Back the way we came

I suppose the question 'how do we get home?' is marginally easier to answer than than the one at present more uppermost in our minds, 'Why on earth do we want to?' The latter a more a 'crie de coeur' than a matter of practicality .So back to the first, more mundane one. With only five days to drive the 750 miles from Tossa de Mar to Dieppe then there were only two practical options. Either to simply retrace our steps and go back the way we came, or vary our route through France by turning northwest at Narbonne and using the A6 towards Toulouse. The A20 heads directly north past, Cahor, Brive, and Limoges, to Vierzon, then the usual - Orleans, Chartres, Rouen, Dieppe. In terms of distance there was little to choose between the two, in terms of cost the latter is slightly more expensive because it includes more toll roads. In the end we decided to stick with the way we came but for different reasons. All motorways are equally boring, I asserted, Gill adding, that taking the same road in the opposite direction is a different journey. I felt there was some kind of profound truth behind her remark, it sounded a tad zen, so back the way we came it was to be.

.

1. Cala Llevado to Mèze.

This turned out more a back the way we came moment than we planned. Before we reached France we needed one last Mercadona shop. The supermarket specialises in doing more delicious versions of ordinary things, like their crisps, chocolate crunchy muesli and a new product - Kalamata olive flavoured humous. All life essentials. We identified a big Mercadona store on the outskirts of Girona, Streetview intimated that it had ample parking and no height barriers at the entrance. In heading there we broke one of our golden rules, don't drive a motorhome unless you have to through urban sprawl. We arrived at precisely the moment when most of the inhabitants of Girona were heading home for siesta time. Then we discovered we'd put the wrong Mercadona store into the satnav and had to make a detour around the traffic choked ring road to find the right one. There was a queue to get into the car park, we gave up. 

Instead we took a detour back to l'Escala Mercadona which is easily accessible, haa big car park and a Lidl across the road. This pleased us inordinately because at the moment Lidl in Spain has a deal on Sorrento DOC. limoncella at €3.80. We bought two bottles a few days ago, but having made significant inroads into one of them we took the opportunity to buy two more. We celebrated the deal as a minor 'beat Brexit' triumph, the price of a 50cl bottle of Limoncella in our local Morrisons having rocketed to over £11.00.

Then it was back to France and a return to the Mèze area, not Loupian Municipal campsite this time, but the Campingcarparks aire on the edge of town. The place itself was fine, well designed with a good service point; it's location however is somewhat quirky. 

Reviews had prepared us for the fact that the access road was narrow and the aire was adjacent to the town's olympic sized skate park. No one mentioned the the rest of the 'recreational area'. It had been developed around two lakes created for coarse fishing, footpaths circling around them for runners or people simply taking an evening stroll, as we did at sunset. It should be lovely, but the place is a former salt flat and the lakes a haven for mosquitos.

One 'plan d'eau' had been drained, reduced to a bed of cracked mud with a somewhat redundant sign planted in the middle of it. 

To add to the uncanny ambience, striped hazard tape had been stretched between the ornamental trees, some months ago seemingly, for it had snapped and now wafted forlornly in the wind. Maybe the area had been placed out of bounds during lockdown, we speculated. Anyway, in an area that specialises in delightful public spaces we happened upon one that wasn't.

We spent two nights back in Meze, squeezing out the last of the warm autumn weather. By now we were in 'endishness' territory. Somehow despite there being dozens of perfectly nice places to have lunch the next day we failed to find anywhere we liked. We simply wandered about, taking bright shiny photos and muttering about not being able to do this at home.

In the end, no matter how many times you attempt to capture the Midi's scintillating light, you cannot bottle it and take it home. The prospect of two and a half months of dull chilly days depressed our spirits. Maybe we should change the date of our Santander crossing to earlier in January, we pondered.

2. Meze to Massiac.

Returning to Gill's assertion that taking the same road in the opposite direction is a different journey, there is no greater proof of this than the section of the A75 motorway a few kilometres north of Lodeve. On the way south the spectacular descent of the Cirque de Navacelles signalled our arrival in the Mediterranean. Heading north geology rather than geography predominated as the spectacular arc of limestone crags and cliffs filled the windscreen.

Then it was a rollercoaster drive 120 miles north to Massiac, the motorway undulating across the Massif Central. A fabulous day for it - bright sun, deep blue sky,  the horizon ringed by dark hills of the Auvergne. Hours ticked by, cruise control set 85kph, truck speed - there was something oddly absorbing in the beautiful monotony of each moment - is there such a thing as timefullness?

We reached Massiac in the late afternoon. A fortnight ago the trees in the camping municipal had been mostly green, tinged here and there with the first signs of autumn. Now they blazed in the late afternoon sun, yellow leaves carpeting the ground .

I wrote previously about the villages of the Cantal and Auvergne having a severe demeanor. I wonder now if this reflects that it has been overcast mostly when we have crossed the Massif Central . Despite Boris's assertions to the contrary uplands are rarely sunny. Today was an exception and Massiac looked lovely. 

We walked into the centre in search of a boulangerie. As well as a baguette we bought some macaroons. Unlike most other places in the Cantal, macaroons not cheese are the town's speciality. Though it does have a very good cheese shop too. 

Late afternoon tea with artisan macaroons! We live the high life.

3. Massiac to Le Ferté-Saint-Aubin.

A journey of two halves, the first forty miles or so were re-run of yesterday, if anything even more spectacular as the A75 skirts the edge of the Volcan national park and you glimpse the conical peaks of Puy de Sancy and le Mont Doré to the west. 

The remaining 180 miles north of Clermont Ferrand is quite tedious, at least if you stick to the motorway. We drove towards dullness which  deteriorated into drizzle as we neared Vierzon. Luckily by the time we reached the aire at La Ferte Saint-Aubin the sky cleared.

Gill took the opportunity to wash the windscreen which was splattered with dead insects, why does everyone else's vans appear pristine and ours looks as if we just completed a particularly muddy stage of the Paris to Dakar rally?

4. Two hops and home, La Ferté-Saint-Aubin to Buxton via Mesnières-en-Bray motorhome aire and a car park in Newhaven

It was twilight by the time we arrived back. The drive from Newhaven had taken eight hours, almost twice the time predicted by the sat nav. Insulation Britain activists had threatened to bring the M25 to a standstill. We were unaffected by them, but really as protests goes it was somewhat futile, the M25 can halt itself quite readily, which it did often, bringing its mates the M40 and M45 out in sympathy. I felt frazzled. 

I was relieved to get home. Before I switching off I picked up my phone and took a photo of the trip counter.

Not a long trip really, but we had covered over 900 miles in the last 5 days and it had been over a week since we had stopped in a campsite. It is possible to live 'off grid' in the van, but eventually you do feel the need to use a bathroom that is bigger than a telephone kiosk.  

So, two screen shots  covering a thousand miles. 

A long drive through autumn...

Winter looms, the clocks change next weekend. "What have we look forward to?" Gill mused. My response - "It's day two tests tomorrow, yet another opportunity to stick a cotton bud up both nostrils." This was not what my beloved wanted to hear. "Only 92 days before we are back in Spain," I added brightly.

Silence.

El portal cerrado

Sarah booked us into El Portal restaurant In Tossa de Mar the last time we were here. It enjoys an international reputation for enhancing traditional Spanish tapas by introducing 'small plate' cooking techniques from Japan, Korea and South America. As one reviewer on TripAdvisor noted, you get Michelin three star quality without the hefty price tag.

We promised ourselves a return visit. It should have been simple, Tossa de Mar is only 3km from Cala Levado. There is a coastal footpath but it's a tad precarious for us these days. In summer there is a half hourly service between Lloret and Tossa, passing the junction to the site. It's a steep 800m walk up to the bus stop, but doable. No-one in reception could tell us whether the bus times taped to the door were still current. 

We decided to give it a go anyway. We huffed and puffed up the hill to the main road and stood on the scrap of waste ground in front of a restaurant that we discovered last time served as Cala Llevado's secret bus stop.

In the following 35 minutes many interesting things occured: a swarm of large red admiral butterflies gathered around the fetid ornamental pond in front of the shuttered restaurant; a white van parked in the gateway of the ruined commercial building opposite, two men and two spaniels alighted, unlocked a heavily chained gate and strode, somewhat furtively we felt, towards a scrap of scrubby bushes (from their satchels and shifty demeanour we concluded they were truffle hunters); preceded momentarily by deep throated roar, a gleaming white Audi convertible, hood down, man at wheel in shades, inevitable blonde beside him, rocketed over the brow of the hill from the direction of Lloret, pulled out imperiously to overtake an ancient Seat hatchback just as a tipper truck full of scrap metal lumbered around the bend from the direction of Tossa. They missed each other by a fraction of a second. 'Well, that almost brought his mid-life crisis to an untimely end', I mused. So many interesting things passed before us, but sadly not the bus. 

We walked back down to the campsite. It was difficult to feel too downhearted, the hibiscus in the hedgerows shouted out 'look at me I am very pink!'. The light was stunning.

We had a late lunch outside the van, made the usual fatuous comments about not being able to do this back home in mid October, then speculated which of us was going to be concussed first by one of the dozens of large pine cones dangling precariously above our pitch (answer: Gill, late afternoon the following day).

We did really want to go to El Portal though. Gill had a second attempt to talk to the receptionist about the bus times. She was French and equally skilled at looking professional and exuding a positive demeanor while managing to avoid saying or doing anything that was remotely helpful. I stared at my phone, usually Google maps' bus information is good, but in this case seemed to be saying the only way to travel tomorrow by bus between Tossa and Lloret (12km) was via Girona involving a change half way and a journey time a few minutes short of three hours. This was utterly nonsensical, but in a miniscule font, snuck in after the conditions of carriage in Catalan and Castillian was a link to the bus company website. Mystery solved. After 1st October the service reduced to an hourly one. We had simply waited in the wrong half hour slot, if we presented ourselves tomorrow at around 10 past the hour a bus that had left Lloret 15 minutes earlier should appear at the stop by the fetid pond. Which it duly did.

It took no time at all to get to town and the fare was less than €2.00. What happened next was a re-run of the palaver with the buses but this time concerning tapas places. We had checked out El Portal on-line and it opened at 11.30 am. When we turned up about three quarters of an hour later it was still shuttered. A different link on TripAdvisor stated that on Tuesdays and Wednesdays it was closed in the low season. Bollocks!

We wandered around the streets of the old town wondering what to do. There were plenty of places open but most were geared up to serve a full lunch and we wanted somewhere that more informal than that specialising in tapas. 

There followed a confusing half an hour's trek around the empty streets looking for places that had scored highly on TripAdvisor for tapas. The places listed as 'open now' tended to be closed, but quite a few of the tapas bars listed as closed were actually open. We were not alone in our befuddlement. After a while we began to recognise other couples wandering about staring at their phones looking vaguely perplexed. Burly bloke with waif-like woman, bob cut girl with serpent tattoo and gorgeous companion, there they were again!

Eventually we found ourselves back more or less where we had started by the old town gate - next to, as you might expect, El Portal. Previously we had dismissed another small place down a side street. El Celler del vi Restaurant did have a tapas menu, but it was empty, in shadow and looked a bit gloomy. We can do better we had decided. Now, half an hour later, the place had filled-up, it looked more lively and inviting and there was one table unoccupied on the pavement. We sat down, glad now to have at least found somewhere. In fact the tapas we chose were fine, not outstanding, but just what we needed. 

Goats cheese croquettes on tapenade style base, a crunchier texture though, compared to the Provençal original.

Another iteration of patatas bravas, the piquant sauce used as a filling, maybe using some sort of fondant technique, Gill speculated. The 'mini-tortillas' were underwhelming, more of a bog standard omelette than the Spanish variety, which when done well is a delightful thing, a small piece of culinary magic. Gill judged it unworthy of being Instagrammed, though it did make an appearance as an extra in my accidental action shot of my beloved mid-munch.

Serpent girl and gorgeous companion arrived, perused the tapas menu board, conferred momentarily then decided to eat inside. Gorgeous companion halted momentarily scrabbling in her shoulder bag for a mask. Glancing towards me she flashed a wry smile as if to say, well it was inevitable we all ended up here. The older you get the more invisible you become. On crowded streets people simply push past as we toddle along at sub-optimal Fitbit speed. Occasionally a kindly twenty-something might offer you their seat on a bus; you thank them, inwardly realising that you must look much older than you feel. However, to be smiled upon, unprompted, by a beautiful stranger, that happens very rarely these days. I felt quietly blessed.

The waiter arrived and asked if we wanted to look at the desert menu or order a coffee. We asked for the bill. Our table was in shadow and since we arrived the chilly breeze had strengthened, indeed by pure accident Carrer del Pont Vell happened to be perfectly aligned with the blustery north-easterly and had become a wind-tunnel. Every so often fellow diners would leap from their chairs and attempt to catch their napkin as it pirouetted down the street. No wonder the beauteous one and serpent girl had gone inside, especially as the art gallery on the latters' left side required a skimpy vest top to achieve maximum impact.

We recalled a cafe down by the beach where we had a drink last time we were here. It would not be out of the wind but at least it would be sunny and have a Mediterranean view. It also sold Lavazza which is one of the few products where we espouse 'brand loyalty". Our cortados came in paper cups, appropriately logo-ed. The barrista was very apologetic, explaining that after today they would be closed for the season. Quite how that prevented them from washing crockery I am unsure. Anyway the blue and white paper cups on the white table with the blue sea in the background composed itself before me as an impromptu piece of product placement, so I duly obliged.

Afterwards we took a short walk to the promontory below the castle, the bay of Tossa de Mar spreads out before you, it's an attractive small resort that has resisted over-development. 

That's relatively rare in the Costa Brava, indeed anywhere else on Spain's Mediterranean coast. 

Like l'Escala, hereabouts is days away from winter zombification. By early November almost everything will have closed. Under normal circumstances we would be chasing the warmth southwards. However, tomorrow we start our journey home. This time next week we will be back in Buxton, but only for two days. Then we will be heading straight back down to London to transport Matthew and his possessions back home for a few weeks until his new apartment is ready. I enjoy driving, but there does come a point where doing it day after day, for hours on end becomes exhausting. Nevertheless, we have proved we can get to the Med and back within twenty days and still have fun. The upside is that twenty days in Europe this autumn gives us seventy early next year, from late January to early April. Olé!

Chiringuito Mar Azul, nothing left but the basil patch.

Our daughter Sarah and her partner Rob introduced us to the delights of the Cala Llevado campsite in September 2019. They'd been there before and when we teamed up for a joint road trip the plan was to share favourite places. So we suggested Cala Montgro and Mèze and they recommended Millau Huttupia and Cala Llevado.

The latter site is delightful which might seem surprising given the place is humongous with 587 pitches - a mixture of log cabins, pods, Tipis, places for mohos and caravans and hundreds of tent pitches with ehu. Really it is more a resort than a campsite with a pool complex, sports facilities, restaurants and beach bars. Part of the French chain, Sea Green, what is on offer is not really the simple back to nature experience espoused on their website in the section somewhat pretentiously titled philosophy. The following page is given over to a 'values' statement and customer 'promises' written in trite corporate gobbledegook. I should hate the place, and probably mid-August, with all 587 pitches packed and the place pulsating to execrable Europop, I would. 

In September and October it's a different matter, with most of the site deserted  its unique character (or USP if you want to stay David Brent about it) becomes more apparent. The setting is spectacularly beautiful, spread across three steep wooded valleys each leading down a beach. It occupies a rare, undeveloped stretch of glorious coastline between Tossa de Mar and Lloret.

By mid October, a couple of weeks before the site closes, most of the visitors are fellow retirees in motorhomes or perky Millennials in campers. each group  gathering in their own enclave, not for reasons to do with tribal affiliation but due to topography. The whole site is worryingly vertiginous. The only pitches easily accessible by medium or large motorhomes are those adjacent to reception (Greyland).

Campervans can venture a little further into the more wooded terraces down the hill (The Kingdom of Man-bun),  but even these are a few hundred metres from the beaches, both in terms of distance and altitude. The main part of the sprawling site is made up of tipi style erected tents or camping pitches scattered about on shady terraces. Most have a pine fringed prospect of the Mediterranean straight of a travel brochure. Indeed the winsome image on the front of the first edition of the 'Cool Camping' guide featured a view from Cala Llevado. It looked a bit like this... 

In the low season the lower section of the site is almost deserted and in  moments you can find yourself quite alone wandering through the beautiful woods. 

Which is exactly what we did, making our way gingerly down the steep track that leads to to the Cala Llevado and  Cala d'en Carlos beaches.

Last time we were here it became a favourite spot, not only because it's a nice small beach but also because of Chiringuito Mar Azul. This small 'pop-up' beach restaurant as well as serving up excellent cocktails and great freshly grilled fish caught locally also boasted a 'huerto' or veg plot on the slope behind the restaurant. It grew all manner of fruit, veg and herbs, including an invasion of butternut squash which had managed to escaped the driftwood edged raised beds and seemed set on colonising the beach.   

It was September 2019 when we were here previously, given this visit is later in the season we headed for Mar Azul more in hope than expectation, we half anticipated it would have shut up shop. In fact it had more than closed, it had disappeared altogether, dismantled we presumed to protected the structure from winter storms or vandalism. All that remained was the 'huerto', stripped of produce apart from the herb garden which was wild with big clumps of oregano, coriander and basil.

A WhatsApp conference ensued between Gill and Sarah regarding the moral probity of filching a bit of basil. While they struggled with the ethics of foraging un-wild herbs I sat down on a rock and stared at the sea. It's a very gawping into infinity kind of place.

After a while Gill joined me, a bunch of basil protruding shamelessly from her shoulder bag. Great for tonight's puttenesca,' she asserted. It was.

It was a tough climb from the beach back to our pitch near reception. I had forgotten just how precipitous the place is. Really with Gill pending an appointment to assess whether she requires knee replacement surgery this was not the best place to stay. Gill mentioned that Stiges seemed like a lively interesting town, perhaps at a stretch we could have made it as far south as that with the time we have. A more urban destination with public transport might have suited her better.

One of the things I dreamed about during the long months of lockdown and travel restrictions was wild swimming in the Mediterranean, Cala Llevado is great for that with four varied beaches and coves to choose from. I do wonder if we are here because it suits me, but somewhere else might have been a better 'couples choice.

On your arrival the receptionist hands you a plan and clearly is under instruction to point out all the wondrous amenities on site. At this time of year it didn't take very long as most things had closed. Still she was able to give particular attention to the delights Cala Llevado's four beaches, Platges de Llorell highlighted as the best beach for families, then finally, just to avoid any misunderstanding the receptionist pointed to Cala Figueres, 'This is naturist one,' adding, as if to avoid any possible ambiguity about the matter, 'where nude people like to go.' Then she annotated our plan, drawing a cross on the cove and adding the letter 'N' in capitals.

Well, it's good that everyone is catered for. The only downside from a wild swimmer's point of view is that Cala Figueres is the loveliest of the coves. I can see why it has been labelled 'naturist' because it is the least overlooked and the most challenging to reach. However, its designation means that it is no open longer to everyone, because understandably not everyone feels comfortable surrounded by bare-arsed strangers. On our last visit here I stumbled upon a fudge that resolved the dilemma for me. I figured that the place would be quieter first thing, and concluded that I would be able to cope more easily with a couple of naked people than an entire beach full. So I headed down for a swim at sunrise, which in September is a little before 8am. Cala Figueres was deserted. I had a solitary morning swim four days in a row and discovered that no one else ever turned up much before 9.30.

This little rocky cove, barely 50m across really is one of the loveliest places to take a morning dip that a know. I was looking forward to reacquainting myself with it. Luckily next morning the weather was sunny and calm and for the first time in over a year I had a wonderful, soulful swim just after sunrise.

As the day progressed the wind picked up, never beyond the point of being a fresh breeze, but strong enough to fleck the tops of the waves white. When I headed off for a swim the following morning I could see the main beach from our pitch, the surf was fizzing a bit, but not dangerously. The path down to Cala Figueres zigzags through the trees, I counted the uneven steps one time, there are 487 of them! Part way down you get a glimpse of the place, it was wild, a seething cauldron of turquoise and white, big waves breaking on the rocks, dangerous currents crosshatching the cove. No way! I turned around and headed back for breakfast.

We would be leaving tomorrow, so maybe that would be it so far as my soulful swims at sunrise were concerned. We took the bus to Tossa de Mar on our last day, the wind dropped a little and we were able to sit outside at lunchtime. Next morning the sea looked somewhat calmer. I decided to take a chance. I love swimming in the sea, but I am self taught and not exactly a strong swimmer. I know my limitations but I figured I could cope with the swell rolling into Cala Figueres, it was a calculation I had to get right, if you are swimming alone in a secluded cove and get into trouble, then you've had it really.

My final swim was not exactly soulful, invigorating would be a more appropriate euphemism. Still, I was only comically up-ended once by the breakers as I struggled to wade back to the beach through the shallows, scraping my knee slightly on the shingle in the attempt. Luckily my impromptu belly flop was not exactly embarrassing, somewhat counter intuitively, it's not really possible to make a fool of yourself when on you are alone. As I dried myself I wondered if the same thing was true of nudity. Though on a naturist beach, and aside from holding a towel, bare - was I practicing nudism when on my own and unobserved? Probably not I concluded. Essentially it's a kind of informal club. I don't do clubs. What if anything do such ruminations say about me? I don't think I am especially prudish, but shy and somewhat socially avoidant maybe. Which is why I find something profoundly liberating about swimming in solitude.

l'Escala, after the crowds, before the zombie apocalypse.

On our first long trip in autumn 2014 we spent most of October in the south of France only reaching the Costa Brava as Halloween approached. We did not realise that the area closed down towards the end of October. We did find one campsite open near Pals, but it was a semi-deserted and the two days we stayed there we were serenaded by chainsaws as contractors pollarded the rows of plane trees between the pitches in preparation for re-opening next Easter.

What we later found in our low season wanderings from one end of the Mediterranean to the other is there is a fine line between being able to enjoy beautiful places when they are uncrowd and peaceful and the moment when they become so deserted it feels spooky. Our top rated spots for zombie apocalypse themed winter sun have to be February in Secce Grande on Sicily's south coast, and Ciro Marina the following month, which I dubbed a 'Calabrian Rhyl.

We caught l'Escala on the cusp. The hundreds of villas in Riells, spread across the wooded hills between I'Escala and Cala Montgro, were all shuttered, as was the handy supermarket near the campsite - definitely post apocalyptic. As for the Illa Mateua campsite itself, the terraced half was zombified but the flatter pitches across the the road partially occupied, perhaps twenty or so motorhomes dotted about under the umbrella pines.

Four nights was the most we could book, after then the entire site closes for the season.

From the coastal path just beyond the site's perimeter you get a spectacular view across the bay of Roses towards the Pyrenees. 

To reach the viewpoint we climbed though the closed section of the site. It felt slightly mournful. This area is where Spanish families have their seasonal pitches. 

When we were here previously the place  buzzed with activity, culminating on Sunday lunchtimes with scores of extended families having barbecues or cooking paellas in giant pans half a metre in diameter - the hubbub infectious, the cooking smells enticing, merely observing the scene was enough to raise your spirits and think, well maybe there is some hope for humanity after all.

However  the prospect from the clifftops was enough to raise our spirits right now  By mid October the summer heat haze has dissipated, the sea darkens to the deepest of blues and the colours of the south sing joyously,  simply staring feels profound and immersive. For me southern light is a natural high, alluring and addictive.

On our first evening we took a stroll down to the cove at Cala Montgro. Every time we come here it seems one of the older, dun coloured low rise 1970s apartment blocks at the back of the beach has gone and been replaced by something sleeker with a gleaming white balcony, exuding a more contemporary Ibiza vibe. Cala Montgro is a very stylish spot built around a beautiful cove. Even in mid October there are warm evenings enough to fill the two small bars on the low cliffs on east side of the beach with afficianados seeking the perfect cocktail at sunset . 

It's not something we tend do. Instead we took a counter clockwise stroll to the opposite side of the cove; I celebrated the lengthening shadows by taking a silhouetted selfie.

Next day the steep hill between Cala Mongro and l'Escala gave us the opportunity to test our new ebikes. Gill bought hers earlier in the year, but mine is only a few weeks old. Though we live in the Peak District, which is very hilly, we do all of our cycling on local trails which utilise disused railways. Consequently the most challenging things we face are a long inclines. 

Our new bikes have torque as opposed to cadence drive systems. These are more sensitive to the pressure you place on the pedals, adjusting the power accordingly. Gill had the opportunity earlier in the year to test out her new bike in Cornwall and Devon and it worked well on the challenging hills. It feels different, she explained, more like an ordinary bike but less effort. That also was my experience today. The ride feels sportier too, the frame a little stiffer, its geometry more upright. A thumbs up for the new bikes!

I'Escala is well served by dedicated cycle lanes, the one along the sea front is startlingly pink.

We were on a tapas bar hunt. We reckoned that we'd bagged a good one in the old town overlooking the harbour. We perused Grop's menu yesterday, it looked interesting and reviews online were positive.  

 

Gill is not an indecisive person at all until she is faced with a menu, then deliberations can take some time. 

In the end we settled for:

l'Escala anchovies with a 'salad' of roasted vegetables.

Fried aubergine in a light batter.

The patatas bravas were so delicious we ate most of them before we took the inevitable photo. They were the star of the show, sometimes the simplest things are the most difficult to make truly delicious - perfectly fluffy in the middle, crunchy on the outside, very yummy. A debate ensued as whether these should replace the ones we consumed in Logrono in February 2020 as the epitome of this ubiquitous Spanish snack. We decided it was a tie. Just to clarify, we don't actually make notes of every single plate we eat, as well as being memorably tasty, the Logrono pinchos bar crawl on the 18th Feb 2020 remains in our minds because it was the last time we ate out before the pandemic struck, and as such seems like a treasured memento of simpler, less troubled times.

As we mulled over the patatas bravas question we could not help but notice various delicious looking desserts being served up at adjacent tables. We don't really do deserts that often, certainly not at lunchtime. However habits are there to be broken 

Gill opted for the lemon tart...

I went for an apple concoction with ginger cream (maybe the ginger is a little understated, Gill mused, as she pinched a morsel).

Afterwards we browsed a while among the book stalls that had been erected on the quayside. Some sort of literary event seemed to be going, the volumes on offer were mainly niche limited editions. Earnest looking stall-holders outnumbered customers.

The centrepiece was a golden horseshoe formed from paint sprayed books. I am sure all the books were publishers' unsold volumes destined to be pulped, but still the sight of  brand new books deliberately aerosoled rankled, one defaced book is one too many, at least in my book.

So, another day slipped by, travel mode kicks in, where moments count but weeks slide by. We only have three weeks on this trip sadly, but we do have a ferry back to Spain booked for January 26th, and due to the arcane machinations of Schengen the fewer days we have now the more we have in store for next time.