Wednesday 27th Feb – Pinos, Valencia to Sot de Ferrer, Aragon

I REALLY need a haircut…

I have one booked, for March 15th, when we must be home because guests are arriving the next day.  And we have our Eurotunnel ticket.  We toyed with the idea of taking the ferry from Bilbao to Portsmouth, saving ourselves around 500 miles and €300 in tolls, but nothing doing.  No tickets.  Everything this side of Brexit is now jam packed as reluctant Brits pour back into the UK, away from the sunshine into the dark turmoil that is our shambles of EU relations.

We hadn’t the heart to drive for very long yesterday.  Our departure had been delayed as were were reluctant to depart the warm and cheery company of Gary and Lesley.  Also, I delayed us until after lunch because I needed to set up a number of Skype calls.  I’m supervising a group of post-grad students dissertations for a Northern University.  Today was the first part of that supervision process.  They’ve each written a research proposal for what they want to study as the major part of their Masters degrees, which we need to discuss.  At this stage, proposals tend to be vast in their ambitions.   

The biggest idea of this year’s tranche, is the the student who wants to establish the value that social enterprise education might have on entrepreneurial activity in post-conflict areas of rural Columbia.  It’s a well researched proposal with lots of relevant literature in its justification.  Sadly, this social education process hasn’t happened yet, the post-conflict areas are far from stable and (even if I thought her travelling there was safe) all universities are twitchy about research taking place outside UK borders given the Durham PhD student who recently spent many weeks in a Dubai jail on spying charges. 

My Columbian student is bright, intelligent and cares passionately about peace in her country. At the end of our skype we’d worked through the issues about the scale of her research, her funds to carry out the work, and time limitations (it’s got to be done and written up by Sept 30th).  She’s happy with what I’ve asked of her in reworking the project and completely unaware of the irony I see in our conversation.  M and I are battling with precisely the same issues: what scale of life do we want post-guesthouse, what funds are we going to use to achieve it and what are our timings.  Of course, we don’t have to complete a 12,000 word research project by the end of the summer, and so have the advantage, perhaps.  

Our first leg of the drive home takes us beyond Valencia and then North, up toward Zaragoza. It’s very warm, the driving cab reaching 300c.  We’re a bit irritated that, with all of Spain to explore, we’re going to spend a 100miles or so on a road we’ve used before.  

It turns out to be an advantage.

A month ago, on our way South, fleeing from Teruel’s biting temperatures of -60c, we’d driven past a tiny town, buildings clustered around a hillside where a long white set of steps zigzagged half a mile or so to it’s zenith.  We’d exclaimed at the view but hurried on to the coast and the promise of warmth.   Now, doing the route in reverse, we want to know what this is, so pull off and find ourselves in Sot de Ferrer. 

It’s a tiny town, with antecedents that predate the ‘modern’ palace of the 1200’s, was built as a summer recess for the then monarch of Aragon.   The town’s highest recorded population was 900 souls at the turn of the 20thcentury.  This dwindled to 402 in 1990 and has steadied at 409 for the last couple of decades.  People stop and chat in the roads returning our greetings of “Hola” and “Bueno Dia” with automatic politeness.  Our experience is that the Spanish are generally surprised, but pleased, if foreigners take the trouble to greet them, and always respond. As we wander, we notice buildings that are mostly large, tall, creating narrow, quiet, long, shady lanes up which to wander towards the sunlit spaces always just out of sight.  

All of the roads, lanes and the large flat car park are either tarmacked or paved in pressed concrete.  They are smooth and easily traversed.  All, except for that pathway from the top of the village up the white-walled zig-zags to the chapel above.  Here, alone, the path is covered in sharp, lose pebbles and rocks.  

I notice the change in terrain, but don’t think about it too deeply, until we reach the first of thirteen white icons, each containing a tiled-painted picture of Jesus’ final days.  This is a route of the Stations of the Cross.  And the loose pebbles?  M explains, being brought up Catholic, those are for the supplicants who make their pilgrimage on hands and knees.  The rocks offer the means that worshippers might suffer more this way, than by crawling on a smoother surface.  I shudder, my imagination reconstructing the damage to skin, bone and cartilage.     

Luckily, our progress is injury free up to the chapel with its ornate but gilt-free altar in the cool depths of the thick whitewashed walls.  And then down again, along the outskirts of the rustic settlement and back to where the van is parked.

Supper is my attempt at paella, chicken and chorizo variety.  Stan lies in his bed, at the van’s doorway, staring out as maybe 100 sheep are herded up the lane on the other side of the fast flowing river. It’s good to be back in the van, door open until beasties discover us and reluctantly we witness the last of the sunset through glass.  I love this space, it’s harmony and simplicity. Our way of life in here has become a shelter from reality and all the decision making that we, the UK and even my dissertation students face.  Nine days left and counting…

The gilt-free chapel


Tuesday 26th Feb – What makes a house…?

I haven’t been able to write for a while.  Not that I didn’t want to – but there was so much to say, so much in flux, my own feelings too tumultuous to commit them to the keyboard.  So I couldn’t.

Things feel calmer now, there’s less going on.  My head has room to write.

What’s been going on?

My reasons for needing to change our life, for ripping M from his very happy existence as guest-house proprietor are clear when I explain them.  Getting to the point where we could both acclimatize to the need for change has been acutely painful… one that I’m not quite ready to put down on paper.  The subject of “What next?”, after the guesthouse, has been looming large over the van as we’ve trundled up hillsides and slid down to valley depths.  

Our questions are of existential importance: Where?  What?  What for? Who for?  How?

They are equally nebulous and important; necessary to consider and yet seemingly impossible to commit to an answer.  So we’ve towed them behind us, these questions, a large bunch of heavy-grey helium balloons inextricably attached to our travel, bobbing in the mountain breezes, often out of sight but we’re never free of them, they are ever-present.

We’ve avoided discussing those orbs of unknowing, never ‘bottoming-out’ the issues.  It’s unusual for us to do this, we’re ‘peel back the scab and let’s sort it’ kind of people.  But we didn’t want to mar the trip.  Plus… we didn’t have any responses.

So, we get back to Gary and Lesley’s haven on Monday 18thFeb with a speculative date to visit a couple of houses for sale.  There’s the possibility, tenuous at best, the idea that Spain might be the answer for us.  That we might travel again in November, after waving farewell to our last set of guests.  It’s super-hazy.  Those balloons are still on long strings, we haven’t pulled them closer and tried to peer at their patterns, much less taken a pin of certainty and burst the buggers. But even having a dimly-lit vision of what could be right for us makes their presence less intimidating.

‘Kev’, whose birthday party we went to when we were last here, is a builder, in the middle of reconstructing G&L’s bathroom.  He and his wife have a home here and are looking to relocate within the area.  He’s been to see loooaaaddds of places.

One of them was a five-bedroomed house over three floors in a nearby town (Benigembla, look it up, it’s gorgeous) – tiny Spanish town of 600 people, which quadruples for the 10-day fiesta in August.  We view the house on line.  The wall tiles are only slightly more stunning than the original floor tiles, that lead to the inner courtyard that you can spy onto from the roof terraces above. My heart stops.  M’s heart leaps.

We get the estate agent’s number from Kev, drive out there to find it (not hard in a village consisting of around six streets) arrange a time to see it next morning. The local deputy mayor will be there too.

And… oh my. The bottom two floors would convert very nicely into a Spanish guesthouse, lots of space because (and this is the real biggie) the top, third floor, is entirely separable from the rest, its a gorgeous terrace-flat and I am hooked.

I see it. Crystal-clearly.  How we make M’s new business, give me privacy, start a new but familiar life, create an income… it’s all there.

Or it was until the Mayor and the estate agent start (Not) answering questions, not quite saying outright lies, feeding us information that seemed so suspect. Their words called into question all legal house-purchase practices, the antecedents of this lovely building and the potential trouble we’d have got ourselves into if we’d bought it.

It takes a couple of days for me to let go of my sunlit attic-space apartment, with the sound of M’s happy Spanish guests drifting up from below.  The need for certainty rose up, grabbed my brain cells and plugged them with a solution.  I could almost pick up a pin and set away disposing of our ever-present not-knowns. The process of relinquishing this fantasy is uncomfortable.  

But let it go we must, because we were on the verge of being solidly duped, a point clearly emphasized by a recommended property agent in Jalon who has showed us a number of other places.

One home, the one I thought could be ‘the answer’ was similar to G&L’s place, out in another valley.  Nestled in the mountainsides, with 6000sqm of vines, almonds, olives.  I pushed open the car door anticipating a rush of love and enthusiasm, and felt… nothing.  

As M walked around the plot, working out various logistics, I felt worse than nothing. As he said “You know, I think we could buy this” I apparently recoiled, physically moving backwards.  

What on earth is wrong with me?

If you’d said to me two months ago that we’d decided to move to a part of the world that has 320+ days of sunshine, every year, and find a mountain-loved hut where we could set up an eco-tourism/cyclists/walkers holiday business (by putting cabins on the terraces)…

Next day I went back there, trying to work out what wasn’t happening.  Simple – this house wasn’t…

Then I found her, forgotten at the bottom of a lane, unloved, abandoned.  My heart became an auditorium of nerve endings, on the stage, a virtuoso played a single note that reverberated around the room. A collective intake of breath was held as the sound captured every synapse in the space.  I saw me, on the whitewashed terrace, writing, looking up through the branches of the carob tree to the mountain top spikes punching into the blue above them.  Turn 180 degrees and the house faced the chasm between two tiger-striped walls of rock that plunged to the river-bed hundreds of meters out of sight.

Entranced was I.  Less so M, G & L when we snuck around to find not one intact window/door; two floors of rot and decay, of badly needed new wiring, plumbing, internal everything. Plus: an owner who might be in the care-home of one city or the mental-health institution of another; a daughter untraceable; and no idea of price, if, indeed, it was up for sale.

Contrast this with a 1980’s build at the back of a conurbation, three well-proportioned bedrooms, views over the valley, it’s back to the mountainside, just 500 yards from some of the best rock climbing in the area.  The ground floor is easily convertible to a guest-house/Airb’n’b living space.  Upstairs boasts multiple balconies, rooms to ‘be’ in, lots of potential to change the bland ‘holiday-home’ fittings to something you’d want to run your fingers across with loving pride.

Or then again, some of the really nice places we’ve seen, rented for €300-400 a month, hassle and maintenance free, on long leases that leave their occupants at liberty to move/return to the UK without the inconvenience of arranging a sale.

So… I couldn’t write.

If we’ve decided anything, it’s that we need to keep on looking.  Renting here for six months is the least that we’ll do whilst we feel our way up those balloon strings.  I’m less anxious about them now, catch them in the sunrise and they look almost pretty.  I won’t burst them, but one by one, as we’re ready, I’ll untie them and watch them glint in the sun’s rays as they disappear into the cloudless skies above.

Why we do what we do…

Jules is a bit busy at the moment so she’s asked me to do a blog. Please be warned there is a little bad language but I think you’ll agree it’s in context.

Growing up on our street of 8 houses, the only people to have a car were Tommy Anderson and his son Peter. In fact it wasn’t a car, but a Commer Camper Van. An exotic vehicle especially when it drove past as I held hands with my mam waiting for the bus.

It was that camper that was used to carry my first bike back from Leiths Bike sShop in Houghton. Peter driving, my dad and I sat in the back holding the bike. I remember being nervous that the pedals would scratch the wood panels either side.

It was Peter and his dad who would together wash the camper.
I’d sit on the kerb stone on their side of the street and would watch, entranced as the water ran along the edge and under my legs. It was a treat if I could get outside as they were setting up, as I’d have the sheer delight of watching the stream as it set off following the camber of the road.

In 1978 Peter and Tommy had a win on the pools, it was a source or conversation in our house, as no one knew how much was won, but that didn’t matter as you could imagine and dream with gut aching envy.
When the brand new T registered red and yellow Dodge Auto Sleeper Camper pulled up outside their house it was clear it had been a big win.

By now there were two more cars on the street but nothing as entrancing as the ’Ice cream van’ as other less reverential folks would refer to it. They were jealous and although I was too, it was never that spiteful resentful kind.

Peter was one of those quiet men, shy but knowledgable, the handy lad on the street, who knew how to fix the puncture on my bike and had the tool to do what ever job needed doing. His dad was braggy, funny and loud, the world according to Tommy Anderson and if you didn’t take note, you were the fool. Peter always seeming to hang in his shadow.

How many times did Tommy say to me “ Your dad could have one of these if he didn’t drink or smoke.” I knew he was right but I equally knew my dad would never speak like that to another man’s son. 

As the years went by that camper was used to transport two more pedal bikes and on one occasion I rode in the front seat next to Peter driving. 
I was 18 and he was being my knowledgable chaperone whilst I went to see a motorbike, but that is a story for another time.

I looked up to Peter and so admired the quiet way he got on with things.

What’s this got to do with camper vans, Julie and me? I hear you ask. 
Well, I’m getting there.

Tommy, was a rather prescriptive man and Peter had his instructions, a lot more I imagine than I ever knew, but i was never allowed past the front door or inside the wondrous workshop, I’d knock on the garage door as a teenager and when it was opened ajar I’d say “Peter might you have a …… “ the door would close and open moments or minutes later with Peter kindly hand me the said request. I didn’t need to be told to return it, I’d dash, do what ever it was needed for and have it returned in a ridiculously anxiety inducing manner. I’m not much different today, I hate asking for a hand or to lend something.

Anyhow, Jules and I had been together 6 weeks when Tommy died. It was a sad time on my Mam’s street and his passing meant one of those old anchors was gone. 
In hindsight it was perhaps a mistake, when, because Jules and I were skint, I bought a second hand three piece suite off Peter. It wasn’t my wisest moment when I happened to mention to my new prize, that Tommy died on the sofa. Needless to say that settee never made it into our home and languished in the garage. It was a superb piece and it wasn’t as if he’d oozed on it. Honestly, women!

No one had ever driven the camper except Peter and his dad, no one, it simply wasn’t allowed. So the fart from a passing gnat could have blown me over when in the summer of 1998 Peter asked me if I’d like to borrow the van to take Jules and Vicky off to a weekend in the lakes.


My mam had happened to mention to Peter we three were off camping.
Unbidden and certainly not as a result of a hint, the message came to me that Peter would like us to take his camper. I’ve no idea why and he wasn’t the type to curry favour, he had always been sweet on my mam and although she was 17 years older they made a lovely couple when they started courting in 2001.

I can’t tell you how nervous I was. This was a creaky wallowing land crab but with the promise of cosy magic. A country cottage on wheels, a park where you like, put the kettle on and admire the view mobile. It was Peters pride and joy and I was the first man in 20 years to drive it other than the two Anderson’s. 


We had a fabulous weekend, we three. 

I wasn’t to know what part worn tyres were. I’d heard the term but never got round to trying them. Peter, forever the economist,make do and mend man was a huge fan of them, after all, why pay £50 new when you can pay £5 at the car boot and yours are the skills to fit them. 

I knew I was being enthusiastic trying to overtake the van.


There was a bang. 


As the steering lunged left to right and back again and the rear end whipped and cracked back in Six-Million-Dollar-Man slow motion, with me at the wheel and my two new girls in the van. My throat swelled, stomach heaved and arse did more than twitch as the Police advanced training on the skid pan kicked in from 10 years earlier. Reverse lock, counter reverse lock, is this bloody thing ever going to stop.

“Fuck me, please stop, stop soon, stop soon…. Jesus Christ what the fuck was that? Sorry Vicky, eerrr…” shaking.  Thank god we did not crash, we were alive and so was Peters van. 

I was the first out of the van and had to sit on the kerbstone. Jules and Vicks were supremely chipper. How were they to know what my heart, head and guts had been through? The only clue being my colourful outburst. I was a blamange but as the minutes passed I took on more solid form.
That overtake going down hill on the A66 not long before the Barny turn off was one spurt over 50 mph too much for that rear near side tyre.

That experience stays with me today, do you know your tyres have a set of easliy found and deciphered numbers on their walls telling you when they were made? They do, allow me to be a little Tommy Anderson-ish and if they are over three years old, please replace them. I do.

Back to campers. Two years later and one year into caring for Julie’s newly disabled dad, I decided either Jules and I were probably going to end up at a divorce court or we were going to end up in the countryside.


A camper van was just what we needed. One weekend a month, Vicks would be minded by Bill, and Jules and I would have two nights away, anywhere along as it was alone.

£1100 later and Jules and I had a Creamy white 1982 VW camper. (Not the classic shape, I’m the man who looked at a 1971 model, one owner selling for £3000 and said, “I’m not paying that”. Anyhow, I digress.)

 
We didn’t know the term “wild camping” but all we really did was follow Peter’s lead. Our first spot was Stape, a sleepy area on the North Yorkshire moors by a stream. His favourite and by default mine and ours.

That 120 mile-an-hour heart aching race down the A19 in the twilight of July 20th 2011 answering my mothers call of “ I think somethings wrong with Peter” was longer than that bloody blow-out, but much much more terrifying. 


There sat in his chair by the fire was my old friend, not much older than I, but a father and brother a man to me, some one I’d loved for years. Once again my Police training kicked in. I knew what to do. How many deaths had I been witness to? I knew what to do for my friend.

So why do we do what we do?

Jules and I stayed away from those divorce courts. The five campers we have had have all been our friends, they have taken us far and wide. Sheltered us from many storms and given us a perspective that we would never see any other way. 


We get ourselves in some arse twitchy situations, over reaching the van’s traction or dimensions, all in the search for that great spot. That slice of heaven, the spot where no one else is – it belongs to us and woe betide any bugger who wants to park alongside.

When in May last year, Jules said to me:

“Michael, I think we should build our own van”. My reaction was that of dread and

“Are you mad woman?”

But build our newest friend we did and I must say, so long as our other vans aren’t listening, this one is our favourite.

How many times over the years have I said to Jules “Peter would love this…” In making this van I’d have loved to have involved him, but in truth I have, in so many ways. When ever I see a passing brook or stand by water I think of him. I take off my shoes and rest in the cool water, and I’m by that kerb stone all over again.

My wife is usually right about most things, she’s the blue-sky thinker, I’m the one who’ll put the fire on, set the kettle and start with tea. When she comes out with a crazy idea, I usually recoil but the strength of my resistance is often due to the fact I know she’s right.

So what do I do when the latest idea is a move to Spain..?

Friday 15th Feb – Park Life… Cordoba – Montoro – Argamasilla de Alba

Thursday night, 14thFeb

Our big flat car park in Cordoba was (just) ok for a few hours, but neither of us felt like spending the night there.  Right next to a dual carriage way, unmonitored by security, it was a perfect place to get gassed/robbed.  Just as we decided to move on, M found a ton of reviews all describing the horrors that have happened here.  

Quick, quick, run away, run away..

Park4Night shows a new spot for the night, just a mile or two away, it gets great reviews – quiet, picturesque etc.  We set off into the twilight sky, the last of the sun’s glow diminishing by the second. As visibility finally fails, we’re directed onto a narrow track – bouncy to say the least – our headlights suggest that in between the craters are just more craters.  Neither of us like what we’re looking at; trouble is, it’s a narrow lane and we’re on it now.  Paint-scraping foliage hems us in on both sides and there’s nowhere to make a 3-point (or 5-point or 7-point) turn.

Oh well, onwards and upwards…

The narrow gets thinner, the bushes get thicker, the night gets blacker, our hearts rise up to our throats.  It goes on forever….  Well, at least a couple of miles.

Abruptly, we are stopped.  

A barbed wire fence is festooned with high-vis jackets as it bars our way.  We’re going no further forward, and we’re not turning round.   The only way back is by reversing.  Bummer.

I close my eyes and hide my face.  I’ve no idea why i do this, it’s not like I can actually see anything and it’s too dark for M to see my trepidation.  He’s sensibly focused on the reversing camera and rear view mirrors, squinting at the views he can barely see since he lost his variafocals some four weeks ago.  I love being behind the wheel of the van under normal circumstances, it’s a great drive.  Tonight though, I am quite happy to let M’s ‘Police Advanced Driving’ experience take over.  In concentration-zoned silence, slowly, slowly we retreat, one careful wheel rotation at a time. 

Where is the end of this awful lane?

Each time we hear the awful woody branches slicing into the van’s paintwork and lovely decals there are two sharp intakes of breath in the cab.  M keeps us straight, no dips into the deep ruts on either side, no bumping into low obscured walls or boulders.  Just achingly slow progress until, eventually, we’re back to where we turned off and can reverse the van into a small access area.

Neither of us say much for a while.

“Well done”

“Cheers Chubs”, he replies but he’s got his phone out and is now looking for that ‘other’ site he saw, eight miles away.  The review has pictures.  It’s a long, river-side car park beneath a hill-mounted town.  Looks lovely, although we’re slightly wary of car parks next to busy roads.  There are no bushes in evidence though and that looks like a tarmac road.

M’s sleuthing finds us in a ¼ mile-long, immaculately block-paved parking area, directly above the ox-bow river that separates us from the town of Montoro. Gazing up as we give Stan his last walk, it’s like staring at a Christmas card of Jerusalem.  The jumble of buildings, one layer stacked above another is up-lit by dotted street-lights.  A central dome at the peak carries a cross, and above this, one particularly bright star hangs heavy, before the canopy of the galaxy opens up above. 

It’s quiet. It’s calm.  It’s very flat and there are no bushes, craters, car thieves or assailants anywhere to be seen.

We sleep.

Friday 15thFeb

I’ve got a deadline to meet so the van becomes my office.  M explores Montoro with Stan, they come back to report on their findings and then, after lunch we move on.  I’ve mastered the art of typing while we travel, so sit next to M, up front and look up to avoid car-sickness, letting my inaccurate touch-typing do it’s worst.

We can’t quite bear to go North yet.  Partly because the weather forecasts show plummeting temperatures, but mostly because we’re entrenched in this new life of ours.  Going up, means going home, means it’s coming to an end.  It must, end, of course, but we’re just not ready to admit that yet.  

So M (with careful assessment of all site photos) picks a place, next to a lake, with a castle, with motor-home specific parking.  

Argamasilla de Alba, is exactly what it says on the tin.  A lovely expanse of a reservoir, overlooked by a medieval castle and the dam wall with another ancient structure on the other side.  The parking is broad, flattish (we’ve got ramps to get level) and again it’s still.

Supper is a chicken-broth with the chunks of crusty loaf, consumed to the sight of the sunset down-climbing the skies behind the turrets of the fort.  Tomorrow we’re going to try Albacete, slightly North but mostly East of here, it’s a city that boasts a nice cathedral and a buzzing tapas scene, apparently.  

We’re so close to Gary and Lesley now, that it seems a pity not to go by their slice of heaven, so that’s our general direction.  These two lovely people are glad we’re coming and unfazed by the fact that we can’t quite predict when we’ll arrive.  

You just never know what you’ll find…

Thursday 14th Feb – La Rambla to Cordoba

 “There’s a Spanish train that runs between Guadalquivir and Old Seville, and at dead of night the whistle blows and people hear she’s running still…”  Chris de Burgh, 1975

And there we were, travelling over the Rio Guadalquivir.  There are, in fact,  day time trains connecting Cordoba and Seville, but I’m doing it again, getting ahead of myself…

We packed up and moved away from El Chorro.  From our spy-hole over the lakeside, nestled in the olive groves, we left the rust coloured soil defying the blue-deep sky and the clouds keeping count of the score.

I’ve got work to do.  The campervan makes the most amazing mobile office.  I sit, brain focused on internal thoughts whilst my eyes let the blues, greens and sand coloured images flash past them.  I am preoccupied and at the same time absorb just how special, how entrancing this country is.  

We pull into a small town some 20 miles from Cordoba where there’s a camper stop (to deal with the ‘you-know-what-box’).  

This is La Rambla, not to be confused with Las Ramblas of Barcelona fame.  The singular variety, La Rambla, is a small encampment that’s famous for it’s ceramics.  There’s been a market, but we arrive at 1pm, so we missed it. Likewise, all the shops and cafes have shut up shop, in ritual for the siesta.  Lunch is in the van and then we take Stan out for a walk, a ramble around the tiny pressed concrete streets so previously injurious to the van’s engineering.

It’s a beautiful place.  

There are several small parks, each with ceramic picture tiles set into in the public seats, encasing the fountains, on top of the signage and above the aviary in one sheltered corner.  Across the whole town, all of the ceramics are both colour and pattern co-ordinated and they are all, each and every one, completely, intact.  There’s not so much as one chipped vase, not one cracked urn, not one tile around the fountained areas that’s been damaged.

In our local area of England, the council took two years to replace the wooden bridge that youths burnt away.  The replacement steel bar bridge lacks charm but has survived similar arson attacks. It’s hard to imagine that such delicate decorations would last a week, much less the decades that these gentle items have withstood the tinkling of the fountain-fall of water.

We are charmed.  Stan trots alongside us as we trace our way around a footpath, circumnavigating the small town.  It’s siesta-quiet and the warm sunshine lulls us to a wandering pace.  

But our plan is to make Cordoba.  It’s on the secondary list (not a want, but a nice to get to) so after lunch we bundle up the van and move further inland.

Less than an hour later and we rise over the gentle hill that offers access to Cordoba. The city is huge.  As we take in its enormity, our hearts sink.  

The connurbation has spread as far as the eye can see, like someone dropped a pecan and chocolate chip ice cream that melted all over the valley floor.  The white-cream-brown lumps have seeped into the corners of the verdant buttresses, spilling over the river-banks and around the moderate foothills that try to contain the city’s sprawl.

Oh lord.

But, in fact, Park4Night finds us to a large flat dolomite car park, fenced in by high-rise flats and the dual carriage-way on three sides.  We settle the van and head off, crossing the ancient bridge to enter the hallowed city.

At the entrance to the jumbled collection of streets, houses and shops, stands aloft and separate, the building that back in the 780s was a mosque until (can you guess?) the Christians turned up.  They plonked a cathedral on the side and largely erased the Arabic texts and decorations.  

The mosque itself is a four-sided building, housing a central area.  Access on three sides is through three great, metal covered doors, each standing over 20 feet high.  Whatever the bustle on the outside of these walls, inside they have a hypnotic effect.  We are stilled, other tourists similarly so.  Families with small children slow down, becalmed.  

The outer walls are arched, creating covered walkways, offering shady shapes, arcs of shadow against white-washed walls.  In the main area of the square, low olive and citrus trees offer the first layer of arboreal canopy, protection from the sun.  Above this, the palm trees waft gently in the breezes we can only see, and standing majestic in the centre, are spire-tall cypress trees, taking your thoughts directly up to heaven, just in case they couldn’t get there by themselves. 

I resent the glowering cathedral dominating one side of the square.  It interlopes, intrudes, impacts the tranquility of this respite built some 1500 years ago.  

Eventually, it’s time to move away.  We’re hungry. Searching through Google, M finds us a place for lunch.  The waiter is charm personified and for the first time in my life, I surrender critical faculties and control over the bill.  I hand back both our menus and say:

“Ok, choose what you think we will like”

Michael looks horrified as Alberto the waiter smiles at me, glad that I have acknowledged his superior understanding.  He proceeds to supply us with food and wine and later, the bill… What the hell – it’s Valentine’s Day after all…

Wednesday 13thFeb – El Chorro: “Solid as a rock…”

It’s been two days of… rock.

  • Rock music played by M, we drove down through France to Meatloaf and Alice Cooper and he’s picked up the the rock theme again, although going for a softer version this time
  • Aiming to visit El Caminito del Ray – an amazing walk through the gorges at El Chorro.  
  • Getting my hands on rock.

There’s nothing quite as disappointing as buying a new rope and a guide book to the local crags, to discover that you’re not going to use either.  Which is where we were on Tuesday morning.  It’s like getting all geared up for Christmas, only to discover you’ve overslept, its Boxing Day; everyone’s gone home, and they’ve taken your presents with them.  I exaggerate not…

We’ve got used to the eternal summer of Spain’s winter.  The temperatures are almost always in double figures, rain is rare, and the tourists haven’t really turned up yet so we’re only slightly encroaching on the locals.  

Imagine then, yesterday morning, having poured over the crag guide and readied our climbing gear, got out the rope and – well – everything – imagine  my dismay on waking up to the sound of sleeting rain and howling wind.  

It’s a bit of a shocker when winter actually shows its teeth over here.  

Glum…

Still, we needed shopping, stuff needed doing for the van and I got lots of work done…

11 o’clock – grey wet,  yuk – we went to Alhora, there’s a Mercodona Supermarket

12 o’clock – grey wet,  yuk – still shopping

1 o’clock – grey wet yuk – on the way back from shopping

2 o’clock – less grey, no wet – hmmm…

3 o’clock – blue and grey, dry, better…

And the loveliest husband in the world, who doesn’t want to climb himself, but does want me to use the book and the rope, suggests (without me even hinting…) that we could go climbing since it had cleared up.

I wait perhaps a millisecond: “Okay!”

After the last debacle climbing where I just scared myself silly and left the rock-face feeling miserable; I was nervous.  In the guidebook, there are perhaps 6 of 283 pages  that list climbs I feel happy to start on.  We head for the most accessible crag, Fontales area, just above the village of El Chorro.

Two hours later…

I am a rock climber reborn.  

The rock is firm, it’s got lots of edges (this is a good thing), positive and lovely to grip, and the warm breeze that floats around me neither pushes nor shoves, just reminds me that I need to keep my jacket on.  M belays me up and down four routes, holding me steady, offering endless encouragement.

I keep waiting for the whisper of fear in my ear, but it doesn’t come.  Images of falling, failing to clip into the bolts, falling, banging limbs, don’t appear in my mind’s eye.  The icy grip of terror that has been known to wrap itself around my insides, doesn’t squeeze.  I’m in my element, in the place I feel connected and assured, even in moments when I’m hunting for the next hand hold, stuck between clips.  I am in the best of places: I am on rock.

Jubilant we come back to our home-on-wheels, supper is in a new spot, a mile down the hill from our last.  This new place is equally lovely but lacks other vans and local ‘deposits’.  So, Stan gets to wander on a much longer leash, find sticks to chew and have thrown for him.  All is well with the world.  Tomorrow, we have tickets for the Caminito de Ray to walk the gorge, and are planning to go back in the morning for the longest route I’ve ever climbed (35m) that’s three grades up from today’s achievement…

Wednesday 13thFeb

Communication is a wonderful thing.  I’ve written about it before.  About the value of asking questions over the merits of making assumptions.  Had I done this, we’d have been climbing earlier, before the bus was due to take us to the start of the Caminito del Ray, for the walk we’ve been wanting to do for days.

Instead of climbing, then lunching, then Caminito-ing.  We spend ages getting sorted, then finding a parking place for the van, then discovering that the walk has been cancelled due to high wind.

Bummer.

The sun is out though…

We ‘rock’ up at the crag (pun, geddit?!) to find lots of Europeans and one American couple crowded round our easy’ area of routes.  Chatting becomes a lot easier as soon as we openly state that Brexit is a disaster and we wish we had the political constitution of the countries represented by the climbers around us.  The US couple declare that their country is, just about, more screwed than ours. All nationalities present agree: the US is marginally worse than the UK, Europe is clearly better and on this basis, cordial relations are established.

Belayed by M, I do 5a route (equivalent to HVS or an easy Extreme1 climb if on trad) – the kind of warm up I’d run up at the indoor wall at home).  It feels ok.  I’m umming and arring about what to do next when M points out that the 6a (E2) route is now free and why don’t I just do that instead?

30 minutes and 35 metres later, I am as triumphant as Stan with a new plastic bottle. Yah-bloody-hoo.  At last, I’m getting my ‘head’ back, letting go of debilitating fears and finally, finally, climbing again.  

It was wonderful.  I’m incredibly grateful, for the opportunity ,for the support that M offers me in attempting the things I want to acheive, for this whole trip.

We’re going to come back another trip for Caminito del Ray.  Our journey has effectively carved Spain into two parts.  The Western reaches and Portugal will have to be done next time.  This visit, we’re going to head East, inland, to hold onto as much warmth as we can, before facing the chilly North.  

Yes, next time.

We’ve learnt a lot about ourselves and the van in the past six weeks.  

  1. The hand-luggage sized lockers (excluding footwear and toiletries) have too many things in them, we could have done with ½ what we’ve brought
  2. Our elasticated washing lines have been fabulous.  Today, only today, we discover that the cab’s ceiling handles make a great indoor washing line holders for stuff that’s not quite finished outside. This means that our living quarters don’t end up like a laundry room
  3. We haven’t, not once, thought that this was too much, too little, or not comfortable.  42 days coming up and we’re mourning our last 24 days.  We could do this for longer – next time
  4. There’s a million places we haven’t been yet…

Day 40, Monday 11th Feb – El Chorro, Alhora and mean things to do to your campervan

As the mornings have gone on, it’s been slowly less dark by the time Stan whimpers for his food or a walk first thing.  The sky was a grey-yellow hue this morning as I opened the door and peered out, lead clamped firmly to the reprobate’s collar (no surreptitious wanderings for you, my boy).  Behind me, over the nearby ridge, like a volcano of exploding colour, light was shooting up into the bank of low cloud that shrouded us.  

I struggled to make out what was happening with the light, sleepily wandering up the lane, toward the road and the ridge.  Squinting, I encouraged myopic retina to focus on what was ahead.  At the top of the path, the sun suddenly escaped through the valley opening.  As if dawn’s laser had burnt a hole, a ray of pure gold tunneled through the v-shaped rock walls, beneath the cloud’s heavy weight, flashing past my groggy eyes and straight across the lake.  It landed, like a firebrand on the opposite shore, a shot of brilliance that dispersed low-lake mist and left those fields ablaze.  

Gaping, open mouthed, I ignored Stan’s tugging on the lead and just looked. Gazing from the source, where eventually the morning sun would rise, to the lakeside, a bright pinpoint of colour in the mist-grey landscape, and back again.  Like an umpire in a tennis match, my head turning left to right, desperate not to miss one tiny scrap of what might be evolving.  

Just as suddenly, it was finished.  The light dispersed, the fields of flame dulled back to grey and green and the dawn was subsumed by nubula.  Gone. And not gone, caught in my imagination, trapped in optical nerves and synapses, held by dint of will, keeping the image safe inside my brain.

Back at the camper, the morning resumed it’s easy routine – tea, work, ready.  The plan had been to go to the Caminito del Rey – a rockside route around the El Churro gorge where hanging bridges allow fee-paying tourists to totter and imagine what would happen if their rope bridges…  But this required booking, which we hadn’t realized.  

An English bloke (about our age?) was leading a group of climbers back down the crag-face to his car.  I heard English voices and always greedy for information, I went to steal some from their knowledge bases.  

They were generous, not just then, but later when we were hunting for the camping spot he described and the climbing shop where I could buy the local climbing book. The book was easily obtained, the dust-ruble track at 35 degrees was simply not going to happen for us.  We found a spot to stop, below another huge crag of rock, begging to be touched and clipped to, where we finished lunch and I poured over my new climbing guide.  

A long crag of easy routes (confidence builders) hung above the next town along. That’s where we’d head, which we did. 

Tiny bends we are getting better at. Steep hills take their time, but the van gets there in the end, it’s 2.2 engine doing the work of the 2.8 version we’d have preferred.  But in the tiny town of Valle de Abdalajis, where the roads were barely van-wide, with right hand corners, and steep, steep slopes of pressed concrete long ago worn smooth, there, we nearly came unstuck.

A generous local lady nodded in blasé acceptance of us definitely making it down her precipitous lane, past two diametrically parked cars and onto the next hazard-laden street that was out of view.  We were less sure.  M put his foot on the main break, van in gear and used the handbrake, for security. Which he needed, because, despite these measures, the van kept sliding downwards.  Slowly, you understand, but it hadn’t stopped.  I looked at him; he looked at me.  We were still not-stopped, still responding better to gravity than Peugeot’s engineering.

So, six feet into the lane, we had no chance of reversing.  We were committed.  Do or die, or in the case of our gearbox, possibly both?

She was quite correct, we did inch our way down and squeeze our way between two battered vehicles, nudging our way forward.  And along, and left at a right angle, and right at another right angle and round.  

Just as I’d decided it was safe to breathe again, our road definitely being wide enough for one vehicle in the two-way traffic, M mentioned what the guidebook said.

“It’s a sharp right turn, up a steep track”

Oh, is it?  Like we’ve been gliding around on smooth, flat-plane roads so far then?’  I keep these thoughts to myself, they’ve proved unhelpful in the past.

“Aha” is all I comment.  Until we draw level with said track.

No way. Not even for the best camping spot in the universe.  It’s not happening, and neither, by default is my climb here tomorrow.  The crag’s parking spot is another 2.9 miles, uphill, before further mile walk in.  There’s nowhere to abandon the van if we don’t attempt the drive up there and no chance that engine will make it.  Time for plan C.

Which sees us do some horrifically awful turns and angles in the van that audibly creaks, before we give in and go back to last nights beautiful (if slightly poo-y) stopover.  The gearbox is juddering in emotional shock and the brakes are weeping and screeching with exhaustion and over heating.  

Oh my.

Back at the path end, we chat to a lovely German couple in their camper, watch two cars come with awkward drivers who don’t stay long after they’ve visited the bushes, and M makes sure the dog’s on a really short lead.  

The sunset is gorgeous, more peaceful than the day’s beginning, but we’ve had adventures enough in the past few hours – tranquil will suit us just fine.

Sunset at El Chorro and Caminita del Rey

Day 39, Sunday 10th Feb – God Bless Technology

It’s been a technology-rich day.  

Using WhatsApp, V dropped a pin for the café she thought we might like for breakfast. Google Maps kindly obliged, bringing us to her Airb’n’b so we could pick her up and then on to the café itself.  The waiters in the café had mobile phones on which they recorded our table number and orders, then delivered our ham and cheese croissants with smooth Spanish coffee.  Likewise, the bill, contactless payment for it’s settlement, all tech enabled.

We took V to the station where she’s travelling up to Madrid, working for a company that delivers parcels all over the world using the latest hard and software available.

You get the picture.

But the most fun we had with technology today, was the battery-powered scooters around Malaga.  By downloading the scooter app, you register (with bank details, obviously) scan the QR-code on each scooter, which unlocks it and then whoosh, you’re away.  You end your rental (charged at €1.15 per minute) by taking a picture on your phone that acts as a date-time stamp.  

Zooooom!

Malaga is beautiful.  The Castle is set in parkland, overlooking the port beside which unfold the granite-lined streets of the city centre.  Rich in heritage, pre-dating the Romans with Phonecian foundations, it has a mellow, gracious feel.  

As we wander back down from the fortress, a busker plays classical guitar and I imagine wide crinoline skirts rustling against the flowerbeds and hedgerows of rosemary.  You’d hope they had good shoes though – not kind on the tootsie pegs these pathways!

We need to plot a route home.  With just under 4 weeks now by which to be back at Calais.  Straight up North, or East before North, or West and then North? Either way, eventually, it’s gotta be North.  We’ve got about 1300 miles to cover, route dependent.  

Heading out of Malaga, we start with North, up into the mountains.  We’ll probably stop off at Cordoba and then head for Mid-Pyrenees, get to Lourdes (for M) and then chug across France, west-ish, arcing left of Paris.  

Today, the poo-box needs attending to.  There’s an dearth of appropriate facilities, but we find a campsite.  The manager won’t let us pay to use the chemical site without paying for all of us to come in – so two adults, a camper and a dog all get charged for separately.  Charm might be in short supply, but his technology efficiently relieves us of our euros.  We find our allotted space, next to other parked vans, all neatly stacked like sardines in a can.  

M does the nasty bit, I recycle and empty rubbish, we take on as much water as we’ve got containers for.  Then we sit, for at least 3 minutes, before M says: 

“Shall we just bite the bullet?”

I’m not sure what he means.

“There was a beautiful spot back there, on the Park4Night app, overlooking the lake – described as stunning, quiet and peaceful” he explains, “shall we just go?”

“Great idea”

Neither of us can bear being confined in an area that has more rules than its 217 pitches. It’s wooded but not beautifully clean, the dog needs to be on a lead all times, we need to be on leads at all times and the boundary for our spot gives us, at most, 3’ on all sides.

So, like kids bunking off school, we gleefully escape, delighted when the barriers open automatically and our exit is unimpeded.  It’s been an expensive water exchange but the relief to be out is so enormous, we simply don’t care.

A few minutes up the hill sees a track, reasonably flat if you drive round the craters. It takes us out to a spit of land, maybe 100m above the reservoir which envelopes us on 3 sides.  Imagine the lake district, Ullswater probably, tree packed islands emerge from its depths, it’s blue reflects the azure of the cloudless sky and in the distance the sierra mountains wrap their arms around us, in an all-encompassing embrace.  

M and I pick our very own angle at which to park, unrestricted by any regulations.  We get set and take the dog out for a wander. Both of us have spotted the ominous lumps of tissue paper beneath bushes, so Stan will stay on his leash even if we’re glad to be off ours.  A couple drives part-way up the track and we exchange “Hola” and “Buenos Dias” as we pass.  But, we return too soon for them. She’s wiping her hands with a piece of tissue that she discards to the breeze.

No…. 

She hasn’t….

She bloody well has.  

The steaming evidence is just round the nearest bush to where we’re parked and the pong is all the proof you need.

For God’s Sake – don’t these people have toilets to go to?

We relocate slightly, away from the offending ‘mound’ and settle to enjoy the rest of the evening,  it’s stunning sunset and supper.  This is a qualified beauty spot, you just need to watch where you step and keep the dog under close scrutiny, something that sadly, technology has not yet developed an app for.

Day 38, Saturday 9th Feb – Tarifa part 2

The last few days have been a slow meander through swimming and running for V, suppers in Tarifa and general wanderings.  It turns out that there’s a limit to the number of ways you can make “and then we went for coffee” sound interesting…

V’s swimming is better.  On Thursday, she appeared, wetsuit in bag again, announcing that Adele’s song of “Rolling in the Deep’ is a cover of an Aretha Franklin song.  

“What?”

“Yes” she says, playing the vocals her phone  Wow – Adele’s cover is exactly the same as the original…

“It might be older you know” says M to V, “Older than Aretha”

“You think so?”  

Out comes Google and the two of them hunt for information on-line.  

“Wait a minute!” exclaims M…

He holds up his phone for the pair of us to examine.  

“No!”

Aretha Franklin has done the copy, an Exact copy of Adele’s song, beat for beat, tone for tone, the same song with just a different voice.  

I guess that’s how you know you’ve made it, when Aretha Franklin does a cover version of your material…

After which, V took to the water again, in strong surf.  She managed to body surf some of the 8’ rollers, but after the second wipeout she came back to shore.  Using Google Maps M sees that Tarifa has a large port and a sheltered harbour.

Relocating finds us a bay, beside a port for the large ships and ferries that move  in and out of Tarifa’s waters.  We choose a safe route, well away from motorized boats.  In the preferred zone, there are just a couple of snorkellers, pootling around in the seabeds, looking for long-lost treasures.  

It’s half a mile from where M and I sit, to the furthest shore of the bay and back again. So, she’ll need to do this twice to bag her mile.  The first lap is uneventful.  As she starts the second, a speedboat zooms out of the harbor, into the bay where V and the two snorkel pipes are making their peaceful ways around the shore. There appear to be two young men in the craft.  Distracted by something, both are heading for the same ‘safe corner’ we’ve identified for Vicks.  As the boat’s speed increases, the two inhabitants are engaged with something on the boat’s floor, their backs to the wheel and the direction in which the boat is hurtling, unmanaged.  

I stand helplessly on the harbor wall, watching V’s rhythm of: ‘3-strokes and breathe’, ‘3-stroke’s as the boat speeds onwards.  As I stand about to start shouting and waving, the man nearest the wheel looks up, still oblivious of the swimmers and casually turns their potential death trap in a wide loop out to sea and then back even at an faster pace heading inside the port walls, just for kicks.  

As the boat disappears, I can finally breathe.  All three swimmers are safe.  Now, I cannot afford only to keep my eyes pinned to V, I’m also anxiously glancing over at the harbor, scrutinizing for movements, just in case.  

Vicks is making good time.  Lap 1 was 18 minutes for the ½ mile, potentially knocking a whapping 12minutes of her previous speed if she can maintain this pace.  She’s slightly off course, as she heads to the further shore, arcing her way seaward toward that destination rather than going in a straight line.

Which is precisely when the thoughtless buggers in the boat appear again.  This time, I’m jumping up and down on the harbor wall, gesticulating madly as these buffoons behind the wheel speed with their super-sharp propellers toward my one and only daughter.  I’ve no idea if they see me.  One of the idiots does indeed look up and by this time I’m alternating between crazy waving and pointing to the sea where V and one of the snorkellers are very close.  The boat deviates in its course, does a crazy sharp turn sending waves of wake bashing against the harbor wall below me, but it goes, thankfully,  back into the port where it belongs.

I want to run and shout at them, punch them, but V’s now approaching the other side of the bay.  It takes me the same time to run round to this beach as it does for Vicks to reach it. She heard rather than saw the speedboat and felt it’s watery-impact.  I suggest an alternative course back to M, hugging the line of the wall, where the worst that can happen is that she comes close to the waving fronds of rust-coloured seaweed.  

And, ten minutes later, we’re wrapping a towel round her shoulders, gathering her stuff and getting her out of the water, onto dry, safe land.  V’s training is a nerve-wracking experience, it’s exhausting!.

/——————————————————/

Friday deviated from the routine of:  ‘get up – do/watch some form of training –  realize its now mid afternoon – find food’.  

If you face the shoreline from where we’re camped at Tarifa and follow it West, there’s a curious, enormous lump of sand, perhaps 1/4 a mile wide.  It’s as if a narrow band of wind has swept up from the North African shore, visible over a short sea break, and dumped its load onto the Spanish shore. It stands proud, by as much as fifty feet from the trees that surround it. Literally, a lump of sand, incongruously deadweight in the first that contains it. It’s held our attention for the last few days but we’ve never ventured out toward it.  So, on our last full day here, with Google announcing directions, that’s where we point the car.  

We find the Playa Bolonia, an archeological site, not as big as Herculaneum, but sizeable none-the-less.  And slap beside the ruins, separated from us by a hedge of wild geraniums about to burst into glorious poppy-red blooms, is a café for lunch, specializing in fresh fish. Then we follow a road that we think might take us to the enormous sand dune, but which, instead carries us upward.  

Upward and upward.

There’s rock.  Lots of rock. But nowhere, despite my scrutiny is there a single bolt or scarp of evidence of climbing.  Strange.  If I love climbing, the Spaniards are addicted.  Every face of granite that you can get a bolt or bit of gear in, generally has evidence of climbing activity.  Here though: none.

As our car travels up the hillside, we leave scrub forest behind us, move toward roads that become rougher, pockmarked by rock falls.  There’s a plateau, a space to park awhile, gaze out across endless vista.  My eye is caught by a movement on the top of a ledge in the crag face.  The movement changes shape, opens enormous wings and floats, effort free on a thermal, circling with the breeze into the sky. Followed by another, a third, a fourth, fifth and sixth eagle.  Huge,  majestic creatures, encompassing stillness even when airborne as if their flight is of a cloud or a flower petal, carried aloft.  They turn and turn again. 

We found this place, this moment, by accident, but it’s veracity captures us, holds us still.  Shortly after, the road abruptly ends, barricaded where development has ceased, as if someone decided that humanity’s encroachment on nature had gone far enough. Which means that we have to descend. V and I have planned a run, 8 or so miles back toward Tarifa, contributing to her triathlon training.

So much has come out of these few days. Lessons about swimming and competing, so that V knows she can take part in this race of madness that she’s paid into. Learning about the size of eagles and why the many faces of the rock here, only hold evidence of nature, not of man’s insubstantial conquests.

Well done Tarifa.  Thank you.

Day 35, Feb 6th – Beach Adventures

V appears at the camper this morning, grinning with a paper bag in hand.  It contains the wetsuit she’s hired in town. Very smart, not as thick as we’d imagined and, being designed for surfers, it doesn’t have the more flexible shoulder fabric to aid swimming.  But… it’s a wetsuit and she’s going to use it today.

A little time later, there we are, witnessing her first proper sea-swim – half a mile in one direction, then turn around and back the way she came.  In the pool she knows she can do this in 40 minutes and in the sea she’s aiming to come in well under an hour.  

From the dry sand, we can see that the goggles V’s wearing are causing issues. She does a set of strokes, then she’s faffing on around her face.  The distance makes it difficult to work out precisely what the problem is, but its clearly distracting from the easy strokes she makes between interruptions. 

Stan finds friends, a piece of seaweed and a long stick to keep him entertained.  M records the moment with a video and lots of pics.  I can’t shake the memories of a nightmare I had when V was five.  

In the dream, we were on the pebbled Pevensey Bay beach; I was watching V play in the shallow surf.  Then my dream-self glanced away a second and when I looked back, she had completely disappeared.  I ran into the water and hunted, arms outstretched feeling the bottom of the sea-bed desperately hunting, trying to look through sea water as I went deeper and deeper… I woke up gasping for air from holding my breath underwater so long. In absolute panic I ran through to her room to find V, arms flung across her bed, lost in happier dreams of her own.

I’m not taking my eyes off her as she swims, I don’t care how old she is.

So we watch her, and eventually we trace our way back to the beginning and she’s running toward us, to the outstretched towel and hugs of congratulations.  48 minutes for a first go, we’ll sort out the goggles and try again tomorrow.  It takes 3 of us to get her out of the surfing wetsuit, not designed for a swift exit, and M kindly takes the spare stuff so that V and I can run.. well, jog, for a bit, before we meet M back at the van and go for coffee.

The rest of the day is easy-going.  Lunch at V’s, she and I wander out for more coffee, then a walk into town to find a place to eat.  

We’re hunting for local.  Taverna Grifa is stainless steel shuttering and bright-lit stone floors, crowded with Spanish (all men?) noisily finishing their day at 7pm.  V and I think this would be perfect.  M points out the sunset that we could be watching.  Old dynamics, step-family-tensions, threaten to resurface.  We all work at not going back there.  The debate of where to eat is at least, a lot less contentious than yesterday’s somewhat heated conversations around accommodation.  

M is adamant – we should go down to the beach.  V and I can’t find anything in the town, either beside the old castle, or nestled in it’s six-foot thick walls that is open yet, or inviting.  So just as the sky is starting to fill up with swathes of red, pink, gold and tango-orange, she and I relent.  Walking downhill and all three of us are struggling to see anything suitable.  

Ten minutes later, and finally, “Beach Bar Encuentro” offers us a seat in their tarpaulined conservatory.  

“See” points out M “African Sunset Skys…”  It’s impossible not to agree.  And then, V says, “That could be a good name for a blog.”

All tensions dissipate, over a bottle of wine and hamburgers that actually look like the pictures on the menu, we return again to the topic of my blog name.

Lots more laughter.  The themes include: adventure, not giving in to age, so being daring, but more than that, and there’s an hormone element…  We look at other blogs, admiring some of the clever plays on words and the ones we find less appealing “perimenopausal-woman”.

Then I play with the word Menopause – Meno –pause, paused.  And it strikes me…

Me-No-Pause 

– because I don’t want to. Not for age, not for fear, not for hormones or anything else.

Perfect. 

I follow V’s instructions, look it up on the domain checker and have purchased two years of the same all before taking the first bite of my goats cheese and walnut burger.  

So adventures of watery and wordy kinds on the beach today.  I grin to myself as I snuggle beneath the duvet, this evening. So wonderful, having V with M and I. Each time we navigate choppy family waters and come out unscathed I am washed over with relief.  Here we are, sharing the important stuff, big and small. Being blessed with the enormous luxury of time that we’ve taken/been granted and managing, despite a few ups and down, to be peaceful all at once.