Is there any point to having a plan if you never stick to it? I think it depends upon your personality. I am the least spontaneous person you are ever likely to meet. I am also congenitally risk averse. However I am not utterly inflexible, if circumstances change I am happy to do something different. So I am ok with - Plan A is not going to work, so let's try B. However waking up with no idea what the day might bring, then spontaneously deciding what to do next I find uncomfortable, a tad scary even.
Yet somehow for most of this trip that's the situation we've been in. Instead of having an itinerary sketched out beforehand we set off with a vague notion to head initially to Languedoc, move on to the Costa Brava then catch the ferry home from Santander some weeks later. The latter part has proven problematic, our progress stymied by heatwaves in the south of Spain and stormy forecasts in the north. Now it is less than two weeks until our departure, irrespective of the weather we have to head north.
From Utiel we decided to drive towards Teruel, planning to stay there overnight before pushing on to Logrono, the capital of Rioja region. Google maps came up with two options, the first - go eastwards using the motorway towards the outskirts of Valencia then head north on the A23 towards Teruel. The alternative is more direct using the N320 cross country. This route is 100kms shorter but estimated to take about the same time, a surefire sign that it wends its way very slowly through the upper valley of the Turia.
I checked it out on Streetview, most of it looked ok, only the final 14kms or so seemed very bendy where the road follows the gorge formed by the upper reaches of the river Turia.
This proved to be the case, most of the way the N320 was well surfaced, wide enough for the occasional truck hurtling towards us all not to feel too alarming, and the road markings, signage and speed limits were designed to discourage over enthusiastic overtaking. Moreover traffic was minimal, most people probably prefer the motorway.
The Iberian peninsula has a broad stripe of bright red rocks that run latitudinally across the northern part of Castille La Mancha and Exramadura and even appears in patches in eastern Portugal. Teruel itself sits on a sanguine looking outcrop and the gorges of the Turia to the south of it shares its ruddy complexion.
The road here was much trickier than I had anticipated with tight bends in the deep gorge requiring larger vehicles to slow to a snails pace to pass safely.
The villages were also challenging too. Some streets were so narrow that vehicles had to go in single file, the longer sections were controlled by traffic lights, but short sections and bridges required drivers to simply negotiate who goes first.
Though challenging the scenery was spectacular. As I edged around one particularly acute bend a pyramidal hill came into view, at its foot the Turia, now little more than a stream, tumbled through a rocky glade. It looked familiar. Have we driven this way before, I wondered.
Checking back on the blog later, it transpired we had, in February 2020 as we headed home, only slightly perturbed by stories in the press about the spread of a novel Corona virus affecting parts of northern Spain, but utterly oblivious to the fact it was destined to change the world.
The area autocaravanas in Teruel is on the outskirts of the city next to a retail park containing a big Alcampo hypermarket. It's utilitarian but well placed as a stopping point for motorhomers from northern Europe. It was considerably busier than we've found it previously on our way south in February, but still there was plenty of space. Once again we promised ourselves we would visit the city centre next time. Instead, we walked a few hundred metres to the nearest Mercadona.
I recognised the public car park opposite the store as the place we had stopped for lunch on our first visit here in November 2016. A decade ago, it's shocking how time simply slips away. We were driving 'Maisy' back then, our first moho. She had a name, but somewhere between then and now I decided that naming motorhomes was ridiculous. The older I get the less sentimental I am, more focused on the here and now, aware that as time passes the 'here and now' is a steadily diminishing commodity. Still, it's quite tricky to avoid sentimentality altogether. An elderly Ford Transit moho was parked up with double rear wheels - very similar in layout to Maisy. I couldn't resist taking a photo.
So despite my best efforts I am not entirely immune to sentimentality. Also, while I'm in confession mode, I have to admit that when it's MOT time on our current van I can't resist checking if Maisy is still going strong - and she is! I bet her current owners have no idea the things she got up to in her youth!
I mused that two weeks tomorrow we will be on a ferry from Santander heading home. We have no particular plans of where we might go between now and then, apart from calling into Logrono for some pinchos. A pinchos bar crawl is best at the weekend when the inhabitants of Logrono crowd into the famously foody bars around Calle Laurel. If the news on-line is making you depressed about the state of humanity, a couple of hours in their company will cheer you up. Eating delicious, but inexpensive finger food with a bunch of very happy Spaniards is one of the most life affirming things we do.
That means we have a couple of days to fill. Gill found a campsite open in the village of Daroca to the north east of us. The N234 follows the valley of Rio Jiloca, then beyond Calatayud crosses the Sierra de la Virgen, terminating at Soria. A good plan! Daroca looked like an interesting ancient village and the walled town of Soria somewhere I have wished to visit for a while. Furthermore, the N111 from Soria heads directly northwards to Logrono avoiding a tangle of busy motorways around Zaragoza.
To begin with all went to plan. The only place of any size hereabouts is Calamocha situated on the junction of the N234 and the A23 autovia. Nearby Carenina is a wine town, Calamocha's speciality is Jamon. Judging by the number of hotels it must attract hordes of artisanal ham aficionados. What is certainly the case is neither the landscape nor the architecture is the draw Both towns are located on a bleak, windswept plain and Calamocha's abattoirs and concrete warehouses look very unlovely.
However, beyond here the upper valley of the Jiloca is lovely. Low craggy hills overlook the pastoral valley floor. We drove through a series of old stone villages that looked as if time has passed them by for at least a couple of centuries. Each village had a similar looking church - plain looking oblong nave with an apsidal east end, however their octagonal towers were quite ornate.
Gill wondered if they were former minarets from the Moorish era. However, that seemed unlikely as. Christian Aragon occupied this part of Spain in the early twelfth century. Nevertheless, Gill's observation was astute, Wikipedia informed us that the towers were examples of the mudejar style which persisted in Spain until the seventeenth century, where the techniques and motifs associated with Moorish architecture were incorporated into Christian buildings.
The campsite at Daroca is located in an industrial area to the south of the old town. I managed to sail past the turn-off and had to double back down the bypass as driving a moho through the medieval streets of Daroca's ancient centre wasn't sensible. This proved to be just the beginning of our problems.
Google maps directed us to a narrow lane running off the forecourt of a garage, indicating that the campsite entrance was about 50 metres away. This was true, I could see it, but the road was very narrow with tall buildings on either side, and I was uncertain if I would be able to manoeuvre the moho around the tight turn. Over the years I have become ever more risk averse about driving into small spaces where there is no obvious exit.
To confuse things further three hand made signs had been attached to the garage wall. The first two were somewhat amateurish attempts at 🚫 with a graphic of a moho on one and a car and caravan on the other. A black arrow pointing left, fashioned from plywood, had been screwed to the wall next to them. The meaning of all of this seemed somewhat ambiguous, I interpreted it as motorhomes and caravans should not approach down the lane but from another entrance further down the unmetalled road to the left.
What actually happened was the unmetalled road rapidly became a narrow rutted farm track with a dry stone wall on the left and a deep ditch to right, the roadside looked crumbly. Gingerly I edged past the hazards only to be confronted by a very narrow concrete bridge across a brook. Its sides were edged by a concrete parapet and it looked barely wide enough for the moho. I stopped just short of it and walked across. The view from the this side was more reassuring than the one from the cab; the bridge was wide enough - just. Gill hopped out the cab and stood behind the van where I could see her in the wing mirror. I edged forward while she signalled that I was driving straight; getting across safely meant being inch perfect.
I was confident that the route beyond here would take me back to the main road, Google maps indicated it would, and I could see another track off to the left that skirted the side of a field which appeared to link to a metalled road. We stopped at the junction and discussed what to do next. I wasn't keen to have another go at finding the campsite, I'd had enough drama for one day. We decided to push on to Soria, about 135kms north, a couple of hours away probably, given that we were using a cross country route.
We headed back to the N234, then pulled into a layby for a late lunch. Gill asked about the whereabouts of the area autocaravanas in Soria. I recalled that Searchforsites located it next to the river and the old city walls were on the hill above it. When she checked it on Google maps the main road to the place was shown as closed and a diversion marked through the narrow streets of Soria's historic centre. I'd had enough surprises for one day and suggested we abandon our plans, cut across to the motorway and headed for Zaragoza instead. A more straightforward route, moreover, the city was 40kms closer than Soria.
We stayed in the municipal campsite in Zaragoza for a few days in April 2023 and got to see it's ancient centre. The city is described in our Lonely Planet guide book as having 'great tapas bars... and a host of historical sights spanning all the great civilisations that have left their indelible mark on the Spanish soul'. A tad hyperbolic, but not untrue. So having bathed in the architectural glories of Zaragoza three years ago we were happy enough today to simply head for the area autocaravanas on its eastern outskirts and use the place as a convenient overnight stop.
The area was on the opposite side of the city to junction where we joined the orbital motorway. Beyond the famous historical sites in the city centre, Zaragoza is a rapidly developing industrial hub, a centre for logistics, automotive engineering, steelmaking and banking. The outskirts are a bit grim, a sprawl of big factories and warehouses interspersed with recently built suburbs of mid rise apartment blocks and malls. This somewhat bleak prospect is exacerbated by the cities surroundings. Zaragoza is by far the biggest city on the Ebro. As the river wends its way across the plains of Aragon its environs create a narrow sliver of green in a bleak, arid landscape.
After the empty autovias of Castille the busy urban motorways around Zaragoza come as a shock. We needed to get to the opposite side of the city, so going around the orbital clockwise or anticlockwise was equidistant. We planned to do the former but actually did the latter after I chose the wrong lane at one of the busy interchanges; the volume of traffic was such that correcting the error seemed much more hazardous than to simply go with the flow.
The area autocaravanas occupies the corner of a big public car park serving an athletics venue and the Ibercaja stadium, a somewhat rickety temporary structure where Zaragoza FC is based until the construction of its new permanent home is completed.
The place is a useful overnight stop and very popular with northern Europeans heading home. There's a tram stop next to the car park, handy if you want visit the city centre. The service seems to stop around 11pm. so despite the place being located in a busy area it is quiet at night. If we ever came back here I would probably check if Zaragoza FC were playing at home, I guess it would be mayhem if they were.
Otherwise the neighbourhood is very nowhere in particular, a mix of bog standard apartments and office blocks built in the last couple decades . One of them had an enormous bright blue, Picasso inspired graphic covering most of the building. Contemporary Spanish architecture can be bold and unapologetically post-modern. I like that.
Somehow I seem to have written a couple of thousand words explaining how we failed to do what we planned. Some years ago Rebecca Solnit wrote 'A Field Guide to Getting Lost'. The book explored the notion that if you always stick to the familiar then you won't really devet as a person. So far as travel is concerned that means the place you end up in accidentally may be more important than the destination you intended. It's what Auden hints at in 'No Change of Place'. Here it is, just because no-one should ever overlook an opportunity to re-read it...
Who will endure
Heat of day and winter danger,
Journey from one place to another,
Nor be content to lie
Till evening upon headland over bay,
Between the land and sea
Or smoking wait till hour of food,
Leaning on chained-up gate
At edge of wood?
Metals run,
Burnished or rusty in the sun,
From town to town,
And signals all along are down;
Yet nothing passes
But envelopes between these places,
Snatched at the gate and panting read indoors,
And first spring flowers arriving smashed,
Disaster stammered over wires,
And pity flashed.
For should professional traveller come,
Asked at the fireside he is dumb,
Declining with a secret smile,
And all the while
Conjectures on our maps grow stranger
And threaten danger.