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.