Tag Archives: travel

It Never Rains but it Pours

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When we arrive to Villedieu les Poeles, a little old Normandy town where we’ll spend a couple of nights, the road to our chosen campsite is barricaded off and a large expanse of the town square car park is occupied by teams of Petanque players- it’s a Sunday afternoon. It seems the only way round it is to drive the wrong way along a one-way street, which we do, having watched others. the street up to the site is narrow and blocked by a Belgian car and caravan, but we make it in and get a pitch.

Regular readers of Anecdotage will have learned of our issues earlier this year on a jinxed trip to Spain. when we were without internet and devoid of plug-in electricity…and surprise! The same things happen again.

We are lucky in having excellent batteries, which can keep us going as long as we move every couple of days, but when we move on we’ll attempt to get it fixed. We can also go to the ‘Orange’ shop and get a SIM for our mobile wifi device- so that will be sorted.

In the evening we drift into town, find a restaurant and have a compensatory meal.

Next day we’re in need of a walk, so after lunch we set off to explore Villedieu les Poeles, which rewards our efforts with loads of interesting and historical information. Iy used to be a town of copper foundries, in particular the making of bells, and the copper workers lived in small courtyards accessed by passageways, which are still there. The courtyards consist of small stone houses with external staircases and many connecting alleys and passages.

Down at the end of the main street and around a corner is the great bell foundry- still working, but we’re unable to see it on a Sunday. All in all it’s a delightful town and well worth a visit.

We spend another night here then we’re off, first to a motorhome service place we’ve found. It’s not far, however we arrive to the forecourt and a notice to say it’s closed today. Then we pop over to Saint Lo and the ‘Orange’ shop, where it’s easy enough to arm ourselves with internet, at last!

We opt to stay in the area for one more night and try the motorhome place tomorrow, but we’ll go and visit Vire to make the most of the day. It’s not a charming, historic town like Villedieu, although it does have the remnants of old Norman walls and a towering archway, decked out with D-Day flags. We wander some more streets then decide there’s not a lot else of interest. The next site is at Torigni-sur Vire but it’s a tortuous trip on country lanes to get there.

By now the weather has closed in and rain has started, nevertheless we decide to take a walk into town and to a creperie that’s been recommended to us. Taking a detour by the lake adjoining the site we find the restaurant- and it’s closed, so we continue into the village where a sign for ‘pub’ beckons us and when we get there it’s very quaint amd olde worlde inside, so we get beers, then I ask if we can eat there- there are boards outside touting various meals. The publican, who is busy peeling potatoes on the bar- answers with a stream of incomprehensible French, too fast for me- and looks very disgruntled, at which we finish the beers and repair to our campsite’s snack bar for pork and chips- and very welcome it is, too!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Chancing it-

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As I write, we are gearing up to be away,. It’s never simple. Besides the prepping of the van, which takes longer than it used to and especially after longer intervals- there’s the house and garden to consider, which has all to be left in a reasonable state ready for return. I always experience a frisson of anxiety over the garden, in particular.

This year, our part of the UK has received an unprecedented amount of rainfall. During the eight years we’ve lived in this house, which overlooks a river called The Avon [yes I know- Avon means river, too!] and a watermeadow, the field has never been inundated for such a long time in the winter- six months. Six months and we didn’t see a single blade of grass from November until the end of April.

Flooding is very bad news for many and the world needs to wake up to the fact that the climate is wreaking havoc.

In our garden, however, the early deluges have been beneficial. The steep bank under the trees that was a tangle of ivy and brambles when we came has never looked better, with all the ferns, geraniums, grasses etc thriving. The new flowerbed we installed after a visit to wonderful Hidcote Garden in the Cotswolds has become lush and colourful, with my 70th birthday rose having pride of place and throwing out deliciously scented blooms.

It hasn’t been an easy garden. Options on planting are limited with so much dry shade. A dry shade bank must be one of the trickiest places to plant. Perseverance and trial and error have yielded so-so results until this year- this wettest of years.

Opposite the dry shade bank is a fence- still shady, still dry. A vigorous jasmine likes it. Some clematis like it and some don’t. This year I’m trying a rambling rose.

At the top of the bank, accessed by a cute path that Husband installed is a wildish space. Here he also put in a pond which has remained stubbornly devoid of life since its arrival [so much for ponds being a magnet, and all that…]. The pond is flanked by more ferns and a lot of weeds. Opposite, on the other end of the decking is a small house that we placed here for small people, although visiting grandchildren have, thus far, studiously ignored it. This may be due to the spider population which enjoys the accommodation.

The few sunny parts of the garden are occupied by pots of annuals and by tomato plants, which I had to buy this year, as my seedlings succumbed to the cold.

All this, then, must look after itself while we take a wander off to foreign parts. Fingers crossed!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Village on a Chocolate Box

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Years ago, when I was a child [the 50s, mainly], boxes of chocolates were a favourite gift and were almost always adorned with pictures- most often totally unrelated to their contents. A common theme was cosy, thatched cottages with roses around the door. My mother was very fond of boxes of chocolates, so this made buying her a birthday or a Christmas gift very simple.

So all these twee designs on chocolate boxes led to a well-known catch-phrase [at the time] of comparing country cottages to chocolate boxes. If you said a home was like a chocolate box, everyone would know what you meant.

Nowadays though, I doubt very many people would understand the phrase at all. Boxes of chocolates have largely fallen out of fashion and favour and those that do still exist are unlikely to have photos of thatched cottages on the front and a huge red ribbon around them.

The village of Lacock in Wiltshire, though, boasts enough chocolate box cottages to stock large numbers of sweet shops and is the kind of village I imagine overseas tourists dream of visiting, should they want to see traditional British life.

Here, the two main streets host terraces of ancient buildings- half-timbered, thatched, tiny or rambling- all tended and primped for visitors. Among the homes is a village store, a post office, bakery, cafes, pub and gift shops. Outside some of the houses, shelves of home-grown garden plants are on offer- even offering ‘honesty boxes’ for payment!

In addition to all of this historic twee-ness there is the beautiful attraction that is Lacock Abbey [National Trust of course], a huge, majestic pile sitting in vast and beautiful grounds, all as meticulously tended as you would expect from a NT property.

One stunning aspect of the abbey grounds is a buttercup meadow, a sea of yellow cris-crossed with mown paths, the flowers almost tall enough to conceal a person [at least- a short person like myself!]. In the centre is an old tree, wound with something at the top [possibly willow twigs?] looking like a woody planet, and hung with beautiful bracket fungus.

The wooded area is another sea- white this time, of wild garlic, which seems to be having a good year, perhaps due to March’s incessant rain? There is an unmistakeable aroma of garlic as we wind our way nearer to the abbey.

We stop for a quick look at the courtyard- presumably accomodation for the abbey inmates, then pop inside the abbey itself, which is beautiful, hung with paintings and dressed with age appropriate furniture. We finish in the enormous hall which is decked with statues around the walls and an enormous fireplace.

Back outside, we take a moment to visit the large pond, before leaving and going to the cafe, always an obligatory deviation. The sun is out and a cheeky robin visits our table to beg for cake crumbs…now as afternoons go it’s pretty good…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

In the Company of Trees

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Though it’s not on the plan, as we leave Tobacconist Farm, Minchinhampton I remember that we’re not so far from somewhere I’ve wanted to visit for a long time- the national arboretum at Westonbirt. The arboretum is home to a huge collection of trees and since we’re passing very close it seems a good chance to go and see it.

It’s a warm, bright day. We pull into the coach and motorhome, where we’re almost alone, park and decide to have coffee before we set off around the plantation.

It’s not busy on this weekday, so as we begin to stroll around the vast area we’re often out of sight of anyone. The trees here are extraordinary. As well as the well-known, indigenous trees of the UK, there are many unusual specimens from all over the globe and they’ve made a great job of labelling most of them.

This is a beautiful time to visit, as in between the trees there are huge carpets of proper British bluebells and glorious, vivid rhododendrons in eye-popping colours. The plantation is divided into areas- a lime tree grove, an oak walk, a maple loop. The maples are displaying their finest foliage, with an array of colours from lime green through to the brightest scarlet. There are, of course, some real giants here, too- towering redwoods and huge horse chestnuts.

There’s a lot to see and it requires a lot of walking, which is good for us, although for those who find it harder there’s a shuttle service to take around the site. It’s well organised. In the end we decide there’s so much to see here that we should probably have some lunch at the small cafe and continue.

After a sandwich and coffee, we’re up for finishing the circuit of the place. which means going up the other side and a wilder part, wooded and canopied. On one pathway there is the Gruffalo- and I noticed that childrens’ parties can be held here-. I think I’d have loved a birthday party in the woods as a child! [also I wish I was Julia Donaldson but that’s another [childrens’] story.

We’re working our way towards the elevated tree-top walk, which can be seen from the entrance, then we’re climbing up and getting the views. Below us there’s a woodworking workshop where furniture is being made; above us a short set of steps up to a rounded tower- all, of course, in timber.

We feel we’ve earned tea and cake, conveniently available from a kiosk near the entrance. It’s time to move on and to our next site in the village of Lacock. This site is a world away from ‘Tobacconist Farm’, which was basically a field with a shower block. This one is landscaped, the hard standing pitches meticulously lined up with their own patches of mown grass. There are carefully tended flower beds, a thoughful play area [this site is not adults only], a separate tent field, the beginnings of some glamping units. We’ve booked and already have a pitch number, so there’s no checking in- just finding the pitch and plugging in.

We take a quick stroll down the hill and across the busy road to the village for a very quick recce, then back. The day is still warm and it’s pleasant enough to cook and eat outside- which we do….

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Cotswold Jaunt

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So following the unedifying debacle of a van trip to Spain in March, which nasty weather and electrical failure prompted us to abort, we settle down at home for a while, to undertake chores, take stock and have the van repaired.

It transpires that [according to the repair man] the Spanish campsite sockets were the culprits of our calamity in the electrical department. At home, April continues the soggy theme and it’s not until May comes around and there’s enough time between various obligations [health appointments] to chance a short break closer to home.

Husband is a devotee of Gloucester Rugby and has expressed a desire to watch them at their ground and this seems like an incentive to travel onwards into the Cotswolds, even though we went last year. This gives me an afternoon wander around the shopping areas, although I’m disappointed in the range of stores, which are predominantly fashion. There are some odd characters roaming the shopping centre, too…

Our onward journey takes us through some archetypal British villages-

We’re on our way again next day and on to Minchinhampton, a typical Cotswold village with pubs, church, cafe, grocery shop, a miniscule market area, allotments and a vast, open common. We’re booked in at ‘Tobacconist Farm’ and I can’t help running the old song, ‘Tobacco Road’ [first recorded in 1964 by The Nashville Teens] through my head. Access to the site is tucked away in a corner by the allotments and not easy to find, but when we do get in it’s a simple, open meadow next to a donkeys’ field, with a small shower block down at the end.

We’re not quite alone, but there are only a handful of vans around the edges of the meadow. The owner is a larger-than-life woman who clearly likes to talk and rides around on a quad bike.

Once installed, we go to stroll around the village, which is soon accomplished.

The following afternoon we go to visit Cirencester. It’s not a large town but has an enormous parish church that is easily cathedral sized! There are beautiful grounds to the rear of it and a tiny section of old Roman wall as well as a Norman arch. There isn’t a whole lot else to the town but it’s pleasant enough.

The weather deteriorates a little and there are a few showers, but next day, after a slow morning. we stride out across the common, which is undulating and dotted with communities of cowslips. There’s a huge pub which is clearly popular on this bank holiday weekend, judging by the throng of cars parked everywhere. We walk until we reach the brow of a hill overlooking a valley then turn to loop back, getting somewhat lost by attempting a different route back.

For our final night at Tobacconist Farm, we eat at the village pub on the square, which is more than acceptable and has a lovely decor.

Then we’re off towards the next destination, but not before we’ve visited a stunning plantation…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

The Beastly Buses of Bilbao

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We’ve had a brilliant time at the Guggenheim Gallery in Bilbao, looking at a magnificent pop-art exhibition. Now we retrace our steps to Bilbao’s ‘international’ bus station to get the first of the two buses we need to take, back to our camp site at Islares.

The buses themselves are on the ground floor of the station and we enter on the first floor. But I notice there are ticket barriers, which I mention to Husband, who shrugs and tells me we can pay on the bus. This is what we did when we came. We paid the driver. But how are we to get through the ticket barriers?

We go around to the back and spot a staircase. Hooray! We can go downstairs to the buses, which we do. And there- THERE is our bus- the bus to Castro Urdiales that we need to take to get another bus back to Islares. It’s the 5.00pm bus, which is perfect timing. We join the queue and soon it moves along as people begin to board the bus, their tickets being checked by the driver. Then it’s our turn. But no- we can’t board the bus. We don’t have a ticket. We are turned away.

We dash upstairs to the first floor and to the manned icket windows. ‘No’ says the ticket seller, ‘you can pay the driver’. ‘But we can’t!’ we tell her. And she shrugs.

5.oopm comes and goes- and so does the bus.

While we are standing helpless and hopeless we are joined by the Dutch couple from our site- the ones who’d turned up after us and had eaten paella in the restaurant as we had. Now the four of us are attempting to get back to Islares. We turn our attention to the ticket machines, a row of them along a wall. They are not all identical but we try a few. We press buttons. Some destinations appear on a list. Castro Urdiales, however, is not among them.

We return to the ticket windows, where we are variously told to pay the driver, shrugged at or ignored. By now we have bonded with the friendly Dutch couple, united in our difficulties. We all return to the machines. Then we’re joined by a kind Nigerian who seems very keen to help- for a while, although as he tries machines and accompanies us to the ticket windows it becomes clear that his attempts to help are eclipsed by his ignorance of the entire procedure. We are no further on with our ticket purchasing. And the next bus is the 6.00pm.

We return to the windows with no improvement in results. ‘Why doesn’t she help us?’ says the Dutch lady- and it is a mystery.

Then we get a breakthrough. One of the ticket machines- one of the smaller ones at the end of the line- displays our stop, Castro Urdiales. Eureka! We quickly begin buying tickets, using credit cards. It has to be done one by one. Then we’re done and have 4 tickets! But there’s a wait now for the six o’clock bus, so we repair to the bar and chat.

At last we board our bus, quieter now than the 5pm one. We set off for Castro Urdiales, with deteriorating weather. Once we reach the town we peer out to look for the bullring, then we’re there; the bus parks and we get out and go to our stop, although we must wait on the opposite side of the road. Sadly, although it’s now raining, the side where we must wait has no bus shelter- and it’s also become much colder. We’ve no idea of the bus schedule, but a look on the internet suggests there won’t be a bus for about an hour. An hour!

There’s nowhere close to retreat to- not a bar or a coffee shop where we could see a bus approaching. We sit in the bus shelter, ready to leap across the road should a bus come. We get very cold but are glad of the company of our new Dutch friends. Now and again a taxi zooms by and I wave madly- and in vain.

At long last the bus arrives and we can get back to Islares. By the time we’re there the rain is falling in bucketloads and it’s gone 8pm. We all go to the cafe and have a convivial meal.

Next day we’re off to the ferry at Santander. Our friends have not emerged so I leave them a note. Then we drive away and to the port for the [tedious] sailing home to the UK-

Needless to add- I did not photograph any of our grim return journey, so instead I’ve added some more pop-art!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Popping out for Pop-Art

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Bilbao’s bus station is impressive- a large, modern, red cube with escalators, ticket barriers and a tapas bar. As we exit into a large square next to the equally impressive stadium, we make sure to imprint the position and road names in order to find our way back. We’ve neglected to pick up a tourist map for this excursion, which has been impromptu.

We’ve one main aim in mind for this trip to, which is to visit the Guggenheim. Previous visits to Bilbao have only been for ferry purposes, so it’s high time we looked at the city and this iconic gallery.

With no map and no indication of where the gallery is, we turn left out of the bus station and vaguely downhill. I know the Guggenheim is by the water so it seems to make sense to go downhill and this turns out to be correct as at last we find some signs. Further down the hill there’s a big roundabout with a very tall statue of Christ and we need to negotiate our way around and avoid occasional trams, taking a right hand turning- then there’s a beautiful park containing elegant pergolas, followed by some hugely tall skyscrapers. We walk on until, at last, the iconic Guggenheim comes into view, sitting in landscaped gardens and yes- by the water.

People’s views on architecture differ, but I like any building, old or new, as long as it is characterful- and the Guggenheim has character in spades. Of course, I’d have preferred to have seen it on a sunny day, nevertheless the sinuous, glossy walls of the building are glorious- organic, bulging curves. To begin with, we walk past, along the waterside and past the stallholders with their trinkets. Outside, here on the pedestrian-only walkway theres a giant, sculpted spider and of course, many of the stalls sport mini versions of it.

We’ve got one bit of luck [after a miserable run of glitches] in that the Guggenheim is showing a pop art exhibition with some extremely famous artists’ work, which is irresistible. We walk up the wide steps to the entrance and buy tickets. The inside of the building is equally mind-blowing as you look up towards the top floors and it’s light, with vast, twisty columns, a voluminous space.

We go first to a vast hall containg one, gargantuan sculpture by Richard Serra, an artist who has only just died a couple of days ago, which gives it all a poignancy. The sculture.called ‘A Matter of Time’, consists of huge steel curves, some concentric, others independent, the steel weathered to a rusty bronze. It’s beautiful and sensual and can be walked around and touched, the surfaces smooth or textured. We spend some time here- at one point getting uqite lost among the maze-like structures.

On the upper floors we find Warhols, Lichtensteins, Rothkos and much more besides- in one room a large Gilbert and George mural. It’s all thrilling and absorbing and comes some way to compensating for the wretched time we’ve had on this, our first foray overseas since serious illness and major surgery blighted last autumn.

There’s not a lot of time left after the gallery- just enough for a visit to the cafe and a look at Jeff Koons playful, planted sculpture of a puppy, all covered in living flowers.

We walk back to the bus station and the trouble really starts…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

A Brief Sunny Interval at Islares

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We’ve stayed here, at Islares, before, another occasion when we’d needed to get home earlier than planned. I recognise the site when we pull in; a green, daisy- strewn field next to the sea. There’s loads of space, and, best of all, the sun is out. The journey here has been pleasant and I remember how beautiful the north coast of Spain is- rugged and glorious.

There aren’t many places to walk here, but outside the camp site gates you can stroll up to the seaside bar and watch the waves crashing in against the rocks in fluffy plumes. When the sun comes out it actually feels hot, so having walked up and around the path a little we return, plonk down at a table and have beers in the sunshine. It feels, on this penultimate day, like a proper holiday at last- except we’ll be setting off home the day after tomorrow.

Back at the site, we scrutinise the bus timetable for tomorrow’s jaunt- a day’s sighseeing before we depart. We can get to Bilbao by bus from Islares, although it’s two buses.

The site here has its own, modest cafe/bar and we opt for this, rather than the posher place where we had our beers. It just has a few tables, formica topped and a small selection of meals, from burgers to paella. Since we can’t order until 8.00pm, we choose to prop up the bar with a beer. At 8 a few people drift in and sit and we decide on paella which, at 12 euros is a no-brainer, besides- a Dutch couple who’ve arrived to the site after us and parked nearby have ordered it and it’s looking delicious.

The paella arrives in a large, traditional dish. We dig into the fragrant rice and it’s full of wonderful, fresh seafood as well as topped off with giant langoustines. We’re happy.

Next morning we trudge up to the main road above our site and walk along but there’s no sign of a bus stop. We backtrack a little but by now the bus is due, which is worrying. I waylay a passer-by and launch into my woeful Spanish: ‘Senor- donde esta autobus?’ It will do! He gestures further along the main road, gabbling furiously, then gets into a car. He pulls alongside us and indicates that we should get in, then takes us up the road to the bus stop- a kind stranger!

After a while a few other passengers arrive to wait, then a small bus comes along and we’re off towards a town called Castro Urdiales, where we must change buses, ‘at the bull-ring’ as we’ve been advised.

The older I get, the more I enjoy bus rides and there are all kinds of reasons to use public transport, not least the convenience of not needing to find a parking place or worry about traffic, or the route. So we settle back to enjoy the ride and the scenery as the bus meanders in and out of villages and round the houses, until at last we’re in the outskirts of the town and we must pay attention in order to get off at the right place. Castro Urdiales is a sizeable town, with a seafront, all attractively landscaped and an obvious tourist destination.

We spot the bull-ring and get off, although there’s no obvious sign to where we catch the next bus. But there is a large coach parked in a space by the wall of the bull-ring and it’s complete with driver, who assures us that yes- it’s the bus for Bilbao. Hooray!

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Back and Back…

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It’s become clear, on this terraced camp site opposite an industrial estate in Caceres, Spain, that our electrics are not going to work in any of their sockets. Worse still, it seems that the problem is ours, not theirs. Everyone else’s van is plugged in and working fine. This is a major hitch to our plans. We can cope for two days on battery power before we need to move and charge up, but we’d planned to stay longer in some of the sites we’ve booked- one, on the coast, almost a week.

Husband goes down to reception and returns triumphant, bearing the name and address of someone in the industrial estate who could help. The man in reception had been kind and helpful. We pin our hopes on the name and address and settle in for the evening. I’m relieved to have had a shower in the cleaner bathroom, as although the ranting French lady and her husband have moved on, they’ve been replaced by a Dutch couple.

By morning the weather hasn’t improved and it’s colder, overcast and breezy. With the address of the electrician in the SATNAV, we plunge into the industrial estate, pulling in at a forecourt. The helpful campsite reception man has phoned ahead to alert him, explaining that we are English and a youngish man appears, brandishing a phone, on which he has downloaded the language app. It takes no more than 30 seconds for him to shrug and shake his head, once he’s seen the set-up. That’s a ‘no’ then.

We trundle round the roads of the industrial estate in the remote hope that there’s somewhere that might help and I try one or two likely places as well as some unlikely ones. Eventually we decide it’s no-go. I begin to feel that this lack of interest is more to do with the impending Easter holiday than anything else. Everywhere is winding down. Everyone is focused on their time off.

There’s nothing for it but to turn back, so we set the SAT back to Salamanca and get back on the motorway. At the whizzo services I go inside for over-the-top chocolatey pastries to revive our flagging spirits, then we’re on again, back to Salamanca, where, at least we know there’s plenty of space. The weather continues to get colder and there’s a nasty, biting edge to the wind.

When we turn into the entrance to ‘Don Quijote’, the lovely Salamanca site, I notice a building we hadn’t seen before- ‘Motorhome Services’. Motorhome Services! I experience a frisson of excitement. We’ll check in and investigate, though it has some hefty gates and they are closed. We check in and enquire at reception, where the man says they might help, although holidays are fast approaching and they’ll be wanting to get their existing work finished beforehand.

On the site, everyone is swathed in puffa jackets, hats and scarves. It is perishing cold now- 3 degrees! We won’t be getting chairs out for a bask in the sunshine. We wait until the motorhome place is open then take the van along there. A woman emerges from a large hanger and beckons us in. She looks. She has us plug in to their socket. It blows. She shrugs, shakes her head. I feel my shoulders sag.

In the morning we track back towards Burgos. It’s now Wednesday and we can’t get a ferry home until Saturday so we opt to spend two nights. We can hunker down with books and at least now we have internet. We check back in. The wind is blowing horizontally across the site and I’m hoping a tree doesn’t fall on anyone. In the evening we go to the restaurant for a change of scene.

The afternoon of the following day is brighter and we stretch our legs with a bracing walk around the extensive park by the site. It’s been landscaped with barbecues and footpaths, one of which follows the river. Along the way we encounter more pilgrims with their walking poles and large backpacks. Presumably they’ll be trekking to Burgos for the Easter shindig.

We leave next day and head to a site on the coast between Santander and Bilbao where we’ve stayed before. We’ll stay our final two nights there- and we have a plan for our final day…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com

On to Salamanca

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So we leave Burgos and continue down towards our next stop, Salamanca. The Spanish motorways are excellent; toll-free, quiet and well served with service areas, although they do vary quite a bit, some being right by the roadside, others a detour into a village. Some of the roadside ones boast modest hotels, together with a host of facilities including cafes and shops. Others may just be a petrol station with a coffee machine.

We take a break, veering off to a village gas station where a man emerges and dolls out the diesel rather than it being self-service. This is endearing, a step back in time for us. There is a small parking area and three picnic tables beside the petrol station and as it’s fine enough to sit outside we have coffee at one of the tables, entertained by a stream of hikers, pilgrims making their way along the path towards Santiago de Compostela. At this stage, close to Easter, it seems unlikely that they’ll achieve Santiago, but perhaps they use a cheeky bit of public transport? Or is part of the way enough? At one point an entire family turns up in a 4×4, get out, smoke cigarettes, change their shoes and set off walking…

It’s not too far to Salamanca. For those who haven’t been to this most gorgeous of cities, it is well worth a visit- a historic centre of beautiful buildings of golden stone- best seen in sunshine, when the yellow stone zings. But again, we’ve been before and it’s not our destination this time so we check in for one night. I remember the site, tidy and tree strewn, by a river, with a cycle/footpath leading into the city. The sun has enough warmth for us to get chairs out for a bask, which we do. There’s also a tempting looking restaurant at which we just about manage to squeeze a booking by saying we’ll go at 9.30pm. It’s a wonderful meal, though and worth the wait, and while we feel it’s late for us to be eating there are many coming in later still on this Saturday night- some at 10.30pm! This is Spain, after all, with a culture of late evening dining that includes small children, too.

We’re off again in the morning, the weather having turned more gloomy, but we strike out on the road to Caceres- another city we’ve visited in the past, memorable for its nesting storks on every lofty perch, its wacky Easter parades of floats and pointy-hat adorned bearers and its huge plates of beef. En route we stop at a wonderful service area with a fruit and veg stall, shop and cafe, where coaches are pulling in, presumably carrying Easter travellers. Easter is a big holiday for the Spanish and everyone, it seems, is on the move.

By the time we get to Caceres there’s a strong breeze blowing. We locate the camp site but it’s not one we recognise and I’m at a loss to recall where we staryed last time. This site is opposite and industrial estate and is terraced, with pitches housing individual bathrooms, according to our ACSI book. We check in and find our pitch, which is under a large tree. When I take a look at the bathroom I’m less than impressed. It’s grubby, with leaves blown inside and furniture piled up in the shower cubicle.

I go in to put the kettle on while Husband grabs the cable to plug the van in. But there’s no power. He tries the socket in the neighbouring [empty] pitch. No power. He goes to reception, where he’s told it’s ok to use next-door’s socket, although it’s becoming clear that something is badly amiss. Next door’s bathroom, however, is altogether cleaner, so I get a shower in there before anyone else turns up- which they do- a massive motorhome and a woman gabbling a tirade of French at us with no thought that we might not be compatriots on this Spanish site…

For fiction by me, Jane Deans, search for novels: The Conways at Earthsend [an eco-thriller] and The Year of Familiar Strangers [mystery drama]. Visit my website: janedeans.com