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.

Migration route

18.2.12

HAVING sworn to avoid motorways as much as possible, we’ve travelled on them almost all the way down through France. The traffic is, for the most part, so light that it doesn’t feel stressful at all.

 I’ve even driven the Hymer myself for all of 20 kilometres. My husband said the autoroute might be the easiest place to get used to it because there’s not much manoeuvring involved, and he was right. I’m still not at ease with it, but it will get better with time.

My advice for pitstops – take a short detour off the motorway, it’s so much nicer. We found another lovely little aire in the town of Vivonne where we parked up under the plane trees in the square to enjoy our French bread and some very un-French strong Cheddar that had been presented to us by our friends Alison and Harry in a bagful of goodies they thought we might miss while abroad.  

Surprising things we saw along the way … wide, frozen rivers, though little trace of the recent heavy snowfalls; what looked like a huge corrugated iron warehouse on the roadside in the middle of nowhere advertising tea dances inside; 28 buzzards perched on fence posts.

Now we are at Les Granges, our friends’ home, where we’ve been sitting on the patio outside their converted barn, eating lunch in 27-degree sunshine! It may still be icy at night, but by day it’s like an English summer.

On a long walk across the fields to visit another English couple we’ve met before, our attention is caught by the calling of common cranes circling overhead. We look up and there must be a hundred of them, getting into V formation, migrating northward. By the end of the afternoon at least a thousand have passed over the house, in wave after wave, an unforgettable sight. 

We're off at last!

February 17, 2012

I can’t think of a worse way to start a holiday than a jaunt round the rush-hour M25. But with last-minute panic packing taking longer than anticipated it was mid-afternoon before we set off for Dover, waved off by our friend Fi, who photographed our departing rear end and then chased us up the road to hand over the camera.

At the port we followed the online advice of seasoned motorhomers and parked up in Marine Parade, two minutes from the ferry terminal, ready for an early start.

At last, we were really on our way. It was time to unwind over a drink, listening to the sounds of the rain pattering on the roof, the dog gnawing contentedly on a bone – and the sudden, shocking shrieking of the fire alarm as my husband fried some onions to add to our instant pasta sauce. Clearly, it would have to be disconnected every time we cooked.

Drama over, we drew the blinds and curtains, cutting off the outside world, and it was like closing a door on an old life. In this little studio flat on wheels I felt as though we were in a time capsule, and I wouldn’t have been amazed to wake up next morning, peer outside and find that aliens had taken over while we slept.

We still managed to miss our ferry, because I’d failed to realise we had to check in 35 minutes ahead of departure. But there was another one along 40 minutes later, and buoyed up by a full English breakfast on board, it seemed like no time before we were setting off from Calais for the Dordogne.

Our first overnight stop in France was at a municipal aire in the little town of Marboue, just off the motorway below Chartres. It had everything we needed – a grassy riverside walk for the dog, a bakery on the street corner, facilities for emptying dirty water  – and it didn’t cost a bean. What a brilliant system! We tucked into spag bol and drank a toast to absent colleagues who had kindly sent us on our way with a great bottle of red and two glasses. There was just room for a slab of our friend Julie’s home-made fruit cake – another thoughtful farewell present. A time to count our blessings.

Last-minute panic

Sunday Feb 12

UPON mature consideration, otherwise known as last-minute panic, further (expensive) improvements have been made to the Hymer.

It now boasts two new electric sockets, invisibly wired in, which will save us tripping over the lead to the oil filled radiator on chilly nights, and a Tyron system which will make it much easier to control in the event of blowouts or punctures. Don’t even think about it.

Packing is now proceeding apace. Some forethought is required to work out where to stow everything we might possibly require to sustain us for six weeks, and luckily forethought is my husband’s strong point, since it isn’t mine. A massive Tesco shop this morning must surely have provided enough food to get us to the Dordogne and quite possibly to the South Pole, where we’d doubtless feel quite at home in the sub–zero temperatures

Wasp stings dog

February 8, 2012

THE first night we spent in the van was Tuesday, January 31. I remember it seemed a really significant occasion.

We set off as soon as we could after I finished work and I was quickly struck, as we headed down the A303 to Taunton, by how being in the front passenger seat of a Hymer, with the huge windows that give it such fantastic visibility, was like riding a roller-coaster.

Every time we went down one of the lengthy hills on the westward route, it was like pitching over the edge on one of those scary rides, with nothing between me and the fate lurking below but a sheet of glass. I felt stressed out, constantly pleading: “Slow down!”

It was dark, and after closing time when we arrived at Cornish Farm, the site adjacent to Vanbitz, where our alarm was to be fitted next day. But there was a notice directing us to our pitch, and once we hooked up to the electricity supply, with the lights and the shiny new red kettle on, I cheered up.

The facilities on-site were immaculate (although it was rather spooky to hear a Radio 2 DJ chirping away through loudspeakers to the otherwise empty washrooms whenever one opened the door).

The van felt cosy and safe once we’d drawn the  blinds – though not for the dog, who squeaked in protest as he was stung by a sleepy wasp we must have dislodged from their folds.

We’d cheated, and cooked a Thai curry before we set out, so heated this up and ate it. It’s a sign of how exhausted I was that when my husband, draining the rice, complained that the colander leaked, I fell for it!

A couple of glasses of wine later, and with the gas heating proving effective, we were feeling very relaxed. From my point of view there was only one drawback. “Bonus,” said my husband as he switched on the radio to find live commentary on the Spurs match. “Who could ask for more?”

The dog soon settled happily on his bed (no.3, in case you're counting) and our own drop-down mattress proved amazingly comfortable.

Next morning we were given a lift in to town to while away the day. We’d been seduced, while waiting for the ride, into buying a TV, and that was to be fitted as well.

Taunton, even on an icy day, proved a pretty good place to hang about. We decided to look for fleeces and sweatshirts for our trip, and the dog made us instant friends in every clothing shop we entered, being particularly successful with females under the age of 30.

One of these, a lovely assistant at Crew, directed us to The Scrumper, a café where we could sit outside with Glen in relative shelter and even catch a few rays of wintry sun. We had brunch there and were so pleased by it that we returned for a late lunch.

The town has a truly fascinating museum, its only drawback being that we were only allowed to look round it one at a time, while the other sat outside with the dog – though if you asked me what kind of hazard a border collie posed to relics safely ensconced behind plate glass I’d have to say I’m not sure. 

Shopping proved productive and we returned to a demonstration of the full bells-and-whistles alarm system at such volume that the dog had to be removed to a safe distance to shield his delicate ears. We arrived home quite worn out, but comprehensively equipped for whatever Europe could throw at us …..?

Role reversal

30.1.12

ANOTHER piece of good news, though. No. 1 Son, currently in India with girlfriend and judging by the pictures on his Facebook page, partying like there’s no tomorrow, will be back by the end of February.

That means the house will be occupied most of the time we’re away. I’ll be sad to miss their homecoming after 18 months apart, but I suppose a few weeks more won’t really matter.

So while we’re off jaunting about the place in young and carefree mode, they’ll be starting to look for proper jobs (fingers crossed) and working out how to afford a first real home of their own. Poor things, I don’t envy them.