Well, there are some, but apparently MacDonalds has something against uploading pictures, so you'll have to wait. Meanwhile, we're on our way home, having avoided all the flooding (although we have seen a lot of rain)... currently near Lyons, and already customers are asking me when I'm coming back.
Laterz, people.
Thursday, 17 June 2010
Sitting in MacDonalds!
DAY 14 – Tuesday 8 June
AGEN, via ANDORRA, to BERGA (North of Barcelona) – 262 miles
The noise of a dog chewing a duck is actually frogs, how weird is that?
Up early, yakking and drinking coffee. It’s raining, so we decided to set off in search of the sun again.
Discovered, quite by accident, a bag of our ‘pain’ under our pitch number – what great service.
Packed slowly and took photos of the huge fig trees on site (and thought of my one, lone fig at home). It was only 32€ for two nights! Bargain.
Headed off towards Agen, then took a wrong turning somewhere and ended up on a toll motorway (pah!) going passed Montauban. Toulouse was a nightmare of roads, ended up on yet another toll road (PAH!) towards Foix and Andorra. No idea how much it cost because I used the credit card (took me ages to figure out how to do it, which really pleased the queue of cars behind us), but it did quicken our journey into Spain, which was fortuitous considering what we did next.
Fabulous, brightly-lit tunnel just before we hit Foix, it was like driving through a Christmas tree. And then we suddenly hit the ‘independent municipality’ of Andorra, didn’t even have to show our passports to the oh-so-bored guards at the border.
And then… AND THEN… we drove over the mountains of the PYRENEES! Oh my God, how berluddy brilliant. Squiggles of hairpin bends took us up, and up, and up. The increasing height was quite nerve-wracking, I found myself gripping onto the door handle and my seat with white knuckles. The faces of the people coming down was quite funny as they spotted me peering up at the mountains, my face pressed against the window, apparently navigating the treacherous roads blind with an invisible steering wheel.
It was MAGNIFICENT. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine driving our own car across the snow-covered mountains of the Pyrenees.
And guess what was at the top. A McDonalds! Tsk.
The first town (not sure what it was called) was absolutely HEAVING with ‘duty-free’ shops full of cheap booze and fags. At an altitude of 2,000 meters I could barely catch my breath and felt light-headed, almost faint – or maybe it was the sight of all that cheap stuff. Wandered into one shop at random and saw the BIGGEST bottles of whisky I’ve ever seen in my life. 4.5 litres of Jack Daniels! You better believe I had me some of that (well, not the JD cos I love it at night but hate it the next morning, but 2.5 litres of something on ‘special offer’).
So I got my cheap booze and my cheap fags, and Hubs got… a bar of chocolate. “I almost want to take up smoking again,” he said dejectedly. “NO!” I cried.
The girls at the till had perfected boredom and lethargy down to a fine art. Honestly, you could have cut through the apathy with a knife.
Carried on across the mountains, passing puddles of snow on the roadside. Parked to admire the view. A campervan in front of us had stopped to let their dog out… loose, on its own. Would you let your dog wander around right next to a 2,000 metre drop?
Drove through ski villages full of Swiss-style chalets, my whisky bottles clinking on the back seat. Whole towns looked like they’d been HACKED into the mountainside. I just kept saying “Oh my God, isn’t it beautiful!” over and over again.
As we drove through the city of Andorra itself, a local dared to beep his horn at us peevishly, for reasons unknown. “How rude!” I yelled through the open window, “Don’t you know we’re BRITISH?” Sometimes you’ve just got to let rip, its good for the soul.
Drove through the whole of Andorra in an hour. Man, its small. The temperature went from 18 degrees at the top of the mountains to 31 degrees at the bottom. Our poor car, pushed to uncomfortable altitudes and gasping at the thin air, didn’t know whether it was coming or going, but it did it, it’s a good little car.
We were suddenly at customs again, and this time we had to stop – no customs to get in but they check you on the way out? A very smartly uniformed and young official glanced with one eye at our bulging car whilst keeping the other eye on the lookout for real baddies.
And then we were in SPAIN! Whoo-hoo! We’ve done three countries today (France, Andorra and Spain in case you weren’t paying attention).
Looked for a campsite. First one was closed. Hubs didn’t like the look of the second one, but that turned out to be closed too. Third one was closed until 5.30 (as far as we could make out… it didn’t specify what date it opened at 5.30), and as it was only 3 o’clock we carried on looking, to no avail. I had visions of us sleeping in the car or ‘wild camping’ in some field and fighting with farmers in the morning, but we finally spotted the elusive camping sign at Berga, north of Barcelona. It was actually a ‘fitness and wellness’ centre with three swimming pools, spas, gyms, tennis courts and a massage parlour. ‘Uh huh’, I thought, as the receptionist went through all the activities on offer, ‘How much is this going to cost us?’ 25€, including electricity and PROPER WiFi. Yay! A couple of German bikers turned up and said it was the cheapest site in all of Spain. They also told us that Spanish campsites don’t actually open until July, so we were lucky to find this one. We’re always lucky.
Put up the tent in 100 degree heat. Only takes us 30 minutes now, we both know what we’re doing; we both pole and stand the tent, Hub pins it down while I hang up the bedroom and bring in the 10 bags from the car, then Hubs connects the gas cooker and blows up the air bed while I fill the bucket with cold water to chill the beer and water, and voila, home sweet home. How the car holds all that stuff I’ve no idea, but it does.
Afterwards we treated ourselves to a ‘grand’ beer in glass steins, sitting under an olive tree in the bar area overlooking the pretty town of Berga and the mountains beyond. “Only 2€!” cried the Hubs, and bought another two steins to take full advantage – you can take the man out of Yorkshire, but you can’t take Yorkshire out of the man.
Back at the tent a Frenchman on a pushbike turned up on the pitch next to ours. After he’d put up his teeny-tiny tent in the heat, Hubs went over with a bottle of cold beer, for which he seemed most grateful. Couldn’t speak a word of English, but he ‘charaded’ a lot, a bit like Monsieur Hulot. Later, seeing him perched on the wall outside his tent I gave him our spare fold-up chair.
Toilet and showers are IMMACULATE. Marble tops and automatic lights! More like hotel facilities than a campsite.
Tinned chilli for din-dins tonight, which consisted almost entirely of kidney beans, but washing it down with cheap whisky helped enormously.
And so to bed. We actually saw fading light tonight, although not actual darkness.
DAY 15 – Wednesday 9 June
Woke to the sound of Persistent Rain. Ye Gods, this is Spain, it’s not supposed to berluddy rain!
As electricity is free here, and tight-Yorkshire Hubs can’t resist a freebie, we found an electrical shop in Berga and spent 20€ on fittings to plug ourselves into the mains supply. Hubs still thinks he has a bargain, but its great to be able to use the laptop and not worry about its two hour battery life (and then worrying where to charge it up again) – I can’t live without my laptop; have fingers, MUST type. 5 metre extension cable isn’t quite long enough to reach to the tent though, so we have to charge everything in the car. We’ve completely given up on the crap e:can’t converter – I shall be emailing them when I get home.
Rain persisted. Relentlessly. Endlessly. We stayed in our tent ‘surfing the net’ (I actually did some transcription work!) Booked site for another two nights to give the excellent driver a well-earned rest. The place is huge and crammed with static caravans and awnings. The electric cables running from each one are a mess of connections – the Spanish have a VERY relaxed attitude to electricity, you feel the whole place might spark and burn at any minute. The site also has astro-turf laid around the caravans like green bandages, very odd.
We took advantage of the ‘social area’ between the gym and the indoor swimming pools to surf t’net as the rain LASHED down.
We could see Aldi (yeah, the shop) over in the town and set off for provisions, wriggling our way through the complicated streets. We only have to say ‘Hola’ to people and they cry “Ah, English?” We must have terrible Spanish accents (imagine, a Brummie and a Yorkshireman strangling their language). Everyone seems a bit surprised but pleased to see us and our GB car.
Read. Had shower. Watched the rain running down our plastic window and started twitching with cabin fever [CLIP], so went to bar for beer (where Hubs had a grand stein and I had a glass thimble, tsk). Then, as we had a fully charged laptop, we watched The Mist DVD, which, because it’s a copy (sharp intake of breath) was barely audible and finished two minutes before the end of the film.
And so to bed, where we indulged in some giggling paranoia. We suspect the Frenchman in the teeny-tiny tent next to ours is actually an undercover policeman keeping an eye on us. Have we actually seen him ride the pushbike he has? We have not. And he smokes, a lot, surely a proper cyclist (who’s apparently pedalled all the way down from France) wouldn’t smoke? As we lay in bed sniggering, a mobile phone rang right outside our tent, and the Frenchman answered it, thus confirming our suspicions that we’re being watched (for reasons unknown… unless Hubs peeing into bushes outside our tent in the middle of the night is a criminal offence, in which case we’re stuffed).
A very, VERY damp day.
DAY 16 – Thursday 10 June
Woke to rain. Rain! RAIN! Checked on internet and it seems the whole of Europe is swathed in dark clouds. Just our luck!
Gave the Frenchman/policeman next door a mug of coffee (trying to win him round so he won’t arrest us).
Sat in social area for a while, then, unwilling to spend another day trapped in our soggy tent, we headed out. Anywhere. Just picked a road and drove down it, marvelling as we always do at the magnificent scenery; hills and valleys and distant mountain ranges, olive trees, pretty Spanish villas, quaint little villages, virtually empty roads. And finally we found the sun!
In the distance we could see a castle perched on a hill. Aimed at it and found Cordona, a typical Spanish town with roofs of terracotta tiles and balconies of flowers. Followed a coach up a scream-inducing road to the top of the hill, to the castle (where you didn’t have to pay to get in). The views were breathtaking, the castle magnificent.
Drove into the narrow and crazy streets of the town itself and came to a small supermarket frequented by locals. They stared at us as we marvelled at all the different foods, picking something for dinner. They had 1kg blocks of cake in huge boxes, who needs that much cake?
Came back to the tent and chilled, studying the map and deciding where to go next – I love that bit, planning our next adventure. Our poor mapbook looks a bit battered now, with pages torn and stained… a proper adventurers’ mapbook!
Finally the dark clouds coming over the mountains broke up and blue sky poked through again. At last! Cooked and ate outside.
And then the Russians came, three men and a woman, pitching their tent next to ours where the Frenchman had been. They whacked in their tent pegs using the back of an enormous axe! Obviously the KGB are keeping on eye on Hubs’ bladder habits now. He went off to converse with them, and then next thing I know one of them is in our tent showing us his state-of-the-art netbook and navigator system. He had a HUGE head. They’re definitely the KGB, infiltrating our tent in order to place tracking devices. Later they all sat together outside their tent listening to what sounded like sombre 70s folk music. They did come over and ask, in very good English, if we minded, and when I said no they turned the volume up.
And so to bed, hoping for better weather tomorrow. After three nights, I’m ready for the off now, my feet are itching again.
DAY 17 – Friday 11 June
BERGA to CADAQUES
The Russians, having planted their surveillance devices, packed up in total silence at 6.30am, then had to wait for the gates to open at 8am. As I walked to the toilets the youngest one passed me, smiled, and said something in Russian; I’m pretty sure it was something along the lines of ‘We’ll be watching you’ or ‘There is no escape’.
Our plan today is to drive to the coast, overland, from Berga to Ripoll, Olot and Figueres, to Cadaques and the Mediterranean sea. We’d sourced a campsite on the internet which looked very nice. Considering we were on minor ‘yellow’ roads and I had some doubt about our ability to navigate our way after the disastrous attempts in northern France, it all went without a hitch, not a single wrong turn. The scenery was, as always, magnificent.
“Oh my God!” Hubs cried at one point, as we wiggled our way up a hill/mountain.
“What?” I asked, because it’s quite alarming when the calm and efficient driver suddenly makes statements like that, “WHAT?”
“You’re not sitting where I am,” he said, peering over the thin metal road barrier, “There’s a sheer drop on this side.” Which, because it concerned him, immediately concerned me, and I clutched at the door handle and seat again.
Drove through several tunnels bigger than the Queensway in Birmingham, terribly exciting.
And then we spotted something that made us look at each other with ‘Was it?’ expressions. There was a red umbrella at the side of a dual carriageway. Underneath it sat a fully made-up woman in a chair, just sitting there waiting for ‘trade’. A hooker!
“No way!” I cried, because I’ve led a very sheltered life and I’ve never seen a hooker before.
“Looks like it,” Hubs said.
Further on was another one. I was fascinated. What kind of lives must they lead to offer themselves up at roadsides like that?
At Rosa near the coast we passed a shop selling boats. Not little boats but BIG buggers inside what looked like a glass walled hangar. Outside were other boats, one from the UK (Solitaire Prince, London was one… just wanted to mention that in case the owner ever Googles it, and if he does, Hi!).
Passing Rosa, which looked a bit touristy for our liking with its big hotels and water parks, we drove up into the mountains again, across a national park, heading towards Cadaques, which, on the internet and on the mapbook, looked like a very nice place to camp. We traversed the winding roads and saw it in the distance, a pretty little village sitting right next to the sea.
Then we arrived. Oh my God, I’ve never been anywhere like it in my life. I had adrenaline rushes of the extreme kind, and I suspect Hubs did too. The streets were TINY. I’m talking slightly bigger than car width. We drove slowly down one street fairly BRUSHING against the doorsteps of the houses on either side. And not only that, they were all at least a 45 degree angle with tight bits at the end and no road signs, AND the roads were so bad they look like they’d been bombed. On a particularly steep slope going down Hubs put on his brakes and, very calmly I thought given the circumstances, said “We’re not stopping, the car’s still sliding.”
Flipping ‘eck, it was a nightmare. Other cars seemed to be going round in circles, inching round corners and up and down steep gradients just like us, trying to find a way out. It all felt very claustrophobic and not a little dangerous. Pedestrians pressed themselves against the buildings as we passed. Even the beach was tiny, the Mediterranean seeming to press against the village.
We found a tourist map on high poles and climbed a rock to look at it, searching for the campsite. Then we were back on the narrow streets again, teeth gritted, hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel or pushed into the mouth to stop the hysterical screams from escaping.
We eventually found the campsite. It was APPALLING. Like a huge football pitch of sand, strips of wood had been placed, seemingly at random given the varying sizes of the pitches, on the ground. It was desolate, with a couple of run-down campervans in one corner and a small tent next to a motorbike in another. No water taps, no electricity, no trees or bushes, just a run down reception/bar area at the top. It was NOTHING like the picture we’d seen on the internet.
“What do you think?” Hubs asked.
“I think I’d rather sleep in the car.”
“Yeah,” he said, “Me too.” We sat there for a moment, looking at the sand pit and the convoluted village beyond, and then Hubs said, “Let’s go back to France.”
“Okay.”
So that’s what we did, we escaped, and it really felt like an escape. Hubs was so shaken he asked for a drag on my fag as we careered around hairpin bends back into the mountains. “Are you sure that’s wise given the wriggly road?” I asked, “You’ll get light-headed and drive off the edge.” But he insisted, and he really did look quite shaken, so I handed him my cigarette. He took a drag and I shrieked, “Give it back! You’re not having any more!”
We didn’t crash.
Drove up to el Port de la Selva and through Colrea and back into France (we didn’t even have to show our passports). The entire journey was FANTASTIC. The road clung to the coast and we drove through the cutest villages with the Mediterranean Sea on our right, up and down hills, through vineyards and olive groves. It was like being in a film. Hubs kept leaning back in his chair, one hand on the steering wheel, the other slipping around my shoulders, humming old Mediterranean music [CLIP]. I giggled coquettishly. It was beautiful.
Our first ‘campings’ sign was at Banyuls sur Mer. Municipal too, therefore cheap and of good standard. Lunch was still ongoing, so we drove around the site… very small, very packed, but with a couple of spaces available. Sat in the car waiting for it to open and fell asleep. When we woke up we noticed a road running up and had a walk up there… to the rest of the site. The place is MASSIVE, but everyone seems to have camped around the toilet block (very scenic). Picked our pitch on one of the uppermost terraces overlooking the vineyards and the town (and, if you craned your neck, the sea).
We booked in with our chosen pitch number. The receptionist said we couldn’t have that one, but could have the one behind, which was squashed into a corner with no view. We pitched where the view was and plugged in the laptop (I love electricity).
We put up tent irritably because we were tired after our long drive and this is our ninth campsite… and it was raining. Then we sat a while to recuperate. Carrefour was on the other side of the road, but we were so tired we drove over and dragged ourselves round the supermarket for provisions. The food here is more expensive than at home, but we splurged and bought an adjustable chair for Hubs like the one I insisted we bring, which is tres comfortable. He’s now a very happy man.
We bought a tin of something for din-dins, choosing it from the picture on the label. It was actually sauerkraut with sausages and, strangely, tuna. It was disgusting, but we ate it anyway.
Site is beautiful, peaceful, scenic, spacious and private. We stayed up for as long as we could admiring the view before hauling ourselves, unbelievably early, into bed. After two nights of crickets, two nights of frogs and three nights of air-conditioning noise at the last site, I slept like a log.
Bliss.
DAY 18 – Saturday 12 June
Beautiful day. Hubs discovered that the car break-down cover is actually for a calendar month and not for 28 days… which means we actually have more time here than we thought. WHOO-HOO!!
Chilled and relaxed around the tent for awhile, which really does feel like home now, then took a walk down to the village/town through pretty streets full of balconies with flowers and shutters at the windows. The cemetery contains gigantic family tombs, and heavy church bells hung from hunks of wood.
Sat on the sea front, admiring the edge of the world and people-watching. Wandered up a hill to a scenic view where there were picnic tables, sat and admired some more. Children played in the clear water with fishing nets. People lay on towels on the gravel beach, tanning themselves. Boats pottered on the water and into the tiny marina. It’s a lovely little place, hardly touched by tourism at all.
We would have eaten at one of the restaurants overlooking the sea, but we can’t read French and wouldn’t know what to order – we could do with pictures like they do in the Canaries, but I guess that would lower the whole tone of the place. Instead, we ducked into a little supermarket and bought sandwiches, which were awful (we fed them to the birds). The French ‘don’t do’ sandwiches, they don’t do ‘quick snacks’ for lunch like trays of salad or pies or freshly stuffed bread (think Greggs). There’s definitely a gap in the market. Another gap is Takeaways… CURRY! Haven’t seen a single one. Not one! What on earth do they do on a Saturday night when they can’t be bothered to cook??
Entrepreneurs, take note: sandwich shops and curry houses are the way to go.
Took a different route back to the tent… which was MILES longer than the walk we took there, and in the searing heat as well (mad dogs and Englishmen). Finally shuffled into camp, exhausted, pulled out our adjustable chairs, dragged them into the shade, and slept, both of us, Hubs snoring like a drain. Then Hubs lay on the bed and slept for another hour – I think all the driving might be getting to him.
After his siesta we trundled on over to Carrefoure for more provisions – we buy daily because everything goes off so fast in the heat. I’m anosmic (no sense of smell), which means my taste-buds aren’t firing on all four cylinders… in fact, my sense of taste is Crap. I need spicy food. I NEED spices, and I haven’t had any since we left home more than two weeks ago – hence my gagging desperation for a curry (my kingdom for a berluddy CURRY!)
And lo, I found a microwave meal that promised chicken tikka. No worries about not actually having a microwave, I was having it, would heat it in the sun if I had to. I was so excited. Hubs carried his box of beer bottles back to the tent in a backpack, mugging about the weight all the way. Tossed tikka and rice into the same saucepan, heated, and ate. OH MY GOD, I COULD TASTE IT! And all was well with the world again.
Went to bed early – surprise surprise. We get the urge to slip into a coma at around 7pm, but manage to hold off until 8.30-ish. Heat? Fresh air? Exercise? Who knows, but we do get up early… usually.
Uploading pictures onto Blogger is a bit of a pain, I can never get them in the right place without fiddling, and I hate fiddling, so here’s a bunch of them… make of them what you will.
AGEN, via ANDORRA, to BERGA (North of Barcelona) – 262 miles
The noise of a dog chewing a duck is actually frogs, how weird is that?
Up early, yakking and drinking coffee. It’s raining, so we decided to set off in search of the sun again.
Discovered, quite by accident, a bag of our ‘pain’ under our pitch number – what great service.
Packed slowly and took photos of the huge fig trees on site (and thought of my one, lone fig at home). It was only 32€ for two nights! Bargain.
Headed off towards Agen, then took a wrong turning somewhere and ended up on a toll motorway (pah!) going passed Montauban. Toulouse was a nightmare of roads, ended up on yet another toll road (PAH!) towards Foix and Andorra. No idea how much it cost because I used the credit card (took me ages to figure out how to do it, which really pleased the queue of cars behind us), but it did quicken our journey into Spain, which was fortuitous considering what we did next.
Fabulous, brightly-lit tunnel just before we hit Foix, it was like driving through a Christmas tree. And then we suddenly hit the ‘independent municipality’ of Andorra, didn’t even have to show our passports to the oh-so-bored guards at the border.
And then… AND THEN… we drove over the mountains of the PYRENEES! Oh my God, how berluddy brilliant. Squiggles of hairpin bends took us up, and up, and up. The increasing height was quite nerve-wracking, I found myself gripping onto the door handle and my seat with white knuckles. The faces of the people coming down was quite funny as they spotted me peering up at the mountains, my face pressed against the window, apparently navigating the treacherous roads blind with an invisible steering wheel.
It was MAGNIFICENT. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine driving our own car across the snow-covered mountains of the Pyrenees.
And guess what was at the top. A McDonalds! Tsk.
The first town (not sure what it was called) was absolutely HEAVING with ‘duty-free’ shops full of cheap booze and fags. At an altitude of 2,000 meters I could barely catch my breath and felt light-headed, almost faint – or maybe it was the sight of all that cheap stuff. Wandered into one shop at random and saw the BIGGEST bottles of whisky I’ve ever seen in my life. 4.5 litres of Jack Daniels! You better believe I had me some of that (well, not the JD cos I love it at night but hate it the next morning, but 2.5 litres of something on ‘special offer’).
So I got my cheap booze and my cheap fags, and Hubs got… a bar of chocolate. “I almost want to take up smoking again,” he said dejectedly. “NO!” I cried.
The girls at the till had perfected boredom and lethargy down to a fine art. Honestly, you could have cut through the apathy with a knife.
Carried on across the mountains, passing puddles of snow on the roadside. Parked to admire the view. A campervan in front of us had stopped to let their dog out… loose, on its own. Would you let your dog wander around right next to a 2,000 metre drop?
Drove through ski villages full of Swiss-style chalets, my whisky bottles clinking on the back seat. Whole towns looked like they’d been HACKED into the mountainside. I just kept saying “Oh my God, isn’t it beautiful!” over and over again.
As we drove through the city of Andorra itself, a local dared to beep his horn at us peevishly, for reasons unknown. “How rude!” I yelled through the open window, “Don’t you know we’re BRITISH?” Sometimes you’ve just got to let rip, its good for the soul.
Drove through the whole of Andorra in an hour. Man, its small. The temperature went from 18 degrees at the top of the mountains to 31 degrees at the bottom. Our poor car, pushed to uncomfortable altitudes and gasping at the thin air, didn’t know whether it was coming or going, but it did it, it’s a good little car.
We were suddenly at customs again, and this time we had to stop – no customs to get in but they check you on the way out? A very smartly uniformed and young official glanced with one eye at our bulging car whilst keeping the other eye on the lookout for real baddies.
And then we were in SPAIN! Whoo-hoo! We’ve done three countries today (France, Andorra and Spain in case you weren’t paying attention).
Looked for a campsite. First one was closed. Hubs didn’t like the look of the second one, but that turned out to be closed too. Third one was closed until 5.30 (as far as we could make out… it didn’t specify what date it opened at 5.30), and as it was only 3 o’clock we carried on looking, to no avail. I had visions of us sleeping in the car or ‘wild camping’ in some field and fighting with farmers in the morning, but we finally spotted the elusive camping sign at Berga, north of Barcelona. It was actually a ‘fitness and wellness’ centre with three swimming pools, spas, gyms, tennis courts and a massage parlour. ‘Uh huh’, I thought, as the receptionist went through all the activities on offer, ‘How much is this going to cost us?’ 25€, including electricity and PROPER WiFi. Yay! A couple of German bikers turned up and said it was the cheapest site in all of Spain. They also told us that Spanish campsites don’t actually open until July, so we were lucky to find this one. We’re always lucky.
Put up the tent in 100 degree heat. Only takes us 30 minutes now, we both know what we’re doing; we both pole and stand the tent, Hub pins it down while I hang up the bedroom and bring in the 10 bags from the car, then Hubs connects the gas cooker and blows up the air bed while I fill the bucket with cold water to chill the beer and water, and voila, home sweet home. How the car holds all that stuff I’ve no idea, but it does.
Afterwards we treated ourselves to a ‘grand’ beer in glass steins, sitting under an olive tree in the bar area overlooking the pretty town of Berga and the mountains beyond. “Only 2€!” cried the Hubs, and bought another two steins to take full advantage – you can take the man out of Yorkshire, but you can’t take Yorkshire out of the man.
Back at the tent a Frenchman on a pushbike turned up on the pitch next to ours. After he’d put up his teeny-tiny tent in the heat, Hubs went over with a bottle of cold beer, for which he seemed most grateful. Couldn’t speak a word of English, but he ‘charaded’ a lot, a bit like Monsieur Hulot. Later, seeing him perched on the wall outside his tent I gave him our spare fold-up chair.
Toilet and showers are IMMACULATE. Marble tops and automatic lights! More like hotel facilities than a campsite.
Tinned chilli for din-dins tonight, which consisted almost entirely of kidney beans, but washing it down with cheap whisky helped enormously.
And so to bed. We actually saw fading light tonight, although not actual darkness.
DAY 15 – Wednesday 9 June
Woke to the sound of Persistent Rain. Ye Gods, this is Spain, it’s not supposed to berluddy rain!
As electricity is free here, and tight-Yorkshire Hubs can’t resist a freebie, we found an electrical shop in Berga and spent 20€ on fittings to plug ourselves into the mains supply. Hubs still thinks he has a bargain, but its great to be able to use the laptop and not worry about its two hour battery life (and then worrying where to charge it up again) – I can’t live without my laptop; have fingers, MUST type. 5 metre extension cable isn’t quite long enough to reach to the tent though, so we have to charge everything in the car. We’ve completely given up on the crap e:can’t converter – I shall be emailing them when I get home.
Rain persisted. Relentlessly. Endlessly. We stayed in our tent ‘surfing the net’ (I actually did some transcription work!) Booked site for another two nights to give the excellent driver a well-earned rest. The place is huge and crammed with static caravans and awnings. The electric cables running from each one are a mess of connections – the Spanish have a VERY relaxed attitude to electricity, you feel the whole place might spark and burn at any minute. The site also has astro-turf laid around the caravans like green bandages, very odd.
We took advantage of the ‘social area’ between the gym and the indoor swimming pools to surf t’net as the rain LASHED down.
We could see Aldi (yeah, the shop) over in the town and set off for provisions, wriggling our way through the complicated streets. We only have to say ‘Hola’ to people and they cry “Ah, English?” We must have terrible Spanish accents (imagine, a Brummie and a Yorkshireman strangling their language). Everyone seems a bit surprised but pleased to see us and our GB car.
Read. Had shower. Watched the rain running down our plastic window and started twitching with cabin fever [CLIP], so went to bar for beer (where Hubs had a grand stein and I had a glass thimble, tsk). Then, as we had a fully charged laptop, we watched The Mist DVD, which, because it’s a copy (sharp intake of breath) was barely audible and finished two minutes before the end of the film.
And so to bed, where we indulged in some giggling paranoia. We suspect the Frenchman in the teeny-tiny tent next to ours is actually an undercover policeman keeping an eye on us. Have we actually seen him ride the pushbike he has? We have not. And he smokes, a lot, surely a proper cyclist (who’s apparently pedalled all the way down from France) wouldn’t smoke? As we lay in bed sniggering, a mobile phone rang right outside our tent, and the Frenchman answered it, thus confirming our suspicions that we’re being watched (for reasons unknown… unless Hubs peeing into bushes outside our tent in the middle of the night is a criminal offence, in which case we’re stuffed).
A very, VERY damp day.
DAY 16 – Thursday 10 June
Woke to rain. Rain! RAIN! Checked on internet and it seems the whole of Europe is swathed in dark clouds. Just our luck!
Gave the Frenchman/policeman next door a mug of coffee (trying to win him round so he won’t arrest us).
Sat in social area for a while, then, unwilling to spend another day trapped in our soggy tent, we headed out. Anywhere. Just picked a road and drove down it, marvelling as we always do at the magnificent scenery; hills and valleys and distant mountain ranges, olive trees, pretty Spanish villas, quaint little villages, virtually empty roads. And finally we found the sun!
In the distance we could see a castle perched on a hill. Aimed at it and found Cordona, a typical Spanish town with roofs of terracotta tiles and balconies of flowers. Followed a coach up a scream-inducing road to the top of the hill, to the castle (where you didn’t have to pay to get in). The views were breathtaking, the castle magnificent.
Drove into the narrow and crazy streets of the town itself and came to a small supermarket frequented by locals. They stared at us as we marvelled at all the different foods, picking something for dinner. They had 1kg blocks of cake in huge boxes, who needs that much cake?
Came back to the tent and chilled, studying the map and deciding where to go next – I love that bit, planning our next adventure. Our poor mapbook looks a bit battered now, with pages torn and stained… a proper adventurers’ mapbook!
Finally the dark clouds coming over the mountains broke up and blue sky poked through again. At last! Cooked and ate outside.
And then the Russians came, three men and a woman, pitching their tent next to ours where the Frenchman had been. They whacked in their tent pegs using the back of an enormous axe! Obviously the KGB are keeping on eye on Hubs’ bladder habits now. He went off to converse with them, and then next thing I know one of them is in our tent showing us his state-of-the-art netbook and navigator system. He had a HUGE head. They’re definitely the KGB, infiltrating our tent in order to place tracking devices. Later they all sat together outside their tent listening to what sounded like sombre 70s folk music. They did come over and ask, in very good English, if we minded, and when I said no they turned the volume up.
And so to bed, hoping for better weather tomorrow. After three nights, I’m ready for the off now, my feet are itching again.
DAY 17 – Friday 11 June
BERGA to CADAQUES
The Russians, having planted their surveillance devices, packed up in total silence at 6.30am, then had to wait for the gates to open at 8am. As I walked to the toilets the youngest one passed me, smiled, and said something in Russian; I’m pretty sure it was something along the lines of ‘We’ll be watching you’ or ‘There is no escape’.
Our plan today is to drive to the coast, overland, from Berga to Ripoll, Olot and Figueres, to Cadaques and the Mediterranean sea. We’d sourced a campsite on the internet which looked very nice. Considering we were on minor ‘yellow’ roads and I had some doubt about our ability to navigate our way after the disastrous attempts in northern France, it all went without a hitch, not a single wrong turn. The scenery was, as always, magnificent.
“Oh my God!” Hubs cried at one point, as we wiggled our way up a hill/mountain.
“What?” I asked, because it’s quite alarming when the calm and efficient driver suddenly makes statements like that, “WHAT?”
“You’re not sitting where I am,” he said, peering over the thin metal road barrier, “There’s a sheer drop on this side.” Which, because it concerned him, immediately concerned me, and I clutched at the door handle and seat again.
Drove through several tunnels bigger than the Queensway in Birmingham, terribly exciting.
And then we spotted something that made us look at each other with ‘Was it?’ expressions. There was a red umbrella at the side of a dual carriageway. Underneath it sat a fully made-up woman in a chair, just sitting there waiting for ‘trade’. A hooker!
“No way!” I cried, because I’ve led a very sheltered life and I’ve never seen a hooker before.
“Looks like it,” Hubs said.
Further on was another one. I was fascinated. What kind of lives must they lead to offer themselves up at roadsides like that?
At Rosa near the coast we passed a shop selling boats. Not little boats but BIG buggers inside what looked like a glass walled hangar. Outside were other boats, one from the UK (Solitaire Prince, London was one… just wanted to mention that in case the owner ever Googles it, and if he does, Hi!).
Passing Rosa, which looked a bit touristy for our liking with its big hotels and water parks, we drove up into the mountains again, across a national park, heading towards Cadaques, which, on the internet and on the mapbook, looked like a very nice place to camp. We traversed the winding roads and saw it in the distance, a pretty little village sitting right next to the sea.
Then we arrived. Oh my God, I’ve never been anywhere like it in my life. I had adrenaline rushes of the extreme kind, and I suspect Hubs did too. The streets were TINY. I’m talking slightly bigger than car width. We drove slowly down one street fairly BRUSHING against the doorsteps of the houses on either side. And not only that, they were all at least a 45 degree angle with tight bits at the end and no road signs, AND the roads were so bad they look like they’d been bombed. On a particularly steep slope going down Hubs put on his brakes and, very calmly I thought given the circumstances, said “We’re not stopping, the car’s still sliding.”
Flipping ‘eck, it was a nightmare. Other cars seemed to be going round in circles, inching round corners and up and down steep gradients just like us, trying to find a way out. It all felt very claustrophobic and not a little dangerous. Pedestrians pressed themselves against the buildings as we passed. Even the beach was tiny, the Mediterranean seeming to press against the village.
We found a tourist map on high poles and climbed a rock to look at it, searching for the campsite. Then we were back on the narrow streets again, teeth gritted, hands clenched tightly on the steering wheel or pushed into the mouth to stop the hysterical screams from escaping.
We eventually found the campsite. It was APPALLING. Like a huge football pitch of sand, strips of wood had been placed, seemingly at random given the varying sizes of the pitches, on the ground. It was desolate, with a couple of run-down campervans in one corner and a small tent next to a motorbike in another. No water taps, no electricity, no trees or bushes, just a run down reception/bar area at the top. It was NOTHING like the picture we’d seen on the internet.
“What do you think?” Hubs asked.
“I think I’d rather sleep in the car.”
“Yeah,” he said, “Me too.” We sat there for a moment, looking at the sand pit and the convoluted village beyond, and then Hubs said, “Let’s go back to France.”
“Okay.”
So that’s what we did, we escaped, and it really felt like an escape. Hubs was so shaken he asked for a drag on my fag as we careered around hairpin bends back into the mountains. “Are you sure that’s wise given the wriggly road?” I asked, “You’ll get light-headed and drive off the edge.” But he insisted, and he really did look quite shaken, so I handed him my cigarette. He took a drag and I shrieked, “Give it back! You’re not having any more!”
We didn’t crash.
Drove up to el Port de la Selva and through Colrea and back into France (we didn’t even have to show our passports). The entire journey was FANTASTIC. The road clung to the coast and we drove through the cutest villages with the Mediterranean Sea on our right, up and down hills, through vineyards and olive groves. It was like being in a film. Hubs kept leaning back in his chair, one hand on the steering wheel, the other slipping around my shoulders, humming old Mediterranean music [CLIP]. I giggled coquettishly. It was beautiful.
Our first ‘campings’ sign was at Banyuls sur Mer. Municipal too, therefore cheap and of good standard. Lunch was still ongoing, so we drove around the site… very small, very packed, but with a couple of spaces available. Sat in the car waiting for it to open and fell asleep. When we woke up we noticed a road running up and had a walk up there… to the rest of the site. The place is MASSIVE, but everyone seems to have camped around the toilet block (very scenic). Picked our pitch on one of the uppermost terraces overlooking the vineyards and the town (and, if you craned your neck, the sea).
We booked in with our chosen pitch number. The receptionist said we couldn’t have that one, but could have the one behind, which was squashed into a corner with no view. We pitched where the view was and plugged in the laptop (I love electricity).
We put up tent irritably because we were tired after our long drive and this is our ninth campsite… and it was raining. Then we sat a while to recuperate. Carrefour was on the other side of the road, but we were so tired we drove over and dragged ourselves round the supermarket for provisions. The food here is more expensive than at home, but we splurged and bought an adjustable chair for Hubs like the one I insisted we bring, which is tres comfortable. He’s now a very happy man.
We bought a tin of something for din-dins, choosing it from the picture on the label. It was actually sauerkraut with sausages and, strangely, tuna. It was disgusting, but we ate it anyway.
Site is beautiful, peaceful, scenic, spacious and private. We stayed up for as long as we could admiring the view before hauling ourselves, unbelievably early, into bed. After two nights of crickets, two nights of frogs and three nights of air-conditioning noise at the last site, I slept like a log.
Bliss.
DAY 18 – Saturday 12 June
Beautiful day. Hubs discovered that the car break-down cover is actually for a calendar month and not for 28 days… which means we actually have more time here than we thought. WHOO-HOO!!
Chilled and relaxed around the tent for awhile, which really does feel like home now, then took a walk down to the village/town through pretty streets full of balconies with flowers and shutters at the windows. The cemetery contains gigantic family tombs, and heavy church bells hung from hunks of wood.
Sat on the sea front, admiring the edge of the world and people-watching. Wandered up a hill to a scenic view where there were picnic tables, sat and admired some more. Children played in the clear water with fishing nets. People lay on towels on the gravel beach, tanning themselves. Boats pottered on the water and into the tiny marina. It’s a lovely little place, hardly touched by tourism at all.
We would have eaten at one of the restaurants overlooking the sea, but we can’t read French and wouldn’t know what to order – we could do with pictures like they do in the Canaries, but I guess that would lower the whole tone of the place. Instead, we ducked into a little supermarket and bought sandwiches, which were awful (we fed them to the birds). The French ‘don’t do’ sandwiches, they don’t do ‘quick snacks’ for lunch like trays of salad or pies or freshly stuffed bread (think Greggs). There’s definitely a gap in the market. Another gap is Takeaways… CURRY! Haven’t seen a single one. Not one! What on earth do they do on a Saturday night when they can’t be bothered to cook??
Entrepreneurs, take note: sandwich shops and curry houses are the way to go.
Took a different route back to the tent… which was MILES longer than the walk we took there, and in the searing heat as well (mad dogs and Englishmen). Finally shuffled into camp, exhausted, pulled out our adjustable chairs, dragged them into the shade, and slept, both of us, Hubs snoring like a drain. Then Hubs lay on the bed and slept for another hour – I think all the driving might be getting to him.
After his siesta we trundled on over to Carrefoure for more provisions – we buy daily because everything goes off so fast in the heat. I’m anosmic (no sense of smell), which means my taste-buds aren’t firing on all four cylinders… in fact, my sense of taste is Crap. I need spicy food. I NEED spices, and I haven’t had any since we left home more than two weeks ago – hence my gagging desperation for a curry (my kingdom for a berluddy CURRY!)
And lo, I found a microwave meal that promised chicken tikka. No worries about not actually having a microwave, I was having it, would heat it in the sun if I had to. I was so excited. Hubs carried his box of beer bottles back to the tent in a backpack, mugging about the weight all the way. Tossed tikka and rice into the same saucepan, heated, and ate. OH MY GOD, I COULD TASTE IT! And all was well with the world again.
Went to bed early – surprise surprise. We get the urge to slip into a coma at around 7pm, but manage to hold off until 8.30-ish. Heat? Fresh air? Exercise? Who knows, but we do get up early… usually.
Uploading pictures onto Blogger is a bit of a pain, I can never get them in the right place without fiddling, and I hate fiddling, so here’s a bunch of them… make of them what you will.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
So much to do and so little time!
DAY 8 – Wednesday 2 June
ST.MICHEL to ST.GILLES (NR LES SABLES) – 205 miles
An early start after a good night’s sleep. Hint of sun in the almost blue sky, but was soon gone as the grey clouds crept over… is it Monsoon Season in France or something? Packed up in 30 minutes and then we were outta there.
Aaaaand we’re off, to RENNES and the coast beyond, where hopefully we might catch sight of the sun again at some point.
We did well today, in a better mood with each other (rebooted), and we’re only following the main roads which cuts down on a lot of squabbling at road junctions and fairly eats up the miles. Flew passed NANTES, through ST.NAZAIRE and across the big bridge, then carried on down the coast road.
And what was on the coast road? Holiday campsites with loads of children and playgrounds, a bit like Butlins and my idea of hell. ‘I’m not staying anywhere like this,’ I thought to myself as we passed one after another.
Then we broke free of all the Butlins and Pontins places and drove through a forest area. Lo and behold, a normal campsite in the middle of a forest with No children. Perfect. We could even toddle off, armed with a site map, and pick our own pitch.
Ran into an English family in a converted GPO van (how fab is that?) And where were they from? Why, Birmingham no less. Salt of the earth people, us Brummies.
Had a walk through the forest to the nearby beach (very nice) and the road outside the campsite (yay, a tabac for my ciggies, which, incidentally, are no cheaper over here… pah!)
Aaaaand chill.
Another early night. Exactly how much sleep do two people need?
* The roads here, even the motorways, are incredibly quiet, hardly anybody on them except for lots and lots of campervans. The campsites are out-of-season quiet too. Its lovely. But the villages we drive through are spookily devoid of people, like abandoned film sets.
DAY 9 – Thursday 3 June
Woke to clear bloo skies and HEAT. Maaaan, it’s hot! 26 degrees hot. Hello shorts and t-shirt, goodbye fleece jacket I’ve been wearing since we left home (sometimes to bed).
Another 10 hour sleep last night, no idea what’s going on.
Chatted to the couple from Birmingham, who were a mine of camping information and showed us round their converted campervan, which was brilliant… but I still prefer our tent.
Leisurely drive down the coast road to St.Gilles and beyond. The coastline is so beautiful and the towns and villages so quaint… its exactly how I imagined it all to be, so very typically French. Really, really enjoying it, and I didn’t think I’d like camping so much, but we have all the comforts of home – airbed, gas cooker, state-of-the-art tent and sleeping bag – so its no hardship at all.
Ate fresh croissants overlooking the ‘azure’ sea, then drove down and watched the surfers in the waves. Hubs became slightly obsessed with buying a dustpan and brush to clean the sand out of the tent, so bought sandwiches too and ate them overlooking the sea. It’s a great way to live: buy food when hungry, eat with a view. I could seriously get used to this. (Note to Middle Son: Sell house, send money lol).
In the supermarket they sell a lot of fish, obviously, cos its near the sea innit, but in this one they had a tank full of lobsters all tied up and waiting to die. I will NEVER eat lobster. Free The Lobsters! Their fresh produce is local so its all super-fresh. Women were shaking curly lettuce like girls hair, I was mesmerised by the movement. They’re just like the supermarkets in America, only here there’s NO ONE IN THEM. Where are all the people?
My laptop has become a liability because we can’t charge it in the car with the e:can’t converter (berluddy thing). Actually managed to charge it by plugging it into the ‘outdoor’ men’s toilets and putting it on a chair directly opposite our tent so we could watch it for two hours. But at least the lack of battery power has forced me to have a proper break from the keyboard and the internet and work, which is nice.
Returned to our tent to find that the coolbox had turned into a hotbox (its not an electric one, it runs off frozen plastic things which tend to melt). Milk, cheeses and pate had all gasped their last and expired.
It’s really, really hot.
DAY 10 – Friday 4 June
ST.GILLES to SOLOUC SUR MERE (NR BORDEAUX) – 163 miles
Woke in the night because something was sniffing heavily around our tent, right by our heads where we were sleeping. Sounded bigger than a rat but smaller than a dog, and it didn’t sound like a dog sniffing, it sounded more like the nasal grunt of a pig. It didn’t immediately run off when Hubs banged the side of the tent a couple of times either, so it was a fearless bugger. Totally freaked me out.
“Shall I go out and see what it is?” Hubs asked.
“NO!” I cried, “That’s what happens in horror films and they NEVER come back!”
Heard every leaf flutter and bat fart after that, convinced we were about to be murdered by the locals or abducted by aliens. Was REALLY happy when dawn FINALLY arrived.
Packed and ready by 8am. Except the reception didn’t open until 9am (to get our security key dosh back), so we drove down the road, sat on a wall by the beach and watched fishing boats coming in off the bloo, bloo sea.
Aaaand we’re off again, to who knows where this time. Terribly exciting. Stuck to main roads but still saw all the stunning French countryside and it’s just so much easier (the ‘green’ roads, not t’motorways). Watched the temperature on the dashboard go up from 24 degrees to 30 degrees! Hot, hot, hot!
LA ROCHE SUR YON to LA ROCHELLE to ROCHEFORT to ROYAN.
Stopped in Royan to get our bearings as the place is a LOT bigger than we’d expected and we needed to find out where the ferry is to take us to Le Verdon (to save us driving all the way down to Bordeaux and then back to the coast). Had the BEST tuna, tomato and boiled egg baguette on the planet – fresh tuna!
Caught the woman just shutting up the Tourist Information place, but Hubs being Hubs wasn’t going to let opening hours stand in his way and bombarded her with questions about the ferry: where it was, how did we get there, what time did it leave and how much was it, while a queue of not so fortunate/gobby people stood beside him waiting their turn. When Hubs had finished, the woman quickly locked the door, and people wandered off muttering miserably.
Finally found the tiny little port for our ferry and waited in a queue for it to turn up ‘from the other side’. Chatted to some of our fellow passengers. “Are you from Birmingham?” a German man asked, beaming.
‘Oh’ I thought, ‘Birmingham is clearly famous throughout Europe. Go Brum!’
“My son is in Birmingham,’ the man said, ‘In Kings Heath’. (At our second campsite the receptionist told us her son was in Chester. “Oh, Chester?” I said. “ChestA,” she repeated.)
“How did he know we were from Birmingham?” I asked Hubs afterwards.
“It’s splattered all over the number plate,” he said.
Ferry for a 20 minute crossing was 25€, but hey, you can’t be staggeringly stingy all the time, no matter how hard you try (and old habits Die Hard). Breeze as we bombed across the water was refreshing – so refreshing I had to go inside before hypothermia set in. The ferry had all these open seats up top, it was dead cute.
As we drove off the other side I could tell Hubs was getting tired: irritable, sighing a lot, fidgeting in his seat. We looked for a campsite and got horribly lost, but we stumbled across a long road full of campsites. Stopped at first one and, surprisingly, it was Hubs who said, “I don’t like this one, there’s just something about it.” It could have been the man sitting outside reception who looked chronically depressed. Next one was fine, nice place.
Put tent up in scalding heat, so hot I had to keep cooling my legs off under the water tap to stop from crisping. As a treat for our efforts we had a cold beer at the tiny bar on site. Hubs was overcharged, which is no minor offence for a Yorkshireman, so we won’t be drinking there again!
And orf to the nearest supermarket to stock up on supplies, and lo, they sell blocks of ice for our poor coolbox.
Spent evening reading and relaxing in the glorious sun, and then, of course, bed early (8.30 to be precise; I think we may have a medical condition).
Cricket-ville here, noise all night.
* The heat is incredible. As we drove south I watched the gardens turn from luscious green to desert plants, and the houses look more Spanish than French down here.
* I’ve barely lifted a finger since we left home. Hubs is SO good at throwing something together for dinner and washing up afterwards. He even toddles off with the dirty clothes to wash them – by hand! Absolute star.
DAY 11 – Saturday 5 June
No strange creatures snuffling round our tent last night (phew), only the relentless sound of crickets. Woke up to unfamiliar bird calls – pterodactyls are still alive!
“Oh, its cloudy,” I moaned, glimpsing the grey windows of the tent, but no, it was condensation and, tsk, another sunny day.
Facilities here aren’t as good as the other sites (I’ll be doing a list of all the campsites we’ve stayed at). Showering floods the whole outside block, but as long as you can wee, shower and clean your teeth it doesn’t really matter.
The campsite itself is actually like a dry football pitch, and we’re right in the middle with the ‘permanent’ campers on the outside. There’s no shade and no privacy. A couple of women from a static caravan walked by and stared at us like circus attractions – feels like we’re the entertainment for the residents (“Hey, look! Brits!”). Another woman walked around the site carrying an ENORMOUS cat in a blanket like a baby. (We saw a woman at the second campsite walking her two dogs AND A CAT on leads – they’re very strange aren’t they, the French).
Drove to bottom of road to have a look at the beach, which was magnificent; sand like flour, water bloo and clear. I love the sound of crashing waves. Picked pretty pebbled and left our footprints in the sand.
As luck would have it (we’re always lucky… the power of positive thinking is a wunnerful thang) the town of Soulac Sur Mer is having a fete this weekend, so we went to have a look.
Fete? Pah! HUNDREDS of people were dressed up in costumes from the 1900s, the place was PACKED. Dozens of stalls sold everything from bread to hats, jewellery to antiques. It was bloody marvellous, all these French people milling around to French music. Street vendors played their music boxes and sang to appreciative audiences. The women were extraordinarily pretty (as Hubs kept pointing out to me, “Oh look, isn’t she PRETTY.” Slap, wallop.) Horse-drawn carriages and classic cars drove around the square outside an old church, all in staggering sunshine and blistering heat. I felt quite pretty wearing a dress (me, in a dress!), until I caught sight of myself in a shop window; ‘That can’t be me,’ I thought to myself, ‘I’m MUCH younger and MUCH thinner than that’. Tsk.
I was desperate to buy Hubs an old-fashioned swimming costume (think long johns with red stripes), but he adamantly refused.
A really lovely day.
Came back to the tent exhausted, had to follow the shade of a lone tree around to cool off. Messed around with the e:can convertor which is SUPPOSED to charge my laptop as we’re travelling but doesn’t. Gave up, but actually found a powerpoint AND an unsecured (argh!) connection to the internet at reception. No urgent emails or work, so that’s good.
Hubs would rather cut off his own leg than admit it, but I think the driving is making him rather tired. He was a bit ‘off’ today, not himself at all: distracted and distant (could be all the pretty girls he keeps eyeballing). Had a look at the mapbook and decided we can’t possibly go round the entire coast of Spain without really pushing it, and this is supposed to be a holiday, so planned a new route inland and then down to the south coast of Spain via Andorra.
Watched a DVD on the fully-charged laptop in bed (Hubs didn’t know I’d brought them: Taken, his favourite). Laptop now flat again.
Huge thunderstorm over the sea at 5am. My lasting memory of this road trip will be of Hubs crouched by the tent door absolutely naked watching the lightning explode across the sky. It hardly rained at all though.
DAY 12 – Sunday 6 June
SOULAC SUR MER to NEAR AGEN/TOULOUSE – 150 miles
Berluddy goddam cricket ALL NIGHT LONG. Thought it was actually in the tent somewhere, motionless and relentless, but when we took the tent down it was actually under the groundsheet – big bugger too – along with an alarming number of crawly things.
The rain, eet comes.
Headed off to Bordeax, through wine country, driving passed umpteen fields of stunted grapevines, just mile upon mile of vineyards. My dad would love it here.
Heading inland there are fewer sites than on the coast… in fact, the only one we came across around lunchtime was closed and derelict. Hubs, in MUCH better spirits today now that there are no ‘pretty girls’ to ogle, said we’d camp next to a river if we had to and not to worry.
Successfully navigated the ring road around Bordeaux (yay!) and headed towards Agen/Toulouse, but missed our turn-off and ended up on a toll road instead (curses). Countryside and tiny French villages are just gorgeous, you couldn’t be anywhere else but France, everything is just so French.
Spotted people selling cooked chickens along the roadside. “Let’s get one,” Hubs said, which of course was the kiss of death and we didn’t see any more after that. Had Doritos instead, laughing at the road signs which pointed towards ‘pique nique’ areas… it just tickled us (pique nique).
FINALLY spotted a small ‘campings’ sign and headed down a long country lane. Really long. I had visions of us camping outside a farmhouse next to a barn filled with rusty, bloody blades (because I watch far too many horror films). It was actually a fully-fledged campsite, so full of trees and green stuff it was like camping in the middle of a forest. The owner was just lovely, really friendly. Her farmhouse looks like it used to be a water mill, very quaint.
Found an isolated corner to camp – nobody can see us at all (yay!) and there’s shade (double-yay!).
Pitched up and wandered back to reception to place our order for bread and croissants to be delivered to our tent in the morning (service!) and bought a bottle of local wine, which wasn’t overpriced at all, only 4€… and VERY nice it was too.
Spent the evening yakking, yakking and yakking. A perfect end to a really nice day.
I LURVE road trips.
DAY 13 – Monday 7 June
No crickets last night (phew), just the noise of what sounded like a dog eating a duck – no idea what that was, and don’t like to dwell on it too much.
And behold, ze bloo sky!
Owner delivered our bread and croissants at 8.30am with a big smile. “Excuse moi,” I cried, “Avez vous wifi?” Her eyes widened for just a moment, obviously wondering how anyone could strangle the French accent in such an abominable way. I’m taking French lessons the minute we set foot back on British soil.
She didn’t have ‘wiifii’. Hardly anyone does.
Drove into Agen, some of it on the wrong side of the road (and neither of us noticed until a car came speeding towards it, the driver’s face just a series of startled circles). Streets were closed off for a market, how exciting. Luck again gave us a prime parking spot right next to it, despite it being busy, but I had a funny feeling. It didn’t feel right.
Market was interesting, had a Moroccan feel to it with lots of shiny jewellery, bright clothing, and lots of Islamic items. Hmm, Islam, they don’t approve of women wearing shorts do they. I suddenly felt naked. And more.
I turned to Hubs. “Are you happy about where we parked the car?” I asked him.
“No,” he said, and as one we both turned back.
Odd feeling.
Drove on through the beautiful countryside to Villeneuve Sur Lot. Popped into Tourist information but they didn’t appear to have very many leaflets, our campsite has more. Admired a brick-built church and then drove back to the campsite at midday to chiiiiiiill (Hubs still claiming that Katie Melua is definitely bonkers, whilst playing it over and over again on the car stereo).
Relaxed in sunshine and read book whilst Hubs did a Ray Mear’s type adaptation on tent opening to turn it into another canopy using a washing line, a stick and some ingenuity – he loves stuff like that, just HAS to keep busy. Watched dozens of dragonflies – red, blue and green – skimming the water of the stream that runs through the site. If my gorgeous granddaughter had been here (and I miss her bucket-loads) I would have told her that they were fairies… she would have loved that.
Campsite is brilliant. It even has a swimming pool! Hubs tried it out while I sat reading. I looked up at one point, the sound of silence alerting me, to find Hubs balanced precariously on the edge of the diving board. I thought briefly about our insurance policy cover before he dived in – like a whale performing a belly-flop.
Chatted to owner, such a nice woman, and planned to eat at her outside tables tonight as chicken curry is on the menu and I would ROLL OVER BROKEN GLASS for a curry.
There’s a young couple on site with a small baby. They walk or push this baby all around the campsite incessantly. It doesn’t cry, they just seem obsessed with it. They look very weary. I had the almost irresistible urge to rush over and say “We’ll look after it for half an hour, go and get yourselves a drink,” or offer them some baby advice gleaned from decades of child-raising, but I didn’t.
Hubs wants to stay here another day. We’ll see what the weather is like: if it’s raining we’ll move on, if its not we won’t.
Eating area at campsite is beautiful, outside the old farmhouse/water mill, next to swimming pool and beneath a grapevine-strewn gazebo – splendid stuff. Not so splendid was the chicken curry, which had no discernible spices in it at all, but with such pleasant surroundings it didn’t really matter. Chatted to elderly couple from Newcastle at the next table. We all fussed over a kitten and I made plans to sneak it back to the UK, but not sure Sam would be pleased (argh, I miss Sam too!).
We were up way late tonight… 9.30! I actually bought a wind up LED lantern for the trip, but we haven’t used it once because we’re in bed before darkness falls.
Photos soon (I'm too busy living it to download and shrink and upload), plus I've got a couple of Really Good videos... one showing our near-death experience over the pyrenees, one of our near-death boredom in a rain-lashed tent. All coming to a blog post near you shortly. Until then, adios mon amigos.
ST.MICHEL to ST.GILLES (NR LES SABLES) – 205 miles
An early start after a good night’s sleep. Hint of sun in the almost blue sky, but was soon gone as the grey clouds crept over… is it Monsoon Season in France or something? Packed up in 30 minutes and then we were outta there.
Aaaaand we’re off, to RENNES and the coast beyond, where hopefully we might catch sight of the sun again at some point.
We did well today, in a better mood with each other (rebooted), and we’re only following the main roads which cuts down on a lot of squabbling at road junctions and fairly eats up the miles. Flew passed NANTES, through ST.NAZAIRE and across the big bridge, then carried on down the coast road.
And what was on the coast road? Holiday campsites with loads of children and playgrounds, a bit like Butlins and my idea of hell. ‘I’m not staying anywhere like this,’ I thought to myself as we passed one after another.
Then we broke free of all the Butlins and Pontins places and drove through a forest area. Lo and behold, a normal campsite in the middle of a forest with No children. Perfect. We could even toddle off, armed with a site map, and pick our own pitch.
Ran into an English family in a converted GPO van (how fab is that?) And where were they from? Why, Birmingham no less. Salt of the earth people, us Brummies.
Had a walk through the forest to the nearby beach (very nice) and the road outside the campsite (yay, a tabac for my ciggies, which, incidentally, are no cheaper over here… pah!)
Aaaaand chill.
Another early night. Exactly how much sleep do two people need?
* The roads here, even the motorways, are incredibly quiet, hardly anybody on them except for lots and lots of campervans. The campsites are out-of-season quiet too. Its lovely. But the villages we drive through are spookily devoid of people, like abandoned film sets.
DAY 9 – Thursday 3 June
Woke to clear bloo skies and HEAT. Maaaan, it’s hot! 26 degrees hot. Hello shorts and t-shirt, goodbye fleece jacket I’ve been wearing since we left home (sometimes to bed).
Another 10 hour sleep last night, no idea what’s going on.
Chatted to the couple from Birmingham, who were a mine of camping information and showed us round their converted campervan, which was brilliant… but I still prefer our tent.
Leisurely drive down the coast road to St.Gilles and beyond. The coastline is so beautiful and the towns and villages so quaint… its exactly how I imagined it all to be, so very typically French. Really, really enjoying it, and I didn’t think I’d like camping so much, but we have all the comforts of home – airbed, gas cooker, state-of-the-art tent and sleeping bag – so its no hardship at all.
Ate fresh croissants overlooking the ‘azure’ sea, then drove down and watched the surfers in the waves. Hubs became slightly obsessed with buying a dustpan and brush to clean the sand out of the tent, so bought sandwiches too and ate them overlooking the sea. It’s a great way to live: buy food when hungry, eat with a view. I could seriously get used to this. (Note to Middle Son: Sell house, send money lol).
In the supermarket they sell a lot of fish, obviously, cos its near the sea innit, but in this one they had a tank full of lobsters all tied up and waiting to die. I will NEVER eat lobster. Free The Lobsters! Their fresh produce is local so its all super-fresh. Women were shaking curly lettuce like girls hair, I was mesmerised by the movement. They’re just like the supermarkets in America, only here there’s NO ONE IN THEM. Where are all the people?
My laptop has become a liability because we can’t charge it in the car with the e:can’t converter (berluddy thing). Actually managed to charge it by plugging it into the ‘outdoor’ men’s toilets and putting it on a chair directly opposite our tent so we could watch it for two hours. But at least the lack of battery power has forced me to have a proper break from the keyboard and the internet and work, which is nice.
Returned to our tent to find that the coolbox had turned into a hotbox (its not an electric one, it runs off frozen plastic things which tend to melt). Milk, cheeses and pate had all gasped their last and expired.
It’s really, really hot.
DAY 10 – Friday 4 June
ST.GILLES to SOLOUC SUR MERE (NR BORDEAUX) – 163 miles
Woke in the night because something was sniffing heavily around our tent, right by our heads where we were sleeping. Sounded bigger than a rat but smaller than a dog, and it didn’t sound like a dog sniffing, it sounded more like the nasal grunt of a pig. It didn’t immediately run off when Hubs banged the side of the tent a couple of times either, so it was a fearless bugger. Totally freaked me out.
“Shall I go out and see what it is?” Hubs asked.
“NO!” I cried, “That’s what happens in horror films and they NEVER come back!”
Heard every leaf flutter and bat fart after that, convinced we were about to be murdered by the locals or abducted by aliens. Was REALLY happy when dawn FINALLY arrived.
Packed and ready by 8am. Except the reception didn’t open until 9am (to get our security key dosh back), so we drove down the road, sat on a wall by the beach and watched fishing boats coming in off the bloo, bloo sea.
Aaaand we’re off again, to who knows where this time. Terribly exciting. Stuck to main roads but still saw all the stunning French countryside and it’s just so much easier (the ‘green’ roads, not t’motorways). Watched the temperature on the dashboard go up from 24 degrees to 30 degrees! Hot, hot, hot!
LA ROCHE SUR YON to LA ROCHELLE to ROCHEFORT to ROYAN.
Stopped in Royan to get our bearings as the place is a LOT bigger than we’d expected and we needed to find out where the ferry is to take us to Le Verdon (to save us driving all the way down to Bordeaux and then back to the coast). Had the BEST tuna, tomato and boiled egg baguette on the planet – fresh tuna!
Caught the woman just shutting up the Tourist Information place, but Hubs being Hubs wasn’t going to let opening hours stand in his way and bombarded her with questions about the ferry: where it was, how did we get there, what time did it leave and how much was it, while a queue of not so fortunate/gobby people stood beside him waiting their turn. When Hubs had finished, the woman quickly locked the door, and people wandered off muttering miserably.
Finally found the tiny little port for our ferry and waited in a queue for it to turn up ‘from the other side’. Chatted to some of our fellow passengers. “Are you from Birmingham?” a German man asked, beaming.
‘Oh’ I thought, ‘Birmingham is clearly famous throughout Europe. Go Brum!’
“My son is in Birmingham,’ the man said, ‘In Kings Heath’. (At our second campsite the receptionist told us her son was in Chester. “Oh, Chester?” I said. “ChestA,” she repeated.)
“How did he know we were from Birmingham?” I asked Hubs afterwards.
“It’s splattered all over the number plate,” he said.
Ferry for a 20 minute crossing was 25€, but hey, you can’t be staggeringly stingy all the time, no matter how hard you try (and old habits Die Hard). Breeze as we bombed across the water was refreshing – so refreshing I had to go inside before hypothermia set in. The ferry had all these open seats up top, it was dead cute.
As we drove off the other side I could tell Hubs was getting tired: irritable, sighing a lot, fidgeting in his seat. We looked for a campsite and got horribly lost, but we stumbled across a long road full of campsites. Stopped at first one and, surprisingly, it was Hubs who said, “I don’t like this one, there’s just something about it.” It could have been the man sitting outside reception who looked chronically depressed. Next one was fine, nice place.
Put tent up in scalding heat, so hot I had to keep cooling my legs off under the water tap to stop from crisping. As a treat for our efforts we had a cold beer at the tiny bar on site. Hubs was overcharged, which is no minor offence for a Yorkshireman, so we won’t be drinking there again!
And orf to the nearest supermarket to stock up on supplies, and lo, they sell blocks of ice for our poor coolbox.
Spent evening reading and relaxing in the glorious sun, and then, of course, bed early (8.30 to be precise; I think we may have a medical condition).
Cricket-ville here, noise all night.
* The heat is incredible. As we drove south I watched the gardens turn from luscious green to desert plants, and the houses look more Spanish than French down here.
* I’ve barely lifted a finger since we left home. Hubs is SO good at throwing something together for dinner and washing up afterwards. He even toddles off with the dirty clothes to wash them – by hand! Absolute star.
DAY 11 – Saturday 5 June
No strange creatures snuffling round our tent last night (phew), only the relentless sound of crickets. Woke up to unfamiliar bird calls – pterodactyls are still alive!
“Oh, its cloudy,” I moaned, glimpsing the grey windows of the tent, but no, it was condensation and, tsk, another sunny day.
Facilities here aren’t as good as the other sites (I’ll be doing a list of all the campsites we’ve stayed at). Showering floods the whole outside block, but as long as you can wee, shower and clean your teeth it doesn’t really matter.
The campsite itself is actually like a dry football pitch, and we’re right in the middle with the ‘permanent’ campers on the outside. There’s no shade and no privacy. A couple of women from a static caravan walked by and stared at us like circus attractions – feels like we’re the entertainment for the residents (“Hey, look! Brits!”). Another woman walked around the site carrying an ENORMOUS cat in a blanket like a baby. (We saw a woman at the second campsite walking her two dogs AND A CAT on leads – they’re very strange aren’t they, the French).
Drove to bottom of road to have a look at the beach, which was magnificent; sand like flour, water bloo and clear. I love the sound of crashing waves. Picked pretty pebbled and left our footprints in the sand.
As luck would have it (we’re always lucky… the power of positive thinking is a wunnerful thang) the town of Soulac Sur Mer is having a fete this weekend, so we went to have a look.
Fete? Pah! HUNDREDS of people were dressed up in costumes from the 1900s, the place was PACKED. Dozens of stalls sold everything from bread to hats, jewellery to antiques. It was bloody marvellous, all these French people milling around to French music. Street vendors played their music boxes and sang to appreciative audiences. The women were extraordinarily pretty (as Hubs kept pointing out to me, “Oh look, isn’t she PRETTY.” Slap, wallop.) Horse-drawn carriages and classic cars drove around the square outside an old church, all in staggering sunshine and blistering heat. I felt quite pretty wearing a dress (me, in a dress!), until I caught sight of myself in a shop window; ‘That can’t be me,’ I thought to myself, ‘I’m MUCH younger and MUCH thinner than that’. Tsk.
I was desperate to buy Hubs an old-fashioned swimming costume (think long johns with red stripes), but he adamantly refused.
A really lovely day.
Came back to the tent exhausted, had to follow the shade of a lone tree around to cool off. Messed around with the e:can convertor which is SUPPOSED to charge my laptop as we’re travelling but doesn’t. Gave up, but actually found a powerpoint AND an unsecured (argh!) connection to the internet at reception. No urgent emails or work, so that’s good.
Hubs would rather cut off his own leg than admit it, but I think the driving is making him rather tired. He was a bit ‘off’ today, not himself at all: distracted and distant (could be all the pretty girls he keeps eyeballing). Had a look at the mapbook and decided we can’t possibly go round the entire coast of Spain without really pushing it, and this is supposed to be a holiday, so planned a new route inland and then down to the south coast of Spain via Andorra.
Watched a DVD on the fully-charged laptop in bed (Hubs didn’t know I’d brought them: Taken, his favourite). Laptop now flat again.
Huge thunderstorm over the sea at 5am. My lasting memory of this road trip will be of Hubs crouched by the tent door absolutely naked watching the lightning explode across the sky. It hardly rained at all though.
DAY 12 – Sunday 6 June
SOULAC SUR MER to NEAR AGEN/TOULOUSE – 150 miles
Berluddy goddam cricket ALL NIGHT LONG. Thought it was actually in the tent somewhere, motionless and relentless, but when we took the tent down it was actually under the groundsheet – big bugger too – along with an alarming number of crawly things.
The rain, eet comes.
Headed off to Bordeax, through wine country, driving passed umpteen fields of stunted grapevines, just mile upon mile of vineyards. My dad would love it here.
Heading inland there are fewer sites than on the coast… in fact, the only one we came across around lunchtime was closed and derelict. Hubs, in MUCH better spirits today now that there are no ‘pretty girls’ to ogle, said we’d camp next to a river if we had to and not to worry.
Successfully navigated the ring road around Bordeaux (yay!) and headed towards Agen/Toulouse, but missed our turn-off and ended up on a toll road instead (curses). Countryside and tiny French villages are just gorgeous, you couldn’t be anywhere else but France, everything is just so French.
Spotted people selling cooked chickens along the roadside. “Let’s get one,” Hubs said, which of course was the kiss of death and we didn’t see any more after that. Had Doritos instead, laughing at the road signs which pointed towards ‘pique nique’ areas… it just tickled us (pique nique).
FINALLY spotted a small ‘campings’ sign and headed down a long country lane. Really long. I had visions of us camping outside a farmhouse next to a barn filled with rusty, bloody blades (because I watch far too many horror films). It was actually a fully-fledged campsite, so full of trees and green stuff it was like camping in the middle of a forest. The owner was just lovely, really friendly. Her farmhouse looks like it used to be a water mill, very quaint.
Found an isolated corner to camp – nobody can see us at all (yay!) and there’s shade (double-yay!).
Pitched up and wandered back to reception to place our order for bread and croissants to be delivered to our tent in the morning (service!) and bought a bottle of local wine, which wasn’t overpriced at all, only 4€… and VERY nice it was too.
Spent the evening yakking, yakking and yakking. A perfect end to a really nice day.
I LURVE road trips.
DAY 13 – Monday 7 June
No crickets last night (phew), just the noise of what sounded like a dog eating a duck – no idea what that was, and don’t like to dwell on it too much.
And behold, ze bloo sky!
Owner delivered our bread and croissants at 8.30am with a big smile. “Excuse moi,” I cried, “Avez vous wifi?” Her eyes widened for just a moment, obviously wondering how anyone could strangle the French accent in such an abominable way. I’m taking French lessons the minute we set foot back on British soil.
She didn’t have ‘wiifii’. Hardly anyone does.
Drove into Agen, some of it on the wrong side of the road (and neither of us noticed until a car came speeding towards it, the driver’s face just a series of startled circles). Streets were closed off for a market, how exciting. Luck again gave us a prime parking spot right next to it, despite it being busy, but I had a funny feeling. It didn’t feel right.
Market was interesting, had a Moroccan feel to it with lots of shiny jewellery, bright clothing, and lots of Islamic items. Hmm, Islam, they don’t approve of women wearing shorts do they. I suddenly felt naked. And more.
I turned to Hubs. “Are you happy about where we parked the car?” I asked him.
“No,” he said, and as one we both turned back.
Odd feeling.
Drove on through the beautiful countryside to Villeneuve Sur Lot. Popped into Tourist information but they didn’t appear to have very many leaflets, our campsite has more. Admired a brick-built church and then drove back to the campsite at midday to chiiiiiiill (Hubs still claiming that Katie Melua is definitely bonkers, whilst playing it over and over again on the car stereo).
Relaxed in sunshine and read book whilst Hubs did a Ray Mear’s type adaptation on tent opening to turn it into another canopy using a washing line, a stick and some ingenuity – he loves stuff like that, just HAS to keep busy. Watched dozens of dragonflies – red, blue and green – skimming the water of the stream that runs through the site. If my gorgeous granddaughter had been here (and I miss her bucket-loads) I would have told her that they were fairies… she would have loved that.
Campsite is brilliant. It even has a swimming pool! Hubs tried it out while I sat reading. I looked up at one point, the sound of silence alerting me, to find Hubs balanced precariously on the edge of the diving board. I thought briefly about our insurance policy cover before he dived in – like a whale performing a belly-flop.
Chatted to owner, such a nice woman, and planned to eat at her outside tables tonight as chicken curry is on the menu and I would ROLL OVER BROKEN GLASS for a curry.
There’s a young couple on site with a small baby. They walk or push this baby all around the campsite incessantly. It doesn’t cry, they just seem obsessed with it. They look very weary. I had the almost irresistible urge to rush over and say “We’ll look after it for half an hour, go and get yourselves a drink,” or offer them some baby advice gleaned from decades of child-raising, but I didn’t.
Hubs wants to stay here another day. We’ll see what the weather is like: if it’s raining we’ll move on, if its not we won’t.
Eating area at campsite is beautiful, outside the old farmhouse/water mill, next to swimming pool and beneath a grapevine-strewn gazebo – splendid stuff. Not so splendid was the chicken curry, which had no discernible spices in it at all, but with such pleasant surroundings it didn’t really matter. Chatted to elderly couple from Newcastle at the next table. We all fussed over a kitten and I made plans to sneak it back to the UK, but not sure Sam would be pleased (argh, I miss Sam too!).
We were up way late tonight… 9.30! I actually bought a wind up LED lantern for the trip, but we haven’t used it once because we’re in bed before darkness falls.
Photos soon (I'm too busy living it to download and shrink and upload), plus I've got a couple of Really Good videos... one showing our near-death experience over the pyrenees, one of our near-death boredom in a rain-lashed tent. All coming to a blog post near you shortly. Until then, adios mon amigos.
Saturday, 5 June 2010
Still here! But MELTING!
I can’t be doing this in reverse order, it goes against the grain, plus I’m on holiday, plus I’m idle. So…
DAY 3 – Friday 28 May 2010
Woke. Tent in darkness. Great, grey stuff again. But no! Tent in shade and the day is GLORIOUS.
No drive today (one day on, one day off, to keep my husband alive to the end of the journey … and me too!) Took a long walk along the glorious beach to the White Cliffs at the end, which intrigued us because it was a layer of soft chalk interspersed with a thin layer of what looked like hard flint – what causes that? Hubs stood beneath the cliffs, saw how soft the chalk was, and said, “I don’t feel safe standing here.”
“It’s been there for millions of years!” I laughed.
“Yeah,” he said, “But this piece of flint here could be the keystone to the whole thing.”
“Then stop digging out flint then!”
The sea was a beautiful colour under a cloudless blue sky – azure is the word that springs to mind, but I’m not entirely sure what azure is, so let’s say pretty green.
Drive to a supermarket afterwards for provisions (bread and beer, staples). We needed ice for the coolbox (where all the collected cheeses are literally running riot), but couldn’t remember what ‘ice’ was in French. I picked up a bottle of water, showed it to a shop assistant, and shivered with hypothermia. She got it right away – give that Fastfingers an Oscar – but no, they had no ‘glace’.
Chilled for rest of glorious day on peaceful campsite, having an afternoon nap despite 10 hours sleep last night.
Burgers, sausages and salad (and obligatory bread) for dinner in the sunshine. Well chilled.
Not sure if it’s the fresh air, the travelling or all the unaccustomed exercise we’re doing (hard to exercise when you sit in a comfy chair typing for most of the day), but we were in bed before 8pm, firstly reading, then yakking, then sleeping. First good night’s sleep so far, no fever and no nightmares. Phew.
The airbed is well comfortable, as are the two blow-up pillows we bought from Poundland (yeah, Poundland) – better than our pillows at home in fact. The tent is a masterpiece of design – Coleman Waterfall 5, big enough for five (supposedly) but certainly roomy enough for two. Our Camping Gaz camping chef cooker is perfect on top of the B&Q folding BBQ. All in all, we’re very comfortable.
A note about our Municipal campsite (Municipal is council run and they have to maintain certain standards… they’re also very cheap). This one is run by a very bubbly receptionist/manager and her VERY handsome husband, and the place is IMMACULATE. We’ll be hard pushed to tear ourselves away tomorrow. It also has free wifi so managed to send a couple of emails home to make sure everything’s okay (already!).
Time to put up tent: 0
Camping: 0€
Provisions: 43€
Miles covered: 0
Day 4 – Saturday 29 May – VEULETTES to COURSEULLES SUR MER
We’re using an AA Roap Map of Europe. That’s the WHOLE of Europe, so it only shows the main roads and we’re trying to use the ‘scenic routes’. We got hopelessly lost in the middle of nowhere, mostly, it has to be said, because we were trying to avoid Le Havre.
So we’re parked at the side of the road underneath a roadsign trying to figure out where the hell we were when a car stops in front of us. A man in a stylish pink jumper gets out, quite handsome I thought, before thinking he’s probably coming back to kill us while we’re alone and lost. He’s not, of course. “Can I ‘elp you?” he says.
Kwoar! I thought.
He looked at our road map and even he, who lived there, couldn’t figure out where we were or how we could get to where we wanted to be. He sent us back the way we came, which started us bickering (Hubs RUDELY accusing me of not being able to mapread, the swine… my directions mostly consisted of shrieking “We’re going the wrong way!”). Then Hubs ran a red light and I made him stop while I got out, walked down the pathway a bit, smoking and muttering.
What we had to do in the end was… go the wrong way. We had to swing round ROUEN and double back on ourselves towards CAEN on the motorway… the TOLL motorway. I was gutted as I handed over euros. Plus is was lashing down with berluddy rain, and then we came to yet ANOTHER toll booth.
“4€!” I cried.
“The devil himself couldn’t get me off this road until I have Reached My Destination!” Hubs hissed. Fair enough.
Drove through a town. “Shall we stay here?” Hubs asked, pulling up at a campsite in the middle of nowhere. Hubs’ criteria for a campsite is easy: whichever is closest when he’s had enough of driving. My criteria involves: is it in a nice location, does it have a view, and what’s the atmosphere, the FEEL of the place like?
“Nah, not here”, I said to Hubs, and on we drove, Hubs muttering under his breath until I forced him to stop somewhere, where looking at an old tanker gun from WWII calmed him down.
Campsite up the road fine, next to sea with a good ambience about it… and within our budget too (15€ a night). “Parlez vous Anglaise?” we asked the girl on reception. “Yes,” she replied. ‘Oh good,’ said Hubs, and launched (as he’s apt to do at regular intervals) into a monologue of where we’d been and where we were going. You could see from the look on the girl’s face that she was thinking ‘That’s not even English he’s speaking!’
“Where do we go, love?” Hubs asked after he’d paid.
“Follow me and I’ll show you,” she said, hopping onto a pushbike and guiding us at a leisurely pace across the campsite (not quite as nice as the last one, but good shower and toilet facilities, so not as bad as the first one either… in fact, I’m sure nothing could be as bad as the first one).
Bickered putting the tent up in gale force wind. We were tired, but we don’t stay annoyed with each other for long, and we soon chased the tent down on the beach.
Aaaaand… chill.
Two things made me laugh my lungs up tonight. One was Hubs coming into the bedroom area, which doesn’t sound at all funny does it, but because we’d pinned the tent down TIGHT against the wind all the door entrances were raised from the floor. He tripped. Usually a cause for concern, it must be said, but he just felled like a tree, looking at me the whole time as he went (“You appear to be going sideways, dear… oh, it’s me”) like something Basil Fawlty would do, and he fell onto softish ground so nothing was broken or injured and there was no blood involved, so that’s good. And as he lay there, watching me trying to draw breath with tears squirting from my eyes, he lifted the corner of the airbed and cried, “Yes, everything’s fine under here, dear.”
Then he went to fill the water carrier. He came back dripping wet, which again had me laughing like a drain. It’s these little moments that count.
Having eaten croissants and pastries en route (when in Rome and all that), had Sainsbury’s sweet and sour chicken and Aldi Irish stew for ‘tea’… and very nice it was too (washed down with wine and Stella).
And so… to bed. 8pm. We’re such lightweights.
* Before the trip I bought an inverter charger for the car, at great expense, to charge up the laptop. Had it on for two hours yesterday as we traversed northern France, but the laptop didn’t charge at all (yet it would charge the mobile phone… not at the same time of course). I now have a Dead Laptop. This laptop is No More. Which is rather annoying. I now have writer’s cramp of the chronic kind and have been forced to acknowledge that my handwriting is truly appalling.
Time to put up tent: 45 mins.
Camping: 30€
Provisions: 3€ (croissants and bread)
Berluddy toll roads: 9€
Miles covered: 173 (which is like a right lot considering we hardly went anywhere).
Day 5 – Sunday 30 May
Yet another night’s disturbed sleep (plus I’m bunged up, literally, to the eyeballs with swollen sinuses). First there was the music and screaming coming from somewhere on site (suspect it may have been the Eurovision Song Contest as the croissant man was terribly excited that Germany won this morning). Then there was the gale force wind beating up our tent. And then there was the crashing, and I mean CRASHING, of the waves of the sea behind us.
I dreamt I went home and Small Son told me the dog went missing the day after we left, and that he was going out with both his new girlfriend AND his old girlfriend – nightmares!
Plus the airbed has a leak so we had to pump it up in the night.
Cloudy today but warm with occasional sun – any TV channels that want me as a weather girl, get in touch..
Big day. Went to Omaha beach and the American war cemetery, which Hubs has always wanted to see. He gave me – and anybody else who would listen – a brief (well, not so brief actually) history of the fighting on the shores.
Stopped to see the gun bits and temporary port (Mulberry Harbour) they’d built in the war, and I was fine with all that… until I saw a photograph of a young soldier who was the image of one of my sons, and then it was just like I’d been punched in the stomach. Unusually for me, I was overwhelmed with emotion and started crying. Couldn’t stop.
We drove on to the war cemetery. I said I wasn’t going in, would wait for Hubs outside in the car, but I did go in, and I’m so glad that I did. The atmosphere was palpable as hundreds of people walked around the thousands of white cross graves in total silence. We were honoured to watch a ceremony attended by French and American dignitaries to celebrate the anniversary of the D-Day landings in 1944. It was very emotional. VERY emotional. I’m so glad I went.
Then on to Bayeux to see the tapestry, which I was very excited about as we’d studied it at school, never thought I’d see it for real. Hubs and I had a mild bicker as we wandered round the shops trying to decide what to have for lunch in the multitude of restaurants. Hubs picked pizza! Worse, it came complete with FROZEN scallops. “Don’t eat those” I said, as Hubs popped one into his mouth and crunched it, “You’ll die of food poisoning.” He’s still alive as I write this some hours later, but then he’s had to tolerate my cooking for the last 10 years so maybe he’s built up an immunity. (“Bon appetite’ someone said to us as they passed, which was nice).
Tapestry was AMAZING, berluddy long (70 yards… it went round a corner). The audio guide (which was included in the entry price, unlike some of the places in the UK) was a bit rushed though. “In scene one we see Harold, in scene two we see… in scene three..” All these people were shuffling sideways at a vast rate of knots down the dark, bendy corridor. Afterwards we went in search of a shop to top up on provisions (“Beer!” cried Hubs), but zut alors, shops are shut on Sunday, even the big ones. Hubs was gutted, but not half as much as I was when I realised he’d be drinking my finest Scotch whisky.
Trouble at reception when we arrived back at the campsite. Irish travellers with huge caravans were trying to bully the young receptionist into letting them in. We hung around to keep an eye on her, but luckily they gave up and went. The girl thanked Hubs.
Tried to find leak in airbed. Failed. We wake up on hard ground in the morning.
* Driving on the wrong side of the road (the right) has completely thrown my senses. I say “Turn left” when I mean right and visa versa. Its most strange and doesn’t improve relations between me and the driver, who simply wants to know where to go. I have to exercise ‘prudence’ (which cracks me up every time I see it on a roadsign… prudence).
* I noticed I’m getting some strange looks in our right-hand car. As we’re going round traffic island and I’m looking the other way, twiddling my hair, people double-glance, obviously thinking ‘That driver has a very relaxed attitude to driving’. Sometimes I pretend to drive using an invisible steering wheel. I might buy one of those children’s toy ones to stick on the dashboard.
* Hubs taught me to play poker tonight, which is well boring unless actual money is involved, and when actual money is involved I berluddy well lost it all so I ain’t playing that again.
Time to put up tent: 0
Camping: 0€
Provisions: 3€
Miles covered: 66
Day 6 – Monday 31 May - – COURSEULLES to LE MONT ST. MICHEL
Fortunately, considering the shops weren’t open yesterday, they WERE open today because its not a Bank Holiday in France as at home, so we didn’t starve to death.
Airbed went down completely in the night. Hubs blew it back up and finally found the leak. When you take the bung out of it, it sounds just like a De Laurean car coming Back To The Future.
Bloooo sky! Yeeeehaaaaa.
Today we packed up the tent and didn’t bicker once… go us! We’re gelling. We haven’t gelled in a while. We’re settling into the rhythm of the journey now.
We can’t seem to buy bags of ice for the coolbox (I mean, c’mon, they even sell them at Sommerfield). In a moment of pure genius, which admittedly doesn’t happen often, maybe once every decade or so, I decided to buy a bag of peas and a bag of potato square things instead… ice for the coolbox and food for later too.
First sight of Le Mont St Michel in the distance as we approached it very exciting. Drove towards it, but there was paid-for parking at the end and, as we were still loaded up with camping gear, we turned around, planning to visit the amazing place tomorrow on our day off.
Found a campsite right nearby, which is always worrying in case you can’t find anywhere and end up sleeping in the car. Fortunately, by keeping to the coast and all the ‘tourist’ areas, there doesn’t seem to be any shortages of places to stay. Not sure if its like that inland, but here we’re almost spoilt for choice. Looked like a right posh place when we pulled in and it didn’t have the magical word ‘Municipal’ on the signs either, but surprisingly it was still only 15€ per night. Smaller site than the last two (bit cramped I thought, and most of the others seem to be campervans, some of them massive), but pleasant enough.
Set up the tent in total silence, we both know what we’re doing now. First day took over an hour to set everything up, today it took us only 35 minutes… I think that’s pretty good going.
Chicken cooked outside tonight with some of those square potato things – not quite sure what they are actually.
And then a strange thing happened. Despite having had a nice day and the sun was shining and we were trying not to scorch in direct sunlight, Hubs and I fell out. Not bickering but REALLY falling out… to the extent that I walked off and sat outside the campsite on the main road. A French man, returning to his tour coach (he was the driver), stared at me for a long time while I pretended not to notice, and then he said, “Mademoiselle?” I looked over and saw he was holding up the door to his (empty) coach. There was a strange look on his face.
I suddenly realised that I was sitting there, alone, wearing only a t-shirt and a very small pair of shorts… well, I am on holiday and style has never exactly been my forte. I don’t know what he thought I was doing there on my own, but I felt two things instantaneously… (a) cheeky git, and (b) he was only a young thang so I must still Have It (whoohoo!).
Went back to tent and we did the silent back treatment in a sleeping bag all night.
Bugger!
Day 7 – Tuesday 1 June 2010
Absolutely crap day. There’s always one. I know there’s always one on every trip, but it still takes me by surprise when it comes.
Hubs and I still not speaking. It doesn’t help either that its absolutely TEAMING down with rain. What the hell happened to the bloo skies of yesterday? I mean it LASHED down relentlessly.
Read. Didn’t speak. Wandered off to look at the sea but ended up at some dreary port town (St Malo). Came back, still not speaking, read some more.
Finally, a break. Discovered how to get my laptop to charge (use a different plug adaptor as we have two). I’m sitting here now in the TV room, laptop plugged in, typing this, as a German couple who are cycling through several countries sit and watch a German quiz show.
Hubs and I started talking again. I don’t know what it is. Its almost like we have to overload and then reboot in order to get back on an even keel again. Road trips, love ‘em, but if there’s any hairline cracks anywhere they’re gonna show up as big as the Grand Canyon.
But at least we’re friends again now.
Oooh, I don't like leaving it on a downer... there IS some good stuff to come (including pictures), just as soon as (a) I can find a plug socket that actually works in order to charge up my laptop or (b) figure out how to use the USELESS e:can charger thing in the car which DOESN'T work, and (c) actually find WiFi. Campsites advertise 'WiFi', but they usually mean a computer in the lobby somewhere that has all the 'portholes' blocked off so you can't download up upload anything, and some are even restricted to French sites only, which isn't terribly helpful when you can't actually speak French. Anyway, holiday IS going fab, and every time we move on it just gets hotter and hotter. S'great.
DAY 3 – Friday 28 May 2010
Woke. Tent in darkness. Great, grey stuff again. But no! Tent in shade and the day is GLORIOUS.
No drive today (one day on, one day off, to keep my husband alive to the end of the journey … and me too!) Took a long walk along the glorious beach to the White Cliffs at the end, which intrigued us because it was a layer of soft chalk interspersed with a thin layer of what looked like hard flint – what causes that? Hubs stood beneath the cliffs, saw how soft the chalk was, and said, “I don’t feel safe standing here.”
“It’s been there for millions of years!” I laughed.
“Yeah,” he said, “But this piece of flint here could be the keystone to the whole thing.”
“Then stop digging out flint then!”
The sea was a beautiful colour under a cloudless blue sky – azure is the word that springs to mind, but I’m not entirely sure what azure is, so let’s say pretty green.
Drive to a supermarket afterwards for provisions (bread and beer, staples). We needed ice for the coolbox (where all the collected cheeses are literally running riot), but couldn’t remember what ‘ice’ was in French. I picked up a bottle of water, showed it to a shop assistant, and shivered with hypothermia. She got it right away – give that Fastfingers an Oscar – but no, they had no ‘glace’.
Chilled for rest of glorious day on peaceful campsite, having an afternoon nap despite 10 hours sleep last night.
Burgers, sausages and salad (and obligatory bread) for dinner in the sunshine. Well chilled.
Not sure if it’s the fresh air, the travelling or all the unaccustomed exercise we’re doing (hard to exercise when you sit in a comfy chair typing for most of the day), but we were in bed before 8pm, firstly reading, then yakking, then sleeping. First good night’s sleep so far, no fever and no nightmares. Phew.
The airbed is well comfortable, as are the two blow-up pillows we bought from Poundland (yeah, Poundland) – better than our pillows at home in fact. The tent is a masterpiece of design – Coleman Waterfall 5, big enough for five (supposedly) but certainly roomy enough for two. Our Camping Gaz camping chef cooker is perfect on top of the B&Q folding BBQ. All in all, we’re very comfortable.
A note about our Municipal campsite (Municipal is council run and they have to maintain certain standards… they’re also very cheap). This one is run by a very bubbly receptionist/manager and her VERY handsome husband, and the place is IMMACULATE. We’ll be hard pushed to tear ourselves away tomorrow. It also has free wifi so managed to send a couple of emails home to make sure everything’s okay (already!).
Time to put up tent: 0
Camping: 0€
Provisions: 43€
Miles covered: 0
Day 4 – Saturday 29 May – VEULETTES to COURSEULLES SUR MER
We’re using an AA Roap Map of Europe. That’s the WHOLE of Europe, so it only shows the main roads and we’re trying to use the ‘scenic routes’. We got hopelessly lost in the middle of nowhere, mostly, it has to be said, because we were trying to avoid Le Havre.
So we’re parked at the side of the road underneath a roadsign trying to figure out where the hell we were when a car stops in front of us. A man in a stylish pink jumper gets out, quite handsome I thought, before thinking he’s probably coming back to kill us while we’re alone and lost. He’s not, of course. “Can I ‘elp you?” he says.
Kwoar! I thought.
He looked at our road map and even he, who lived there, couldn’t figure out where we were or how we could get to where we wanted to be. He sent us back the way we came, which started us bickering (Hubs RUDELY accusing me of not being able to mapread, the swine… my directions mostly consisted of shrieking “We’re going the wrong way!”). Then Hubs ran a red light and I made him stop while I got out, walked down the pathway a bit, smoking and muttering.
What we had to do in the end was… go the wrong way. We had to swing round ROUEN and double back on ourselves towards CAEN on the motorway… the TOLL motorway. I was gutted as I handed over euros. Plus is was lashing down with berluddy rain, and then we came to yet ANOTHER toll booth.
“4€!” I cried.
“The devil himself couldn’t get me off this road until I have Reached My Destination!” Hubs hissed. Fair enough.
Drove through a town. “Shall we stay here?” Hubs asked, pulling up at a campsite in the middle of nowhere. Hubs’ criteria for a campsite is easy: whichever is closest when he’s had enough of driving. My criteria involves: is it in a nice location, does it have a view, and what’s the atmosphere, the FEEL of the place like?
“Nah, not here”, I said to Hubs, and on we drove, Hubs muttering under his breath until I forced him to stop somewhere, where looking at an old tanker gun from WWII calmed him down.
Campsite up the road fine, next to sea with a good ambience about it… and within our budget too (15€ a night). “Parlez vous Anglaise?” we asked the girl on reception. “Yes,” she replied. ‘Oh good,’ said Hubs, and launched (as he’s apt to do at regular intervals) into a monologue of where we’d been and where we were going. You could see from the look on the girl’s face that she was thinking ‘That’s not even English he’s speaking!’
“Where do we go, love?” Hubs asked after he’d paid.
“Follow me and I’ll show you,” she said, hopping onto a pushbike and guiding us at a leisurely pace across the campsite (not quite as nice as the last one, but good shower and toilet facilities, so not as bad as the first one either… in fact, I’m sure nothing could be as bad as the first one).
Bickered putting the tent up in gale force wind. We were tired, but we don’t stay annoyed with each other for long, and we soon chased the tent down on the beach.
Aaaaand… chill.
Two things made me laugh my lungs up tonight. One was Hubs coming into the bedroom area, which doesn’t sound at all funny does it, but because we’d pinned the tent down TIGHT against the wind all the door entrances were raised from the floor. He tripped. Usually a cause for concern, it must be said, but he just felled like a tree, looking at me the whole time as he went (“You appear to be going sideways, dear… oh, it’s me”) like something Basil Fawlty would do, and he fell onto softish ground so nothing was broken or injured and there was no blood involved, so that’s good. And as he lay there, watching me trying to draw breath with tears squirting from my eyes, he lifted the corner of the airbed and cried, “Yes, everything’s fine under here, dear.”
Then he went to fill the water carrier. He came back dripping wet, which again had me laughing like a drain. It’s these little moments that count.
Having eaten croissants and pastries en route (when in Rome and all that), had Sainsbury’s sweet and sour chicken and Aldi Irish stew for ‘tea’… and very nice it was too (washed down with wine and Stella).
And so… to bed. 8pm. We’re such lightweights.
* Before the trip I bought an inverter charger for the car, at great expense, to charge up the laptop. Had it on for two hours yesterday as we traversed northern France, but the laptop didn’t charge at all (yet it would charge the mobile phone… not at the same time of course). I now have a Dead Laptop. This laptop is No More. Which is rather annoying. I now have writer’s cramp of the chronic kind and have been forced to acknowledge that my handwriting is truly appalling.
Time to put up tent: 45 mins.
Camping: 30€
Provisions: 3€ (croissants and bread)
Berluddy toll roads: 9€
Miles covered: 173 (which is like a right lot considering we hardly went anywhere).
Day 5 – Sunday 30 May
Yet another night’s disturbed sleep (plus I’m bunged up, literally, to the eyeballs with swollen sinuses). First there was the music and screaming coming from somewhere on site (suspect it may have been the Eurovision Song Contest as the croissant man was terribly excited that Germany won this morning). Then there was the gale force wind beating up our tent. And then there was the crashing, and I mean CRASHING, of the waves of the sea behind us.
I dreamt I went home and Small Son told me the dog went missing the day after we left, and that he was going out with both his new girlfriend AND his old girlfriend – nightmares!
Plus the airbed has a leak so we had to pump it up in the night.
Cloudy today but warm with occasional sun – any TV channels that want me as a weather girl, get in touch..
Big day. Went to Omaha beach and the American war cemetery, which Hubs has always wanted to see. He gave me – and anybody else who would listen – a brief (well, not so brief actually) history of the fighting on the shores.
Stopped to see the gun bits and temporary port (Mulberry Harbour) they’d built in the war, and I was fine with all that… until I saw a photograph of a young soldier who was the image of one of my sons, and then it was just like I’d been punched in the stomach. Unusually for me, I was overwhelmed with emotion and started crying. Couldn’t stop.
We drove on to the war cemetery. I said I wasn’t going in, would wait for Hubs outside in the car, but I did go in, and I’m so glad that I did. The atmosphere was palpable as hundreds of people walked around the thousands of white cross graves in total silence. We were honoured to watch a ceremony attended by French and American dignitaries to celebrate the anniversary of the D-Day landings in 1944. It was very emotional. VERY emotional. I’m so glad I went.
Then on to Bayeux to see the tapestry, which I was very excited about as we’d studied it at school, never thought I’d see it for real. Hubs and I had a mild bicker as we wandered round the shops trying to decide what to have for lunch in the multitude of restaurants. Hubs picked pizza! Worse, it came complete with FROZEN scallops. “Don’t eat those” I said, as Hubs popped one into his mouth and crunched it, “You’ll die of food poisoning.” He’s still alive as I write this some hours later, but then he’s had to tolerate my cooking for the last 10 years so maybe he’s built up an immunity. (“Bon appetite’ someone said to us as they passed, which was nice).
Tapestry was AMAZING, berluddy long (70 yards… it went round a corner). The audio guide (which was included in the entry price, unlike some of the places in the UK) was a bit rushed though. “In scene one we see Harold, in scene two we see… in scene three..” All these people were shuffling sideways at a vast rate of knots down the dark, bendy corridor. Afterwards we went in search of a shop to top up on provisions (“Beer!” cried Hubs), but zut alors, shops are shut on Sunday, even the big ones. Hubs was gutted, but not half as much as I was when I realised he’d be drinking my finest Scotch whisky.
Trouble at reception when we arrived back at the campsite. Irish travellers with huge caravans were trying to bully the young receptionist into letting them in. We hung around to keep an eye on her, but luckily they gave up and went. The girl thanked Hubs.
Tried to find leak in airbed. Failed. We wake up on hard ground in the morning.
* Driving on the wrong side of the road (the right) has completely thrown my senses. I say “Turn left” when I mean right and visa versa. Its most strange and doesn’t improve relations between me and the driver, who simply wants to know where to go. I have to exercise ‘prudence’ (which cracks me up every time I see it on a roadsign… prudence).
* I noticed I’m getting some strange looks in our right-hand car. As we’re going round traffic island and I’m looking the other way, twiddling my hair, people double-glance, obviously thinking ‘That driver has a very relaxed attitude to driving’. Sometimes I pretend to drive using an invisible steering wheel. I might buy one of those children’s toy ones to stick on the dashboard.
* Hubs taught me to play poker tonight, which is well boring unless actual money is involved, and when actual money is involved I berluddy well lost it all so I ain’t playing that again.
Time to put up tent: 0
Camping: 0€
Provisions: 3€
Miles covered: 66
Day 6 – Monday 31 May - – COURSEULLES to LE MONT ST. MICHEL
Fortunately, considering the shops weren’t open yesterday, they WERE open today because its not a Bank Holiday in France as at home, so we didn’t starve to death.
Airbed went down completely in the night. Hubs blew it back up and finally found the leak. When you take the bung out of it, it sounds just like a De Laurean car coming Back To The Future.
Bloooo sky! Yeeeehaaaaa.
Today we packed up the tent and didn’t bicker once… go us! We’re gelling. We haven’t gelled in a while. We’re settling into the rhythm of the journey now.
We can’t seem to buy bags of ice for the coolbox (I mean, c’mon, they even sell them at Sommerfield). In a moment of pure genius, which admittedly doesn’t happen often, maybe once every decade or so, I decided to buy a bag of peas and a bag of potato square things instead… ice for the coolbox and food for later too.
First sight of Le Mont St Michel in the distance as we approached it very exciting. Drove towards it, but there was paid-for parking at the end and, as we were still loaded up with camping gear, we turned around, planning to visit the amazing place tomorrow on our day off.
Found a campsite right nearby, which is always worrying in case you can’t find anywhere and end up sleeping in the car. Fortunately, by keeping to the coast and all the ‘tourist’ areas, there doesn’t seem to be any shortages of places to stay. Not sure if its like that inland, but here we’re almost spoilt for choice. Looked like a right posh place when we pulled in and it didn’t have the magical word ‘Municipal’ on the signs either, but surprisingly it was still only 15€ per night. Smaller site than the last two (bit cramped I thought, and most of the others seem to be campervans, some of them massive), but pleasant enough.
Set up the tent in total silence, we both know what we’re doing now. First day took over an hour to set everything up, today it took us only 35 minutes… I think that’s pretty good going.
Chicken cooked outside tonight with some of those square potato things – not quite sure what they are actually.
And then a strange thing happened. Despite having had a nice day and the sun was shining and we were trying not to scorch in direct sunlight, Hubs and I fell out. Not bickering but REALLY falling out… to the extent that I walked off and sat outside the campsite on the main road. A French man, returning to his tour coach (he was the driver), stared at me for a long time while I pretended not to notice, and then he said, “Mademoiselle?” I looked over and saw he was holding up the door to his (empty) coach. There was a strange look on his face.
I suddenly realised that I was sitting there, alone, wearing only a t-shirt and a very small pair of shorts… well, I am on holiday and style has never exactly been my forte. I don’t know what he thought I was doing there on my own, but I felt two things instantaneously… (a) cheeky git, and (b) he was only a young thang so I must still Have It (whoohoo!).
Went back to tent and we did the silent back treatment in a sleeping bag all night.
Bugger!
Day 7 – Tuesday 1 June 2010
Absolutely crap day. There’s always one. I know there’s always one on every trip, but it still takes me by surprise when it comes.
Hubs and I still not speaking. It doesn’t help either that its absolutely TEAMING down with rain. What the hell happened to the bloo skies of yesterday? I mean it LASHED down relentlessly.
Read. Didn’t speak. Wandered off to look at the sea but ended up at some dreary port town (St Malo). Came back, still not speaking, read some more.
Finally, a break. Discovered how to get my laptop to charge (use a different plug adaptor as we have two). I’m sitting here now in the TV room, laptop plugged in, typing this, as a German couple who are cycling through several countries sit and watch a German quiz show.
Hubs and I started talking again. I don’t know what it is. Its almost like we have to overload and then reboot in order to get back on an even keel again. Road trips, love ‘em, but if there’s any hairline cracks anywhere they’re gonna show up as big as the Grand Canyon.
But at least we’re friends again now.
Oooh, I don't like leaving it on a downer... there IS some good stuff to come (including pictures), just as soon as (a) I can find a plug socket that actually works in order to charge up my laptop or (b) figure out how to use the USELESS e:can charger thing in the car which DOESN'T work, and (c) actually find WiFi. Campsites advertise 'WiFi', but they usually mean a computer in the lobby somewhere that has all the 'portholes' blocked off so you can't download up upload anything, and some are even restricted to French sites only, which isn't terribly helpful when you can't actually speak French. Anyway, holiday IS going fab, and every time we move on it just gets hotter and hotter. S'great.
Friday, 28 May 2010
Day 1 and 2
DAY 3 – Thursday 27 May
Awake at 2am, 4am and 5.30am. Eventually up at 6am, still slightly delirious and very, very cold.
But behold, the rain has stopped!
Realised whilst map reading yesterday that Hubs and I actually need to discuss exactly where it is we’re going before he thrusts the map book at me and sets off. Oh, the responsibility of map reading. Faced with 27 signposts in French, I just tend to panic and launch into whine mode (“I’m just a gurl, how am I supposed to know where we are?”).
Bought fresh croissants and bread at a local bolongerie, ate them overlooking the sea. On the way to Dieppe Hubs suddenly skidded the car to a halt and dashed into a shop to buy some more. “Why?” I asked, “I just had to do it” he replied.
Croissants, we lurve fresh French croissants.
I’m gonna get real fat.
Today, La Portel (just outside Boulogne) to Dieppe in a zig-zaggy kind of way. Passed loads of campsites along the way, but they’re like policemen, try finding one when you want one. Eventually spotted one in St Valery en Caux, but they were closed for lunch (midday to 3pm – they apparently didn’t bother opening at all yesterday, according to a British couple we met). Carried on to Vuelettes sur Mere and found a brilliant Municipal campsite for 9€ a night. Not only was it cheap, it was spectacularly beautiful with a proper toilet and shower block. After last night’s pitch, it was heaven on earth.
Lobbed up tent and, after two days hard slog, we chilled.
Went to the loos and washed my hands afterwards (as you do). As I was shaking my hands dry, a gold ring flew off my finger. It all happened in slow motion: “Oh my God, my ring’s come off, it’s Hubs’ ring, he’s gonna kill me, better catch it then!” The ring rattled around the sink like a roulette ball, my fingers chasing after it. And down the plughole it went. There was a brief moment of ‘Oh, not quite sure what to do now’, before I went outside to break the news to Hubs: “I’ve done something really stupid”.
As I could see the ring at the bottom of the plughole, we used a tent peg to try and fish it out, to no avail. Hubs then set off to find a wire coat hanger, somehow making himself understood to a French person by means of elaborate charades. The French camper rushed into the toilet block and removed the plastic thingy underneath the plughole, and behold, my gold ring!
I almost kissed him, but refrained, instead repeating ‘Merci! Merci!’
We were planning to have a bottle of wine in the sunshine tonight. “What time do you think it is?” I asked Hubs, yawning my face off.
“About 9 o’clock,” he said. He went to check. It was 7.20pm.
We went to bed anyway.
Where I again endured chills feverish nightmares (one where Obama was declaring that the American people should embrace Islam, no idea where that came from). Maybe I just need to acclimatise to outdoor living… or maybe I’m just a berluddy wimp.
Slept for 10 hours solid.
Time to put up tent: 45 mins (devoid of bickering, go us!)
Camping: 18€ (2 nights)
Provisions: 5€ (just bread and croissants!)
Miles covered: 140.
Awake at 2am, 4am and 5.30am. Eventually up at 6am, still slightly delirious and very, very cold.
But behold, the rain has stopped!
Realised whilst map reading yesterday that Hubs and I actually need to discuss exactly where it is we’re going before he thrusts the map book at me and sets off. Oh, the responsibility of map reading. Faced with 27 signposts in French, I just tend to panic and launch into whine mode (“I’m just a gurl, how am I supposed to know where we are?”).
Bought fresh croissants and bread at a local bolongerie, ate them overlooking the sea. On the way to Dieppe Hubs suddenly skidded the car to a halt and dashed into a shop to buy some more. “Why?” I asked, “I just had to do it” he replied.
Croissants, we lurve fresh French croissants.
I’m gonna get real fat.
Today, La Portel (just outside Boulogne) to Dieppe in a zig-zaggy kind of way. Passed loads of campsites along the way, but they’re like policemen, try finding one when you want one. Eventually spotted one in St Valery en Caux, but they were closed for lunch (midday to 3pm – they apparently didn’t bother opening at all yesterday, according to a British couple we met). Carried on to Vuelettes sur Mere and found a brilliant Municipal campsite for 9€ a night. Not only was it cheap, it was spectacularly beautiful with a proper toilet and shower block. After last night’s pitch, it was heaven on earth.
Lobbed up tent and, after two days hard slog, we chilled.
Went to the loos and washed my hands afterwards (as you do). As I was shaking my hands dry, a gold ring flew off my finger. It all happened in slow motion: “Oh my God, my ring’s come off, it’s Hubs’ ring, he’s gonna kill me, better catch it then!” The ring rattled around the sink like a roulette ball, my fingers chasing after it. And down the plughole it went. There was a brief moment of ‘Oh, not quite sure what to do now’, before I went outside to break the news to Hubs: “I’ve done something really stupid”.
As I could see the ring at the bottom of the plughole, we used a tent peg to try and fish it out, to no avail. Hubs then set off to find a wire coat hanger, somehow making himself understood to a French person by means of elaborate charades. The French camper rushed into the toilet block and removed the plastic thingy underneath the plughole, and behold, my gold ring!
I almost kissed him, but refrained, instead repeating ‘Merci! Merci!’
We were planning to have a bottle of wine in the sunshine tonight. “What time do you think it is?” I asked Hubs, yawning my face off.
“About 9 o’clock,” he said. He went to check. It was 7.20pm.
We went to bed anyway.
Where I again endured chills feverish nightmares (one where Obama was declaring that the American people should embrace Islam, no idea where that came from). Maybe I just need to acclimatise to outdoor living… or maybe I’m just a berluddy wimp.
Slept for 10 hours solid.
Time to put up tent: 45 mins (devoid of bickering, go us!)
Camping: 18€ (2 nights)
Provisions: 5€ (just bread and croissants!)
Miles covered: 140.
DAY 1 – Wednesday 26 May 2010
Aaaaand orf we jolly well go! Oh my God, so berluddy excited!
Set off at 7.45am because we just couldn’t contain ourselves a minute longer. Going passed London we saw a plane flying so low over the motorway that I pressed my face against the windscreen screaming ‘Oh my God! Its so low!’ It was United Airlines and I could actually see the passengers through the windows. Hopefully there was an airport on the other side of the motorway and the plane wasn’t just about to crash.
We booked a 2pm ferry crossing but actually got to the port for the midday ferry, which was well good. Raced around the boat having a nose at everything (and picking out the whisky in the duty free shop, which apparently doesn’t open for the first 20 minutes until we’re out of British waters or something similarly stoopid). Found a table, sat down, immediately fell asleep. The droning of the engines and the gentle rocking of the boat sent almost everyone on board into an instant coma, and it was only a two hour crossing.
I broke a fingernail (my best one!) and a pair of sunglasses. Tsk.
Finally, we could see France. Half an hour later, we could still see France. Well, the Calais bit of France anyway, we were actually docking at Dunkirk, which is about 140 miles inland (or so it seemed).
“Right!” I screamed, as we drove off the ferry into a foreign country, “Drive right!”
Hubs is actually very good at driving on the wrong side of the road. I’d be crap, I’d keep forgetting and have major meltdowns at every traffic island.
Driving in a foreign country is a bit like being dyslexic, you can’t read anything, can’t understand anything.
The weather wasn’t good, overcast and damp. Drove from Dunkirk to Calais, Marquid and Wimereux (A Wim A Way) looking for a campsite, of which there were none. Got horribly lost in Boulogne, going round in circles, but eventually we stumbled upon a campsite in La Portel and managed to make ourselves understood to the receptionist. She sent us and our tent to the top of a hill, marvellous view of the sea and town below and the concrete war bunkers all around us, but berluddy windy. The hill was drenched, and so were our feet… and our tent, and all our belongings.
Drove off in search of food, Hubs (now knackered) almost killing us by pulling out in front of a local, who screeched his brakes for endless seconds while we all stared at each other thinking ‘Is this it? Is this the end?’ Fortunately, it wasn’t.
Bought French cheese, French wine, French bread, French croissants in a bag (which are crap and nothing like the real thing). We also bought a tin of ‘cassolette’, which sounds quite nice doesn’t it, cassolette, kind of French-sounding and red wine-y. It wasn’t, it was massive harocott beans and some sort of fluffy sausage in a dreary, limp sauce; I’m surprised the French, reknown for their fine cuisine, could allow such a thing to be sold in their shops.
Ate, went to bed, huddled together for warmth.
Unfortunately, because we were damp and cold and the wind and the rain lashed the tent on top of the hill, we couldn’t sleep. I’d actually caught a chill and was feverish, could not get warm, and because we’d eaten a load of cheese and some awful cassolette before leaping into the sleeping bag, my stomach churned and I was delirious for most of the night.
Here’s what I scribbled down the following morning, bleary eyed and still freezing cold:
“Camping at Boulogne. On top of a hill. In a wet, muddy field overlooking the grey English Channel. Exposed to the elements. The wind. And the rain. Perpetually wet feet. Toilet facilities one up from a hole in the ground, water dripping from the ceiling. Oh, and the airbed on a slope, at a 45 degree angle, so we kept waking up in the night to haul ourselves back up again. And the thought does occur, ‘Hmm, maybe this camping lark isn’t such a good idea after all’ as you lie in your crooked bed, freezing cold, listening to the rain lashing against the tent. And behind the field, a lighthouse. Of course there is, blasting light into the tent at regular intervals.
Not a terribly good first night’s camping on the whole.
And for this, 14E.”
As the Labour party once said, ‘Things can only get better’.
We shall see.
Aaaaand orf we jolly well go! Oh my God, so berluddy excited!
Set off at 7.45am because we just couldn’t contain ourselves a minute longer. Going passed London we saw a plane flying so low over the motorway that I pressed my face against the windscreen screaming ‘Oh my God! Its so low!’ It was United Airlines and I could actually see the passengers through the windows. Hopefully there was an airport on the other side of the motorway and the plane wasn’t just about to crash.
We booked a 2pm ferry crossing but actually got to the port for the midday ferry, which was well good. Raced around the boat having a nose at everything (and picking out the whisky in the duty free shop, which apparently doesn’t open for the first 20 minutes until we’re out of British waters or something similarly stoopid). Found a table, sat down, immediately fell asleep. The droning of the engines and the gentle rocking of the boat sent almost everyone on board into an instant coma, and it was only a two hour crossing.
I broke a fingernail (my best one!) and a pair of sunglasses. Tsk.
Finally, we could see France. Half an hour later, we could still see France. Well, the Calais bit of France anyway, we were actually docking at Dunkirk, which is about 140 miles inland (or so it seemed).
“Right!” I screamed, as we drove off the ferry into a foreign country, “Drive right!”
Hubs is actually very good at driving on the wrong side of the road. I’d be crap, I’d keep forgetting and have major meltdowns at every traffic island.
Driving in a foreign country is a bit like being dyslexic, you can’t read anything, can’t understand anything.
The weather wasn’t good, overcast and damp. Drove from Dunkirk to Calais, Marquid and Wimereux (A Wim A Way) looking for a campsite, of which there were none. Got horribly lost in Boulogne, going round in circles, but eventually we stumbled upon a campsite in La Portel and managed to make ourselves understood to the receptionist. She sent us and our tent to the top of a hill, marvellous view of the sea and town below and the concrete war bunkers all around us, but berluddy windy. The hill was drenched, and so were our feet… and our tent, and all our belongings.
Drove off in search of food, Hubs (now knackered) almost killing us by pulling out in front of a local, who screeched his brakes for endless seconds while we all stared at each other thinking ‘Is this it? Is this the end?’ Fortunately, it wasn’t.
Bought French cheese, French wine, French bread, French croissants in a bag (which are crap and nothing like the real thing). We also bought a tin of ‘cassolette’, which sounds quite nice doesn’t it, cassolette, kind of French-sounding and red wine-y. It wasn’t, it was massive harocott beans and some sort of fluffy sausage in a dreary, limp sauce; I’m surprised the French, reknown for their fine cuisine, could allow such a thing to be sold in their shops.
Ate, went to bed, huddled together for warmth.
Unfortunately, because we were damp and cold and the wind and the rain lashed the tent on top of the hill, we couldn’t sleep. I’d actually caught a chill and was feverish, could not get warm, and because we’d eaten a load of cheese and some awful cassolette before leaping into the sleeping bag, my stomach churned and I was delirious for most of the night.
Here’s what I scribbled down the following morning, bleary eyed and still freezing cold:
“Camping at Boulogne. On top of a hill. In a wet, muddy field overlooking the grey English Channel. Exposed to the elements. The wind. And the rain. Perpetually wet feet. Toilet facilities one up from a hole in the ground, water dripping from the ceiling. Oh, and the airbed on a slope, at a 45 degree angle, so we kept waking up in the night to haul ourselves back up again. And the thought does occur, ‘Hmm, maybe this camping lark isn’t such a good idea after all’ as you lie in your crooked bed, freezing cold, listening to the rain lashing against the tent. And behind the field, a lighthouse. Of course there is, blasting light into the tent at regular intervals.
Not a terribly good first night’s camping on the whole.
And for this, 14E.”
As the Labour party once said, ‘Things can only get better’.
We shall see.
Time to put up tent: 1 hr (minimal bickering).
Camping: 14€
Provisions: 12€
Miles covered: 273.
Camping: 14€
Provisions: 12€
Miles covered: 273.
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
PROLOGUE
Berluddy Nora! Getting ready for a holiday is hard work innit! I worked for NINE SOLID HOURS yesterday trying to get rid of my workload. I thought today would be 'chill day'. Pah, how wrong can a person get.
Dashed to shops for last-minute necessities (coffee, I ain't going nowhere without a good supply of coffee). Packed bags, of which we appear to have Rather A Lot. Hubs told me to cut down on my clothes, so I removed a dress and a pashmena and he STILL wasn't happy - I mean, come on, cut me some slack here... oooh, slacks, forgot those.
Then there was house tidying, tidying of the garden, personal item hiding, some more packing and much muttering of "Do you think we'll need this bottle-opener/cushion/blanket?"
We did a practice pack of the car last week and it all seemed to fit in fine. Packed the car this afternoon and we couldn't get it all in. "You'll have to cut down on your stuff," Hubs demanded, so I took out a pair of shoes. He glowered, I removed a cardigan. He still glowered, but I ignored him after that, you just can't please some people. He did ask how many books I'd packed but I lied and told him two (there's seven... hope he doesn't read this before we set off).
The dog is looking nervous, he knows something's going on (as we force all of our worldy belongings into the back of the car). Small Son is looking after him... uh huh. I've left vet and kennel details out just in case. I've also put post-it notes all around the house for him: "COOKER: To cook food. Clue is in the name, cook-er", "FRIDGE: Doesn't fill itself. Doesn't clean itself either", "DOG BOWL: Don't wait until dog looks like a whippet before feeding him", "FOOD CUPBOARD: Food to be collected from shops”, and my personal favourite, “SINK: We don’t have a dishwasher. Mix washing-up liquid with hot water and insert dirty plates”.
Finally, we’re ready. WE’RE READY!
Brace yerself, Europe, we’re coming.
Dashed to shops for last-minute necessities (coffee, I ain't going nowhere without a good supply of coffee). Packed bags, of which we appear to have Rather A Lot. Hubs told me to cut down on my clothes, so I removed a dress and a pashmena and he STILL wasn't happy - I mean, come on, cut me some slack here... oooh, slacks, forgot those.
Then there was house tidying, tidying of the garden, personal item hiding, some more packing and much muttering of "Do you think we'll need this bottle-opener/cushion/blanket?"
We did a practice pack of the car last week and it all seemed to fit in fine. Packed the car this afternoon and we couldn't get it all in. "You'll have to cut down on your stuff," Hubs demanded, so I took out a pair of shoes. He glowered, I removed a cardigan. He still glowered, but I ignored him after that, you just can't please some people. He did ask how many books I'd packed but I lied and told him two (there's seven... hope he doesn't read this before we set off).
The dog is looking nervous, he knows something's going on (as we force all of our worldy belongings into the back of the car). Small Son is looking after him... uh huh. I've left vet and kennel details out just in case. I've also put post-it notes all around the house for him: "COOKER: To cook food. Clue is in the name, cook-er", "FRIDGE: Doesn't fill itself. Doesn't clean itself either", "DOG BOWL: Don't wait until dog looks like a whippet before feeding him", "FOOD CUPBOARD: Food to be collected from shops”, and my personal favourite, “SINK: We don’t have a dishwasher. Mix washing-up liquid with hot water and insert dirty plates”.
Finally, we’re ready. WE’RE READY!
Brace yerself, Europe, we’re coming.
Wednesday, 19 May 2010
In the beginning there was...
…a great sense of anticipation. Only one more week to go! This day has been a long time coming and I’ve worked myself into a state of exhausted delirium to raise the dosh, but finally I did it, I’ve reached my target – money in bank for bills, money in pocket for journey. Just my dad’s 70th birthday party to attend and then we’re off, OFF I TELL YA.
Wednesday 26th May 2010 is our day of escape.
So, what’s all this about then? Well its about touring Europe. We’ve already bickered our way around America and Scotland, and we thought it was time we tortured our European cousins for a while.
Who’s ‘we’? That’ll be me and my hubby, Steve, who’s a Yorkshireman with a huge personality and a gob to match. I’m a Brummie, so I’m hardly in a position to slate people from oop north, but I do, I just can’t help myself.
We’ll be travelling in a car absolutely packed to bursting point with the basic necessities of life: tent, airbed, the best sleeping bag money can buy because I hate being cold, and whisky. I’d tell you what brand or make the car is, but I don’t know what it is, we’ve only had it three years. It’s silver anyway and quite cute. You’ll see pictures of it.
Yes, we’ll be camping. As I’m in my 40s and Hubs is in his 50s, our only limitation will be getting off the airbed first thing in the morning – if we can achieve that we can achieve anything.
We’ll be driving down from Birmingham (UK) to Dover, lobbing ourselves on the first cheap ferry to France, then turning right. Our journey will encompass Northern France (living off French bread, French cheese and French wine), Northern Spain (living off paella, tortillas and Sangria), through Portugal, then across Southern Spain and Southern France. Once there we’ll stop awhile and figure out what we’re going to do next.
There are two components to ‘What are we going to do next?’ The first is, how much dosh we have left, which is quite a biggie, but we’re frugal to the point of stinginess so we might be okay. I mean, you can’t get any cheaper than camping can you! If I’ve managed to locate wifi up to that point I’ll be able to work en route (I’m a transcriber… you know, typist), in which case the world is our oyster.
Component two will involve questions like: are we homesick, would we kill for some Heinz baked beans, do we miss our loved ones back home, and have we had enough of the airbed? As we both suffer from persistent itchy feet syndrome (Athlete’s Foot?) I suspect the temptation will be to carry on and see where the wind takes us. After all, there’s nothing we need to get back home for.
Hubs doesn’t have a job by the way (the nasty economy made him redundant), and I can work anywhere that has wifi, so we can do and go whatever we like… how exciting is that!
If you read anything here that includes the words ‘Help’, ‘Save us’ or ‘We’re lost’, please notify the appropriate authorities (and tell my children I love them). And don’t be afraid to get in touch if you have any questions or tips that might help us survive: bhamsecretary@gmail.com.
Let the adventure begin!
Wednesday 26th May 2010 is our day of escape.
So, what’s all this about then? Well its about touring Europe. We’ve already bickered our way around America and Scotland, and we thought it was time we tortured our European cousins for a while.
Who’s ‘we’? That’ll be me and my hubby, Steve, who’s a Yorkshireman with a huge personality and a gob to match. I’m a Brummie, so I’m hardly in a position to slate people from oop north, but I do, I just can’t help myself.
We’ll be travelling in a car absolutely packed to bursting point with the basic necessities of life: tent, airbed, the best sleeping bag money can buy because I hate being cold, and whisky. I’d tell you what brand or make the car is, but I don’t know what it is, we’ve only had it three years. It’s silver anyway and quite cute. You’ll see pictures of it.
Yes, we’ll be camping. As I’m in my 40s and Hubs is in his 50s, our only limitation will be getting off the airbed first thing in the morning – if we can achieve that we can achieve anything.
We’ll be driving down from Birmingham (UK) to Dover, lobbing ourselves on the first cheap ferry to France, then turning right. Our journey will encompass Northern France (living off French bread, French cheese and French wine), Northern Spain (living off paella, tortillas and Sangria), through Portugal, then across Southern Spain and Southern France. Once there we’ll stop awhile and figure out what we’re going to do next.
There are two components to ‘What are we going to do next?’ The first is, how much dosh we have left, which is quite a biggie, but we’re frugal to the point of stinginess so we might be okay. I mean, you can’t get any cheaper than camping can you! If I’ve managed to locate wifi up to that point I’ll be able to work en route (I’m a transcriber… you know, typist), in which case the world is our oyster.
Component two will involve questions like: are we homesick, would we kill for some Heinz baked beans, do we miss our loved ones back home, and have we had enough of the airbed? As we both suffer from persistent itchy feet syndrome (Athlete’s Foot?) I suspect the temptation will be to carry on and see where the wind takes us. After all, there’s nothing we need to get back home for.
Hubs doesn’t have a job by the way (the nasty economy made him redundant), and I can work anywhere that has wifi, so we can do and go whatever we like… how exciting is that!
If you read anything here that includes the words ‘Help’, ‘Save us’ or ‘We’re lost’, please notify the appropriate authorities (and tell my children I love them). And don’t be afraid to get in touch if you have any questions or tips that might help us survive: bhamsecretary@gmail.com.
Let the adventure begin!
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