Fourteen 22/23-06

So here we are at the end of another eventful trip. Not all of the events have been what we might have wished for but, hey! The sun shone (mostly), it was dry (mostly), warm( mostly), we only spent two weeks on the Costas (hooray!), four weeks in western Provence was brilliant (hooray), Barcelona was worth the camp site (Hooray) and the van did come unglued from the panel truck. Oh and we found the puncture on the camp site and not the ferry!

Events we have had a few, but not too few for me to mention. (God I hate that song!) Anyway where to begin really. Rain – in France and Spain - caused expected aggravations but nothing leaked.

A heatwave in central Spain with no shade was 32C intolerable for this slightly rhino-phobic beast. I blame the drugs but I was never great in heat.

I ignored foolishly a bit of hedge I clipped, failing to spot the not insignificant trunk it hid. More work for Graham, Jones but not serious.

I managed to try to use the mover with the handbrake still applied and though I had busted everything. Not so, I had merely drained the battery below its safety cut off. Once re-charged all was OK.

Leaving Zaragoza (ossa? Seems to be choice) we were mis-directed, hit some roadworks and I tried to change lanes unaware of a panel truck edging up my nearside. 50-50 me and him and a bit more the badly signed roadworks. The van and truck seemed inextricably meshed but some very judicious reversing separated them revealing no significant damage. It passes for a miracle on my record!

Decided to stay in Navarette, Rioja for the last 10 days. Yesterday (Sat) was fine so it was awning down time. Oh look said Janet, that tyre is flat! Well some of the words are correct. It being a twin axle the tyre was fine, did not seem to have run flat so probably went in the last few kliks. I will change it when the sun goes down, says I. Bear in mind that not all vans have spares and not all jacks will go under them I had checked both so was overly confident. I extracted the scissor jack from the car and a tyre stud handle. But no jack handle. Search the car. Nothing. Read the instruction – extension for jack under right hand rear seat. No its not say I. There nothing there. I feel around more urgently than last time – and lo, an extension! The wheel nuts were done by Graham Jones and should be at 120 Newtons (alloys). That's a bit more than the usual 'stand on it' pressure of 90. But I am good an heavy. In fact I must be 120 Newtons cos they cracked a treat, even the security nut. A Dutch neighbour was offering help and I was grateful but doing OK, albeit well puffed. The nuts are of course studs and have to be aligned. The replacement wheel is steel not alloy so the fit is a bit different. “Let me” said he rightly spotting that his youthful muscles would better manage the heavy wheel in aligning the studs. I could not, but desperately wanted, to refuse him. So I watched in unjustified terror as he fitted the studs. He did not, as my heart pounded, cross any of them. I thanked him mightily if a little dishonestly.

While this is a nice site and very well equipped it has, like most of Rioja, a soil which manages to be clay-like. It drains poorly. To offset this, the assiduous owners have liberally applied sand and grit to the pitches. Our otherwise brilliant floor pads have one slight flaw – they will float on any excess water. It then squirts through the breathing holes!So the pads become very, very dirty. I had to wash most of them. I dried them by passing a cable through the corner holes and stringing them between the van and post. Effective but slightly bizarre.

And so now we sit on a Sunday afternoon, no awning, dodgy weather so chairs in car, and a mountain of food and the barbecue off limits in this weather. Rioja is smooth and its not long to my last gin o'clock of the trip.

Tomorrow we drive Logrono to have the dog passport-ed, then to Bilbao, sleep on the harbourside and sail Tuesday at about 10.30. We dock Wednesday morning and may be back in Lyng by late afternoon.

Anyone want to buy an excellent Adria, twin single birth with all the usual mod cons?

Thirteen 16/17-06

Rioja is a wine of undisputed and real character but it also of course an area of Spain- and it is truly beautiful. It is a sausage of land that starts up near Vitoria-Gesteitz and extends south east through Haro, Logrono and down to Calahorra and beyond. That however does not even start to tell its story. For what makes Rioja, the land and Rioja, the wine is the river Ebro. And even more perhaps its anciently lost and even forgotten ancestors. For unless I am very much mistaken this is an ancient sea or lake bed, laid down over millennia and eroded over the same period.

But I am aware of this because for the first time we arrived the right way to appreciate La Rioja – from the south east up the valley of the Ebro. Last time, arriving at Haro and not being fully aware of where we were we had come cold foot from the Sierras north of Madrid – fully 3000feet up a Monroe as the Scots would have it – and we were fleeing the cold as if it were the very red coated bastards themselves!

This time Zaragoza let us onto the A23, much improved but route-wise still essentially the road into the Ebro valley. Zaragoza lies on the Ebro and other rivers in the centre of a vast alta-plana averaging around 600 metres and either freezing cold or burning hot by season. And then you drive at up to 1000metres into the valley of the Ebro and eventually over a small but significant ridge – and there before you lies the wide expanse of the bro and La Rioja. In a sense you are not there until you reach Calahorra, and ancient and historic town with castle, abbey, cathedral and all that. The first vines appear almost immediately.

To the south west lie the Sierras of the Cameras and La Demandas. To the north are more highlands, less defined by the maps. But this is no English valley – we never go below 400 metres and are often at 800. Yet the Sierra are always there, at the horizon, grey-blue, cloud generating and guarding the weather for the vines. I knew that they grow tempranillo (Rioja Tinto), garnacha (for blending), viura (for white and blending) but now read of Mazuelo, Graciano and Malvasia.

This land is special and begs reflections on the French conviction that La Terroir is crucial in the wine they produce. They say and their e3videncesuggests they are right that it is not just the composition of the land, or its aspect to the sun, or its drainage but the very nature of the environment itself that decides the quality of the raisins as they always call them and the wine they produce. Look around here and even more than on the slopes of Burgundy or among the hills of Bordeaux you would think them right. For Rioja is a world-class wine in a land that has produced much of no great quality. And I believe you can see why at a glance.

And not just for the sheer magical beauty of this land. Its meandering tracks, rolling hills, bushy garrison, its soaring Sierras and more, so much more. But because just as in France the Spanish wine makers of Rioja will not let any suitable piece of land slip by. If the slope is right, it if faces the sun enough, if the soil is right then in go the vines – never mind they are so few; come vendage they will be cleared and crushed and filtered and fermented. And sunlight will become nectar. Oh well, very drinkable anyway.

Everything comes together here for the land yields wonderful pink clays that makes luminous pink bricks to build the essentials of vinification. Many are clothed in plaster, some in ochre but enough show their structure to confirm the way land and craft are intertwined.

The nerdy kind of wine buffs come here on wine tours that take them from tasting to tasting in the posh and expensive bodegas. I'd go to but would be sick of it in a day or three. Too much enthusiasm is a killer. And anyway, we may venerate the product but the manner is sheer industry today. Vast and idiosyncratic buildings have been thrown up all over Rioja to demonstrate the status of the eponymous winemaker. Some are over the top castles, other mere follies, another an artwork in stainless steel. The names are famous and can be found on your supermarket shelf – Lagunilla, Campo Vieja and some are famous to be found in more refined company – Murgal for example.

But the best Rioja is the one you find for yourself bat a few Euros a bottle in some undistinguished bodega or a quite little town where the bottle may well have rested for too long but the price tag is historic and the risk worthwhile. And the result can sometimes be unbelievably good. That is my kind of wine snobbery.

Meanwhile I could spend a lifetime wandering these hills, these valleys, these little lost towns. Forever weaving between hills, rounding bends to another view, creating hills to be shocked at the expanse ahead. And then stumbling lower down onto the Ebro itself, meandering soulfully, and blissfully unaware that it made this land. All of it.

Twelve 13-06

No idea what Zaragossa is like. Stayed one night and fled.

It goes like this. Before setting off we checked for camp sites. Only one in Zaragossa in our ACSI guide and that is the City Municipal. Last time we used one of those was Chartres and we had a £1500 robbery on the car and TWO punctures (Chartres was lovely but hey!?). So we expanded the search. Not only could we not find any other camp sites in Zaragossa there seemed to be none in the whole of Aragon. So we went to said City Municipal.

It was it must be admitted an achingly hot day. We got our first 32C of the trip. Arrival was interesting – up a steep twisting ramp off the main drag and a very narrow single carriageway run in. Round a roundabout and along a k to another so we could turn round to be on the camp site side of the road. All very new and all very expensive. Up another steep ramp and round an amazingly tight right hand bend, flanked by concrete walls on all sides to reach the usual stop point outside the reception. No room for any more behind us.

Reception is effective, formal and bureaucratic (they all are in Spain but this one a shade more so). No problemo with the long van, loads of space she said. In a sense this was true but only because of the almost total lack of trees. The suggested site was useless but we had been asked to select our own anyway if necessary. We found a long and easy on-easy off corner plot with the same amount of shade as all the other 100 plus – that is NONE. Anyway we pitched, sweating heavily.

The plots are numbered with illuminated signs on the corners. 85 said I. Can't be said Janet, that's the one next door. We were on the only site with TWO numbers. All the others had their numbers to the right of the plot. Ours had two. 85A as it were housed a large motor home. Then came the minute trees (shade one decade?) in the centre with the power and water set up to the rear. Then on 85b was us. Loads a room for us both! Needless to say in that early afternoon roaster we did not move and the guy in the big motorhome seemed oblivious that he had, technically, squatters.

But the site was pretty dreadful. Very new and expensively fitted out. But the camping area and bungalows (oh yes) were but a small part of what I am only guessing but looked very much like a former council tip. It was affectively a small hill with trees (and shade! at the top. And a very nice and expensive kidney-shaped pool. With huge and well equipped lawned (wow!) lido alongside. And a big bar. And a big restaurant. And a huge banqueting hall as well as tennis and Fronton courts. So we were being asked to pitch our valuable kit on a site used by the public!

And for this we were asked to pay TWICE as much as any site we have used in France, Spain or Italy - 32 Euros a night they wanted. No shade and heatwave. Surfaces of small grit which will ruin carpets and scour hard floors. Nice shower block but shower cubicles TOO small; nowhere to hang towel etc out of range of the spray. In fact they appeared designed by the chap who did school swimming pools so that youngsters were forced to run about naked on the way too and from showers. Locker rooms? Save me! And finally an apparently splendid washing up area with hot water (no plugs but that's usual) BUT every single one of 20 mixer taps was totally loose, spun on its base and had to be held with both hands to adjust! One man and spanner and a spare hour and it could be fixed.

So we spent one night. And at the exit found that we had to make a similar right turn, hemmed in by concrete walls. Straight to the roundabout and first exit had the girl said. Yeah but not everyone wants to go to Madrid and I distinctly said Burgos via Logrono!

No sight of Zaragossa. Maybe they will invite us back when they read our reviews and comments in due course. Or not.




And just as a by the way, having been lost by dodgy info and finding major roadworks going on I managed to effectively if temporarily weld the side of the van to large white panel truck. Incredibly the van driver managed to instruct me well enough to un-weld by backing up very very slowly. Janet risked her life controlling the mostly tolerant traffic. Even more incredibly damage was minute to the van and pretty minimal to the car. I shook hands with the truck driver and we parted friends. His fault? Maybe as I think he tried to sneak up the inside. My fault? Must be in part as I was changing lanes. Roadworks to blame? For sure as neither he nor I would have been in that position without them. 30-30-30 and 10 for bad luck?

Eleven 10-06

Benicassim is quite nice and thanks therefore to Graham and Jane for the recommendation. We checked out the other site but it was way too busy for our liking. And while we found a couple of pitches that would have suited our 8.5 metre long van it would not have been as handy as this site at Azahar so we stuck rather than twisted.

This place was made famous in the mid to late 19th century by the rich and famous building some amazing villas on the shoreline. Of course it was all uncontrolled and they would be horrified at what has followed. But many have survived and impress us still. Others have been torn down to make way for eight and ten storey apartment blocks of nil architectural and negative landscape value. They simply hide the splendid hills of the Desert de les Palmes that rise 600 metres high behind them. Happily these early pioneers refrained from blocking the beach line so that today there is a splendid promenade along the sands, with a tastefully limited number of cafés and restaurants.

So it goes for about 3 kilometres and then the terror strikes. Villas built right on the beach block the view, end the prom and make reaching the superb sands a grim walk down tiny alleys between the walls erected by the greedy, thoughtless yobs who built the very nice houses so close to the sea. Too late now to tear them down and start again – too expensive! So Benicassim has some ten or eleven kilometres of brilliant sand of which you cane easily reach less than a third!

The town of course is not down here on the playas (platges in Catalan) but a couple of kliks inland. It straggles up a long slow hill and while still served by the high speed railway it actually had an old ferro running within the town. The former station is the nick and the goods yards are the market square. Two bridges from those days remain, preserved as industrial relics, and the line itself is a foot and cycle way linking the beaches and the town. Very neat.

We drove towards Valencia but its just another ugly Spanish city really so we headed for Segunt which has a huge castle but turned out to be just another ugly Spanish town so we diverted to Castillon which turned out to be a huge but ugly Spanish town which had allowed a massive Carrefour to be built. It is all so depressing.

Sunday we went into the hills and found a little real Spain. No villages sadly but some amazing hills and scenery in the national park, Las Desert de les Palmes. Super bit of off-road, nice picnic and lovely little restaurant for coffee and beers. A little still survives.

Now we are off to Zaragoza, more new territory for us before we reach more familiar ground in La Rioja and then the northern coast for the ferry.

Ten 04-06

We started out on this activity wintering in rented houses in southern Spain for two yeqrs (08 and 09). Which was fine except we got a bit bored being in such an interesting country but stuck in one place. So we bought another van (our fifth over the years) and then came south in the early spring of 2010. France was fine but the car gave us a problem which meant we never reached Spain.

Year two and having to buy a new car for the job we bought bigger which meant we could have a bigger van and Janet wanted twin singles. This in turn dictated a very large van – maximum size for conventional towcars in the UK actually! So for the fourth year of our trips we took the long ferry to northern Spain and did the Costa Verde. In what turned out to be the worst spring for decades. Two things thus occurred – we struggled a bit with the weather and we added a new coast to the areas of Spanish coast which we consider ruined by over development. Three things... three things because we further confirmed that Spanish camp sites are mean with space. Which of course takes us back to the big van issue.

This year we have had several glorious weeks in France. The weather was naff for the first five but much improved for the last three. We then arrived at Camping Barcelona, Mataro, on the Costa Dourade. The campsite does it best but the location is dreadful. No beach and no access to one. No access to the countryside. Hard walking to reach anything worthwhile. Tight pitches, although ours was OK but lacked any shade or real privacy.

We took a drive up the Costa Dourade – appalling over-development everywhere. High rise on every prom. We reached the Costa Brava which looked idyllic on the map and referred to lovely coves reached only by walking. Tosh. The book is only a year or two old and the development which filled every available inch of bay or cove was decades old. The housing was sad, neglected urbanisation used for a couple of weeks each year. Abandoned shops and cafes and even supermercados added to the air of neglect. Best thing about it was the road – swooping along the corniche in bravura style from urbanisation to urbanisation. Until we reached a town at the northern end whose name escapes even my fertile imagination but bore a remarkable geographical similarity to Torquay. Sweeping sands beneath pretty hills, an old harbour and pleasing new marina, fishing boats and just one fairly modern high rise block which looked both out of place and significant – maybe they took one look and wisely said 'no more!'. The rest was in scale and even a little old. The casino is in an ornate. charming and genuine 1830s palacio!

But it was all we got and we took the fast road home so we did not have to see too much more squalid urbanisation.

So to Benicassim and a choice of two sites – one truly dreadful and the other truly crowded. Both with small pitches, tight of access and designed for small vans and small motor homes.

We drove the AP7 from Barcelona to almost Castillon. On the way we spied high rise blocking our view of the Med. And at the last did we gasp at the ugliness of a suitably named town called Opressa before swinging round a beautiful corniche and dropping down into Benicassim. It looks OK and we shall explore – but the sites are both tight, crowded and busy. Happily the weather is terrific.

Which is the point of our intended sojourn here, even in winter. I wish to escape the English weather and give my hammered lungs a better chance. But if I could choose another country I frankly would. One where they do not plonk high rise on every available chunk of prime coastline and cram every campsite with silly handkerchief plots.

Now if we had the weather in the UK we would truly have the best coastline in the world to complement some of the best parkland campsites anywhere.