Zaragoza unplanned

Is there any point to having a plan if you never stick to it? I think it depends upon your personality. I am the least spontaneous person you are ever likely to meet. I am also congenitally risk averse. However I am not utterly inflexible, if circumstances change I am happy to do something different. So I am ok with - Plan A is not going to work, so let's try B. However waking up with no idea what the day might bring, then spontaneously deciding what to do next I find uncomfortable, a tad scary even.

Yet somehow for most of this trip that's the situation we've been in. Instead of having an itinerary sketched out beforehand we set off with a vague notion to head initially to Languedoc, move on to the Costa Brava then catch the ferry home from Santander some weeks later. The latter part has proven problematic, our progress stymied by heatwaves in the south of Spain and stormy forecasts in the north. Now it is less than two weeks until our departure, irrespective of the weather we have to head north. 

From Utiel we decided to drive towards Teruel, planning to stay there overnight before pushing on to Logrono, the capital of Rioja region. Google maps came up with two options, the first - go eastwards using the motorway towards the outskirts of Valencia then head north on the A23 towards Teruel. The alternative is more direct using the N320 cross country. This route is 100kms shorter but estimated to take about the same time, a surefire sign that it wends its way very slowly through the upper valley of the Turia. 

I checked it out on Streetview, most of it looked ok, only the final 14kms or so seemed very bendy where the road follows the gorge formed by the upper reaches of the river Turia.

This proved to be the case, most of the way the N320 was well surfaced, wide enough for the occasional truck hurtling towards us all not to feel too alarming, and the road markings, signage and speed limits were designed to discourage over enthusiastic overtaking. Moreover traffic was minimal, most people probably prefer the motorway.

The Iberian peninsula has a broad stripe of bright red rocks that run latitudinally across the northern part of Castille La Mancha and Exramadura and even appears in patches in eastern Portugal. Teruel itself sits on a sanguine looking outcrop and the gorges of the Turia to the south of it shares its ruddy complexion.

The road here was much trickier than I had anticipated with tight bends in the deep gorge requiring larger vehicles to slow to a snails pace to pass safely.

The villages were also challenging too. Some streets were so narrow that vehicles had to go in single file, the longer sections were controlled by traffic lights, but short sections and bridges required drivers to simply negotiate who goes first.

Though challenging the scenery was spectacular. As I edged around one particularly acute bend a pyramidal hill came into view, at its foot the Turia, now little more than a stream, tumbled through a rocky glade. It looked familiar. Have we driven this way before, I wondered.

Checking back on the blog later, it transpired we had, in February 2020 as we headed home, only slightly perturbed by stories in the press about the spread of a novel Corona virus affecting parts of northern Spain, but utterly oblivious to the fact it was destined to change the world. 

The area autocaravanas in Teruel is on the outskirts of the city next to a retail park containing a big Alcampo hypermarket. It's utilitarian but well placed as a stopping point for motorhomers from northern Europe. It was considerably busier than we've found it previously on our way south in February, but still there was plenty of space. Once again we promised ourselves we would visit the city centre next time. Instead, we walked a few hundred metres to the nearest Mercadona. 

I recognised the public car park opposite the store as the place we had stopped for lunch on our first visit here in November 2016. A decade ago, it's shocking how time simply slips away. We were driving 'Maisy' back then, our first moho. She had a name, but somewhere between then and now I decided that naming motorhomes was ridiculous. The older I get the less sentimental I am, more focused on the here and now, aware that as time passes the 'here and now' is a steadily diminishing commodity. Still, it's quite tricky to avoid sentimentality altogether. An elderly Ford Transit moho was parked up with double rear wheels - very similar in layout to Maisy. I couldn't resist taking a photo.

So despite my best efforts I am not entirely immune to sentimentality. Also, while I'm in confession mode, I have to admit that when it's MOT time on our current van I can't resist checking if Maisy is still going strong - and she is! I bet her current owners have no idea the things she got up to in her youth!

I mused that two weeks tomorrow we will be on a ferry from Santander heading home. We have no particular plans of where we might go between now and then, apart from calling into Logrono for some pinchos. A pinchos bar crawl is best at the weekend when the inhabitants of Logrono crowd into the famously foody bars around Calle Laurel. If the news on-line is making you depressed about the state of humanity, a couple of hours in their company will cheer you up. Eating delicious, but inexpensive finger food with a bunch of very happy Spaniards is one of the most life affirming things we do.

That means we have a couple of days to fill. Gill found a campsite open in the village of Daroca to the north east of us. The N234 follows the valley of Rio Jiloca, then beyond Calatayud crosses the Sierra de la Virgen, terminating at Soria. A good plan! Daroca looked like an interesting ancient village and the walled town of Soria somewhere I have wished to visit for a while. Furthermore, the N111 from Soria heads directly northwards to Logrono avoiding a tangle of busy motorways around Zaragoza. 

To begin with all went to plan. The only place of any size hereabouts is Calamocha situated on the junction of the N234 and the A23 autovia. Nearby Carenina is a wine town, Calamocha's speciality is Jamon. Judging by the number of hotels it must attract hordes of artisanal ham aficionados. What is certainly the case is neither the landscape nor the architecture is the draw Both towns are located on a bleak, windswept plain and Calamocha's abattoirs and concrete warehouses look very unlovely.

However, beyond here the upper valley of the Jiloca is lovely. Low craggy hills overlook the pastoral valley floor. We drove through a series of old stone villages that looked as if time has passed them by for at least a couple of centuries. Each village had a similar looking church - plain looking oblong nave with an apsidal east end, however their octagonal towers were quite ornate. 

Gill wondered if they were former minarets from the Moorish era. However, that seemed unlikely as. Christian Aragon occupied this part of Spain in the early twelfth century. Nevertheless, Gill's observation was astute, Wikipedia informed us that the towers were examples of the mudejar style which persisted in Spain until the seventeenth century, where the techniques and motifs associated with Moorish architecture were incorporated into Christian buildings.

The campsite at Daroca is located in an industrial area to the south of the old town. I managed to sail past the turn-off and had to double back down the bypass as driving a moho through the medieval streets of Daroca's ancient centre wasn't sensible. This proved to be just the beginning of our problems.

Google maps directed us to a narrow lane running off the forecourt of a garage, indicating that the campsite entrance was about 50 metres away. This was true, I could see it, but the road was very narrow with tall buildings on either side, and I was uncertain if I would be able to manoeuvre the moho around the tight turn. Over the years I have become ever more risk averse about driving into small spaces where there is no obvious exit. 

To confuse things further three hand made signs had been attached to the garage wall. The first two were somewhat amateurish attempts at 🚫 with a graphic of a moho on one and a car and caravan on the other. A black arrow pointing left, fashioned from plywood, had been screwed to the wall next to them. The meaning of all of this seemed somewhat ambiguous, I interpreted it as motorhomes and caravans should not approach down the lane but from another entrance further down the unmetalled road to the left.

What actually happened was the unmetalled road rapidly became a narrow rutted farm track with a dry stone wall on the left and a deep ditch to right, the roadside looked crumbly. Gingerly I edged past the hazards only to be confronted by a very narrow concrete bridge across a brook. Its sides were edged by a concrete parapet and it looked barely wide enough for the moho. I stopped just short of it and walked across. The view from the this side was more reassuring than the one from the cab; the bridge was wide enough - just. Gill hopped out the cab and stood behind the van where I could see her in the wing mirror. I edged forward while she signalled that I was driving straight; getting across safely meant being inch perfect.

I was confident that the route beyond here would take me back to the main road, Google maps indicated it would, and I could see another track off to the left that skirted the side of a field which appeared to link to a metalled road. We stopped at the junction and discussed what to do next. I wasn't keen to have another go at finding the campsite, I'd had enough drama for one day. We decided to push on to Soria, about 135kms north, a couple of hours away probably, given that we were using a cross country route.

We headed back to the N234, then pulled into a layby for a late lunch. Gill asked about the whereabouts of the area autocaravanas in Soria. I recalled that Searchforsites located it next to the river and the old city walls were on the hill above it. When she checked it on Google maps the main road to the place was shown as closed and a diversion marked through the narrow streets of Soria's historic centre. I'd had enough surprises for one day and suggested we abandon our plans, cut across to the motorway and headed for Zaragoza instead. A more straightforward route, moreover, the city was 40kms closer than Soria.

We stayed in the municipal campsite in Zaragoza for a few days in April 2023 and got to see it's ancient centre. The city is described in our Lonely Planet guide book as having 'great tapas bars... and a host of historical sights spanning all the great civilisations that have left their indelible mark on the Spanish soul'. A tad hyperbolic, but not untrue. So having bathed in the architectural glories of Zaragoza three years ago we were happy enough today to simply head for the area autocaravanas on its eastern outskirts and use the place as a convenient overnight stop. 

The area was on the opposite side of the city to junction where we joined the orbital motorway. Beyond the famous historical sites in the city centre, Zaragoza is a rapidly developing industrial hub, a centre for logistics, automotive engineering, steelmaking and banking. The outskirts are a bit grim, a sprawl of big factories and warehouses interspersed with recently built suburbs of mid rise apartment blocks and malls. This somewhat bleak prospect is exacerbated by the cities surroundings. Zaragoza is by far the biggest city on the Ebro. As the river wends its way across the plains of Aragon its environs create a narrow sliver of green in a bleak, arid landscape. 

After the empty autovias of Castille the busy urban motorways around Zaragoza come as a shock. We needed to get to the opposite side of the city, so going around the orbital clockwise or anticlockwise was equidistant. We planned to do the former but actually did the latter after I chose the wrong lane at one of the busy interchanges; the volume of traffic was such that correcting the error seemed much more hazardous than to simply go with the flow.

The area autocaravanas occupies the corner of a big public car park serving an athletics venue and the Ibercaja stadium, a somewhat rickety temporary structure where Zaragoza FC is based until the construction of its new permanent home is completed.

The place is a useful overnight stop and very popular with northern Europeans heading home. There's a tram stop next to the car park, handy if you want visit the city centre. The service seems to stop around 11pm. so despite the place being located in a busy area it is quiet at night. If we ever came back here I would probably check if Zaragoza FC were playing at home, I guess it would be mayhem if they were.

Otherwise the neighbourhood is very nowhere in particular, a mix of bog standard apartments and office blocks built in the last couple decades . One of them had an enormous bright blue, Picasso inspired graphic covering most of the building. Contemporary Spanish architecture can be bold and unapologetically post-modern. I like that. 

Somehow I seem to have written a couple of thousand words explaining how we failed to do what we planned. Some years ago Rebecca Solnit wrote 'A Field Guide to Getting Lost'. The book explored the notion that if you always stick to the familiar then you won't really devet as a person. So far as travel is concerned that means the place you end up in accidentally may be more important than the destination you intended. It's what Auden hints at in 'No Change of Place'. Here it is, just because no-one should ever overlook an opportunity to re-read it...

Who will endure

Heat of day and winter danger,

Journey from one place to another,

Nor be content to lie

Till evening upon headland over bay,

Between the land and sea

Or smoking wait till hour of food,

Leaning on chained-up gate

At edge of wood?

Metals run,

Burnished or rusty in the sun,

From town to town,

And signals all along are down;

Yet nothing passes

But envelopes between these places,

Snatched at the gate and panting read indoors,

And first spring flowers arriving smashed,

Disaster stammered over wires,

And pity flashed.

For should professional traveller come,

Asked at the fireside he is dumb,

Declining with a secret smile,

And all the while

Conjectures on our maps grow stranger

And threaten danger.

What's in a name?

When Gill phoned ahead to book us into Kiko Park campsite the receptionist asked if she was speaking to Sarah Turpie as she had found our surname on the booking system listed as a previous guest. "That's my daughter," Gill explained. As we also had stayed at Kiko Park  previously, but on another occasion, 'Gillian' also appeared.

Turpie is an unusual name, there are only 500 of us in the entire UK, split more or less evenly between England and Scotland with merely a handful in Northern Ireland and Wales. The name originates in Fife, around Cupar, and is thought to be a regional variant of the more common 'Turpin'. So finding two Turpies in the database of a campsite in a remote spot in Valencia province is definitely a rare coincidence.

So It still remains the case that we have never met another Turpie who was not a close relative - parent, sibling, uncle, aunt or cousin.  Only once have we come across a stranger with the same name, but not in person. A couple of years ago we ditched our landline, ending four decades of being listed in a telephone directory. Most of the time we were the only Turpies mentioned, aside from a period in the nineties when another P. Turpie was listed, living in a village about 15 miles away. A couple of times people asked me if I was related to Paul Turpie from Chinley. Maybe he was a distant relative, but we never got to know one way or the other.

However, if any other Turpies decide to become Euro van-lifers they may be surprised just how many campsites around Europe list a Turpie who got there before them. We've booked into hundreds over the past 12 years, scattered randomly from Finland in the North, to the far Southwest of Portugal, with Galatas, a small port in the Peloponnese just across the water from Poros being the furthest east we've travelled to date. Another slightly odd thing, unlike some other European languages including Spanish, there is no word in English common usage to describe two people who share the same name but are unrelated. 'Namesake' implies that one person was named after another. Homonymous apparently is the correct term, but it's not in part of everyday speech. In fact I don't remember ever having come across it until now.

Ok. That was all a bit of a rabbit hole I fell into, but seven weeks into the trip I've got to the stage when everyday life's anchoring routine is now a distant memory and I feel quite disconnected. In this state I alternate between a kind of zen-like peacefulness and more Dada-esque moments when the world seems deeply strange and absurd. Our three days at Kiko Park Rural was a mixture of both.

As one of the handful of foreigners in a campsite packed with Spanish people making the most of a long weekend where Friday was Valencia Day and the following Monday the country's main National Day, then it was inevitable that things were going to become somewhat strange. Each day's celebrations began around  noon with a  liquid brunch which morphed into an extended lunch. Essential equipment included a kitchen area with multiple high end gas BBQs, big tables shaded by fairylight draped gazebos, seating for at  least a dozen and a boombox designed for Glastonbury. Extended families booked adjacent pitches, their gear spilling over the access roads. Once pitched-up you were trapped until the festivities ended.

Between the end of lunch at twoish and the start of dinner around seven it's party time! The preferred soundtrack  - hispanic flavoured Europop with the odd rock orientated banger thrown in for good measure. In-between there are party games, such as how many people can converse simultaneously at 120db and still make sense, or who can screech the loudest. When Gill phoned ahead to book us in the receptionist advised they had only two pitches left. The one behind, screened from us by a high hedge, appeared to be occupied by the most raucous Spanish clan on the site.

We couldn't see them but heard everything. Their highpoint and our low came late on Monday afternoon, towards the end of the third consecutive day of celebrations. This particular game consisted of a competition to see who could sing  Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious the fastest in Spanish. It seems to us that nobody on the planet can party with such good natured gusto as the Spanish. It must be great to be part of it. If you are an outsider its entertaining for an hour or two. However, when the party lasts for days it does start to feel somewhat Dada-esque - deeply strange and absurd. Thankfully everyone conked out before midnight so at least it's possible to get a good night's sleep.

Kiko Park is located in a remote spot down a single track road a few kilometres from the wine village of Vilargordio de Cabriel. It's really a resort rather than a simple campsite. I think it must have been a big hacienda originally. The facilities and restaurant are located in the former farm buildings and workers cottages. It's beautifully situated on a bluff above the turquoise waters of the Embalse de Contreras. 

Just a few hundred metres from the national day shenanigans it was utterly peaceful, while everyone else was partying, we had the dirt tracks through the forest down to the waters edge to ourselves.

We might have got out and about more than we did had it been a little cooler, but the heat wave followed us and we were back to mid thirties during the day and hot sticky nights. Storms were forecast for the Valencian coast, but here inland on the edge of the pressure system it resulted in nothing more than strange cloud formations high up in the upper atmosphere. Gill identified them as a fairly rare phenomenon called stacked mammatus.

It still felt like summer - the colours of the landscape intense, almost hyperreal - 

The garrigue by the track was covered in flowers and herbs and the scrubby bushes dotted with small butterflies.

It felt like the the epitome of what Rebecca Solnit wrote in 'The Faraway Nearby', that the wild exists everywhere, just around the corner. It was definitely a  'zen' moment, a 'spot in time' as Wordsworth put it, when you, the earth and a particular moment coalesce into an unassuming apotheosis.

Every twenty minutes or so the sense of profound peacefulness was disturbed by a big whoosh, it lasted for about thirty seconds, then faded suddenly. The AVE high speed train line from Valencia to Madrid runs nearby. You only see the trains momentarily as they emerge from a deep cutting then disappear into a long tunnel that takes them under the Embalse. The whoosh is very short-lived as they flash by at 300kph. So, we had a thought provoking three days, an intriguing mix of a big party, in profoundly beautiful nature next to a high speed train line.

Gill found an area autocaravanas at a bodega about 14kms from Kiko Park on the outskirts of a small village called Casas del Rey. It looked like an ideal place to unwind from our party weekend. Although we were not part of the celebration simply being surrounded by it was exhausting.

The area autocaravanas at the Neleman winery consists of half a dozen or so bays in the car park by the main building. It has services but only the ECU was connected, the WC emptying point and water tap are now closed off. Really I think the place is all about selling wine and not really serious when it comes to providing a stop off for motorhomers.

It's in quite a remote spot down a 700m single track road leading to the village. The countryside here on the border between Castille La Mancha and Valencia province is very beautiful. Greener than much of inland Spain, a pleasing mix of vineyards, almond orchards and olive plantations. However, like much of rural Spain the village is dying. The bodega was established as a cooperative by local winemakers in 1961. At that time the village had 360 inhabitants, now there are just 30.

By the end of the noughties the bodega had fallen  into disrepair. It was brought back to life by an enterprising Dutchman, Derrick Neleman, with the support of local winemakers he repaired and reopened the bodega and brought it back to life as a producer of organic wines. You can't really argue with the strap line on the side of the main building..

Bodega Neleman has clearly been revived with love and is committed to ethical business practices and environmentalism. It is a beautiful place, with a sculpture garden and way-marked walks through the vines.

If you buy a box of wine then you get to stay in the area autocaravanas for free. The wines are not especially expensive, but they are certainly not at the budget end of the market. I imagine producing organic wines and following environmentally sound husbandry reduces the yield. One of the wines in the mixed box we bought was a rosé featuring the borbal grape variety. Occasionally a similar Requina/Utiel rosé appears on the shelves of our local Aldi. It costs about 30% less than the bottle from Bodega Neleman. 

The challenge is to persuade people that one way they can become environmental activists is to pay a little more for a bottle at the checkout. In our local Waitrose 'posh' vintage wines have their own section. Why not do the same thing for organic wines and showcase the opportunity of making an environmentally positive choice? - Drink a little less, pay a little more, help the planet!

We walked into the village expecting a place that had lost 90% of it's population in the last half century would be in a ruinous state. 

It wasn't. There were a few houses boarded up but most looked habitable. The public spaces with seats and a play park for children were well looked after. I can only presume that some of the houses are still owned by the children and grandchildren of former inhabitants and kept on as a 'place in the country'. I guess some must be holiday rentals too.

If rural depopulation was just about a lack of work opportunities then the general acceptance of working remotely should have resulted result in a move back into the countryside by young families. It's not happening at scale, because urban culture is cool and the countryside remains a place where you book an Airbnb for a short break. 

Our three kids grew up in a country town, the elder two live in London, the youngest in Tokyo. I am happiest parked up in our motorhome by a Mediterranean beach, so far as home life is concerned, I can't imagine living anywhere that isn't a ten minute walk from some ancient woodland or a field full of grazing cattle. 

I've been dreaming about a green revolution all my adult life. I don't think it's going to happen. Fields that once were farmed get earmarked for data centres. I am not a luddite nor anti-AI, but there is a basic principle at stake about technology serving humanity, not the opposite way around. The issue is not new. Some years ago I read James C Scott's 'Against the Grain' that outlies an alternative history of early civilisations exploring their precarity rather than their progress. More of the earliest cities failed than prospered due to  collapse from environmental  challenges - drought, famine, disease; or they were held to ransom, then finally overrun by 'barbarians' from 'over the hill'. It's not AI's power that worries me, but its vulnerability. Andy Burnham popped up on my phone yesterday advising that we should stock up on bottled water and tinned food, acknowledging that we are one data breach away from societal breakdown. 

Life seems simple in our metal box on wheels, but it's a high tech object, we are not immune to external political forces - as the price of diesel right now demonstrates. It's not uncommon to find the strap line 'Living the dream' stencilled on the rear end of our fellow grey haired motorhomers' pride and joy. It's perfectly true, but not quite in the way they mean - dreams can be aspirational, but equally, illusory.

 

Questions and answers

Almost always our trips are planned, we sketch an approximate itinerary before we set out. Though we rarely stick to it exactly, changing our plans if a rainy spell is forecast, but in general we know roughly where we are headed. There have been exceptions, like a couple of years ago when we set out for the Italian Lakes but instead of heading next to Tuscany and Umbria ended up in the  Costa Brava! This trip is turning out to be even more haphazard, We knew we wanted to go to the Languedoc then onwards to the Girona province of the Costa Brava. Otherwise the need to present ourselves at Santander ferry terminal seventeen days hence on the 25th of October is our only certainty.

From the campsite by the Embalse de Negretin we headed back to the A91 motorway and drove west towards Lorca. Spain must have the most varied topography in Europe, arid deserts, fertile plains, mighty rivers, towering mountains and bleak badlands that look like somewhere in Utah. That's just in Andalucia! The north coast is like Devon on steroids, inland Valenciana at times resembles Tuscany, whereas the boxy white fishing villages of Cabo de Gata are reminiscent of the Peloponnese.

Gill is great at interpreting the landscape as we drive through it. She trained as a Geography teacher though never got to practice the subject. Instead she worked in special schools assessing children with moderate learning difficulties, then later in adult basic education and finally managed Adult Education centres. Nevertheless she can still interpret landforms and articulate how the underlying geology, volcanology and hydrology shapes what what we see, and in Spain topography is writ large.

The autovia between Baza and Lorca snakes its way between mountains, some over 2000m high, their peaks show clear signs of ancient glaciation. We looked up the area's geological history later. This area of Spain is interesting in so much as it lies at the southern edge of the ice cap that covered most of Europe until 20,000 years ago. Though the highest peaks of the Sierra Nevada were fully glaciated, the mountains to the north between Baza and Lorca experienced intermittent periods of freeze and thaw - this is called peri-glaciation apparently. A new word to me - always good!

At a lower altitude the rocks are much softer, limestone and marls mainly, and the area is famous for cave dwellings. The origin of these is interesting. The geology was created tens of millions of years ago when the entire region was covered by an enormous lake. Eventually river systems formed and the lake drained into the sea, leaving a deep strata of sediments. The caves however are largely man-made, hewn from the soft clays and crumbly marls by human activity. In fact the area has a remarkable history of occupation by our distant forbears. Fragments of a skull found in the area is a million years old, pre-dating modern humans' arrival by many hundreds of thousands of years. Neanderthals too lived here from around 200,000 BCE. until superceded by modern humans' around 45,000 years ago. You don't need a TARDIS for time travel, just a bit of research on Wikipedia and Chatgpt and you can drive through the distant past as you scoot up the motorway. Well you can when you have the motorway to yourself as is often the case on a Spanish autovia away from urban areas or the Mediterranean coast.

At Lorca we turned north using smaller roads. We had an idea that it would be fun to cycle on the Vias Verdes del Noroeste, the bike track that runs from the outskirts of Murcia to Caravaca de la Cruz. We've covered the central section around Bullas and Mula, but not the western end of track. So we headed to the area autocaravanas at Cehegin. It had received positive reviews on Searchforsites, but when we arrived the town itself looked dismal and the parking area was down a narrow lane behind a big garage. So we headed towards Mula instead. We've used the designated parking area behind the town's swimming pool before, it's a tad basic but serviceable. When we arrived we were the only ones, but later another moho turned up. It's probably irrational, but I always feel a tad insecure when we're on our own.

In the end we didn't do the bike ride. We woke up the following morning to a beautiful blue sky and temperatures back in the low thirties. It seemed that the heat wave was stalking us. In these conditions the most comfortable place is in the cab, driving along with the Aircon on full blast. So we set off with a vague aim to drive towards Albacete. Maybe we'll stop overnight at Chinchilla de Montearagon I speculated. It's a beautiful small town a few kilometres south east of Albacete. We stayed there back in October 2017, a memorable moment not just because of the town's splendid architecture but also it was the place where I had an unforgettable encounter with a super-bunny.

If yesterday's journey was all about glaciated landscapes, on today's drive northwards up the A30 from Murcia to Albacete the view out the windscreen today was distinctly volcanic. Around Cancarix we passed a series of low cones that looked like gigantic molehills. It was Gill that pointed them out, I do try to keep my eyes on the road even when the scenery is spectacular. We wondered were these the remnants of one big volcanic event or evidence of volcanism over millennia?:

Once again, Chatgpt to the rescue. I am unsure where I stand on the question of the moment - does AI present an existential threat to the future of humanity? The disturbing truth of the matter is that by the time we've worked out the answer AI may well have evolved beyond our ability to control it. Still, if you are an inquisitive kind of person even in its current semi-evolved state it has the capacity to answer whatever burning question happens to be bugging you, which in this case happened to be were the volcanic cones next to the motorway in the middle of nowhere between Murcia and Albacete the result of one big event or lots of smaller ones over a long time? Chatgpt's response -

Cancarix is not just a single extinct volcano. It forms part of a group of volcanic manifestations in this part of southeastern Spain.
The activity occurred roughly 8.3–6.7 million years ago, in the Late Miocene.

The rocks are unusually ultrapotassic lamproites. The local variety is called cancalita.
The famous Cancarix feature is actually the solidified volcanic conduit/dome exposed by erosion, rather than an intact cone.

The volcanic manifestations extend towards La Celia, across the Murcia/Albacete border. Geological descriptions specifically refer to the Cancarix–El Salmerón–La Celia volcanic region.

So if what you saw was a landscape containing several small, rounded volcanic-looking hills/cones, rather than the dramatic crag of Cancarix itself, you were probably looking at part of this Late-Miocene volcanic province around Cancarix and El Salmerón.

And 02499 is indeed the postal area around Cancarix, so your recollection fits extremely well. �
guiarepsol.com

The prompt I had given was this general question -
"What is the name of the area of small extinct volcanic cones to be found in the north of Murcia province?' Then give my virtual friend the more specific location of 'Cancarix' as  my best guess of where we were when Gill pointed out the unusual volcanic cones. It is impressive not only what AI can do but also how it responds positively to your prompt. That's the sneaky bit, the positive strokes with an offer at the end to dig a bit deeper. Over recent months I may have rid myself of all social media apart from YouTube and Substack, but if you are quizzically minded Chatgpt has the capacity to become equally addictive.

We stopped at a petrol station on the Albacete ring road for a fill-up and a late lunch. The question we should have been thinking about was not the finer points of north Murcian geology but where exactly were we going to sleep tonight. We'd sailed past the turn-off to Chinchilla so kind of dismissed that possibility by default. Instead we turned north east on the N322 which connects Albacete to the hill country on the border of Castille La Mancha and the northern area of Valencia provinces.

 Albacete sits in the middle of an enormous beige coloured plain, the one in Spain that the rain is mainly meant to fall on. It doesn't!  Driving eastwards across it you do glimpse smokey blue Sierras on the horizon. They mark the valley of Rui Cabriol which forms the border with Valencia province.

This Valencian hill country looks very different to either the bleak plains of Castille La Mancha or the palm trees and orange groves of Valencia's littoral. In fact the area looks more like Tuscany or Umbria with clumps of Mediterranean pines lining the road side and small valleys covered in vineyards and olive trees. 

 Pantile roofed farmsteads surrounded by slender dark green cypresses complete the Italianate illusion. 

It's quite remote, places to stay are few and far between.We decided to head to Kiko Park Rural in the Utiel/Requina wine area. It's a big site by an embalse offering water sports and outdoors pursuits as well as camping bungalows and one of the few places that operates all year. We stayed here in October 2018 around this time of year, coinciding with Valencia province's national day. So we know it can get somewhat raucous, but really there is no other option apart from area autocaravanas without facilities. We need a laundry and a service point, so Gill phoned ahead to book us in.

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Towards adjacent autumn

All the while we sweltered in a sub-tropical climate on the coast it was autumn inland. Temperatures in the mid twenties, dropping towards single figures overnight were typical in Castille La Mancha and northern Valencia. We would have headed there straightaway, but the lower temperatures were accompanied by violent thunderstorms. However the forecast now looks to be improving in central Spain. We decided to seek cooler conditions inland. I found a campsite near an embalse in the mountains near Baza. Maybe I could use my paddleboard there, I wondered.

We needed to shop on the way, which probably meant having a stop-over between Los Escullos and our intended destination. Back to Mercadona at Campohermoso then onwards to the southern end of the Cabo de Gata national park to the free parking area at La Fabriquila that we've used before.

 It's got a great view of the crescent shape bay that sweeps southwards from the Cabo de Gata lighthouse to the mountainous promontory beyond Almeria. In other words it's quite an exposed spot, and the disadvantage of staying overnight here soon became apparent.

By early afternoon the temperature inside the van reached the high thirties despite every skylight and window being wide open.  We were heading for a very uncomfortable night. So we packed up and headed inland to the free area autocaravanas at Guadix. Though the town is in the middle of the desert at the back of the Sierra Nevada, it lies at over 900m and at that altitude nights are cool no matter how hot the day.

The town itself is famous for the troglodyte houses on its outskirts and an impressive collection of Baroque buildings around the cathedral, but we've visited them before so we just stayed put in the big dusty carpark behind the main shopping street. It's unprepossessing, but practical and free!

Camping Rural La Cabañuela, our planned destination, lies in the the Sierras north of Baza. The villages nearby are famous for troglodyte dwellings, in Frailes the majority of the older houses are fashioned from caves. However the area by the Embalse de Negretin where the campsite is located feels semi-abandoned  The stoney garrigue is dotted with villas that judging by their 'neo- mudejar' styling look to have been constructed in the  nineties. Half finished and abandoned ones out-numbered those that were occupied.

It was only when we walked down towards the embalse the following day that we were able to make sense of this. According to the information board in the car park the reservoir was completed in 1986. Clearly part of the plan was to develop the area for leisure and tourism, hence the children's play park down by the shingly shore and the 'beach bar' next to it.

Both looked to have seen better days. On the side of the hill above them there used to be a restaurant, its lovely terrace taking in a spectacular view of the reservoir and the wrinki cliffs on the opposite shore. The place was in ruins.

The campsite looked to  date from the same era. It was still functioning though the facilities were now somewhat worn. 

When we booked-in the receptionist mentioned that the forthcoming weekend would be very busy as the following Monday was Spain's national day. We have experienced how Spanish people celebrate - loudly and very enthusiastically. We booked-in for two nights planning to find somewhere quieter to stay over the holiday weekend.

 Our plan to find somewhere cooler was at least partly successful, it was very hot in the middle of the day but the temperature dropped considerably overnight. It meant we slept more soundly and mornings were pleasant.

My plan to paddleboard on the embalse didn't happen. It turned out to be a 500m trek down to the water and the road was steep and gravelly. Furthermore the big embalse had a rocky shoreline, it was a little too daunting. Sadly I've got past the stage of being adventurous, seeking Zen like calm rather than excitement.

And simply trotting about the area was quite calming with fabulous views westwards towards the distinctive bulk of Cerro Jabalcón...

and the fascinatingly scrunched-up cliffs on the opposite side of the reservoir...

The campsite was almost empty until a dozen or so all-terrain motorhomes turned up. Maybe there are unmetalled tracks over the nearby badlands where you are allowed to enjoy the vehicles' off-road capability. 

Otherwise owning an 'expedition truck' must be simply annoying, too big for most campsites, impossible to park in a supermarket carpark and guzzling diesel at a rate that would empty most people's bank accounts after a few months use. Like supercars and superbikes they are undoubtedly 'boys toys'. How many females own a Harley or Ferrari? Very few, I suspect, but more likely than finding a woman driving a Man monster expedition truck. Intrigued I researched them. To buy one secondhand, around five years old with less than 100,000 miles on the clock, will set you back about £275,000 according to Chatgpt. In truth I can't remember seeing a UK plated one, the ones here at the moment are a mix of German, Swiss and Dutch plates. Anyway, they are ridiculous objects even if they do have a Miele washing machine and dishwasher built in.

We took the receptionist's advice and left before the weekend influx, but with no real plan as regards where to go next, which is unlike us; we're not given to just wandering about.

Thirty days of thirty plus

A few posts ago I wrote about 'where the south begins, pinpointing Millau as our point of entry. To my list of defining qualities like olive trees, shady squares with shuttered houses, shadow striped straight roads lined with plane trees, our digital thermometer added a final touch to  my of inventory of southern clichés by notching up from a hot but manageable 27° to a stifling 36°. 

This prompted a heartfelt paean from the cab concerning the joys of aircon and a lengthy discussion concerning how five of us plus, bikes, frame tent, camping beds, travel cot, two ring stove and sundry clutter managed to travel in a Nissan estate car to 'le Midi' in July and August back in the nineties. I'm certain the first car we owned with aircon was the Ford Galaxy we bought in 1999, recognising that a teenager, a precocious tweeny and a feisty four year old were not going to be able to share the back seat without bloodshed. We needed a third row and a camping trailer. It was a good move. The set-up enabled us to venture further afield, to Corsica, Sardinia and Croatia. 

The heat could be challenging, but we seemed to manage. I don't think it was unbearably hot all the time, there were cooler days, and with crystal clear skies the night-time temperature dropped quickly. We don't travel south in midsummer these days, but even in September we have had times when we have sweltered in thirty plus temperatures,. Not everyday though, the weather in Greece and other parts of the Mediterranean has always been mixed in September. 

Not so this year. Yesterday was the thirtieth day in a row with daytime temperatures in the mid thirties. What makes things worse is it's very humid and overnight temperatures aren't dipping much below the mid-twenties. At least when you are too cold you can always put an extra layer on both the bed and yourself. The same is not the case when it gets too hot. There comes an absolute point when you simply can't take anything else off or open any more windows. I also wonder if age is a factor. In July after a series of hot days at home when I had been working outside in the garden I developed heat exhaustion. I guess it's inevitable that the seventy plus me is less resilient than I used to be, but I resent the change, ageing offends me, I take it personally.

While we were staying in the Valencia Camper Park the weather forecast changed. No end to the heatwave but thundery downpours were predicted. Scorching temperatures and rain is not something we can cope with as having all the skylights wide-open overnight helps the van cool a little. It looked somewhat dryer further south, so we decided to head towards Mazarron, a resort town just south of Cartegena. The town itself is a little dismal, but the coast to the east oftowards Isla Plana is beautiful, and Camping Las Madrilles is comfortable, if somewhat bungaloid.

Booking-in, however, is not straightforward. The place doesn't take reservations for short stays, expecting you turn up on spec in the morning and take pot luck. Furthermore, the site insists on a three day minimum stay. What we tend to do is park-up the night before at a nearby area autocaravanas so we can maximise our chances in the booking-in lottery by arriving early. Usually we stay at the Puntas de Calnegre, this time we found a place in Mazarron itself. Area El Moreral is closer to Las Madrilles and within sight of the Mercadona carpark on the town's outskirts. We know this supermarket carpark well; it functions for northern European motorhomers as a winter gathering place - like Avebury, Carnac and Stonehenge did for our Neolithic forebears.

In winter I suspect that the Area El Moreral is very busy. Today in late September there were less than a dozen vans in an area that accommodates around forty. A couple of them were 'expedition' style mega trucks - they tend to be German or Swiss owned by Bear Griilis wannabees. Three of the French motorhomes had box trailers in tow, one contained a gleaming Honda Goldwing, the other two housed bulbous quad bikes. It seems for some recently retired northern European males owing a moho is not enough, it has to be accompanied by glitzy boys toys too. Off they all went in a cloud of dust, their 'understanding' other halves riding pillion.

We were sitting under the awning in the shade when unexpectedly a slim, older chap wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy swimming trunks appeared from behind our van. He advised us that he was 'a Brit' and had 'come for a chat'. It was good that he made his intentions clear at the outset, otherwise his startling demeanour may have seemed a tad alarming rather than simply idiosyncratic.

Over the next twenty minutes we learned where he was from (Devon), the names and occupations of his two sons, the fact that one of his grandchildren was at university and the other had just opened a beauty salon and was doing well, then got a comprehensive update his various health conditions and were  given the opportunity to concur with his view that Brittany Ferries' website and automated customer service chat bot was a waste of space. Eventually his wife turned-up, she was more fully clad. Oddly he then announced, "Well I'll be off then", and disappeared. She stayed to chat for a few more minutes to ensure we were fully informed about both their health conditions.

It got me thinking about the random conversations we've had over the years with other motorhomers. What struck me is they were not random, there is an element of social stratification about the exchanges. There are some absolute boundaries, in twelve years of long term travel we've never had a friendly chat with a caravanner. The two tribes live side by side barely tolerating one another, like City and United fans in Manchester. Millennial and GenZ van-lifers tend to socialise together, in parallel but rarely interacting with adjacent grey haired motorhomers. There are other odd patterns of socialability. Venerable drivers of C-class vans often wave to each other as they pass, but not people in A-Class or panel vans, nor drivers aged under forty. Humans are deeply tribal beings.

When Gill was training to be primary teacher in the mid- seventies students on teaching practice were encouraged to produce sociograms. This involved asking all the members of a class to write down the names of who they regarded as their friends. Analysis of this revealed patterns of social groupings and hierarchies. As I hinted at earlier, unspoken affiliations exist within the moho community too. When we began our extended travels in 2014 if we did fall into a conversation it tended to be fellow early retirees. 

Once the inevitable opening exchange of 'where are you from' had been settled, more often than not the conversation would turn to 'what did you do'. We soon learned that in our case a straightforward answer had a chilling effect on nascent moments of sociability. So when at the outset we gave the straightforward answer 'we both were teachers' people tended to make excuses and beat a hasty retreat. Sadly teachers are usually placed in the same category as other authority figures such as the police or tax inspectors, socially necessary but not particularly people you want to befriend. Indeed, whereas as it is the case that only a minority of people have been collared by the 'rozzers' or run foul of the inland revenue most of us can recount a less than positive run-in with a teacher, and for those of us now aged over sixty the consequences were occasionally painful. So without ever having talked about it we both adjusted our answer to the 'what did you do' question - Gill went for 'manager of an Adult Education centre' and I was even more evasive explaining that my last job was as a 'manager at a local college'. This did the trick, our answers were avoided the T word and were vague enough not to alarm fellow travellers wishing to engage in a friendly chat.

In fact these days it's quite rare for people to pause for a chat. At some point as you head inexorably towards septgenarian status mysteriously you disappear. Enveloped by something akin to a Romulan cloaking device, you become unseen, apart from on public transport in Italy and Spain where kindly GenZs now offer up their seats as a matter of course. 

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However since I turned seventy there is a group of people who've become much more interested in me - the medical profession. Suddenly I am eligible for a whole range of extra jabs. For the past decade I was supposed to have annual an review of the meds I'm on for hypertension. Years went by without it ever happening. Now it does.. A few months ago I found myself being interrogated by the practice nurse. I noted some additional questions - could I walk a mile, what was today's date? In other words - how's your mobility and do you suffer memory loss? Well intentioned I know, but I felt affronted. 

I guess if everyone our age is being collectively medicalised then it should not be surprising that when we fall into casual conversation health conditions are the one of the few things we have in common but  I'm having none of it, I won't play along. I guess I have a stereotypical introverted personality. Given the choice of passing the time of day with a friendly stranger or sitting in a shady spot with a book, the latter is always going to win out. Which is a good thing right now, as seeking out a shady spot is the best option when daytime temperatures hit the mid thirties by mid morning.

Next morning we double-checked the weather forecasts before setting off for Camping Madrilles. They had changed from yesterday, now it seems the stormy weather in Valencia is predicted to head here, and thundery downpours are expected to arrive by mid-afternoon. Almeria province to the south of us looked calmer, so we changed tack and set off towards the Cabo de Gata national park, 150kms south of us. 

It's a couple of hours down the AP7 to the Capa de Gata. The landscape becomes increasingly arid and tortured as you reach the Almeria border. The Tabanas desert to the north is the only place in Europe that qualifies as a true desert. 

The area between there and the coast looks like one even if it doesn't quite hit the all the criteria. Much of the landscape is shrink wrapped - plasticulture supplying the rest of Europe with fruit and veg. The exception is Cabo de Gata national park. Its stark volcanic peaks is the biggest area of protected landscape on Spain's densely developed Mediterranean coast. The Donana, at the opposite end of Andalusia is larger, but lies beyond the Straights of Gibraltar so abutts the Atlantic. 

We first came here twenty years ago before we retired. I think we'd rented a villa in Mojacar and took a day trip out to the Cabo de Gata lighthouse because our AA guidebook to Spain mentioned the nearby lagoons were home to a large flock of flamingos. Back then village of La Fabriquila was abandoned, the salt works disused, the workers single storey cottages boarded up and the striking silhouette of the Iglesia de Las Salinas turned out to be a ruin when you got up close.

I remember being shocked by the shanty towns nearby that surrounding the big plastic greenhouses. The African migrant workers were living in ramshackle, insanitary conditions. Since then things have improved remarkably, the salt workers cottages have been repaired and used as holiday accommodation, the church is restored and the intensive agriculture seems to be better managed. The migrant workforce seems better housed in the nearby town of Campohermoso. However the improvement has been accompanied by expansion - over the years the sea of plasticulture has spread inexorably towards the edge of the national park. 

The contrast between the quasi-industrial sprawl of the plasticulture and the 'preserved' volcanic hills of the national park is unsettling - it's an unnaturally natural landscape. Is this what the future will look like? Most of the earth entirely humanised, the only wild places left preserved as museums.

We headed for Los Escullos campsite. The section of the national park from there northwards towards Las Negras is furthest from the plasticulture creep. It retains its wildness, we love it. I searched our blog posts that contained 'Los Escullos' - apparently this is the eleventh time we've been here. It has to count as our favourite place I guess.

What's great about the area is it's easy to get out and about. Local beaches with astonishing wind sculpted fossilised dunes are an easy bike ride away. Stony tracks lead off onto the garrigue and if you are feeling adventurous there's a longer walk up to a hidden old caldera that has a unique micro-climate which sustains sub-tropical flora and rare butterflies.

However, in a heatwave all of this is challenging. In the four days we were there we did manage to get out a few times....

a short walk up the track at the back of the campsite

...a pedal down to the nearby beach with strange rock formations...

 

... then on next day a trip to the next cove along. You get a great view of the ancient calderas.

I wondered when the area was last active. Seven million years ago Chatgpt advised me - interesting about the submarine nature of the eruptions...

In somewhere like San José or Los Escullos, you're looking at the eroded remains of a volcanic landscape that existed millions of years before humans appeared in Europe. Some of the rocks beneath your feet were originally produced by eruptions beneath the sea, and the present coastline is the product of millions of years of subsequent uplift and erosion.

That's why Cabo de Gata looks so different from much of the surrounding Almería countryside: the mountains are essentially the eroded skeleton of an ancient volcanic province.

So we made a few short trips out - it's actually more comfortable in a heatwave riding an ebike rather than sitting still - you get a cooling breeze as you pedal along. 

Mostly though, we hunkered down under the shade of the awning. When we booked-in the receptionist warned us that there was a poolside jazz festival happening over the weekend. We could hear it clearly but it was not intrusive - a mixed bag of performers ranging from a funk style gospel group, a bebop inspired quintet and finally, a bigger ensemble that channelled the big band style of Duke Ellington and Count Basie. 

Finally the weather inland looks somewhat more expensive, sunny but 10° cooler than on the coast. We found a campsite by an embalse near Baza that's in a nice spot and has paddleboarding possibilities. Let's go there we decided. After thirty days of thirty plus you'd think I would have finished the Margerat Atwood I'm reading given all the sitting still in a shady spot we've been doing. No, what I have done is excelled myself in writing the most rambling blog post ever, like a shaggy dog story gone feral.