The Birdwatcher's Glastonbury

August 18, 2012

IT’S been a long old journey from April to here, and the Hymer hasn’t even left the front garden.

Family matters have kept us in England all through the monsoon season so it was with great relief that we found ourselves with three days to spare at the end of this week, along with day tickets for Birdfair 2012.

Billed as ‘The Birdwatcher’s Glastonbury’ – I can’t help thinking that’s over-egging it a bit – this is a very civilised, if somewhat earnest event where you get to camp on lovely, unspoilt farmland alongside Rutland Water.

If you want to buy absolutely anything sludge-green to wear, look no further; likewise if you’re intending to upgrade your binoculars, telescope or camera.

Otherwise, like me, you can eat scones with jam and cream and wander round collecting holiday brochures and maps to help plan future trips.  One bonus was meeting up with our best man, Sav, who now runs Wrybill Birding Tours in New Zealand and was over here to promote them.

If browsing palls, you can take your pick from a series of lectures. One by the writer and broadcaster David Lindo, known as The Urban Birder, couldn’t have been more appropriate for the situation we find ourselves in at present, needing to stay close to home.

He took as his starting point a quote from Proust: “The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” He went on to talk about the natural wonders that are all around us, if we only look up and see them. I knew just what he meant.

I’d been strolling with the dog in an adjoining field early on Thursday evening, before the crowds arrived and turned it into a temporary car park.

As he sniffed his way slowly along, I stopped and turned to take in the view.

I was just in time to see a beautiful barn owl swooping out of a line of tall trees and circling close by, with a young fox sitting motionless by the hedge opposite, watching us from a safe distance. It was one of those much-needed moments that just make you feel better.

Panic over

THANKS to everyone for your concern. No 2. Son is now on the mend and has been allowed out of hospital this weekend, but blogging is likely to remain sporadic due to another serious illness in the family. With luck, normal service will be resumed before long and we can begin planning our next trip!


In the meantime David has been emptying the Hymer - it's amazing how much stuff was in there, like the Tardis - and building a bookshelf in it. 


Things we've decided we won't waste space on again include: the ladder for the drop-down bed, because we can climb up without it; the digital radio, because we couldn't pick up any digital stations in Europe; DVDs - we didn't watch any; and more than one smart outfit, or any jewellery.  Once away from our everyday lives I quickly degenerated into a total style slob, and very comfortable it was, too.


Things we definitely must take another time include a waterproof seat cover to protect the upholstery from a dog who's made it clear that he now expects to travel on a 50mph sofa even when he's been swimming.


For the record, we travelled 6,000km, or 3,700-odd miles in five-and-a-bit weeks. This was by far the longest time we have spent in each other's company in our 33-year marriage, and we've both been surprised by how well we got on! 

Back home, fast

March 25, 2012

DON’T quite know where to begin.

We are back in England, having rushed home from the Ebro Delta in three days flat, due to No.2 son’s admission to hospital.

Despite my claustrophobic tendencies, which are steadily getting worse, we even braved the Channel Tunnel. I have to say I’d only do it again in an emergency. The dog wasn’t mad keen on it, either. His eyebrows were going all over the place as the train clunked its way through the depths.

Our friends in the Dordogne fixed us a 9am appointment with a lovely local vet to sort out the dog’s paperwork, and David drove the whole way, except for about 50 miles when I took over. My intention was to give him a rest, but my lack of confidence meant he had to keep watching me like a hawk.

Still we got here in one piece, and fortunately the boy is showing signs of improvement. But that’s why the blog’s been quiet for a few days and why it may well proceed in fits and starts for a while to come ….

A grey day

March 21, 2012

HAVING dried out, we’re down on the Ebro Delta in the newly chilly weather. “Just like a summer holiday in England,” observes David as we sit looking out over a scene of unrelieved grey sky, beach and sea, all merging into one.

By way of compensation there are an awful lot of interesting birds, including flamingos, slender billed gulls, 20 or more Med gulls, Caspian tern and a marsh harrier hunting just 20 yards in front of us.

Having stocked up for a small siege at the Bonpreu supermarket in Deltebre, we park for the night alongside three or four other vans at a free aire outside a restaurant, looking out over reed beds and a lagoon – all a bit desolate, really, but it's cosy in the van and things are bound to improve.

Then comes a phone call that cuts short our trip.

Oh dear, who predicted a drought?

March 20, 2012

LAST night the much-needed rain in Spain fell mainly on the Hymer.

Along with hail, accompanied by thunder and lightning  - the full Hammer Horror works, in fact. How could we have a massive hailstorm after a hot day?

Glen assumed what is fast becoming his default position – cowering beneath the steering wheel – while David ventured out to shift chairs, tables and the dog’s blanket into the shelter of the awning. He came in cradling a hailstone the size of my little fingernail in his hand.

We’d been having such a lovely, relaxing time, too. Now I was hanging out of the window in the middle of the night photographing a torrent rushing under our van - which was parked on the lowest pitch on the site - and washing our doormat away. Then the awning collapsed under the weight of water.

Just as well that we’d invested in two pairs of crocs to splash about in, and that I hadn’t got round to doing any washing to hang out.

So much for my predictions of a drought.

My King Canute moment

March 19, 2012

I NOW feel a complete twit, having discovered that I have been shouting at Spaniards to stop letting off firecrackers when it is, in fact, the St Joseph’s Day bank holiday weekend. Parades and pyrotechnic displays are what the people of the “autonomous community of Valencia” traditionally do to celebrate the occasion.  So I had about as much chance of success as King Canute.

And sure enough, the air was filled with pops and bangs again before I’d even got up this morning. I avoided catching the eye of any our campsite neighbours, who must have thought I was a raving lunatic, and we moved swiftly on.

But not until after David discovered I’d put the dirty dishes away in the cupboards with the clean ones last night, thinking I’d washed them. I really must have been discombobulated.

We drove to the Albufera lagoon only to find the visitor centre and viewpoints closed.  In Britain, anywhere like this would be heaving on a bank holiday, and a lot of money would be changing hands.

But were we downhearted? No, because I was so happy to be shot of that campsite. And from roadside vantage points we did manage to see four slender-billed gulls, as well as glossy ibis and red crested pochard.

We set off for the Ebro delta instead, taking in some eye-catching modern architecture in Valencia city centre, a booted eagle on the motorway, and so many castles and dried-up riverbeds that we wished we’d started counting them as an alternative to buzzards v kestrels. There has to be one huge drought coming to Spain this summer.

Luckily the Ebro was still looking good when we crossed it. We’d already decided to head for a recommended site, Camping Ametlla Village Platja, a few miles further on. What a relief – clean, civilised, with wide pitches divided by hedges, and swish showers I’m actually looking forward to getting into in the morning.

Arriving in mid-afternoon gave us time to let Glen enjoy a swim on the site’s little pebbly beach and a lovely walk through a sheltered nature reserve in the lee of the cliffs. We’ll check that out again tomorrow before moving back to the delta.

The camp site from hell

March 18, 2012

I HAVE just leaned out of the door of the motorhome and screeched into the darkness at the top of my voice: “Stop that bloody banging!”

After a second’s silence around the campsite, there was another bang. “Stop it!” I shrieked like a fishwife, slightly taken aback by my own boldness, but beside myself with fury. And to my surprise, they did. ‘They’ being young boys armed with some kind of fireworks which they've been letting off relentlessly at 30-second intervals. Presumably they've got parents somewhere …

After a very hot, 500km, six-hour drive to the Albufeira marshes near Valencia, we have landed in the crappest camp site to date. Recommended in the ACSI book, Coll Vert, near El Saler, is slap next to a motorway, of which there is no mention. If I’d wanted a 70mph stream of traffic to keep me awake all night I could have parked on a slip road and saved myself 16 euros.

The beach mentioned 200 yards away is a scrubby old patch of stones with oil tankers anchored offshore awaiting the next price rise before landing their cargo, and there appear to be just three ladies’ loos (unless others have escaped my attention, which is entirely possible since I haven’t walked around any more than I had to).

The pyrotechnics had the dog so terrified that he wouldn’t even relieve himself on his walk, and had to be kept on a lead for fear he would dash off in terror and never be seen again. His dinner lies uneaten in his bowl, and he lies trembling beneath the steering wheel.

Despite the prospect of a marathon “let’s just get there” journey, the day had started well.  As motorways go, the stretch as you climb out of Granada, heading for Valencia, with the Sierra Nevada stretching away to the right, is as scenic as you could wish for. At one point the sat nav was registering 1360m above sea level – the highest we’ve recorded yet.

We passed the time listening to Paolo Nutini and Ed Sheeran, watching out for castles on rocky pinnacles (at least 30, I’d say), and taking in views that changed from hazy, sunny mountain ranges to red sandstone with ancient houses cut into it, to a huge plateau lined with blossoming fruit trees which may have been cherries.

At Lorca we passed through a tunnel underneath a very impressive Moorish-looking fort, on through plantations of oranges and lemons, past the wonderfully-named Sexy Woman Hostal, to this … a hyperventilating, terrified dog who we’d hoped would be running carefree on the sand at the end of his long day.

Internet searches have failed to come up with a suitable alternative site, so we’ll be moving on, pronto, tomorrow.

In the meantime, at least my lovely boys remembered Mother’s Day.

Oh, for goodness sake, there’s another bang.

Alhambra rambler

March 17, 2012

WHEN it comes to culture, David’s not exactly a vulture. More like a canary, I’d say. A day in a city, rather than out in the countryside with his binoculars, is not something he’d choose.

But having been persuaded to stop off for a couple of nights in Granada, even he was pretty impressed by the Alhambra, and strolled round happily taking dozens of photos of architectural details. I, as expected, was blown away by the whole thing.

We fuelled up for a long day’s foot-slogging on proper English bacon from Morrison’s in Gibraltar, scrambled eggs and fried potatoes with HP sauce.

Our route across the city involved catching two buses. Confusion arose about where to change from one to the other, leading to a longish unplanned walk and a certain amount of stress on my part because we had pre-booked entrance tickets to the Nasrid Palaces. But we made it with time to spare.

One of many remarkable things about the whole afternoon was the absence of those ‘Don’t touch’ signs and ‘Keep off’ barriers that greet visitors to English Heritage properties, such as Stonehenge, back home.  Everyone – and it was very busy – wandered about at will. Only areas undergoing restoration were cordoned off. Goodness knows how the ancient floor tiles will survive many more years of trampling tourist hordes. David, having spent his working life considering these issues, could write a book about the balancing act between public access and conservation, but I've only got space to say I don't believe in being too purist about these things.


We splashed out 11 euros on a detailed guidebook and I don’t propose to repeat its contents here, but to let a few photos do the talking.  Despite the crowds, this was a place of great calm and delicate beauty, with its mirror pools, streams and fountains, and its cool, ordered, shady gardens.  

We lingered over the tremendous views from the watchtower of the Alcazaba, over the city, the Cathedral, and the snowy Sierra Nevada, with snatches of music floating up from the streets below.

But it was doggy dinner time, and we had to get back. Poor old Glen had been snoozing patiently all this time in the Hymer, parked under some trees on our surprisingly quiet and pleasant city centre campsite. He’ll have more fun at our next stop, on the coast near Valencia. We’re off early tomorrow.

The road to Ronda: Can it get better than this?

 March 15, 2012 

A DAY driving through tightly winding mountain roads with stupendous views around every corner, in a landscape dotted with pueblos blancos – little white villages, usually perched on a peak around a ruined Moorish castle – and culminating in a visit to Ronda, one of the most spectacularly located towns in Spain. It was all staggeringly beautiful.

We left Tarifa with its strong winds, where the fishing boats were busy spreading their nets to catch the poor old tuna coming in from the Atlantic, and a tall ship was setting sail into the Med, and bade a fond farewell to Café con Leche, the brown and white mongrel – I’d call him freewheeling rather than a stray - who did a daily round of the site looking for food and the occasional gesture of affection. When last seen, he was stationed immovably outside the motorhome of a German-owned Jack Russell bitch on heat.

Heading north to Ronda de la Frontera we passed through a landscape of orange groves – many seemingly blighted by the cold winter, because half the trees were brown and dead-looking - and green farming country, very popular with cyclists. We stopped to photograph a horse tied up outside a bar at midday – and I couldn’t help wondering what state his owner would be in by the time he rode home - and then followed the A405 up towards Gaucin.

Here was a vantage point where you could look back at least 20 miles to the coast, and see Gibraltar and the mountains of North Africa. You could also, if you were David, spot a Sardinian warbler and three griffon vultures.

On past the most picturesque village of all to my mind, Algatocin, and we were up to 1,000 metres above sea level, with a short-toed eagle hanging in the wind, hunting for snakes on the valley floor below. The rock faces were getting barer now, with fewer trees, just rocky scrubland.

Then Ronda – still way up high, but set in a kind of basin amid the mountains that reminded me of the rim of a volcano, and then perched astride a dramatic ravine. What an awe-inspiring location.  The guidebook tells me its position is so impregnable that it was one of the last Moorish bastions, falling to the Christians in 1485.

There I paid 4 Euros to wander around the totally over-the-top Santa Maria la Mayor church, built on the remains of a mosque, and retaining a mixture of Moorish, Renaissance and Gothic styles. Parts were rebuilt after an earthquake and others after a fire, and the result is an incredibly glitzy mish-mash of styles, with altars all over the place and a life-size waxwork-style modern statue of the Madonna and chums, complete with tears, which I absolutely loved.

We walked along to the bridge joining the old and new towns, sharing the nervousness of fellow tourists peering down into the chasm beneath, where red-billed chough were roosting on the rock-face.

On to the bullring, considered to be “the spiritual home of bullfighting”, where I had my photograph taken although I felt uncomfortable about the whole concept.

A 2k walk uphill back to the van, where we’d left Glen dozing comfortably on his chair in the cool, and I was happy to slump while David concoted a tapas-style dinner including some very nice, newly invented, salt and pepper mushrooms with garlic and cheese – must write down that recipe.

On the Rock

March 14, 2012 

TODAY we lunched on leftovers and a cold soup called salmorejo in the shadow of the mosque at Europa Point, the southern tip of Gibraltar, with the Moslem call to prayer booming all around us in the half-empty car park.

It was a recording, rather than a live performance, and not a very good recording at that. It felt rather weird to be sitting there in the van, looking out towards Morocco across the multitude of commercial vessels anchored off this tiny remnant of empire, to the soundtrack of Allahu Akbar.

We didn’t get to the top of the Rock because a taxi driver quoted £60 for the return trip, including dog-sitting while we looked around, and there was nothing else we could have done with Glen. So that’s on the next-time list, along with the battleground bus tour.

We did, however, get to Morrison’s – yes, that good old British supermarket – to stock up on cheap diesel, a new smoke alarm and some samosas and onion bhajis to go with the beef curry David’s making tonight.

We brought sachets of pre-cooked rice with us, along with Ainsley Harriott’s ready-spiced couscous, and with only a tiny worktop, three gas rings and a small Cobb barbecue to prepare food on, they’ve been invaluable. The Myrfield Masterchef has excelled himself throughout the trip, and concocted some memorable meals, although I have to say the washer-up also deserves honourable mention.

Anyway, I loved the holiday atmosphere on Gibraltar, the apparently happy mix of nationalities, the narrow streets of tall old houses with their wrought-iron balconies, the mopeds everywhere, the brief return to Englishness and red pillar boxes, and the proper chips we shared in Casemates Square.

The massive, snaking, queue of traffic to get out was an unwelcome reminder of the other side of British life. It felt like trying to get away from a pop festival.

A bull on the beach

March 13, 2012

A FREE-RANGE bull with his harem grazing on the path down to the beach is a bit of an off-putter in the dog-walking department, so it’s down to ‘Brave Dave’ to take Glen for his ball game and a swim while I plead the need to use the wireless network.

If I told you we’d spent the whole day happily sitting in a supermarket car park and then in a sandy patch of windswept waste ground alongside the main road you could be forgiven for thinking we’d lost the plot.

But we were sidetracked from our original goal – a trip to Gibraltar – by the arrival of literally hundreds of short-toed eagles, battling their way along on the fierce, gusting wind, across the water from Morocco on migration.  And those were the best viewpoints we could find.

There were several booted eagles and Egyptian vultures, too, literally just over our heads, so we had fantastic close-ups and even I could work out which one was which.

Every mountaintop around here is covered in wind turbines and I can’t imagine how the exhausted birds avoid getting chopped up as they head inland. We parked the Hymer almost underneath the flailing, whining blades at what must once have been a lovely, peaceful lookout point over the coast, and it was quite unnerving. All I could think about was what if one of them broke off!

We’ve absolutely loved Tarifa, and have found a spot where we can ‘free camp’ if we come again. But now we’re halfway through our eight weeks, and planning our route northward, which I hope will include Granada, as I'm longing to visit the Alhambra. There’s so much more we’d like to see, and for our next trip we’ll try not to squeeze in so many places. That way we’ll have days to spare at the ones we like best.

15k from Africa

March 11, 2012 (second instalment)

I’M sitting with a glass of Rioja in the darkness, looking out of the windscreen over the strait where Europe faces Africa, watching the firefly lights of Tarifa and Tangier twinkling at each other across the water. Outside, David, is cooking spicy sausages on the barbecue but it’s a bit of a mission in the strong wind.

We’re at the Rio Jara campsite, the most southerly in Europe according to the blurb, and today has been a million per cent better than yesterday.

Javer de la Frontera lived up to its promise. The drive there took us through an unexpectedly lush valley – a welcome change after so much parched earth  - featuring well-fed and well cared-for cattle, zig-zag patchwork trees on the mountain slopes, and a major wind farm with at least 200 turbines going full tilt.

Most shops were closed because it was Sunday. That was good because there weren’t too many people wandering the steep, narrow streets with their whitewashed Moorish buildings, and I didn’t want to go shopping anyway (no, really, I just needed to switch off, for a variety of reasons). Picturesque, peaceful … perfect.

Seeking a shady spot for lunch where the dog would be comfortable, we found a restaurant offering a 7.95 Euro menu del dia and plonked down gratefully. At this time of year, it’s very hot in the sun but as we discovered, can be shiveringly cool in the shade, and plenty of Spaniards are still wearing winter coats while I’m in sleeveless T-shirts.

I was surprised when my calamari and David’s chicken and chips came with a fried egg, but it was all jolly nice. And zooming about overhead as we ate, putting on courtship displays, were seven lesser kestrels, which made David very happy.

At a table next to us, an English couple looked on fondly as their son, who must have been about six, demanded, and was given, a plate of chips – nothing else – for his lunch.

Further on towards Tarifa, and as the road hugged the shore, we rounded a corner and there were dozens of brightly-coloured kite surfers all over the place, with the odd windsurfer whizzing past for good measure.

On the road into town we sat in the Lidl car park and looked out through palm trees over the coast to Morocco, and couldn’t believe how clearly we could see it.

Back at our (expensive) site, time for a game of ball with Glen on the enormous expanse of beach before sunset. I really did try to keep him out of the water, because a dry dog is easier to live with in a camper van. But never mind …

Learning the hard way

March 11, 2012

AFTER an abortive attempt to visit Cadiz we are at a wooded campsite near Jever de la Frontera, a pretty, whitewashed hilltop town we’ve been told we will love. Let’s hope it lives up to expectations because the last 36 hours have been a bit of a let-down.

Looming alongside us among the trees there are several gigantic motorhomes – American-style RVs - with pull-out extensions on the sides and satellite dishes the size of my living room. They’re all owned by Brits. Manoeuvring them onto the tightly packed pitches must be a nightmare. It’s too crowded here for us so we’ll be moving on again.

What went wrong with Cadiz? The journey was fine. We watched weekending Spaniards out having fun riding their horses or quad bikes, or carriage-driving, on tracks alongside the motorway without seeming in the least bothered by the traffic thundering past. There was even a man working a smallholding with a one-horse plough. We whizzed through a vast plain of paddy fields, and the view over the city as we crossed the bridge was fantastic.

Bumping along cobbled streets, following the curve of the shore through the old town, there was a tantalising glimpse of the cathedral. But that was all I got. We couldn’t find an aire, or anywhere to park. The place was teeming with people. And once again, the streets were getting narrower and narrower …

Hot and crotchety we pulled over eventually on a patch of ground alongside the motorway, the only place we found where we would actually have been allowed to stay, and decided it was all too difficult.  Lesson learned – steer clear of towns at weekends.

The sky at night

March 9, 2012

TURN right off the main north road just out of El Rocio and you’re on a camino agricolo, driving through acres of strawberry plants in polytunnels, interspersed with orange groves.

More right turns at Pilas and Aznalcazar, and it’s a different world. You’re into 11km of lovely wooded countryside, the road lined with tall stone pines, with plenty of shady picnic spots, opening up into an area of sandy heathland that reminded me of the New Forest, only without the animals.

The only drawback was the presence of rumble strips and speed bumps every few hundred yards, which slowed our progress towards the Isla Mayor marshes so much that we ran short of time there with the evening closing in.

I’ve mentioned before that it’s been a very dry winter here, and it’s going to cause problems for wildlife – as our Donana tour driver put it, only the strongest will survive.

There was precious little water in the marshes, and the rice paddies at this time of year are just vast tracts of parched, cracked earth. We did, however, manage to see a great white egret and – a life tick for a very happy David – a night heron, as well as spoonbill and hen harrier.

We drove back marvelling at one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen. The whole horizon was awash with deep reds, pinks, golds and yellows. My camera couldn’t do it justice.

We stopped to photograph a line of trees silhouetted against this amazing sky and found ourselves alongside a field of goats, munching peacefully, with no other sound to be heard but the bells tinkling round their necks and the screech of an owl.

As we arrived back at the camp site a full moon like a Seville orange was rising.

My hero

March 8, 2012

NOT even my best friends would call me tidy. Living in one 20ft by 7ft6in space for six weeks requires a formidable degree of organisation, which I’m struggling to acquire despite David having carefully created storage spaces for everything.

Jars, utensils, clothing, books – all must be returned to their allotted place after use EVERY SINGLE TIME.  Otherwise the process of making a simple meal can leave the whole place in chaos. There just aren’t enough surfaces to leave things lying around. And I’m constantly losing stuff – though that may have more to do with my short-term memory, which is sadly lacking.

Yesterday we actually washed our very dusty vehicle, tidied up, cleaned the bathroom etc and hung the dog’s bedding out to air. Within hours Glen, still damp from a walk on the beach, had sprinkled a layer of sand on the floor and his blanket, the bathroom was jammed with carrier bags full of groceries from a trip to the big Carrefour in Huelva, and the long bench seat was occupied by an assortment of books, binoculars, a backpack, my handbag, a beanbag and a pile of clean washing.

The poor dog is constantly being ordered between ‘bed’, ‘front’ – meaning the floor alongside the driver’s seat – and ‘chair’ as we try to work round him. We left him outside off his tether briefly yesterday and he shot off across the site in pursuit of a cat, so we won’t make that mistake again.

First thing this morning saw me buried under a pile of bedclothes while David was rolling about on the mattress clutching a can of WD40 and a bag of clothes pegs. You may well ask … but nothing exciting, I’m afraid.

I was finding it impossible to lift the bed back up to the ceiling in the mornings. David’s investigations - which involved pegging back the surrounding curtain - revealed that the mechanism needed oiling, so while he sorted that out I did some more laundry.  Now it works like a dream, and David has been renamed Bricoman, after the French DIY chain.

Miracles are everywhere

March 6, 2012 

BOUNCING across the dunes in a great big Mercedes Unimog 4x4 bus has to be one of the most fun things we’ve done on this trip.

We’d booked a tour of the Coto Donana national park - the only way visitors are allowed to see most of it. Because the marismas are unseasonably dry this year – with water levels closer to the norm for July or August - we didn’t see as many birds as we’d hoped, but it was a fascinating four hours.

Highlights included: a pair of Spanish imperial eagles sitting in a tree; several wild boar, including babies; fallow and red deer, one with highly impressive antlers; a couple of Audouin’s gulls and Kentish plover on the beach; and lots of very busy little sanderling running about on the shoreline as we drove 30km back along the sand into the sunset.

We were the only Brits on board, but our lovely Spanish driver, a highly knowledgeable birdwatcher, translated everything for us in excellent English and told us all about the involvement of British naturalists in the creation of the national park and how it was linked to the founding of the World Wildlife Fund.

We’re still staying at El Rocio, and on the way back from the lakeside bird observatory this morning I popped in to the church to see the statue of the Virgin, which is reputed to work miracle cures and is paraded through the streets in front of a million-strong crowd of pilgrims at Pentecost.

What a place of contrasts this is – teeming at the weekend for a mini-fiesta, now with barely a soul in sight. In the small supermarket, I am very definitely the only foreigner and I’m painfully aware of the poverty of my Spanish vocabulary.

As we plod back to our campsite, hot, dusty and laden with groceries, a lone rider is practising exquisite dressage moves on the rough ground where the pilgrims camp. It’s littered with plastic and broken glass. I worry about the dog’s paws as he scampers after a stick. How much more would I worry if I owned a magnificent horse like that?

Alarms and excursions

March 5, 2012

THE fire alarm in the Hymer is becoming a real pest. The damn thing is so super-efficient that it goes off every time we cook, or boil a kettle, so we have to keep disconnecting it.

Yesterday evening I opened the door in a fury to David, who was barbecuing outside in the dark, and hissed: “If that f***ing alarm goes off one more time I’m going to throw it out.” Only to discover that a neighbouring camper – a new acquaintance – was standing there, having dropped by to arrange some mutual dog-sitting.

The alarm got its own back by going off in the early hours for no reason at all and waking us both up in a fright.

Motorhoming is a world where you make fleeting friendships and instant judgements about who you can trust. We’ve agreed to leave Glen with the neighbours tomorrow while we take a guided 4x4 tour of the Donana national park – a birdwatcher’s heaven - and to look after their two dogs this afternoon while they do the same.

We’re at El Rocio – a town like the set of a cowboy film, with streets of sand and hitching rails for horses outside every house - right down in southern Spain now. We’re staying on quite a busy site, and we’ve met a lot more Brits. Some spend most of the year in their vans, ‘wild camping’ wherever the fancy takes them, with just the odd overnight stop in a site to catch up on laundry. One lovely couple we chatted to don’t even have a home in England any more, but stay with their grown-up children when they go back.

It’s a different world, co-existing with our everyday one. And the local Spaniards, who’ve been busy enjoying themselves with a religious festival involving sporadic gunfire, are in another world again. We’d have liked to go and join the watching crowds, but the noise terrified Glen and we could neither take him nor leave him.

However, when things quietened down, we did drive down to the lagoon alongside the village, where we parked our folding chairs and sat in the late afternoon sunshine watching hundreds of birds, including flamingos, glossy ibis, spoonbills, avocet and a young Spanish imperial eagle. Lovely.

Roman treasures

March 2, 2012

YESTERDAY evening we drove to the Cornalvo reservoir, 14km outside the World Heritage city of Merida – the last five of them down a single-track road through a nature reserve where we encountered a disconcerting amount of oncoming traffic, including a large lorry.

Passing each vehicle involved inching perilously close to the roadside embankment, and the trip, in search of black-shouldered kite and Spanish imperial eagle, was as unsuccessful as it was unnerving.

Which made it all the more impressive, on visiting Merida today, to discover that the Romans who created it as the capital of their westernmost province, Lusitania, built the 18-metre high, 200-metre wide dam at Cornalvo, along with another at the Proserpina reservoir, and a complex system of aqueducts and conduits, to provide their water supply. What a feat of engineering.

We spent a happy morning wandering among the extensive remains of the Romans’ theatre with its huge marble columns, the adjacent amphitheatre where men fought wild animals and each other for their lives, and the nearby circus, where chariot races were staged, as well as strolling through the modern city centre streets to find the Forum and an old Moorish fortress.

The city also boasts the National Museum of Roman Art, a cathedral-like modern red-brick building, beautifully lit and laid out, housing some of the finest finds from the area, and from Spain as a whole. We watched experts at work cleaning and piecing together elaborate mosaic floors, to be displayed on the walls as you might hang a rug.

Not that it’s all high culture in Merida. The leaflet we were handed extolling the city’s attractions included an advert for a shop specialising in local produce whose chief claim to fame was that its proprietor, one Nico Jiminez, features in the Guinness Book of Records for being – as far as I could make out with my unreliable Spanish - the carver of the longest continuous slice of ham.

Tapas and a vultures' banquet

March 1, 2012

A LOVELY day visiting the historic hilltop town of Caceres, with its warm sandy-coloured stone, wonky red roofs and mellow church bells. The narrow cobbled streets, lined with tall buildings, are perfectly cool even though this is the warmest day of our trip so far.

Storks, being no respecters of human grandeur, are nesting in large numbers on the heritage rooftops, and everywhere you hear the tapping of their bills, like drumsticks being hit together at high speed. With ‘bolardos elevados’ (take note, Journal colleagues) blocking the town centre to all but residents’ cars, it really is an extremely peaceful place.

I feared at one point that we’d have to miss it. The car park suggested by our camp site attendant was in the middle of another one of those mazes of steep, winding streets nearby, barely wide enough for a motorhome. When we got there, our van was too tall to get in. A fraught moment, but rescue appeared in the form of another lovely, friendly Spaniard who saw our worried faces and came up to point out the local coach park on the map.

With Glen intent on showing these foreigners how well-behaved a border collie can be, we plonked down at a shady table in the Plaza Mayor for some seriously good tapas – deep-fried mushroom croquette with coffee – yes, that’s right, coffee salad dressing, crab cakes, and the cheeks of some unspecified animal stuffed, Extremadura-style, and served with crushed potatoes. A bit daring for me, and I would like to say it proved ‘who dares, wins’, but I felt a bit dodgy later and had to go to bed early.

Although that might have been unconnected, since David had the same food and was fine.

In the late afternoon sunshine, we drove out onto a sandy track in the middle of nowhere where the bird book had said we might see bustards at last. And there they were – about 100 of them. Along with a little owl, a marsh harrier, and a bunch of vultures plus a golden eagle circling over a mangled sheep’s carcass. And to think I was worried about what I’d eaten!

Nice people, shame about the bustards ...

28.2.12

THERE’S no escape. The first British people I talk to in Spain turn out to be from Amesbury. And what’s the first thing they say when they learn that I have been working for the Salisbury Journal? “Why did your firm get rid of the Amesbury Journal?” I am unable to provide a satisfactory answer. Indeed, I have often wondered that myself.

Well, the last couple of days have been a real mixed bag. We drove down to the Renaissance town of Cacares, a World Heritage site, which we (or I, at any rate) hope to explore tomorrow. On the way we parked under some roadside trees for lunch and found that they housed a huge colony of nesting storks, who made entertaining, if somewhat wobbly, company. We also saw a peregrine falcon yesterday, the first of the trip.

One good thing about this latest campsite – each pitch has its own little terracotta-tiled wet room.  One bad thing – there’s nowhere really to walk the dog. All the land in this part of Spain seems to be either fenced off with ‘Private Hunting’ signs or strewn with razor-sharp bits of old tin can and broken glass. Poor animal is reduced to being tramped round on a lead on grotty access roads, and hasn’t had a good run for a while.

And we discovered today why you never see a camper van in a Spanish village – it’s because they get stuck in the narrow streets. Guess how we discovered that? In Arroyo de la Luz, where I did nevertheless manage eventually to see the wonderful 1565 altar-piece by Luis de Morales at the Iglesia de la Asuncion.

The church was closed actually, but having left David investigating a strange noise coming from one of the front wheels and trying to figure out how we were going to get the van out of town, I decided not to abandon hope but to accost the nearest stranger. Amazingly, he spoke just enough English to understand that I was disappointed not to see the church, and flagged down a passing car containing the parish priest, who was heading home for lunch. After a lengthy exchange  in Spanish which it’s probably best I didn’t understand, he offered to open up again and let me look round. I thanked him profusely, and made a mental note to mention how genuinely friendly and helpful all the Spanish people we’ve met so far have been, even though we speak barely a word of their language.

So while David’s been searching without success for great bustards on the steppes, I’ve been mugging up on the Spanish phrasebook.

And the strange noise? Turned out to be a spring clip from a brake pad, apparently, which was scraping on the wheel. Nothing to worry about. Makes me glad, though, that I married someone who does have a clue about these things.

Bloody Arsenal

February 26, 2012

WE’VE spent the last two days birdwatching in the Monfrague national park.

Despite decidedly bendy and narrow mountain roads, causing an occasional attack of the jitters to the passenger in a certain large vehicle, it’s a wonderful place, with zillions of vultures – griffon, black and even a couple of Egyptian - circling just a few feet over our heads, not to mention a golden eagle, black storks, and black and red kites.

The Hymer has behaved beautifully, and it’s so nice taking your home with you everywhere you go, so you can make a cup of tea – not to mention a smoked salmon sandwich - wherever you want. Glen has adapted happily to spending most of the day snoozing on one of the seats, and only occasionally barking at passing Spaniards when we’re parked. As long as he gets a good walk before we set out and again when we get back to the camp site, he’s fine.

Another new bird for me yesterday was a very pretty blue rock thrush, posing obligingly for a photo. David saw a Spanish imperial eagle but I managed to miss it. We’ve seen thekla larks, a black redstart, a hoopoe, and cormorants with white necks, which turned out to be a North African race, rather than a separate species.

The sheer numbers of birds in Spain, compared with Italy, are a joy. Even on our site, the air is filled with the chirping of countless sparrows foraging for crumbs. And up in the mountain viewpoints, or miradors, the trees are alive with the humming of bees, going about their business without bothering anyone. In fact, the absence of insects of the pesky kind is a real bonus.

We breakfasted today on toast – dry-fried in the frying pan  - with Alison’s marmalade. And the night before last I ate goat for the first time – a kid stew in the site restaurant. It was tender and not at all goaty, although this being Spain, it was very oily. Felt very daring. Other than that, we’re barbecuing.

Oh dear, and Spurs lost 5-2 to Arsenal after being 2-nil up.

Sex on a telegraph pole

Friday Feb 24

THNGS keep getting better. We awake to find a small market in progress a few yards down the road, where we stock up on fruit and veg though I totally fail to communicate with the cheese vendor in my abysmal Spanish, and retreat in confusion. 

A few more purchases in the supermarket bring my total spending in the little town to 22 euros, which just goes to show that providing free parking for motorhomes makes great commercial sense.

A knockout view across several valleys to the snowy, Sierra de Bejar y Candelario greets us on the start of a hair-raising drive through precipitous, twisting mountain roads little wider than the motorhome. The mid-morning Extremadura sun is like a hot summer’s day at home, and it’s time to break out the sleeveless T-shirts.

A sudden smell of burning – something to do with our brakes, which are being severely tested on the downhill stretches – fills me with terror, which in turn irritates the driver, but luckily a timely sighting of 16 black and griffon vultures all circling overhead together, along with a couple of ravens putting on a courtship display, takes our minds off our troubles.

As we descend, the pine forests give way to olive groves and all along the main road towards Cacares are storks nesting – and at one point, actually having sex – on top of telegraph poles and pylons.

A quick change of plan, when we mugged up on the bird life of the Monfrague national park, saw us turn back to a campsite just outside Malpartida de Plasencia, where our ACSI Camping Card secured us a discount on a very pleasant pitch complete with pool, restaurant, electric hook-up, laundry, and azure-winged magpies in the dog-walking field next door. At 5pm it was 23 degrees in the shade of our pitch.

Freddie Mercury and kamikaze larks

23.2.12

Stocking up with borrowed DVDs to while away any chilly nights, we said au revoir to our friends and set off for Bordeaux, and thence down into Spain.

The combined efforts of loggers, roadworks gangs and prairie farmers with their ranks of huge irrigation booms alongside the route south to the Pyrenees have created a scorched-earth landscape of such spectacular hideousness that even the buzzards have given it up as a bad job and gone elsewhere.

After a day of solid motorway driving, the first Spanish aire we stopped at, in Miranda de Ebro, did nothing to lift our spirits, having sounded far more pleasant in the guidebook than in reality, with rudimentary facilities, and lorries thundering by on a main road almost overhead into the early hours. Sitting in our little tin can cooking up pasta, we really did feel, in a forlorn way, in a little world of our own. And we felt compelled to set the alarm before going to sleep.

But next night saw us up in the snow-capped mountains, in the tidy little spa village of La Alberca, near Bejar. En route we’d seen red kites and buzzards galore from a grotty roadside service area, storks nesting on roofs as we crossed a high plateau where the earth was the brightest rusty orange-red, griffon vultures, and countless kamikaze crested larks and sparrows on the hard shoulder. We’d been surprised by the abundance of wind turbines on the hilltops – the Spanish are clearly going for green energy in a big way – but such is the scale of the landscape that they did not seem out of place.

We arrived at our free car park aire in time for a relaxing walk through the forest – the area is a national park – and found a ‘free gift’ that must have been left behind in the CD player by the previous owner of our motorhome. So we sat there eating a wonderful warm salad that included sundried tomatoes, chorizo, marinated anchovies and all sorts of salvage from the fridge, listening to Freddie Mercury singing “It’s a kind of magic.” Which it was. And to make it even better, there was a phone call from Number One Son, to say he’d arrived home safely from India.

Davy's Dordogne curry house

February 22, 2012

AFTER four days in the Dordogne, we’re off to Spain. From our guidebook, most Spanish roadside aires look pretty unprepossessing so we’re not likely to be hanging about, but heading straight for the sunny south coast.

As usual we’ve had great fun with our old friends Sara and Roger and their very welcoming social circle. Highlights included a curry night complete with commemorative place mats hot off the computer, an initiation into the basics of wine-tasting (rather than guzzling!) and what’s becoming almost a ritual trip to the shopping centre at Trelissac, where Leclerc’s fish counter is a sight to behold.

  

Stuffed to the gills with a colourful array of species you wouldn’t see in a lifetime of British supermarket shopping, and occupying an area even larger than the inexplicable square footage devoted to loo roll at Tesco, it makes you yearn to be a better cook. Plus, there are no screaming kids. How do the French achieve that? And whatever their secret  is, could someone please bottle it and sell it in Salisbury?

Also obligatory for retailers back home ought to be a visit to the wonderful Maisons du Monde, where beautifully designed homeware and gifts are well displayed at prices that don’t make you gasp. I stocked up on girlie pressies to be left with our friends and collected on the way home.

“The last time we were here, I saw Elliott Morley in Riberac market,” recalled my husband. “That was before he was caught fiddling his expenses. I suppose he must be in prison now.”

Finally, I have to mention an extraordinary dog walk. We must have looked like the Magnificent Seven coming over the horizon. There were seven Brits, plus seven independent-minded mutts of assorted shapes and sizes, all except our one constantly haring off into the woods and tending not to come back when called. Glen preferred to try tripping people over with an assortment of sticks.

You could hear us coming a mile away as we toured the landscape around La Tour Blanche, following a local history route. We found a troglodyte cave, an old drove road with rudimentary seats carved into the stone lining the sunken path, and Neolithic grain stores that were holes in the ground just waiting for the unwary. Not much wildlife, sadly - maybe scared away by the racket.