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.