TravelStream™ news feed for member oldagetraveller on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/oldagetraveller en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Fri, 05 Jun 2009 12:07:42 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1243958610/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1243958610/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1243958610/tpod.html Fri, 05 Jun 2009 12:07:42 -0400 Round Europe with a caravan - a tale of old age wanderings

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Scarcroft, England, United Kingdom

During our last night in Spain it rained heavily, and although it had stopped by the time we were packing up, the ground was unpleasantly wet and muddy, so much so that the caravan step had sunk three inches and made a super slurping sound when we picked it up! It was just over an hour's drive to Santander , so after checking in at the Brittany Ferries terminal we went into town to have a snack lunch.  The boat started loading just after 2pm and we sailed at 3.  We found our cabin then had a look round the boat, which was very spacious, with plenty of things to keep passengers entertained for the 24-hour crossing, including a small indoor swimming pool!  We found the Whale Watch very interesting.  A representative of the charity Orca is on every crossing, giving talks on the whales and dolphins that can be found in the Bay of Biscay, and keeping watch on deck, counting and logging all sightings.  We saw a couple of whales in the distance - well, just their spouts, but it was still exciting.  We also saw several pods of dolphins "breaching" not far from the boat.  During the trip 150 dolphins were spotted in total - I was amazed, as I wrongly assumed they preferred warm waters.The Bay of Biscay is notorious for rough seas and I'm a very poor sailor (unlike John who has a cast-iron stomach) so I made sure I was dosed up with Stugeron, but I still felt a little queasy.  The sea looked calm enough, with no white horses, but there was a strong swell which made walking around a bit difficult. In the evening I managed to eat some pasta, while John wolfed down steak and chips from the excellent cafeteria (there is also a smart restaurant, but I knew fine food and wine would be wasted on me under the circumstances!)  Then we had an early night.  It was an odd feeling to be lying in bed and still rolling about slightly, but I survived unscathed.  However, the experience has confirmed what I already knew - a cruise would be my idea of hell!  Oddly enough we awoke to much choppier seas next morning, but it felt better than the rolling swell.  In fact I joined John in eating a hearty breakfast and lunch before disembarking just before 3pm.  It was about an hour's drive to the campsite at Verwood, not far from John's mum at West Moors.  We were immediately struck by two things - the sheer volume of traffic on the roads, and how green everything was.  We thought it was pretty green in Northern Spain, but the profusion of foliage in England has a sort of in-your-face quality that we found quite unnerving after a year away!  The campsite too was very verdant, set amid rolling meadows, but we'd forgotten the extraordinary rules and regulations of English caravanning.    We were shown exactly where to park the caravan, at right angles to the road, with the awning on one side and the car parked on the other side.  We were instructed to park the 'van on the grass and erect the awning on the gravelled area.  The result was that the jockey wheel sank into the mud, making it difficult to manoeuvre the caravan, and the gravel was so hard we couldn't get the tent pegs into it!  This was a clever ploy on the part of the management, as we had to buy a dozen extra-strong tent pegs from the shop on the site!!We'd also forgotten that it was half term, and the campsite was full of families, many of them in tents.  The problem with tents is that there is no noise containment, so what with TV's, music, squabbling kids and shouting parents, it was a less than peaceful experience!  Also the weather at first was awful - wind and rain, and we were feeling the cold, but at the same time I had really bad hay fever, probably caused by all the fields of rapeseed.  Add to this the terrible price of everything, and we were nearly ready to turn round and go back on the next ferry!  However the weather improved, there was warm sunshine, and we had to admit that the English countryside is lovely.  We had a few days being reunited with John's mum and sister and enjoying fish and chips, Chinese takeaways and, in John's case, proper English beer.  Then we were off again to Bladon Chains near Oxford, to see Helen. We stopped for a coffee break at a motorway services en route and had another culture shock.  Instead of the normal-sized cup of excellent "café con leche" and a delicious cake that we'd been accustomed to enjoying for around 4 euros, we paid £10 for 2 indifferent cakes, a vase of latte and a chamber-pot of Americano. These were the smallest sizes available.  What would we have got if we'd asked for "large" - a bucketful, perhaps.  Bladon Chains is the first campsite we stayed in at the start of our mammoth journey, over a year ago, when we were caravan virgins.   Now we feel like old hands, casually name-dropping Romania and Bulgaria and impressing our less adventurous fellow-campers!  Half term was over so the site was nice and peaceful, and set in quintessentially English surroundings, near to Blenheim Palace and the pretty village of Woodstock.  We weren't able to spend a lot of time with Helen as she was working nights, but we enjoyed a meal with her at one of Oxford's many good restaurants.After a couple of very pleasant, sunny days we headed north to see Michael and Nicole and the cats.  Once again we had an interesting experience when we stopped for coffee at Leicester Forest.  A coach arrived and disgorged a bevy of beautiful young Oriental women, rather sexily dressed.  Walking behind them, we realised they were talking to each other in unusually deep voices, so decided that they were ladyboys on a tour of the UK! It was good to see that Michael and Nicole were looking well, the garden was a mass of colour, and Stimpy and Queenie hadn't forgotten us.  We now have a mountain of post to work through, doctors, dentists and opticians to see and finances to sort out before we decide where to settle down.  We're hoping to find somewhere near the south coast, so for the next few weeks we will be travelling round looking at various options.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1242982500/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1242982500/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1242982500/tpod.html Sun, 24 May 2009 09:18:32 -0400 Round Europe with a caravan - a tale of old age wanderings

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Ribadesella, Asturias, Spain and Canary Islands

Asturias and Galicia are Spain's most beautiful provinces.  High snow capped mountains with deep gorges and fast flowing crystal clear rivers; lush green alpine meadows with picturesque villages; blue seas with rocky coves and quiet beaches; pretty little fishing ports and underdeveloped resorts.  But, like the west coast of Ireland, it has to get its greenness from somewhere.  Rain.  We have spoken to a number of fellow travellers in this area and they all have the same tale.  It always rains when they come here.  The one couple we met who had had two fine weeks in Galicia said that no one believed them. The problem is a geographical one.  West winds cross the Atlantic, hit the mountains and dump their rain.  North winds cross the Bay of Biscay, hit the mountains and drop their rain. East winds have crossed the plains of France with no mountains to hit, so they save their rain and drop it when they hit the mountains here.  South winds cross the central plain of Spain, where, as we have found, it does not rain, so drop their rain when they hit the mountains here.  When there is no wind the clouds settle on the mountaintops and, yes, drop their rain. We are camped above the pretty little fishing port and resort of Ribadesella.  From our caravan on the terraced site we can see the Picos de Europa. The day we arrived was fine and clear and we could see the nearby foothills, the intermediate range and the far snow capped peaks, just.  This is wonderful, we thought, being able to sit outside in the sun and watch the changing colours on the mountains as the sun moved across the sky.  Within 24 hours the far peaks disappeared, then the intermediate ones disappeared.  Occasionally in the late afternoon the sun has broken through and we can see the mountains. Today it is a struggle to see the other end of the campsite.   It has not been all rain, of course, it just seems that way!  In fact on one day we decided we should go out anyway and drove up the Sella valley.  As soon as we had passed the first range of foothills the sun appeared and the day was glorious.  The Sella is not a long river, but it is spectacular. The road follows the riverbank through alpine meadows and then through amazing gorges, some, like the Desfiladero de los Beyos, narrow to about 20 feet wide, with cliffs towering above and the river far below. When the gorges open out there are views of the high Picos, at this end up to and over 2,500 metres (8,000 ft), jagged limestone crags with snow in the crevasses. We went as far as the Puerto del Ponton, the head of the pass at 1280m (4,200ft), then drove back down again.  The view going the other way was equally spectacular. We stopped on the way down at a weir where there was a salmon ladder.  We did not see any, but did see loads of fishermen at various points, so there were some there somewhere.  Needless to say as we came to the foothills it became cloudy again. We had a couple of mornings just wandering around Ribadesella itself.   On one side is a promenade along the riverbank with signs describing the local history, from Stone Age to modern times, followed by signs with all the local mythical creatures.  Both were bilingual, Castilian Spanish and the local language, Bable, yet another version of Spanish.  On the other side of the river is a lovely beach, with a seafront promenade backed by grand residences.   Again there were signs indicating the history of many of these grand houses, a lot of which seemed to have been built by emigrants who returned home having made their fortune in tobacco in Cuba.  What there was none of were "tackeries", the usual seaside shops full of souvenirs, beach gear, ice creams and rock.  It was very genteel and refined, more like a Cannes or Antibes.  However, not so genteel or refined was the six coach loads of school kids on the beach for the annual schools beach volleyball competition. We had a lunch at one Sidreria, a sandwich washed down with the local cider. The cider comes in bottles and has to be poured by the waiter at arms length, one hand holding the bottle as high as possible, the other the glass, at knee level.  A most peculiar habit, which did not seem to alter the taste or effervescence of the brew. In Ribadesella are the oddly named Cuevas de Tito Bustillo.  This deep cavern was discovered in 1968 by a group of young cavers and contains some of Spain's most significant Palaeolithic cave paintings, horses and reindeer adorning the walls as if painted yesterday.  The caves themselves were also impressive, great halls, stalactites and stalagmites, the sound of rushing water.  Our guide also pointed out small holes in the rock which lead to more caverns where there were even better paintings, not yet accessible to the public.  The state is building a large museum close by which will hold a full size replica of the inaccessible caverns.   As we arrived two coachloads of shrieking Spanish ladies drew up.  We were fortunate to get onto the tour before them.  We passed them on the way back through the cavern and the noise was horrendous. Tomorrow we travel the last 80 miles to Santander, for the ferry to Portsmouth.  It is sad to be finishing such an epic journey, sad too that we are finishing it in the wet.  But in many ways it will be good to get home, to see family and friends, not to mention the cats, catch up with 12 month's post, then start the search for a new home. We will update the blog once more once we are home, with a summary of the highs and lows and we will each do a bit on our thoughts of the journey.  
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1242980760/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1242980760/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1242980760/tpod.html Fri, 22 May 2009 04:55:06 -0400 Round Europe with a caravan - a tale of old age wanderings

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Tordesillas, Castile-León, Spain and Canary Islands

Tordesillas lies in the centre of Castilla y Leon, the province which stretches in a vast plain from the Cordillera range in the north to the Sierra de Gredos in the south.  That is a trip of over 200 miles with scarcely a hill.  At times it was reminiscent of the Canadian prairies; a small hillock would provide an endless view of wheat fields, large patches of bare golden soil, the odd vineyard and an amazing huge sky: big sky country.  In the far distance, in every direction, were the snow-capped peaks of the Sierras.  On the road from Tordesillas to Salamanca we could see them to the south and west.  On the road from Tordesillas to Leon we could see them to the north.  And through the centre of this vast plain runs the river Duero, which is of course the Spanish name for the Douro, which we had explored in Portugal. We arrived to hot sunshine and blue skies, such a contrast to the rains on the northern coast.  We thought at first it was snowing, in spite of the heat.  In fact the campsite was shaded by white poplars, which were shedding their fluffy seeds in a blizzard of white.  This was very attractive for about 45 seconds, until we realised that the fluff was invading everywhere!  An hour after putting up the awning there was a drift of them at the far end, covering my shoes and a pile of towels.  It was impossible to sweep them away as they just drifted up into the air and fell down again.  We learned to live with it; we had to.  Apart from that it was a delightful campsite, excellent facilities, just a short walk from town. Tordesillas sits on a bluff on the banks of the river, looking, but for the absence of hills behind it, just like a Tuscan village. It is a charming little town of narrow streets, a central square, two grand churches and a huge convent, which was formerly a royal palace.  The palace had been built in 1350 but was converted into a convent by Pedro the Cruel. It was here that Juana the Mad (queen of Castile, daughter of Isabel) locked herself away for 46 years following the death of her husband Philip the Fair in 1506.  John the Paunch and Lesley the Long-Suffering visited the convent and had a very interesting guided tour given by Magdelina the Soft Spoken, in spite of the accompanying crowd of Spanish visitors who included Isabella the Shrieker, Carmen the Screecher, Pablo the Loud and the young Fernando the Whiner.  Much of the old palace is in evidence, including a lot of Moorish archways and tile work.  The ceiling of the choir in the chapel was particularly grand, intricately patterned in gold leaf, artesonado style. The town's other claim to fame is the treaty signed here in 1494 by the kings of Spain and Portugal, agreeing a division for discoveries in the New World.  The "House of the Treaty" is preserved as a museum with displays of old maps. Some 20 miles to the east of Tordesillas is Valladolid. It was here that Fernando of Aragon and Isabel of Castile married in 1469. Isabel became queen of Castile in 1474 and Fernando became king of Aragon in 1479 paving the way for a united Spain and the expulsion of the Moors.  Valladolid was made capital of Spain, a University was founded and a new style of architecture created, Isabelline. This is a mixture of flamboyant Gothic and Moorish and seems to involve intricate carvings on every possible surface.  The Colegio de San Gregorio is the best example and the south door, which we were able to see, was most impressive.   Unfortunately the main façade at the front of the building was covered in scaffolding.  How many famous buildings have we visited which have been hidden under scaffolding! Columbus died in Valladolid in 1506, Cervantes in 1616 (on the same day that Shakespeare died).   There are 2,000 castles in Spain and most of these are in the old kingdom of Castile. Originally built by both Moors and Christians, their building was banned by Fernando and Isabel at the end of the 15th century.  Many fell into disrepair or disappeared, many were converted into the Spanish equivalent of the English Stately Home.  With so much choice, and knowing that we could only get a taster in the time available, we chose two, La Mota at Medino del Campo and Castillo de Coca at Coca.  Both had been owned by the Fonseca family, the former now owned by the state, the latter by the Forestry Commission as a college.  La Mota is a huge edifice, surrounded, as the name implies, by a deep but empty moat.  It was built in 1440 on the site of an earlier fortification, Moorish or possible Roman, and has a true castle-like appearance. Transferred to the Crown in 1475, it was occupied at one time or another by Isabel (who died nearby), her daughter Juana the Mad and Cesare Borja who was imprisoned here from 1506 to 1508.  Only the central courtyard is open to the public:  from the signs and photographs it would appear that the rest of the building is used for state occasions. Coca, whilst still a fortified building, had a more palace-like feel. Within the central courtyard has been built an accommodation block for the forestry students, in keeping with the overall style of the place. The rooms in the walls and turrets are all open to the public, steep dark staircases leading to the roof or to a dead end below, with odd shaped rooms between. It was very easy to get lost.  The village of Coca is very old, with the remains of a wall and huge gateway.  We visited Salamanca, 80 miles to the southwest.  A long journey for a day trip, but well worth it.  Originally an Iberian settlement it was occupied by the Romans, captured by Hannibal, the Visigoths, the Moors and finally by Castile.  Remnants of most of these remain, but it is best known for its 13th century university and 16th century architecture, all made out of the local warm golden sandstone.  The city has a very relaxed and cultured atmosphere.   Plaza Mayor, said to be the most magnificent main square in Spain, was the start of our tour. We sat with a coffee and a pastry watching the world walk by.  The square was filled by stalls for the annual book fair, which made it more interesting but harder to photograph.  Off the square run narrow side streets lined with old buildings, almost every one a gem.  On one street corner was the Casa de las Muertes, so called for the stone skulls which propped up the window sills. On another was the Casa de las Conchas, whose golden stone walls were covered with carved scallop shells.  This was the public library, with a lovely colonnaded patio inside. Then there were the university buildings, clustered around Patio de las Escuelas, all 15th and 16th century decorated buildings.   We were a little concerned at first at some of the red paint graffiti on the walls, until we read that in days of old students had to kill a bull in a bullfight as part of their "graduation", and they would scrawl their names on the walls in bulls blood! Close to the university are the two cathedrals. The new, built between 1500 and 1700, shares a wall with the old one, built in the 12th century, and the two match each other well. There was a wedding taking place in the old one, and it must have been very disconcerting for the bride to have tourists wandering around as she made her vows. It did make it very difficult to get a close look at the altar, which is a magnificent piece consisting of 53 paintings by Nicolas of Florence in 1445. In some of the chapels were more lovely old paintings and frescos and tombs, including a painting claimed to be the oldest painting by a named artist in the world, signed by Anton Sanchez de Segovia in 1262. Behind the cathedral is the Casa Lis, a Modernista building which is now an Art Nouveau and Art Deco museum.  It was full of treasures such as a Faberge egg, Lalique glass and jewellery, and even toys from the 1920's, including original Kewpie dolls.  A complete contrast to the rest of Salamanca, and we spent an interesting couple of hours there.  In all we had a very enjoyable week in Tordesillas.  It was a good site, there was  lots to see and do and most importantly we had excellent weather.  It may sound as if we spent the whole time sightseeing, but in fact we spent a lot of time just sitting outside the caravan, soaking up the sun and reading.  As a matter of fact, disaster almost struck, as we were in danger of running out of books. We have topped up our "library" whenever we could, by swapping with other travellers, or visiting charity shops, which are very few and far between.  Many campsites have a shelf or two of books (not always in English, of course) where campers can take a book as long as they supply another one in exchange, and in some sites kind people have left books or magazines in a public place for others to help themselves.  There had been nothing like that for weeks and we were reduced to reading cereal packets.  However in Salamanca we found a bookshop selling English paperbacks, albeit at an extortionate price.  To get our money's worth we bought two weighty classics to keep us going, as well as two lighter novels!  Hopefully they will last us until we get home.  It was sad to move on, but the weather reports for the north coast were promising, and we do want to see the Picos de Europa before we sail home next week.  So we decided to return to the north coast.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1242378240/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1242378240/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1242378240/tpod.html Fri, 15 May 2009 05:50:28 -0400 Round Europe with a caravan - a tale of old age wanderings

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Tordesillas, Castile-León, Spain and Canary Islands

We set off from Caminha and crossed the River Minho into Spain at Valencas.  Here we encountered yet another Spanish dialect, Gallego, which is similar to Portuguese. One thing we have learned about Spain is that Spanish as we know it is only spoken in certain areas.  We had come across Catalan and the Basque language, but have discovered that in Valencia and Galicia they have their own different forms of the language too, and probably in other regions we haven't been to.  A few years ago, road signs and public notices would have been in Castilian Spanish, but the regions are becoming keener to emphasise their unique characteristics, and most signs are now in the local dialect.  If they're not, some partisan will amend them with a can of spray paint! Our destination, Santiago de Compostela, is the third most important place of Christian pilgrimage in the world, after Jerusalem and Rome.  Legend has it that the apostle James (Sant Iago in Spanish) came to Galicia to spread the gospel.  On his return to Judea he was killed by order of Herod Agrippa but his followers took his body back to Spain and buried it in a secret location.  Early in the 9th century his grave was revealed to shepherds by a star (that sounds a bit familiar!) and soon a thriving cult had developed in the area, which became known as Santiago de Compostela ("field of stars".)  In the Middle Ages pilgrims came from all over Europe, and churches, monasteries and hostels sprang up along the route they took.  The pilgrims traditionally wore a cloak and felt hat and carried a staff with a gourd attached, for water.  After they had seen the saint's tomb they went to the nearby coast and picked up a scallop shell ("coquille" in French, so sometimes also called a cockleshell) as proof they had been.  Thousands of people still walk the Route of Saint James every year, kitted out in hiking boots and a backpack but still often carrying a staff.  We even saw one man in who was doing it barefoot. The wily old saint must have known we weren't true pilgrims because all sorts of things went wrong during our visit.  There are three campsites in the town.  One of them is up a steep hill and we had been warned it was very difficult for caravans, especially large ones like ours, as not only was the approach difficult but the pitches were small. Another was said to have unreliable opening in low season.  So we headed for the third, which sounded good.  When we reached it we were welcomed by a sign saying "Cerrado" - Closed.  So we tried the unreliable one on the off chance, but that was also Cerrado.  So there was nothing for it but to attempt the tricky one.  Perhaps because we were expecting the worst, it turned out to be not too bad at all, and having arrived quite early in the day we were able to find a decent-sized pitch.  We spent the rest of the day relaxing and watching a constant stream of caravans and motor homes chugging their way up the hill and manoeuvring into tight spaces! The saint was still exercising his displeasure the next day.  First, the weather was unseasonably grey and cold.  Second, when I went for a shower there was no hot water.  We just missed a bus into town and had to walk (at least it was downhill all the way.)  Because all the buildings are of granite, and the day was overcast, our first impression was of an impressive but grim town.  Even the florid Baroque architecture had a sombre cast.  The enormous square in front of the cathedral was crowded with tour groups. It was all a bit daunting so we went and had a coffee in a quaint little street nearby and, thus fortified, entered the cathedral.  It was absolutely packed, as there is a Pilgrims' Mass every day, and it was in full swing. It was a glittering spectacle with a large choir and a vast group of clerics in front of the high altar, with a bishop presiding and another taking a back seat.  It wasn't appropriate, or even possible, to examine the architecture, but we went down into the crypt and saw the ornate silver coffin containing the Apostle's bones.  Then we joined a queue of people climbing the narrow steps behind the altar to touch the silver cloak of the statue of the saint.  It's traditional to kiss it, but I settled for rubbing his cockleshell.  Once out of the cathedral we wandered the narrow, colonnaded streets which still have a very medieval feel. There are many other impressive and ornate churches, monasteries and palaces, all built in the local granite.  We had a snack lunch in one of the many hostels, and watched as a stream of backpacked pilgrims asked if there was a room vacant, only to be turned away.  I hope they all found somewhere to rest their tired feet eventually.We returned to the cathedral after mass was finished and looked round at our leisure.  It's a mainly Romanesque structure with a Baroque façade added later, in front of the wonderful Door of Glory, a 12th century masterpiece by Maestro Mateo.  Unfortunately this was covered in scaffolding for restoration!  However we saw more of his work in the cathedral museum - the original choir which was destroyed to make way for the baroque taradiddle in the 18th century.  We felt the whole cathedral would have been much more impressive and dignified if it had been left as it was in the 12th century.   Before catching the bus back to the campsite we bought a scallop shell on a string, plus a stick-on version that we can put on the caravan! We planned to spend the next day quietly, making the most of the free wifi in the camp to plan our next couple of stops and book our ferry back to England.  Our run of bad luck continued - first I spilled a mug of hot coffee all over myself and the caravan upholstery, then John had a nightmare trip to find a supermarket.  So over to him now to continue the story. I usually pride myself in my sense of direction, but this time the saint must have intervened.  There is a "commercial centre" about two miles from the campsite, clearly marked on the map.  Off I set, turning left at the main road, down the hill, taking the right fork and doubling back on the side street where it should have been.  Not a sign of it.  I drove round several streets before realising that I had passed the one I thought I should have taken, so drove round in a large circle to attack it again.  This time I took the turning and drove along a road that became narrower and narrower, with no sign of a shop never mind a commercial centre.  Eventually the street came out onto a small square full of parked cars, with "no entry" signs all around.  The only way out was the way I had come in, and there was no room to turn.  So it was a 300-yard reversal back down the narrow street to find somewhere to turn.  I eventually found my way onto the main road again and driving further down the hill I spotted what looked to be a commercial centre on a street on the other side of the road, but with no way to get across.  A mile further down the hill was the motorway, so onto the motorway, off at the next junction, back along the motorway, back off it, up the hill, turn right and there is the centre with a huge underground car park.  Having gone through the usual contortions to get the ticket by leaning through the passenger window, I found a place to park and ascended to the centre, a vast mall nearly as big as Meadowhall.  I knew there was a supermarket there, but was it signposted?  Could I understand the plans on view?  I eventually found it on a sort of lower level mezzanine.  The isles were narrow, the customers were slow, and the selection was poor.  When I came out I could not for the life of me remember the way I had come in.  I ended up on the right floor but at the wrong end of the car park.  When I eventually found the car and had unloaded I could not find a trolley rack and had to go back to the other end.  I was not going to abandon it and lose my 50 cents!  Then I had to pay for the car park and had no change.  Visa will be overjoyed at my €1.60 charge!  Then the contortions of putting the ticket in the machine at the passenger window again.  I finally got home two hours later.  Those of you who know how short my fuse can be at times can imagine the state I was in. That afternoon we were sitting "gibbering" when a French car and caravan came into the pitch next to us.  She was guiding him in speaking English, and when they had parked I looked over and he looked vaguely familiar. He looked at me and asked where we were from.  I replied York, and he said "didn't you use to work for Yorkshire Bank?"  It was Geoff Jordan and his wife Linda.  Geoff had been manager at Banbury when I was manager of Kidderminster, and although we had never been in the same circle of friends our paths had crossed many times and we had attended various functions together. It is probably 20 years since we last met. Geoff had left the bank a year before me and he and Linda now own a "guest house" in the French Alps.  To add to the list of coincidences it turned out that Linda had worked in Hull University Library just before Lesley did, and that their present UK base is a flat in Tunbridge Wells, which is where I was born and where I still have family.  What a small world.  We had a very pleasant couple of hours reminiscing over a bottle of wine, which made up for the terrible start to the day. We had decided to move on the next day, continuing the road North, but not before the Saint wreaked his revenge yet again.  Something I had eaten disagreed with me and I was up twice in the night.  Nevertheless we set off towards La Coruna, or A Coruna as it is correctly known in Gallego, then towards the Costa Verde.  In my mind I was convinced we had to go past Ferrol, so I ignored Jane Tomtom and went my own way.  Turns out she was right and we took an unnecessary trip right round the Rias Altas instead of cutting the corner off, adding 80 miles and two hours to the journey.  Fortunately it was a very pretty run, as the road hugged the coast past deep inlets and sandy beaches. We eventually camped at Luarca, on the Costa Verde.  A lovely campsite, set on the cliff top by an attractive little port very reminiscent of a Cornish or Welsh fishing village. A river winds down a deep ravine to a deep harbour, with the village hugging the hills either side.  There are a lot of very fine buildings and cafes but a distinct lack of supermarket!  Sadly our enjoyment of this pretty spot was ruined by the weather.  It rained and it rained and it rained.  The campsite was grass, so our feet got wetter and wetter.  The awning was springing leaks. There was no enjoyment of the cliff top walks or the drive in the hills in the hinterland, and there was no city with churches or museums to provide a distraction. The forecast was unchanged for the next week, so after 3 nights we decided to change our plans and head back inland to where the weather was supposed to be better.   The trip south took us over the Cordilera Cantabrica, a range of mountains along the northern coast of Spain, rising to 1500m where we crossed it and to 1600m in the Picos de Europa at the eastern end.  They were still snow-capped and very impressive.  We also passed the city of Leon, once the seat of the Castilian kings.  I understand they are now in the US recording songs.  We are now back in the warm sun 200 miles inland, at a small town called Tordesillas in an area steeped with history.  More of that in the next blog.  However, we have discovered that contrary to popular belief, the rain in Spain falls mainly on the coast.     
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1241879940/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1241879940/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1241879940/tpod.html Sat, 09 May 2009 16:58:08 -0400 Round Europe with a caravan - a tale of old age wanderings

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Caminha, Northern Portugal, Portugal

We have spent several months now driving round the coast of the Iberian Peninsula and one thing we have not seen much of is a decent river.  We have crossed countless dried up riverbeds, we have seen a few large but not particularly attractive estuaries, such as at Huelva, and we have seen the river Guadalquivir in Cordoba and in Seville, which was, as most city rivers, attractive only as a result of man's interference.  The estuary of this great river is of course in the Donana National Park, and from where we stayed was only accessible on horseback.  So it was a very pleasant change to see the great rivers of Northern Portugal, the Douro, the Lima and the Minho and the Vigo estuary just across the border in Galicia.  These are rivers that are attractive in themselves and complemented by man's work rather than made by them. First the Douro, the best known of these.  It is of course the river which flows through Porto and is famous for its vineyards.  After we arrived in Porto we found that the campsite was not up to the usual standards of the Orbitur chain (which we had been using since we arrived in Portugal), so we decided to limit our stay to a trip up the river and an exploration of the town.  We spent a day meandering upstream following the course of this majestic river as it cut its way through the hills. It reminded us very much of some of the Rhine tributaries, such as the Moselle.  Cruise ships and pleasure boats were chugging up and down stream, the hills were forested at first but then covered in terraced vineyards. This is the area of the Vinho Verde, the young white wine so popular in Portugal.  Bridges are few and far between, but what there are, are great feats of engineering.  There are also a number of dams on the river, serving to control the floodwaters which used to deluge Porto, and also providing hydroelectric power. We stopped to look at one of these dams, the Carrapatelo, where the lock, at 141 feet, has the largest displacement in Europe.  By comparison the total drop at Bingley Five Rise is 59ft over five locks.  That makes the Carrapatelo lock 12 times deeper than one of Bingley's! We were fortunate enough to see a river cruise boat coming through it.  Further upstream the countryside gave way to more and more vines, as we approached the Port vineyards.  Attractive Quintas dotted the hills, and the hills themselves have been shaped and terraced by man over the centuries. Sadly there was not enough time to reach the top of the Upper Douro, which lies at the Spanish Border, nor to visit the Solar de Mateus, the home of that rose wine which was the height of sophistication in the sixties and which single-handedly destroyed the reputation of this fine region for a generation! The following day we took the bus into Porto and wandered along the Ribeira, the old promenade along the north bank of the Douro, where elegant but somewhat dilapidated terraced houses rise in tiers above the waterfront bars and restaurants. It was amazing to see that these houses were just ordinary homes for ordinary people.  In Leeds, Liverpool or London these would be a developers dream, converted to flats selling for a small fortune.  The main town above these was very pleasant indeed, with many narrow and picturesque streets between modern thoroughfares, delightful old houses and majestic palaces. The Cathedral at the very top could have been a great visit, but having climbed all the way up we found it was closed for renovation.  However, having climbed that high we were able to walk out over the Ponte de Luis 1 for splendid views of both banks of the Douro. This bridge, the symbol of Oporto, is a world heritage site. Interestingly the top level of the bridge is both a pedestrian walkway and the modern metro line. The metro trains have to cross the bridge at walking pace. This is one of several amazing bridges in Porto, including one built by Eiffel in 1877. We took the funicular railway back down to the Ribeira and lunched in one of the riverside restaurants.  It was very pleasant sitting out on the riverbank until a bitter wind blew up and we had to beat a hasty retreat to the restaurant indoors! After lunch it was drink time.  Given that there are 58 Port lodges on the south bank, of which 20 do visits, we were spoilt for choice. We chose Calem, a brand not much known in Britain, but one of the oldest, and Sandemans, one of the best known.  Chalk and cheese in their presentation, but basically the same principal.  Sandemans was a bit gimmicky, with the guides dressed up in the Sandeman outfit (a Spanish Sombrero and a Portuguese students' black cape).  I was particularly looking forward to being shown round by an attractive Sandelady who we spotted when we booked our tickets, but had to make do with a Sandeman who had a ponytail and acted like a robot.   In both Lodges the port was good, and it was as well that the bus stop was just over the road.    A couple of interesting learning points:  The city on the north bank of the Douro is Porto.  The city on the south bank is Vilanova de Gaia, formerly Cale.  It was from these two cities that the name Portugal (Oporto-Cale) derives.  More strangely the Port lodges have always been on the south bank, because the taxes are cheaper.  They have never been in Porto, always in Gaia. So why is it called Port?  How about a glass of Vilanova de Gaia with your Stilton? After Porto our next stop was the little port of Caminha, at the very northwestern tip of Portugal.  It is situated on the estuary of the river Minho, which forms the border between Portugal and Spain.  Our campsite was idyllically sited in wooded dunes on a promontory right at the river's mouth, with sandy river beaches on one side and the Atlantic waves breaking onto the sands on the other.   So far in Portugal we have had alternate weeks of good and bad weather.  In Porto it was cloudy and cool with a bit of rain, so we were due a spell of sunshine - and in Caminha we got it.  It was warm and sunny every day, and in fact the temperature gradually increased to the point where we were seriously considering swimming in the cold Atlantic!  We weren't quite brave enough, but plenty of others were. We had arrived just before a bank holiday weekend, and the campsite, which was virtually empty when we arrived, soon filled up with Portuguese students celebrating the end of exams and families out to enjoy the sun and sand.  As a result, it was extremely noisy for a couple of days - in fact it reminded us of that manic weekend at Orgiva.  So rather than sit in the sun and be deafened, we decided to drive out and explore the area, which proved to be far more scenic and interesting than we'd expected. At either side of the Minho estuary are hills, fortified since before Roman times.  The towns along both riverbanks show evidence of fortifications and of the many battles between Spain (or Leon in the pre-unity days) and Portugal. Even the churches are fortified with battlements.  In 1809 Napoleon's troops landed near Caminha at the start of the Peninsular war, but the locals beat them off.  We drove 20 miles upstream to Valenca, which boasts not one but two fortifications, each enclosing a self-sufficient community, linked by a bridge. The town faces the Spanish town of Tui, with an amazing fortified Romanesque church on its hill. The two towns are linked by a double decked bridge, road below and railway above, built by our old friend Eiffel.   Once again there is a matching pair of high hills either side of the river, and we climbed Monte do Faro on the Portuguese side for fantastic views over the two towns and the wide river as it meandered down to the coast. We were there on Mayday.  In Spain and Portugal this is actually celebrated on May 1st, not on the nearest Monday to May 1st as it is in the UK. Valenca was busy with tourists, mainly Spanish, and all its shops were open for business. That may not be saying a lot, because although there were several hundred of them, nearly every one was selling towels and tablecloths, which are very cheap in Portugal.  In fact some shops were selling towels by the kilo.  By contrast Tui was shut for the holiday, not just the shops but the churches and museums as well! The only places open were the petrol stations, all with long queues of Portuguese filling up with cheap Spanish fuel, at 10 to 15 cents a litre cheaper than Portugal. On another day we drove 15 miles south to our third river, the Lima, at Viana do Castelo. The coastline between Caminha and Viana is superb, with long beaches and small rocky headlands backed by dunes and gorse-covered hills.  The huge Atlantic rollers were crashing on the beach, great surfing territory.  Viana is a very pleasant town, with an attractive main street and many small old alleyways with Manueline and Renaissance houses and shops. Some very grand 16th century buildings flank the main square and of course, spanning the river, is yet another double-decked bridge by you know who. Towering over the town is the Miradoura de Santa Luzia, a hill topped by a basilica, which, even though quite modern, has become a place of pilgrimage.  Its situation is not unlike the Sacre Coeur in Paris, but being built in the local granite its overall impression was a bit grim.  The views were good though. On the hill behind the basilica lies an old Celtic village, subsequently taken over by the Romans.  The remains of many small round houses surrounded by a Roman fortification were impressive. It was in Viana that we met up with the piece of cod again.  In an earlier blog I had jokingly mentioned the national dish, dried salted cod or Bacalau. Well Viana was holding its annual Bacalau festival. Signs of festivity were everywhere. Garlands and banners, participating restaurants and bars, and the main exhibition hall given over to, surprisingly, a Bacalau exhibition. We could not resist, in spite of the overpowering smell.  We were expecting tasting sessions, but all it consisted of was a sea of people sitting eating set meals at anything up to €80 a head.  No wonder there is a shortage of cod in the UK.  Advertised was a demonstration entitled 1001 ways to cook Bacalau(true).  We did not stop! At Caminha there is a little ferryboat, which carries 15 or so cars at a time over the river to A Guarda in Spain.  At €3.10 for a car and two people it is good value.  We crossed the river and climbed the hill at the other side to the Citania de Santa Tegra, another Celtic village of round houses at the top of a high hill.  Here some of the houses had been reconstructed with thatched roofs.   The views of the river estuary and the coast were wonderful, but even on a hot day there was a cool breeze, so goodness knows what it must have been like in winter.  Those old Celts must have been very hardy! We drove on up the coast to Baiona, at the mouth of the Ria de Viga.  This is a lovely place, guarded by an old fort on a promontory overlooking the wide bay. There is a smart hotel inside the fort but it's possible to walk all round the battlements, with lovely views of the coast and the marina.  Anchored here is an old friend - another replica of the Pinta, one of the three ships that went with Columbus. Having seen where they began their journey, at Palos de la Frontera, we have now seen where one of the ships made landfall on the return voyage.  Imagine the scene on the dockside - "Hi, honey, I'm home!  We've discovered America, and I've brought you back some exotic vegetables, a parrot and a couple of Indians!" Like all the towns up and down this coast, Baiona is a great place for seafood restaurants, and we decided to splash out for once.  (Our usual lunch is bread and cheese, if in the caravan, or a sandwich if we're out.)  We struggled with the menu, and the waiter didn't speak English, so we settled for a mixed seafood platter and wondered what would come.  It was a huge plateful of things with shells, claws, feelers and other nameless appendages.  We've tried and enjoyed many crustaceans in our time, but the dish held two we'd never eaten - razor clams and goose barnacles.  Both proved to be delicious, although they looked ghastly, as did the huge spider crab!  Armed with nothing but a sort of nutcracker, and a nice bottle of Ribeiro, we tucked in.  The mussels, prawns, scallops, crabs and clams were no problem, but we weren't sure what to do with the barnacles.  They looked like an inch-long black rubber tube with a white beak at one end.  We discovered that if you snapped and pulled hard on the beak, a very rude-looking pink tube emerged from the black rubber, squirting you in the face.  But they really were tasty.  By the end of the meal the table was piled high with empty body parts and we were full, but exhausted.  A messy but memorable experience. Once the weekend was over, the campsite became quiet and peaceful again and we spent our days sitting in the sun or walking on the beach.  One morning we went into Caminha and sat at a café in the picturesque main square enjoying a coffee and watching the passing scene.  It was market day and there were some children in national dress manning a couple of stalls,  a crocodile of cute tots from the local nursery school walked by and a tiny, wizened old lady in black sat enjoying the sun.   It felt as if we were seeing the real Portugal and not something out of a holiday guidebook.  However, it was time to move on in the direction of Northern Spain and the ferry home.  Next day we intended to head for Santiago de Compostela, as pilgrims have been doing since the Middle Ages.  Would we be blessed by the saint and earn our scallop shell?  The next blog will reveal all.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1240951800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1240951800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1240951800/tpod.html Tue, 28 Apr 2009 17:07:24 -0400 Round Europe with a caravan - a tale of old age wanderings

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Figueira da Foz, Beiras, Portugal

It's amazing how a bit of sunshine lifts the spirits and makes everything look better! Our new campsite, at Figueira da Foz, on the coast about 125 miles north of Lisbon, was just what we needed.  Set in pine trees behind the dunes, it was peaceful and relaxing, with the distant sound of the Atlantic breakers to lull us to sleep. There was a brand new and very comfortable toilet block, free wi-fi in the bar and just a handful of other campers.  We relished the opportunity to just sit in the sun and listen to the birds.  Even my interest in wildflowers was catered for, as there were wild orchids growing on some of the pitches - they were either woodcock orchids or bee orchids, it was difficult to tell.  (Sorry, I'm being an anorak.)  There was a magnificent, totally deserted beach nearby, with miles of almost white sand, backed by dunes and pine trees.  We loved watching the huge waves breaking on the sand, but of course the water was still far too cold for swimming.   The campsite was actually at Gala, just south of the estuary of the Mondego, so to get to Figueira da Foz it was a short drive across an impressive bridge.  Fig Foz is both a working port and a popular holiday resort, with a long promenade lined with hotels and cafes. It's got one of those beaches that's so deep, it takes about half an hour to actually reach the sea, a bit like Southport, except that the walk is still there even when the tide is in!  To facilitate all this walking it's criss-crossed with long boardwalks and even streetlights, and of course when you do reach the sea it's a lovely blue, unlike Southport! One day we drove the 35 miles to see the ancient city of Coimbra. The town is very hilly and is divided into the low town, where the shops are, and the high town, with its narrow cobbled streets, where there are two cathedrals (the Old Cathedral, 12th century, and the New Cathedral, a mere 17th century), and also the University, founded in 1290, so it's even older than Oxford or Cambridge. The oldest existing university buildings date back to 1540 and were originally part of a royal palace, because Coimbra was for a time the capital of Portugal. They are grouped round three sides of an elegant courtyard, the fourth side of which is a terrace with views over the lower town and the river Mondego. One of the buildings facing the courtyard is the library, an ornate Baroque building full of ancient leather-bound tomes.  The main enemy of old books is insects, bookworms in fact, and the library has a unique means of controlling them - a colony of bats live in the building and come out at night to feed.  The librarian has to cover the tables with cloths before closing, and removes them next morning, to protect the ancient wood from bat poo!   Like all old uni's it has its own bizarre customs.  Instead of halls of residence the students live in communal houses called "republics".  They wear long black capes and decorate these, and their briefcases, with ribbons denoting their faculty - blue for arts, red for law and yellow for medicine. At the end of the academic year they have a ceremony in front of the cathedral where they put the ribbons into cauldrons and set fire to them! The original Roman settlement was called Conimbriga and is a few miles south of Coimbra itself.  I have to confess that I'd never heard of it, but it must have been an important town as the ruins cover an extensive area and include some beautiful mosaic floors in an excellent state of preservation.   Once again we had to admire the Romans' building skills.  The site was very well presented, with an excellent museum, and as an added bonus entry was free because we happened to go on a national holiday, 25th April, the anniversary of Portugal's "Carnation Revolution"! Another site nearby was the castle of Montemore-o-Velho, which looks so exactly like a castle should, it might have been a film set. There is very little left inside the battlements, but the whole place was beautifully maintained with green lawns, flowerbeds and a smart café.  From the walls there were views of the pleasant countryside about, some of which is used for rice paddies.  Portugal seems to be a very fertile country (now we are out of that central plateau), much greener than Spain, with plenty of small-scale agriculture.  During our stay at Fig Foz I faced one of the problems of a protracted stay abroad - having to go to the hairdresser's!  In the past John has suffered some rather bizarre haircuts, due to language problems.  In the end we solved that difficulty by buying electric clippers, and they are so easy to use that I've managed to keep him looking presentable, despite my famous lack of manual dexterity.  My own hair problem is not so easily solved, so I tend to put off getting it cut as long as possible, until it looks a fright.  It wasn't a problem in Spain because the high percentage of expat Brits meant it was easy to find an English-speaking hairdresser, or indeed an actual English one, like the lovely Kenneth in Marbella.  I realised that this is not likely to happen in northern Portugal or Spain, so I bit the bullet and made an appointment at a hairdresser in the local shopping centre.  I can manage maybe a dozen words of Portuguese, none of them hair-related, and her English was pretty limited too, but between us we managed to communicate and I ended up with a reasonable, if alarmingly short, hairstyle. And it only cost 21 euros.  With a bit of luck it won't need doing again until I'm back in England! We've enjoyed our stay here - nice campsite, nice scenery and nice weather.  We're about to move on to Porto, and rain is forecast again!  If we have wet weather there we'll just have to take shelter in the numerous port wine lodges and drown our sorrows!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1240394700/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1240394700/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1240394700/tpod.html Wed, 22 Apr 2009 06:37:03 -0400 Round Europe with a caravan - a tale of old age wanderings

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Lisbon, Estremadura, Portugal

We left Quarteira on 9 April and headed north, through the Alentejo to Evora.  The Alentejo, a vast, rather barren plain, accounts for about one third of Portugal's total land area.  Very little grows here apart from cork oaks and scrubland suitable only for pigs and sheep.  A great effort has been made to irrigate and fertilise this vast tract, with cornfields and vineyards gradually appearing.  As we approached the Tagus valley the land became hillier and wooded and we turned inland towards Evora, an historic city some 100 miles inland from Lisbon.  We had never heard of this beautiful city before reading the guidebooks.  Perhaps we should have done, as its Roman name was Ebora (York is of course Eboracum). York residents reading this should perhaps start lobbying the twinning committee. There are many similarities.  Like York, Evora has a splendid cathedral; a Roman cum Medieval cum 18th century wall around it; pleasant parks with restored old buildings; Roman remains and a first class university.  The campsite was, frustratingly, a mile or two outside.  Too far to walk (if the rest of the day was to be spent walking round the town), but too close to be a proper drive.  Needless to say we drove!  However the view towards the city from the campsite was inspiring, with the cathedral perched on top of a hill almost like a Disneyland palace.  The cathedral was built during the 12th & 13th Centuries, starting off as Romanesque and later finished off as Gothic.  There is a large chancel at the rear built in the 18th century, which anywhere else would be attractive but here unfortunately it does not work. At the side of the church are peaceful Gothic cloisters.  From outside the effect was very French. Close to the cathedral is a very well preserved 1st century temple of Diana, in a square surrounded by beautiful palaces. The narrow hilly streets and Moorish houses between the palaces give the city a very pleasant feel. In another church is the most amazing chapel.  In order to help his monks meditate on the meaning of life and death the abbot raided the city's graveyards and lined the chapel walls with the bones of 5,000 people.  A rather gruesome experience, particularly as many of the skulls were obviously of children.  Needless to say the hypocritical abbot had his own bones hidden in a stone sarcophagus.  Although the city was founded by the Romans, there is evidence of "civilisation" in the countryside around dating to a far earlier time. There are numerous cromlechs and stone circles amongst the cork oaks. The Almendres site is the largest megalithic site in the Iberian peninsular, and at 7,000 years old, one of the oldest in Europe.  Nearby the Cromlech Anta Grande do Zambujeiro is absolutely huge, with stones that make Stonehenge look like Lego bricks.  April 11 was of course our wedding anniversary (39 years, scarily) and we celebrated with a buffet meal in a nice restaurant in the palace by the Temple of Diana.  And this is where the title of this blog comes in.  I had already realised that the Portuguese were great fish eaters, but believed that the staple was sardines or maybe tuna.  No, they are cod eaters. But not cod as we know it, but cod salted and dried.  We had come across this in Barcelona many years ago as a Catalan delicacy, Bacalau.  Here it is more common than bacon and eggs in the UK.  The supermarkets have piles of it, long racks and shelves with these pieces of dried white cardboard.  Customers select their piece and take it to the fish counter where it is cut to size with a guillotine or an electric saw, much as in the UK you would take your piece of timber or melamine to the B&Q timber-cutting department.  People buy huge bags of it.  There are even pre packs at the checkouts, on display with the chewing gum and chocolate.  There are at least 5,000 ways of cooking it, all of which involve pre-soaking for a number of months then boiling for a year or more (or at least that is what it tastes like).  Lesley tried a couple of these dishes on our meal out and declared them delicious.  I did not try it, other than a mouthful of Lesley's.  To me cod should be fresh, dusted with flour and lightly fried, or better still deep fried in batter and served in newspaper.  How anyone can eat and enjoy a piece of cod that is salted and dried is beyond my understanding. While we were at Evora the weather broke.  We have moved far enough north now and are close enough to the Atlantic to be getting the Northern European spring weather, i.e. cold winds and steady rain.  We packed up in the rain and moved west to Lisbon.  To reach Lisbon involves crossing the Tagus, either by the beautiful 25th April Suspension bridge , a mile high traffic jam, or by the 11 mile long Vasco Da Gama bridge.  We chose the latter.  As we crossed it the heavens opened and the rain was so heavy I could not see the end of the bonnet.  To add to the problems a car had spun in the rain and was blocking the fast lane.  What should have been a picturesque approach to Lisbon was a nightmare.  The Michelin guide describes this bridge as "having the illusion of balancing on the Tagus".  On this day it had more of an illusion of being under it!  Miraculously the rain stopped at the other side and we were able to sit in the sun at the campsite.  Little did we know that that would be the last time we would see the sun, or even dry air, for the rest of our stay in Lisbon! I had been looking forward to Lisbon, having seen and read so much about it.  I was very disappointed.  I suppose the weather did not help, and there were some good sights, but the overall impression was of a city down on its luck, rather sad, depressed and a bit tatty.  The Praca do Commercio, which was once the main square in Lisbon, surrounded by Royal Palaces and now surrounded by government buildings, was once regarded as one of the great squares in Europe. Today, with the centre of it dug up and surrounded by hoardings, with the arcades around three sides filled with a cardboard city of the homeless, with a continual traffic jam along the fourth side, it was downright depressing.  A superb archway leads from the square into the main pedestrianised business and shopping area, but the wonderful Pombaline architecture of these streets was showing wear and tear, with rotting window frames and peeling paint.  On street corners were gangs of youths, most perfectly innocuous, but some with evil intent.  Twice Lesley felt the zip of her backpack being opened as she was jostled in the crowd.  On other occasions local people warned us of the perils, and we even had a tram stop beside us and the driver call out to be careful, as he had just spotted a particular gang.  Where were the police?  Who knows?  Frankly it was worse than being back in some of the run down capitals of Eastern Europe. One delight of Lisbon is the public transport system.  It was an easy bus journey from the campsite into the centre, then an excellent inner city network of trams, some modern like Sheffield or Manchester, but many lovely little antique ones, most of which were built in Sheffield. In many capital cities we have visited we have first done the tourist thing and taken an open top bus tour to get our bearings and help decide where to spend time and where to avoid.  Here, because of the weather, that was out of the question.  So we had a two-hour tour in an antique red tram.  Lisbon is a city of hills, and the way the tram climbed up and down these hills with occasional glimpses of the huge suspension bridge we might have been in San Francisco! The wet weather meant that much of our sightseeing was indoors or through wet glasses.  The Chiado Museum, set in the remains of a 13th Century abbey, is an architectural masterpiece, with its few exhibits shown to their best advantage.  Most of the display was devoted to an exhibition of Romanian Avant-Guard Art, quite apt given the state of the city!  The Museu Nacional de Arte Antiga was set in a converted palace, again a masterpiece of interior design.  Here were works by a number of famous masters, including a superb Hieronymus Bosch, but perhaps of greater note were the number of works by "an unknown master".  It must be the largest collection of works by "unknown master" in Europe, if not the world. At the western end of the city is the site of Belem (Portuguese for Bethlehem), the little harbour whence the likes of Vasco Da Gama and Magellan set sail on their epic journeys.  The site is commemorated by the Padrao dos Descobrimentos, a huge monument to the explorers of old, almost communistic in its style.  Just down river is the Torre de Belem, the 16th century tower built in the middle of the river to defend the port.  The earthquake of 1755 altered the course of the river and left the tower high and dry! The architecture is a glorious combination of Romanesque, Gothic, Moorish, Venetian and Manueline. Inland from these two lies the monastery of Jeronimo, another amazing 16th century structure.  Needless to say we saw all these in pouring rain, getting absolutely soaked. Some 20 km west of Lisbon we visited the town of Sintra, where the summer palaces of the king and his court lie. This is a fairy tale town, on the slopes of a hill with a huge Moorish castle at the top. Most of the buildings are palaces, in various states of repair or dilapidation.  We visited the main palace, the Royal palace, and wandered the streets briefly between showers. Another 20km west brought us to Cabo da Roca, the most westerly point of mainland Europe. Here the cliffs fall 400ft to the sea and Atlantic waves crash on the rocks below. It was very much like Pembroke, or the west of Ireland, but for the fact that there were a dozen coaches parked there!  Further south is the resort of Cascais, a very pleasant, quite up-market place with nice beaches and unusual cliff formations, including the Boca de Inferno, a cave (now collapsed) and waterspout frequented by Alistair Crowley.  I am sure that if the weather had been kinder and the campsite better we could have spent more time in Lisbon and the surrounding area, but after four days felt it was time to move on.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1239383400/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1239383400/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1239383400/tpod.html Fri, 10 Apr 2009 13:44:47 -0400 Round Europe with a caravan - a tale of old age wanderings

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Quarteira, Algarve, Portugal

We were sorry to leave El Rocio, which was an excellent campsite.  Toilets with seats and paper, hot water in the washing up and laundry sinks, fresh-baked bread for sale in the bar and a small library in reception - what more could one want?!  The surrounding area was so full of interesting birds - glossy ibis, azure-winged magpies, spoonbills, flamingos, and storks on every pylon, chimney and church tower. They inspired some typical "dad jokes" - is a baby stork called a twig?  And if the stork brings human babies, does a flying human bring baby storks?!   We saw all sorts of unusual flowers, too, including Lusitanian fritillary, birds' nest orchid and tongue orchid. It was time to move on, but we would like to return to El Rocio in the future.  After spending more than three months in Spain and getting used to the language and customs it was a bit of a culture shock to enter Portugal.  The language looks reasonably similar but sounds completely unlike Spanish - more like Russian, in fact, with lots of "sh" and "zh" sounds.  We also had to put our clocks back an hour, so we are now back on UK time. This was in itself confusing, as we had only just put them forward an hour a few days earlier for summer time.   Our campsite was at Quarteira on the Algarve, not far from Faro.The resort itself was not particularly appealing - all concrete and no character - but the coast was lovely.  (We were to find that this pretty much sums up the Algarve: fabulous coastal scenery twinned with charmless over-development. You would think that they would have learnt from the Spanish and their over-development of the Costas a decade earlier). There was a path from the campsite down to an almost-deserted beach backed by a reed-fringed lagoon full of interesting water birds (including red-crested pochards!)   The campsite was large and quite good, though the ablutions were not up to El Rocio standards!  However the weather was glorious and for the first time in 7 months we are in a site with a swimming pool which is open!  Mind you the water is a bit cold so we haven't been brave enough to use it! While we were in this area we took the opportunity to visit my old school friend from Wallasey, Glenys, whom I haven't seen for years.  She and her husband (another John) have lived in Portugal for over 10 years, in a lovely villa in the hills behind Faro. We spent a pleasant few hours on their terrace, enjoying the distant view of the sea and catching up on family news. I had my first-ever caravan holiday with Glenys and her grandma, in 1958 or 9. It was in a field outside Chester - not exactly far from home! - and I can still recall the special calor-gas smell and the soft hiss of the gas mantles at night, which made it seem so cosy.  We used to lie awake in our bunks until the early hours,  telling silly jokes and giggling.  Just like John and I still do!! Although we spent most of our days just sitting in the sun or walking on the beach, we did spend some time exploring the Algarve coast.  Right next door to Quarteira is Vilamoura, a smart resort serving the yachting and golfing crowd. We enjoyed wandering round the large marina and went on a short cruise along the coast, as the interesting cliff and rock formations are best seen from the sea.  It was a very pleasant three-hour trip, but obviously not exotic enough for some modern travellers. One young woman told us afterwards that it wasn't the most exciting trip she'd ever been on.  John replied that it was not as interesting as a trip to the Farne Islands or the Skelligs. She of course could trump that- it turned out the last boat trip she'd been on was off the coast of Canada, and she'd seen several pods of whales!  Perhaps modern travellers are used to such fantastic experiences that they've lost the ability to enjoy the gentler pleasures of life. We also drove along the coast, and found the resorts of Abufeira, Portimao and Lagos to be modern constructions with little appeal except for their fantastic, and very clean, beaches.  However, a kilometre or two east of Albufeira, we liked Praia da Oura, which had plenty of hotels and apartments but still managed to be attractive, and had a fabulous beach with all sorts of amazing rock formations and caves.  It struck us as an ideal place for a family holiday, with rock pools and the kind of sand just perfect for sandcastles.  At Alvor, near Portimao, we found a quiet beach with a small restaurant where we ate delicious grilled sardines.  And just past Lagos we climbed down a steep staircase cut in the cliffs to reach the magical Ponta da Piedade, where for 10 euros you can take a boat trip around, through and into the numerous rock arches, pillars and caves. Imagine Flamborough Head with clear turquoise water, warm sun and golden sand, or Durdle Door with not just one arch but dozens!    We then drove on to Sagres, the most southwesterly point of Europe, where the full force of the Atlantic pounds against the high cliffs and the beaches are a surfer's paradise.  So it's not difficult to avoid the tackiness of the package-holiday Algarve and find spectacular scenery.  Our next stop will be at Evora, far from the sea, mid way between Lisbon and the Spanish border, where we hope to find the kind of historic and architectural heritage that was missing on the southern coast. 
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1238235780/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1238235780/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1238235780/tpod.html Sat, 28 Mar 2009 07:46:59 -0400 Round Europe with a caravan - a tale of old age wanderings

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El Rocio, Andalusia, Spain and Canary Islands

El Puerto de Santa Maria (commonly called El Puerto) is a pleasant little port, not somewhere one would choose for a holiday, but ideally situated between Cadiz and Jerez.  The campsite was clean, spacious, with good facilities and many Brits, Dutch and Germans over-wintering.  It was also very popular with Spanish weekenders, which is not necessarily a good thing.  The Spanish family in the caravan behind us left much to be desired.  Mum and Dad were overweight and tattooed, the two pre-teen kids were obese, whingeing brats and the four dogs (yes four) yapped all the time.  Fortunately they left on Sunday night.  It is sad how a bad neighbour can cloud one's opinion of a site, as otherwise this was a good spot.  On one side of the site was a nature reserve of dunes and pine forest; side two was a quiet road then a lovely sandy beach with palm trees and a view across the bay to Cadiz. Side three was a sports complex, where there were football matches and marching band practices, and to the rear were more woodlands between the site and the town. There was a corporation trimaran ferry service from El Puerto to Cadiz; the terminal just 20 minutes walk from the site and a very pleasant café bar by the terminal to enjoy a coffee and waffle while we waited for the boat.  The crossing was rough! As soon as the boat left the shelter of the harbour it picked up speed and bounced its way over the 5-mile stretch.  The entrance to Cadiz harbour was a bit like the Mersey.  The twin towers of Cadiz cathedral behind the port looked just like the Liver Building from a distance.  We called at the tourist information office to pick up plans of a couple of themed walks through the old town, to be told that the themed walk leaflets are dealt with by the other office.  We went to the other office to be told that they are not printed in English, so we had to use a French version.  The fact that the British stormed, captured and destroyed Cadiz several times in the 16th Century has not been forgotten! The first walk took us around the ramparts, built to prevent the British sacking the town yet again.  The views across the harbour and bay were good.  The ramparts led into a lovely park, not unlike the Tuileries, with specimen trees and shrubs and a monument to the dead at Trafalgar, erected on the 200th anniversary in a gesture of peace between the three nations.  Then on to the Castillo de Santa Catalina, a fine star- shaped castle at the end of town, and the long walkway out to sea to the Castillo de San Sebastian. Between the two is a lovely beach, backed mainly by university buildings.  The students out for their lunch "hour" provided a nice (and attractive) atmosphere.  We lunched in a bar on the prom and had very nice tapas.  Sadly we were told that tapas must be eaten in the bar and could not be taken outside into the sun.  Our walk continued back towards the main town and the medieval quarter, with the Cathedral and other palaces, many of which were undergoing renovation. There was also a large Roman Theatre, said to be the largest in the Iberian Peninsular, which unfortunately was closed.  There was not really a lot to "do" in Cadiz, but it was a very pleasant city to just wander and sit people watching.  Then the boat home was even rougher! This is of course the Sherry region, and El Puerto de Santa Maria is one of the three main production centres.  To be called sherry, or Vino de Jerez, it must be grown and made in the triangle of Jerez, El Puerto and Sanlucar de Barrameda, a small area by wine standards, about 30 km each side. El Puerto hosts several Bodegas, the three most well known perhaps being Osborne, Terry and Caballero.  The Osborne symbol is the silhouette of a bull, the black one seen on so many hills and roundabouts in the region. It should not of course be confused with the other black bull silhouette, the symbol of Spain, which is identical and provides free advertising for Osborne!  We visited the Osborne Bodega, a 20-minute walk from the campsite, where a very nice young lady explained the complex maturation process for sherry. She was wrapped up in her winter clothes and explained to the four of us on her English speaking tour, all in T-shirts, that as far as the Spanish were concerned it was still winter. At the end of the tour we were taken to a table where there were four bottles, one of each of their main types, for us to sample.  More bottles were offered if we wanted.  I was so glad we had walked there.  Needless to say we spent the afternoon sleeping it off! By contrast, on another day, we went to Jerez itself, home of Domecq, Gonzalez Byass, Harvey and Sandeman, amongst others.  We chose Gonzalez Byass, makers of Tio Pepe (Lesley's favourite) and Croft, to which I am rather partial.  This was a far more professional tour, with a little road-train to take us through the gardens (filled with South American specimen trees brought to the site by one of the earlier Mrs Gonzales), past a small vineyard to the distillery, where their brandy is made, to the main Bodega.  The process is identical to all the others, so other gimmicks are used to keep the visitor focussed on the brand. Here there is the "tipsy mouse", where they have set a glass of sherry on the floor with a little ladder for the mouse to climb up, take a sip, then stagger home.  No doubt a number of mice are involved, and it is a strange sight. In another store room are barrels of sherry or brandy signed by famous people, including the Spanish and English royal families, sports stars ranging from Bobby Charlton through Fangio to Rafael Nadal, film stars such as Orson Wells, Jack Nicolson and Steven Spielberg and politicians such as Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher. Pride of place went to one by Picasso, with a little drawing.  The final tasting was a disappointment, with a glass of Tio Pepe and a glass of Croft.  I would far rather have tried one of the other types. (NB - I enjoyed it! - Lesley.) Our tour coincided with the end of a visit by three coach loads of German policemen and their partners.  It was good timing actually, as they had completed their visit and so did not interrupt the "flow". The last part of the visit, before the tasting, was a viewing of the warehouse designed by Eiffel, of tower fame. As well as being interesting architecturally, and interesting for its contents, it was, by coincidence, acoustically excellent, as was proved by the massed voices of the German police choir. Whilst in Jerez we just had to visit the Fundacion Real Escuela Andaluza del Arte Ecuestre, or Andalucian riding school.  Neither of us are horsey types, but this had had such good reports.  It is extremely popular, with two shows a week to a packed house every time.  There were displays of solo riding, where the rider, in traditional Spanish dress and hat, takes his horse round the ring forwards, sideways, backwards, walking, cantering, skipping (a very odd sight) all without a word or apparent instruction.  And all this was done to music, of varying rhythms, with the horse keeping time to the beat. Then several more horses, riding in formation, doing much the same. Two carriages performing complex manoeuvres, riderless horses with their trainers, demonstrating training methods and doing "circus" tricks, and finally ten horses and their riders doing a "musical ride".  It was a fantastic show, worth every penny. We left El Puerto on Friday, before the weekend Spanish invasion, and moved westwards past Seville to El Rocio.  This is an absolutely amazing place.  I doubt if many of you have heard of it, but at Whitsuntide each year up to one million pilgrims arrive to pay their respects to Nuestra Senora del Rocio, yet another incarnation of the Virgin Mary.  In this instance, the Senora is a gilded statue in a comparatively modern church. What makes this pilgrimage so different is the town itself.  Situated in the Donana National Park, 180,000 acres of salt marsh and sand dunes, on the edge of a lake covered in flamingos, it is a stunning sight.  It has grown over the years from a small village to a huge town by the continual addition of hostels built by "Hermanidads", or brotherhoods, from towns all over Spain.  However the town council (if indeed there is one) never got round to building the roads.  Whilst these buildings are set out in a straightforward grid pattern, with shady parks across the centre, all the roads are sand. And whilst on the two main streets this sand is quite firm, elsewhere this is soft dune- like sand.  If you do not have a 4x4 or a horse, steer clear of the side roads.  In fact horses and horse-drawn carriages are the norm.  All the streets have hitching rails along the edge just like the Wild West.  In fact there are even a couple of bars with high tables so riders can catch a swift half without dismounting.  As well as the annual pilgrimage, each Hermanidad has an allotted weekend for a visit.  Each weekend four or five towns will be sending a delegation.  They meet up on Saturday for partying and fireworks.  Horse riders strut round the town doing party tricks on their horses, much like Californian youths might cruise the Strip in their flash cars or young motorcyclists do wheelies in the high street. Then on Sunday they parade through town, many dressed in traditional costume, playing guitars and beating drums, making formal visits to the other visiting Hermanidads, then parading to the church with their banners (not unlike the old Miners' Gala) to be blessed by Nuestra Senora.  Then they parade through town again back to their respective Hermanidads for celebration meals.  Meanwhile Spanish families not part of the Hermanidad will gather in the parks and cook huge communal paellas.  The National Park is also well worth a visit.  Most of it is fenced off to exclude all bar the few who live and work there.  This ensures that it remains a haven for all sorts of wildlife, a lot of which spills over into the parts accessible to the public.  As well as wild boar, red and fallow deer, the European Lynx has one of its last strongholds here.  Soaring above the park are red and black kites, imperial eagles, booted eagles and ospreys, whilst as well as flamingo, spoonbills, stilts and glossy ibis wad in the marshes.  The ubiquitous stork nests on every pylon.  We have had several very pleasant walks in the park, spotting birds and flowers we had not seen before. Seville is just 40 miles away, so we had to have a day trip to see it.  I am so glad we did.  It really is a beautiful city, with the elegance of Paris and the history of Granada. The Moorish influence is still strong, with the Alcazar, or royal palace, not quite as old as the Alhambra but every bit as beautiful The cathedral is immense, the third largest in Europe after St Peters and St Paul's.  Actually, architecturally, it is a bit of a hotchpotch, but impressive nonetheless. The bell tower, which as in so many Andalucian churches, was formerly a minaret, is more famously known as La Giralda, named for the weather vane being held by Faith, the bronze at the top.  We climbed as far as we could, up the sloping ramp within the tower, to the belfry, from which the views were great. 40 miles west of El Rocio, is Huelva, the last major town in Spain before the Portuguese border.  This is a port on the estuary of the Rio Tinto.  Yes, it is that Rio Tinto and it really is red, well, a muck brown colour running through red sands.  Many miles upstream is one of the largest opencast mines in Europe.  The estuary is a mass of oil refineries, complete with the smoke and smell.  However, across the river from Huelva is the little village and monastery of La Rabida, whose abbot financed an exploratory voyage in 1492 by one Cristobal Colon  (how the name translated to Christopher Columbus I do not know).  Replicas of the three ships, Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria, which themselves copied the voyage 500 years later, are moored here, in almost the same spot as they set off from on their epic voyage. The setting does not really do them justice, with the backdrop of petrochemical plants, not unlike the canal boat museum at Ellesmere Port. It was amazing to see how small these boats are.  As Lesley said,  " I wouldn't cross the Mersey in one of those, never mind the Atlantic".  We are staying here in El Rocio for a few more days, partly to see another weekend's festivities but mainly because it is so relaxing here.  It is a lovely site, with all the facilities we need and pleasant company around.  It is amazing how many people we see who we have seen at previous sites.  One couple from near Macclesfield, Ken and Diane, we first met at Oliva, then again at Cuevas Mar near Mojacar.  They moved on to Portugal, and then lo and behold here they are at El Rocio on their way back.  We have had a couple of sessions with them around a glass of wine comparing notes and it is so useful to us amateurs to pick up tips from seasoned travellers such as these.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1237390980/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1237390980/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/oldagetraveller/1/1237390980/tpod.html Wed, 18 Mar 2009 12:09:27 -0400 Round Europe with a caravan - a tale of old age wanderings

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Cádiz, Andalusia, Spain and Canary Islands

As I have been suffering from "writer's block" Lesley has written the last two episodes.  Now I have recovered we can return to the usual cynical and sarcastic pattern.  And there has been plenty to be cynical about of late.  And, fortunately, there has been plenty to enjoy as well. We arrived at Camping Paloma, near Tarifa, in sunshine.  Blue skies, 26 degrees, and wind.  We had expected it to be windy on this coast and we were certainly not disappointed.  In fact, what we had expected was a light breeze compared with what we got.  We stayed for four nights, and all day and night the whole time we were there the wind howled through the site, first from the east, then form the west, then back from the east.  But it was not just the wind; it was the sandstorms the wind generated.  The beaches here are beautiful soft sand, backed by dunes and umbrella pines.  After two days we felt that the entire beach was in and around the caravan.  Everything we touched was gritty.  Everything we ate was gritty.  A beer would dampen a dry throat for just a few minutes before it became parched again.  Only Lawrence of Arabia could have possibly enjoyed it. We did not attempt to put the awning up, but did manage to peg down the groundsheet outside the door to provide a foot stomping area.  Returning from a trip out one day the groundsheet looked to have disappeared.  No, it had not blown away; it was hiding under a new dune.  Not for nothing is this coast the wind surfing and kite surfing centre of Europe. The 10-mile long beach between our campsite and Tarifa is lined with campsites, small hotels and wind surfing schools.  Muscular longhaired surf dudes of all nationalities, but mainly German, abounded.  The hills behind the beach hold Europe's largest density of wind farms, their rotors spinning and roaring, casting giant shadows across the roads and fields.  At one point I did wonder whether these were not really generating electricity but actually generating the wind for the benefit of these surfers. Nevertheless we were determined to enjoy this coast, the eastern end of the Costa de la Luz, which really is beautiful.  The mountains of the eastern side of Andalucia have ended, giving way to rolling countryside not unlike the South Downs, or Dorset, although with a very different flora and fauna.  Fields of cattle are not dairy cows, but long horned bulls and bullocks, bred for beef or for fighting.  Fields of horses ready to be broken in and trained for ranching or bullfighting.  Eagles and vultures soar overhead, while cattle egrets sit in the fields and yes, it's true, on the backs of the cattle.  The olives and almonds of eastern Andalucia have given way to cork oaks, cornfields and the odd vineyard.  The architecture is very Spanish, and it is the buildings of this region that influenced the building in Latin America, with ranches and pueblos that look decidedly Mexican. We had two targets for our stay here (no, after 40 years at work I cannot live without a target).  First, we wanted to see Jebel Tarik, the mountain conquered by the Moors in 711 and held by them for 750 years, only to be ceded to GB 250 years later.  It's name means Tarik's Mountain, and has been corrupted to Gibraltar. Secondly we fancied a day trip to Morocco, Tangier being only 35 minutes away from Tarifa by Hydrofoil. The African coast was clearly visible and so tempting.  Well, only 50% of target met, no bonus this year.  At least I don't have to justify this in my appraisal.  The fact was it was just too windy for the boat, and most sailings were cancelled.  It might have been possible to go on one day, when the wind had dropped to mere hurricane level, but there was a risk that we might have got there and then not been able to return.  So we had to satisfy ourselves with a day out in Gibraltar. I had always imagined Gibraltar to be at the end of the chain of mountains down Andalusia's east coast.  In fact it is a huge rock standing in isolation at the end of a flat peninsula, and you have to travel a good 50 miles inland to get to a mountain.  This only serves to make the rock even more impressive.  The border point was reminiscent of some of the eastern European ones we had crossed.  Lots of guards, queues, barbed wire and railings, customs houses and general chaos.  Then once over the border you hit the airport.  The runway is built east-west across the isthmus and the road into Gibraltar crosses it. When a plane needs to land or take off the road is closed, causing even more chaos at the border.  Then you hit the town.  Gibraltar has a population of about 30,000, squeezed into a strip of land at the base of the rock about 500 yards wide by 2 miles long.  It would seem that each member of the population owns at least three cars.  Every square inch of land is parked upon.  Most cars don't look as if they have moved for months, probably because there is nowhere for them to go.  Every single one of them has at least a dozen scrapes, scratches or dents. Then, because they cannot move their cars, they all whiz around on motor scooters, ignoring all rules of the road. The town itself (I am reluctant to call it a city and its correct title of Self Governing Crown Colony is a bit of a mouthful) is a bit of a dump. The main street, which strangely enough is called "Main Street", is just a collection of electronics shops, jewellers, off-licences, tobacconists and gift/tack shops.  Gibraltar is a tax free zone, so that is what it thrives on.  £6 for a litre of scotch, £8 for a carton of cigarettes. Models of British phone boxes, British Bobbies, and of course thousands of toy monkeys.  There is a Marks & Sparks and a BHS, so we had hoped to stock up on a few clothing items, but the range was limited and, strangely, the prices were astronomical! What was awe-inspiring was the rock itself.  We had intended to go up it by cable car, but we were thwarted by the fact that we could not park and the fact that the cable car was broken anyway.  So we spent the best part of £20 on the toll road up the side of the rock.  Money well spent and great value. The narrow winding road provides fantastic views over the bay to Algeciras, over the airport to the Costa del Sol and over the Straits to Africa.  Half way along the route we stopped at St Michael's Cave, which is really a bog-standard limestone cave, stalactites and stalagmites abounding with the usual shapes and names.  However there is a large central cave, which was used as a hospital during the war and is now a concert hall. A little known fact is that eight years before the discovery of that famous 60,000-year-old male skeleton in the Neander valley a similarly aged female skeleton was found in these caves.  If the reports had been publicised quicker then we would never have heard of or used the term Neanderthal man, it would have been Gibraltar woman! Outside the caves we knew for certain we were on British soil.  We had a coffee in the café there.  Dirty tables, weak coffee, long life muffins and an out of order toilet.  Home sweet home. What was not like the UK though was the wildlife.  The Barbary apes, which are actually tailless monkeys and should be called Barbary Macaques, are all around, jumping onto the roofs of cars and buses, swinging from the wing mirrors and grabbing for food.  Not unlike a safari park actually, so perhaps we were still in the UK after all.  Further down the road was the Apes' Den, where their "official" feeding station is.  The mothers and their babes were fascinating, and almost human in their expressions. The adult males were strutting around either looking for a fight or doing what many testosterone charged males of the species do. One of them looked very much the worse for wear, with nasty scratches across his shoulders. There was no way of telling which of his activities had lead to the injuries.  Needless to say plenty of photos were taken.       At the landward end of the rock are the "Great Siege Tunnels", built by the British army in the late 18th century and extended during World War 2. From the embrasures the cannons pointed up the coast and out to sea.  The views were excellent.  Then nearby is the Moorish castle, whose tower has survived 700 years of sieges by Spanish, Moorish and British and German armies and navies and also generations of tourists. We had heard many good reports of the Costa De La Luz, which is the correct name for this windy corner of Spain, so we set out to explore the coast westwards from the campsite.  Quite close to the site were the ruins of Baelo Claudia, a Roman city and fish-salting base from the second century BC.  About 2,000 people lived here and they were provided with a basilica, a theatre, a forum, a market, a thermal baths and four temples.  These days they would be lucky even to get a post office.  The ruins were nicely excavated and displayed and it was easy to imagine how it would have looked in its heyday. Its position, on a beautiful sandy beach backed by umbrella pines, was delightful. Further up the coast we went through Vejer, an amazing town of whitewashed buildings and narrow alleys perched on the top of a hill, and then down to the coast to see Cape Trafalgar.  It was hard to imagine how the two bays either side of the cape would have looked at the time of the battle, filled with the British sailing ships, hemmed in by the larger Spanish and French fleets. According to the historic sign here the reason that we won was that the French commander, Villeneuve, who had the British trapped, decided that his fleets should turn around and be ready to sail back to Cadiz as soon as the battle was over.  It was while they were carrying out this manoeuvre that Nelson was able to attack and rout the other two fleets.  We are all taught history from the point of view of our own country.  We learned at school that Nelson won the battle of Trafalgar.  The Spanish are obviously taught that the French lost it for them. Nelson, of course, lost his life and his body was shipped back to England pickled in brandy.  Most of the others who died are buried in a nice little graveyard, which we saw, by the city walls in Gibraltar.  I am not sure if Villeneuve survived.  Perhaps he fled to Canada in shame to found a family of racing drivers. After four nights in Tarifa we had had enough of the wind and sand and decided to move on.  We felt there was a lot to see in the Cadiz/Jerez area, so we moved to a site at El Puerto de Santa Maria, which is New Brighton to Cadiz's Liverpool, only smarter and sunnier.  It is a pleasant site, with excellent facilities and showers that Lesley is able to operate.  More of this in the next edition..............
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