite for grass. He changed into a goat in seconds flat, and grazed away despite our attempts to stop him. In the end, we realised that he would not be eating grass unless he needed to, and sure enough, when the vomiting stopped, so did the grazing.
Unfortunately, although the vomiting had ceased, it was an interrupted night for Karen, with coughing and expectorating from our littlest terrier. We started thinking about finding a vet, and to that end we went into A Guarda to find the tourist information office. A kindly person took pity on our efforts to understand the quick fire directions, and actually led us there himself. It was that complicated it would have been difficult to explain in my own language, let alone another. The girls on duty were helpful, and we came away with proper street plans and knowledge of the vetinary centre and to my delight, a library with free internet, and a cafe with Wi-Fi. I never did get to use the Wi-Fi but it is good to know it is there if you need it.
We then drove up to the top of the hill in A Guarda, known as Citania de Santa Tegra, and enjoyed splendid views across the Minho Valley into Portugal, and vistas of the hinterland that would find grace with any tour guide. We determined there and then, to return with picnic pack and healthy animals to make the most of this wonderful local treat. Another thing we never managed to get round to doing!
We really wanted to take the ferry over the Minho into Portugal and have little nose around, but for one reason or another, it was one of those other things that never happened.
The next outing was to the legendary O Rosal. The tourist office told us for how beautiful this was, and they showed us the pictures and blurb, but nothing prepared us for the wonderful day we spent out in the hills. If only we had taken food and drink, it would have been an almost perfect day.
The woodland walk from the car park started in a way that made us want to keep going. It was peaceful, and the smell of pine was wonderful. There was a scent of something else herbal in the air, but it was not something we could identify.
The local youths smoking pot perhaps!
We followed some signs, then got confused, and then followed some more signs, and eventually we saw the first row of mills.
When I say mills, they were on the face of it just small square stone buildings, and nothing about any one of them was remarkable. Then you saw the whole picture and there was an amazing scene in front of us. There was a row of a dozen or more of these small buildings. They were all connected by a small stream that powered the grinding stones inside the mills. Nothing remarkable about that you may say, but these mills were hundreds of years old.
They were only tourist attractions these days of course, but when we rounded the mountain and found the mills on the other side, we knew just how fantastic these monuments really were. The folk from centuries gone by had built these stone huts on a mountain, completely without machines to help them, and left a legacy that we found amazing. The water coming from a waterfall at its highest point fell into channels that took fast moving streams into every hut, and provided power for the work that these people did every day. The sheer beauty of the surroundings was enough to make the walk worthwhile, but the mills made the experience one that was unforgettable.
We had plenty of nasty weather during this week, and our outings were less frequent because of it, but we still managed to enjoy the peace and tranquillity of the site, and as we were basically alone there, the facilities were all ours! Good job we did not hanker after too much in the way of company, it was ourselves or no one. Well, not quite true, there was always Jacqui. We started learning a little more Spanish every day, and when the evening and darkness descended, on went the CD of the language, and little by little, we expanded our range of words.
Good job too, because by Friday the 13th, unbelievably, we found we had to pay a visit to the Medico in the evening, at the Urxencia clinic. (Urgencies) It had become apparent that an ear infection I had picked up was a little more virulent than any other similar thing I had had. Without too much gory detail, I had a very swollen and very runny ear! I thought it went into critical mass courtesy of a mosquito bite, but perhaps I will never know.
We studied the phrase books and dictionaries to get some sort of coherent explanation to give the medico, and in the end decided, that one look at the thing would tell him more than any words we could remember. Fortunately, having found the clinic, and filled in the appropriate paperwork, we waited only a very short time before a man in a white coat approached us and beckoned us into a Consultation room. He looked like a doctor, but shuffled like a sanatorium inmate. I was a little disconcerted by his appearance, but decided to put my trust in him, after all, what choice did I have?
A brief discussion followed, and he invited me to sit on the couch to take a proper look. His immediate reaction was one of repulsion! The exact word was 'oi', followed by a swift step backwards. I had to hand it to him though, his recovery was fast, and soon he was poking around inside my ear with an instrument and making clucking noises that sounded ominous. He also checked my good ear using the same instrument! His confidence obviously outshone my own by several orders of magnitude.
After another brief discussion and he wrote something on a prescription, and away we went congratulating ourselves on a fine performance, and determined to find the nearest Farmacia to get the stuff and start the treatment.
We found one in A Guarda, and got the anti-biotic, along with sterilised water and dressings.
I waited in the car while Karen made a phone call to her son and as I was parked beside the town square, and it was obviously a meeting place for kids and parents after school, I watched a while admiring the way all the people seemed to interact in harmony. It was an idyllic view of Spanish life in a normal town.
Then we returned to the caravan and applied the first treatment. Liquid ant-biotic in my ear, a good cleansing, and wrap it up for the night.
Karen is a brilliant nurse. She is patient, and takes time to be certain that all is as it should be.
I was a terrible patient.
Next morning, the problem appeared worse. More worrying was the red rash on my chest and neck. It was itchy and spreading downwards. It takes little or no imagination to understand that below my chest lies my stomach, and below that lies...many other important things that redness and itching would do little to assist.
To distract us, the weather was lovely for the fourth consecutive day, and as we could not travel anywhere with me doing a bad impersonation of The Mummy, we stayed on site enjoying the autumn warmth. The owners dog Suave, appeared in the distance, and both Tia and Sammy started barking at his appearance. It was really comical to see Suave gradually getting closer and closer, peeing on each tree as he approached, and disappearing for a while behind a tree, then re-appearing a few seconds later a little nearer and peeing again. It was like a cartoon scene. Sammy did not love Suave. Tia did, and that was what Sammy did not like!
Tia is funny. We gave her the opportunity to have a good run around and play with Suave, because the site is completely secure with wire and concrete walls.
What did she do?
She ignored him...that is what she did! Put her on the leash again and all she wants is to play with him. Women!

It soon became clear that the ear infection and chest rash were getting no better, so we had to make a decision on the Monday as to when to return to the doctors. The only option seemed to be right away, as the redness had spread to the bottom of my ribs. At least it was not the ribs of my bottom.
It was extremely uncomfortable, the waiting, for it to reach those regions that shall remain nameless.
One small problem surfaced, the Urxencia was not open.
The Farmacia originally told us that it was open all the time, so quickly we decided to go into town to the Farmacia and get more advice there. Fortunately, we found someone in the Farmacia who knew a little English, so it was easier to find out what to do next, thank god!
It transpired that the Centro Salud (health centre) was right next to the building we had been to before, and wouldn’t you just know it, was actually easier to find than the emergency clinic.
We waited to see a doctor, and it was again quite rapid, which put our English hospitals and doctors surgeries to shame!
The woman Medico was very nice and we soon discovered that the eardrops were entirely inappropriate for my condition. (Contact the lawyers now honey...) The doctors’ assistant invited me to get onto the couch, and I misunderstood what was required of me. It was like a scene from a Carry-On movie.
I did not know what they expected of me.
I was actually supposed to drop my trousers and receive an injection into my posterior, which the doctors’ assistant had cleverly concealed behind her back. No bloody wonder...if I had seen the size of the needle beforehand, I would have run a mile.
My bum ached for quite a while after that, which made walking anywhere painful, but it was not long before the redness and itching on my chest started to subside.
Back into A Guarda then, another 20 Euros on new anti-biotic and another chat in the Farmacia. We left for home, and the heavens opened up, getting us both absolutely soaked.
Being English, we are used to rain, but this was getting tiresome. OK, it was the middle of October, and it was not anywhere near cold, but glory be, give us our daily dose of Spanish sunshine please....
I started to feel a lot better after the injection, so god alone knows what they put into my body, ( I found out later that it was cortisone) but unfortunately, I now had a 12-day course of strong anti-biotic to get through, and no beer or wine until it was complete.
Oh, bugger!
Not to worry, it would soon be over. In order to get my immune system back up to strength, it was necessary to stop drinking coffee too, and cut right down on sweet sugary stuff, bread etc. Still, it left plenty in the way of fruit for breakfast and loads of vegetables for dinners. Good thing we both like veg.
Through all of this, Karen has been an absolute superstar. She is a veritable Florence Nightingale, and a wonderful person to be with when the going gets tough.
She is still a boo-baby when the thunderstorms come though.
I looked in the mirror on the morning of the 17th October and saw an old man!
I told him to bugger off. Then I realised it was me and I desperately needed a shave, a chore put off for several days now due to the redness and puffiness of my chest being also in my neck. The beard was an awful shade of grey, and I cannot remember the last time it got to this stage. Having searched my memories for an hour, I concluded that it must have been when I was about 22 years old and the beard I developed was about as complete as a moth eaten carpet. I got rid of it, but for some reason that escapes me now, kept the moustache. I must have looked like a right idiot.
A load more rain later we looked out one wet morning into the swimming pool that our awning had become, and said 'time to move on'. The sandy soil allowed a lot of surface water to drain away naturally, but the amount of water falling from the grey skies, was more than the ground could cope with.
We waited a few days as the swelling and redness on my upper torso was fast getting better, and the horse pills were coming to the end of the course. During the final week in A Guarda we awoke to full scale flooding inside the awning and we had to take emergency measures. We threw ourselves fully into bailing mode and without touching a morsel to eat until after midday we bailed and bailed. We removed enough rainwater to enable us to take the awning down and the plan was to get it into the washroom area and hang it on washing lines to dry, and then move the caravan onto the concrete road that serviced all the pitches. We would stay a couple more days to dry everything out and then drive off into the part of Spain that knew what sunshine was all about.

The plan worked well enough, and by three o'clock, we had moved 30 metres onto the concrete .We were able, largely, to get in and out of our caravan without transferring large quantities of rain into it at the same time. Jacqui and Pepe (Signor Pino) who we got to know very well during our stay, were extremely helpful, and although neither of them spoke a word of English, we conversed and made ourselves understood. We even laughed at the circumstances. Well you had to really.
During the summer, the area was so dry there were forest fires all over Galicia. It must have been awful. We had seen the blackened hillsides as we drove around, and felt sorrow at the natural disaster, and sympathy for the poor souls who lost so much because of it. Now, never ending rain was causing terrible flooding just up the coast at beautiful Biaona, and fantastic O Rosal, that was home to the incredible ancient water mills that covered the hills nearby.
Pity the rain had not come when and where it was needed most. That is life I suppose, but it is easy for me to be philosophical about it when the only way any of it touched us, was being forced to move off some patchy waterlogged grass and onto concrete.

It was bloody hard work though. We sweated and strained that day and ached and complained the next!
After a couple more days just hanging around waiting for the weather to improve, and wasting valuable time, we decided it was finally time to get La Guardia out of our systems and move on to pastures new.
It did not take long to finalize the packing once we made the decision.
So on the morning of Oct 26th, we were saying our funny version of goodbye in Spanglish with Pepe and Jacqui, and then we hitched up and drove towards the gate. Karen was just walking the dogs for a final time before a drive of several hours when I noticed her gesturing frantically to the roof of the caravan. It was either that or she was giving me the finger having got sick of my moodiness!
The TV booster thingy on the caravan roof was hanging on by a cable. Perhaps something like a branch had knocked it out of place and we did not notice until then because we did not use the TV, or regularly climb onto the roof of our caravan.
The booster was normally fixed securely and snugly into its little aperture, but it was dangling like a chopped arm in a sword fight that had only an artery to connect it to the main body.
It did explain the inexplicable trickle of brown that appeared out of nowhere inside the caravan, on the wall right below where the booster is.
I panicked and walked in John Cleese fashion to the other end of the park where Karen had spotted a ladder. We needed it to climb up and have a close look. It may after all be just in need of some sticky tape. It would not be the first time!
The ladder in question was made of iron.
I walked with it for 200 metres.
I was quite knackered after that. Señor Pino offered to get up the ladder and have a look. Thank Christ for that, I could not have managed more than two steps before needing a doctor again.
He went and got some tape, and stuck the offending article back into place.
I explained to Karen that I could have done that.
She told me that ladders are for sensible people. Hmmmmm!

We were at last ready to go. Karen had thanked Jacqui for her friendship and help with our little problems and I filmed a small amount of the last chat because Karen gave Jacqui a hanging crystal and tried explain to her what it was. Pepe disappeared mysteriously and came back with a bottle of something strong and local.
We were taken aback, and did not know quite what to say, but eyeing the bottle suspiciously, I shook Pepe's hand and Karen Spanish kissed Jacqui (which is a bit less erotic than French) and we got into the car and finally drove off.
I think they locked the gate behind us!
I hope they locked the floodgates too.
Onwards, to Ourense, an easy trip and a new experience we hope.

Camping Os Invernadeiros, Allariz.
Our first impression of Allariz was a very good one. The town looked to be promising, and was almost not Spanish in appearance. A river ran through the centre of town and we saw a waterfall as we crossed the main bridge. The feelings got even better a short while later as we drove up to the campsite entrance. The place looked small and intimate, and empty. It was all grass with large trees marking the boundaries of the pitches. They were all growing in the same style, probably a feature done on purpose by the grounds man, and we felt at home right away.
We booked in at the reception for four nights, possibly more if things worked out that way, and did all the setting up once more.
As I walked to the on site restaurant, I had to pass the main entrance and I casually looked up the road outside the gates and caught my breath.
What seemed on the downward journey nothing more than a regular hill, looked incredibly steep and my first thought was ‘bloody hell...how the heck are we going to drive our rig up that!’
Driving up short steep hills is not a problem normally, but when you have to start from zero miles per hour as you pass the gates, it becomes a little more complicated. I went back to the site office and explained the situation. The woman on duty spoke good English fortunately, and told me not to worry, there was an emergency truck available to tow us up the hill, and we were not the first people to have asked.
OK...suitably impressed I returned to the caravan to tell Karen the news.
The dog walk was beside a river, most likely the same river we crossed earlier, and we took the terrierists for a short walk to discover more. We loved it and decided that the next day we would try to walk all the way upstream into town, have a picnic and return.
The next morning it rained, so we postponed the walk and drove into town to look around. The buildings were charming and built on a hill that overlooked the river valley. We saw many sights and heard many sounds that day, but the strangest most out of context sound we heard, was that of English Radio 2 FM blasting out of a window in one of the streets. Oh well...I supposed we were not the first Brits to find the place, so good luck to whoever it was.
Next, we found the riverbank and because the rain had eased off, we walked a way upstream towards where we saw the waterfall the previous day.
We found out the river was called the Arnoia.
A footpath on the right led to a large grassy field, which was a good place to let the dogs run loose. We ignored the large signs that told us to keep our dogs under control, and looked the other way when someone came towards us, hoping to avoid eye contact. It was not an official or warden, so we carried on breaking local bylaws and discovered a beautiful old bridge that spanned the river elegantly.
Satisfied that we were unable to walk further on that side of the river, we crossed the bridge walked back into town on the opposite bank. The river was very wide at one point and the waterfall that cascaded at its widest point went diagonally across the water, so it seemed to go on for a long way. The misty air created by the waterfall partly concealed the other bank and this added to the impression of length. It was not a big dramatic waterfall, it was only about an eight-foot drop, but the memory of that scene will stay with me for a long time.
It was beautiful and we took many pictures. It was probably our favourite place so far and although it was a long way from the coast, we had found a paradise that had most of what we wanted.
The following day we did the walk into town along the banks of the River Arnoia. Firstly, we went downstream one kilometre to find the nearest bridge, and then having crossed, we had to turn back and change our footwear to something more appropriate. It was very soggy and trainers were not the right thing to wear.
We reached the bridge for the second time and Karen started filming on the camcorder while crossing the narrow bridge. I turned around on the far side and watched her training the camera on an overhanging tree downstream. As she turned back towards me, she wobbled a little.
I said dramatically, ‘Karen, listen to me...put...the camera...away. Do not look down... your life may depend on it’.
She told me to stop being such a silly bugger and nonchalantly crossed the bridge trying to look cool.
It had rained a lot in the weeks before our arrival, and the far bank had an unreliable footpath that at times almost became part of the river. The terrierists had no protection from the mud and dirty brown water but they did not seem to care too much.
We traversed fallen trees, rocky fords and tributaries that joined the river on a frequent basis.
We became experts at terrier throwing.
Some of the wider tributaries were just on the maximum size to jump across, or wade part way and then jump, but the dogs were not keen on swimming. I imagine we made a comical sight to anyone who happened to be watching at those particular moments, but how we avoided falling over into the water was amazing. I believe we used up half a lifetimes worth of luck on that walk.

When we arrived at Allariz, we stopped to have a quick picnic at a seated area beneath the main bridge into town. The paved area was very easy on the eye and the creeping plants that grew on a trellis network flowered colourfully. We looked a little out of place there all covered with mud spatters and wearing Wellington boots, but no one seemed to care so we finished our repast and walked back on the other side. It was a far easier walk than the one in the other direction. We even managed to scrump some cabbage leaves from along the wayside, which from the look of them would require boiling for two hours to be tender enough to eat.
Cabbage formed a major part of the diet in this part of the world and everywhere that there was a little spare ground space soon became home to many varieties of them. It was a wonder that the air did not smell constantly of cooking cabbage, because at lunch times, the smell of frying fish filled the air and hung around for a good while in the afternoon.

I watched the grounds man at work clearing leaves. When I say at work, what I more accurately mean is, he swept some leaves into two or three little piles, and then he ambled off to the restaurant for a coffee and a sit down. I watched this happen on several occasions and considered applying for the job. It looked very easy, and I am an expert with a broom.
We were approaching the point in time when our adventures finished, and it was with much regret that we paid our bill and left Allariz. The emergency truck came at 10am in the morning and easily towed our rig to the top of the hill where we thanked everyone and said goodbye.
After the peace and beauty of Allariz, we thought we would be very lucky to find any other place that could give us those qualities in even a fraction of the way that Camping Os Invernadeiros had.
We were right, but only because it would be a long time before we had the excitement of camping for more than one night.
We had to negotiate those infamous road-number changes while attempting to travel from Benavente to Léon, which was very tiresome. A long period of driving without any idea if we were going in the right direction followed, as did much cursing. We searched for the A6 and N630, when what we actually should have been looking for was good old route A66, and then we finally arrived at Villamanon, and came back down to earth with a bloody great crash!
We stopped in the main street of the town of Villamanon, and asked the way of someone who looked both local and lucid. There were a few people on the street that looked anything but lucid. Apparently, we were only a few hundred metres from the site and we followed the directions for nearly 3 kilometres before deciding that we had really gone too far, and the campsite that suddenly appeared to our right was the wrong one, and was not open anyway. We turned round in limited space on a fast main road, and drove back to find the site and be settled down for the night.
The campsite was hiding behind a large establishment that called itself Hostel and Restaurant.
It was filthy inside, the bar strewn with detritus from what looked like the whole summer and autumn. Karen made several comments under her breathe while miraculously ignoring the mop and bucket waiting in the corner, and we approached the bar to find a woman flirting outrageously with a male customer.
He was the sole customer in the place, unless you include us. They were acting so ludicrously obvious, that we almost left right away lest they reward us with a display of affection that would end up embarrassing us all.
We managed to catch the woman’s eye, and she reluctantly came over to us casting backward glances towards her beau. We filled in some paperwork and handed over the cash for the single night we wanted to stay.
She left the bar with us, casting many a smouldering glance towards her would-be Romeo. She unlocked the gate and admitted our travelling rig. We understood that the gate remained locked at night, which was a relief what with all those less than lucid locals within a short walk.
We understood that in order to get out in the morning, we had to go the restaurant for the key.
We hoped that whoever was on duty next morning would be there nice and early, because there was a long journey ahead of us.
They certainly had a good shower block. The highlight of the stopover was a very good shower in the morning.
When we had set up all the stuff for our stay, we looked around and walked the dogs round the site. It was right on the main road, and the amount of traffic whizzing past the site promised a noisy evening. It looked from where we were standing, as though the whole site could do with some TLC, the impression we got was not one of a loved site. The overall effect was one of neglect and it seemed impossible to understand why people would want to have a permanent pitch here. Nevertheless, there were many unoccupied caravans set up on the other half of the site, but we thought they could well have belonged to city folk who wanted a weekend away from the smell and grime of the big town. It would certainly be a rustic experience compared to the hustle bustle of Valencia or Madrid and it was most likely just what a city dweller dreamed of during the course of a frantic week in a smoky city, but to be frank, you can keep the indifference of the country here in Villamanon. We had found plenty of friendly places on our travels, and we did not intend to return here.
We did not have much in the way of supplies in the caravan but it was Halloween, so we gorged ourselves on roasted chestnuts.
They were fantastic!
In the morning, we packed up early and left for El Escorial, just north of Madrid.
The gate was already open because another camper who was a resident opened up and so we drove out. We popped into the bar to let them know we were off, and that was it. The bar woman from the night before was not on duty, so we assumed she was in a room somewhere with her beau.
The road to Madrid was easy. When I say easy, it was not hard to negotiate, and we found our destination easily enough. The hard part was when we decided to avoid the motorway toll road and keep to the national toll-free part. We encountered a hill that almost killed Big Bertha, and when I shifted down to first gear for a particularly steep and winding bend, it seemed impossible to reach the summit without overheating and coming to a complete stop. On the other side of the hill while going downhill, we discovered that the motorway we had avoided was in fact toll-free and had tunnels to make the drive less steep!
Karen and I looked at each other and said ‘shit’.
The site was exactly where the guide said it was. The size and nature of the site were not.
It was huge!
It was massive and almost empty, but because of that, it was not overwhelming.
A young man on a quad bike took us at two miles an hour to a pitch that was very close to the shower block, and not only was the pitch large enough for a car, caravan and awning, but it was green and grassy. It was raining, and it rained nearly all the day, but it was grass and not mud.
A large funny looking rig appeared on the pitch opposite driven by a Brit. He had a huge black pick-up truck, attached to which was, for want of a better word, a caravan. It was as large as many motor homes we had seen, and did not have the traditional towing hitch that we had. It connected into the rear of the truck by another means; much like an articulated lorry cab connects to its trailer. I never got a look inside, but I bet Peter Perfect would have loved it. A few people appeared out of nowhere to get a closer look, and the owners probably spoke good Spanish because the people on site were all Spanish, and they had an awful lot to say. I said something to the man on my way past to the toilet block, and it was along the lines of
'I bet it cooks a great three course meal too'.
I got a feeling that the man must have had a humour removal operation early in life because he just stared at me. It made me think I was inadequate and witless, then again, I probably was. Both of us sat in our lounge watching the side walls of the thing expanding like a Winnebago. The only work he appeared to do was pushing a few buttons. That must have been a very expensive purchase, so I hope he enjoyed it.
The facilities here were very good, and the rules governing the use of these facilities were very definite on certain things. Like during the holiday season when the site was full of kids and adults trying to enjoy the swimming pools and many other things, they have to abide by these rules or risk being banned and sent to France.
This they could enforce, because of the security arrangements and computers that controlled the barriers. When we checked in they stuck a little red circle on my wing mirror and this sent a signal to the barrier that I had clearance, level 3...! The barrier raised automagically whenever we drove in or out of the site. Had either of us ever broken a site rule, we would have had this clearance revoked, and then entry would have been restricted to daring runs at speed to crash through the barriers followed by armed escort to the French border.
The price of security and good facilities was high, and we had been to 13 other sites that by comparison were very reasonable. All the good stuff like swimming pools and shops and nightclubs was here. It all closed down after August though, and yet they still appeared to charge for them. This stay cost us double the usual, but we were only 40 km from Madrid, and even the pay phone only allowed us a short call per Euro, so a five minute call to England cost as much as ringing from a mobile!

The main attraction here was the Monastery at San Lorenzo, and we drove off to have a look.
This trip was the highlight of the last few days of the journey. The little town of San Lorenzo was only a short way to drive, and the cobbled streets were narrow but easily navigable. We found a parking spot just outside the monastery and paid the parking fee before having a walk around to see what was what.
The square in front of the monastery was at least as impressive as the one at Santiago, and it was almost devoid of people at this moment. We wandered around to the main entrance and checked out the fees involved, and when we were satisfied that we could afford it, we paid up and got ourselves a walkie-talkie translator, that told us in English (if we pushed the correct combination of numbers) what it was we were looking at. Many times, we were gazing at a fantastic piece of art or the coffin of a prince and we listened to the commentary in German or French. It was most impressive, and now all we needed to do was walk round in an hour and a half to get back to the car before we got a ticket from the warden.
Of course, in real life, we needed way more time, and I had to rush back to find the car and pay for more time, because the place was so very interesting!
We saw works of art that were so far above our heads that they had clouds attached to them, and tombs of Kings of Spain and their siblings that made Karen go all faint. (She is psychic) The tombs were incredible. When I look back now, I find the words to describe them just do not work the way I thought they would. It was an experience that it is necessary for one to go through on a personal basis to get even one tenth of the feeling involved here.
Let me try to go a little further with this. We were there; we got close to the tombs and even got video of them. We felt, or rather Karen felt, overwhelmed by them on some level, and yet that hush, that thick velvety type of silence that exists only in the most sacred of places, was only in our minds. The people visiting this place were being in some cases, escorted by a tour guide, so there was noise, and there was a quiet babble of discussion from other visitors too. The talking did not distract us in any way; in fact, it heightened the senses, and made us feel that all those other people, mainly Spanish of course, felt affected even more by the experience than we were.
They should be...and we were not Catholic, but we were capable of feeling moved by the sights and sounds as if we were. The majority of the people here would have been Catholic, and so this was really their experience, and we were gatecrashers from the distant land of Albion, and more than just a little overwhelmed by the whole thing.

Back at the campsite, we started thinking about the penultimate leg of our trek, which would take us to Villagordo, about 100km north of Valencia. The trick here would be to find the right connecting road from the north to the south. I reckoned that the signposts would have Valencia written all over them, and the bypassing of Madrid would be possible with the minimum of fuss. In the end, we found the Madrid circular and it bore an uncanny resemblance to the M25 on a bad day, but it was not signposted to Valencia in a meaningful and obvious way, although it did have directions to the A3 (?). Fortunately, I knew that this road went straight to the Mediterranean coast and Valencia.
Having a two-year-old map was helping me to see up to date editions of maps as a necessity, and from then on, I regarded updated editions in a new light. The names and numbers of many roads had changed, and I carefully tried to avoid toll roads. This was not a good policy because as explained before, it may have prevented a whole lot of chugging up steep mountainsides in first and second gear with the temperature gauge about to explode!

Villagordo was a little village quite a way from the main road to Valencia. It seemed like a long drive through muddy terrain, which was red and clingy due to the trucks that were working on the new road construction here. Just at the point when we were giving up on finding anything remotely resembling a campsite, we spied a flag flying and it fluttered flamboyantly in the fresh Friday breeze. The entrance was like a castle ramparts, but at first, we thought we should enter by a sign that said ‘entrada’, which means entrance in Spanish. It was an entrance, but not for caravans. That entrance was for the heavy goods vehicles that were bringing more red mud into the area, so going in via that particular gate would have meant being stuck in the mud, then having to be towed out. Of course, it was natural that we would have to suffer the gloating looks of the workers on the site as they leaned on shovels and watched us. The real entrance was actually more obvious, and so we pulled up and did the necessary business in reception, and then pitched up again, just for the night.
We walked around with the dogs and discovered a lake that was very low compared to the high water markers, but looked perfect for the water sports brigade. The colour of the water was stunning, and with the sun shining brightly, it looked like something very special, apart from the massive excavations of red earth that rather ruined the whole effect.
Karen decided to investigate the olive trees that lined the road, and she picked an olive to try one, but spat it out in disgust stating that it was unbelievably bitter. As she came back to the road, she sank into the red mud up to her ankles and started uttering the type of language that I normally used in times of stress.

Next day was the end of the first part of the trek. We arrived at Gandia, and met Karen's parents who lived there, and thanks to the fact that they own two apartments near the beach, we were able to spend the winter surrounded by four brick walls. The dogs needed four walks a day, which was lovely in the Gandia winter sun but the apartment, was up four flights of steps with no elevator. We arrived in the middle of the afternoon and Dave and Maureen greeted us with great enthusiasm. We had a lot of fun unloading our things from the car and getting them up the steps to the top floor. Fortunately, there was a pulley system in place; one of Dave's best ideas, and the job was easier than it otherwise would have been. We had more fun getting the caravan into the secure parking compound at the rear of the block. Gandia is very much a summer town, especially on the Playa (beach) where nearly all the apartments are holiday homes, so there was no problem finding a berth for the caravan, it was purely the physical effort involved and the tight corners that had to be negotiated that made it such fun!

For the next three months, we had to endure a Spanish Mediterranean winter..., which was very tough because of all the laying around on the beach in November, and the general low temperatures that never seem to exceed 20 degrees centigrade.
We did spend much more time on the Internet thanks to Dave's Wi-Fi network and started researching the areas we had enjoyed on our journey more thoroughly. As previously stated, we did not really like the idea of buying a property near the beach in Gandia because of the concrete jungle that it had become over the years. We enjoyed the location as a holiday destination, but that was where it ended.
We explored the Valencia region to see if any other areas offered better surroundings, and were pleasantly surprised to find a few much more attractive places that made us consider the possibilities of relocating to them.

We were fortunate to have an apartment of our own to begin with. Dave and Maureen had invested in the apartment next to theirs with an adjoining balcony, and it was up for sale when we arrived. The money raised from the sale of it would be added to our own pot of cash and allow the purchase of a better and bigger house. There were four of us so it made good sense to have a much space as we could get; after all, it was never going to be easy living together in a small place.
At last, in December, the good news we had been waiting for was that a potential buyer was interested in the apartment. Everything went according to plan and they agreed upon the full asking price.
In January when Dave and Maureen returned from England, we had to start the job of packing everything away and finding a place to store it all. The smallest bedroom in the other apartment turned into the storage room, and Dave packed it from floor to ceiling filling all the spaces expertly.
The job could have been very difficult if they did not have that adjoining balcony. Without it, every single box and piece of furniture would have to go down four flights of steps, out into the car park, in through the next door and up four flights of steps.

We moved all our things into the spare bedroom next door and a seventy square metre apartment turned into a home for four adults. It was a crush at times, and there were clashes of course, but most of the time we coped well.

We made some friends during our stay there, and one couple, Bob and Linda, took pity on us. They owned a superb three-bedroom seafront apartment, and they came to stay in it occasionally. We befriended them when they used us as a taxi service to ferry them to and from Valencia airport on one of their visits. They wanted us to take them take few places, all expenses paid and dinner thrown in for good measure. Naturally, we talked a lot on those days, and Linda was good at reading between the lines, because although we did not come right out and say it, life was not always easy at home.
She offered us the chance to apartment-sit for them when there were no lets. We jumped at that and the day after we took them back to Valencia, we moved into their apartment for two weeks.
It was luxurious and very spacious. The golden sands were just two metres from the outer gate, so we enjoyed the warmest days on the beach. The dog walks were more pleasant without the four flight ascents and descents. We often walked right along to the next town along the beach, but Xeraco was boring and had nothing to offer so we always came straight back again.
We soon became good friends with a Spanish girl called Olivia, who lived five floors up and whom spoke very good English. She introduced us to the delights of her favourite mountain restaurant where they served the most delicious Paella Valenciana. She had known Bob and Linda from a very young age and they always treated her like a member of the family.

During the stay in Gandia, we did a lot of beach walking with the dogs, and because we were trying at the time to learn Spanish, we met people who were walking their dogs and tried striking up conversations with them. It was more difficult than we thought, so we mainly kept to the simple 'good morning' and 'good evening' etc.
Our observations of the people that we encountered during these walks caused plenty of laughs, as the Spanish in general are not really walkers. They like anywhere that offers free parking within three feet of their destination. The long flat promenade from the apartment to the Grau (harbour) was an ideal venue for those Spanish that were either under doctors’ orders to get more exercise, or simply like to stretch their legs and stroll in the sunshine. It was a good six kilometres there and back. We tried saying good morning to all the regulars that we passed each day, and eventually started to get the same in return. They were a funny lot, and very difficult to become attached to.
The morning walks became much more fun when we started to give the people we met nicknames.
Every day, we saw 'Manic Couple'. They were a man and wife that walked along the sand every day as if their lives depended on it. They held on to each other by the hand as though letting go would be fatal. One morning we were in front of them on the way back from the Grau, and it was not long until their pace took them past us and the wind caused by their wake, made our hair fly uncontrollably. We watched them steaming along the beach at a rate of knots, jabbering away in Spanish, and holding on to each other for dear life, when suddenly they stopped at the waters edge, and splashed themselves liberally all over with sea water. Obviously, a morning ritual that replaced washing with soap. Then they carried on walking at breakneck speed to the end of the beach, and then they turned around and did the same thing all over again. If the gentle waves from the sea had not obliterated their footprints everyday, and the sand was not shifting all the time, then it would only have been a matter of weeks until their walking had worn away a trench deep enough for it to be as the foundations for the Mediterranean Sea defences.
'Hanky Man' was a much gentler soul, and greeted us each day with a wave and a 'Buenos Dias' that we looked forward to whenever we met him. The winter was a difficult time for 'Hanky Man' because of the colder breezes that blew across the Mediterranean causing his eyes to water uncontrollably. He needed to keep wiping away the tears with the ever-present hanky that he loved and waving it at us as we passed. He was elderly and more cheerful than many of the folk we encountered, and I hope he is still alive and enjoying the daily strolls with that white cotton hanky of his.
'Wee Wee Man' only got his name because we saw him three times, and each time he was facing the sea and relieving himself. Was he waiting for us before he started peeing? We shall never know. I do know that I shall never swim in the sea right there though.
'Marathon Girl' was at first 'Snail Girl' because her efforts at running or walking seemed pathetic, and we always ended up passing her, even at our gentle pace. However, we ate our words before many weeks had passed, and we watched her progress like proud parents as she gradually improved her performance and started to look like a real athlete.

Well, all good things must end, and they did. Having spent a very quiet and enjoyable Christmas alone, just the two of us, we started thinking about the next part of our journey, and the inevitable stage we must reach when the money started to run out.
Dave and Maureen came back from their trip back to England in the January of 2007, and we threw a few ideas around based on what we had seen and experienced during our journey and what we had discovered in the Valencia region during the stopover for the winter.
Several weeks passed, when one day, out of the blue, Dave said something that blew our socks off!
We had been using the internet a lot in those weeks and months, and the information was beginning to get a little overwhelming, and Dave, who normally does not say much, looked up from his laptop and said ‘I think we should have a look at Portugal’.
Portugal!
‘Christ...we have just spent three and a half months touring in Spain and eighteen months learning Spanish, and now you want us to go to Portugal’.
‘Yes’ he replied calmly, ‘it looks like a superb investment opportunity in the Silver Coast region and our money will go a lot further’.
To cut a long and rather boring story short, we checked up on the camping facilities, liked the look of the area on the internet and liked the prices for the camping even more.
Karen picked out Caldas Da Rainha as a target to start with and then we could travel on from there to other sites further north. We all agreed on this and started the planning for this new adventure. We also agreed that we needed to get going by the end of the first week in March. Therefore, that was it then, a new chapter in the story.
How exciting!

As you know, we had decided to have a look at Portugal or to be precise the Silver Coast, (Costa Da Prata) close to the city of Caldas Da Rainha. It had a campsite called Campismo Foz Do Arelho, which nestled comfortably in the eucalyptus forests close to the sea at the village of Foz Do Arelho, and the beautiful lagoon of Obidos. We left on March 7th with our caravan in tow, and drove from Gandia to Albacete and from there to Ciudade Real. We found a campsite for the night on the banks of a beautiful river Guadiana that is just off the N430. The scenery was dramatic and rocky. The dam that held back the waters was called Embalse da Garcia Sola which was awe inspiring. It was a wonderful overnight stay, which we came back to on another occasion. We decided it would be necessary to stop twice overnight because of the 1000 kilometres that stretched out before us. I had never driven more than 400 kilometres in a single day with the caravan in tow and did not want to risk getting too tired.
Next day we followed the road to Merida and Badajoz, before crossing the border into Portugal and heading for Campo Maior, another campsite that left us with 200 kilometres to drive the following day. It was a run down wreck of a place, and it was a good thing that we only intended staying one night.
I set up the caravan and fucked up the water heater. It is a well-known fact (to those that know it) that if you switch on a water heater, there should be some water in it first because if there is not, you tend to get a sound like ‘pffffttt...’ as the element gently explodes and therefore stops producing hot water. My dreams that night involved the sudden disappearance of large amounts of money from our account, and an increase in the profits of a Portuguese caravan repair company. We left early and with the aid of our outdated maps, proceeded to drive in a slightly northern direction and without realising it, we went a little too far north and had to find another route, which brought us eventually to the A15 and an easy drive to our chosen site.
That morning we were very excited to be reaching our destination and begin in earnest the search for a place to live and do business. We were to meet the in-laws at the campsite. They arrived first and awaited us in the car park outside the site with faces that did not seem in good humour.
Maureen said ‘I do not think you are going to like this place, it seems rundown and untidy.’
Karen and I quickly went into the campsite to see for ourselves what was in store. We looked around for ten minutes, checked out the main facilities and then went back out into the car park to inform our folks that all was in order and that the site seemed to be a good deal better than some we had stayed at before.
They looked surprise at this and took some convincing that all was well. I thought ‘Oh god...what have we let ourselves in for’.
The place looked clean and certainly in need of an upgrade, but the standard was good and the people on duty were helpful friendly and spoke English. Helder and Pedro soon had us in position on the touring section and we started putting up awnings, tents and wotnot. The in-laws were sleeping in a tent. It never once bothered them that for several weeks they would be rather less comfortable than we would be with the luxury of our caravan to live and sleep in. The reason for this became apparent when I saw their bedding going into the sleeping quarters. They had invested in a good-sized tent and some very comfortable bedding, which would obviously be quite close to the ground, but would provide them with good insulation from the ground and never once did they complain of not sleeping well or being cold. In our caravan however, it was to be a different story because we could hear the snoring coming from the tent next door, so Karen and I often awoke at strange times and as we lay there, we tried concocting reasons and excuses for moving the caravan a little further away. Have you ever tried telling someone that he snores? A long river in Egypt is what comes to my mind. (Denial.)
The water heater magically cured itself by somehow resetting its um...settings. There is a cut out switch apparently, designed to prevent permanent damage if you are an idiot and forget to switch on the pump first. Phew, that was another narrow escape!

The shower block had six shower cubicles and so it never became a problem in the mornings to shower. The toilets however, and the longer we stayed there the worse the problem became, were not so nice. There were two normal sit down jobs, and two hole-in-the-ground type things. Now you can call me a fussy old bugger, but I never used these holes in the ground because I had a horrible uncertainty of the trajectory of what goes into them, and also to be frank, because my legs can be a little creaky early in the day. Unfortunately, the two normal toilets were very often soiled and extremely damp underfoot with what I always hoped was just water, but was never sure. It seemed that there was a man, maybe two men, who used the toilets just before I got there and they had an awful job to keep things going where they should go. We complained to the site office and received apologies and assurances that the cleaners would be there as soon as they could. This always seemed to be in the afternoon, so all I needed to do was to retrain my body to be regular later, or perhaps become nocturnal.
We used those first few days to familiarise ourselves with the area and toured extensively to give us more information about the attractions available within a couple of hours driving. We fell in love with the Silver Coast and in particular the city of Caldas Da Rainha, which was only 5 minutes by car from our campsite. A fresh produce market every day meant cheap veggies and wonderful cheeses, and an introduction to the delights of the Chouriço. There were so many different types to choose from that none of us had a clue what to buy first. The language barrier was a difficult hurdle to overcome in many ways, but so many people here knew enough English to help out that the problems were not too bad. I stood with Karen in front of the Chouriço stall and waited my turn, and as the woman who served turned to us and said something that to our ears sounded Russian, a man on our right said, ‘Can I help you with anything?’
We gratefully explained that we needed advice on which Chouriço to buy, and we went away with a Morçelo and a Corrente Extra, which were black pudding and spicy smoked sausages. We thanked the man who made us feel that nothing was too much trouble, and trooped into a coffee shop for coffee and cakes.
In our many visits to cafes and restaurants during those months, we took a liking to the Galau (I think that is how you spell it,) which is a very milky coffee, and the botanado, which is a small strong coffee with extra hot water. We tried to order them in Portuguese at every opportunity, and always ended up confused because our pronunciation was obviously not good, and the person serving nearly always spoke English anyway.

We met a man called John and his wife Sue during the first couple of days at the campsite, and John was the loudest man we had ever spoken to and within moments of striking up a conversation, we wished we had not. He gave us all sorts of great information about the city and about how to do and say things. All of them were utter crap, and we discovered gradually that poor John was just an ignorant English yobbo who wanted to be the centre of attention all the time. He adored telling people about all his personal stuff that was almost sad enough to make average people go and hang themselves. It seemed incredible that so much bad stuff happened to just one couple, and it made all our hardships and problems look like a walk in the park. We silently thanked him for that, as it made us feel slightly better.
His local contact and Guru, was a man called Mike. John introduced us to him and we took an immediate dislike to him because of his fake Australian accent, and his ability to sound dodgy no matter what he talked mentioned in conversation.
John may have been an ignoramus, but his dealing with Mike left us feeling sorry for him and we tried (and so did some of our other friends that we met) to make him see that Mike was bad news. John told us that he had spent a large amount of money buying a plot of land from Mike, and he had been waiting two years for permission to start building. We all smelled a rat, and a little digging revealed that John did not even have title to the plot, and his trust in Mike was absolute. Oh, dear!
Two years later, John still would not hear a bad word about Mike, and this after the bank repossessed the plots and bankrupted Mike. John now owns a lovely town house in a village not far from the campsite, but he still takes Mike out and buys him dinner, and he never saw a cent of that investment cash again. We have close friends at Sao Martinho Do Porto who live very near to John and Sue, so we get to hear all the latest gossip without having to don earplugs to listen to it personally.
The first week of our stay at Foz Do Arelho was almost over and we had only seen two properties, both of which we found ourselves after seeing them on the internet. Both properties were unsuitable, but had massive potential for someone wanting to rebuild the whole shebang! We all decided to go into town on the next day to find estate agents, and trust that they would show us something relevant to our needs and budget.
We spoke to three or four agents who all agreed to call us in the morning to arrange something. One of them, Prestige, did not have an English-speaking person in the office, but they invited us to take a seat and wait a moment. Just a couple of minutes later, a young girl from another high street shop came in and wished us good morning. Wow...fantastic, they actually walked down the road to find someone who could talk to us.
Now that is what I call service. Again, they promised us a call in the morning.

In the morning, we waited expectantly for a phone to ring. The phone signal was rather weak at the place we were camped, so Karen and I walked up to the higher ground with the terrierists to make sure the call when it came, was not missed. Do you know the only agency that bothered to call was Prestige. We thought that we would get much better service than that, and that we would be overwhelmed with agents trying to sell us property we did not want or could not afford. That is what people said might happen, so obviously we smell, or perhaps our budget did not appeal to their greed.
Several hours later, we met in the same office that we had previously met, and there was a woman called Sylvia who translated everything for us and invited us to follow her in our car.
Sylvia took us to a renovation about 15 kilometres from Caldas, and the builder had only just recently put it on the market. It was an old single story farmhouse with the roof raised a little. This created a large attic that was perfect for two bedrooms with en-suite facilities. The project had two large extensions at ground level for a dining room and kitchen and overlooked vineyards and orchards on both sides. It stood on high ground that looked a bit exposed. We thought it looked too open to the elements, but that feature apparently gave us a nice cooling breeze in the summer when it got very hot. The builder welcomed us warmly and Sylvia obtained all the information from him that we needed. The price was within our budget and there was an adega (barn) attached to the house that we could renovate at some point in the future. Everything seemed just perfect, and as we drove back to our campsite, we discussed in detail all the things we had heard that day. We had fallen in love with the place, and they had not shown us anything else yet.
It was only sensible to go out with some other agents when they finally did contact us, and view more houses, but this we did half-heartedly, knowing that we already had seen the perfect property.
It was decision time, make an offer and see what happens or risk losing the chance of buying what seemed like our dream house. We called the agents and set up a meeting at their offices to discuss the next step. The builder was there too, and with thumping hearts, we sat down to speak frankly.
There was one major problem.
Something got lost in the translation apparently, because the price Sylvia told us was not the price that the builder said. The price for the adega was wrong, and it was wildly inaccurate. We know that Sylvia told us that the adega was an extra 12000 Euros, which we could easily afford on top of the price for the renovated house. In fact, the builder wanted 55000 Euros. We were desperately upset about this because it put the whole thing way above what we could afford. After an hour of getting nowhere, we decided to take a break and adjourn to the coffee shop next door. Karen and I sat at the counter and sipped our drinks while Dave and Maureen remained outside on the pavement discussing something heatedly. About ten minutes later, they came and sat down looking strangely cheerful, because Karen and I felt as though a horse had kicked our guts.

Dave suddenly spoke these words, ‘well, we have decided to sell the other apartment in Gandia, and then we shall have enough money to buy the house and renovate the barn.’
We were shell-shocked by this bolt from the blue. Maureen looked like she only just agreed with the decision. To be honest, that did not surprise me in the least because the apartment had been their home for several years and had been in the family for many more years as a holiday home. The golden beaches and the superb climate were perfect for a holiday destination, but as mentioned before the concrete jungle that surrounded the apartment was not desirable as a place to live and work.
Karen and I knew that it would mean us being unequal partners, as their holding would be approximately two thirds, but that small misgiving aside, we were happy to proceed under the new arrangements and we literally bounced back into the agents office to tell them the news. We finally came to agreement on the price, which we managed to negotiate downwards by a few thousand Euros, and then we awaited the promissory note that would make everything legal and binding.
The decision to come to Portugal became a life changing one. Within one week of arriving, we discovered the place that would be our new home. The excitement of the next few months was at times unbearable and exhausting too. It threw many problems our way, and almost broke our hearts on more than one occasion, but we persisted and came through it without anything happening to cause us problems that we could not solve.
‘The Road to Portugal’ became ‘Living the Dream in Portugal’.

We met the builders’ secretary Isabel, and Karen soon became firm friends with her. She was often with us at the house to translate. We needed regular meetings with the builder because he offered us the chance to choose everything that went into the house. We chose floor and wall tiles. We chose kitchen cabinets and bathroom suites. We deliberated for days and days on the colour of the walls both inside and outside. It took even longer to find the best colour for the stone window surrounds. We decided on the positions of all the internal walls, window openings and doors, we were asked where we wanted TV, telephone and electric sockets and we redesigned the upstairs to include bathrooms for both bedrooms instead of just one larger shared bathroom.

They had started building a boundary wall, and we wanted to put a gate in the wall near the kitchen so that we had faster access to the back yard of the barn. It seemed a trivial request after all the other stuff, but for some reason it caused our builder and Isabel some stress. Isabel said later that her boss refused to discuss the answer with her for translation. This caused her anxiety because she said it felt like he was concealing something from us.
The saga continued for several weeks, and there was no answer yet.

One day we were looking some new feature of the construction when I saw two men in the road. They were about 50 metres from the house and as I was outside in the garden, I could see that they had surveying gear with them. They were pointing it at the fields to the rear of our house, and taking readings. Soon they walked past the house and into the field and carried on taking measurements. I plucked up the courage to ask what they were doing.
One of the men spoke some English and explained that they were taking readings for the two plots of land behind our house.
My throat went instantly dry and I tried to clarify the situation. The man mentioned our builders name and said he knew about the survey. Alarm bells started to clang and I ran inside to tell the others.

The field of grapes behind the house was supposed to be free of planning permission because it was agricultural. We fell in love with the house because of the views and the quiet location, ideal for a retreat, and now someone, namely our builder, was going to build two houses right in the middle of the view.
All of us felt sick.
We felt betrayed and we wanted to confront the builder to see what he had to say. This was going to be horrible, and yet we had to arrange a meeting quickly. All the time we were trying to use our brains to figure out what the man would say and no matter what we came up with, we still could not understand how it had happened.
It was not possible to get planning permission for the field and that was what Sylvia told us right at the start.
Hang on a minute!
Sylvia?
The same woman who told us that the barn was 43000 Euros cheaper than it was actually!
Conspiracy theories were spilling out of our mouths and feelings were running high. The answers could be very interesting.

In the midst of all this came news from Spain that there was a buyer for the apartment. This caused a few complications because everyone but me had to travel back to Gandia at some point in the near future to sign paperwork and sort out the money etc. There was also the exciting prospect of another journey back to Gandia with all those stairs, to empty the apartment and store everything somewhere else.

We needed to relax and chill out a little; there was too much going on to think straight.
Karen and I drove to Peniche and had a long walk with the dogs along a sandy beach that gave the beach at Gandia a run for its money. We stopped for coffee and sat for ages staring out at Berlenga Island, and eventually a feeling of greater calm came on us. We rationalised and sorted feelings and emotions. It really was not very difficult, after all, we were in a beautiful country having the time of our lives and these things happened. They would need sorting out, and that was what mattered.
That evening we went to our favourite restaurant Frango Da Foz, a chicken restaurant that did the best chicken for miles around. That night we decided to find another favourite place because they had no chicken!
They had no chicken in a chicken restaurant and the waitress was miserable.
The waitress was miserable and she charged us the wrong price.
She charged us the wrong price and did not bring the customary Ginja at the end of the meal. (Ginja is a local liqueur made from Aguardente, sugar and ginja cherries.)
At least the next day we should get an answer from the builder about the grape vines.

We all met at the offices of the estate agent and the nerves were jangling a bit. We sat around a table in a private downstairs area and Joanna our translator, made us feel comfortable. The builder came into the room and shook all our hands. He then sat down smiling at each of us and the questions began.
The issue of the gate still was not resolved.
‘Why’? We asked.
He needed to get permission from the owner of the land apparently.
‘OK, what is happening with the land’? We asked and we told Joanna the story of the survey.
They told us that the land had two available plots of 2080 square metres each and that each plot could have a small house built on it.
The owner was trying to get planning permission from the Camera and it would not be long before the answer came.
It was almost certain that permission would be granted apparently, but if for some reason it was not, then we could buy the field at a knock down price.
If the Camera granted permission then the price would rocket ten fold.
If we signed the deeds of our house in good time, then we would be the legal owners of the property and therefore entitled to first refusal on the plots.

We said that we found it difficult to believe that the builder had enthused about the views that we loved, and now was involved in ruining them.
They told us that he only provided the owner of the land with the means to contact the surveyor. He did not own the land, but if it came up for sale with planning permission then obviously he would be interested.
They advised us to buy the plots to stop any possible development. We agreed but said that if there was no planning permission then what point was there in buying, and if there were planning permission then it would be out of our price range.

It was complicated, very complicated, but if we wanted to cancel the purchase and have the deposit refunded, then the builder could arrange that. It was a generous offer and we had to make a very tough decision now. If we accepted the offer then we were back to square one.
If we carried on and rejected the offered refund then there could be no recriminations. The builder had done all that could be asked of him.
He promised to consider us when building was taking place but no matter how we pressed the matter, we never got more information on what type of building might go there.

There are many fish in the lagoon at Foz.
We often watched them swimming in the current and feeding off whatever the Atlantic brought them.

My son Chris makes me very proud, but he does not know this. We lost contact a few years ago during a feud between his mother and me and to my eternal shame, I gave up trying to keep in touch about a year ago. He has written a book about his life and his experiences up to the tender age of sixteen, and there are parts of it that move me to tears whenever I think about them or tell anyone else about them. He suffered from epilepsy and endured the agony of knowing he had to have a brain tumour removed. It was benign thank god, but I should have been there for him during this part of his life and I did not even know that it was happening because of the feud that kept us apart. It should never have happened like that, and the terrible guilt I feel can only go away if I forgive myself, but more importantly, I think, if Chris forgives me too.
His book is funny and full of teenage angst and anger, and although he wrote it using some awful prose, his overall style is actually quite similar to my own, and I think it would be wrong to criticise the choices he made when those same choices appear regularly within my writing as well. I am proud of his work as a father should be, and I am trying to tell him all this through a third party. I hope that this will stop any possibility of conflict again with his mother. I know how much he loves his family, and how much they all gave during his battle with the tumour, so I have no wish to aggravate the situation again. I just want him to know what I think and I have dispatched to England this week, a hand written letter, which will reach him by the New Year I hope.