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.....