Camping La Garrofa - quirky in a good way

So the plan was to spend a couple of nights at the campsite at Roquetas de Mar until the forecast winds died down then move on towards Almeria. When we reached Roquetas de Mar it looked dismal. The landscape shrink-wrapped as ever, but now embellished with clusters of industrial buildings - huge fruit distribution warehouses, truck parks and repair centres, snazzy looking 'Bio-tech' laboratories, all overlooked by giant advertising hoardings or big neon signs on a hundred foot high poles promoting golf resort real estate or discount deals on figure-hugging Lycra. It is only the fact that for over 300 days per year the sun shines and the sky shimmers wall to wall blue that saves this particular industrial sprawl from being just as grim as Walsall, Middlesbrough or Stoke-on-Trent. 

The campsite is tucked away behind the tat about a kilometre from the coast. None of the roads to it are particularly straightforward, but we managed to pick the worst. In some failed attempt at jollification some enterprising urban planner had decided to build a central reservation down an already narrowish road, then plant trees on it. Their branches scraped along the side of the van as I edged along taking care not to hit the dry stone wall on the other side. After a couple of hundred metres of torture the pretence that the the road was two-way evaporated and we found ourselves on a single-track lane with Smart Car sized passing places. Dreadful.

We paused at the campsite gates, and agreed, no way. Gill plotted an alternative route back to the main road on her phone. It was better, but busy, through grids of apartment blocks and narrow streets lined with parked cars, then a few shops. Only later did we discover that we had driven straight through the middle of Aquadulce.

We decided to head to Camping La Garrota. Though it is only a few kilometres from the Roquetas de Mar sprawl, close to the main road and the A7 motorway, a mere ten minute bus ride from Almeria city centre, the place manages to feel a somewhat remote. It nestles in the only cove in a chain of vertical sea cliffs that divides the Roquetas de Mar conurbation from Almeria itself. We stayed here back in 2015 and remembered it with fondness as an interesting site, a little elderly but charming. 

Most of the flat pitches behind the small beach are taken-up by folks here for the duration. Tourers end up in the terraced area nearer reception. Pitches are a tight squeeze for a 7m van, and getting level is a struggle, well actually with only two ramps it's impossible.

We took a short stroll down to the beach, photographed the old stone viaduct that cuts the site in half, reminisced that we had stayed before in the pitch underneath the arches, headed back and shared a beer.

"Well what's not to like here?" I posited rhetorically. A momentary silence....

Gill: We are on a bit of a wonk (bathroom door swings open of its own accord).
Pete: True, and the service point is tricky to reverse onto and has the third worst designed chemical toilet emptying point I have ever come across (as sewerage disposal engineer in chief he remembers these things).

Next morning - Gill's shower is luke warm, mine lovely... following day... situation reversed

Then there's the WiFi, free, so good; but signal wafts about like a crisp packet in a squall, so slow one photo can take half an hour to upload...so bad.

Therefore, in truth there is quite a lot not to like here. So why would we come back? Indeed, why might we regard the places as one of the handful of sites where we could imagine ourselves staying for a few weeks, rather than our usual couple of days? Well Google reviewer 'Ivoryrainbow' puts it like this:

★★★★★ 3 months ago

I don't understand how this site got such a lower rate than what it deserves. Initially, I was a bit concerned of the camp site being located right next to a highway but I could only hear the calming wave sound over-powering the cars' noise. Unlike many camp grounds in Spain I have been to, the design of the site is much more open and it seemed this contribute to more friendly environment among fellow campers that it almost felt like a intimate community. The staffs were friendly and having a super clean bathroom/toilet/shower facilities was the plus. I SUP in the late morning and 5-6 dolphins passed by right next to me which was so unexpected. Clearly many international campers come back over and over and I could see why. Disregard any negative comments here. I really enjoyed the time here

Well said! Mr Rainbow. It's the mixture of the place itself and the kind of people it attracts that gives La Garroffa its charm. I just know that 'Ivoryrainbow' is not going to be some miserable old git wearing pressed shorts and gleaming white ankle socks and sandals. This is not to say that La Garrofa attracts only youthful alternative types, there are many retirees overwintering on the beach-side pitches. However I observed not one example of a man in socks and sandals but quite a few elderly males with grey pony tails wearing faded black tees sporting metal death-head logos. Not that I own one myself, nor even in my hippiest days was ever tempted to gather my curly blonde locks into a ponytail or wear a bandana. However, in some alternative universe I can imagine I might have done. Conversely, in no reality, virtual or alternative, utopian or dystopian can I ever conceive a different me wearing sandals and socks.

We ended up staying here four nights, longer than in most places. We needed a bolt hole to hide in during the windy weather. The place is a good hideaway as it nestles by the sea at the end of a steep valley protected by steep cliffs. A disused old viaduct cuts through the site. It carries the old route of the N340. carved out of the sheer rock walls. Sometime in the 1960s, judging from the concrete bridge outside the site gates, the road was upgraded and La Garrofa tunnel built. Though it is next to the campsite there is little road noise as a decade or two ago this too was supplanted as the main coastal highway by the A7 motorway. It leaps across the narrow valley on tall stilts a few hundred metres inland. One of the attractions of La Garrofa is though the beach itself feels slightly remote, the place is less than 15 minutes from Almeria city centre, the buses half-hourly and the fare only €1.35.

As for the beach itself, with the slightly ramshackle whitewashed old buildings behind the greyish sand, the rocky promontories at each end and the distant view of the dark hills of the Cabo de Gata across the bay, it all looks a bit Greek. Anywhere that looks a bit Greek is bound to lift the spirits. Whipped-up by the brisk breeze the white topped waves crashed into the steeply shelving shingle, each one making a satisfying scrunch.

As well as the endlessly fascinating pastime of wave watching, there is a beautiful view towards the Capo de Gata's chain of old volcanoes. Some landforms seem uniquely satisfying, their particular topography and geology conspiring to separate them from the immediate surroundings. The Lake District is like that, seen from across Morecambe bay or glimpsed from the M6 the unique craggy outline sings out from the rolling green Pennines that surround it.

The Cabo de Gata is like that too, the purplish grey volcanic mountains contrast with the beige desert nearby. Seen from across the sea from La Garrofa beach it is even more of an alluring prospect. It's one of our favourite places in Spain. We are heading there next week and the forecast looks great

From sea to plastic sea.

Throughout our stay at Camping Castillo de Baños we have suffered from a distinct sense of deja-vu. The previous time we were here in February 2015 there was a British caravan rally, albeit on a more modest scale than the one here now. We also were marooned for days by dangerously high winds. Clearly Groundhog Day is not confined to Westminster.

All was calm when we first arrived. We felt quite pleased with ourselves having bagged a pitch with a sea view, close to the sparkling Med, next to the wire perimeter fence positioned no more than a metre or two above a narrow strip of shingle. The windscreen was one big ocean panorama, blue throughout the day, flecked orange at dawn, distinctly pink at sunset. Beautiful.

Yes, beautiful until the wind strengthed from breezy to minor gale. Then the wild sea crashed towards the cab, spindrift streaming back from the wave-tops like a windswept veil. It was all somewhat disconcerting. The surf roared all night, sounding ever closer in the dark. Thankfully the low bank at the back of the beach meant there was no chance of us being swept off to Morocco, but it did not always feel like that.

Despite the annoying wind early onset cabin fever drove us outside. We took a blustery stroll into the nearby small village, our progress impeded not only by the wind but also by road-works. Most of the pavements seemed to have been fenced off, big trenches and piles of blue plastic pipes forming an obstacle course. Eventually we found the promenade and discovered a new cycle track running alongside the N380 towards La Mamola. We walked along it for a couple of kilometres pausing occasionally to take photos of the waves crashing onto the boulder strewn shore.

Overnight the gales subsided. We had removed the blinds from the windscreen since we were not overlooked at the front. When we woke yellow light streamed into the van. Moments later the sun rose above the horizon, the sea became flecked with gold.. Living in a 7 metre van has magic moments.

Our plan today was to move from Granada province to Almeria, parking for a couple of nights in a free beach side parking we had found on Campercontacts at Los Baños de Guardias Viejas. On the way we stopped at a Mercadona on the outskirts of Adra. Nice store, big car park with plenty of room and no tricky overhanging sunshades - all good.

The border between Granada and Almeria provinces signals a marked change in the coastal landscape. All the way from Malaga to Adra the mountains drop into the sea without much of a coastal plain. East of Adra there is big salt flat punctuated by small craggy outcrops, not that you can see much of the ground, here is the heart of Tomatoland, hectares and hectares of plasticulture.

From a distance it looks impressive in an otherworldly sort of way. Turn off the motorway and head towards the coast through the maze of greenhouses and it looks desolate and demoralising. It is a deeply unlovely agro-industrial landscape made worse because the scrubland between the plastic greenhouses is litter strewn and full of junk.

Is it an environmental disaster area as well as big plastic blot on the landscape? It looks as if it could be, obviously whatever grew there naturally before has been obliterated. Also Tomatoland must use an astonishing amount of water and the run-off and heaped-up spent compost could well be full of nitrates and phosphates. On the other hand you can never farm on an industrial scale without affecting the local ecology - a big wheat prairie is hardly environmentally benign. 

It is difficult to look at the plasticised landscape without feeling aghast. Must we do this? However, with 7.2 billion humans on the planet and a further billion expected to be added within a decade, feeding everone is going to take more than a some picturesque allotments and a few organic small-holdings. When I first became interested in green issues back in the 70s books like Erlich's 'Population Bomb' predicted famines on a global scale by the end of the 20th century. Though there are millions of under-nourished people in the world even yet, and wars and natural disasters do still cause famines, generally we have managed to feed the burgeoning population by developing global transport systems, free trade and improved yields and productivity - partly by adopting mass-scale high intensity agriculture, like you find here. How do we square that with the need to look after the planet? It's probably the next generation's biggest challenge.

So, here we are camped by the sea among the plasticulture. Another unlovely, but thought provoking place.

The coast is ok even if hinterland is somewhat despoiled It's a popular moho spot. Lots of vans, twenty or more, parked among the scrubby bushes behind the beach. Quite a few monster trucks and cruise-boat sized mohos built to live off-grid for weeks. Some have very snazzy looking kit - including big roof mounted solar panels that tilt towards the sun. Most are German.

Almerimar is just along the coast. We noticed some lakes between here and the town so we pedalled there this morning. They were surrounded by apartment blocks, all empty. It looked like a post-apocalyptic version of Milton Keynes.

In the summer the area is probably quite lively. At the moment everything is closed, totally shuttered and locked-up. We had a similar experience on Calabria's Ionian sea coast in February a few years ago. Maybe around here it is slightly less poverty stricken and there are fewer mad looking stray dogs. More mohos too, in Calabria often we were on our own, adding a nagging sense of unease to the desolate ambiance.

There is an old fortress on a nearby bluff. It's the only thing of historical interest for miles around so we cycled there to take a closer look. It houses a small museum including finds from the nearby Roman baths. Sadly the museum was closed, but the fortress itself was impressive and the view of the coast and inland to the snowy Sierra Nevada memorable. 

The area near the fortress gives an inkling of what the entire area might have been like before it was shrink wrapped. It probably felt wild, remote and desolate. Now it just feels desolate.

Tomorrow we are going to head to the ACSI campsite at Roquetas de Mar. After a couple of days there we will move on again so we can visit Almeria next weekend. Hopefully we can find some interesting tapas restaurants with a bit of an urban vibe. There is only so long you can spend days mulling over the environmental challenges of industrial scale tomato growing and pretend you are having a fun time.

A road, 'A' roads.

Cycling back to the campsite yesterday afternoon, freewheeling down a steep cliff-side road that ten minutes ago we had just struggled up, suddenly I felt the need to screech to a halt and photograph a road sign.

Why? Because I have an idiosyncratic interest in 'lost highways', once important routes now by-passed by history. 

Being burdened by a peculiar interest is quite common I think. Gill picks up unusual small rocks and pops them into her handbag - though I never spot her doing it. I had a colleague who was obsessed with designer shoes; she had cupboards full of funkily designed stilettos at home but could not explain why she was addicted to buying them. Someone else at work was unable to leave the house unless they wore something red - a scarf, a red streak in her hair, scarlet nail varnish - she could not countenance being able to function at all without a 'red-bit'.

So by these standards being drawn to seek out half-forgotten highways seems a harmless sort of obsession. The N340 is a good example. This was once the main road running almost the length of Spain's Mediterranean coast from Barcelona to Cadiz. Over the course of the last half century Spain's road network has undergone a revolution. New dual carriageways and motorways have replaced the older network. Nevertheless, remnants of the old N340 pop up in every one of Spain's Mediterranean provinces, a scrap of trunk road here, elsewhere a pot-holed old dual carriageway downgraded to a white minor road on the map. For miles it shadows the A7 motorway, little used, neglected, dotted with abandoned petrol stations, rusting and graffiti covered, like you find on Route 66 in the American West. When I happen upon a disregarded stretch of the N340 I become inordinately pleased, like unexpectedly bumping into an old friend.

I have a good inkling as to when I became 'road struck'. We often used to visit Leamington Spa and Bristol to catch up with our kids at university. Both places involved travel down the A38. I became intrigued by it as the road, somewhat bizarrely, links Mansfield in Nottinghamshire to Bodmin in Cornwall for no apparent reason. I decided British 'A' roads were unjustly overlooked national treasures, so I wrote a 'paean' to them. 

A' Roads

Pre-easyJet they linked unlikely places –
Bodmin to Mansfield, via Tewkesbury;
meandering through England’s crowded spaces,
mementos of an age unused to hurry.
Perhaps it's all a myth - that RAC’s

roadside patrols saluted passers-by;
content inside their Hillmans, smiling families
sipped tea; lay-bys were litter-free, July
though blustery, always sunny. Now up-graded
to would-be motorways, sat-nav defined,
a two lane stretch comes as a shock. A faded
re-collection flashes though my mind:
A sunset I once glimpsed near Gravelly Hill-
lost highways? - No, but roads to freedom still.

I should have left it at that. However, when in 2013 redundancy gifted me months of spare time I found myself exploring the northern part of the A38. The notes and video snippets from these jaunts eventually brought together as 'Voceti' the creative project that formed a part of my MA dissertation.

One effect of this has been to turn my use of maps upside down. When sensible people decide that they want to get from A to B, they use a road map or sat-nav to plot the best route. I am more likely to look at a map simply to find an alluring looking road, then plot to follow it. In October 2017 we took a route through inland Spain from Valencia to Jaen via Albacete for no other reason than it looked like an interesting, unfrequented road,. It was, and we happened upon some unexpectedly lovely places, like Chinchilla de Monte Aregón and Ubeda.

So whenever I see an intriguing road I get an overwhelming desire to drive it. Sadly quite a few of them are simply too narrow or steep for the motorhome. Like today, as well as the N380 following the coast, I noticed another road, the snazzily titled GR - 6204. It wiggled it's way directly north into the mountains, heading eventually I surmised into the Alpujarras. I decided to make a solo attempt by e-bike, only a few kilometres up it until I got a bird's eye view of the coast.

After the first couple of kilometres through plasticulture I encountered a different landscape, empty scrubby looking hills dotted with almond trees in blossom. The A7 motorway tunnels beneath the old mountain road. You get an epic view from it - not only of the wild mountains towards the coast, but also the massive engineering work that went into constructing the motorway. Spain's development over recent decades has been nothing short of breathtaking - part of it was laid out before me right there.

The gradient was brutal; the road snaking upwards in a series of hairpin bends. Ebikes are awesome things, but it took full power and the lowest gear to get me to the top. Still, I made it, my knees did not complain too much and I felt great. 

Is there a medical term for my condition - Roadaholic? Asphaltic? Motor new-one disease? I am a Tarmac-head, not a petrol head.

Another small step (no giant leaps whatsoever).

Our snail's pace tour of the 'Costa Tropica' continues, now we are almost four kilometres from where we were yesterday, parked for a few days in Camping Castillo de Baños, with a bracing pitch about 15 metres from the sea, beneath a small pine tree and a eucalyptus. To put our progress into context, imagine a trip to North Wales beginning in 'Sunny Prestatyn', then stopping at Rhyl, Towyn, Llanddulas, and Colwyn Bay, exploring each in turn while harbouring a vague aspiration to arrive in Llandudno sometime next month. The question this poses is, will you see more if you go slower?

It's good to be on a well organised site. After using the van's basic, somewhat cosy facilities for days being able to enjoy a proper shower with lashings of hot water and an 'invigorating' water pressure seems almost luxurious. 

However, there are downsides to the site's well organised, efficient ambiance in so much as it attracts a clientele for whom organisation and efficiency are a top priority. The place is hosting a British Camping and Caravan Club European rally. When Gill checked us in the receptionist handed her a plan. She explained that all the pitches between the gate and the sanitary block 'were only for the big English group - you can choose anywhere beyond that with the Germans and other people'. Is this what the future is going to be like, we wondered.

International zone at the top,  little Britain at the bottom.

Post Brexit perhaps we will need passports to move between the two zones...

So the past few days has provided me with plenty of anthropological entertainment observing the British caravanserai abroad. Especially as the previous place we stayed -Tropic Autocaravanas - had been distinctly Gallic in character. What were the key differences, I mused, between 'la petite Republique' and this nearby 'little Britain' that we had to walk through every time we wished to leave the site.

I suppose the first difference is La mini Republique resulted from happenstance whereas Costa Blighty Caravanas was deliberately designed. It just happened that a young French couple saw a business opportunity on the Costa Tropica, the place got good reviews on Campercontacts - some in French, Jean told Marcel, Francoise mentioned it to Michelle, and now here they all were playing boules by the Med.

However there is nothing accidental about our nearby CCC rally. It looks so pre-planned and organised it could have been the brainchild of a latter-day Captain Mainwaring, the club flag fluttering proudly above the rally tent and social area, the day's activities pinned to the noticeboard, opposite - mission control, the 'Rally Stewards', Chris and Gill's caravan.

I am not sure the correct nomenclature for the participants - members, guests, adherents, victims... anyway, quite a few of them had followed the stewards' example and placed name badges on their pitches. One notice 'Chris and Jan Taylor' had been hastily sketched and tied to a tree; most others revealed definite pre-planning - names printed on purpose-made tiles, decorated with flowers and wood framed, the kind of plaque you can buy at a garden centre for your house name or number. A few people had been a little more creative and painted their names on small lumps of granite or a big pebble. Gill looked askance at these regarding any attempt to decorate rocks as a form of geological desecration. 'Who would want to do that's to a perfectly lovely piece of granite?" she lamented.

What I noticed was on every single notice the man's name came first, 'Dave and Judy', 'Ian and Wendy', 'Derek and Sue'. However you regard it, some kind of inate sense of order lies behind this, alphabetical or patriarchal. Odd.

The most noticeable difference between the French and British groups was the way they inhabited social space. In Tropica Autocaravanas gaggles of French moho owners stood around in the road chatting loudly for half the day speaking simultaneously, multitudinous animated conversions all going on at the same time. The only time anyone 'took turns' was later-on when they migrated to the boules pitch.

Quite the opposite in Caravan rally land; as the personally signed pitches might indicate, the area was much more of a neighbourhood with people popping into one another's pitches for a drink or cup of tea. Lots of smaller conversations going on here and there. You would pick up snippets as you passed; strung together they took on a sort of ghastly, but fascinating mundanity reminiscent of a Harold Pinter script. Whereas the French recreated the village square, the CCC rally resembled suburbia on wheels. We all carry our cultures with us like an invisible carapace.

I don't want to give the impression we spent our entire time observing the neighbours, we have done stuff, domestics like the laundry. Yet even here cultural confusions reigned. Gill was mistaken for a stupid foreigner while standing at the washing machine. A British woman, speaking very slowly explained to Gill that the tokens were FIVE EUROS, helpfully holding up all the fingers on her left hand as if making some sort of 'we come in peace gesture'. I do understand why the helpful lady may have concluded Gill wasn't British, her curly brown hair and dark complexion is not typical, she does look quite southern. However, her assumption that Gill's lack of Britishness was some sort of handicap and that she required special assistance beggars belief really.

It was good to get out. We unloaded the bikes an pedalled a few kilometres back along the coast, this time using the old N340 coast road which has little traffic on it these days. One problem with the campsite from our point of view is that the nearby roads are not well suited to cycling. Inland they are too steep for us these days. The coast road eastwards towards La Mamola goes through an unlit single track tunnel - a bit dodgy for cyclists as the local farmers seem to drive like maniacs. This left the road we took, back towards Castell de Ferro. It climbed steadily up the side of the cliffs for a few kilometres until you got a magnificent view of the whole coast. Bare hills dotted with glistening hothouses clinging precariously to the sides of mountains - below the sea gently wrinkled by a soft breeze.

We passed a track to a remote beach. I immediately regretted not packing my swimming stuff. Today was a rare day in January where it might have been comfortable enough for a swim, really I should keep some trunks and a towel in the panniers - just on the off-chance.

Oh, one more thing, as we pedalled back into the site, our ebike's whirring prompting every one of the caravanners many pooches to go into attack mode, I noted as I hurried past one van with a particularly colourful decorated stone. Inscribed on it in curly letters, 'Val and Ian'. I take it all back, one rebel couple within the tribe challenging the assumed order. Rebellion may be afoot. Should we report them to the stewards I wondered.....

From sprawl to shrink wrapped

East from Nerja we swapped from the N340 which hugs the narrow coastal strip onto the A7 autovia which snakes across the hills a few kilometres inland. The road is a spectacular feat of engineering; tall white viaducts leap across arid valleys, long tunnels burrow through precipitous mountains. You get a different angle on the landscape from up here, sometimes a bird's-eye view of the developed shoreline, occasionally a glimpse of the Sierra Nevada's gleaming snowy peaks inland. It is a great drive.

Somewhere between Nerja and Alumñecar the character of the coast changes, All along the Costa del Sol patches of plasticulture pop up among the sprawl of tourist development. Further east, all the way to Almeria and beyond, this pattern is reversed, hundreds, perhaps thousands of square kilometers of coastline is shrink-wrapped - an economic tour-de-force, impressive and dis-spiriting in equal measure. 

When we came this way previously three years ago we dubbed this stretch of coast 'Tomatoland'. However, just as there are breaks in the Costa del Sol's sprawl, there are patches of Tomatoland that are not yet entirely shrink-wrapped. The cliffs and remote coves from Cabo Sacratif to Punta Negra are so rocky and precipitous that large scale plasticulture is not on option. Consequently the small settlements like La Mamola, Los Yesos and Castell de Ferro retain something of the area's former unfrequented desert-like beauty.

We are holed-up for a few days in this latter place at Auto Caravanas Tropic. The aire is run by a French couple and most of the guests are fellow citizens of La Republique. It is all right and proper, lunch happens "en masse' at noon sharp following an aperitif; gleaming white ankle socks are 'de riguer' for participants in the afternoon boules match. Cheek kissing abounds. No matter how far the French travel they are never 'abroad', France comes with them.

When I said 'holed-up' at Tropic Autocaravanas I meant this literally; we are trapped. Two days of gusty winds means travel on the elevated sections of the A7 would be distinctly unpleasant in a high sided vehicle. We will stay put until the gales abate. Somewhat co-incidentally this is the second time this has happened to us here. In February 2015 we had to take shelter from stormy weather in the campsite at Mamola, 7km. along the coast. Maybe the fact we are so close to the 11,000' Sierra Nevada creates more active weather systems hereabouts; perhaps we have simply been unlucky. Who knows?

Anyway, we are parked about 20 metres from the beach, the winds have washed the dust from the atmosphere, the light is crystal clear - another laid-back day, a bit of reading, a bit of blogging, a lot of being buffeted.

Another seven kilometres

Today we hopped seven kilometres east along the N340 from the beach parking at Torrox Costa to a beach parking near Nerja. As if to reinforce the point I made in the last post about every place we visit telling a different story, the two places, so close you can actually see one from the other, have a completely different ambiance.

Nerja, though hardly undeveloped, is not really a sprawling resort, rather a collection of small 'urbanizacións' that dot the shore and low coastal hills around the town. Some of the developments are a quite swanky; however, the bits in-between, especially the ramshackle chiringuitas behind the beach, give the place a bit of a beach bum vibe.

This affects the mix of mohocans overnighting in the beach car parks. In Torrox gleaming white vans with elderly owners predominate, among them monster Cathargos and Concordes. Here at Playa Playazo it's a more a mixed bunch, including younger people with ancient, but well loved Hymers, idiosyncratic self builds and the odd graffiti enhanced bus conversion. No rules, plenty of space, a view of the sunset like an Ibiza chill-out bar on wheels - much more our thing .

 It does help that it has been a glorious day from dawn to dusk, for the most part cloudless and mild. Almost shorts and tee weather, the cool breeze demanded a light zippy top - but it is mid January after all.

The Sierra de Tejeda rises to over 6000 feet behind the shore. A few clouds bubbled up in the afternoon. It was one those very relaxed kind of days where simply watching the cloud shadows becomes mildly addictive.

Towards evening the clouds dissipated into cotton wool balls above the mountains and wisps on the horizon. As twilight gathered they turned pink. It was a pretty enough for me to announce on Facebook 'The International Day of the Fluffy Cloud'. 

Hmm, barely ten days into the trip, already there are surefire signs that I am going 'soft in the head', a phrase much bandied about in the neighbourhood I grew up in, denoting behaviour that transgressed class or gender norms. It was assumed that any boy from the estate who went to grammar school was doomed to go soft in the head. Which I duly did.