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.