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.