Spanish motorways & Portuguese mountains

It’s been a long time since we wrote, as we have been on Spanish motorways and Portuguese mountain roads - not a dongle shop to be seen until we got to Figueira da Foz on the coast of Portugal a couple of days ago, where a very nice young man from Vodaphone made us almost sob with gratitude.  We’d been steeling ourselves for a major linguistic and technological ordeal, but Fabio spoke perfect English and even offered us a choice of pink or white.  We chose the pink:  our French dongle is white and you know the trouble we’ve had with that.  Irrational?  Don’t care.

We found Spain difficult.   Speaking French doesn’t work for a start, and neither does English very well, no matter how loudly you do it (only joking).  I’ve realised how much I love words – I get a bit miserable and shy when I can’t communicate except at the most basic level.  Mike had to force me to go to the Sunday market in Lierganes, just South of Santander, but I felt much better afterwards. I will try to remember in future that it’s better to go out into the world and say  ‘hola’ badly than to sit in a van worrying about it.   

We also struggled to find camperstops in Spain, so we cut across from Santander to Miranda do Douro as quickly as possible.  This meant driving on motorways which though spectacular in the mountains - well over  1000 metres high – meant we saw a lot of grim industrial hinterland too:  lots of derelict buildings and piles of rubbish, and block after block of high-rise flats on the outskirts of the cities.  Part of me had been expecting passion, flair and flamenco dancing on every corner (never going to happen on the route we took, or anywhere probably), and even though my expectations are more realistic now, I’m still looking forward to seeing a different side of Spain when we head to Tarifa and then back up the eastern coast through Barcelona. 

Portugal felt better straightaway:  human-size housing, flowers planted on roundabouts, and very friendly smiley people.  Driving through the mountains, a group of workers cutting down an orange tree handed us oranges as we passed, and we have had some lovely nights.  Here’s where we parked in Pinhao, halfway down the Douro valley.  Beautiful, and the owner of the bar we'd parked next to insisted we have free port.  For breakfast.

We also stayed at the Sanctuaria de Sainte Maria in a place called Vagos, which was very peaceful .  We lit candles for our friends and family and felt almost religious, but the locals put us to shame – they were crawling round the church on their hands and knees. 

Generally, we have felt very safe and welcome since we arrived here.  Well, apart from the night we were woken up and moved on by armed police.  Oh, and the night in Espinho where we couldn’t find anywhere that felt safe, so paid 12 Euros for a campsite which was fenced with razor wire and had a 24 hour guard.    If there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that you have to take the rough with the smooth when it comes to camperstops – it’s never going to be perfect every night...

...which is why we’re spending a second night, tonight, in Sao Martinho do Porto.  I’m running out of computer charge tonight but will upload some photos tomorrow.  Senor Spanner is going to write tomorrow too - he is scribbling away now, finding words to describe how lovely this place is.

X

Pyrennean mountain tracks

Last time I wrote I was being all cocky about going in the sea, come what may.  However, we looked at miles of beach after Contis-Plage, and it was all the same – big, scary, crashing waves, nobody surfing, warning signs everywhere, etc.   I have never felt so insignificant in the face of the sea. Truly awe-inspiring, and worth the seven euro camping fee in itself.

Heading inland a bit, we spent a lovely couple of days at the Etang de Leon, where we parked right next to a sandy beach, free of charge, and saw the most beautiful sunset.  The photos don’t capture it at all, but hope you can see what nice parking spaces there are! 

We did get horribly drunk, though, and Skyped lots of people who probably wished we hadn’t.  Sorry folks, and don’t worry – we’re really not like that every night. 

With the weather sunny but the sea scary, it seemed like a good time to go into the Pyrenees.   Even in the foothills it was spectacular; more spectacular still when the satnav decided that our 7 foot wide van was actually some sort of mountain goat (see the so-called road she tried to take us on, below).  The locals certainly seemed to find it very entertaining watching us trying to get back down.

We’re now at Hendaye-Plage where there are no waves at all, but it’s very pretty, and also has a launderette.  Surfing may have to wait till Spain or Portugal, but at least we won’t be smelly.

We have started trying to learn Spanish – Mike bought a DVD on Ebay before we left - but after floundering through Lessons 1 and 2 yesterday, we’ve already realised that it’s much too little, much too late.   Gracias por favor?  Cerveza?  That’s about the level we’re at.

We’re heading into Spain tomorrow, and judging by the problems we’ve had with French dongles, I’d guess that it’ll be even harder to get online, with no Spanish except as described above. We may be gone some time.  Luckily we have a very good friend in Tarifa who might be able to help – we’re aiming to get there around 8^th December.

Buenas noches, amigos.

xxx

and he's a Triathlon man...

Woke up to a beautiful sunny morning at Eulalie en Born, and even though it had rained in the night, Monsieur Spanneur was dead keen on a bike ride.  So was I, actually (amazing what a bit of sun can do), so Tesco bags over the wet saddles - they don’t give you free carriers over here - we set off on the most beautiful easy ride along the banks of the lake.  Only about 8kms, but enough for poor old Madame S all the same, even though my arse is getting plus toned and petite by the day.  Every now and then along the way we saw men with guns, which - even though I know it’s almost normal over here - I still find disconcerting.  It doesn’t help that so many of them seem pissed as farts while they’re doing it.  The local commune hangs receptacles for spent ammunition on telegraph poles, but judging by the ones I’ve looked into, it’s three beer cans and a wine bottle for every shotgun cartridge.  Bizarrely though, there are SO many birds here, so maybe the French are just lousy shots.  I hope so. 

After the bike ride, the lake.  There’s a municipal campsite next to the motorhome area, and it had a sandy beach, so we thought “Why not?”  We soon knew exactly why not – it was bone-chillingly freezing.  I am sure you don’t want me to describe what it did to Mike’s testicles, which is just as well, as I would have needed a microscope (he said this, not me).  However, I did take a very nice picture of him swimming – his sunny smile making a very good job of hiding the pain.

When we got back to the van, Mike suggested a run, but by that time I’d had enough – this is a holiday after all, not a bloody triathlon – and luckily, time was getting short so we left for Mimizan....

...where the waves were HUGE.  Not just biggish, but stonking great crashing things that were very scary, even just standing on the beach.  They seemed to break very unpredictably, and there were also big 'Danger' signs everywhere warning of shelving sand and lethal currents, so we decided against it and went further south, to Contis-Plage.  Have to say it all looks a bit big here too, but we will see what tomorrow brings.  It would be very nice to get into the sea, especially as we’ve had to pay seven euros just to park here!  In England we’d be congratulating ourselves on having found  somewhere cheap to stay, but in France, seven euros feels like a personal affront.

I'm a ramblin' woman

Mimizan is a bit further than we thought, so we stopped at Arcachon (very prettily decorated Victorian buildings and great cycle paths right on the edge of the beach) and Eulalie en Born, just North of Mimizan, where we’re now parked up in beautiful woodland next to a lake.

It’s very nice going slowly.  It’s only just beginning to sink in that we don’t actually have to get anywhere (apart from Tarifa for Mike D’s birthday on 10^th December, but that’s a long way off).   It’s almost scary, how easy and comfortable this is – I keep thinking that it can’t really be allowed, then I realise that it IS – thanks entirely to our fab tenants, who have ALL paid their rent on time.  I suppose we should expect that, but actually I feel very touched by it, and so grateful that I had to be dissuaded from emailing them all with a gushing thank you.  I might still do it anyway.

France is the most fantastic country for camping-caristes.  In England you call us travellers and move us on, but here, almost every village and certainly every town has a designated space where you can park up, dump waste and take on fresh water. Most of them don’t charge, and some even provide electricity.  We’ve been buying food from local shops where we can - that must surely be the rationale for providing these places – but what a friendly and welcoming attitude it shows. 

People HAVE been lovely to us, especially at the France Passion sites where you can stay for free on farms and vineyards, and where nothing seems too much trouble for the hosts.  The last one we stayed on was a marshy field next to a vineyard, and Mike and I must have looked a bit dubious, as the first thing the farmer said to us was “No worry, I ‘ave tracteur.”  He went on to tell us that he “lerved speak English”, so we spent an quite stressful five minutes murdering one another’s languages before saying good evening in that peculiarly respectful and civilised way the French have.  Sometimes I really do wish I’d been born here.  Maybe I would have been elegant and slim, as well as being able to speak French properly.  We didn’t need the tractor, by the way, but I like to think it would have been there if we had.

The only miserable git we’ve encountered since we left England was someone we were trying to buy wine from:  she actually laughed at us – definitely not with us - when we said we didn’t know the exact year of Bordeaux we wanted, but that was the only time she even cracked a smile.  We considered walking out, but at that stage we needed wine more than self-respect (wouldn’t be the first time, I know).

Mike played me a song the other day, Ramblin’ Man, which just about sums up how I feel at the moment, especially the last line.  If you haven’t heard it, I recommend it - here’s a link:

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bP-N9057wiQ

Old haunts revisited

After many weeks, plusiers visits to SFR phone shops, and much testing of our rubbish language skills, we have finally got the better of Mr. C****y’s* French cousin, and now have a reliable connection.  We hope.

We’re now halfway between Perigueux and Bordeaux, having spent the last week or so visiting the area around Charroux and Chatain (where I lived from 1997-1999).  Seeing old friends and neighbours was lovely, and we were looked after very well, but – maybe because it seemed to rain most of the time - it did take me back to the struggles of living in an old house in France, and not entirely in a good way.  I have a lot of admiration for people who stick it out, learn the language and become, if not quite French, at least an important part of their local community.  I've been feeling quite sad that I didn't manage to do that myself. 

On the plus side, the van has proved to be watertight, as long as we remember to shut the air vents.  We only forgot once, and I don’t think we’ll do it again.

Going to Bonnezac almost made me cry too:  most of the house we lived in has been renovated now, but the part we were in is unchanged, even down to the three-foot-high shallow stone sink I used to wash up in – I had a twinge in my back just looking at it.  

 I also remembered Nathan and Laura, aged 8 and 5, arriving there and just coping with everything from beetles in their beds to being thrown into the French school system without speaking a word of the language.   I was – and am – very proud of them.

My barn, just across the lane from the house, has held up about as well as my French.  Once the most magnificent building in Bonnezac, it’s now not much more than a heap of very nice stone in a field.    

 

The field is bigger than I remembered, though, and apparently we could get planning permission for a whole estate of retirement bungalows – something to think about for the future? 

After all this dank rural stuff, we needed a bit of city time so we headed for Limoges, famous for its pottery.  Asking for somewhere open late, we were directed to a nightclub down a dark alley.  We were a bit confused to be handed a towel each and a locker key, but it seems that in Limoges, what you really want after your disco is a sauna. We didn't think too much of it, and the music wasn’t too bad – no Hi Ho Silver Lining anyway – but when we followed people upstairs we found that the sauna was really rather rude.   Obviously, we made our excuses and left...  

We spent today in Perigueux, wandering round the medieval streets and – naturellement – visiting a branch of SFR, where we discovered that not every SFR employee is an Anglais-hating sadist, and also why everyone seems to smile when Mike says his name – Michael Jones is apparently a rather saucy pirate in a TV show.  How fitting.

Tomorrow we’re heading for Mimizan, hoping for surf and sunshine. 

Much love to you all,

Madame Spanneur

 * Mr C****y is Susie & Nick’s alarm clock.  All extremely annoying technological/electrical gadgets – such as our dongle - are related to him. I did try to explain this to the SFR employee, but rather predictably I had to give up.