Dog howling at the moon, cockerel crowing at dawn, Ken Clarke.

Last night our second super moon beamed down upon us. Ever helpful, Moto, my pocket sized assistant chipped in to inform us that it was a 'snow moon', whereas  precisely 27 days ago she  had breezily announced the imminent arrival over the skies of Portugal of a 'super wolf moon'. Along with storms Gloria, Ciara (is that even a name?) and Dennis, it's just all part of 2020's infantile zeitgeist. I realise that since I am very likely to start the next paragraph with the words 'I don't remember all this'... then probably I've inexorably drifted into boring grey-haired old git mode. In my defense, I do have grey hair, I am in my mid-sixties and can be so tedious that even I get bored in my own company. 

I don't remember all this ... snowy wolf moon malarkey back in the day (my nasal hairs turn a whiter shade of pale, Gill's eye's roll, she blacks-out and falls side-wards off chair). Pete fails to notice and continues. ..

"Don't you think big fat full moon is a wondrous thing," I hopped out of the van to take a couple of photographs. Both proved wholly unsatisfactory. The first taken with my phone captured the moon's size and luminosity but was blurry. The second, taken with a DSLR had more detail but looked underwhelming.

I would not describe myself as a keen photographer but I have clicked away for over  half a century, always with a degree of care, hoping to capture something a little more interesting than a snapshot. Somewhat depressingly, I don't think over the years I have improved at all. I can recall a few memorable pictures that I was pleased with, but none were outstanding. The good ones are simply the result of serendipity - that if you take tens of thousands of pictures in all probability not all of them will be mediocre. A similar notion to the idea about an infinite number of monkeys writing Hamlet.

Facebook reminded me that once again we were staying in the same place as we were exactly a year ago - Agua Amarga. It's a small scale resort at the more remote northern end of the Cabo de Gata national park. The heart of the old village is Arabic in origin, a tight tangle of narrow streets, whitewashed and decked with flowers.

Beyond these, are low rise duplex apartments and small villas all shuttered for winter. It is somewhat zombiefied, but the big beach between two headlands, the northern one topped by a ruined castle,  lends the place a bit of charm even if the human population appears to be outnumbered by stray cats and the odd mangy looking dog.

When we came here first, four years ago, we stayed in an informal overnight stopping place on the edge of town. It's now blocked off with big boulders and a 'No Camping' sign has been erected. A new paid for area autocaravanas has opened across the road. It's well designed and pleasant, though by the time you add in the extras for EHU, and the payg showers, the cost is little different to a campsite.

Given that the showers are located in a box, reminiscent of  a tastefully upgraded shipping container and designed with a distinctly Scandinavian disregard for privacy, then the place seems over priced to me.

We didn't care. As forecast the winds dropped to a dead calm and in the afternoon temperatures headed towards the upper twenties.

I decided to go for a swim. Of course whatever the air temperature right now the sea is still chilly. On the bone chilling side of refreshing is how I put it.

After the frenetic atmosphere of Los Escullos we were looking forward to a peaceful night. I had not anticipated the contribution of a fellow moon enthusiast. No sooner had I dropped-off than I was catapulted from my slumbers by a blood-curdling howl. The nearby house's guard dog suddenly rediscovered his long lost wolf  DNA, and took to howling at the full moon, interspersed here and there with the odd yelp, whimper and ferocious outburst of maniacal barking.

This seemed to go on for hours, but eventually quietened; maybe moon eventually set. I must have fallen asleep as the next thing I remember is coming to at first light part way through an odd dream: I am a Commons lobby journalist.  Sadly Ken Clarke has just passed away, I am honoured to have been asked to say a few words at his funeral. Every time I say something Ken sits bolt upright in his open coffin and contradicts me. Ken Clarke, I hope its not an omen. He's one of the few Tories I have time for.

Cock-a-doodle-doo! That explains the sudden awakening - cockerel replaces hound, moon becomes dawn...the dream, no idea.. I attempt to lull myself back to sleep by repeating monotonously - chicken soup, chicken soup, chicken soup, chick zzzz.