2023, not really a classic...

 

December 31st, the  moment has arrived when I reflect on our travels over the last year. I guess 2023 was a bit of a landmark one, the tenth where we've spent months on end wandering about. Consequently it also marks a decade of travel blogging. Whoosh! 'Who knows where the time goes?' as the late great Sandy Denny sang.

In truth 2023 has not been a classic, every trip has been affected by some health problem or other, mostly niggles but a couple of more serious issues too. Maybe the root cause of of our problems was Covid related. Though Gill tested negative last March, I wonder if the result was inaccurate. The virus we contracted towards the end of last winter's trip certainly resembled Covid. Gill developed perosnia a few weeks later -  olfactory issues are more typical of long Covid than a fluey cold. 

Was it simply bad luck that we succombed for a second time as we headed north from Languedoc in October? Right now we have really bad colds again, mavbe Covid has impacted on our immune system generally leaving us more susceptible to seasonal bugs, even though we both had our flu and Covid jabs back in early November.

In 32 days time we will be on a ferry heading for Santander, hopefully by then both of us  back to being fully fit and healthy. The post-operative fact sheet I was given after my recent surgery reckoned I should be able to resume all my usual activites after six weeks, that's next Thursday.  In truth I have been feeling more or less back to normal over the last week. A few days ago I went for a short bike ride, it was fine, though it struck me afterwards that weeks of enforced inactivity had reduced my stamina and fitness. I am looking forward to improving that on Spain's beautiful via verdes over the next couple of months.

Still, despite some challenges, our travels over the past 12 months have had their moments. So, Gill's top three:

1. The Eden Project

2. Chipiona, Spain

3. Cycling into Lisbon

My favourite three moments:

1. Cabo Tiñoso by ebike

2. The Via Verde del Noroeste east of Mula

3. le Henan and the l'Aven estuary

As for our plans for 2024, in February and March it will be back to Iberia, then in early summer perhaps a return to Meze and l'Escala. Hopefully from late August to mid October we will manage the trip to Sardinia we had to put on hold this year. This leaves the last months of the year free for a bit of longhaul - our first trip outside of Europe since 2018. We haven't got past the planning stage yet, but what we are thinking is to fly to San Fransisco in late October or early November - maybe a birhday lunch for Gill's 70th with a view of the Golden Gate. Then onwards to Auckland to spend a month in New Zealand's North Island. A stopover in Singapore on the way home would complete the trip with a circumnavigation that takes in both hemispheres - a geographically pleasing prospect!

It's a plan, we are never short of plans, however if this year has taught us anything it's that you can never be sure what the future holds. On that note a big thank you to everyone who has read the blog over the past year., wishing you all the best for the next one - good health and happy travels from Pete and Gill!

Not Monday 16th

How many ferries have we used in a half century of European road trips? Many hundreds, I guess. We have suffered delays and cancellations but only once missed the boat entirely, sometime in the mid-eighties when I miscalculated how long it would take to drive from the Loire to Cherbourg. Today I suffered goof number two. I have spent the entire trip absolutely convinced that we were booked on the mid-afternoon ferry from Dieppe to Newhaven departing at four in the afternoon on Monday 16th. It was only when we parked up in Auchun around noon to do a spot of last minute shopping That I checked the e-ticket on my phone and noticed that the return trip was booked for the 15th, yesterday!

What made this especially irritating is that we had driven past the port yesterday on the way to the quayside aire de camping and passed the ferry we were meant to be on, so we were in Dieppe when it departed without us. 

It was a costly mistake. We headed for the port, explained our error, the booking clerk confirmed that there was space on the next ferry and charged us £136 to amend the ticket. Ouch. I have finally got over beating myself up about it, and stopped threatening to emblazon the rear end of the van with the strap line, 'Living the Dream, Mr Bean and the beautiful Gill on tour!' I have reached a more beatific state, asserting, 'Oh well, shit happens, it's only money....'

Or even seeing the upside - we are definitely going to be first to board -

Otherwise the last couple of days have been uneventful, a tad uncomfortable given our viral condition, but, to quote the astonishingly talented Bill Bailey, 'Not bad, all things considered.'

Ever on the lookout for handy places to stop on the way north Gill found a free aire on Searchforsites at Nonancourt. It was positively reviewed, no one mentioned the tight entrance, the very narrow parking bays on a slope. There are only five spaces,  one was free, we decided to move on to the Camping car park in Evreux.

It's situated close to the city centre which means dealing with the foibles of French urban driving where a deadly cocktail of nonchalance, competitiveness and inattention conspires to shred the nerves of more conservatively minded Anglo Saxons.

Still, we arrived at the Aire unscathed. It too had a narrow entrance, and with only eight bays in total was quite a tight squeeze too. It had ehu, so that was a bonus.

It was Saturday, we anticipated a noisy night, but in the event it was peaceful. I am not sure we will use the place again. Too much hassle to get to it - motorhomes in cities - not a relaxing combination.

So here we are, through immigration and customs at Dieppe port. The immigration guys strived to look macho in their hi-vis and military style pants tucked into boots. They were taking their jobs seriously. One guy checked the rear garage and waved a wand around me  to make sure I wasn't concealing a Kalashnikov under my tee shirt. His sidekick peered in all the cupboards inside the van, then poked around in the bin. It mainly contained used tissues. They failed to catch any migrants but they probably caught COVID.

It's been an odd trip, not one of our classics. Too many health niggles, a bit of misfortune here and there. Small issues though, we agreed as we scrolled through our news apps. A human disaster has unfolded in Israel and Gaza over the past week. I was reminded of some lines from Auden's 'A Summer Night', written in 1933, but somewhat prescient given what unfolded next in Spain, then the rest of Europe and the Far East over the next two decades.

Soon, soon, through dykes of our content

The crumpling flood will force a rent

And, taller than a tree,

Hold sudden death before our eyes

Let's hope sanity and humanity prevails. In moments of peril all we want to do is hold those we love ever closer. A haunting line from a song by "Everything but the Girl' also spilled through my mind:

'Kiss me as the world decays..."

Friday 13th

A few kilometres short of Clermont-Ferrand we crossed the 45° parallel,  the invisible line deemed to divide the south of France from the rest of it. The architecture and landscape changed, happily the weather didn't, clear blue skies and sunny days in the mid twenties forecast for the next few days.

We've used the free aire at Saint Pourçain. sur Sioule a lot;  it's a conveniently located stop-off on the way south or north and is invariably busy no matter what time of year you turn up. Luckily the place is huge with room for well over 50 vehicles. 

It's attractively situated too, with pitches stretching along the wooded banks of the Allier. The town is attractive too, but we didn't feel like taking the 10 minute walk into the centre, contenting ourselves with a stoll along the river-side path, stopping here and there to photograph the spectacular autumn colours. 

It's definitely more obviously 'fall' here compared to where we have just been.

Gill was rewarded with a glimpse of a kingfisher, I missed it.

We are not feeling too perky. While we were in Millau Gill developed a sore throat, I must have caught her bug, because now I am coughing and sneezing and have a sore chest. Time to doze-up on paracetamol, I reckoned..

 

We stuck to our plan and headed north to Sully-sur-Loire to stay for a couple of days at the campsite. I felt quite fluey and driving became a bit of a chore, luckily the roads were empty, so it was easy enough.

We weren't up to sightseeing so we stayed in the van, I blitzed the blog which was a week or two out of date, Gill alternated between reading Simon Reeves' memoir and Andrea Camilleri's final 'Inspector Montalbano' story. The latter seemed quite remarkable. She kept passing her phone across to me so I could read bits of it. Unlike Gill,  I have not read any of the books, but have always enjoyed the TV adaptation and it's clear even there that the Montalbano series has a literary ambitions beyond the scope of the average whodunnit.

In this regard the final book excels itself. In a nod toward Sicily's most famous literary figure, Pirandello, the last Montalbano story ends in a remarkable metafictional tussle between the writer, Camilleri, Montelbano on the page and the TV version of the fictional inspector. In the last scene the literary inspector, frustrated by the actions of both his writer and the activities of his TV doppelganger decides to rub himself our, destroying himself word by word with an eraser. Very cool!  It Would never happen to Morse!

I was cleaning my teeth in the bathroom when Gill shouted something I didn't quite catch. Poking my head around the door I found her holding a small plastic stick with two red stripes on it. She'd decided to take a COVID test and sadly it came out positive.

I don't know why I bothered, it was obvious I had succumbed too, but the following day I did, and of course it was positive.

It explained why our 'colds' were persistent and not getting any better. This being said although the bug is unpleasant it clearly is less virulent than the first time we caught it in Portugal in 2021. I feel ill, but I don't feel 'scarily unwell'. We reckon Gill must have caught the virus over a week ago while we were in Meze, possibly at the market or in a supermarket queue. It means we probably will have moved past the point of being bio-hazards by the time we catch the ferry next Monday.  

I noticed the date on my phone - Friday 13th, I am not a superstitious person, but the coincidence did prompt a Google hunt into the origin of the myth. It's not ancient folklore as I had assumed. The number bit does go back some. The Vikings saw 13 as an unlucky number due to a legend about a cursed feast. Similarly, in medieval Europe the number 13 had negative connotations because it was the number of people who attended the last supper - 12 disciples plus Jesus. However the association between Friday and the number 13 can only be traced  back to a phrase in a French memoir published in the 1830s. In Britain there is no evidence of the superstition until the Edwardian era. Anyway, sceptical I may be, but I guess from now  I am going to remember every Friday 13th positively, well, in relation coronaviruses at least.

Le Midi l'après midi

Where does the south begin? It's a mildly interesting question we've mulled over many times as we've headed through France. It's 'look' - orange pantiled roofs, golden stone houses, plane tree shaded squares - you don't find them so much in the Limosin but you do in the Perigord. On this trip it still felt northern in Clermont Ferrand, but as you climbed towards the Central Massif the villages look more southern, but a dour version of it because of the altitude. 

Looking at our map, there's a line west to east  from the Gironde to the Rhone where settlements acquire an 'ac' suffix - Bergerac, Aurilliac,  Flaviac The line is linguistic, not climatic or historical, denoting the area where Occitan once was the demotic language. Or maybe the south does not really exist at all outside of romantically minded northerners imaginations. It's a dream.

So far as the French themselves are concerned they have made their minds up. Le Midi is everything south of 45° parallel. Which as it happens roughly corresponds  with the all the other approximations we have observed over the years. So the question is now closed, if not exactly answered definitely.

We are staying for a couple of days in Millau,  definitely a southern town. Interestingly it has become more stereotypically so since we first visited here three decades ago. This is due to what might be dubbed the 'Peter Mayle' effect. I mentioned before that the hill towns of southern France can be dour looking - many of the buildings faced in dun coloured concrete, a bit ramshackle and unkempt, classic 'shabby chic'. This was certainly the case when we visited the Auvergne, Lot Valley and la Corbieres in the 1980s and 1990s. Millau at that time looked a bit worse for wear and was traffic choked before the viaduct across the Gorge de Millau removed the through traffic in 2004.

Not so now, facades have been colour-washed, pavements repaired, squares pedestrianised, old fountains and other traditional street furniture restored. They look picture perfect. It seems to me that over recent decades the Midi has re-styled itself to look typically 'Provencale', as if the entire region aspires to resemble the romanticised vision of the south found in 'A year in Provence'.

However,  even if 'the vision' is some kind of self conscious, perfected evocation of a past that never quite existed,  you would have to be very curmudgeonly to deny its allure.

We are staying in Camping 2 Rivières. It's a simple, inexpensive site but well positioned, next to the river and with a view towards an intriguingly named local peak - Puncho d'Agast. 

The town centre is easily accessible, a fifteen minutes stroll away.  There are some handsome looking town houses lining the Avenue Gambetta, one or two of them still housing atelier specialising in haute couture glove making.

We wanted a light lunch, sometimes in France it's difficult at lunchtime to find something more substantial than a snack but not a set two course menu. A small place, 'Côté Marché' in Place Maréchal Foch had good reviews praising it's simple food and the friendliness of the staff. 

So we headed there, it was all true, the waitress sorted us out with two croques and salad. 

It was perfect 'le Midi l'après midi - the afternoon light shadowy through the plane trees, an interplay of light and dark across the ancient colonnaded square. 

Millau is beautifully situated in shallow bowl of a valley, just before the Tarn enters a series of gorges. Down narrow streets you get glimpses of the surrounding hills. 

It's a very pleasing place. Maybe it will become our preferred stop-off whenever we use the A75.

Occidental sprawl then more Meze magic.

Time to head home, but taking it at a more leisurely pace than our mad dash south a couple of weeks ago. The weather across the western  Mediterranean is still very summery and forecast to stay that way

until mid-October.

Back across the French border, but not before a quick stop off on the Spanish side at La Jonquera where we'd found diesel at €1.68. on the way here a week ago. In France it can exceed €2 per litre.

We usually scoot on by. La Jonquera gained notoriety as a hot spot for roadside prostitution and one of its 'clubs' acquired the dubious reputation of being the biggest brothel in Europe. It's changed, not an underdressed young woman from Eastern Europe in sight. Maybe the authorities have clamped down on the place's more insalubrious cross border business opportunities, or the oldest trade in the world has gone the way of high street banks and these days is only accessible through an app. Anyway, La Jonquera feels comparatively normal now.

We hoped to find to for somewhere to stay near Narbonne. There are more free aires at the western end of the Côte d'Améthyste than around the Bassin de Thau. We considered the  harbourside parking at Gruissan but decided it was a bit of a trek from the motorway. Instead we headed to an aire on the shores of the Etang de Leucate. We could see it, there were mohos parked in it, but the surrounding road works were confusing and we sailed straight past the entrance. We ended up instead at the nearby camping municipal in Leucat. 

Whereas the landscape of Herault beside the Bassin de Thau is green and pleasantly wooded, further west in l' Aude department it is somewhat bleak. It looks dessicated, pale grey rocky hills line the shores of the shallow lagoons, here and there, big vineyards bring a splash of green. What was once the epicentre of France's 'vin de table' production transformed itself over the last half century and now is home to a clutch of famous AC wines - Corbiere, Minevois, Fitou.

Over the same period the littoral was transformed too, from an under populated former malarial swamp into a major summer holiday destination, thronged in July and August, eerily quiet otherwise. A couple of the resorts, Cap Adge and Pavalas Les Flots feature big, brash Spanish Costa style high rise blocks. Most places, however, make a lame attempt at 

emulating  the vernacular architecture of the area in low rise 'villages de vacances.'  

Leucate is typical. During high season, buzzing with holidaymakers, the place is probably ok, or at least if it's dreadful then it's ghastly with a purpose. Now it's just empty and soul-less, the uniform blocks of 'traditional" villas shuttered, most shops closed until next May. It feels post-apocalyptic.

There's a lagoon side and a Mediterranean side, we walked to the latter. The beach is huge, stretching away endlessly, the distant Pyrenees smudging the horizon to the west like wispy clouds.

Leucate is water-sports central judging by the number of hire shops - all closed. The lifeguard station on the beach resembles a regional airport control tower. it was a substantial structure but looked small in relation to emptiness of the sea, big sky and unpeopled beach.

Next day we headed back to Loupian, visit no.11!  As ever when you return somewhere it's just the same but always different. We decided to visit the remains of a Roman villa just down the road from the campsite. It's amazing that we've been here so many times but never got around to seeing it 

The villa was occupied from the early Imperial period up to the fifth century CE. At its height it was a substantial edifice surrounded by farm outbuildings. The villa's main export was wine,  a substantial enough enterprise to have its own amphora factory and a small port on the Bassin de Thau.

Little remains of the actual buildings other than the outer walls, most are no more than 30cms high, protected by a warehouse sized rectangular frame covered in peeling plywood. 

What have survived are substantial fragments of mosaics thought to date from the third century. 

What makes them unique is it seems that two teams of craftspeople were at work,  one from the Levant and the other from Aquitaine. The mosaics influenced by the style found in the eastern Mediterranean are decorative, using natural forms to create intricate interwoven patterns.

The mosaics which resemble other examples from western France are more representational. Some depict figures on gods or the personification of the seasons.

Others are more abstract but still show an interest in creating the illusion of 3D shapes on a flat surface, like Op Art.

The difference between the two is intriguing because it mirrors the divide between the art of Christendom and the Islamic world which emerged in the early Middle Ages. Yet these mosaics predate the spread of Islam across the Mediterranean by three centuries. 

The site had a small museum. In truth nothing of real significance had been unearthed. A small gold ring caught my eye. It was inscribed with a shortened Latin phrase - 'be happy!' it said. So much of history is focused on big events or people, famous or infamous. However through mundane objects ordinary people reach out to us. Be happy! Then and now, I was touched. 

Though it's not much more than a week since we were here the Loupian site feels different. In September it was full of different iterations of ourselves, sixty somethings from northern climes in motorhomes and caravans. Come October German schools have a two week half term break. Now there are lots of smallish blonde haired tweenies scooting around on bikes. We had noted the same influx in Corsica and Elba on previous autumn trips. 

About 7pm. the Gallic ambience was reasserted when the campsite restaurant's PA crackled into life and blasted out 'La

Marseillaise'. Impromptu shouts 'Vive la France!' made us wonder if we had stumbled upon a National Rally motorhome owners club outing. The explanation was more mundane, the French national Rugby team were playing Italy. The campsite had hired a giant screen for the occasion. The restaurant was packed by kick-off at 9.00pm. and support became evermore raucous as the wine flowed and France trounced Italy 71-7.

We had made sure that we would be in Loupian over the weekend so we could return to Meze market. It was great, it always is.

 

There seemed to be lots of women in fancy dress wearing various shades of pink. The last time we were here in October the narrow streets of the old town were festooned with bras of all shapes and sizes. 'Rose October' in France aims to raise awareness about breast cancer, Meze had gone to town. This year their response was to encourage people to cosplay in pink and to replace the lingerie related streamers with pink umbrellas

We paused to watch a pink garbed dance troupe. It was a traditional dance of some kind, but it didn't look particularly local, there was more of a Spanish feel to it, especially the flamenco style clapping. 

One of the reasons we come here is the dedicated cycleway that runs eastwards from Meze all the way to Sete. 

I have not been cycling much recently but managed 13 miles along the trail yesterday, to the point where it leaves the glorious landscape behind and begins to wander through a bit of retail sprawl.

 The transition is marked by an enormous Burger King - France does love American style fast food.

I probably overdid it, when we cycled into Meze the next morning I really struggled with a flare-up and felt so fatigued I had to push my bike part way back. The problem does seem to be triggered by exertion. I'm hoping when I finally get to talk to my GP at the end of the month he can pinpoint the issue and either fix the issue or at least suggest ways of managing it better.

Up the creek with a paddle

Given our temporary revised mission to 'embrace the familiar' rather than 'boldly go where we've never been before', it was  inevitable that we would end up here, in Cala Montgro.

It's a modern development dating from the second half of the twentieth century. The campsite we stay at - Ila Matua - used to have a wall sized black and white photo of the bay behind  its reception desk. It was taken in the 1920s, back then the area was just a big bare hill next to a cove with a few fisherman's huts. Now it looks like this.

The place proves that not all modern developments are horrible. The once bare hill is now covered in stylish white villas, one side of the cove has a few bars and restaurants and a couple of lo-rise hotels occupy the area next to the beach.

Inland among the pines there are two big 

campsites. Waking up in a forest of umbrella pines under a cloudless sky, the temperature already in the high teens and forecast to hover around the high twenties by mid-afternoon - it's  perfecto! 

To the west of Cala Montgro the coastline is pristine, stretching for about 8kms towards l'Estartit.

Cala Montgro itself is a suburb of the small resort of l'Escala, but it doesn't feel like that. There's a patch of protected forest between the development and L'Escala, which as Spanish resorts go is quite low key, lively without being raucous.

A gate at the top of the site connects with a clifftop path. You get a great view from here across the Bay of Roses. The eponymous big resort across the bay does not dominate the scene, it's merely a small pyramid of white concrete on the low coastal hills across a broad  expanse of blue, with the misty Pyrenees on the horizon. 

We love it here and stayed for a week, which by our itchy feet standards is more or less forever.

In late September the local supermarket still operates, it's big enough to meet most of our needs, so we only pedalled into l'Escala once. It's an alluring seaside town, though bigger than it seems from the promenade. 

Villa developments have spread out from the old town centre, many are half hidden in the pine forest. It doesn't feel like a sprawl. In some ways the area reminds me of Moraira, another low key Spanish resort we enjoy revisiting. Not this trip though, the northern Costa Brava is as far as are going to get.

So unusually we have mooched about for a week, taking it easy, respecting my various 'conditions'. Well, up to a point. Gill must have noticed me getting ever more frustrated about not being able to do normal stuff, like pick heavy things up or cycle more than a few kilometres. What I needed, she decided, was a new challenge that was within my capabilities, I just hadn't realised the fact. 

A few days before we left home a large Amazon parcel arrived. Unusually it wasn't for Laura who seems to buy everything on line - ingredients, cosmetics, clothing. She is such a regular she is knows most of the Evri drivers by their first name.

 It's for you, Gill explained standing beside the big box - a surprise present.  She had bought me a stand-up paddle board. The calm waters of Cala Montgro are the perfect place to practice. After watching half a dozen instructional videos on YouTube we headed for the beach. The board comes in a big backpack, too heavy for me at the moment. Luckily we carry a small folding trolley with us which was perfect for trundling the board down to the sea.

Inflating the board is good exercise in itself, luckily only involving arm and chest muscles as you work up a sweat. SUP (stand up paddle) boards are bigger than you imagine, more small kayak sized than an overgrown surf board.

Over two days I managed to paddle about kneeling on the board and mastered the art of going in a straight line and steering the thing. My two attempts at standing up ended with a big splash. It is very tricky and will take a lot more practice. What my inadvertent deep dives taught me was how to clamber back on board  after you've fallen in. An essential skill. 

So work in progress which I will continue early next year when we return to Spain. I guess I will be wearing my trisuit as the Mediterranean in February is considerably chillier than in late September. Maybe the prospect of falling head first into very cold water will improve my balance and finally I will manage to stand up on my stand up paddle board.