Travels in the Van 2023
Richard has planned a route. He does it so well, both the journey and the bike routes. We pondered yesterday (with four days till D day) whether it's more exciting to know the delights in store or to experience it in the moment. I decide I’ll go for the mystery tour experience. Each day there will be unexpected little mysteries to ponder and read up about afterwards. I like it that way around - experience it first, read up about it later.
When is it time to prepare for an eight week van and bike trip? Three days is usually enough for a shorter trip, but a January start after a long wet autumn needs more vehicle prep. There is mental preparation in the actual slow packing. The cycling clothes quota is one shopping bag each and a bag for gear. Trying to keep the off-bike clothing reasonable, one shopping bag each is the aim. I always take too much. Two outfits should be sufficient, one comfy and one to dress up for the odd expensive restaurant. But that's not mentally possible though. It's the changing weather, the layers necessary for extremes. I'm an old hand by now but it doesn't get easier - I will inevitably take too much.
First week
January 13th-21st
Travelling in a camper van means we can run away from bad weather and change plans as we go, so we headed south after a rough crossing, to Lisboa where we’ve spent the week. The wooded campsite is in a big national park close to the city. It’s huge and in the summer full of families around the pool and the park farm. In winter it’s quiet. We’ve made friends with the Campsite cats, the donkey, goats, potbelly, pig, chickens, and one sheep. It’s the perfect place for the other joy – exploring the city and the park by bike. City cycling is not for the faint hearted, tramlines and cobbles add to the usual hazards but it’s great for food-market hopping and sightseeing. We can move quickly, see backstreets and get the views that other tourists wouldn’t see. Catching a train with a bike is easy here. We’ve headed west to Sintra and cycled back along the coast.
That’s the digest. For more detail read on.
Go, go, go
Friday 13th Jan (I know!)
I've never felt so prepared for a trip or an adventure. Setting off from home after days of rain, we pass swollen rivers and flooded fields and wind our way through fairytale ancient villages and ugly sister roundabout towns of Southern England. A minor electrical fault diverts us to Poole, where cheery staff at the VW garage are helpful and enthusiastic, without actually fixing the problem. I also drop and leave behind the only lipstick I’ve brought with me - a hard to find make and colour. If you have ever done this you’ll understand. If not, let’s move on. I resolve to make do for now and add this to the list of things to deal with when the 32 hour ferry voyage/ordeal is done. Once aboard, there is a sense of foreboding (I muse again whether it's better to know what is coming, by looking at the ‘weather & radar app’ or take each experience as it comes) in the comfort of the club lounge with endless food and wine available. I wonder if this time tomorrow, in the bay of Biscay, we’ll all be quite as eager.
All at Sea.
Breakfast - there are fewer of us and it's hard to move around as the tannoy warns us all to be careful. The staff are totally unflappable and show no emotion as cups and plates slide off tables onto the floor. I'm blessed with a cast iron stomach and sea legs and able to get through the day by eating little and often and doing yogic breathing with the rolling and the crashing. The waves are pretty impressive, breaking over the bow and hitting the windows dramatically every now and then. Richard turns green and sensibly sleeps through it. It's an ordeal but no one dies (as far as I know).
Zamora
Sunday 15th Jan
It's good to get off the ferry and start the journey south-west. The weather forecast causes us to review our plans, so we drive, keeping ahead and out of reach of gales and rain, taking it in turns on open, empty Sunday motorways. We see more from a van, than a car, of the terrain and countryside around us. We stop for coffee in view of Los Picos d’Europa, and pass the glorious Las Merces, a peculiar outcrop of fantastical rocks look like giant bulls and Mushrooms. We stop in Zamora on the Douro, in an empty municipal campervan site right on the river. It's mid afternoon so we ride out along the river to a muddy nature reserve and see our first storks in their nests. The sun lasts while we climb up to the old town to the impressive castle above the town where are friendly custodian minds our bikes and urges us up the ramparts for the view. It feels very sleepy even for Sunday out of season, but once again we learn the hard way that nowhere really opens until after 8 pm for supper. Patience means we strike lucky and sleep well after a good meal. We’re joined by a couple more vans and it’s comforting to be in a pack who also think it's safe to park by the river, especially when the wind howls and the rain falls in the night. But the already flooded Douro takes in the rain without a fuss.
The only dark cloud is it uncharacteristically careless about my cycling glasses (prescription, very focal, reactive light – very expensive) I don't put them back in the case before out of the boot both arms snap off another item to add to the fixes needing needed during the trip it's I'm seeing it as a quest.
The Border
Monday 16th Jan
From the open planes of Spain to the rocky, deep valleys and ridges of Portugal, crossing the border is quite dramatic. We alternate the driving and the playlist. Portuguese road signs are bright primary colours, red, blue and yellow. I listen to a video of Portuguese pronunciation to try and get a feel for it and a little sticks. The temperature rose from 8 to 15 degrees as we drove. It's a long haul to Lisbon and we’re tired from interpreting and negotiating the motorway junctions when we arrive at the Lisboa camping site in a big woody park on a hill with reasonable facilities in the Monsanto National Park. It’s still blustery as expected and will be all week. It’s good to park up properly and re-organise the van.
Quest update: the three problems on my list are sorted.
1 - Lidl middle aisle miraculously has 12 V USB chargers, temporarily solving our electrical fault well enough.
2 - Amazon delivers a replacement lipstick to Sam at home, who will bring it with him when he joins us
3 - my glasses, on close inspection has arms that are designed to snap off in a fall have snapped back on again! hurrah!
Van Life & some mysteries
Tuesday 17th Jan
Thank God for yoga for travelling on YouTube - my morning routine is re-established with campsite cats for company. After a leisurely start of the day we cycle into Lisboa in sunshine. We take a route up through the woods and I see a small blue cone as we go and wonder what it is. It's lively and there are cycle routes, my route master (Richard) also knows where he's going, having done the prep and having a 1st class sense of direction. We aim for the magnificent MAAT Museum of Art, Architecture and Technology walkway bridge to the waterfront and to the Food Market. There is evidence of a lively visual culture and industry all around. The Market is Interesting, through the door you turn right for traditional fresh provisions and left for a trendy food hall, very popular everywhere now. It's buzzing with middle-class Portuguese and visitors from everywhere. The food is great and the prices gastronomic. We share a few dishes and a beer and head off again in warm sunshine and brief showers. The cycle route back to our temporary home is epic, through the city, skirting monuments, back streets, housing estates and the motorway, seeing things visitors would never see other than by bike.
Blue Thing
On the path as I cycled today
amongst the windfall twigs branches and leaves
all unusual to me in this foreign place
was a very small, powdery blue conical thing
I just caught its shape and size
and that startling colour as I rode past
and then I looked for others
I wished I had stopped and picked it up
and then I saw the same shapes – brown and wet, and spent.
So it was real, that beautiful blue thing I saw.
(Update: it’s a eucalyptus seedpod, the campsites full of them!!)
A new feature of the campsite experience: a donkey a sheep, some pigmy goats, a pot bellied pig and some chickens in an enclosure right behind our van.
When your friends smell.
As soon as we arrive a little cat appears
meows and beseeches us for some food.
She is black with white bits
her tail like a magic wand with a tiny white tip
She’s a campsite cat we decide
and so is her brother all black and sleek but not as cheeky
There’s a mother cat too and then another tortoiseshell
They all have a corner snipped off one ear.
As soon as we get back today from a bike ride
a donkey, a sheep, a few pygmy goats and some chickens
are foraging on a little hillock just behind us
they come to say óla
I stroke the donkey’s velvety nose through the fence and greet the goat.
I wonder if the others like his goaty smell as much as I do
Sintra
Wednesday 18th Jan
A fairytale town reached by train. The people we meet and deal with a friendly and helpful especially at the train station - they seem to like bikes in Portugal. We climb through breathtaking mossy woodland with giant boulders with kamikaze Tuk-tuks and taxis hurtling past, taking tourists around the sights – imagine what it must be like in high season. We visit Palacio de Pena, a Gothic Royal castle with beautiful tiles and eclectic interiors, guarded by officious staff. We cycle back along the coast in the sun and make french toast for supper in the van, which is a first.
City cycling
Thursday 19th Jan
We leave the campsite on a different route to the city, and stop at the astounding Mirador de Monsanto. Once a triumph of modernist architecture and an exclusive restaurant the Observatory with stunning views is now a shell of a building turned over to street artists by the city council. It’s eerie and deserted and well worth the visit. A clever move to make it an alternative tourist attraction while it disintegrates.
Now veterans of tramline and cobbles cycling, we find another food market and have fantastic steak and wedges as a perfect reward. A flat tire is cheerfully mended by a local bike shop we have the wrong allen keys in the wrong bag. Open and up and down tall of small streets and terraces English folk singers outside the castle walls and a trip back along the seawall. We watch boats sailing against the tide from the cafe terrace of the MAAT building we walked across at the start of the week.
Back to Sintra
Friday 20th Jan
Back and fore on the train to cycle up into the clouds. We stop and have whatever the dish of the day is in a small village café - tripe & chickpea stew. Hmm.
Last day in Lisboa
Saturday 21st Jan
It’s sunny as I sit outside the campsite launderette writing up the week. It’s time to move on. Before we do there’s one last ride to the city. We’ve decided to do our own food tour returning to a couple of favourite spots and to the LX Factory Cantina where the service is painfully slow but the simple food worth waiting for. A farmers’ market is full of Saturday family outings. It has the usual honey, chutneys and crafts, though no one seems to be buying much. We’re tempted to follow the guy who’s cycling round the square with a boom box playing quite tasteful music, he seems to be performing a public service and deserves some followers. The late afternoon light fades and the early evening life changes. There are sirens and chants coming from somewhere as we head back through the City to the hill, it’s an animal rights demonstration, clearly popular in Portugal as in Spain last spring. The traffic is a bit more manic and we’re kept on our toes to find the route home. My bike front light battery gives out half way home which adds a surreal element, especially the final sprint through the woods back o the safety of the van.
Mysteries of a campsite in winter.
We are allocated a pitch in the 80% empty campsite. The short walk to the toilet block poses a couple of mysteries. Whose cats come to great us noisily? They’re clearly a family, each one with a snipped ear. Are they the campsite cats?
The first two caravans next to us are Portuguese and look permanent. Both topped with tarpaulins, the additional extensions and extra tents weathered and worn make them look abandoned to the elements. The cats seem to congregate under the first one. But as darkness falls there’s no sign of lights through the cracks. There is faintly from the second van, and there’s a car parked outside, but there are no tell-tale cat food trays outside this one.
Next, there’s a German campervan, a disability aid by the door. I met the woman in the toilet block one morning and we greet with an esperanto mix of words. They’re gone in a few days.
Fourth pitch, right next to the toilet block is a large campervan with a Finnish number plate. This is the most mysterious of all. Over a couple of days, it’s noticeable that the inhabitant never leaves - the bike outside does not change position. When we are back from a ride each day, he’s there in the van, TV on - hockey matches, and an iPad set up on the table, the captain seat turned in from the front of the van. And so it goes, as we wash the dishes, take a shower, even late-night toilet visits - he still there, watching the hockey. We muse on what he’s doing on the computer all day.
I wonder at the off-season rhythm of life of this on this campsite. There’s no difference in this way of life to living in a room in town I suppose. We’re there six nights. One evening, the fifth, his lights are on, but he’s not home. There’s laughter and rock music blaring from the van down on the next row. It’s dark but I can just about see the people sat in the awning. They’re still partying at 1.30 am. Next morning in daylight, I see that the caravan also has a Finnish numberplate. The Finns clearly know how to party.
The last night before leave I’ve stopped wondering and worrying about who’s feeding the cats. there’s a car next door. Side lights on and a man picking herbs from the ‘garden’ around the van. There’s a cat saying hello. And then he’s gone. Then it’s our turn to leave. Campsite mysteries are left behind.
Sunday 21st Jan
“Look up there!” I say, as a fortress town appears to the right of the motorway as I am driving. The first ridge in an otherwise flat terrain.
“The storks nests?” he says.
I’ve missed them.
“On the pylons” he says.
Then I notice the pylons. So many of them - the cheerleader type. No stork nests for the next few kilometres, all I can see are pylons. There are hundreds of them. Just when I’ve forgotten about the storks nests, there they are, clustered five or six on each pylon, and then abruptly they stop again. What makes them choose those particular pylons? Again after some distance, another cluster of pylons with storks and it occurs to me that we’re crossing rivers flowing underneath the motorway.
When it’s his turn to drive, I search on my phone for ‘storks nests on pylons in Portugal’ and it’s all there - the data, the research, all kinds of facts and figures about the phenomenon.
It's a thing. Mystery solved.
"Are there storks in the UK?" he asks.
I look.
" The bad news: We ate them all, 600 years ago. The good news: they're coming back"
Out of season Vila Nova De Milfontes, apparently one of the most popular tourist spots on the south west Atlantic coast is our next stop. It’s been cold in Lisboa so the sunshine is welcome. The approach to the old fishing port town town is by a series of straight new roads and roundabouts, past open fields, some cows here and there. What is unexpected as we get closer are the groups of three or four Indian young men walking a fair distance to and from town. A lot of them. I think I must be mistaken, it makes more sense for them to be North African. Those coming away are carrying shopping bags and all are cheerful. As we explore later from the campsite and cycle through town to the coast, I can see that they are mostly Indian, some wearing smart sportswear, sitting, enjoying the sunny Sunday afternoon, mainly on their phones, speaking to family I’m guessing. After a ride along the coast, abandoning the coastal path which proves too sandy to navigate, back in Villanova we find a busy cafeteria full of Portuguese families and weekend visitors. The Portuguese men look weather-beaten, as those working on boats often do. There seems to be very little integration.
Curious, I look up ‘Indian workforce in Vila Nova De Milfontes’. And there it is. These are seasonal agricultural labourers from India, Nepal, Thailand, Pakistan, Bulgaria. Mostly young men, but some families too, invited into work in the region’s big agribusinesses, which are more visible once we get out on our bikes. There are not enough workers locally to meet the demand. Berries are the main crops, blueberries, raspberries and strawberries. The more I read the more I understand, I can see that this is not a bad place to work, although there is exploitation and unscrupulous middlemen around. And variable housing conditions. We see them at the end of the day walking from miles back from back to the accommodation and make a point of greeting them as we cycle by over the following days. It’s a complex relationship with a local population. There are positive stories of evening language classes in schools which are very popular and some integration across culturally between children. But they often move on. An effort is being made to address welfare and other concerns or am I looking through rose tinted glasses.
Monday 23rd January
Before we move on we spend an afternoon on a cross country adventure. The idea was to cycle around the upper reaches of the estuary which proved impenetrable eventually. No Ordnance Survey mapped footpaths and bridleways here, and the combination of sand, rocks, marshland and mud, a herd of goats, a herd of too frisky cows and a rather cross, persistent, lone goat-dog halt our progress. Eventually a friendly Shepherd points us back to where we’ve come from. Just as well, as cross country cycling is very physical and exhausting. We made it back in time for a late lunch in a great fish restaurant right on the Atlantic Coast.
Next top Zambujeira. We arrive after dark and hopefully chose the right pitch. It’s been sunny but there’s a nip in the shade that reminds us it’s January. It’s very well kept there and more camper vans from all over and more cheery hellos, Bom Dias etc.
Today was meant to be a rest day so we washed bikes after yesterday‘s cross-country yomp, then can’t resist a mad dash to watch the sunset at the most western point of Portugal we can find nearby, Farol do Cabo Sardão. We’ve struck a rhythm that works well for a long haul trip this time of year: later starts (we’d usually be on the road by 9am or earlier for a day of riding in summer) and shorter rides 20 to 25 miles instead of 50 to 60. The bikes are working out well too. It was a good call to only bring gravel bikes and I can tell that my fitness is improving by the amount of time I need to engage the e-function on mine.
Wednesday 25th January
On the down side, the camping gaz has run out and it’s proving difficult to replace. So after today’s lovely trail ride we’re sat in the bar/restaurant/lounge with a roaring log fire fire drinking machine hot chocolate with the campsite cat curled up on my lap… and if that’s not enough, the nice barman has just found the Man U game for Richard. We’re the only ones here.
Cooking in the van
Cooking in the van successfully needs a bit of prep. Knowing where you’ve stowed things as once the table is up, it’s hard to get things from the depths of the cupboards underneath, or open the cutlery drawer. It’s also strange getting used to the sedentary nature of it. The whole operation works best when there are two of you one each side of the table, one cooking, one dealing with the fetching and carrying, passing things, and the same rules as at home apply; whoever is cooking doesn’t do the washing up.
Favourites so far:
French toast with Parmesan
Chicken with broccoli, chorizo, sliced mushrooms, garlic, red peppers, garlic olive oil
And the go to favourite when we’re tired,
Packet rice, tuna with chilli, raw onion, tinned sweetcorn +/_ packet lentils.
Thursday 26th January
this all works well but there's chaos after a few days on a campsite, where things get chucked around. When the bikes are on the back access to the storage underneath is impossible, so the bags have to be strategically placed so anything we might need is accessible from the back seat. I have now relegated all the clothes I haven't been wearing to a back underneath, they'll probably come home unworn, but there's still time for warmer weather, as the weeks progress, to bring them out from the over packing bag of shame.
Week Three
Campsite hopping and cycling
Saturday 28th of January
We’re headed into the mountains above Monchique, to the cutest little campsite with the promise of good cycling and hot showers. It has one single line of pitches on a curved terrace overlooking the valley. It’s idyllic. Very pretty, simple and beautifully kept, a small immaculately clean pool (freezing) and the hottest showers we’ve had so far.
We head off for a sunny climb on tarmac roads and see azure winged magpies and what I think was a mongoose. We stop at the Velochique café in town for a late lunch before Richard heads off for one more climb and I find my way back to the van. We feast on three bean Chili and rice with all the right spices.
After dark, there is an unexpected knock on the van door, this has never happened before.
"Excuse us"
There are two German men outside. I recognise them as the couple from Zambujeira. I had a conversation while I was cleaning my bike .
"Hello, we’ve met before" I say
it seems they can’t find a way to gain entry to the mountain campsite. There is a barrier down, which we hadn’t noticed earlier on arrival. The elderly French Patron didn’t mention it. The reception cabin is locked and the phone is just ringing out.
"Did they give you an access card? or is it number plate recognition"
It’s not that kind of place, they don’t even take debit cards. We go and have a look with them and then escalate it to an international incident by knocking on the Dutch van, who we think has been here longest. We’re unable to solve it and wish them good night as they head back off into the darkness. The morning brings the news at the campsite is 'Fermé' at 7pm. We all wonder how we get out in an emergency…
Sunday 29th January
Marmelete
After city cycling and trail rides, we are now on Mountain loops with climbs and descent on roads free of traffic.
This is a favourite. Deep in nature, blue skies, wildlife and sunshine. There’s something timeless about the scenery. I love seeing human habitation in all its ingenuity some of it clearly there for hundreds of years.
There are typical single storey Portuguese dwellings, with square windows and bold borders, the tiled roofs almost merging lean-to against the rock face of the valley. Some of them remind me of the Welsh longhouses with room for humans and animals. It’s so isolated out here. Then there are the incomers living an alternative lifestyle.
Out cycling,we’re always on the lookout for a coffee stop. As we come down from a descent, there’s a shack at a junction just below some campervan/benders that are permanently parked and a couple of dogs off leads who ignore us.. The word café is just visible on the faded sign and we take a chance. There are voices from inside the murky interior, German and Portuguese. A loping, middle-aged old style hippy is talking loudly, in cigarette gravelly English, to a German man who's attire has more of a golf club vibe. Behind the counter is a capable, smiling woman, a bit grubby around the edges, who is very welcoming and brings us strong coffee, which we sip on plastic chairs outside.
There’s a dog in a van, which must belong to the golfer who is leaving it to walk down the road a bit on the hippy's instruction. He barks furiously at being left behind, which brings a comedy duo of dogs to investigate from the benders above. To add to the Wild West vibe of the place, the bender owner strolls down into the saloon, all jeans and silver buckles. Half cowboy, half rockstar. The entire scene and all the characters look like they’ve come straight from central casting including the dogs.
Imagine the horror on return from this long bike ride, expecting a hot shower...more than that, the thought of a hot shower has kept me going, to find that the boiler is broken. It’s 5 o’clock, but luckily Le Patron is still here and heroically fixes it. Relief all round.
Monday 30th January
We’re definitely campsite hopping to position ourselves for the next ride up to a reservoir, and head to another small, cute campsite in Figueres. It’s almost full, quite cramped, and as usual, almost everyone has bigger vans the us. There is a such a sociable French contingent and it reminds me of market day.
The matriarch of the French is a friendly, cheerfully loud woman, who immediately inducts me into the workings of the washing machine, despite the instructions being in English. I feel affectionate towards her, she reminds me of my beloved French aunt. The men stand around and she is in charge. There are 2 UK vans with jolly, genial occupants. One tells me confidentially which the most desirable pitches are, they get the most sun, and if you're quick when someone leaves the proprietor will let you move. The pitch next to theirs will be free in the morning. This is the first time I’ve been aware of pitch hierarchy/envy. The campsite is very animated next morning with an exodus of vans. The French are moving out, save the matriarch and husband who promptly move pitch. There is now plenty of space and the sun shines on us as we breakfast. It’s time to move on anyway. Before we leave this village square of a place, I once again feel like an eccentric Brit doing my seven minute workout and yoga behind the back of the van, there being nowhere more discreet. Richard goes for a run. Everyone has bikes with them but we're the only ones 'carry on camping'
Tuesday 31st January - Terra Yah
It’s not sign posted at all, as all of the other remote campsites have been. Each road we turn down,following Google Maps gets rougher and rougher, the last being a rutted and stoney mud track. On Google Earth, there’s not much to see either, but it’s clearly marked and has good reviews and ratings. There is a private sign in Portuguese and eventually a clearing with a few shacks, quite a lot of debris and a couple of Portuguese flags flying high. At least there’s a turning space if we need to leave.
There is a man sitting on a sofa in the biggest open-faced shack. He sees us but doesn’t move. Three or four dogs come running out, interested rather than aggressive. We hold out ground in the van. A woman comes down the path from a cabin higher up. So I step out of the van and ask my usual opening question "do you speak English?"
"A bit" which will do and yes, this is a park for the night place, with toilets and a shower. 7€ a night 2€ for the shower We knew there was no electrical hook-up but I can charge my bike up there too in one of the shacks, as long as I do it before sundown as the electricity is solar powered.
The pitches are in vast scrubland. There a couple of others vans there. There is no discernible layout, but we walk down the small path with Bella and the dogs and it all makes more sense. There’s a little toilet hut and we drive around following her instructions and set up camp. It’s delightful, idyllic, unspoilt. The whole place is solar powered, the toilets is a compost one and immaculate. As we have lunch we hear a snoring noise from a copse of trees. There’s another encampment there, with two black boars sunbathing contentedly.
All we can hear is birds, a dog in the distance and piggy grunts. It’s perfect.
There's a definite Wild West feel about some of these places in South west Portugal. Tumbleweed villages, unmade roads, old and new cheek by jowl. The nearest village to the remote campsite Barão d São João, is an acknowledged hippy colony it transpires. It used to host the best monthly flea market in the Algarve. Where artists and other European alternative-lifestylers sold their Craftwork and secondhand clothes. No longer. It seems to have fizzled out in 2019 (Covid related?) But as we cycle through after a short ride to the coast and a blast through Praia de Luz, infamous now since the disappearance of Maddie McCann, and stop for a beer, the vibe lingers.
There’s a busy bar, with a collection of what could be called Bohemian, or less kindly Crusty, customers outside it. We sit on a bench, aware that, as cyclists, we don’t quite fit In (but not as badly as when asked by some London geezers and they loved-up girlfriend in Glastonbury festival in 1997, the rainy one, if we were born again Christians - I like to think it was the kagools and wellies). There’s a crash and the sound of a glass from across the street as a table and chair go flying. Portuguese inhabitants look out to see what the noise is. An old bloke from Wolverhampton by the sound of it and very drunk/stoned younger Portuguese woman spill ou and have a vicious argument in English in the middle of the street. The gist of it is that she wants €50 and he says he hasn’t got it, over and over again and that she'll have to find someone else. It almost comes to blows. He calls her everything…makes to walk off, and then, instead of walking away, he goes back into the bar. She sits outside, on her phone. And when he comes out with a beer she says "where's mine" and he buys her another drink.
Wednesday February 1st
Sagres
We head to the coast swapping eco hippies for the surfing kind. Campsites have on line ratings, word of mouth reputations and then the actual experience. This large coastal site caters for the surfers in the summer, has a surf school on site, closed for the winter. We're on the edge of mainland europe and blast out to the Lighthouse and visit the fort of Henry the Navigator, which is a fantastic bit of architecture and engineering.
Thursday February 2nd
I thought my shower bag technique was faultless, but after we leave in the van the following morning to get an early start on a long cycle route up the coast back to Aljezur, I notice that I have lost the clothes I was wearing before the shower. I've emptied the van twice, phoned the campsite, used all the techniques I use successfully when other people loose things to no avail. I am now short of the only shortsleeve T-shirt I brought, the sleeveless black T-shirt dress I wear every day, and a Santini cycling jersey I've worn everyday - which I bought in Italy. Richard has kindly said I can have his identical one (I think that's what he said!) which is at home. I hate losing things, my memory of lost things goes back years.
The ride is however a compensation. Cycling route one (which goes all the way to Norway apparently) through farmland on dirt roads and along the ridge above the coast. At one point we leave route one and descend to the sea to a surfers beach that only those with 4 wheel drive and nerves of steel can get too. It's too steep to cycle down ( for me) and too steep for both of us to cycle up - I can't even push my bike in parts! but we make it. The views are worth it, so is lunch in Aljezur. We make it to a busy campsite in Alvor for the night.
Friday February 3rd
Alvor
A rest day. Friday has become dentist visit day for Richard, still niggly, and Blog catch-up day for me. We meet some of the other travellers from previous sites, and get the washing done. It's good to connect with people back home on WhatsApp, while we wait for Sam and Daniela's arrival and our maritime leg to begin in the morning.
Cycling
Cycling everyday feels good, and I'm getting more confident on roughish surfaces, but also more accepting of the necessity to get off and walk when it doesn't feel safe. The routes we're doing are quite challenging enough and just the right distance. Bike maintenance is also going to be part of the routine in the weeks ahead to keep the sand and grit at bay. This week I fitted a kick-stand to my bike so that I no longer need to find something to lean it up against out in the wilds on on coffee stops!.
Saturday 4th of February
Week 4
It's time to meet Sam on his 35th birthday in Portimão Marina. I was brought up sailing, although I don't think I've been on a yacht since 2012. This one is bigger and broader in the beam than I'm used to and the layout is very comfortable. It feels more luxurious and spacious than the van. I've been wondering how this will go. Sam’s the skipper and needs to take charge of us all, Daniela his feisty girlfriend and his (insert your own adjective) parents.
We start with a safety briefing and then deck skills. Richard plays the disruptor and I play teachers pet. Daniela does all the knots and rope skills perfectly. The aim of this first short sail is to leave and return to the mooring without hitting anything, with all crew members still on board, and to drop the anchor (it's just been refurbished by the owners) to test it out. There's not much wind so we’ll be happy with nailing these basic manoeuvres.
We've all listened well, work well as a team and head out, without a hitch - lines and fenders stowed, into the Atlantic.
It's a bit more breezy out of port and the captain declares that we’ll raise the mainsail and cut the engine. But we can still go faster than this, so we raise the gib too. It's great to be out on the sea again and brings back so many memories, of Lynn, of holidays in Ireland, of being a teenager. On the way back in we drop anchor just inside the port entrance and eat birthday lemon tart that Daniela has made, which travelled with out mishap all the way from Paris.
Sam has passed his ordeal by parent crew with flying colours. I'm particularly impressed with the ‘reversing into the berth’ procedure. Outwardly he's as cool as a cucumber, but as we all high-five, once he's satisfied with the mooring lines, he breathes a sigh of relief and the maiden voyage is declared a success. I'm so pleased for us all.
A tale of two restaurants and Portuguese taxi drivers.
We've been well looked after all evening and appreciate this insight into these lives.
Sunday 5th February
The following day we sail to Benagil caves along the coast. We make good progress there, but hopes of a sheltered anchorage for lunch are dashed by a rolling swell which puts us off lunch altogether. Back in the marina we recover in time for the finale of Happy Valley and all sleep well.
Monday 6th of February
It's Richard's birthday today. Sam and Daniela head for the mountains in search of Medronho, before her flight back, and Richard and I head to Silves by bike for lunch. We cycle on a track through vineyards along the river in the footsteps of the Romans, the peace only disturbed by the squealing from my front disc break and the rhythmic grind from Richards back wheel. Silves and Lagoa are well worth the ride. We stop twice for coffee and then lunch. The bikes have taken a hammering the last few weeks and are full of grit and sand, so we take a detour to the best bike shop in the region and drop them off for some TLC. As we cycle through we come across the now legendary sardine factory chimneys, new development springing up all around - the storks of Ferragudo totally totally disinterested in ‘progress’.
Ferragudo is also where the second birthday meal of the week is at Borda do Cais, a fish restaurant (another one of Sam’s haunts) right on this little fishing port’s quay. During high season the five waiters, four kitchen staff and fish chef would be run off their feet. Tonight they are overattentive but old-school amiable and quite funny, topping up our wine and water maybe a dozen times. The fish, a large snapper shared between the three of us, is expertly boned at the table and delicious, as is the Algarveian desert of almonds, carob and honey washed down with tawny port.
Tuesday 7th of February
We’ve eaten enough for a week and it's only Tuesday. The three of us are relieved that there's only a slight breeze today is on sale, which means a proper rest day. A walk for me, a run for Rich, a swim for Sam, a relaxed lunch and writing in the sun.
Wednesday 8th of February
There's something about sailing that wipes you out. We take Bonito V out again and even though most of the sail hoisting and trimming can be done from the cockpit, we are missing Daniela, and are now a crew of three. The winching is tough but the results thrilling. Later we eat on board before I crash out and sleep well
Thursday 9th of February
It's cleaning day, ready for tomorrow’s early goodbyes. We've noticed a self service car wash on our travels and head there. They've got a tall gantry for cleaning vans and boats. It’s cheap fun, getting into all the nooks and crannies.
Sparkly and new again, we head back to the marina, have a quick ride along the headland and back, ready for barefoot deck scrubbing. The wind has got up as forecast and we're accompanied by the most ethereal symphony from all the masts and halyards which have become musical instruments. It's an eerie siren call, swirling around the marina. We're all shipshape sooner than we think and head into old Portimão for our last evening.
Sam’s been here quite a bit, learning to sail and at New Year a year ago, seeing his friends Johnny and Stefan off on a bonkers row across the Atlantic. The ‘forget-me-knot’ voyage raised money for Alzheimer's research in memory of Johnny’s dad. They’d never rowed before!!
Sam is our family foodie so we do an impromptu walking food tour, stopping at the kiosk on the waterfront for a beer, where the patron still remember Stefan. Then on to a fish bar where I taste my first oysters (I know!) and Sam and I try lucifer’s fingers which are apparently the most dangerous to find barnacles. Both are light and refreshing. We continue on cobbled, half derelict streets now, looking at the old buildings and fading tiled facades. Much of Portugal is undeveloped, some decaying and we discuss how development might spoil its charm. We arrive at a celebrated Peri-Peri chicken place. It's a canteen at the bottom of the tower block. It's simple, brightly lit and busy - sit-in and takeaway. We say yes to everything the waiter suggests and have a feast of spicy chicken, delicious fries with mayonnaise, a fresh salad, bread and olives and wine. We choose from traditional desserts for afters.
There's much banter from the waiter and on the way out he shows us the kitchen and tells us the secret of the hot salty chips.
We're up early next morning for week five back on land and back on our bikes.
Week 5
The campsites have been busier than usual apparently, perhaps because of the rumoured clamp down on unofficial sites near Faro Airport. We set off early almost before the supermarkets open and after review a review of our budget we're getting to know supermarket prices - Lidl still wins. I've started grading the campsites. The difference between wild camping and a campsite is twofold, toilets and electricity. First on the list is hot showers, then there's the ambience and friendliness of other people, trees are quite important too and of course electric hook up so I can charge my bike after a day of cycling. Olhão does well on showers in fact it scores well all round. As soon as I arrive at a new campsite, I scan around looking at number plates. This is a big camp and there are Norwegians Swedes, Swiss, French, Italian, Dutch, Finns, Germans, Irish,Spaniards and Belgians, and as usual a couple of Brits. The next thing that we do is to hop on our bikes and ride around the nearest town to soak up the atmosphere. By now we have a routine for days when we're not moving on, so going for a bike ride and days when we are. The weather is warming up, especially at night - we're done down to one extra blanket and I've even taken my jumper off.
A bit more about Van Life. It really is quite a small space but remarkably, not claustrophobic. The big thing is to be able to pop the roof for headspace inside and with the seats turned round it's a very comfortable living space. We sleep in the pulldown mattress in the roof which is very comfortable. It's a bit like sleeping in a treehouse. I've been starting each day with an eight minute exercise regime and 10 minutes of yoga I think it's keeping me sane and stopping me seizing up. Getting ready for a bike ride involves opening the boot, fishing out the right gear and taking it in turns to get dressed in the van. There’s always a bit of competition as to who’ll keep the other waiting. Whoever’s ready first has usually forgotten something.
With the news from home, it’s good to do a life affirming ride. Steep up and gentle down, very little traffic and stunning views. We cycle past oranges and lemons, the hedgerows are sweet almond and pomegranate. We’re flirting with the border between Portugal & Spain, not quite ready to leave but time is ticking on. A early start means an early finish - Richard finds somewhere to watch the football in a lovely town called Tavira on the river, and I catch up with this. We celebrate with a curry - not very Portuguese but very good. We’re headed to a one night stop spot, when we get there we just fit in (above). Tomorrow we’ll have been away a month.
Driving a couple of hours is an opportunity not only to notice the subtle changes in the landscape and the colour of the earth but also to play some games with a Spotify playlist. Sometimes it's looking at the lyrics of a song you can't quite believe you've heard, like Neil Diamond's Cracklin Rosie. We've stumbled across a Country playlist and stick with it for awhile. It all started with a misheard line and then, judged by modern sensibilities seems a little well...sexist. Which led to discovering the actual lyrics and meaning. Those who are aficionados of Neil Diamond will already know, those curious just listen and discover the real truth for yourselves. We next try to guess who is singing which parts of the Traveling Wilburys 'end of the line' - the super group consisted of Tom Petty, Roy Orbison, Jeff Lynne, George Harrison and Bob Dylan. We both have to guess and then look it up - hours of fun. I've had an earworm in my head since Santander I'm scaring the Spanish public by whistling 'Solsbury Hill' as I'm cycling along. The lyrics for that needed checking out too.
The campsite outside Seville is in a boat yard was also very busy and we found a corner there too. I've seen a few lone women travellers now in vans which is interesting and we spend two nights here having fun negotiating the very good bike lanes in and out of the city. I have my first glass of Pedro Ximenez in a bar in old Seville. It's Tuesday, and it's good to tune in to the 'Dark Angels" gathering for an hour of writing prompts in the evening. I've loved being able to join in on the move, it's been a marker in the week.
Weds & Thursday 14th & 15th February: Jerez & Cadiz
The campsites that are available are often a short distance from the city and so it is as we head for Cadiz. Jerez is nearby and we have a rather disheartening bike ride on rough tracks parallel with the motorway in and out but at least we get to see behind the scenes of agricultural land and probably the parts of a city that the tourist board wouldn't want you to see.
Cadiz is a revelation. Alongside its historical significance it also says that particular ambience that island fortress or walled towns have. Perhaps it's the narrow streets and the car restrictions in place which mean more people, traders moving goods by hand, a hustle and bustle that's very human. It's also another city that is bike friendly After all the city cycling and the slog to Jarris and back, we are heading to the hills again, to somewhere we've been before in the Park Natural de Grazalema . Back in 2014, on New Year's Day, we cycled up into the clouds to the highest municipalities in the province, which also has the highest rainfall as we found out. We were invited to dry out in front of a roaring fire in the dining room of the only hotel open that day. We're going back to pay homage. and to get another look at the place. We were too hyperthermic to appreciate it last time.
P.S. It was a glorious ride with home-made sandwiches and Eagles (Imperial Spanish Eagles to be precise) jaw-dropping scenery and again, pretty much empty roads - recommend to all.
After all the city cycling and the slog to Jerez and back, we are heading to the hills again, to somewhere we've been before in the Park Natural de la Sierra de Grazalema . Back in 2014, on New Year's Day, we cycled up into the clouds to the highest municipalities in the province, which also has the highest rainfall as we found out. We were invited to dry out in front of a roaring fire in the dining room of the only hotel open that day. We're going back to pay homage. and to get another look at the place. We were too hyperthermic to appreciate it last time.
P.S. It was a glorious ride with home-made sandwiches and Eagles (Imperial Spanish Eagles to be precise) jaw-dropping scenery and again, pretty much empty roads - recommend to all.
The next campsite is really a parking lot with a toilet and a shower, run by some very charming young men who couldn't be more helpful. They squeeze us in amongst the huge vans and we are grateful to be close to Cordoba and we even get a special key to the shower. Just as everyone settles down for the night, and campsites are generally speaking very quiet places - everyone stays in their vans especially at this time of year and there is hardly any noise after about 8 o'clock. What's surprising is that suddenly, at 11pm, there's music from a radio blaring from what seems to be one of the vans. Slowly a delegation of campers gathers, mostly German on this site, and the owners are there too. The story unfolds, some disgruntled neighbours annoyed at not being able to use what was waste ground to park their cars and treat as their own, are very unhappy about the campsite enterprise, and so have had a campaign of blaring music out of a window late at night to disturb the business. A diplomatic intervention is attempted which doesn't seem to work but eventually the music is turned off, the police are not particularly interested. They do however turn up the next day and certainly the second night is full is peaceful.
Cordoba is delightful, almost my favourite city so far, and as we drive to Granada after a bike tour, we listen to an episode of 'The rest is history' outlining its rise and fall.
Next week Granada.
Week 6
Saturday 18th - 23rd February- : Granada
This little campsite in La Zubia outside Granada, is 61 years old. It’s tiny and an oasis of peace and calm. Particularly the little terrace by the swimming pool, which is out of use over the winter season, but the perfect place to do my daily routine of a short workout and yoga practice, and a place to come to think and write. This is the first campsite where we’ve been in a section with little vans like ours which is fun. It's like a little street in the neighbourhood. We’re greeted by friendly youngsters who look like they’re doing up a van and some other friends of theirs, who make it feel a little like a festival campsite, in a nice way. They’re playing music through a speaker and have a little table with crochet items and jewellery for sale. What seemed a good idea during the day drove me mad at 11pm when the bass beat thudded through the campsite. After a quiet word at the office the following night was quieter.
We spend 5 night’s here, the company is friendly and there’s a top rated restaurant at the entrance, where we get the first lesson in the free tapas culture here. Basically, you order a drink and it’s accompanied by a small dish, you order another and something else arrives. The complication arises if you actually want to order a meal. In a restaurant where you’ve booked a table it’s not so much of a conundrum. But out cycling, you can’t guarantee that if you order a beer you’ll get a small plate of paella like all the other customers, which would be plenty, and there is no right answer it seems to the question “do you want something to eat?”. I had to look it up in the end and it’s totally random and discretionary!
This is the longest we’ve been at any one campsite and Granada is spectacular. We’ve been cycling up in the Sierra Nevada, just below snowline, and up and down the city streets, finding our way to recommended bars and restaurants and the areas that are must-see. We decide to take advantage of a free walking tour too.We’ve done this before in Cape Town, and found it a great experience. You book it and then at the end you pay what you think it was worth. They get rave reviews and are nice and relaxed, and you get to talk to other visitors to the city, from all over the world at the same time.
We alternate the days, a day in the city, a day in the surrounding countryside. Some routes are on tracks some on quiet mountain roads. We’re steeped in history and nature. One route takes us out on the Sacromente Way past the cave dwellings and on a track through olive trees and fords that must have been there for centuries. We climb a rough track along a ridge and can imagine the armies approaching Granada during the The Reconquista. It’s a tough ride and ends with a steep downhill on gravel - not my forte, but I’ve learnt to get off and walk and not give myself a hard time about it. Beer in a bar soon revitalises the body and spirit. The gentle sweeps and curves of the tarmac road back to the city in the sun are worth it.
We save the Alhambra till the last day. I complained a bit when Rich chose the first time slot available, which meant getting up at 6:30 and cycling in the dark to arrive on time. It was the right thing to do. The only people already there at that hour are the people staying in the Parador, the Government run Historic hotels - a bit like National Trust properties you can stay in I suppose, which in the Alhambra is booked up months if not years in advance. It’s good to get in before the crowds and we marvel at the peace and elegance of the courtyards and spaces. The sound of running water and the combination of the art & engineering, creates a series of breathtaking views.
You can see the Alhambra from numerous ‘miradors’ in the city from different angles, and then the city in every direction from the ramparts - stunning.
Our Plans
In Portimão an idea seeded and has taken root about the weeks ahead. At the end of this 8 week period, instead of driving home, we’re going to leave the van in north east Spain, fly home for a month to do the things we need to do and see people we need to see, and then return for the last leg of the journey back. Calculations have been pondered, environmental weighing-up - flying v driving, cost etc. and the decisions made. That means France and maybe a bit of Italy on the return journey. We’ll have late spring & summer at home where we like it.
26th February: Sierra Nevada
We leave Granada and the lovely little campsite for the hills again. This time we’re parking at Orgiva, for a 20 mile uphill and 20 mile back ‘out and back’ ride followed by a night high in a mountain campsite. We have a parking place in mind, but Thursday is market day - in the carpark and all over town it seems. We do eventually park and in a flash of genius or premonition I run to buy some hot roast chicken for later. The ride is hard, it’s 20 miles and 4000ft (1454m) up. This is the limit of my Gravel e-bike battery capacity if I keep it on the lowest assist level. When the battery runs out it’s very heavy, heavier than Richard’s non e-bike. It was sunny in Orgiva but chillier the higher we go. We’re just on the right side of having enough layers, and the freewheeling down is great. We’re both wiped out back at the van and have a couple of hours drive ahead. We scoff the hot chicken and head off into the mountains. It’s beautiful; switchbacks and beautiful landscapes. As the sun goes down and the landscape changes to volcanic crags and narrower roads it’s more foreboding. By the time we reach the campsite which is almost deserted, the only other visitor a motorcyclist in a tent, there’s a Bates Motel feel, despite the really nice campsite manager. The weather forecast for the next few days is horrid and the temperature up here dropping fast. Sunny Granada and the little campsite seem a long way away. The showers are hot though and we think ahead to reinstate the extra blanket, jumpers and socks for the night ahead.
Morning comes, it’s cold but sunny. What seemed threatening the night before is now breathtaking Almond plantations and terraced landscape in the morning light. This place would be idillic when busy and warm in the summer. I do 20 minutes of restorative yoga and all is right with the world again. The Campsite manager gives us good advice and suggestions for our day’s journey (we’re running away from bad weather again). The route up and down is going to be a memorable highlight. It’s the ultimate Road trip; an empty road, stunning scenery and a playlist of Pachelbel, Motzart, Holst, Vaughan-Williams and Wagner. Spain, we’re reminded again, is vast and beautiful.
Driving doesn’t really equate as a rest day, but the only cycling we do is to take a look at a Game of Thrones film location in the desert where there are also tourist Wild West film-sets, which we avoid.
Late afternoon we arrive in paradise - La Granja de Carmella, a joyous little campsite in a lemon and orange farm, where children are playing, there are a dozen vans and a little honesty shop full of home made produce. The flock of what I thought were pigeons flying on the breeze turn out to be multi-coloured parakeets. Hortensia welcomes us warmly and we take up the offer of communal supper tomorrow night. As I'm writing this the sound of gentle music is on the wind, not a guitar...it's a girl in a van across the camp playing a hand-pan and there's a faint scent of orange blossom.
Nature Table
I’ve been hoarding a ‘Nature table’ treasure - this is it so far.
Week 7
Saturday 25th February
La Granja de Carmella
Saturday night communal supper was sublime – home cooking at its best. Sweet-and-sour pork soup with lemons to squeeze, pork loin braised in beer, roasted carrots & green peppers and Patatas Bravas, with figs caramelised figs and yoghurt for dessert, as well as heaps of chorizo, cheese and other Tapas. All washed down with the house Vino Tinto. The company was entertaining too. Two older Dutch couples, and two younger, both with little children, one Belgian and the other Dutch. Hortensia was such an affable hostess, she had her teenage kids helping in the open plan kitchen and Jacques her husband wandering in and out. Such a lovely way to spend an evening. We swapped campsite recommendations and life stories and manage the Brexit question, which I knew would be inevitable, very well, with a much more nuanced discussion than would be possible at home. The whole experience at this place felt like basking in warmth and friendliness. Many of the other travellers, including the handful from supper moved on, as we did, relaxed and refreshed, the next day.
Sunday 26th February
Guadalest & Calp
We are grateful to find a space in one of the chain of campsites that his home for six months of the year to an array of German pensioners with huge vans as big as coaches. I can see where the Costa Brava has become a tourist industry hotspot, although beach and bar holidays are not my cup of tea. It's not just the Sun (300 days a year is promised) but this little fishing port, now with tower blocks of apartments (some quite nicely designed) and tiered estates of holiday villas, is still beautiful. It's a bit of a cycling hotspot too.
Monday 27th February
We spend Monday planning the next two weeks and restocking food. There's an Aldi and Lidl next door and the best stocked hardware store I've ever seen. It’s cold and windy here too! On the bright side there's quite a sheltered spot to do yoga and the sun is very warm out of the wind. By evening the wind has died down enough to have a ride to explore the old town and enjoy a ride along the near deserted beachfront. The twinkling nightlights of the houses illuminating the hillside.
I've been keeping up with dark angels Tuesday's evening writing sessions and the prompt of a poem by Rita Dove - ‘exit’ led to this;
This nondescript campsite
modern facilities, featureless
with white chipping and astroturf
on the Costa Brava i
is home for six months of the year
to mostly Dutch and German pensioners
in caravans as big as coaches
Today one by one they started to pack up and leave
Tomorrow they all have to go
The site is closing for good
probably to be filled with a high-rise block of holiday apartments
in this well ordered resort with still stunning views.
We were just passing through
so it's nothing to us
and yet this exodus brings a fleeting moment of sadness.
Tuesday 28th February
We see just how popular a cycling destination Calp is on a glorious circular ride along the coast when the wind dies down on Tuesday. I’d met a woman, Sarah from Wakefield the previous day in the bike shop & cafe getting my rubbing disk-brakes fixed. As usual I’d tried to fix it myself with a you-tube video and failed. She’d abandoned a ride on Monday because her guide was ill, two blokes she’s gone out with were too slow and the high winds were dangerous. She was thawing out in the bike cafe. I offered that she could come out with us in the afternoon (we called it off) and we exchanged what’s app numbers. She said that there were loads of professional teams out here training. It’s also a cycling holiday destination for keen amateurs. As we head out we get absorbed by a peloton of polish riders and keep up with them long enough for a chat before they peel off for a higher, longer ride than us. Ours is long and high enough for us and for the effort we’re rewarded with views up and down the coast. Back at the cafe as we were leaving Sarah came back with some clearly very quick riders, they’d been out for 5 hours. We had a nice chat, and as we walked away I had an inkling she was professional standard. After blushing at my invitation to her the day before - we’re on gravel bikes after all! I recovered myself and don’t regret being friendly even if I was naive! Later I went for a walk around the salt water lake full of flamingos behind the campsite as the sun went down and saw the polish riders returning from their day’s outing. So glad I’ve got an e-bike and that I’m out there at all!
Wednesday 1st March
Parcent & Campell
We aren’t the last out of the abandoned campsite, but get an early start to have a go at another popular climb Coll de Rates. We know it’s going to be cold and do everything, almost, to dress appropriately. It’s fantastic, on a warmer day it would be perfect. The gradients are signposted, my Garmin bike computer gives me good info on when the top of the hill or a decent is coming. Despite good planing my feet and fingers are like blocks of ice at the end. What I can’t fathom is that there are cyclists out in shorts with no gloves and single layers on. My error was not to bring thicker gloves on the trip and not to wear the neoprene shoe covers that are tucked away in the van.
It’s always nice to see other riders out, some wave some don’t - I always nod and smile. There are more women out too, we usually acknowledge each other.
Something strange happens this day. We’ve stopped about half way to eat the ham, cheese, tomato and mayo sandwiches, made by Richard, that have become customary on this trip. No more snack bars and gels for us - although toffees and wine gums are carried. There’s a shout up the road and we expect to see a cyclist or two coming down towards us, they don’t appear. It was a cheery shout not a help me shout, so we’re momentarily puzzled. Then a man, big, tall and broad, all in black, black jeans and a thin black shirt (in this weather!) comes striding towards us. We are in the middle of nowhere and he looks like a contract killer. He keeps looking into the trees, but he doesn’t call for a dog. We’re gaping at him as he gets closer and I say hello. He replies in dutch. Then in English says ‘I’m looking to take a photograph of the view” so we point him a bit further down the road round the bend with relief.
After thawing out back in the van as it starts raining and drinking chicken soup, we head for a mountain campsite again. Perfect hot showers here, a very friendly official campsite cat and views over the valley below to the see (when the rain stops). I see my second welsh camper van of the trip, a couple from North Wales and their daughter who’s in University in Cardiff who’s visiting.
Thursday 2nd March
Orba
After all the mountain exertion and the cold, todays ride is a gentle valley bimble through orange groves (all the rides are recorded on Strava) a recovery ride you could say. We stop in a funny little bar/cafe that Richard had found of google maps ‘Nice British pub with good food’ looking for somewhere to watch the football (Weds being football night). Disappointingly for him they closed at 8pm so he watched/listened in the van, but we owe it a visit today. it has very good reviews but we’d smiled at one of the comments left online in dutch complaining about it being a British bar in a Spanish town. I think it was the full English that lured Richard, and as we sat and drank the tea and eat a second breakfast after the ride, said hello to the two women with dogs sitting by the bar and watched the elderly ex pats come in with daytime tv on, we could have been in a down to earth caff anywhere in England. There were pots of ‘Jill’s home made jams’ for sale and some English language greetings cards being restocked. I couldn’t help wonder how many of the clientele were elderly fugitives from the long arm of His Majesty’s criminal justice service.
Friday 3rd of March
Gandia
We’ve hit upon a routine this week, arrive after a ride at a new campsite, eat, sleep, ride, repeat. This time it’s Gandia on a leafy campsite in the flatlands inland from the Mediterranean which is a grid of small holdings like a giant well ordered allotment, irrigated by watercourses. The ride of the day takes us high onto a peak La Monduver, which doesn’t phase me as I know have faith in my e-capacity. If the gradients are steep up though, and right up to the masts they’re too hard to ride, they’re also steep down which is trying on my brake grip. My technique is to stop on the flat part of a hairpin bend when it all gets too much and bend my thumbs, fingers and wrists, and then carry on. Luckily the longer decent is a glorious sunny sweep of 5% and the ride.
On uphill climbs I’ll listen to an audiobook or a podcast. On this ride I finish the book I’ve been listening to. When travelling I like to listen to fiction set in the place we’re in, either a classic or contemporary crime or historical fiction. In Lisbon I listened to a sci-fi crime story. More recently, after the recommendation came in from a couple of sources. It’s 'The Return' by Victoria Hislop set in Granada. Never read her before. I was aware of Laurie lee, George Orwell and had even read ‘For Whom the bell Tolls’ and ‘The shadow of the wind’. But it hadn’t sunk in. It made me realise how little I knew about the Spanish Civil War and more puzzling how little mention or official trace of this quite recent history is evident. It wasn’t mentioned once in the walking tour. I suppose the traumatic fall out from it socially and politically may be too deep. The book is informative and descriptive especially about the culture before the civil war, and I think even handed on difficult subjects, like bullfighting and family divisions on politics. It focuses on flamenco at the heart of the human story and as I descend from La Monduver, I listen to a flamenco playlist on Spotify.
Saturday 4th March
Playamonte
As I write this we’re in Playamonte, outside Navarres, one of the Las Canal villages in Valencia, on a new, quiet campsite on a flat open olive terrace, not the prettiest, but the hottest showers by far. We did another medium effort 30 miler in the sunshine, and are looking forward to Paella in a local restaurant, after a week of van cuisine, tonight.
Week 8
Sunday 5th March
Playamonte to Valencia
We replan the last week in the quiet of this near deserted new campsite and then head out on a ride. We decided to slow things down. We need to be in Barcelona for the lunchtime flight on Saturday, so we plan for another two base camps, one outside Valencia and the other outside Barcelona. Both have a good cycling routes.
It’s a long drive to Valencia and we’re entertained listening to ‘something rhymes with purple’, a podcast with Gyles Brandreth and Susie Dent, which looks at word origins and vocabulary - lots of laughter!
‘Valencia Camper’ is the antithesis to the quiet of the last site and is possibly my favourite so far. It’s busy, it has a little café and Bar. We have the pitch right next to it, which is a good thing, it’s like an extension. It also right next to the reception office and we hear first-hand the friendly and excellent customer service the hard-working Carlos provides to the never-ending stream of arrivals. Despite this, or because of it, the whole place is relaxed and friendly. They’ve got it all worked out. A quick briefing and links to a couple of videos that give details of all anyone needs to know, especially about public transport, which is what most queries are about. Carlos’s patience is infinite when people come back, not having watched the video, to ask the same questions - it’s a superpower. The landscaping creates little areas of calm and the cafe proprietor is lovely. She looks a bit stressed and sad as she busies about but as I book the home-made paella for supper, she has a warm smile and kind eyes. Lola the campsite cat purrs when I stroke her head which adds to the warmth of the place.
Richard misses out on the paella as he’s got a prior engagement to watch Man U get hammered 7-0 by Liverpool, in a bar in Valencia. We hear Carlos putting campers off cycling the 10 miles into the city, as the local Metro carries bikes free at least halfway. He clearly misunderstands our intrepid determination. Richard tries it out and I enjoy the paella solo. I get into conversation with Barry, a camp regular aged 80, and Gary the chef who is from Hastings. He's worked in Spain for 25 years.
We decided to slow things down. We need to be in Barcelona for the lunchtime flight on Saturday, so we plan for another two base camps, one outside Valencia and the other outside Barcelona. Both have a good cycling routes.
It’s a long drive to Valencia and we’re entertained listening to ‘something rhymes with purple’, a podcast with Gyles Brandreth and Susie Dent, which looks at word origins and vocabulary - lots of laughter!
‘Valencia Camper’ is the antithesis to the quiet of the last site and is possibly my favourite so far. It’s busy, it has a little café and Bar. We have the pitch right next to it, which is a good thing, it’s like an extension. It also right next to the reception office and we hear first-hand the friendly and excellent customer service the hard-working Carlos provides to the never-ending stream of arrivals. Despite this, or because of it, the whole place is relaxed and friendly. They’ve got it all worked out. A quick briefing and links to a couple of videos that give details of all anyone needs to know, especially about public transport, which is what most queries are about. Carlos’s patience is infinite when people come back, not having watched the video, to ask the same questions - it’s a superpower. The landscaping creates little areas of calm and the cafe proprietor is lovely. She looks a bit stressed and sad as she busies about but as I book the home-made paella for supper, she has a warm smile and kind eyes. Lola the campsite cat purrs when I stroke her head which adds to the warmth of the place.
Richard misses out on the paella as he’s got a prior engagement to watch Man U get hammered 7-0 by Liverpool, in a bar in Valencia. We hear Carlos putting campers off cycling the 10 miles into the city, as the local Metro carries bikes free at least halfway. He clearly misunderstands our intrepid determination. Richard tries it out and I enjoy the paella solo. I get into conversation with Barry, a camp regular aged 80, and Gary the chef who is from Hastings. He's worked in Spain for 25 years.
Monday 6th of March
We make the journey to the city together the following day. There’s a low traffic route but the ground is rough in parts, nothing impossible. Once we reach the outskirts, the cycle lanes are the standard we come to expect in Spanish cities. Valencia is lovely, with attractive public spaces, ancient and Modern. We start a walking tour, but the group is huge and the guide a bit long-winded. So we duck out and do our own cycling tour. The provision market, the amazing park that winds through the city to the modern Science Park. It’s sunny and glorious.
I’ve been looking further into the history of the Civil War and why it’s rarely referred to. There are good podcasts about it. ‘In our time’ has an episode and there’s an English language podcast ‘the Sobremesa podcast’ devoted to Spanish culture, current affairs and history. The ‘Pact of silence’ about the Civil War is a thing it turns out, there is currently a movement to uncover and validate historic memory and to acknowledge the still uncharted mass graves from the post-Civil War era.
It’s March and therefore the celebration of Las Fallas https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Falles
which is a huge festival across Valencia in commemoration of Saint Joseph (of Mary & Joseph fame), which explains the fireworks and distant sounds of marching bands we’ve heard the last couple of nights in the previous campsite. At 2pm every day in March, fireworks and fire firecrackers explode in the biggest square in the city which is crammed with citizens and visitors, the tall buildings’ balconies full of onlookers. As it reaches its crescendo the noise reverberates in our chests. Babies cry and adults nearby are visibly excited by it. It seems remarkable that the city which once endured heavy aerial bombing should want to celebrate with this alarming cacophony.
Tuesday 7th of March.
We like it here. We enjoy another day cycling in the countryside in near perfect conditions.
Leaving the van and the return home is on our minds. What to leave, what’s essential and will fit into the strict hand-luggage rules of Ryanair. After all the previous overpacking, I resolve to take almost nothing back. Warm clothes for the journey from Bristol Airport and a rain jacket and my laptop and other electronic essentials on my notebook of course. It all fits into a small supermarket bag. It says something sobering that there are duplicates of almost everything else at home. It’s also sobering that the UK is experiencing snow, since the temperatures here have reached the mid 20s.
Wednesday 8th – Saturday 11th March
Tarragona and Vilanova i la Geltrú
We say goodbye to Lola who almost stows away with us and move on. We stop to see the magnificent aqueduct outside Tarragona and do a park and bike-ride round the streets. It’s lovely. I’m so glad we stopped and made the time. We enjoy a local beer in a busy square amongst the Roman remains before carrying onto Villanova and the mega-campsite that will be our last stop.
This is a proper holiday camp with different styles of cabins and chalets. We have a huge pitch amongst the other camper vans and the facilities are like a modern airport. It’s lacking in character though, but well-placed for exploring the local small city, a route through the countryside and the coast. We’ve done well to run the fresh food down to just a bit of fruit to take on the plane. Last ride is an easy 30 miles up and down the coast and very strong winds which takes me to 1000 miles in the last eight weeks, (Richard hit 1K the day before) and we celebrate by drinking the fizz that we’ve had in the van for months. We’ve done well to run the fresh food down to just a bit of fruit to take on the plane.
Saturday 11th March
We’re leaving the van with Orson, who is Dutch and Christina, Spanish who run a van rental company near the airport in Barcelona. They’re friendly and chatty and show us the lovely vans they have with all the facilities (WC, shower, oven) that we don’t! It is tempting but I have enjoyed the romance of our little van.
Orson drops us off at the airport and as I’m writing this we’ve just taken off. My thoughts turn to my brother, as they always do for the first 10 minutes or so on any flight, until we’re airborne and on our way home.
Part 2
Monday 12th of April
It has stopped raining after many days as we leave home, but it's raining hard in Bristol where we enjoy a rare lunch with Will (child no. 3) and his girlfriend Felicia and Hannah (child no. 2) our driver today, who's been visiting from Brighton where she lives. The month at home has been busy, catching up with friends and family, and trying to win the favour with the cat, who much prefers it when Sam (child no. 1) is in residence. It's strange to be on the move again. Don't they say never go back somewhere you've enjoyed, because you'll never recapture the experience? We'll see.
We catch the airport shuttle bus from Bristol after a long lunch and arrive a record four hours before the flight. It's nice to have chillout time and people watch – especially families, having just spent time with ours. What's not so nice is that the flight is delayed by the bad weather and when we are aboard the captain warns that there may be another 1 1/2 hours wait, if they don't give us a slot in the next 10 minutes. They do, so we're off.
We get into Barcelona late enough for the trains to have stopped running though. A further delay on board is due to the police being called, as five passport have been found in one of the toilets. I still can't quite work this one out - why?!
Thursday 13th April - Barcelona
Our overnight hotel is right above Barcelona Sants railway station, usually ideal for the airport. We’ve stayed there before and this time it’s ideal for meeting Mandy, our Spanish niece, who is coming to spend the day in Barcelona with us before we pick up the van and she heads back to Madrid, where she's studying. The sun is shining at last, and we do our own walking tour of the city. The Jacaranda trees are in full bloom, a bright vivid purple. It's busy, but not high-season busy. The highlights are; the provision market (notice a trend?) probably the best so far in terms of visual presentation alone, and a fabulous paella in the Plaza Royale. We're all exhausted by the walking as we leave Mandy back at the station ready for a kip on the train. No such luck for us, we have a drive ahead. We're aiming to cross the French border before dark and take it in turns to drive, with Gyles Brandreth and Susie Dent’s podcast keeping us awake and chuckling.
Friday 14th of April - French Border
The French deserve a medal for their motorway Aires. This one, Le village des Catalans, is very civilised. We get enough sleep for the first time in a couple of days and watch the place slowly come to life as the morning brings its first visitors.
We're starting in Languedoc, but are a bit alarmed by the weather forecast again, rain and strong winds, this is now becoming a trend too. We stop en route in Carcassonne for a bit of exploring by bike, but end up doing the only thing you can in France over a rainy lunchtime and that's to get out of the rain and have a three course lunch - totally living the life - with international company on the next table, French, Italian, Maltese and Dutch. The clouds lift, and we set out to explore both halves of the city. A close watch on the weather sees us in the preplanned sanctuary of a deep porched doorway, prime position to watch the gargoyles on the cathedral spitting and spluttering during the next cloud burst. We could harness the rain for public art installations in towns and cities throughout the UK. Back of the van we phone ahead to the campsite and find that it's closed, so divert to another one. The drive from Mamezet to Brassac is up a narrow winding Valley steeped in textile industry architectural history, old mills and factories. Brassac is a lovely French town, the campsite on the river, kids playing rugby in the rain, and we're glad to be there, but we’re the only visitors and the shower is disappointingly lukewarm. It blows a gale all night, and for the first time ever, the tiniest bit of rain gets in. It's also three blankets and jumpers-on-in-bed cold. We have the heater on as we eat rice and lentils and drink beer.
Saturday 15th April - Brassac
We’ve planned a bike ride in the morning. So we have a cup of tea but as the kettle boils again for coffee, disaster strikes. At least now we know how many weeks of daily use it takes until the Camping Gaz runs out. It's always a bit of a mission to track down a supplier and we're a long way from big towns. Hurrah for Mr Bricolage in Castres. It's warmed up a few degrees by the time we're back and ready to ride. A nice circular one and there's something about the terrain that’s reminiscent of Wales – in winter. It's lovely, but spring has not sprung here. No new leaves on the trees or the vines. The land that Spring forgot.
Sunday 16th April - Brassac to Roquebrun
We are not sorry to move on the next day as a youth cycle race is starting from the car park next door. The temperature is 5° and they're all in shorts! We stop at the town patisserie where Richard queues with a couple of old men for bread and is rewarded by the charming smile of Madame baker, which apparently is the warmest thing about the whole stay. It keeps him warm for the next half an hour when we stop to enjoy a second breakfast and coffee before setting out on Le route des Laqs, a good 2 1/2 hour ride which could have been great had it been sunny.
As we drive on the temperature rises, the landscape changes and suddenly it's springtime in Languedoc. We're only 80 km south-east but it's totally different. Roquebrun on the River Orb is in full bloom, and with some relief we sit outside a bar, the swallows up above, the smell of Mimosas in the air, and pizza in a little artisan pizzeria.
Monday 17th April - Roquebrun
No additional blankets needed for a good night sleep and waking to a clear blue sky is a delight. Richard heads out for a run along the river. He has running targets as well as cycling. I reach a milestone too - 100 days of my 7 minute HIT exercise regime, which pleases me, and do the first daily 10 minutes yoga since we've arrived back. I also by chance, complete a 30 day mindfulness course. Makes me wonder how I'd be faring if I didn't have these little daily rituals. It's only now that the weather has improved, that it strikes us just how grim it was. First ride in shorts today, perfect cycling weather. Loads of wildlife and and lovely little French villages and pretty, car free roads.
Tuesday 18th April - trip into Bézieres
Today, we explore backstreets in the ancient city of Bézieres I am hyper-vigilant and notice ancient street names kept alongside more modern ones, and peeling paint and old doorways and dirt. The history in those streets and alleyways is fascinating. Around one particular corner the street looked Dickensian. But there’s an edginess too. I start to see things that may or may not be true, the drug pushers on corners, the pain and hardship of someone on a bench, that girl outside a corner shop and what might have been going on… I’m very aware of being a visitor on a nice bike, riding through other peoples lives. As always I meet peoples eyes, nod a greeting and smile.
Wednesday 19th April Roquebrun to Olargues
The antidote to feeling overwhelmed by the world is a bike ride. The best bike rides take me down country roads and lanes, moving through the world, just fast enough to feel the wind and slow enough to catch a glimpse of something in the undergrowth with a bushy reddish tail, a commotion up above - a stalk being mobbed by wild ducks along the river, buttered coloured butterflies with a flash of blue in the grassy verge and the pattern of leaves and sun through trees and the smell of earth in the warm air. The vistas leave me breathless. Human tracks and marks on the landscape at one with nature’s secret byways.
More history as we climb up narrow passageways in the medieval village of Olargues. There’s a clocktower high above the village, it’s magical, one of those places where the veil of time is thin. The turn of a corner could find you in a different age or parallel universe.
Wednesday 19th - 22rd April: Roquebrun - Gignac
Instead of the constant campsite hopping we did in Portugal in Spain, there is a semi-conscious change to stay a bit longer and relax into an area, as long as there are enough cycle routes to explore. After four nights at Roquebrun, we head out into the world again. Richard in particular expresses a reluctance to go – the view from the campsite terrace is extraordinary – but there are places to see new views to experience.
We do one of our en-route rides from Lamalou-Le-Bain. It's warm and sunny on this 23 mile ride which starts with a climb and then a descent through sleepy villages, and for once we find a coffee stop with a cheerful patron on who gives us tiny chocolate eggs with our espressos.
The ride over, our next pitch is at Gignac, a family run campsite with rave reviews. It's never a bad idea to check out reviews as I've mentioned before, and always a good idea to read the poor ones as well as the five stars, to get a realistic feel for a place. Not that I leave reviews! Best also to pay in advance for one night only and see how it goes. This one is small and flat, near the river Hérault, that has an impressive bar area with sunshades, tables and chairs, and disco lights. There are mostly chalets, and some pitches for vans and campers like ours. The duo at reception are friendly and charming. ‘Service’ bluffs his way through registration until ‘Sheryl’ comes to look over his shoulder. They're upbeat and funny, he is the animation officer (entertainment) and, prompted by Sheryl, says shyly that at 19:30 there is a music game/quiz at the bar, the winner gets a free aperitif. We laugh and joke about whether it will be music we recognise and after Service recognises Liverpool (my place of birth) on my passport and he and Richard clear up football allegiances he says he will find out if it's possible to watch the game on screen later. We pitch near the solitary ‘bloc sanitaire’ and I eventually find the one washing machine that works in amongst the tools and equipment of the plumber who is doing major refurbishment. We settle in, there's aa aroma around the van (vague review bells start ringing) that are not due to the stables down the road, more like the pitch has been built on an ancient dog kennel. I go for a shower and I'm underwhelmed by the temperature, but it will do. I've discovered also that it pays to test the shower cubicles before totally committing to a particular one and removing all one's clothes in a small space. Finding one that's not a dribble is the goal. Advanced shower sleuthing has also taught me to check the disabled shower which often has a temperature adjustment function as opposed to the fixed temperature push-button control. This I discovered on day three here. We're tired after the ride so don’t drift to the bar area, hoping that there are others who will help Service achieve an audience for his quiz. A quick scout around the campsite shows that there are lots of cars. Richard wanders over later to check out the football situation. He and Service ‘enjoy’ watching Man U get hammered by Seville 3-0 (well, Service does) by connecting Service’s PC to the screen.
The following day there's a busyness about the camp. There seems to be more staff in turquoise aertex shirts than campers, and a couple of golf carts moving around. At 10:30ish a thumpy techno bass line reverberates around the place. This is the second time it's occurred to me that, in establishment that employs youngsters for their enthusiasm, someone feels that they have to play energising music loudly to keep their spirits up. The first time this happened was a year or so ago at the Wye Valley Smokery one Sunday morning. We called in for breakfast and a nose around the upmarket deli. The clientele is elderly mostly, the staff, young – and the loud music excruciating! Motivating for the staff, perhaps, but off-brand for the old codgers like us.
And here we are again, but no matter, we're off on a bike ride through vineyards and villages with the most gorgeous colour pallette of faded shutter paint, and intricate architectural detail. But on our return, a new feature of this cheery family campsite is a golf cart with a loudhailer informing the handful of visitors, with great enthusiasm, that there is to be another event this evening. I am wracked with guilt at my British curmudgeonliness. We hide, preparing the phrase ‘not our cup of tea’ should we be spotted. I feel for them, the staff who need to entice people to the bar in order to do their jobs well. It's not high season yet by any stretch, the facilities are still in preparation, campervan couples are usually the least sociable of punters – and it's a bit cold and rainy. Their imagined disappointment is almost more than I can bear. There's something creepingly oppressive about this forced cheerfulness, even the strimmer cutting back, the already sparse scrub is jarring. I can't seem to raise a smile from our few direct neighbours either. But taking the rough with the smooth is part of the adventure.
We complete our last ride in the Gignac area, through quiet towns, high up over a moor into the wet clouds, and then, as if leaving the mood up there, descending to busy, buzzy Saint Guilhem-le-desert, full of life and people. Picking up the history of Languedoc slowly over the last week, I re-listened to a couple of ‘The rest is history’ podcasts, about the Cathars and this region, and get stuck into Labyrinth by Kate Mosse. I'm half convinced by this way of doing things; visiting places first, and then the historical penny dropping. But now I want to return to Beziers and Castres and all the other places that were razed in the Heretic wars from 1209 and survived other waves of bloody, brutal history.
Sunday 23rd April: Gignac
We survive the last night at Gignac and eat out at a lovely friendly restaurant in town, escaping the Saturday night fever of techno beat at the empty campsite bar. We leave in the morning without looking back (and possibly without my set of Van keys!) and are now enjoying a rest day in the woodland setting of the municipal campsite at Sommieres, and the sun is out again, there’s company all around, enjoying the birdsong in peace and quiet amongst the wild flowers.
It rains all evening, briefly stopping long enough for a walk around town on a very quiet Sunday evening. And long enough for a top to bottom search of the van for the missing keys. I always take them with me when leaving the van. They're always in my handlebar bag on the bike or in my jersey pocket, and in the glove compartment or on the seat waiting to go in the glove compartment when we're back from a ride. I had them in my waterproof jacket inner pocket when we went for a meal, and I'm convinced they're in the van. I surprise myself by letting it go. We've phoned the las campsite and will phone the restaurant in the morning.
Monday 24th April: Sommières
A new day brings the sunshine and a bike ride, and I go to unlock the bikes while Richard makes the now legendary ham and cheese sandwiches. We only have one set of keys, Richards, and as I reach for them in the cupholder space in the dashboard, where he always keeps his, they seem to be sitting quite high. What was lost now is found. No recriminations. No blame. Just a lovely day for a bike ride.
La Voie Verte is a converted railway line, well used by dog walkers all kind cyclists and lots of rollerbladers, all are greeted with a cheery bonjour, and all reply. We have a chat with the Swiss couple who are camping in a tent next to us about their impressive ride today. I make spag-bol in the van, a first (don't quite know why I am so pleased about that!). The only jarring thing about the evening are the sounds coming from the Arenas next door. It's a bullring. There was a lot of shouting and an occasional moo. Lots of of shouting and jeering and lots of children. This was quite upsetting. I caught a glimpse of the cattle truck round the back of the arena, and the men and boys. old and young, farmers I suppose. It made me sad.
Tuesday 25th April: Sommières - Alès
At the last campsite, the hi-di-hi one, and this one, there has been birdsong all night. I make a mental not to check it out on the Web. We're packing up to leave his morning after Richard has a quick meeting, so I go for a quick walk along the river to the old Mill, I notice that the door to the Bullring is unlocked, and have the courage to step inside. There are no bloodstains on the sand, and really the sounds were not bellows of agony. I see a sign up saying Taureaux Piscines et Mousses, tous les Lundis soir. Bull swimming pool makes no sense to me, so I add that to the list of things to look up.
We drive and reach a rather up market campsite just outside along the Le Galeizon River at Cendras. We take a pitch in the daisies again, and it dawns on me that the last two campsites have not been strimmed down to bare earth, and are better for it. It's perfect cycling territory and perfect cycling weather. Back at camp, I navigate the washing machine and while that's going take my first dip this year in the gloriously clean and empty swimming pool. I half regret this later, when muscles I've not been using, complain a bit. It felt good at the time.
I've really enjoyed being able to join the Dark Angels tuesday night gathering on zoom, to share inspiring poems and gather my thoughts in some on the spot writing exercises. It's always a joy to see how others respond and share laughter and the occasional tear.
Wednesday 26th April: Alès - Avignon
I didn't sleep well I thought - the birdsong, nice though it is, and aches and pains from the swimming or the ride stopping me getting to sleep - my fitbit says otherwise. A bit of stretching sorts it out, before we do another route in this lovely countryside. It takes us through some tiny villages and lager towns. In La Grand-Combe there are a couple of visual clues and then the Zone Économique Humphry Davy and a sign to a Musee du mineur which tell us we're in the Mining Valley of this part of France. I look it up over a coffee and baguette in the market square, busy o market day. I was looking for a Welsh connection, under the misapprehension that Humphry Davy was Welsh. He's not. He's Cornish. I was brought up believing that the Davy lamps or Welsh miners lamps as they're commonly known were invented by a Welshman - what do you know? Anyway the last coal was brought up from underground here in 1984.
The ride is very varied and we stop in the hope of a beer in the small village of Saint Julien-de-Cassagnas, following the signs for Auberge Chez Pascal, and are very disappointed it's Fermé. The dog comes out to see us though, which is something. Our sandwiches are compensation, as is Rapunzel's tower in the courtyard.
On the way to Avignon later, I find out that the birds that sing all night are nightingales of course, and that Taureaux Piscines is some bizarre 'sport' of chasing young bulls or cows around an arena into a paddling pool. No harm is done to them or blood spilt, not theirs or that of their tormentors, as their horns are tipped. Not convinced myself, the men we saw through the fence had long pointy sticks, and I was brought up not to tease animals. Sounds like a rather bizarre Jeux sans Frontiere idea. I've still not uncovered the meaning of Mousses.
Week 10
I know I mention the cycling on an almost daily basis, but maybe I’ve not emphasised enough that it's central to the trip. I say this now, because much of it has been leading up to this week and the looming ride to the summit of Mont Ventoux. Its limestone white peak has been visible for days in the distance, as we've moved closer. And each day I’ve felt the tension rising. The issue is this: It's an iconic ride, it's part of the Tour de France (although they ride it at the end of a long day cycling, not just from the nearest village.) It's only 15 miles (24 km) distance, which doesn't sound bad, but 5200ft (1588m) of climbing. We've been doing routes of 30 to 35 miles that are 2,620 ft or 800m high - so this is the big one.
I have done it before, in July 2019, starting out at 4:30 am to avoid the heat wave that made it uncomfortable to even cycle after 11 am. The thing is, that was on my carbon road bike - lightweight, rides like a racehorse, easy to push if you have to get off. This time we only have a gravel bikes – great for riding on rough tracks and all kinds of surfices as well as the road but heavier. And mine is electric, heavier still. Great on the rides we've been doing, the extra oomph makes up for the extra weight.
So I've been trying to calculate how long before the battery runs out on a short but steep climb. I kind of know from the Orgiva ride in in Spain, back in February.
It will run out before the top,
It will be in the last few kilometres
It could be 7, 9 or 11% gradient.
I may not be able to stay on my bike, pushing it would be horrible.
I calm this mounting anxiety by giving myself a gentle talking to, and reminding myself;
Another plus is that we don't need to set off at 4:30 am this time, and will actually be able to enjoy the scenery, and the café 2/3 of the way up at Château Reynard will be open this time.
Wednesday 26th April
There it is in the distance as we drive to the municipal campsite in Villeneuve-Les-Avignon, right under the ramparts of the Fort Saint-André. It's a lovely wooded site, with lovely trees. Plenty of visitors and plenty of room.
We have supper outside and it feels like summer. Tomorrow we'll have a rest day and explore Avignon.
The morning is perfect, and after a leisurely breakfast in the sun, we work our way through the Thursday market, where Richard replaces his old straw hat with a new one, and up to the Fort. We spend an hour or so in Jardins de L’Abbaye Saint André. It's beautifully designed and laid out, wildflower areas, pathways and terraces with a direct view with the Papal Palace across the river. They’re in a stand-off there in a perpetual stand-off with each other. Echoes of the two parts of Carcassonne here, both have their own history and charms. We have a lovely salad lunch in the busy Place Jean Jaure, full of restaurants, before heading across one of Les Ponts D’Avingon Avenue (nodding at the actual Pont D’Avignon of French nursery rhyme fame, taught to me by my Tante Annick). We explore the backstreets and cycle up to the Jardin des Doms and admire the view of the thought from the other side.
Thursday 27th April
The journey from Avignon to Bedoin, the village where everyone stays if they're cycling Ventoux, doesn't take long but the mountain never seems to get any closer.
Slowly the landscape changes to vineyards and charming rural farms and cottages.
The campsite is as we remember It, lovely terraces on a steep slope with a winding path. We pick a nice spot, there all nice spots, and settle in. There's a gentle busyness here. Everyone has bikes, even the little kids, and there's the usual bustle of cooking, eating and washing up. We pump up our tires and clean our chains.
Friday 28th April
I surprise myself by sleeping quite well, and persuade Richard that getting up at 6:30 is too early and buy myself an extra three quarters of an hour sleep. We set off at a civilised 9:30 am, although my Garmin bike computer is playing up as are Richard’s derailleur gears. He'll only need the highest gear this morning and can take it to the bike shop when we're done.
I set off with confidence, hit a steady rhythm, and finish off Labyrinth on audiobook and enjoy the podcast and downloads I've prepared. I’m only going to use the first level of electric assistance, as that will last the longest, and put off switching it on until I have to, about 2 km in. I'm going to be ahead of Richard most of the (which makes a change to our cycling relationship over the years), but not by much, and not when my battery dies. There's no point in delaying putting it on or my own legs will run out of power too quickly. After an hour and a half I'm feeling it, sore knee, numb bum, but I'm determined not to stop before Chateau Renard.
The ascent has three distinct stages; the gentle climb through open fields to the forest section, the forest with twists and turns and variable gradient. You can feel it without looking at the bike computer, then a few switchbacks and the roadside starts to whiten for the last section which is from Château Reynard. This last section is dramatic. It’s white limestone makes it look snow-capped all year round, and as it’s name suggests it can be windy. The conditions today are perfect.
Ventoux looms above, still as far away as a fairytale castle that you can never reach until you're there.
Were used to being passed by younger, fitter riders these days and we make a pact at the start that Richard will count how many people pass (32) and I will count how many people don't say ‘bonjour’ (1). There is a great sense of camaraderie and I have a laugh, in very poor French, with other people with electric bikes, some of which are much more powerful than mine, and those without.
I arrive at Château Reynard, the roadside coffee stop, a few minutes before Richard. It's such a relief to get off the bike but I recover really quickly, especially with a slice of apricot tart and a coffee. We watch people come and go and have a chat with a 76-year-old who is committed to riding Ventoux once a year until he can't anymore. At this point I'm thinking I never want to ride it again. I'm keen to get going and get on. My bike battery is 3/4 spent all ready, with 2/3 of the ride done. Sure enough, with about 3 km to go, I feel the battery die. It could be the momentum, but I seem to be able to keep peddling. I play cat and mouse with a couple who must be 10 years older than me, and then, surprisingly, I notice a teenager who is definitely struggling. We exchange a few words of commiseration and encouragement as I pass him. There are now riders who have reached the summit coming down smiling broadly, shouting encouragement to those of us still on the ascent and then three more teenagers come back to round up their buddy. It's lovely to see him rally and he shouts to me ‘we can do it’ as he passes me with only 500 m to go. Completing it feels good. They're scores of people on all kinds of bikes, all ages celebrating at the top, lots of coming and going. It's too chilly to hang about, so we put on extra layers, take a picture, and start the fantastic descent. Richard heads to the bike shop I head to the new cycling café and order our lunch.
News from home is pretty momentus too. Hannah has passed her big pre-consultant medical exams. And I can now share the news that was shared with us three weeks ago at the family meal in Bristol the day we left. There will be a new generation of Moseley-Webbs in October. Will and Felicia are expecting! Anglo/Welsh/Swedish relationships are at an all time high! there are two sets of very exited grandparents-to-be.
Saturday 29th April
The big ride done, it’s all downhill from here. We leave Bedoin and make the journey to Aix-en-Provence. There’s a quirky sounding campsite that has space for 10 campervans, run by a husband and wife on a small piece of land, in the outskirts. We’ve said we’ll arrive at 12 midday and do. They are waiting for us at the gate. Hubert is a charming frenchman, about 70, in a wheelchair on the gravel drive, one leg amputated at the knee. Jennifer is 20 years his junior, a patti smith look alike - they both have a faded 70’s rockstar look. It’s a tiny scrap of land and we’re shoehorned by Michel, who is their site manager we think, into a narrow spake right up against a fence. He looks to be in his late 70s too. He has a small trailer/daybed covered with a mosquito net, with a table and chair and cooking facility. Once we’re in place and hooked up to electric, and have paid cash I ask where the toilet is. There isn’t one, but there is an 4 inch diameter waste disposal pipe by Michels bivouak, that we can empty our cassette into. We don’t have an on board toilet, just a bucket and a ‘Portable Urinal Travel Camping Car Toilet Pee Bottle Emergency Kit’. This is not good news. Michel we notice waters the plants liberally, frequently. We have a bit of lunch and decide to cycle into Aix. More Vans arrive and the place must surely be full. There is much discussion and arm waving between Jennifer who is talking to some late arrivals on the mobile and Michel
who is shaking his head and doing a lot of gallic shrugging.
Aix is Saturday-Bank Holiday-weekend-busy. We sit in a Cafe in a square after the backstreet tour and watch the world go by. Making sure to use the toilet before we go. Back at camp more vand have arrived. We decide on an early night, determined to get the hell out of there first thing. The last van arrives at 11.30 which involves much maneuvering right next to us, lots of door opening and closing. I resist doing the same as we make our escape just after 7am.
Sunday 30th April
Our nod to Cezanne’s city comes in the planned bike ride around Mont Sainte Victoire. It’s not properly raining to start and there’s a rather fancy public toilet in the park where we we leave the van. It is raining properly in an hour though and the mountain is totally obscured by cloud. We fuel up in a lovely little cafe before bracing ourselves. It’s been a while since we’ve been soaked through and there’s something quite invigorating about it. It feels like an achievement when we get back to the Van, dry off, warm up and set off for the luxurious facilities awaiting in Lourmarin.
The sun is shining here, there’s a swimming pool, lots of cute kids (now that we’re seeing through prospective grandparents’ eyes), and superduper washing machines - a highlight of my week. A stroll into the very provencal town for supper makes me reflect on how long and varied the day has been.
MayDay Monday
Country roads, poppies and other wild flowers in abundance, the first faint purple haze in the lavender fields. It’s an classic french experience. We’ve been to these parts before, and enjoy an ice-cream in Cucuron next to the shady square village pond. Some towns are quiet, one village has a Mayday feast in full swing as we cycle through. It’s proof that these villages are actually inhabited! So often they seem deserted. It’s windy and the air is full of pollen, gritty eyes and everyone sneezing. After a shower and a snooze, the wind has died down a bit as we head back to the restaurant we ate at last night, on a lovely sheltered terrace. We see people from the campsite, in particular a dutch family we met in Bedoin campsite with three children, enjoying ice-cream in the warm evening air before we head off to bed.
Tuesday 2nd May: Lourmarin
Next morning, right as rain, I feel up to a swim in the lovely campsite pool. I've been wondering how come there are so many families with school-age children on the campsites we've been to. Particularly Dutch and German. Are there much more relaxed rules about taking children out of school? I ask the dutch woman we've met and turns out they have a two-week half term, which explains it. Much of this place reminds me of happy childhood memories; the smell of summer, cut grass and countryside, and the time I spent every weekend in my early teens on a caravan park on the banks of the Cleddau estuary in Pembrokeshire, mucking about in woods and fields, having the freedom to runabout with kids my own age. Another bike ride takes us on a route we've ridden before, although I always have a mental block until we get to somewhere as memorable as Cucuron with its impressive rectangular pond with sentinel `plane trees and huge carp just under the surface.
Thursday 4th May: the wild
Having amended our itinerary, we pack up and ride into town for one last visit, have lunch outside our favorite restaurant and head for the hills once more. The rides have become shorter and easier since Ventoux. This one is up on a ridge - Le Forest des Cedars, above Bonnieux, Ménerbes and Lacoste. It's a popular nature reserve, and a walking route. I'm intrigued by the name of one of the paths - 'l'homme mort' and the name itself produces a frisson as we ditch the bikes in the undergrowth, walk through a narrow overgrown path to a viewpoint we've noticed on Strava, the GPS tracker app we use. There's a huge slab overhang and cave to take shelter in, behind a drystone wall. We intend to wild camp in the van tonight up here, but not in a cave! It's a shame that the daytime car-park doesn't allow overnight stops, but just along the road down there are a couple of areas that are marked on park4night, an app you can use to search for stops, facilities and parking for campervans. We find the perfect place, a view of Mont Sainte-Victoire to the left and Ventoux to the right in the distance. The sunset is gentle and it feels like sleeping under the stars, warm enough to have the front pop-up window unzipped for a view.
Fiday 5th May: four villages
We'd been talking about Vichy, wondering how it was chosen to be the centre of the French State under Marshal Pétain, after the fall of the French Republic to Nazi Germany in 1940. Could it have been the number of grand hotels, the famous mineral Spa baths and the breathtaking architecture. A favourite haunt of Emperor Napoleon 3rd it still retains is elegance. We park on Rue de France by the riverside park and by now, since it was apparent just driving in, our heads are turned by the eclectic architecture all around. We do our own cycle tour stopping to gawp at the splendour and bathe in the ambience. We sit in the park sipping coffee listening to Zadok the priest and Bryn Terfel back in London at the Coronation, history being made, from a place where oddly recent history is not spoken about.
There's an impressive tourist trail, but the emphasis is very much on the splendour as opposed to France's darkest hour. There are echoes here of the Spanish attitude to the Civil War, a discomfort about confronting recent trauma. There are some very interesting articles that later, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2002/may/11/france.weekend7 when we're back on the road we read out to each other as we taking the driving in turns. For now we take the advice of a woman who we met when we parked, and cycle down the river where we have a delicious salad in an old boat house, now a restaurant on the banks of the river Allier.
Sunday 7th May: Pouilly & Sancerre
Each time we have a glass of wine we like - usually the house wine - if it's good (which it usually is) Richards looks it up on a wine app to see the rating - we know next to nothing about wine apart from drinking it. The campsite we stay the next two nights in is on the banks of the loire , the trees full of mistletoe and the village of Pouilly which looks rather run down apart from the Caves de Domaines, which are every few 100 meters. Our ride takes us on the bike path along the Loire to Sancerre, we knew it was going to rain and take refuge in a tiny bookshop that serves coffee staffed by a girl from Paris, who studied in New York and now helps out when the owner needs her. We pass the time, until the rain passes, the three of us, seeing if we can name the writers in the photographs lining the room The writers are international the books in the shop all French. It's a lovely interlude. The sun comes out we wave goodbye and see if we can cycle all the backstreets of this famous Wine Village. We sit for a coffee and glass of wine in the square make friends with a dog and play hide and seek with a toddler. The colours are every pale shade one could imagine and some of the alleys can't have changed in centuries.
Monday 8th May: Versailles
It's well known that most tourist attractions, museums etc. are closed on Mondays in France. The Palace of Versailles is, but the gardens and parkland that extend for miles surrounding it are open and free. The attraction for us is that there are plenty of cycle paths to explore. We park a few miles away in the town of Versailles and enjoy the sights of the boulevard on the approach to the huge gold-topped estate, again comparing the vastness and scale of France (and Spain for that matter) compared to home. We also enjoy seeing scenes reminiscent of Seurat's 'Un dimanche après-midi à l'Île de la Grande Jatte', except this is Monday and a boating lake. It's been good to break the long drive back to Calais and the tunnel by stopping off and stretching our legs en route. This evening finds us in the well-positioned Aire du baie de Sommes, the only campervan in the designated area the entire night, we eat up the last of the fresh food, sleep well and get up early for the hour's drive to the tunnel.
Tuesday 9th of May: back in Blighty
It's just past 9am when we arrive back on British soil. One last stop before home, what could be more British than Sissinghurst and the National Trust. It didn't disappoint. I'm glad I called past the vegetable garden as well as the more famous gardens, otherwise I wouldn't have thought, once home, to check the asparagus that I planted in the autumn and was sure had been finished off by the frost. There are new spears poking through the soil.
The last hours on the M25 and M4 feel like the longest, but the sun's still out when we arrive home. The garden's full of bluebells (and dandelions), the Wisteria we planted a year and a bit ago is in full bloom. The Cat comes in for supper and we sit down to one of Sam's delicious, simple, golden risottos with a glass of white wine to toast the homecoming.
I've felt a gravitational pull build gradually over the last week. The place and the people calling us back. It's been an adventure but I'm glad to be back home.
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