Portugal…….well almost…..

We were meant to get there about two weeks ago but the delays in France and then the lure of the sunny Spanish Costas has slowed our progress somewhat. From our current site in the Donana National Park you can almost see the border and, providing we can rouse ourselves sometime soon, our next stop should be on the Algarve – but then again, we’re never brilliant at sticking to plans as regular readers will already know.

Since the last report we’ve hopped down the coast, met good old Bertha, seen the sky ablaze, been blown all over the show, lunched on the beach and dined out on the Rock. There’s been warm sunshine, a few raindrops and most of northern Europe’s retired population on the campsites.

Ametlla de Mar Harbour

Ametlla de Mar on the Costa Dorada, where my last blog left off, was only a 4km stroll from our campsite along the low cliff tops, through pine forests and over white pebble beaches. The town is built around a busy fishing harbour with a maintenance yard. Some quite sizable boats were up on chocks having their bottoms
scraped to get rid of the
barnacles …..sounds painful.......oooooh, Mrs! 

Caught in the act!

It was an excellent campsite with friendly helpful staff and immaculate washrooms etc. Unusually for Spanish campsites the pitches were very generous in size. Strong gusty winds off the mountains rocked the van all the three days we stayed and our washing nearly ended up in next field. I was afraid that if a pair of Jane’s draws landed on another pitch we’d be charged for putting up a tent – a 6 birth! I’m going to be in trouble for that, aren’t I.

Sticking to the N340 and A7 trunk roads rather that the toll motorways we drove south from there, past the huge nature reserve of the Ebro Delta and on into the orange growing regions around Valencia. Although the main picking season is November into December there were still many estates where bright ripe fruit were still on the trees. As we skirted Valencia and headed inland the orange groves were interspersed with lemons, also awaiting being gathered.

Ibi's burning sky

That evening we parked up on an Aires on the outskirts of Ibi which is where we met Bertha, a T- reg Talbot powered motorhome and her owners, Steve and Kiri. Although only having 30k on the clock Bertha’s engine was giving them some problems and regular replenishment of the oil was required. Steve and Kiri were 3 months into a 4 month tour which had already taken in several eastern European countries. We spent a very pleasant evening with them swapping motorhoming yarns. Best wishes to them both as they nurse Bertha back to the UK and hopefully get her engine fixed. It was here at Ibi that the most dazzling sunset happened with the sky quite literally looking like it was burning.

Next morning it was back to the coast in the general direction of Alicante on the Costa Blanca and then the manically busy roads around the city and south west to Murcia and Lorca. Our campsite for the night was in the Cabo de Gata national park, just to the east of Almeria. The site was, to say the least, uninspiring and full mainly of long term staying Brits sunning themselves away from the winter weather back home. It didn’t help that it was slap bang in the middle of a sea of plastic covering acre upon acre of tomato plants. These unsightly polythene greenhouses stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction and the sun near blinded us as it shone of the surface. Along the roadsides were broken down, ramshackle and roofless buildings that the itinerant workforce had, rather ingeniously, wrapped up in the large sheets of plastic, tied it up with rope and made into living quarters. It may well be an economic necessity to produce fruit this way but, the site of plastic covered fields stretching almost unbroken from mountains to shoreline, is very ugly indeed.

Peggy at Mamola

One night at the Cabo site was more than enough so off we went, heading west along the Costa del Sol coast road to Motril, on our way calling in for lunch at the neat seaside village of Mamola with it black, volcanic sand beach. We had a sunny couple of hours there playing with Peggy on the beach and trying to persuade her into the waves – no chance……water she loves but the movement and splash of the waves has her running away. After an uneventful but peaceful night in Motril it was west again past Nerja, the very busy Malaga and to our campsite just a few kms short of posh Marbella and posher still, Puerto Banus where the rich and famous moor their private yachts and cruisers. Any space in this landscape not taken up by swanky mansions and exclusive shopping malls is a golf course – an expensive golf course.

In the bar one night I overheard a conversation between a German, a Swede and a Fin – in English, the only language they explained that they all had in common. There were quite a lot of Scandinavians on that site and all looking like aging Vikings – big with long grey hair, full beards and gruff voices…….and the men were quite similar as well – come on now, you knew that was coming. 

The beach here was beautiful and clean with soft creamy sand and, just to make it perfect, there’s a smashing bar and restaurant right on the beach. I didn’t need any encouragement to take Peggy for walkies down there and if I happened to sample the vino tinto whilst there – so what. We enjoyed a lovely lunch at that restaurant on Thursday with friends Brian and Joan who live in France but are having 5 weeks at Benalmadena, about 30 minutes up the road - great to see them both again.

It was on their recommendation that, the next day, we made the short hop along the coast to Gibraltar with it dirt cheap booze, cigs and perfume. That strong wind coming off the land had badgered us all down this coast making driving difficult at times especially when I was being swept across the duel carriageway with a 50 ton juggernaut overtaking me at 120km/hr. 

Rocky take-off

At the new marina, just over on the Spanish side, we were able to park overnight for 12 euros. In the afternoon we walked over the border with Peggy, crossing the airport runway and into the old town with its shops and restaurants. It did seem a bit weird with a British Bobby halting pedestrians and traffic at the runway’s edge whilst a Monarch holiday flight took off right in front of us, then lifting the gate when all was clear for everyone to flood across.

Not so old sea dog

Jane treated herself to some perfume at what she claimed was a rock bottom price and we got a couple of bottles of well-known brands of spirits at less than a fiver a litre to see us through the next week or two. That evening we left Peggy in charge of Dolly Bus and walked back over the border for an excellent Italian meal in the main square. For anyone else making a trip to Gib, don’t bother driving in, avoid what are sometimes three hour queues at border control, park up and walk the 20 minutes across – no bother at all.

British through and through

Gibraltar appears to be a curious mix of customs and cultures where Spain meets Britain meets North Africa. Just across the bay we could see Algeciras which is the main ferry crossing port to Tangiers less than 2 hours away. And the Spanish influence was strongest in the man square where they sold genuine English fish and chips – well you can’t get them at home anymore. The weather while we were there was a bit drizzly so we didn’t bother with the cable car to the top of the rock. And as for missing the monkeys, well, you’ve seen one monkey, you’ve seen them all. They pinch your wallets and things anyway.

From Gibraltar we headed north west, avoiding Cadiz and the Costa de la Luz, into the hills of Los Alcornocales toward Seville. The dull, rainy weather stayed with us through this part of the journey and, with the sheep grazing the hills it again reminded us of………..errrrrr……..Wales! Like Valencia the countryside around Seville is famous for its oranges and the groves lined the roads on both side as we approached the city and beyond.

.#bnkio – Peggy just stood on the keyboard and typed that last word – one smart dog hey, just needs to improve her speed and spelling and we’re on to a winner.

Taxi!

El Rocio is where we’ll spend tonight and maybe tomorrow we’ll make it into Portugal at last or stay here another day and explore the nature parkland which has all sorts of wildlife roaming free including linx – the cat one not the aftershave! This place is horsey paradise with more hoof prints in the sand than tyre marks and horse and trap being the main form of transport. 

Each year in May or June this little town, not much bigger that a village really, plays host to around one million pilgrims, some travelling from all corners of Spain in fancy decorated ox carts. The come to pay homage to the statue of the Virgen del Rocio which has supposedly been responsible for miracles since the 13^th century – maybe she’ll perform one for us and get us to Portugal before next Christmas!

And on that note….adios amigos…..more in a week or so……………………………..Paul  

Sleepy Sunday morning, downtown El Rocio

PS. It’s Saturday night and we’ve just had a walk into the town of El Rocio with all its streets of fine, dusty sand and cafes and bars with horses tied up outside. It is like something from a cowboy movie. The buildings are from a different era and as I would imagine Spain looked a century or more ago. Many buildings seemed to have a religious significance with crucifixes and tiles on their walls depicting the town’s famous virgin. I was unable to find out if it was a particular fiesta or saint’s day but it was definitely party night and, from open doorways and brightly lit windows came the sound of Spanish guitars accompanying the traditional, harsh sounding singing and hand clapping. Families and friends gathered for a good old knees-up and, naturally, nosey old me wanted to walk in and join the fun but Jane wasn’t up for it so we walked on. Interesting though and I’ll return in the morning for photos of the town.