Across the desert to the Sherry triangle

Our usual route south from Santander is to head straight for Salamanca then onwards to Seville and the Sherry triangle. However in the past two years stormy weather in the west of Iberia has resulted a big detour. Though heading to the Mediterranean via Valencia has its charms, the city itself is lovely and it's always a pleasure to spend a few days in the Cabo de Gata. Nevertheless, if our intention is to spend some time on Portugal's Alentejo coast, maybe even head north of Lisbon towards Obidos, then the journey via Valencia adds 400 miles to the trip and limits the time we have to spend in the far west.

There are two direct routes to get from the Cabo de Gata to Seville and the Sherry triangle. One follows the Mediterranean coast towards Gibraltar then onwards to Cadiz. The other goes across the arid 'badlands' on the northern side of the Sierra Nevada then southwards from Seville. They're roughly equidistant. We chose the inland route because it's quieter and avoids the complications of trying to find areas autocaravanas or campsites with available pitches on the crowded Costa Tropica and Costa del Sol.

North of Almeria the A92 crosses the Tabernas desert. Though much of southern Spain looks arid, this area is the only place in Europe that technically ticks all the boxes to be officially designated as a desert. Even if you have never visited Spain the chances are if you are aged over sixty you will recognise the landscape. It provides the backdrop for Sergio Leone's 'Spaghetti Westerns'. I am not sure if it really does looks like the' Wild West' or if we have simply been conditioned by the films into believing this is the case. Whatever the truth of the matter just driving through the rocky terrain almost guarantees being assailed by an Ennio Morricone earworm.  

Beyond the fractured rocky badlands the motorway crosses an arid, undulating plain. It's covered with a chequerboard of neat fruit tree plantations interspersed with solar farms. Low cliffs line the horizon to the north. Most are dotted with dozens of wind turbines. Over the past decade what were once empty uplands has become ever more productive.

 The view southwards is even more spectacular, the snow covered peaks of the Sierra Nevada rise over 3000m. Mulhacén, at 3479m is the tallest mountain on the Iberian Peninsula, higher than any peak in the Pyrenees.

We planned to stay overnight at the area autocaravanas in the small city of Guadix. The place is famous for it's troglodyte dwellings hollowed out in the soft, fissured rock formations that surround the town. We've visited them previously so contented ourselves with a stroll into the city centre. Many Spanish cities have spectacular central squares. The one in Guadix is modest, it feels intimate and charming rather than grandiose.

Similarly the cathedral is quite understated, it's not some humongous Baroque monstrosity like so many in Spain, asserting a militant Counter-Reformation orthodoxy designed to subjugate the populace. 

In particular the plateresque carving had a rare lightness and delicacy. I found it pleasing.

The area autocaravanas occupies the corner of a big car park. Aside from Saturdays when a market occupies the area, there is plenty of 'overspill space' if the designated motorhome bays get full.

Using the inland route west definitely makes much more sense than the busy coastal route where there's always a nagging doubt about getting a place to stay overnight.

Next day we decided to head for another free stopover at Osuna, this time on the corner of the Family Cash hypermarket carpark. 

It's not a long drive - 213km - but like yesterday it passes through strikingly different landscapes. Between Guadix and the northern suburbs of Granada the A92 reaches 1390m. making Puerto de la Mora Spain's highest motorway pass.

Beyond the Granada there is a stretch of flatter ground near the airport before you reach an extensive area of undulating hills covered with olive trees. In between them big spiky outcrops dot the landscape, maybe extinct volcanoes we speculated. The scale of the plantations is remarkable, but not entirely unexpected given that Spain produces 40% of the world's olive oil.

Osuna is a classic Andalusian 'pueblo blanco'. For a medium sized town it has more than it's fair share of significant monuments. In the sixteenth century it was an important centre of power and learning. In Renaissance Spain that meant one thing - lots of big churches, monasteries and convents. Later it became associated with secular learning, local 'men of lettters' based in the Baroque palacio's built by the town's aristocratic families exchanged ideas with others across Counter Reformation Europe, a kind of mini-enlightenment developed under the watchful eye of the Inquisition. We've visited the town a few times. Whether it was the lingering effects of the virus or sightseeing fatigue, this time we got no further than the Family Cash car park!

After two free stopovers on the trot it was time rest for a couple of days somewhere we could get the outside furniture out and put our feet up. It's less than two weeks since we arrived in Santander and I've driven almost 1000 miles. Rushing about is not why we do this. So we decided to spend a couple of days at Camping Pueblo Blanco a couple of kilometres from Olvera. 

The place is one of a handful of camp sites in Andalusia's rural hinterland that remain open all year. It is situated about 50 kilometres south of Osuna - an hour away. This involved driving through hill country on the 'yellow' road marked on our Michelin road atlas. I usually avoid these, but having checked the bendy bits on Google street view it looked easy enough. In the main it was, the only tricky bits were single file sections and short unmetalled stretches due to landslips resulting from Spain's six week long downpour in the early weeks of the year.

It's a very pleasing landscape hereabouts, craggy peaks and little valleys. A picturesquely situated parking place allowed us to pull over and take a photo or two. I usually avoid using the panorama feature on my phone as they seldom do justice to the view, but maybe this time...

We arrived at Camping Pueblo Blanco a little after midday. The place wasn't as busy as last year so we had a choice of pitches. Most people head up towards the top of the terraced site where you get a great view towards the mountains near Ronda. However the pitches are exposed and it's a steep road to cycle up and down. We opted to be Billy No mates on the lower pitches. They're more level and closer to the main facilities.

We  offloaded the bikes and head into the town. There's a cycleway most of the way, it's not particularly well maintained but preferably to riding on the main road. Olvera is spectacularly situated on a craggy ridge. I stopped to take a photo.

 By the time I had faffed about waiting for a traffic free shot Gill was out of sight. I caught up with her parking her bike by some railings, exactly where we had left them last year.

People were standing about in gaggles, many in fancy dress. It transpired we had just missed Olvera's carnival. The main parade had kicked off at 11am. and apparently just finished in the early afternoon. 

We had now managed to miss two carnival processions, here and in Aguillas.

However, the celebrations continued informally. A small flat-bed truck squeezed it's way through the narrow streets. Two enormous black stacks and a mean subwoofer were strapped to the back. Behind them two guys manned the desk blasting out Big Bunny at a trillion decibels. 

Following them was a tightly packed throng, a crowd of partying people. They were very jolly, drinking what looked like Manzanilla from pint sized plastic tumblers As the crowd passed us we were absorbed into it and swept along. It's difficult to find the right word to describe the vibe - some kind of sweet spot between exultant and exuberant, everyone in their happy place, including the pair of us. 

The dancers moved forward a little quicker than us, so inexorably we drifted towards the back of the procession. The rear of the party was followed by half a dozen municipal workers in hi-viz with brushes and wheelie bins and a mini street cleaning truck brushing up the ticker tape and litter. A few minutes after the moveable dance party passed-by the gleaming white streets were returned to their habitual pristine state. I have no idea where British prejudice about Spain's 'mañana' culture originated. In our experience stuff gets done in Spain straightaway, efficiently, usually with good humour and a smile. Is that generally the case back home?

Almost every building in Olvera is gleaming white apart from the church and Arabic castle right at the top of the craggy escarpment that the old town occupies. After the excitement of the post carnival dance party we decided to leave climbing up there until tomorrow.

The place was almost deserted when we returned the next day. I guess after the exuberance of yesterday it was time for a communal lie-in. 

The climb up to the square beside the church is steep but the vista across the cuboid rooftops of the old town towards the olive green hills beyond makes the effort worthwhile. Literally, a breathtaking view!

The appearance of the church flummoxed me. Art history made up most of the modules of my first degree so I should be able to date most of the buildings I come across reasonably accurately. In the case of Olvera's church I managed to get it wrong by 200 years! 

Compared to many of the major churches in Andalusia the exterior of the one in Olvera is simple and undecorated. I concluded that it might be because it was an example of early Renaissance architecture, perhaps around the early sixteenth century, predating the flashier, humongous Baroque churches of Counter-Reformation Spain. This would have made sense if I had been in Tuscany, but not in Andalusia. In fact the big church that dominates Olvera's skyline was begun in the 1780s and completed half a century later. It's an expression of the Spanish Enlightenment not militant Catholicism. Sometimes getting things wrong can be positive. I ended up reading an interesting Wikipedia piece about the Jesuits and their role in fighting the enslavement of native people in South America.

Camping Pueblo Blanco is a delightful spot. It's our third visit here. Ever time we've had spectacular sunsets and night skies like a planetarium.

Next day we headed for a Camperstop situated between Sanlucar de Barrameda and Chipiona. It's a couple of hours drive and having made the detour south to Olvera it meant we avoided the busy urban motorways around Seville. Camper Park Sanlucar is a bit rough and ready, but it's inexpensive and the people who run it are welcoming. Even better, it's equidistant between Sanlucar and Chipiona and there are safe cycleways and minor roads to both towns. They're both lovely places but in truth it's the tapas that draws us there.

Los Escullos: empty landscape, crowded campsite

Spain's Mediterranean coastline is about 750 miles long. Most of it is highly developed, a semi-urbanised sprawl interspersed with spectacular headlands or salt flats with a mountainous backdrop. Human culture prevails, only here and  there has the natural environment been afforded a measure of protection from economic development. Most protected areas are quite small, such as  Monte de las Cenizas y Peña del Águila Regional Park east of Cartegena or Acantilados de Maro-Cerro Gordo near Nerja. Both are beautiful but are patches of wildness rather than an extensive protected area like a National Park or AONB in the UK.

Undeveloped coastlines are rare among Spain's 'costas' but there are a few places where it is still possible to get a sense of being 'lost in nature'. The Catalan coast from Port Bou at the French border and around the Bay of Roses is not completely over-developed.  Also the coastal path running from Lloret de Mar to Tossa de Mar feels 'far from the madding crowd'. South of Peniscola Parc Natural de la Serra d'Irta is an extensive tract of hilly garrigue stretching 10kms along the pristine coastline. There's one campsite in the middle  of the park down a rough track. Sadly it's not quite far enough south to be comfortable in February.

However by far the biggest protected area on Spain's Mediterranean coast is the Cabo de Gata west of Almeria. The area's unique geology has led to it being designated as a UNESCO Geopark. The rugged volcanic hills made agriculture challenging so it remained sparsely populated for centuries. Even today there is only one settlement that could be considered  big enough to be a town - San José. 

Development within the park is strictly controlled. Up until recently in the winter months there was only one campsite open at Los Escullos. A couple of years ago the Wecamp chain opened another at Las Negras. Both are well situated to explore the Cabo de Gata's unique landscape.

Los Escullos campsite was crowded, yet within a couple of minutes we could wander up a track and feel immersed in nature amid a stony garrigue  carpeted with yellow flowers. 

Gill recognised the buttercup sized one - Cape Sorrel. The smaller one we weren't sure about. In late winter this landscape always blooms with herbs and flowers, but we've never seen such a spectacular display as today. I suspect Iberia's stormy January has soaked the usually arid Cabo de Gata creating the sea of yellow.

It's a magnificent, uplifting landscape - a soulful place. We need them these days as the world grows ever more uncertain and evil men prevail.

Next day we unloaded the bikes and pedalled down to the shore. It's less than ten minutes away. Coastal erosion had uncovered the layers of the Capo de Gata's complicated geological history. The bedrock is volcanic, laid down in a shallow sea between 9 - 15 million years ago. There followed a further period of intense eruptions that formed the chain of caldera and volcanic plugs we can see now. The last eruptions are thought to be 5 million years ago.

Down by the shore the strata of the low cliffs reveal the remnants of other geological ages. A layer of oolitic limestone...

Fossilized dunes, wind sculpted into surreal forms over millennia, lie behind the shingle beach. 

Whereas  most European landscapes tell the story of humanity the narrative here is dominated by the inexorable progress of geological time. The dark volcanic hills of Los Escullos assert that life on our home planet prevailed long before we arrived and will continue to do so long after we have gone.

What makes humans unique is, as far as we know, we are the only thinking beings that exist right now. Killing each other and deliberately making Earth less habitable for our species does bring into question just how intelligent we actually are! Professor Brian Cox makes the point better than I ever could.

The scrub land behind the beach was covered with the same mix of yellow flowers that we found on the lower slopes of the hills yesterday. We've been here before in mid-February. Spring flowers are not unusual, but previously they've been more mixed. I came across a patch of asphodels on a rocky outcrop amongst the sea of yellow.

This pleased me. Asphodels are one of my favourite flowers, not only are they beautiful but their name is pleasing and they have mythical connotations.

On our final day we decided to pedal to the small fishing village of La Isleta del Moro. As the crow flies it's only about two kilometres across the bay. By road it's about three times the distance. Hardly challenging, but there are a couple of steep climbs, and though it was windless in the campsite on the exposed coast road we were buffeted by a chilly wind blowing in from the northeast. 

While we mooched around the quayside the wind strengthened from an annoying breeze to a near gale. Struggling against it on our return, I ended up having to pedal downhill!

Checking back it seems we first stayed in Los Escullos twelve years ago. I remarked back then that it was a quiet place that attracted hikers. There's still a few of them striding off, walking poles in hand, to explore one of the many trails that snake between the gaunt calderas. However these days the site is pitched to attract long stayers, more caravanners than motorhomers. It means there aren't so many pitches left for people touring. Moreover the access roads between the pitches are narrow so manoeuvring into them can be challenging even in a medium sized motorhome.

If you do book in for the duration - I overheard an English caravanner a few pitches down from us explaining that he was here for 60 days 'as usual' - then there's lots of organised activities - Fish and Chips every Thursday night, a weekly quiz night, 'gentle aerobics'... and so on. Sixty days! It sounds like a sentence! If we do return again to the Cabo de Gata then the site at Las Negras is more to our taste. Los Escullos has become charmless as Saga cruise. Such a beautiful place, but the campsite is crowded, over- organised, and its ambience somewhat geriatric.

'

Martes Carnaval, Groundhog Day and other predictable complications.

Over the years we've seen Spain's 'Costas' become ever more crowded in the winter months with a marked increase in long stay retirees - a trend towards staying put rather than touring. It is still possible to wander about so long as you follow a few guidelines - phone or email ahead to check on availability; avoid moving on a Friday or Saturday in popular areas as places fill up with local weekenders; don't head for places on local holidays, saints days or popular carnivals. So what have we done over the last few days? That's right, we ignored all this sensible advice, and consequently life became needlessly tricky.

Last month sitting on a bar stool at our kitchen island, Google Maps on my tablet, Acsi book open, Search for Sites on my phone, it was easy to come up with a perfect plan. If we head for Valencia first, I conjectured, then we could be in the Cartegena area around Carnival week. I imagined spending a few days at one of the Acsi sites on the beautiful mountainous coast south of the city. Then we could move to the Camperstop on the outskirts of the city and lift our winter-grey spirits by watching the exuberant parade. All possible, but to have any kind of guarantee of making this a reality we would have needed  to pre-book.

Howeve,r We were never going to do that weeks ahead, because we might find ourselves standing in the pouring rain watching hyperthermic samba dancers twerking in the drizzle, sadly shaking their bedraggled tail feathers. Carnivals require sunshine. With sunny days forecast to return we decided to head towards Cartegena anyway and see if we could book a site last minute. 

We planned an overnight stop at a recently built area auto caravans just off the A33 motorway in the small town of Caudet. The place is in the Albacete region, so in Castilla la Mancha, but close to the borders of Valenciana and Murcia. It was a classic traditional Spanish country town, now developing because of the recently completed A33 inland motorway that now connects Valencia and Murcia more directly than the busy autovia Mediterraneo running along the coast.

The town's traditional roots were obvious as the area autocaravanas is situated about 100m from the enormous Toros Arenas de Caudete..

More recent developments include the stylish Mercadona supermarket on the edge of town..

 the area autocaravanas itself... 

and the jolly giant mural on the crumbling wall opposite our parking spot.

It's a better designed overnight stopping place than the somewhat scruffy and windswept area in nearby Yecla, though it is a little cramped. Our van is 7m long and we had to remove the bikes and fold up the rack to squeeze onto our pitch. Luckily not all of the bays opposite us were occupied, otherwise manoeuvring in and out would have been a tight squeeze too. But the place was free and the service point was fully functioning. We'd use it again.

We needed to find somewhere to stay for next few days. Gill phoned a couple of campsites on the coast south of Cartegena. The numbers just rang out. I attempted to book the same sites using their online reservation form. Los Madriles seemed to be booked solid, El Portus' website allowed reservations for their Bungalows and Safari tents but the 'parcelos' section was disfunctional. We abandoned the idea of staying around Cartegena around Carnival time and decided to head for the area autocaravanas at Puntas del Calnegre for a night, then push on south and spend a few days in the Los Escullos site in the Cabo de Gata national park.

It was Groundhog Day last week apparently. We seem to be going through something similar. Here we are parked in the area autocaravanas near the pleasingly ramshackle village of Puntas del Calnegre. When we first stopped here in 2014 it felt like a disregarded scrap of nowhere in particular.

 It still is a scrap of nowhere in particular, but not so disregarded. Year by year plasticulture cover the littoral. In recent years an additional area autocaravanas has been established next to the older ramshackle one we've used for years. It has ehu and a shower block and has become a Mecca for the owners of monster Cathargos, Morellos and Concorde'. Scores of them, mainly German owned are drawn up along the coast. Mass tourism is never a pretty sight.

Last year and the year before we arrived here and asserted, "This is it, never again!" Yet, once more, here we are - see Groundhog day!

We needed diesel. Gill recalled there was a petrol station we'd used before in Aguilas, about 20kms south of here. We headed for there. The place runs a small area autocaravanas. Maybe if there's space we could stay there and watch the carnival at Aguilas rather than Cartegena's, we wondered. Both events are world famous. Even at noon traffic was heavy on the Aguilas ring road. As we drove along the coast road we noticed dozens of motorhomes wild camping among the dunes. There's no way there's going to be space at area autocaravanas, we speculated. That turned out to be the case, but at least now we had a full tank of diesel.

We decided to head south towards the Cabo de Gata. Continuing the theme of the moment - forget everything you've learned about motorhoming over the last fourteen years - we were arriving at Los Escullos campsite on a Saturday afternoon, the least likely time for the place to have any vacant pitches. In the event they had two going spare, both too small to accommodate a 7m van. We booked in for four nights starting from the following day. 

Fortunately we had driven past Cabo de Gata Camper Park on the way here. It's located outside the national park amongst the plasticulture, but at least we had somewhere to stay overnight. It's a week since we landed in Santander. It hasn't been straightforward. We've made a big detour to avoid the devastating storms affecting western Iberia, we've both gone down with a fluey cold virus and at times struggled to find places to stay on crowded sites around the Golfo de Mazarron. We need to stop and recuperate. As Gill observed, "it's not a race".

Small plate therapy

We arrived at Logroño's area autocaravanas around oneish. It's a fifteen minute walk from there to the narrow streets that cluster around Calle Laurel in the old town. The area boasts a bunch of pinchos bars that serve the best small plates we have ever come across anywhere. Most were to be open until mid-afternoon - time to sample a few!

We've been here half a dozen times at least, so we have our favourites. However, we've never experienced Logroño's pinchos bars on a Saturday afternoon, we've generally been there in the evening.  Even then they never get rowdy like the Bigg Market in Newcastle or Manchester's Canal Street, nevertheless people in Logrono in the evening are definitely out on the town; it's not sedate, but because it's an intergenerational occasion the place never gets raucous, nobody is out to get blind drunk, a pinchos bar trawl is a more civilised proposition than a pub crawl.

The  Saturday afternoon vibe on Calle Laurel is even more convivial, a lunchtime food fest for everyone - couples of every inclination, groups of friends,  parents with small kids, the middle aged and elderly, dogs big and small, and a smattering of tourists. Whereas being out and about in the evening feels celebratory, on Saturday afternoon its like being embraced by a big, warm communal hug.

We headed to Bar Jubera for starters. All the bars have a range of pinchos on offer, most feature a 'signature dish. In Bar Jubera's case patatas bravas is their USP.

It's very popular, at first sight  getting served  looks impossible. You are faced with a wall of humanity between you and the bar. In practice it works more like a sieve than a wall, people simply accommodate each other, without all the passive aggressive 'Ps & Q's you'd get in a British gaggle. By some mysterious process of osmosis you find yourself at the bar, in less than a minute you've been served and a couple of minutes later two bowls of patatas bravas appear. Then a small gap appeared in the wall of humanity and the pair of us snuggled into a small space near the window with a narrow shelf for our wine glasses and dishes.

A couple of minutes later the people on our left vacated a slightly bigger spot; we shuffled up and found ourselves facing a small family group standing outside on the other side of the window. There followed a short skit on Espagna's genius for affiliation. There were four of them. Their baby - perhaps eighteen months old - was perched on the wide window sill. He was supported by his father, who, with his one free hand, stabbed morsels of patatas with a wooden fork and fed them to the child. His partner stood next to him, busily consuming an adult sized plate of patatas bravas. She ate a forkful herself  then popped a forkful into her partner's mouth, all the while carrying on an animated conversation with the aqua friend standing next to them.  It seemed the epitome of Spanish easy going inclusivity. Part way through another forkful heading husband-wards she caught my eye, realised the humour of it all and flashed me a big cheeky grin. Spain has beautiful cities, magnificent landscapes and coasts, but so have many other places. Above all it's the kindness of the people, their easygoing and welcoming spirit that makes the country such a pleasurable place to wander around.

Next up - grilled mushrooms. Bar Soriana is hardcore, it specialises in just one small plate - grilled mushrooms stacked up on slice of baguette. People come here from all over the place - a TripAdvisor gastronomy award hangs above the bar. The owners are not shy about flaunting their fame...

The other remarkable thing about the place are the prices. Grilled mushrooms - €1.70, a glass of white or red Rioja - €1.20 - €1.50. Some chefs build their reputation by serving  expensive dishes to the few and get a Michelin star for their efforts. Here the business model is the opposite, make a small amount on each dish but sell them at a price that ensures you are packed out most days. I know which I prefer!

Spanish immersion therapy would not be complete without a tortilla. Bar Jubera supplies those - getting the squishiness spot-on takes real skill.

Gill went for the spicy sauce, I settled for the creamy one with a hint of garlic. Actually I think I made the wrong call here. Note to self - always choose chilli!

We were back at the van just after 4pm. Making the effort to get out at lunch time was the right thing to do. Two nights of restless sleep on the ferry and a 6am start earlier today caught up with us. We wouldn't have made it for a night on the town. Instead we turned in early. We have a long drive ahead of us tomorrow.

Heading southeast from Santander rather than following our usual route towards Salamanca and Seville proved to be the right decision. Atlantic storms are creating havoc across western Iberia. Yesterday a motorway bridge collapsed after a landslide in Andalusia: places in Portugal we know well - Figueira da Foz, Comporta, Alcacer do Sal - all inundated. Even hereabouts, heading down the A23 south of Zaragoza storm clouds shifted across the high plains, the higher peaks of the Sierras were dusted with snow and from time to time the horizon became smudged with thundery showers.

We're heading for Valencia eventually, but it is just too long a stretch to make it in one day. Like last year we opted to break the journey using the area autocaravanas on the outskirts of Teruel.  Our guidebook and online reviews  agree that the town's historic centre is worth a look.  One day, but with temperatures in the morning hovering around 6° sightseeing wasn't an alluring prospect. 

Spain's high plains get brutal winters. Just south of Teruel the autostrada reaches 1200m;  the altitude of the town's area autocaravanas is 974m. That's more or less the same as Scafell Pike, England's highest spot. Winter sun seekers tend to hug the Mediterranean coast, that's why much of it is over-developed and awash with northern European retirees' motorhomes at this time of year.

Valencia Camperstop has a good on-line booking system these days, we reserved for two nights then extended for a third when we arrived. I need a rest from driving. I felt a bit 'off' on the ferry but put it down to the effects of motion sickness. However since then I've gone down with a fluey cold and Gill seems to be to following suit. I do seem to have caught many more viruses over the past few years than I used to. Maybe four bouts of COVID has screwed my immune system, perhaps it's just an age thing or maybe I've just been unlucky. What seems to be the case is that every time we go to London we to catch something. At home we live a fairly solitary existence, we don't really have a social life and the only busy spaces we inhabit are supermarkets. Then we go to London and hop on the tube. The packed carriages must hum with viruses just lying in waiting for our under exercised immune systems, so we succumb like callow adolescents in Freshers week!

By day three I was feeling somewhat perkier, so we walked down to the metro stop and hopped onto a train into the city centre. It was crowded - maybe single handed we have infected the entire population of Valencia with a unique virus hatched in Hackney Wick. The symptoms are unmistakable, chills, coughs and sneezes, upset tummy and a peculiar urge to drink copious amounts of Kermit green matcha.

Recognising that neither of us were feeling 100% we had scaled back our plans - walk 450m from Valencia Camperstop to Horta Vella metro stop, hop on train, disembark at Angel Guimera station, walk to 1km to Mercal Central, have a great lunch at Central Bar by Ricard Camarena, return to moho by exactly the same route.

Lunch decended into a nostalgia fest. "Do you realise it was fourteen years ago when we first came here?" I mused, flipping back through the blog app on my phone, adding after more scrolling, "And this is our eighth visit. "Maybe we've revisited here more than anywhere else," I pondered. The server noticed me comparing the bar now with a photo from back then. "We were here 14 years ago," I explained, it looks the same! "Yes," she agreed , "Even the same chef."

I wasn't sure if she was referring to the owner, the renowned Valencian chef ' Ricard Camarena, or if it was the case that the person running the small kitchen at the far end of the bar had remained here all those years.

The core menu has remained remarkably similar, so maybe it is the creation of the same individual. We stuck to the classics, sharing a bowl of patatas bravas for starters ..

then pork cheeks as a main...

finishing with a gooey chocolate cake.

It's a special tapas bar in a very special place - a temple to fresh ingredients..

in a masterpiece of Modernista public architecture. It's difficult to capture the scale of the place, usually you struggle to find a good shot amongst the crowd of customers. Today though, as I walked up the central aisle towards the enormous cast iron cupola  the throng mysteriously dissolved to reveal a pleasingly symmetrical shot.

I imagine we will keep returning here so long as we can. I realise that in another fourteen years time it's unlikely to be in a motorhome  - we'll be in our mid-eighties by then!  However there's a direct flight from Manchester to Valencia and a bus from Buxton to Manchester Airport. Looking at the flight times it would be technically possible to catch the early morning bus from Buxton and get to Valencia central Market bar in time for a late lunch. It's a thought to hang onto for drizzly Pennine days - how much are we prepared to pay for Spanish style small plate therapy? It's not something you can put a price on.