Travels in the Van 2024
The mathematics of packing
The trick is to reduce,
to take just enough
But it's a hard calculation to resolve
with a list of what not to take.
To learn from past excesses and error might be the answer.
To make make things swallow other things whole,
to tuck them away, round them down,
square them away,
to leave enough space to breathe.
And so there's less to do.
I'm ahead, I have time in hand.
I will resist last minute adding
and stick to the smallest number.
Reduce, take away, subtract.
(prompted by 'Burning the Old Year', by Naomi Shihab Nye)
We're leaving a month later than last year, to avoid the colder weather we encountered in Northern Spain and Portugal last January. We've also had a lovely week of cycling and visiting family resident in Mallorca (not a van trip) so haven't bothered to unpack completely.
The plan is to drive through France to Galicia, visit the parts of Portugal we missed; Porto, the Douro Valley, and at the end of week 6, leave the Van in Toulouse, fly home for my Mum's 90th birthday, and come back out for April in Provence.
That's the plan. Cycle routes constructed and downloaded by the route-master, campsites vaguely identified, teabags stowed.
Quite pleased with the packing.
Week One 15/02/24
The long drive
Chanel tunnel - Aire Les haras A29 - Chateau Bertinerie - Isarles - A Coruna - Andragalla
Seasoned travellers now, it no longer bothers me to do what our forebears did, and use a piss-pot as necessary during the hours of darkness, when we’re en route and parked up for the night. Luckily for us, running water is plentiful and a good rinse after watering the grass, and the persistent rainfall washes away all sin.
Seasoned or not it was harder to wrench myself away from wintering at home, cosy in a routine and not minding the grey short days. The thrill of the new was not so intense as we passed through more familiar landscapes on efficient French motorways, with consistently high quality services. I became aware of a kind of separation anxiety, a familiar emotion of unease. It manifests as an annoying self perception of being a scaredy-cat, a stuck-in-the-mud, a holding back, like a horse refusing a simple jump. It can be visceral, not wanting to enter a bar for example, a hyper-vigilance that puts the breaks on having fun. I know it comes from childhood insecurity, which I harnessed as an adult into the productive taking on of responsibility, a benign way of being in control of myself. So my focus returns to noticing things; changes in vegetation, landscape and vernacular architecture. Breathing in nature. Going with the flow.
Noticeable things are; Tall things, the shape of trees, the abundance of mistletoe in the plane tree copses at the side of the motorway, the spines of chimneys, water towers. Flat plains straight roads and caterpillar lorries nose to tail.
Once in Galicia, one of the first things I notice which turn out to be a thing are Galician gallery windows, which to be brutally honest can be very ugly, especially in the modern interpretation. Kitch, almost. Occasionally, the elegance of old metal ones, letting the sun in during harsh winters, painted green or powdery blue, hit the spot, but otherwise they look like an end of season factory sale of double-glazing odds and ends.
We've spent 4 nights sleeping 'on the road', in recommended stop-overs, but nevertheless without facilities. So finding Camping Costa da Morte, brand new, in the middle of nowhere on a family run farm's converted farmyard with fantastic hot showers, all to ourselves (we were the only visitors) is heaven. There's even a puppy!
...
We exit the new, perfect, empty campsite, with its solar powered fairy lights, and welcome showers, through the rolling gates into the lane, into the medieval past, the smell of manure permanently in the air since we arrived, out on our bikes, and onto the road, farm buildings of stone at impossible angles, and barking dogs everywhere behind gates, keeping us alert to the danger at every turn, another of the strange structures like tombs on stilts with a pike on one end of the pitched roof and a crucifix on the other, made a stone or sometimes brick raised up high on mushroom like discs, first seen yesterday, they're definitely a thing, then we wondered what they were, but now we know and cannot unknow.
...
Week Two 22/02/24
Wild Weather
The Atlantic coast line is dramatic. Craggy and windswept in current weather, reminding me of wild Pembrokeshire. The forecast worsens, although we’re able to snatch bike rides with breathtaking views.
The overnight spots are safe but lacking the comfort of hot water and toilets, and the low level anxiety stubbornly persists. If overnight spots are beautiful, it’s worth it. What's not, is an uninspiring campsite with luke-warm showers and no hot water for washing up. (I’m the cook, so not my niggle!) It reaches a crescendo when bad weather sets in, a storm drives a small amount of rain water through the usually reliable waterproof canvass of the pop-up roof. Not enough to cause a big problem but still a very mild existential threat, along with the damp causing the heating facility in the van to have an electrical hissy-fit.
The antidote for this feeling has been to own it, to verbalise it, and share it, and to don waterproofs and do more cycling. Richard remains cheerful, and I try to relax. You’d think I’d never been cycling in the rain before! We’ve become soft. I’m hold the belief that it never rains all day. There’s always a brief reprise. Nostalgic memories of wet days spent playing cards in a caravan or a damp cabin have surfaced, the van is cosy, we can drive away and follow good weather and run away from bad, or relax into it, read, knit or write. I am also remembering to notice these fleeting emotions and let them go.
So my focus returns to noticing things; changes in vegetation, landscape and vernacular architecture. Greeting people. Breathing in nature. Going with the flow.
...
Cycling through the Spanish countryside, seeing a farmer in a field,
or a woman at her door,
or along the banks of the Douro in Porto, where old fisherman gather with their rods,
my head full of questions and noticings
anything new in the tilt of the roof or the shape of a leaf,
or the smell of the sea on the air
I will always raise a hand or meet an eye and smile or nod.
It says "I see you"
and the response that inevitably comes, a wave, a greeting,
says "I see you too. You are here. Our paths have crossed"
We have brightened each other's day and been witnessed to life itself.
(prompt from 'A Gift' by Denise Levertov)
...
We leave a wet Santiago de Compostela, where more rain is forecast and head to Porto ahead of schedule running from the weather.
Week Three 26/02/24
26/02/24
Clouds lift not long after leaving Santiago, as though making the decision has lifted a weight. We’re headed to Porto ripping up the itinerary, two weeks ahead of time. The drive is long, but feels like the right thing to do.
Crossing into Portugal once again feels good, especially since we’re heading to a boutique little campsite outside Porto, where for the first time we’re camping alongside other people. The sun is shining and it’s port tasting evening. I have no idea of the history and the British connection of the port trade. The campsite owners are very knowledgeable. I think they’d worked in the trade and have a commitment to creating a community feel on their little campsite. They have a communal lounge and kitchen area even. It’s like stumbling across an oasis.
A good friend has been to Porto recently and given us a list of bars and restaurants, and nice places to sit and people watch.
There are two distinct parts of Porto on eitherside of the Douro river. The Ribeira side and the Gaia side. The coastal cycle path from the campsite takes us to Gaia where all the Port companies are, both sides of the estuary are packed with bars and restaurants and tourists. The steep sides provide an excellent view of this busy city. There are two bridges both suitable for cycling and music fills the air from the buskers entertaining the crowds. It’s hilly though and I’m grateful for my E-bike. We spend the next couple of days exploring, cycling around the river sides, where the old fisherman congregate with their rods on the town walls.
There’s a lovely park, well more of a nature reserve with a flock of wild cockerels and the odd sound of wild cheering on the wind. The source is elusive, but eventually we see a group of students dressed in gowns in the middle of a grassy plane. It’s not clear what they doing other than cheering. They’re not cheering when we find them, but the noise had to be coming from them. It doesn’t seem like a graduation ceremony, a bit more of a right of passage maybe. The following day we see another group of students in town, marching, laughing in their flowing gowns, but in a rebellious way. And yes, it’s a thing! Praxe: a freshers initiation activity. Devised by older students to breakdown inhibition for new students, societal norms and to be a prank, I suppose. So taking them quite a way out of town into the middle of nature, reserve to cheer and shout would fit the bill.
We eat freshly grilled fish in one of the many family-run restaurants in a little fishing village, just outside town on Gaia side. Another abiding memory will be drinking beer in the sun listening to a talented busker playing his guitar and singing some of my favourite favourite songs, with a couple of amusing mispronunciations that we decide on balance not to mention. Sitting there, looking at the movement of people, cars, trams, cable car, boats, it seems like an animated model village, full of life and colour.
It’s hard to drag oneself away from a comfortable campsite, but the weather forecast dictates our next move. The best of a very wet picture looks like a move to Figueira da Foz.
I’ve forgotten to say how windy it is, and of course we’re along the Atlantic coast. We make it there in time for an evening bike ride and find a bar that looks out over the sea to watch the sun go down and the waves crashing over the outer harbour walls.
It’s one of the places that in season is probably very busy, but in late February, most places are closed.
We find some good routes to ride and spend another day in the van waiting for the rain to stop, it does and the bonus is that I’ve finished my socks. Ta-da!
I’ve found a good author to read/listen to: Dolores Redondo. Particularly the Bastan trillogy. Her thing is Galician/Navarre Noir, a mix of crime and regional tradition and superstition. I’m impressed with her plots, characters and historical research. Just the thing for steep climbs and knitting.
Week Four 03/03/24
Coinciding with the dark story I’m reading, we're now in the hills again, passing through Penela to Castanheria with proper cycling again, exploring the countryside, enjoying the views and marvelling at the ancient engineering of the notable 'stone villages'.
In this area of rural Portugal, we marvel too at the speed of a couple of farm dogs who spotted us on a climb, from their track, on the other side of a narrow valley. They shoot out from a standing start, like greyhounds from the trap and we're the lure that they'll chase until they catch us. Usually dogs will stop at the end of their farm track, but not these two. They hit the bend and pursue us uphill. It's the fastest I've ridden for awhile and Richard nobly has a stand-off with them while I get away and then resorts to his excellent missile throwing skills as their owner shouts feeble admonitions at them from the house.
There are a few badly fenced in dogs around here and not just the pair of shepherd dogs that give me a scare as we lock the bikes to walk up a steep climb to the top of the waterfall on an impressive wooden walkway. They come out of nowhere on a craggy steep hillside above us and can’t actually get at us but they look like they mean business. We’ve not even seen any sheep.
The climb reminds me what altitude sickness feels like. There’s something mystical about dogs and architecture, agricultural traditions and mountain forests. This place is rich in that folky-fairy-story-like atmosphere, seemingly deserted stone villages, glimpses through trees of unnamed movement, the hint of wild animals animals everywhere. Humans are few and far between, builders with electric drills or saws, heard, but not seen and glimpses of someone closing a door or hanging washing out. I love it.
...
Don’t forget your key, he calls as he strides out towards the Stone Village with its cascading mountain stream. She lets him go and when ready, wrapped warm against the early morning chill, she looks but cannot not find it where she knew she left it. She hurries to catch up without locking the door. The noise of the rushing water makes it fruitless to shout. She enters the deserted village following the stony track and is startled to see a young woman in the doorway above a path in a white chemise, who smiles, and then disappears. She climbs, and as she passes the damp stone houses, the cobbles glistening in the morning dew, there is no sign of life other than a Woodman's axe she can hear somewhere near. There are no cats, no one lives here she thinks. Higher and higher up through the cold dark passages until she passes a grassy terrrace. There a young deer, helpless, panting, is caught in a tangle. Suspended, having slipped on the slippery wall, it's caught in the fence. 'Poor thing' she whispers, 'I will help you, be still.'
She finds him, but the two of them are unable to lift the creature safely. So they descend in search of help. No human voices break the silence of this hillside village, just the rush of the stream. She looks for the maiden, but instead finds the woodsman and his brother, who listen to the sorry tale. 'Yes, I saw that deer earlier, I thought it had headed back into the forest' he said. Armed with a knife, he joked that he would have a feast that night. But they climbed back up to the the now weakened dear and gently freed it, cutting through the sturdy fence. It tries to stand and flee, but fails. It lies, panting in the grass, calm and still, the fight lost while they discuss it's chances survival, knowing that unseen injuries might be too grave.
Later in the day, the lost key that has alluded them, despite a thorough search and much distress, lies on a chair where they had already looked. She chooses to believe it is a gift in return for a kindness.
(true story)
...
The weather is still being weather, but we’re getting more sunshine hours and my daily practices are working so I’m less anxious, silent or whatever it is I’ve been. I’ve had my brakes fixed by a sympathetic bike mechanic in Góis which makes me more confident, coming downhill, and Richard reminds me of a couple of bike skills I’ve forgotten about.
This week we’ve stayed on a quiet, but pretty campsite, slept in a parking lot, and stumbled across a lovely restaurant in Paso de Régua and we finally reached the Douro wine region, and drink toast.
...
The comfort of ordinary things
Living on the road, with fewer things than the abundance of superfluous plenty that smothers me at home, I am grateful for;
The faux fleece gillet I bought at Christmas, just putting its hood up is like a mother's embrace,
The sheepskin that I threw in at the last minute, that I can rest against or use as a yoga mat, toasting my toes like a heated bathroom floor,
The colour of the pair of socks I’ve just finished knitting, like a jewelled prize,
and my L-shaped pillow that I can pull and push at night all I like, unlike the long suffering body by my side who tolerates cold feet and fidgeting up to a point.
(promt from The Patience of Ordinary Things by Pat Schneider)
Week Five 09/03/24
Spain again.
It’s hard to drag ourselves away from Haro, but time moves on and so do we. Not very far, not very fast, but we park for a night by a pretty reservoir, and then move onto Logroño, the capital of Rioja. The campsite we were going to stay in here is unexpectedly closed, so we park instead outside the municipal recreation centre and spend a few days living out of the van, cycling round the city, eating and drinking.
Before we leave Rioja, We spend a day cycling around LaGuardia, where Richard has planned a great ride. The magnificent hilltop town is alive with revellers in evening. I noticed some unusual doors and doorways in the narrow streets. They open onto kind of ante-room..a public/private place with further doors to the individual households beyondand yes, they are a thing.
The need to stop at a campsite again grows, enjoy hot showers, use a washing machine, charge my e-bike... Although this last week in Logrono, I managed to do the washing and to charge my bike in a Laundrette at the same time which was a win. We find a campsite in Estella, which is on the Camino. It’s gloriously hot. We have a lovely time exploring, eating cheesecake and riding on the cycle green way. When I woke in the morning, I could smell on the air, a mixture of wine and cork, in a good way, and wondered what it was or where it was coming from. As we cycle down the lane into town, we come across the processing plant and see a mountain of the side produce of the wine industry, the pomace, which is where that smell was coming from. This natural waste is used for a myriad of purposes, fertilizer, food ingredients , bio-fuel, and of course in making Grappa.
The last but one stop in Spain is Pamplona. We arrive in the evening and park in one of the increasing number of auto caravan facilities which provide waste disposal water and electricity for the night. This one is right next to a garage which is useful as they have a toilet. We have a quick ride round town in the dark, and spend the next day doing a city tour, the Star-Fort, (with chickens), the cobble streets where they hold the bull run, the fictitious address of the books I’m reading, more delicious food, and coffee at the café where Hemingway is reputed to have sat to write.
Week Six 19/03/24
We are building up to the cycling challenge of this trip. The plan is to cycle up to the Col de portal to the Spanish/French border and back down one day. Then drive up again and down to a village the other side, camp, sleep, and then cycle back up to the same border place - and back down again.
As we drive to the Pyrenees, and up to the town of Biescas, with the landscape changing, the streams flowing icy green-blue down to the river, I'm reminded of how powerful and terrible nature can be. We pass the memorial to the 87 people who died at Camping Las Nieves during a flash flood in 1996. I can’t help, but think that in the cheerful little town that we arrive at, and park up in the car park by the river, that event must’ve affected the community hugely. It’s the end of the skiing season and not many places in town are open, but we find somewhere to sit to eat, and chat to a Spanish family who are there for the skiing, and whose 13 year old wants to practice his English with us.
There are a number of small vans and cars using the carpark as a sleepover spot, and most people set off for day of walking or skiing further up the mountain. We wrap up warmish as we're expecting to reach the snow line. It's a steady climb but the downhill is always chilly.
It's a glorious sunny day and the scenery breathtaking in parts, there's little traffic as the skiing villages are quiet. Dark grey and ghostlike nestled in the valleys below the white peaks. A constant is the river, noisy and cascading, full flow with icy meltwater.
We make it to the frontier station as it starts to spot with sleet. It's like the wild west, with closed up shacks and one store open. Luckily it has a roaring fire and the thickest hot chocolate I've ever had. We put all our layers on and head down, fast and cold, back to Biescas. The most dramatic moment is the temperature change once we're through the tunnel cutting through the mountain. There was an alternative side-path on the way up, but it's quicker to go through on the way down. As soon as we're through it's a different climate and we're basking in warm sunshine again.
It hasn't been a hard ride, but still physically tiring and, despite a quick refuel of potato and onion Tortilla (the best post ride snack of all time) once we've driven back up and start to decent the other side of the pass into France, I'm overcome with foreboding as we wind down a much steeper, more dramatic road down.
This is tomorrow's route. Each twist and turn looks terrifying. The snowdrifts at the sides are higher than me and there are avalanche warning notices every kilometer. The next phase is a rocky gorge cut into the mountain with just a glimpse of sky above. The gradient feels impossible and I'm overwhelmed. It goes down and down and on and on.
Were supposed to climb up it and then get down again. I wonder how long my battery will last but more troubling is wondering how long my hands will last on the brakes going down. I make the decision before we reach the bottom that I'm not going to do it.
I find a release from choosing not to do something, I've been working on it for a few years, letting go of the 'you should' thoughts and the guilt. Even window shopping can be as pleasurable as buying something. Having the choice is liberating. I know that Richard has been looking forward to this ride, particularly this side of the mountain. So we spend the evening looking at the detail, the gradients, the distance. We compare it with other rides we've done. He'd particularly like to do the descent. I offer to drive the van up in the morning so that he han ride down.
Whether it's a good night sleep, more food, the friendly French town and little campsite we're in, or actually being in the driving seat myself in the morning, the route appears much more benign. It's stunningly beautiful. I start to think it's undergone a magical transformation overnight. Arriving back at the campsite and hearing Richards positive report of the gentle downhill reality, my courage returns, and we agree that we'll give it a go - up and down, the next day. We do and I can report that it is now one of my all time favourite rides. This is enhanced by a wonderfully strategic little mountain cafe/restaurant half way up (and down) that we can't and don't resist.
The French town is called Laruns. It's a traditional Pyrenean valley farming community and prosperous from the Hydro electric energy industry, where the sheep are herded through the town square daily. Each flock has two shepherd dogs mingling with them in the fields. There seem to be two types of farm dogs here; the huge snowy Pyrenean shepherds and small scruffy long-haired terriers. Both seem to take a keen interest in cyclists. We spend a couple more days exploring, passing through the most picturesque unspoilt villages, noticing the doorways , windows and the L shaped layout of house and yard. I become obsessed with the carvings above doorways and gateways - it's that echo of past times calling out to me again.
Hard to leave this place too, with it's Saturday market, local cheeses and friendly cafe, but my Mum's 90th Birthday is fast approaching and we have a flight to catch in Toulouse. We spend the night in a tight carpark by the airbus museum, after an abandoned attempt to cycle into Toulouse for the afternoon. It's the first flat tyre we've had, caused by a comic-book-style Tack. We realise that we've not brought the allen key that removes my back wheel. I spend the afternoon writing up our travels, which is not a bad thing. Toulouse will still be there when we get back.
I'm looking forward to a rest at home, my study and family history research, a long weekend of family celebrations and seeing how the babies have grown, before returning for the second leg of the journey and the repair of my flat tyre.
...
Things that are 'a thing'
Galician Window galleries
Laguardia doorways
Driving from Laruns to Toulouse we notice that almost all the road signs at the entrance to a town or village had been unscrewed and turned upside-down. Turns out its a protest against recent agricultural policies.
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