Spain and home again

My last blog left things pretty much in the air, as we arrived in Spain. Our arrival could have been a real come down after whistling through twelve countries in the motor caravan, but for various reasons it was not.

After happily leaving the ferry following a crossing which was both dull and without incident, we were thrown into the madness of the race track which is outer Barcelona, and it was getting dark. However, we survived and soon left the southbound motorway for Sitges. I knew little of the place so here’s a quote: “Renowned for its LGBT-friendly atmosphere as well as its world-famous horror film festival”. Yet we loved it, but not for those reasons. Rather for its attractive narrow pedestrianised streets near the beach, the beach itself, the nearby church and one of the best meals of the whole trip.

After Sitges, we passed over the coastal mountain range via L’Hospitalet de l’infant, then crossed the River Ebro where it makes its last surge towards the Med having traversed most of Spain, then on to our little village of La Fresneda in the province of Aragon.

That might have been a bit of a down-swing after dashing through twelve European countries, but it was not. We both felt happy to be there once I had carefully negotiated the narrow, steep and curvaceous tracks that lead to a carpark which is fairly near to our home. It is clearly signposted “No campervan” but we, after all, are locals and we both felt very pleased to be “home” again.  Here's a rather special view from the little terrace at the top of our house.

There were things to be done to the house and the caseta, as ever, but they were jobs that mostly had a beginning and an end and that nursed a sense of achievement. We spent time with our old friends, Willy and Dolores, we drank in the bar and greeted and were greeted by other villagers. Strangers in the village smiled and said, “Buenos Dias”. The bakery had ceased operation, but a friendly young woman now sold bread there which was baked in a nearby town and was just as crunchy. Sadly Ramon, one of the characters of the village had died in a fire in his own home, a house stuffed with “antiques” most of which were flammable. There were also many items of less sad news to catch up with.

Though we were there for three weeks, it seemed no time at all before we were on the road again - this time crossing Spain with stops along the way but always heading for Santander where we would take the ferry to Plymouth. And, though we had to spend one whole day in the motor caravan because of the pouring rain, we were well away from the chaos suffered by the poor people of Valencia.

We left the ferry in darkness at Plymouth and had no wish to drive all the way to the Cotswolds in pelting rain. So, I found a pub called the Skylark to the north of the city and the landlord was happy to have us sleep in his car park – provided we supped and drank in his bar. And what a bar, the perfect English country pub serving perfect real ale – nectar. I had three pints before I could be persuaded to eat.

Home the next day, having had a wonderful two months of travel and adventure, I patted the bonnet of my aging motorcaravan. We had driven 7,500 kilometres together without a major hitch and my notes of the adventure amounted to 35,000 words. What on earth am I going to do with that lot?

The long way to Spain

 

The long way to Spain

For various reasons I am not too good at keeping in touch with family and friends: I suppose this blog is my main means of keeping doing so and quite a few of my previous blogs have been about Spain. This year I decided that it was about time I visited an old Swedish friend that I met through my work as a consultant, he lives in Stockholm. So, an obvious thought occurred: why not visit him on my way to Spain? A little out of the way of course, but this seemed like the foundation for an adventure. I had always wanted to visit those three intriguing Baltic States that border Russia and discovered that there was a ferry between Stockholm and Estonia – this journey was clearly meant to be.

The first time I visited Sweden was in the 1960s when my teenage friend William Lefebve and I decided to go there in search of the claimed availability of free love. In those days there was a ferry directly from Immingham to Gothenburg but sadly there are now no direct ferries so we made for the Hook of Holland. That ferry starts from Felixstowe where I have another neglected old friend so we visited him and his wife along the way. Talk about a trip down memory lane.

Naturally I wrote notes as we travelled the 3,000 miles in our motor caravan and one day I might write them up as a book or something, but here’s a few brief recollections. I had a travelling `companion, Margaret of course, but also Thomas Mann via his fascinating book The Magic Mountain.

We visited 12 countries in total and took the whole of September 2024 to do it. The most memorable part of our Dutch experience was crossing the Zuiderzee, driving over a 19-mile dam with salt water on the sea side and fresh on the lake side.

Margaret had a strong desire to visit Denmark inspired by her favourite Scottish aunt’s love of the country and its friendly people. So we went there and found that auntie was quite correct. Interestingly, the least friendly country in our experience was the Czeck Republic. In Sweden we made fours stop including Taaby where my friend Bjorn lives in that nice suburban town, so neat and well run, very Swedish, very Viking.

The ferry to Estonia was a highlight. Parking at the head of one of the queues waiting to board I glanced at the driver of the van at the head of next queue and saw the father of our Spanish grandsons!! This was one hell of a coincidence. We had not seen each other for years and there we were thrown together by fate. We had a great time on the boat, drinking and dancing (the entertainment was stunning), recalling old times and catching up with the current lives of Jordie and his Swedish wife Boodil.

The three Baltic countries were flat and pretty boring to drive through. However, the capital towns of Tallin and Riga made up for all of that and our accidental visit to a small impoverished village in Lithuanian was educational.

In Poland the highlight was Warsaw where it rained, no, poured. We had a pretty lousy campsite but with easy access to the city by bus. There we were impressed by the traffic free centre with its grandiose churches and castle. So difficult to countenance that the Nazis destroyed 75% of this place. I thoroughly enjoyed a visit to the Marie Curie museum and to a simple church with a pure white interior nearby.

Next day we entered the Czeck Republic and were roaring along at the usual 60-70mph regularly overtaking lorries and being over taken by cars when something odd happened, the road emptied of traffic and then suddenly was blocked by a barrier and we were forced off it. The cause was the flooding that affected much of central Europe just then and that finally landed us at Frydek Mistret where we were greeted by avoiding eyes and downcast faces. Still the beer was good and the food served in overly generous quantities.

We moved on to Olomouc which we both agreed was our favourite city with its two connected ‘squares’, wonderful buildings and spirited street art. We passed on to stay the night at a highly commercial campsite alongside Lake Musov then, next day, we entered our favourite country Austria. There we found the small town of Illmitz next to the beautiful Neusieder Lake, a town surrounded by nature parks. I cycled out to one and met a man from near Witney in a hide, and he shared his telescope with me. More bird watching and an overnight stay in a small Hungarian village whose only restaurant was fully booked for a private party, then continued along that country’s van rattling roads to Sofron where we enjoyed a view of this Hungarian city from its tall fire tower.

Then we were back in Austria and were brought to tears by the wonderful buildings and courtyards of the city of Graz backed up by the pealing of many bells from its many wonderful churches. As we travelled south blue mountains appeared on the horizon and grew to dominate our journey. We were much taken by our stay in the long lakeside village of Portschach until we discovered that almost all of the lake’s edges were inaccessible, privately owned. So we moved to Villach where the camping ground had its own lake into which I dived after a long and somewhat scary walk in the adjacent mountains.

After this we entered Italy spending one night in a small village parked within a line of rotting camping cars, a graveyard we will never understand. We followed this with the seaside town of Caorle just above Venice, a pleasant place with boats parked almost alongside cars in the centre of the town. Next the big one, Florence, and our largest and most expensive campsite of the whole journey. I believe we had become over churched by this time and the Duomo struck me as being somewhat over the top, excellent as it is, so we were glad to divert to the pretty seaside village of Le Grazi on the Mediterranean side of the country followed by the lakeside town of Marta where we had a smashing spot beside its small port and spied rather rare red-faced pochards. I took my longest bike ride of the trip there alongside the lake, claimed to be the largest volcanic lake in Europe.

Next day we visited the stunning town of Tuscana on our way to Rome’s ferry port and then, after a disappointingly boring crossing of the Med, disembarked at Barcelona. From there it was just about four hours to our second home, La Fresneda.

 

Cotswold Way, August 2024: Cheltenham to Winchcombe

 

This was to be my final leg in the 100 miles trek, and I had three days in which to do it. More of a home country leg this one and I started by taking the early morning 801 bus from Stow on the Wold. The driver dropped me off close to the old Reservoir Pub near Cheltenham. It is now a foreign restaurant of some sort, and, to my relief, when I crossed the road there was the fingerpost to the Cotswold Way

This was to be my final leg in the 100+ miles trek, and I had three days in which to do it. This was more of a home country leg for me and the weather was good, though very hot in the sun. However, the ascent from the reservoir was mostly through well-wooded slopes so not too bad. Unfortunately I lost the usually plentiful Cotswold Way signs somewhere so I had to ask advice from a young lady with six dogs (not her own apparently). Over the barking of those dogs as they strained on their leads towards me, she said that this was not the Cotswold Way but I could rejoin it via a road at the top. I took her advice and headed west along the road and soon arrived at the place she had suggested where the Way crossed the road.  Full sun for a while as I crossed a path at the edge of field and hence very open. That was where I met Richard going in the opposite direction, he was a camper like myself but did not have a GT. He told me that he wished he had one. I reached a road and then looked down onto Cheltenham to my left and Leckhampton Hill on the other side of the town: the site of my recent wash out. I had that view for a very long time and was soon able to see beyond Cheltenham towards Gloucester. the Severn valley and the Malvern’s.

I lost the Way again later but was fortunate in spotting the Surveyor. He was busy taking photos of butterflies but offered to take me to a path that rejoined the Way. It turned out that he was not a Building Surveyor but an opinion collector for the likes of local government. This surprised me since he was definitely a one-way act. If I did manage to interject something like “I own a field” but he just carried on with his stream of thought concerning the growing of garden produce, the shortage of butterflies, problems with runner beans and so much more. His interest in my background or views was zero, so odd in a surveyor. But I must thank him for setting me back onto the Way.

After passing through a golf course where I managed to avoid the balls, I entered a cooling treed area at the exit of which I ate my lunch beneath a tree and there discovered that I had lost a sandal.  Following that I entered a gruelling stretch through steep wooded areas that wandered to the south before finally swinging back north where I emerged onto a flat hayfield where I met a couple from Tasmania, probably about my own age. She was particularly interested in the GT and wanted her husband to see how it attached to the haversack. Their travel agent had sold them a trek from Stratford to include the Way. Why he did that, they or I did not know.

I reached Bellas Nap burial mound which was not particularly impressive apart from its vast age and location. After that some more woodland and two steeply sloping fields towards Winchcombe where the Way then edged along the town to the south with good views of the attractive church. I took a diversion to follow the River Isbourne to the lane which led to my old camping spot from my Berkeley trip.

That spot was further up a lane off the Way and the farmer had kindly left the gate open for me and the field had been recently mowed: a piece of machinery was still within it. It was a perfect camping spot, secluded and in a corner which was not farmed, yet not far from the town centre. I soon had the tent up and retraced my steps before taking the main road into the town. I passed the White Hart which looked busy and then ended up my previous drinking hole, the Plaster’s Arms. It was closed (Mondays and Tuesdays) but notices suggested it still had a life. I had a few excellent pints in the other two Winchcombe pubs and a fairly interesting conversation with a local about university life in one of them. However food was either at a premium or unavailable so I ended the evening by consuming a couple of mini pork pies beside the river as I returned to my secret camp site.

I felt happily intoxicated as I walked up the dusky lane, but a was a little surprised to find the field gate now locked. I climbed over and walked around the corner in the growing darkness and increasing drizzle to find that my tent and everything else had vanished! No sign of my camp at all. I could not believe it, yet had to do so. Clearly the farmer had removed all of my stuff and presumably dumped it somewhere. I stood frozen for a while trying to think what I should do. My only option seemed to be to walk back into Winchcombe itself.

As I walked dispiritedly past the entrance way, I saw a pile of stuff on my left which I had not noticed as I entered. This untidy pile contained my stuff: the tent, the GT, and who knew what else. It was all very wet of course and I was getting wet too. I had no idea whether the tent was usable, it seemed in a terrible state. Besides that my chances of finding an alternative wild camp in the dark and the rain were remote to say the least.

I spent an age untangling the tent and its various poles, so that I could stuff it and the rest of my belongings into the GT bag and my haversack. Apparently, everything was there, even my Kindle. I then walked sadly back to the centre of Winchcombe to endeavour to get transport back to Stow. I stopped near the main T junction of the town and took out my phone. Everything I tried: Uber, local taxis, whatever all met with failure.

Despairingly, I walked along to the White Hart. It was closed of course. but there were people inside: the staff having a last drink, I supposed. Also the window onto the street was open and a young couple sat within the pub on the sill beside it. I explained my dilemma to them, and the young lady of the pair took over my phone and after some time managed to contact a taxi company based in Cheltenham. The charge to Stow would be £65, ridiculous but I had no choice. I booked it and those two kind youngsters invited me into the pub to wait.

The taxi driver was from Bangladesh and had little English so most of the journey took place in silence. It seemed a very long way and I arrived around midnight. I had no keys and though I could see that our bedroom light was on I could not make Margaret hear my knocking and ringing, so I retrieved my secret key entered the house and went up to our room. As I opened the door Margaret looked shocked and perhaps frightened and for a short while I was struck dumb. Then I briefly explained my reason for being there and she was wonderfully understanding, even making me a rum and coke which I sorely needed, and so to bed in the comfort of my own home!

Next day it rained all day so I could not examine my hastily packed camping kit. But the following day was fine and I was surprised to find that there was no obvious damage to my stuff. I had presumed that the farmer had angrily ripped the tent from the ground and threw it outside the field. In fact he had unzipped the door presumably to remove my stuff, then removed the pegs and placed them inside and only then collapsed the tent. Given that, I resolved to return to Winchcombe sometime to continue my journey, wild camping and all.

 

The perfect tour

I’ve been guiding in Oxford for nearly 20 years now, not continuously of course – it has always been a part-time activity. In that sense it has fitted well with my lack of commitment: I could spend long periods in Spain, or working on our regreening project at Stow on the Wold, or travelling the world. It also fitted well with my other activities, including writing, walking and such. It was never a big earner, you need to be very committed to make it your only source of income, and events can easily result in no income at all: both winter and lock-down are examples. I haven’t finished guiding yet, but I reckon the end is somewhere in sight which made me think of the perfect tour. It might not be what you expect.

The ingredients are pretty much as follows: the participants, the theme, the weather and the guide. By the latter I mean, in this case, the guide’s mental attitude. None of these are truly in a guide’s control. Mostly you have no idea who the participants are going to be beyond nationality or sometimes age. Take a recent day when I had an emergency tour to deliver. The organiser, based in London. wanted the tour delivered on the following day for thirty -three people. I only take nineteen and even that is quite a crowd on the streets of Oxford. Negotiations via phone and email were not complete until the group were on the train and on their way to Oxford! The organiser agreed to split the tour and we agreed on a price for each tour. I quickly showered and rapidly pedalled down to the railway station. I like a challenge.

They were from Wako University in Texas and when we finally found each other I was greeted with enthusiastic, but undeserved, Texan whooping. The split was agreed outside the Said Business School and the afternoon lot wandered off towards the centre. My first lot, mostly young and female, had a thirst for knowledge about the workings of the Uni and, as often, tried desperately to fit this to the US system. They do not, of course, fit. But, the long trek from the station aside, it was a good, though challenging, tour which evinced many demanding questions from my enthusiastic audience. The tour for the remainder of the group was at 1.30 pm, meeting at the Weston Library. No one came. I waited for a while then a couple with two very small children turned up – that was all. What happened to the other nine I shall never know. And here’s a problem: a seven and a three-year old have little interest in the workings of the University and their parents’ main interest is the welfare and happiness of their kids. Even conjuring up Harry Potter does not help in these circumstances. Nevertheless, I did my best and dropped them off to meet the rest of their group at Christchurch where they could take their prearranged audio tour with their colleagues at the “Harry Potter” college.

Of course, there is no perfect tour. But a state of perturbation in the guide and enthusiasm in the guided nudges things that way. I suppose one of my best was with an audience of one: a Harvard professor. At the end of the tour, actually more of a spirited conversation than tour, he thrust a $50 tip into my hand. This I heartily refused saying that I had enjoyed the tour just as much as he claimed to have done, but he insisted.