A familiar patch of nowhere in particular

Camper Park Sanlúcar occupies a rough field on a minor road halfway between Sanlúcar de Barrameda and Chipiona. When we first used the place in 2022 it was very rough and ready, but the owners have worked hard and the place is much improved now, still basic but functional and well situated - a 15 minute bike ride to Chipiona to the east or Sanlúcar to the west. What hasn't changed is the easygoing vibe and friendly welcome from the young couple who run the place.

The immediate surroundings are somewhat rough and ready too. A tangle of narrow potholed roads connecting slightly ramshackle huertas and small farm - it's not beautiful, but it's lived in, productive and you get the sense it has been like this for millennia - a comforting, humanised landscape. 

Our plan was simple, stay here for two days, have lunch in Chipiona on the first day then so exactly the same thing in Sanlúcar the following one. 

The weather complicated things. Overnight the wind strengthened, by morning it was a maddening 30kph blast enlivened by occasional gale force gusts. The van gently rocked about - after a while it can make you feel slightly unhinged. We decided to head to Chipiona anyway. It's a dedicated cycle track most of the way. The pedelec made short work of the headwind, but the blustery conditions made us wobble around so it was good the route was traffic free.

The last time we were here we noticed a popular bodega next to the remains of Chipiona's small seaside fortress. It looked like a good place for lunch - next time we promised ourselves - and here we are.

The place specialises in moscatel style sherry and has a good range of interesting tapas. Chipiona is not exactly unvisited, but it's not primarily a tourist town. The Bodega el Castellito was busy, mainly with locals, which is a good sign that you will get authentic, freshly produced tapas.

This proved to be the case. We shared two small plates - a smoked tuna dish and a goats cheese one with honey and nuts. Gill decided to order an oloroso rather than a moscatel. 

.Sadly I am on agua minerale con gas - minimise your alcohol intake advised the consultant urologist in January - I am following his advice, but somewhat grumpily.

By the following day the blustery wind had abated. We kept to our plan and cycled into Sanlúcar. 

Maybe Plaza de San Roque is my favourite small square of all the ones in Spain where we've relaxed in some shady spot and watched the world go by. 

The delights of wandering aimlessly round urban spaces was elevated to a minor art form by writers like Baudelaire and Walter Benjamin, and given a name - 'flaneurie'. Oddly, the pleasures of people watching while sitting still has not been graced by an exact term, at least not one that readily comes to mind. Anyway, I am a big fan of this undefined pleasure - perhaps it does need a specific word . How about 'splodging'? To splodge - to sit outside a cafe or bar in an urban setting while watching the world go by. So far as Plaza de San Roque is concerned we have a go-to splodging spot - Casa Balbino. - good tapas, local vibe, inexpensive. What more do you want?

If you need a table with a clear view of the square (splodge spot) then you must arrive a few minutes after midday. The place is very popular, by 12.15 all the best tables have been taken, fifteen minutes later a dozen people have formed a hopeful queue. The menu hasn't changed much over the years, nor have the prices. Casa Balbino' specializes in delicious but inexpensive small plates, no wonder it has always been busy whenever we have eaten here 

This time we shared four small plates - Croquetas cameras, Tortilla de camarones, Papas aliñás and Lomo de salmón con nosteza de eneldo.  

Gill had a glass of manzanilla, the dry sherry unique to Sanlúcar, sadly just sparkling water for me.

We cycled back via Bodegas Hidalgo - La Gitana to pick up a couple of bottles of sherry to take home. We chose 'La Gitana', the place's eponymous manzanilla and an oloroso - a little more expensive one than the brands found in local supermarkets, so hopefully something a bit special. 

Our plan for the next few days is to wander slowly southwards towards Gibraltar, not because we are missing Morrisons or Marks and Sparks. Our plan is to better acquaint ourselves with our long lost cousins. We've watched a couple of programmes over the last year or so highlighting recent research in Gibraltar about the last known population of Neanderthals. We are going to visit the Gibraltar museum which showcases the archeological evidence.

Now though we are parked in an area autocaravanas next to Cabo Trafalgar. It was very lively when we arrived yesterday. The bars and restaurants were busy with families out celebrating Andalusia day. Today is very quiet - like Boxing Day, the effect of the collective hangover feels palpable. When we took a stroll down to the lighthouse there was only half a dozen people about.

The light was stunning, the broad beach curving to the north was almost empty, just sky, sea and low green hills stretching away. Huge white clouds hung above the beach, their shadows snaking across the sands like wispy smoke.

There were two figures on the beach, specks in the distance, if anything they reinforced the epic scale of the scene 

Peaceful today, but it was in this bay to the north of Trafalgar where the battle took place. At school I remember it was presented as a glorious victory, only one death was mentioned - Nelson's. In reality over 4000 sailors died and thousands more were injured. We never learn, as events in Israel and Gaza testify.

 

Things fall apart

The long range forecast looked decidedly mixed, so we decided to head back to Spain on the basis that in general the winter climate on the Mediterranean coast around Almeria tends to be more consistently warm and sunny and less affected by Atlantic fronts than in Portugal. However, Almeria is 500 miles from the Alentejo and tearing about Iberia in search of the sunniest spot doesn't actually make much sense. Our compromise- to head towards the Sherry Triangle then see what the forecast says in a week's time.

However, our planned destination, Jerez de la Frontera, was more than a day's drive so we needed to find an overnight stop somewhere. We set the sat-nav to Umbrete, a small to town about 10 kilometres west of Seville, but despite using the toll motorway to Faro, it became obvious by mid afternoon that we were unlikely to reach our planned destination before nightfall. Just before we reached the Spanish border we pulled off the motorway and headed for large area autocaravanas in Vila Real de Santo António. 

The town is a former tuna fishing port occupying the west bank of the estuary of the Guadiana. Spain lies on the opposite side of the river about 300m away. The area autocaravanas is extensive, two big bare patches of gravel with room for a couple of hundred vans in the old, half abandoned dock area. 

It was about half full, occupied mainly by French motorhomes parked up somewhere cheap for the duration. As they often do the French had colonised the place, lunch at noon on the dot, boule 'en masse' afterwards. 

The docks looked abandoned and the old canning factories beyond the quayside roofless and graffiti daubed. We walked into town. It had seen better days, an alluring mixture of faded grandeur and dilapidation interspersed by occasional attempts at regeneration. 

The biggest building in the town is an enormous but largely defunct ferry terminal. It is a monument to Vila Real de Santo António's recent decline.

The impressive Ponte Internacional do Guadiana a few kilometres north of the town carries the A22/A49 autovia over the river, connecting Spain to Portugal. The bridge is relatively recent, completed in 1991. Before then the only way to get from Andalusia to tha Algarve was to to take the ferry - hence the enormous ferry terminal on the quayside, Before the 1990s every single vehicle taking the southern route from Spain into Portugal had to pass through Vila Real de Santo António. As soon as the bridge opened the town was instantly sidelined. No wonder the place looks as if it has seen better days.

However the town has an interesting past. It was designed as a new town by in the mid eighteenth century by the Marquis of Pombal, who was responsible for the redevelopment of Lisbon after the devastating 1755 earthquake. The rationalist, enlightenment layout is still plain to see today on Google maps - very rectilinear!

Why the town was established is unclear. Up until this point the area had been a semi-militarised badland next to the Spanish border, as testified by the two enormous fortresses in nearby Castro Marim. Perhaps by building a new town the Portuguese authorities hopes to civilise the  the area and promote trade, which I suppose it did, until the bridge was built thirty years ago and Vila Real de Santo António reverted to being a backwater.

I only came across the history of the town the day after we left, which is a shame, as I would probably have taken more notice of the place, instead of moaning about the dysfunctional automatic payment machine or making snarky comments about the quirky folkways and cultural mores of our Gallic fellow travellers.

Now we are parked up in Jerez de la Frontera at the usual place - La Morada Del Sur. Handily situated on outskirts of Jerez, just off the A4 motorway this motorhome repair and storage company offers about 20 touring spots. A well designed cycle path leads from here straight into the city's historic centre. It's about a four kilometre bike ride. 

The heart of Jerez clusters around the remains of the Arabic Alcazar, an alluring mix tangle of old street, shady squares and beautiful buildings from the medieval to the modernista. However I like the city's more recent outskirts too. The bike ride to the city centre, all on purpose built pink cycle tracks, takes you down broad avenues lined with retail outlets and stylish apartment blocks. There is lots of greenery, a wide pavement running down the central reservation flanked by neatly trimmed lawns and shrubberies. Tall palms waft overhead. It looks like an odd mash-up of L.A. and Milton Keynes. It feels relaxed and comfortable. I Iove it.

We more or less repeated exactly what we did last year. Lunch at 'Casa Gabriela' in Plaza Plateros, then a wander around the old streets thereabouts.

Jerez is a vibrant place, there is always something going on. Last year we were entertained as we ate by a lone male flamenco performer, his impassioned song interspersed with intricate, intense dance moves .This year's performance was more immersive, we heard it long before we could see it. We presumed the thirty strong brass orchestra with drums must have belonged to a local confraternity; the ensemble was led by an elderly man holding a ribbon decked staff topped by a statue of the Virgin Mary and attendant cherubims. 

The musicians themselves came in all shapes and sizes from portly middle-aged men to skinny tweenies sporting Doc Martens. Young or old the musicianship on display was impressive and very loud!

After lunch we walked towards Plaza Aranel. An orderly queue had formed outside a cake shop, so we joined it. 

We bought three small cakes thinking we might find somewhere in the shade to devour them. We failed, but somehow managed to transport them back to the van without the creamy concoctions getting squished. No mean feat considering the neatly wrapped cakes  had to share the panniers with the shopping we bought at Mercadona on the way back to the van. 

The cakes were nice but nothing special, neither of us have a sweet tooth, so maybe we failed to appreciate them properly. One of them reminded me of the Moroccan delicacies we once had at an Arabic owned restaurant in Almeria. 

Next day we planned to move to an area autocaravanas situated on a minor road between Chipiona and Sanlúcar de Barrameda. As we pulled out of La Morada Del Sur Gill observed, "It's good we know about here because if we ever had something up with van when we are in the south of Spain they would probably be able to fix it." As it turned out this proved to be both prescient and mistaken in equal measure 

It was less than an hour's drive to our next destination, Camper Park Sanlúcar. The owner wandered across, he remembered us from previous years - we're regulars! We parked up and began to sort ourselves out. I pushed back the fly screen on the main roof light, the blind came off its runners and drooped pathetically, leaving a tangle of cord dangling down. 

A bit of googling established that our roof light was a 'Heiki mini', that the blind wa irreparable but a replacement was inexpensive and readily available. Gill messaged La Morada Del Sur, yes they could fix it but the earliest slot they had was in two weeks time. We resigned ourselves to living with a droopy blind until we returned home in April. It joins a list of minor glitches that need fixing, the intermittent dripping pipe behind the sink unit and the bathroom door hinge stuck together with Gorilla tape.

It's a rare occasion when everything works perfectly in a motorhome. Both the ones we have owned  have displayed a propensity to quietly fall to bits despite being 'German built', supposedly a byword for being 'well screwed together'. Part of the problem comes from over-design, naff attempts to make what is a utilitarian object more homely, stylish or luxurious. The Burstner we own now has lots of needless nooks and crannies or flimsy decorative touches like French blinds in the bedroom - all unnecessary in my view.

I suppose the other reason why we constantly have to keep fixing things is motorhomes are designed for leisure time use - weekends away, a couple of weeks holiday here and there. We live in ours for months on end, it's probably had more use in the five years we've owned it than most vans have over their entire existence. So, things will wear out; I guess we should just accept the repair bills as part of the cost of our travels. It would help if I was more practically minded and could fix things myself. I'm not. I have to simply accept that the skills I have developed over the years have no monetary value whatsoever, whereas the ones that I lack come at a cost as I have to pay someone else to do them. 

Markadia - Zen and the art of stand-up comedy.

I wonder how many places we have stayed over the years? This autumn will mark the tenth anniversary of our shoulder season travels. Among many other things, our journeys have spawned 837 blog posts, I know this because the Blogger app keeps a tally. However there is not a simple correlation between places stayed and posts written. Some pieces cover more than one destination and of course there are many places we have returned to frequently. Some because we like them - Seville, Valencia, Bologna; others out of necessity, such as Calais, Basel, Clermont Ferrand, Dreux or Lille - all somewhat tawdry but unavoidable; places to traverse in order to get somewhere else. 

Taking a guess - since 20I4 I reckon we must have stayed in well over 500 different locations. So it's unsurprising these days that we are not given to exuding wide-eyed amazement every time we arrive somewhere new. We are not bored by travel, it's just that spending more than a third of of our lives on the road means being part-time nomads is normal, its simply part of what we do.

Not always though, from time to time we unexpectedly stumble upon somewhere that strikes us as hauntingly beautiful, life-affirming, destined to live long in the memory Maybe this is what Wordsworth was referring to when he wrote about 'spots in time'. It's probably the case that what strikes us as memorable has as much to with being 'in the moment' than in the place. So the fact that our two nights in 'Markadia', a rural campsite in Portugal's sparsely populated Alentejo, happened to coincide with two days of perfect English summer weather in mid-February probably had as much to do with our effusive reaction as the delights of the place itself.

Still, it is a special spot. A TripAdvisor review from 2016 nails it.

It's fashionable for sites to brand themselves as offering 'eco-camping' these days. Usually it's simply a marketing ploy to appeal to millennials by providing overpriced yurts, pods with hot-tubs or optional mindfulness sessions with forest bathing.

However, Markadia genuinely is a place where you do feel closer to nature. In many respects it's unremarkable, a simple site spread along the shore of a remote reservoir - Barragem de Odivelas.

However there is something very alluring in the way the site hugs the shoreline among clumps of evergreen oaks, each pitch offering an entrancing glimpse of the mirror still water. The pitches are not defined, you can park where you wish so long as you are at least 10m from your neighbour. In practice, because the site is big - 10 hectares apparently - out of season it can feel like you have the place to yourself.

It is profoundly peaceful. During the day, the utter tranquility is only disturbed by the sound of kids happily running around. It's a seems to be wonderful place to bring children. Our visit coincided with the German mid term school break so there was a mix of families, young couples and retirees on site. A diverse bunch of campers is always best.

I presume the Markadia name is meant to conjure an image of Arcadian bliss, which in most cases might tempt you to dimiss the notion as a crass marketing pitch. However there is something a little blissful about the place. The water quietly lapping, the low, knarly oak trees, which when silhouetted against the lake, take on the look of a Japanese woodcut. It all feels profoundly pleasing. I found myself wandering around aimlessly, just photographing this and that...

Another Hokusai style tree -

Reeds and the morning sun reflected on the lake -

A spectacular sunset -

In amongst all this mooching about a snippet of Yeats kept bothering me - a line about 'peace dropping slow from the veils of the morning'. Maybe it is from 'The Lake Isle of Innisfree', I wondered.

Google to the rescue. Yes that's it, but I'd mashed up two lines -

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

Yes, the poem does display a naive Romanticism that the poet later eschewed, but undoubtedly some places can achieve momentary perfection and their profound tranquility is sustaining and life-affirming. For us, I think we will remember Markadia like that. 

That being said it was not an exercise in 'Zen mindfulness' all the time. Parked next to a lake I decided it was an unmissable opportunity to further hone my skills as a stand up paddle boarder. In fact I already can display a wide range of paddle board skills, most of them in fact, apart from standing up 

Pumping the thing up - 8/10 (hyperventilation and double vision afterwards - work in practice).

Paddling towards the far shore like Hiawatha 9/10 (lacks feathered headgear)

Standing up 0/10

Gill watched on as I paddled about for a while, attempted to stand up for the umpteenth time, then...

Finally I gave up. 'The new two piece wetsuit seems good', I observed cheerily. 

Gill glanced up from her phone, "I've just been reading that Bill Bailey is a keen paddle boarder." Then added, "He needed lessons to teach him how to stand up."

She may have a point.

The emptyish bit

Though we stayed for a week in Isla Cristina we didn't manage to visit the town centre until our final day. The blustery weather made it a less than alluring prospect. We should probably have made the effort as our stay coincided with carnival week. We heard the celebrations in the distance from time to time, and today, when we finally made the effort to pedal into the town centre centre to find an ATM, the long table outside the cafe next door was crowded with a partying extended family. 

They were all very animated and jolly, which is quite usual, however every single one of them from wrinkly great grandparent to slumbering babe in arms was dressed up as a skeleton. We probably should have made the effort and watched at least one of the Mardi Gras events despite the rain.

Isla Cristina is a working tuna fishing port, an unremarkable sort of place but engaging and lively. It remains authentically Andalusian despite the hundreds of 'snowbirds' from colder climes camped in their mohos in the pine forests by the salinas. It's not a place brimming with architectural gems or Instagrammable monuments apart from one short street of low houses near the centre. 

There is something hauntingly beautiful about la Passagio de Las Palmeras with it's multi coloured facades and azure and mustard coloured ceramic pavement overlooked by a nave-like avenue of stumpy palms. It is one of my favourite streets in Spain.

Next day we headed straight past the famous resorts of the Algarve to spend a few days in Sagres, arguably continental Europe's most southwesterly town. After a week the somewhat OAP ambience of Camping Giralda had begun to depress me, now more than ever as it's a sad, but incontrovertible fact that these days we are net contributors to the 'Saga vibe'. Sagres is a much more lively place attracting a more mixed bunch.

As soon we turned off the motorway at Lagos this cultural shift became apparent. Of course we were overtaken regularly by gleaming A class Cathargos, Pilotes and Concordes driven by northern Europe's more well heeled retirees. However, in turn we scooted past battered looking vintage Hymers and funky liveried campers heading for the ageing hippydom of the Alentejo coast. 

This mix was reflected in the Orbitur site in Sagres where we settled down for a few days. Grey haired 'over-winterers' still predominate, but like us they tend to be inveterate wanderers rather than 'fun-in-the-sun' temporary colonists. Overall though it's a mixed bunch - 'snowbirds', younger couples, some with kids, surf dudes and dudesses in beat-up campers, walkers and cyclists in tiny tents scattered about among the pine trees.

It's a no-frills basic site, the facilities are old but well maintained and it's perfectly positioned to feel a little 'lost in nature's but less than a ten minutes bike ride from Sagres.

It's not well lit, so you have to watch your step when heading for the washing up place after dark. That's a small price to pay for a glimpse of the ghostly Milky Way, through gently wafting pines. As a humanist perhaps the closest you can ever get to the solace others find in faith lies in the unfathomable profundity of nature. Sagres is surrounded on three sides by wildness. Here one corner of Europe drops straight into the Atlantic forming a series of sweeping bays backed by steep cliffs.

We took walk around the old fort, basically a promontory with a high curtain wall on the landward side. 

The remains of the bastion and gun emplacements are impressive, but we preferred the places flora and geology. 

The extensive limestone pavement was covered in wild flowers. This far south, by mid-February spring has well and truly sprung.

The weather forecast predicted a fresh breeze. The clifftops around Sagres don't really do any below force seven, it was very invigorating, but we were glad to get back to the campsite which is relatively sheltered.

Our favourite seafood restaurant is situated at Sagres's fish quay, above the auction room - you can't get much fresher than that! 

We know the score, go inside, choose your fish and the cook grills it on the outside barbeque. 

The people who run the place are very friendly. We recognised the waiter from last year - it turned out he'd grown up in Croydon, his dad was a Londoner but his mother haled from Sagres originally. The restaurant is a family run place.

Once they realised Gill had reviewed the place favourably on a couple of occasions they decided to pose with today's prize fish.

Our dorada was somewhat smaller, but delicious nonetheless.

Our plan - wander northwards up the Alentejo coast while the the sunny forecast holds up, then head back towards Spain across country via Beja and the valley of the Guadiana ending up in the Sherry Triangle.

But that's for next week. We are happy mooching about on the coast. A couple of days at Vila Nova de Milfontes. It's a lovely old town situated prettily on the estuary of the river Mira. 

From the cliffs on the north side of the river you get a spectacular view of coast. It's not just the wild beauty of the rocky foreshore, but the hinterland too is special. 

Very green and covered with flowers - 'Portugal is like a big garden', Gill observed.

The place we had spied-out online as a good for for a light lunch was closed on Sunday and Mondays - which was odd. 

Anyway we found an alternative - the simple 'tostas' were delicious and the lemon cake we shared, though not especially lemony was an excellent homemade cake. No matter how you try, you will never manage a light lunch in Portugal - even the snacks are served in family sized portions.

Next day headed northwards to Porto Covo. I noted on our previous visit that there was something a bit 'toytownish' about it's grid neatly decorated blue and white cottages. It was much as I remembered it, the big difference was the weather. Last time we were dodging showers today was gloriously sunny.

We had lunch in a small place specialising in toasts and light snacks. Nothing to write home about we decided.

Then we headed to the Mirador on the coast- the waves were enormous, gleaming white breakers crashing into the dark rocky shore.

It looks geologically complicated - some bits distinctly Jurassic looking to my inexpert eye, then in-between outcrops of black volcanic looking rocks.

Like yesterday the foreshore was covered in spring flowers. It's not always so warm and sunny hereabouts in February. When it is, the unfrequented Alentejo coast must be one of the most beautiful places in Europe if you want to escape the miserable north.

Tomorrow we are heading inland. We don't really know Portugal that well away from the coast. We've found an interesting looking ACSI site next to a lake, just north of Beja. It's rare to find sites open all year in the countryside. It's hardly busy in the Alentejo, but there are definitely more mohos around than when we first visited here about seven years ago, I guess as winter visitor numbers rise more sites will decide to open all year.