August 01, 2024

Italy - Part II

August 01, 2024/ Sarah Lock

Having finished our cycling tour of Puglia and Basilicata, we arrived back into the coastal resort of Monopoli where we loaded the bikes onto the back of Bob and, moving with slightly more speed, headed north. It didn’t take long before we crossed into Abruzzo, proudly known as the “Green Region of Europe” due to almost half of its territory having been set aside as national parks. This region is predominantly mountainous and, despite its western border being a mere 50km from Rome, it is one of the least populated regions of Italy. Overlooking the Adriatic Sea, the 130 km long coastline includes a number of Blue Flag Status beaches – the international quality mark for beaches that are among the finest not only in the country, but globally. Having overloaded on Vitamin D whilst on the bikes, we were more focussed on getting back up into the mountains and, after a couple of false starts, we found a small campsite so perfect that it would have been easy to stay for the entire summer. Just a short walk from the tiny mountain village of Sant’Eufemia, where the local taberna doubled as the community centre, it was rural Italy at its best. Situated at the foot of the Majella, a massif within the Appennine chain, the surrounding peaks hid deep valleys, caves, gorges and high-altitude plains which according to the numerous signs around, were home to the Marsican brown bear. With numbers currently around 60 individuals, lack of a sighting was unsurprising.

It was hard to drag ourselves away from such a lush, green idyll but we were on a bit of a schedule. Crazy isn’t it, that even when living our nomadic lifestyle, we are still shaping our timeline and invariably have somewhere to be on a particular date. In the short term we had an appointment at the Baci chocolate factory in Perugia and so, for the second time, we crossed over the top of the Appennines and into Umbria. This central region is the only one within Italy that borders neither the sea nor another country and along with Abruzzo and Marche remains relatively undiscovered by touristic masses. The scenery remained the same, mountains, forests and beautiful villages either built into the side of the mountain or sat on top of one of the surrounding hills.

Perugia is the capital city of Umbria, the historic centre a true fourteenth-century village with a bustling energy, due in part to the large number of university students in residence. We had considered a chocolate making course at the huge Perugina factory but after being quoted €600 for an hour and a half’s tuition we figured the €10 tour was the way to go. Like most things Italian, the story of Baci is a romantic one. Around 100 years ago, a young chocolatier named Luisa Spagnoli fell in love with Giovanni Buitoni, who was a founder of the Perugina chocolate company. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have been an issue but somewhat inconveniently, she was already married to his co-founder. In order to communicate with her lover, she placed notes inside the wrapped chocolates that were then sent for his inspection. These love tokens inspired a tradition that continues to this day, albeit now under the leadership of Nestle. The story was interesting, but the free chocolate was better, and with pockets bulging we drove over the Apennines for a third time, this time heading for San Marino.

Founded in 301 by Saint Marinus, a Christian stonemason, San Marino is the fifth smallest country in the world covering just 61 square kilometres in the mountains of Italy. Fully independent and with its own army, it is the only country in the world where the cars outnumber the population. With a population of around 34,000 there works out to be 1.6 cars per person (including children) which could have something to do with the lack of VAT or, more likely, the lack of a MacDonalds which means driving 30km down the hill to the seaside resort of Rimini for a fast-food fix. Despite, or perhaps due to, this lack of infrastructure, San Marino boasts a unique status in that it has no national debt.

As always, within any historic centre of Europe, parking is near impossible and shunning the available lower level parking lots which would have required us to walk up the hill, we eventually found ourselves just outside the city walls where there was a tiny parking area for about 30 vehicles. With no room to turn Bob around we had no choice but to drive up to the parking barrier and wait for a space to come free. At last, a car exited and we waited for our ticket to appear. Five minutes later the ticket was still absent and we were getting hooted by the car behind because they’re Italians and that’s what they do. Eventually the passenger of the tooting car got out and started up a rapid conversation with the invisible lady inside the ticket dispenser. For a simple issue the conversation was an extremely lengthy one but eventually resolved in a ticket being produced and the barrier opening to let us in. Parking accomplished, we walked under the cute stone arch and into the city. It didn’t take long to have a look round, we have been in shopping malls that are larger, but it is a pretty place. Aside from the usual tourist souvenirs, the main offering was BB guns, hunting equipment and fishing gear – yet another reason to own a car – and after purchasing a pair of binoculars to replace the ones stolen in Tangiers, we once again drove over the Apennines, this time to Florence.

We had arranged to stay at an old villa on the south side of the River Arno, simply because it had a small courtyard where we would be able to park. As it turned out, the owners were charming, the room was huge, and it was only a 15-minute walk into the centre. Having visited this beautiful city before, we were looking forward to getting re-acquainted, but the excessive scaffolding, barriers and cranes dotted about the centre presented a very different Florence to the one we remembered. Even the leather markets failed to inspire, with the same items on display from one end of the street to the other, without the choice of colours and textures that we had seen in Morocco. A trip to the Outlet Mall also proved to be a waste of diesel and so with funds relatively intact we continued north.

Our plan whilst in Italy was always to spend time in the most southern and most northern regions and less than a couple of hours after leaving Florence, road signs started appearing in German, Bratwurst was back on the menu and Lederhosen was being sported in the bars and cafes. We had arrived in Alto Adige. Sitting just below Austria, this region is also referred to as South Tyrol and you could be forgiven for thinking that you had crossed the border leaving Italy behind. This part of Italy has been heavily influenced by Central Europe, as evidenced by the improved infrastructure, increased industry and a preference for butter and cream over olive oil. There also seemed to be a fascination with grass cutting which was taking place almost as if it was a community event. No slope was too large nor too steep resulting in the feeling that one had been dropped into a perfect toy farm. But WOW, what a stunning natural landscape, huge green valleys lined with dense forests and surrounded by the pale jagged peaks of the Dolomites.

To put the Dolomiti into perspective, they are a mountain range in the northern Italian Alps covering the regions of Belluno, South Tyrol and Trentino. The Alps themselves extend in a 1,200 km arch from Nice on the western Mediterranean to Trieste on the Adriatic and cross the countries of Monaco, France, Switzerland, Italy, Liechtenstein, Germany, Austria and Slovenia. The Dolomites cover an area of roughly 90 km north to south and 100 km east to west which constitutes less than 1% of the entire range. However, despite this small contribution they are definitely one of the most beautiful places I have ever visited and our two-week stay has been a highlight of our travels so far.

The first week we spent just outside Brunico, South Tyrol, in a chalet that we had booked way back in February as we were concerned that the short hiking season of late June to early September would place a heavy demand on accommodation. As well as the typical wooden alpine chalet accommodation, there are more than 1,000 mountain huts that are a huge part of what makes hiking and climbing in this region such a unique and accessible experience. The extensive network of ski lifts stay open throughout the summer giving easy access to the peaks, higher pastures and seemingly limitless walking trails. Our explorations extended to the Valley of Gardena which was definitely “Sound of Music” stuff and the beautiful and diverse Fanes-Senes Nature Park, home to Lake Braie.

Our first week was up all too quickly and not having any further accommodation sorted out we drove 60km east to the mountain resort of Cortina in Belluno. Arriving late morning we were able to secure a week-long pitch at Camping Rocchetta which turned out to be an idyllic spot just a 20-minute walk from the centre of town. Our second week was even better than the first and for anyone that loves hiking and has yet to visit this part of Italy, please put it on your to-do list. The only negative for us was the difficulty in booking into the mountain huts which prevented us from being able to put together a multi-day tour. Without exception, and despite contacting many huts back in February, the majority of beds had been block booked by the tour companies. Most of the walkers we came across had organised their trip through a company and in most cases had booked over 12 months ahead. In theory, no mountain hut should turn a walker away (even if you end up sleeping in a cupboard) but we didn’t test this so can’t comment. Logistical difficulties aside, the walking was spectacular and the location and quality of the mountain huts, where we often stopped for lunch, couldn’t be faulted. Lake Sorapis and the area around Mount Lagazuoi provided some of the best trails that we have ever walked making us love Italy just a little bit more.

Whether you are a hiker, cyclist, mountaineer, paraglider or skier, this area is paradise but these Italian Alps also hold a lot of history that tells of a very different mountain experience.

On our last day, we drove up to Falzarego Pass from where we would hike up Mount Lazagoui through the extensive tunnels that had been carved out of the mountain by the Italian Alpini soldiers during WWI. The First World War, so different from any previous war given the magnitude of military equipment and number of men involved “hit the Dolomite valleys like a furious gust of wind that uprooted, swept away and changed everything” (L. Palla). The war began in August 1914, at a time when the Tyrol valleys belonged to the Austro-Hungarian Empire, but it wasn’t until May 1915 when the Italian Army advanced into the valley town of Cortina that the Austrians were forced to retreat to the high passes of the Dolomites, a natural border between the two countries. The fighting that then ensured at altitudes near 3,000 m was known as the White War, an arduous and fruitless battle not only between the two armies but against nature itself and the challenge of warfare in such a hostile environment. This bitterly fought conflict continued for three years during which time kilometres of trenches, tunnels and galleries were excavated. More soldiers died of hunger, cold, avalanches and rockfalls than from the battles themselves and remnants of this gruesome chapter are now part of the Open-Air Museum found at the top of the mountain.

Despite adverse weather requiring full waterproofs to make an appearance, the start of the walk was ok - the only disconcerting factor was that we were the only people going up; anyone else mad enough to be on the mountain with a storm brewing was wisely making their way down. Within half an hour we had turned off the wide shale track onto a steep, narrow ledge-like affair where the placement of metal cables was much appreciated as we pushed forward trying to ignore the alarming drop-off and the horrible sense of being somewhat exposed clinging to the side of the mountain. We were understandably relieved when the first of the tunnels started to appear as the rain was getting heavier and well equipped, with one headlight between us, we ventured into the pitch blackness. We progressed through a series of short, low tunnels before reaching the main tunnel system. Always climbing, some of the tunnels had steep wooden steps, often with a steel cable fasted to one side of the walls and every now and then a lookout hole would appear which was literally a tiny platform overlooking the mountainside. Eventually we emerged onto a larger platform, where there was a small stone-built shelter which purported to be a kitchen, before entering the next section of tunnels. We could hear the thunder directly above us as we went deeper into the mountain, disappointingly in the wrong direction as we found ourselves in a section that was clearly not part of the official route. The appearance of another couple was somewhat reassuring except for the fact that they were also lost and after a bit of random exploring which resulted in a series of dead ends, there was no other option than to retrace our steps back down through the dark, steep and slippery interior of the mountain. Once again reaching the kitchen, we left our new companions taking shelter whilst we started along a tiny path that Ian had spotted curving its way around the side. The heavy rain and wind was not helping our efforts as we attempted to gain more height and when the path abruptly finished, further ascent was only possible by scrambling – which we did – until an inner voice of reason kicked in and we agreed to head back. We must have been in the eye of the storm as we clung to the face of the mountain with the wind howling around us. Inching back along the exposed, narrow ledges it was with huge relief that we once again arrived at the kitchen where the other couple popped out having decided the worst of the weather was over.

Back into the tunnels again we descended for what seemed an age but was probably only 30 minutes or so, when a guy appeared at a previously missed crossroad and pointed us in another direction. It took us almost an hour of dark, unrelenting ascent before we eventually exited through a wooden door just a few hundred metres from the cable car station. The storm had now passed, the sky was bright blue and the mountain rifugio was still serving food. It was as if we had walked through a portal from one world into another and we had been provided with a tiny glimpse and huge appreciation of the hardships that would have been endured by the soldiers fighting for ownership of these mountains. The White War: Life and Death by Mark Thompson is a compelling account of this little-known campaign.

Our 90-day stay in Europe was once again due to expire and so it was time to make another visa run back to the UK. Designating Venice airport as our gateway we booked into Fusina campground, a 20-minute ferry ride from the centre and an excellent option for anyone with a camper wanting to visit Venice. Venice is the capital of Italy’s Veneto region and is built on more than 100 islands in a lagoon in the Adriatic Sea. Canals within and around the islands act as roads and the Grand Canal, Venice’s own Autobahn, traces a reverse-S course through the middle. Considered to have been the first real international financial centre, the city came into being when hordes of Germanic marauders drove great numbers of mainlanders onto the islands of the lagoon. Over time, the city was built by driving millions of wooden poles, sourced mainly from Slovenia and Croatia, deep into the clay beneath the marshes. Platforms were then constructed on top of the poles upon which buildings were constructed. Its strategic position between Europe and traders from the East enabled the Merchants of Venice to accumulate great wealth evidenced by the grandiose and ornate architecture of its many palaces, churches and bridges.

Unfortunately for us, Venice was in the throes of a heatwave when we arrived which sapped our energy and enthusiasm for exploration. We didn’t even part with the €90 required for a ride on a Gondola, preferring to peruse the Peggy Guggenheim art collection, conveniently housed in a state-of-the-art air-con environment. Despite the heat, the occasional unpleasant whiff and the number of tourists that swell the normal population from 55,000 to 175,000 on any busy day, Venice has an undeniable charm.

Just before we left Italy we were notified by HSBC AU that the final outstanding fraudulent transaction had been recredited to our account, a mere 5 months after we first notified them of the issue. By way of an apology for their tardy response they did issue us with a $50 dollar voucher for a well-known Australian supermarket but, better yet, a couple of weeks later they refunded the same transaction again!!

July 04, 2024

Italy - Part I

July 04, 2024/ Sarah Lock

As we disembarked off the ferry directly onto the busy streets of Naples, there was no doubt whatsoever as to which country we had arrived in. There were cars everywhere, bumper to bumper on the roads, vying with pedestrians on the pavements and parked just anywhere so long as at least part of the vehicle could squeeze in. That’s not to say that there weren’t plenty of Carabinieri around, their patrol cars were just adding to the mayhem as bonnets and roofs provided handy supports for coffee cups as the officers chatted and waved to everyone around them.

Welcome to mainland Italy, a country whose history has given us incestuous emperors, scheming popes, delusional dictators and some of the world’s most coveted art works. Surprisingly, Italy has only been a nation since 1861 but for centuries it has wielded powerful influence as Catholicism’s headquarters and set the modern era in motion with the Renaissance. Italy lays claim to numerous revolutionary inventions including the first clinical thermometer in 1612, the electric battery in 1800 and the world’s first practical wireless telegraphy transmitters and receivers in the mid 1890’s. It is also home to Banca Monte dei Paschi di Siena, the world’s oldest surviving bank which has been counting coins since 1472.

With just 15 minutes to get to Samsung where I had booked in my tablet for a new screen, I left Ian and Bob at the entrance to the port and dashed through the busy streets. After collecting my ticket from the automatic dispenser and being called up to the counter, I handed over the tablet and waited to be told at what time it would be ready to collect. Taking one look, the service technician peeled off the cracked screen protector and, with just a hint of superiority, handed it back pronouncing it fixed!

In the 5 minutes that it had taken to resolve my issue, Ian had managed to navigate the centre of Naples and was now triple parked outside Samsung. Say what you like, but there is a lot to love about Italy and its casual approach to road rules. My phone then pinged with a message to say that the street food tour we had booked to fill in the time waiting to collect my tablet had been cancelled as the guide was off sick – hopefully not food poisoning - and so with nothing to hang around for we set off east towards the Adriatic coast.

There can’t be too many places in the world where you are travelling at 80 kph through a 40 kph zone with a convoy of cars behind hassling to get past, facilitating an exit out of Naples that was easily a personal best compared to other European cities visited to date. To cross the country from west to east (or east to west) one has to go over the Apennines Mountain range that runs almost the entire length of Italy, from Liguria in the north to the tip of Calabria in the south. Driving towards the mountains, it wasn’t long before we left the busy roads behind and entered a green and peaceful landscape. It was surprisingly quiet, with just the occasional small village, and in place of more traditional campsites, Park4Night was showing us agritourism sites where we could camp. This type of accommodation we had already come across in Sardinia, an original form of tourism in the countryside that has developed in Italy over the last thirty years. Its unique feature is that it can only be practiced on farms and by farmers, and in areas often struggling economically it has enabled a significant number of historic farm buildings and traditional agricultural practices to survive. Accommodation typically ranges from pitches to more resort style facilities and in many instances you can camp free provided you pay for a wine tasting, cellar dinner, cheese tour, horse ride etc. Being out of season and up in the mountains, it wasn’t unusual for us to be the only people parked up next to the goats although we did have one instance where we ended up in the middle of a music festival, thank goodness it turned out to be Reggae!

Italy is divided into 20 regions including Sicily and Sardinia, and despite the unification of the country, each region is unique and offers a different experience in terms of culture, landscapes, history, food and wine. The ‘Mezzogiorno’, southern area incorporates the heel of the boot (Puglia), instep (Basilicata) and toe (Calabria) and leaving the toe for the time being we were eager to explore areas long stereotyped as the poorer, more passionate cousins of Italy’s sophisticated northerners. We were also desperate to try out our new bikes and leaving Bob at a Masseria (a fortified farmhouse typical of 16th century Puglia estates), just outside the Adriatic town of Monopoli, we embarked on a 14-day cycle of Puglia and Basilicata.

Initially heading north from Monopoli our route was designed to take us in a messy figure of eight covering the hills of the Valle d’Itria, the Murgia plateau and the coastlines of the Ionian and Adriatic Seas. For us, cycling seems to be the best way to discover an area and given that the extreme south of Italy is still relatively unvisited by international tourists our slow travel on bikes was perfect in an area renowned for its siesta loving, casual lifestyle.

From the tiny old town of Polignano a Mare, which in recent years has hosted the Red Bull cliff diving competition, to Rutigliano and its famous Divella pasta factory, we progressed onto the beautiful white trulli town of Alberobello. Trulli first appeared in the mid 14th century and are found throughout the Itria Valley – where there are approximately 50,000 of these iconic cone-shaped limestone buildings. Some trulli stand alone, whilst others are clustered together and transformed into residences, shops, restaurants and boutique hotels. It is thought that they were initially built to serve as temporary field shelters for shepherds and animals and over time began to function as storage spaces for crops and farm equipment as well as permanent homes. What makes them remarkable is how well they’ve stood the test of time despite being built using mortarless construction, perhaps it is due to the decorative pinnacle placed on top of each dome to ward off bad luck.

As much as we were enjoying the cycling, some of the routes that we were being directed along by Gaia were turning out to be more ‘off-road’ than expected. Emerging from one particularly rough and overgrown section, Ian was a bit dismayed to see that he had a puncture and even more dismayed when I informed him that I had forgotten to pack the puncture repair kit. As a result, I was dispatched to the nearest bike shop some 7km away which was shortly due to close for siesta. Making it just in time, I purchased the necessary repair items but reluctant to cycle back I started to flag down vehicles that looked as if they were heading in Ian’s direction. Despite using a combination of Google translate and miming i.e. trying to push the inner tube and pump through partly wound-down windows, I was failing miserably, so it was a huge relief when Ian rang to say that two Swiss cyclists had repaired his tyre and he was on his way. Half an hour later, sat in a local café, we realised that the settings for Gaia were on hiking and not road biking. More than 3 year’s of constant GPS app use and we still can’t get it right!

Cisternino, another trulli town, is well known for its bombettes, little meat parcels filled with an assortment of ham, cheese and herbs which the butcher will cook for you while you wait; But the star of the show is without question pasta, the average Italian consuming around 23.5kg of pasta per year. Le orecchiette pasta (small ears) is synonymous with Puglia and we couldn’t really leave Martina Franca without learning how to make it. It follows a simple recipe using just the local durum wheat and water and we also learnt the importance of pairing the correct pasta shapes (Italy has around 350) with the correct sauces. As any discerning Italian will tell you, a rich ragu should always be paired with a flat, wide pasta such as tagliatelle which allows for the meat in the bolognese to cling to it more easily. Tag Bol anyone?

Moving west we crossed into Basilicata, a small mountainous region that straddles both the Ionian and Tyrrhenian coasts. Inhabited since prehistoric times, the region is rich with the remains of the many cultures that have presided there which include the Greeks, Romans, Byzantines and Normans. The most significant of these is within the city of Matera, a World Heritage Site that is one of the oldest and continuous places of human settlement in the world. The Sassi area is a complex of some 1,500 cave dwellings carved into the rock flanking a steep ravine. The original natural caves were expanded into living spaces by peasants and artisans throughout the classical and medieval eras until it became known as “the shame of Italy” for its dismal poverty. In the 1950s the entire population of roughly 16,000 people (mostly peasants and farmers) were relocated leaving behind an empty shell. Move forward to the 1990s and giving a whole new meaning to the term “fixer-upper’, cave renovation began and today staying in one of the Sassi’s cave hotels is one of Europe’s more exotic new experiences. Trivia time – Sassi di Matera was one of the main location sites for James Bond in No Time to Die.

Cycling an average of 60-80 km per day our thoughts were never too far away from food and back into Puglia we headed to Laterza, a gritty town far removed from the tourist highlights of the region. The attraction for us wasn’t the Gravina di Laterza, the largest canyon in Europe, but the Pane di Laterza, a traditional, tough crusted, sourdough bread with a soft, light centre, baked in ancient brick ovens.

Salento is the extremity of the Puglia region occupying the heel of the boot. Where the Valle d’Itria ends, Puglia becomes a long flat tongue of land between two seas, the Adriatic to the east and the Ionian to the west. The coastline on the western inside is a vast almost non-stop strip of sandy beaches and clear blue waters and compared to the popular coastline below Naples many of the seaside towns were relatively undeveloped. Taranto and Gallipoli are the main centres after which facilities are mostly provided by the frequent beach clubs where sun beds, umbrellas and champagne bearing waiters are all available for a fee.

The interior of this region plays a fundamental role in Italy’s agricultural economy, producing enormous quantities of olive oil and wine. En-route to an olive oil mill in the town of Manduria, we were saddened to see huge areas of dead and dying olive trees. In an area that is estimated to have 60 million olive trees, the arrival of a deadly bacteria from Costa Rica in 2013, has decimated approximately one third of them. Speaking with the family at the mill who have harvested their olive trees since the 18th century, it was hard to hear that the government is requiring trees, some of which are 1,000 years old, to be felled and destroyed. As this part of Italy produces 12% of the world’s olive oil and 40% of Italy’s olive oil, the situation is devastating and, unsurprisingly, many olive farmers have so far resisted orders to fell their trees. The situation now is that within the last 18 months new shoots have started to appear around the base of the seemingly dead trees and it is now a waiting game to see whether the new growth will succumb to the bacteria and also what further government orders will be made in attempts to stop the bacteria spreading north.

In contrast to the soft sandy beaches along the inside of the boot, the Adriatic coast is much more rocky and rugged and feels far removed from the more popular parts of the region. We cycled along coastal roads with virtually no traffic right up until we reached the city of Lecce, dubbed the Florence of the south. Taking a much-needed day off, it felt wonderful to stretch our legs among the white stone buildings of the Baroque historic centre. There was no shortage of wine bars, gelaterias and patisseries which we made the most of before heading further up the coast and back towards Monopoli.

One thing about southern Italy, it is hot. Every single day of cycling we were exposed for hours in temperatures up in the 30s and by the last day we just wanted to finish, get back in Bob and head north. So, it was more than a little frustrating when just 15km out of Monopoli the police closed the road just as we approached explaining that the area was being shut down and we had to go back. With much moaning we devised another longer route only for the same thing to happen again. For 1½ hours we struggled to make progress. What was going on? Now we were asking the question, we noticed that there did seem to be rather a lot of police around plus a few helicopters overhead. Eventually, opting to cycle on the motorway slip road, we were passed by a convoy of shiny, black, people carriers with police escorts travelling at top speed. A couple of kilometres further on, another identical convoy shot past, each car with a large number sticker in the back window. Even if they hadn’t been travelling so fast, all the cars had blacked-out windows so impossible to get a look inside. We eventually arrived at our destination, hot, sweaty and totally fed-up to find that we had arrived into town with Biden and Macron who were attending the G7 Summit!

A quick update on our financials - After 4 months of communication and official complaints (our end), HSBC Au have at last managed to refund our account in lieu of the fraudulent transactions that were processed without our authorisation. There is just one transaction for $600 that, for some reason, has not been re-credited. But, there is hope, as following yet another complaint (again from us) we have been advised that the matter is being looked into and we should hear back within the next 60 days??

June 07, 2024

Andorra, Corsica & Sardinia

June 07, 2024/ Sarah Lock

Before flying from Barcelona to London we paid a quick visit to Andorra, a tiny country sandwiched between Spain and France that for a long time had the descriptive slogan of “El Pais dels Pirineus” – “country in the mountains”. To be more precise, this landlocked microstate of just 468 square kilometres is located in a steep valley high up in the Pyrenees Mountain range and inhabited by just 77,000 Andorrans which places it firmly within the top 20 of the world’s smallest countries. Its diminutive stature and isolation has, at times, served it well with Andorra remaining neutral throughout all the wars of the 20th century. During such volatile times, its strategic position provided a valuable transit zone for merchandise by way of a safe corridor over the mountains between Spain and France. This high route was traversed by pilgrims, peddlers, smugglers, Spaniards fleeing the Spanish Civil War as well as WW2 refugees and evaders. Having read part of a blog, written by a group of trail bike riders that had been up the route the previous year, we decided to give it a go.

The road begins in Alins and continues up to Tor, a small village that lies on the border of Spain, before winding its way up to the pass of Port de Cabus at 2,302 m. It then makes its descent through mountain villages and into the capital, Andorra la Vella. On our way to Alins we stopped at the Escalarre Rock Cafe in the small village of Sort. It would have been hard to miss given the rock music being pumped out at full blast in the otherwise sleepy mountain hamlet and navigating the iron guitar-playing sculpture guarding the doorway, we entered the dark interior. A small cigarette-smoke filled space full of long-haired, leather jacket-wearing guys who seemed just as surprised to see us as we were to encounter them. The chef, who looked as if he had been left behind by the ‘Hairy Bikers’, produced some rather robust food at the speed of light which was served up by a slip of a waitress clad in black leather who, if her spacey smile was anything to go by, appeared to be delighted with her lot in life.

Well fed and with ears ringing, we continued for 20km along a twisty, well-surfaced road. On our approach, we were so distracted by the views of snow-capped mountains that we nearly missed the tight turn and small signpost indicating the way to Tor. After a bit of manoeuvring due to Bob’s rather large turning circle, we found ourselves on a single vehicle tarmac road with some alarming cracks and a sheer drop off on the left. We were grateful for the occasional safety barrier but did wonder at the stopping power of the thin string that some kind soul had thoughtfully provided in its absence. The road wound its way up into the mountains parallel to a raging stream of melt water and we found ourselves squeezing past various rock falls and fallen branches before arriving at the abandoned village of Tor.

It was here that the tarmac ended and we progressed onto a soft muddy trail that in a couple of months would probably have baked hard. Heading ever upwards, the route became more challenging; more rocks and more mud and then snow started to appear. Our height at this point was around 1,800 m and we still had another 500 m of height gain before the top and the reappearance of tarmac which on the Andorran side was implemented all the way up to the Col. Bob did his best but soon we were sliding all over the place now with a sheer drop off to the right. It looked as if quad bikes had been in the area and some of the boggier corners were so churned up that it was difficult to get traction. Already in low diff and with tyres deflated, we managed another 100 m of height gain before starting to lose confidence in our ability to reach the top. The time was now 5pm and getting stuck up the mountain for the night was looking more and more likely and so we decided to call it a day. Some sideways reverse sliding followed by a 20-point turn eventually had us pointing downhill and we retraced our tyre treads a little bit astonished at what Bob had managed to climb. Yes, it was disappointing, but it was hard not to smile as we drove back past the Rock Café hearing Tina Turner belting out ‘I don’t Need Another Hero’. Revisiting the blog that had inspired this particular adventure, turns out that the guys hadn’t made it over the top either, although they had got a lot closer than us. I wonder whether it would have made a difference if I had gathered all the information to start with??

Taking a more conventional route into Andorra meant a 100 km drive around the mountain and as time was getting on we decided to pull off down a slip road and set up camp. This particular episode was not quite over however. As we were enjoying breakfast the following morning we were somewhat startled to hear the sound of a horse trotting up the road. Sure enough, a few moments later a stocky, bell-wearing chestnut appeared who veered off the road to come to a halt directly in front of where we were sitting. After a few minutes of eye-gazing he gave a loud whinny, spun round back onto the road and trotted off.

We did eventually make it into Andorra and can tell you that it is utterly adorable. Imposing mountains literally circle the capital and as the ski season had just finished most of the population were donning hiking gear and heading for the hills. We had planned on doing the same but after clocking the duty-free price tags we stumped up the cash for a couple of new phones and spent most of our short stay playing with these ridiculously addictive devices.

When we weren’t gazing intently downwards, we couldn’t help but notice how many Porsche were on the road. Turns out Andorra has the highest number of Porsche Cayenne per capita in the world which probably speaks volumes about its citizens that they prefer a German import over the Renault or Dacia of their neighbours. It was also news to us that Andorra doesn’t belong to either the EU nor the Schengen region and despite formal looking border controls we were just waved through on entry and departure without even having to get our passports out.

As covered in the previous blog, we then travelled to London and on our return to Barcelona airport we were a bit gutted to see that our bikes had been pinched off the back of Bob. Other than starting to feel like some sort of mobile cycling charity we didn’t have much time to dwell on our misfortune as 3 hours later we were booked onto the 14 hour ferry from Barcelona to Porto Torres, Sardinia.

Having been on a few overnight ferries this year, we have been pleasantly surprised, even taking into account the notoriously badly reviewed Grimaldi lines, with the facilities. Booking an overnight cabin seems to be the way to go as they are quite roomy for two, have a private shower and by the time the ferry docks the following morning we usually disembark feeling pretty rested. Just as well as there was no hanging around in Porto Torres - we drove straight up to Santa Teresa Gallura where we caught the 1 hr ferry over to Bonifacio, Corsica.

Corsica is an island that sits 170km off southern France and 90km from north-western Italy. It was under Italian Republic rule for centuries until sold to France in 1768 and the capital Ajaccio, was the birth place of Napoleon Bonaparte. It is not a large island, just 183km long and 83km wide, but what is lacks in size it makes up for in diversity. The interior is wild and mountainous whilst the superb coastline offers up a mix of small resorts ranging from the stylish Porto Vecchio on the east coast to the small shanty village of Girolata on the west.

The 11 km ferry crossing was as short as it was turbulent. Chairs were sliding from one side of the ship to the other as we watched the horizon appear momentarily through the portholes before disappearing just as quickly as the ferry was tossed around. There weren’t too many of us aboard, just a group of Scandinavian, septuagenarian, Harley Davidson bikers and one middle-aged male who spent most of the time clinging onto one of the floor to ceiling poles, occasionally executing a sequence of moves that provided some insight as to how he may have been spending his spare time. The relief at approaching our destination was palpable, as most of us were struggling not to throw-up, but the rough crossing was soon forgotten as we entered through a narrow passage flanked by brilliant white cliffs and set eyes on the old town of Bonifacio perched on the top.

It was a new destination for both of us and as we made our way north we couldn’t have been more surprised. The interior of the island is sparsely populated, the mountain villages isolated and, when we were there, mostly closed. It is a place where wild boars roam through thick forests full of huge spreading chestnut trees and we were soon to learn that they provided the main food for the area. We were making our way to Calenzana, the starting point of the Mare e Monti north, a 10-day trek through some of the remote hilltop towns and small isolated coastal villages, some of which are only accessible by boat or on foot. It took us a couple of days to drive north, the narrow mountain roads slow going and after a couple of early nights wild camping due to the deep snorty sounds coming out of the forest, we arrived at Joe’s place, an ex- French military sniper who had agreed to look after Bob. Call us paranoid, but in a country with the highest crime rate in the EU we were taking no chances.

It wasn’t easy to find much information on this particular walk, most of the stuff online was geared towards the GR20, a mythical trek of 180 km and often referred to as the hardest trek in Europe. Unfortunately, there was still too much snow on the mountains and the refugios hadn’t opened for the season so not an option for us. As far as our walk was concerned we did have the names of the small villages or gite d’etapes (accommodation specifically aimed at hikers) that our trail went through and once we set off it proved to be one of the best waymarked trails that we have done.

girolata, accessible only by boat or on foot

It certainly wasn’t a walk in the park. Each day we climbed, often over 1,000 m up and, more often that not, down again. The terrain was often rocky and just to make things a bit more difficult, on day three I took a French tomber (fall) and broke my wrist which meant only having one stick to help with the steep slopes. The accommodation was a mixed bag. On one occasion we experienced a luxurious home stay with probably the best cook in the whole of Corsica while on another we were shown into a tiny room with 6 bunk beds and two large smoking bikers. Every inch of available space was taken up with their leathers, helmets and paniers and although we wouldn’t want to come across as precious, on this particular occasion we turned round, walked out and went further up the road. The tiny mountain villages were rustic to say the least, the food consisting of 100 ways to cook and serve boar, chestnuts and pasta – the latter no doubt a legacy from the Italians. The only vegetarian option on offer was an omelette, apart from one place where it was difficult to show an appropriate level of enthusiasm when presented with a plate of raw leeks and gerkins. But, the scenery was spectacular, both up in the mountains and down on the coastal paths and the fresh fish offered at tiny wooded shacks on the white sands of secluded bays more than compensated for some of the more traditional fare.

For the first week, the temperatures had been up in the high 20°C’s, but three days before we were due to finish the weather broke and we were forced off the mountain due to storms and torrential rain. We had no other choice but to road walk the rest of the way and into our destination of Cargese. As it turned out this worked in our favour as we walked through the charming hillside town of Piana and the Gorges de Spelunca, huge red granite cliffs that plunged down to the Mediterranean and was one of the highlights of the walk.

Corsica certainly deserves its name of The Island of Beauty but it’s people just like the hiking are tough. There is no doubt that they are proud of their reputation as the hard men of Europe and on several occasions we came across cages full of dogs in the middle of the forests that we can only assume were used for hunting boar.

Wrist aside, we finished in good shape and after hiring a car to get us back to Bob due to the lack of any public transport, we once again crossed the Strait of Bonifacio. Sardinia belongs to Italy, is three times the size of Corsica and although not as mountainous it is certainly not flat. The interior is similarly wild and remote but its extensive coastline is much more developed and has some of the Med’s best beaches.

Ever heard the phrase “sardonic grin”? Well it has its spooky origins in Sardinia where a plant used in pre-Roman times to kill old people who had become a burden, produced a smile of sorts on the corpse’s face.

Sardinia is also one of the world’s first identified “blue zones” – an area where there are an unusual number of people who reach the age of 100. This blue zone comprises 17 white-washed villages in the Nuoro province which is exactly where we were headed.

Some time ago, we came across an article promoting Selvaggio Blu, Italy’s most famous and spectacular trek, marketed as a unique experience through one of the most pristine areas of the world. The idea was originally conceived in 1987 by two alpinists who forged a path from Santa Maria Navarrese to the, unaccessible other than by boat, beach of Cala Luna. It took two years to create a route combining traditional shepherds paths with the charcoal burners’ mule paths through landscapes constantly changing due to extensive rockslides and incorporating the ancient “scalones”, juniper walkways that are a irreplaceable legacy of the Sardinian shepherds. Following narrow, exposed pathways often suspended 100’s of metres above sea level and utilising climbing and rappelling techniques, the trail is specified as “suitable exclusively for expert, well-trained hikers, with good orientation skills and consolidated climbing ability”??????

Reading on, it soon became apparent that aside from the physical aspect of the trek, an added difficulty was the total lack of water along the 45km route. This would mean carrying enough for the 4-6 day duration along with sufficient climbing gear to navigate the tricky sections. Despite being up for a challenge, this was a step too far for us and, for the first time, we signed up with a tour company, Explorando Supramonte who specialise in guided tours and logistical support for SB as well as other trails in the area. Due to the nature of the climate, the window for doing SB is quite small and with numbers limited to groups of 12, we signed up as soon as the start dates were release which gave us too much time to dwell on whether or not we would be up to the job and was instrumental to our trek in Corsica by way of preparation.

Turning up with a bandaged wrist was probably not the best first impression but I suspect that the majority of our fellow adventurers were just as pre-occupied as we were in wondering just what they had let themselves in for and so it was a huge relief not to be immediately singled out as a weak link or at least not to have it aired out loud. Our group consisted of two Lithuanian sisters one a doctor the other a biologist, an Irish guy on a sabbatical, three UN workers and half a dozen Italians. Ages ranged from mid 20’s to late 60’s and as the week progressed we considered ourselves extremely fortunate to be in the company of people with easy laughter can do attitudes. They also spoke English well which was an added bonus.

Given the inaccessibility of the route, each morning and evening a rib boat would arrive with provisions and to either collect or drop off our camping gear. The guiding duties were shared amongst half a dozen local guides, a different one nominated each evening to provide dinner and baby-sit us overnight. The overnight camps varied – outside a traditional shepherd’s hut (the centenarian still in residence), next to the beach and even inside a fabulous Grotto which we rapelled down to. It was a tough week where we walked for extended periods over exposed white rock under the hot Sardinian sun struggling to clamber up and down the steep terrain. There were guide ropes in place at times, although not as frequently as we would have liked and on many occasions our guides had to rig up additional safety ropes to get us up the near vertical rock face.

There was one quite funny incident. As we were trudging along in single file we noticed that some of the trees had a rock in the branches. “That looks a bit dangerous” says Irish as he plucks it out of the tree and throws it on the ground, an action that was repeated as we progressed along the trail. It wasn’t until the fourth day that our guide was explaining how the typical cairns used for waymarking were too difficult to see amid such rocky terrain and the shepherds were using other ways to signpost the almost invisible tracks – whoops!

On our return to Santa Maria Navarrese, a couple of good things happened. We received a call from HSBC AU to say that as a result of us filing a complaint, our accounts had been unfrozen, apparently the freezing was an accidental error by one of their staff! However, the fraudulent transactions that occurred back in February had still not been re-credited, which I guess means making another formal complaint. The other good thing was the bike I had ordered online had been delivered and although in kit form it was a sneaky upgrade on the one that was stolen.

The following few days were spent just pottering down the west coast making the most of the quiet sandy beaches before arriving in the capital Cagliari. Ian got lucky and managed to find what was probably the only XL bike on an island of small statured Sardinians and feeling a lot more organised that when we arrived we boarded the night ferry to Naples.

May 08, 2024

Spain & Gibraltar

May 08, 2024/ Sarah Lock

Crossing the border from Portugal into Spain, we arrived into Andalusia, the second largest region of Spain after Castile and Leon and the most populated. Offering a contrasting expanse of mountains, deserts, beaches, salt flats and plains we also saw areas utilised for agriculture. Citrus and olive trees were constant companions as we drove along and the strawberry farms often extended on both sides of the road for many kilometres. Often described as enchanting and sun-soaked, it was a bit unfortunate that out arrival coincided with that of ‘Calima’, a hot red dust cloud blowing over from the Sahara desert. The air was stuffy, full of dust and the streets, cars and houses were all covered by a thick layer of orange dirt.

Regardless of the weather, there were a few things we wanted to do in Andalusia, the first being to visit Donana, a massive area of 543 km sq. This National Park incorporates six different eco-systems, including vast stretches of wetlands that historically have been an important resting place for birds migrating between Africa and Northern Europe. The area is also home to a few protected Iberian Lynx, a species that was on the brink of extinction in 2002 with numbers of just 52 mature individuals. Thanks to concerted efforts, the population has now risen to over 1,500, moving the species out of the critically endangered category. Optimistically hoping to spot one we joined a tour group and headed into the park on a large green 4x4 bus that with a bit of tweaking did look as if it would lend itself quite well to a life of overlanding. The parks were pleasant enough but somewhat beleaguered by illegal irrigation practices and climate change-induced drought and we really had to hand it to the guide trying to keep our group entertained for 4 hours when there really wasn’t anything to see. The highlight of the morning was watching 24 adults crouching around the poor guide as he pointed to a microscopic spider explaining how it was waiting for an insect to come past. Desperate for some action he gave it a prod with his stick which was rather unfortunate from an entertainment point of view as the spider was dead.

Pleased to have put some coffers into the kitty we continued onto Jerez de la Frontera, the world capital of sherry and also famous for its dancing horses and flamenco. The Royal Andalusian School of Equestrian Art is situated slap bang in the middle of Jerez and is a collection of grand stone buildings including 60 stables impressively arched around a cobbled courtyard. As luck would have it we were there on a performance day and so filed into the indoor arena with bus loads of mostly Spanish and American tourists. Not wanting to stereotype, but unable to help myself, the Americans did seem to be more interested in the vending machines than the horses, but hey, each to their own!

After watching both horses and riders displaying what can be achieved with good training techniques, we moved from dancing on four legs to dancing with two. Walking around the outskirts of Jerez we eventually reached Pura Arte, a cosy bodega dating back to 1739 where we settled in to watch Flamenco. Named after Spain’s native bird the Greater Flamingo, this music genre is accepted as a mix of Andalusian, Arabic, Islamic and Gypsy culture, delivered as a cry of despair by the poor and marginalised peasants. It certainly was an extremely passionate dance form with loud, mournful singing, much foot stomping, hand clapping and shawl twirling, all accompanied by an enthusiastic senor on his guitar. There were only a dozen or so of us watching the show so quite an up close and personal experience of this brightly coloured and flamboyant art form.

With the dust cloud increasing in intensity we made the unlikely choice of going to Tarifa, a seaside town located at the southernmost end of the Iberian Peninsula, a mere 14km ferry ride away from Africa. It was quite different to what we had so far experienced in Andalucia and the boho cafes were a welcome change from the traditional tabernas with their dark interiors and meat heavy menus. The charming walled old town sits just north of the imposing fortress, Castillo de Guzman el Bueno, a castle that since its erection in 960 AD has protected Tarifa from marauding Vikings, Berber pirates and, on more than one occasion, the French. The town itself had an attractive transient vibe but, given its unique wind conditions which have resulted in its title of ‘kite-surfing capital of Europe’, the weather was such that we were quickly blown inside and didn’t really get to explore.

Our reason for placing ourselves directly in the path of Calima was Gibraltar, a country we had skipped past previously and one we were keen to visit in order to put another flag on Bob.

The limestone monolithic promontory loomed large from 7km away; A protruding rock 426 m high, 5 km long and 1.2 km wide. Widely regarded as a symbol of British naval strength due to its heavily fortified air and naval base, ‘The Rock’ is also part of Greek mythology being created by Hercules during his tenth labour. Tasked with rustling some cattle from the three-headed, six-legged giant Geryon who resided on an island somewhere off the edge of the known world and finding his passage from the Mediterranean into the Atlantic obstructed by mountains, Hercules took his sword and rent them apart, in doing so forming the Straits of Gibraltar. The two bits of mountain remaining were Gibraltar to the north and Jebel Musa, part of Morocco’s Rif mountain range, to the south; the two promontories often referred to as the Pillars of Hercules.

Gibraltar’s position is such that it guards the only entrance to the Mediterranean Sea from the Atlantic Ocean. Not an overly arduous chore during peacetime when ‘The Rock’ is nothing more than a tourist attraction, but the regimented holes that extend in horizontal and vertical lines along the rock face tell a different story. Since being captured by the British in 1704, after a 5 hour bombardment from around 15,000 canons, The Rock has repeatedly been fought over. Throughout the 1700’s, various attempts were made by other countries to seize this valuable land mass, the most significant coming from a combined effort from Spain and France. This Great Siege lasted from 1779-1783, the longest in British history, with the British being out-numbered around 6:1. It was during this time that tunnels within ‘The Rock’ were excavated with regular holes in the walls making it possible to rain down schrapnel and gunfire onto the invading forces below. As a result, Gibraltar remained with the British and the tunnels were further developed during the First and Second World Wars when the Rock was turned into a huge underground fortress with 55 km of tunnels capable of accommodating 16,000 men plus supplies.

As we got nearer we were faced with a bit of a moral dilemma. Still belonging to Britain and post Brexit, access onto the Rock now necessitates going through border control. To avoid the usual delays to get through by car most people park up in the large uncovered lot on the Spanish side and walk across. The question was if we followed suit would we honestly be able to stick a Gibraltar flag on Bob if he hadn’t made it into the country? Resignedly, we joined the long line of cars waiting to cross over and an hour later Bob’s tyres made contact with a new country and after 30 minutes and three laps of The Rock looking for somewhere to park, Bob legitimately earned himself another sticker.

Gibraltar has definitely seen better days but the attraction of The Rock reserve and its resident Barbary Macaque monkeys was not in doubt judging from the number of visitors milling around. Eschewing the cable car option we braved the steps up to the top, a steep and slow climb that took us through a number of WWII landmarks as well as the Ape’s Den, a bit of a misnomer as most of the Ape’s were right on the top near the cafe where they were hanging around hoping for some chocolate and ice-cream, an unfortunate and preferred addition to their diet.

Unfortunately, we had to undergo the same delay to get off the Rock but once through the border we were on our way to visit some of the white towns that Andalusia is so famous for. The air was still heavy with desert dust and rather than seeing the towns as ‘sparkling under a Mediterranean sun’, we could only just see them through the gloom. But they were well worth visiting and we enjoyed sampling local cheeses, wines and some memorable boutique accommodation. Ronda is by far the biggest and most dramatic of these towns but was horrendously busy and rather charmless compared to the hospitality we received in Jimena and Arcos de la Frontera.

And then, the weather finally broke, but rather than a refreshing respite we were now deluged by muddy rain. What better conditions to head out on the 35 km Via Verde de la Sierra? A cycle ride along a railway line that never was. What started as an ambitious plan at the beginning of the twentieth century, to connect rural communities via a broad reaching railway network, was thwarted by wars and economic crises. Much of the construction work was completed but the tracks were never laid. This particular Greenway follows a route between Olivera and Puerto Serrano through the dramatic Penon de Zaframagon nature reserve and its large vulture colonies. The environment is mountainous and the trail passes through thirty tunnels, the longest of which is 990 metres. Great when the motion sensor lights are working and you remembered to bring your lights. Not so great otherwise, as the tunnels are pitch black and just in case you missed the big pothole on the way out there is always the chance to fall in on the return journey.

Next up, the famous Camino del Rey. Once considered the most dangerous walk in the world, this 8km path was nothing more than crumbling narrow ledges carved 100m high into the sheer rock sides of the limestone canyon. Located not far from Malaga, the route was originally built to allow the passage of workers and materials needed to build two hydroelectric dams. In recent times it became a favourite playground for daredevils and climbers around the world but following a string of fatalities around the millennium the route was officially closed. It reopened in 2015 showcasing solid boardwalks and safety rails and is now accessible to all – if you can manage to get a ticket! The Camino is ridiculously popular with numbers around 1,000 going through every day. Unable to get a ticket online, we turned up on the off-chance and managed to tag onto a group with a guide. Thrills might have been in short supply but the surrounding are no less dramatic and glimpses of the original path just below the board walk did make us glad that we hadn’t embarked on this particular experience some 20 years ago.

Having spent so much time on Europe’s mainland, it was time for some island life. The ferry from Valencia over to the island of Mallorca was a 9 hour overnight trip and did feel a bit like going on holiday. The largest of the Iberian islands that include Ibiza and Minorca, Mallorca was, and still is, a favourite holiday destination for the Brits and Germans. As well as providing the required sun, sand and sangria the various ports dotted around the island are a haven for the reflective sunglass wearing yachtees. Having visited many years ago, some aspects were unchanged. Sombreros, fans and straw donkeys were still stacked high on the shelves inside the numerous tourist shops, the cafes, bars and restaurants were still playing ‘Sweet Caroline’ and the theme track to Charlie’s Angels and groups of Stags were wandering around dressed as giant bananas. But, where did all the cyclists come from? Turns out Mallorca is one of Europe’s top destinations for keen cyclists and there were literally thousands of them all kitted out in the latest Lycra gear with bikes that probably cost more than a mid-range car. Ever keen to mingle, we hot-footed it to the nearest store and grabbed a couple of bike racks and panniers, worked out a 6 day route and hit the road. Yes, we were more noticeable on our mountain bikes that we would have liked among the tightly bunched pelotons and yes, we were making it look a lot harder than everyone else but we did get to enjoy some of the unspoilt parts of the island and cycle such iconic routes as the Cap de Formentor and Sa Colabra, both of which had official photographers en-route ready to capture the pain. We were overtaken time and time again but Ian did eventually manage to overtake a couple of girls and I passed a solitary man. Admittedly he had stopped on the side for a breather but as he was still sat on his bike I assume this counts??

Catching the ferry over to Barcelona we then had to jump on a plane to UK, not only to visit an HSBC branch in an attempt to regain access to our accounts after a block had been placed on them following a series of fraudulent transactions, but also to once again change our passports over to facilitate another 3 months in Europe. Turns out that HSBC UK is under a completely different umbrella to HSBC AU and all we managed to achieve was the re-opening of phone line communication, a facility that we had also been locked out of following Ian’s failure to correctly answer the verification questions required by the call centre. Back in communication with the bank, Ian was promised a call back within 48 hours. We flew back to Barcelona where our restored spirits were somewhat dashed; our bikes had been stolen out of the airport carpark but that wasn’t all. Having waited 72 hours with no contact from the bank, Ian rang the bank again and answered the same verification questions only to be told that his answers were incorrect and he was again blocked from further communications, the only advice being to visit the nearest branch!!!! Nine weeks on and we still have no access to either our accounts or money. Our latest tactic has been to lodge an official complaint which if not dealt with in a specific time frame gives us an option to make a complaint to the Australian Financial Complaints Authority. So far we have received two automated responses from the bank informing us that the matter is being looked into but is taking longer than expected???

April 01, 2024

Goodbye Portugal

April 01, 2024/ Sarah Lock

We spent most of the winter in Portugal during which time we drove to the top of the highest mountain, hiked through the somewhat abandoned northern reaches, watched (and kayaked) the powerful waves of the Atlantic ocean, cruised around the inland waterways, listened to traditional Fado music, caught up with friends from Australia, UK and Germany, sampled a never-ending supply of local wines (mostly with said friends) and ate a lot of fish. Our short break on the Algarve went all to quickly and a week in the capital of Lisbon flew by.

We left Lisbon the same way we entered, over the April 25th bridge, so named after the Carnation Revolution in 1974 which saw Salazar’s dictatorship end. It is an impressive red steel structure which closely resembles San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge and as well as laying claim to being one of Europe’s longest suspension bridges, has the deepest foundations of any bridge on the European continent.

Portugal surpassed our high expectations and despite being keen to get back on the road we didn’t want to leave before walking The Fisherman’s Trail, a 220 km coastal hike from Sines, an industrial town in the Alentejo region to Lagos, one of the more developed places on the Algarve.

En-route to Sines we detoured to have a look at the resort towns of Sesimbra and Setubal, both places within an hour’s drive south of Lisbon. Probably more popular with the Portuguese than overseas tourists, Sesimbra is a small but charming place positioned on a curving turquoise bay at the base of the Arrabida National Park. Apart from hosting one of the largest clown conventions in the world each February, Sesimbra is renowned for its pristine beaches, fish restaurants and nightlife, the latter no doubt helped by the numerous massive speakers positioned in the doorways of the various bars and cafes.

Setubal is a larger town and despite a gritty and tough exterior is part of the Club of the Most Beautiful Bays in the World. The Club was founded in Berlin in 1997 and at last count included 48 bays around the world including the Bay of San Francisco and the Bay of Mindelo in Cape Verde. Setubal Bay is supposedly the best place for fish in the whole of Portugal, a claim supported by the 30 or so bottlenose dolphins that have taken up permanent residence there. Walking around the town we were left in no doubt as to the speciality of the area – choco frito, pronounced “shock freet”. If the names of the restaurants such as Taverna do Choco Frito, the Rei (king) do Choco Frito and even a Museu do Choco showcasing different ways to cook it didn’t give it away, then the numerous sandwich boards advertising the ubiquitous deep-fried cuttlefish surely did.

Not surprisingly, Setubal is an active port and it was from here that we caught the 30 minute car ferry out of the Bay, across the Sado Estuary and onto the Troia Peninsula. This 17 km strip of sandy moorland is best described as an eco-chic paradise, a narrow tongue of endless beach backed with sand dunes and pine forests. Stopping at the tiny village of Comporta looking for a bit of lunch, we drove up a pot-holed, gravel track to what appeared to be an unassuming wooden café only to find an exclusive beach club with plump cushioned loungers set out under thatched umbrellas on an isolated stretch of white-sand beach. The restaurant was offering a fine dining experience and a quick glance behind the bar showed a vast selection of French champagne. Turns out this tiny peninsular is enjoying some A-list attention and could quite possibly be one of Portugal’s best kept secrets.

The Rota Vicentina is a network of over 750 km of routes spreading throughout south-west Portugal (Alentejo and Algarve regions). The network includes two long distance trails; The 125 km Historical Way and the 221 km Fisherman’s Trail. The Fisherman’s Trail is described by Conde Nast Travel as one of the most beautiful coastal trails in the world so it was an easy decision to once again dig out our rucksacks and get walking. We left Bob at ‘The Village’, a hidden oasis set back from a beautiful stretch of Portugal’s western coast, run by a couple of English guys. Primarily aimed at providing a surf haven by way of numerous fully kitted out houses with access to a pool, gardens and gym, the Village also provides a second home to a few travellers who help out with building repairs, gardening and anything else needing attention. We were only staying for a couple of nights and focussed on preparing for the walk which meant we had to reluctantly decline the kind offer to make use of the shed full of tools and machinery.

With Spring just round the corner, the temperatures were up around 17°C and despite some wind along the coast the weather was perfect for walking and planning to stay in solid accommodation along the way, our packs were light without the additional weight of tent and camping gear. For the first couple of days, we didn’t see many people, just the occasional campervan parked on a convenient flat area of rock overlooking the ocean. The terrain was mostly level and although much of the paths consisted of thick, soft sand we found it easy going.

The third and fourth days were, as always, humbling. Blisters and sore feet are always miserable only this time there was the added bonus of scratchy sand in socks and boots. It also started to rain and Ian, being the eternal optimist, had neglected to pack his waterproof pants. The scenery did its best to keep our mood upbeat and we doggedly continued south; the conversation mostly revolving around how much we enjoyed long distance walking????? Day five saw us over the nadir and spirits were high as we progressed from one fishing village to the next. There were around a dozen other walkers who had set off on the trail the same day as us and given that we all ended up at the same place each afternoon it didn’t take long to get aquainted. There were three solo Germans, a couple of Italians, one Dutch woman and a couple of Irish and, as is always the case, they contributed enormously to our enjoyment of the walk.

The coast of Alentejo is without doubt our favourite part of Portugal. It is surprisingly undeveloped and anyone looking for hotel style accommodation would be disappointed. Our nightly digs consisted of guest houses and hostels which provided home-style hospitality where we were made to feel truly welcome. Home-made bread and cakes alongside regional cheese, yoghurt and preserves were the norm at breakfast and our hosts were only too pleased to see us take enough food to sustain us throughout the day. This was a welcome change from our usual MO where we smuggle items from the breakfast buffet attempting to conceal them about our person in a too small paper napkin.

The scenery was non-stop spectacular from start to finish and we arrived in Lagos 13 days after we started. This walk was, without doubt, the most enjoyable multi-day trek that we have done, enhanced by good way-markers, friendly people and the constant company of the Atlantic. If you are contemplating your first long-distance trail, this would definitely be one to consider.

Atlantic Coast, day 2 Fisherman's Trail.jpg

As is always the way, whilst one area of your life is progressing well there are other areas that are demanding attention. Arriving back at The Village, we had issues…

... just prior to starting our walk we had noticed some unauthorised transactions on our HSBC AU account. We use HSBC because they offer a multi-currency account which enables us to make debit card payments in various currencies, thereby saving on exchange fees. Upon notifying the bank of the spurious transactions our debit cards were cancelled and arrangements made to forward new cards to an address in Portugal which we supplied. So far, a bit annoying but not too much of a problem. However, unbeknown to us, HSBC in their wisdom had since blocked our account meaning that we were unable to access not only their online banking system but also any of our money. With no app access the only way to reach them was to call. We spent over €100 of phone card credit before remembering that Skype still existed and over 5 hours on the phone trying to resolve our issue with a call centre based somewhere in the Philippines. It was hard enough to understand what the person on the other end of the call was saying but it proved even harder to navigate the verification questions. Ian failed repeatedly to get past this initial hurdle by answering UK or GB instead of England and being unsure as to whether or not the . on the last four digits of his sign-in name e.g., .com needed to be included. There was also the question about transactions on the account which of course he couldn’t answer as he was unable to access the account online. His increasing irritation at being unable to answer the questions correctly eventually flagged him as suspicious and he was told not to call again but to visit a local branch – that would be London – with 100 points of ID. My own attempts to speak to them worked sporadically, answering the same questions with the same answers was 50% successful but on the occasion when I did get through this ridiculous system the person on the other end wasn’t authorised to unblock the account, provide a tracking number for the replacement cards which had not been received within the recommended time frame or advise on what was going to happen and how long it would take. A later call from me lasting just short of another hour that I won’t get back did result in them giving me a tracking number for the new cards, a short-lived victory as a check online with DHL showed that the cards had reached Lisbon depot only to be recalled by the bank. Fortunately, we do have back-up resources but what a ridiculous situation to be put in and regardless of the outcome, which still remains to be seen, we have since investigated using the services of WISE and/or Revolut, independent services that offer virtual and actual debit cards that also work with multi-currencies and offer exchange rates better than those offered by HSBC. Maybe HSBC has inadvertently done us a favour and lost themselves a client. We will keep you updated.

Our border crossing out of Portugal was close to Moura, one of the many fortified towns strung along the border with Spain. An early version of “Lonely Planet” described Moura with the words: “Don’t plan to stay there long …. You could die of boredom within 24 hours”, words that would probably make you think twice before visiting; But built around the ruins of a 13th century castle with one of the best-preserved Moorish quarters in southern Portugal, it is within an area that is the world’s first and only Starlight Tourism Destination. Light pollution in this rural area of Alentejo is virtually non-existent and as a commodity in increasingly short supply these dark skies are attracting not only a growing number of astronomers but also a different type of tourist. https://www.skyatnightmagazine.com/advice/starlight-tourism-in-alqueva-portugal. The town itself is also adjacent to the world’s largest photovoltaic farm which boasts nearly 400,000 house-sized solar panels covering an area twice the size of Hyde Park and close to what claims to be the biggest artificial lake in Europe created by the Alqueva Dam. Surely enough going on to keep most people amused for a day at least, as for us we had arranged to set up camp on a friend’s driveway, a memorable last night in Portugal.

February 27, 2024

Still Portugal

February 27, 2024/ Sarah Lock

a little piece of paradise on the algarve coast of portugal

Our travels haven’t been very intrepid of late, rather we have been enjoying a relaxing period in a little white-washed villa in the gorgeous Algarve resort of Carvoeiro. We weren’t quite sure what to expect of this popular part of Portugal, was it going to be a smaller version of the overcrowded Costa del Sol with its modern buildings and overdeveloped resorts or would it deliver up a more evocative experience? Fortunately, it turned out to be the latter. Turns out the Algarve has some of Europe’s most beautiful coastline, featuring dramatic orange cliffs showcasing many rock formations carved into the karst landscape and long stretches of empty golden sand sitting at the edge of the vibrant blue/green of the Atlantic Ocean. There are large swathes of unspoilt and protected natural beauty and being out of season meant that we were only having to share it with a few locals and a smattering of ex-pats.

Being in one place for a while is great but I would be lying if I told you that we didn’t revert to type and take the opportunity to catch up on a rather large backlog of TV. The time spent lounging around watching the last three years of ‘The Apprentice’ was justified by acknowledging that we would soon be back on the road with no guarantee of quality internet access. Any guilt associated with the increase in alcohol intake was even easier to alleviate as we discussed future travel routes that would undoubtedly involve large dry tracts.

In between watching an excessive amount of Alan Sugar, we did managed to do some exploring. We hiked along one of Portugal’s most scenic coastal paths ‘The Hanging Valleys’, cycled to various small towns dotted along the coast and headed out to sea in a kayak to check out the famous Benagil cave. It was easy to see why this part of Portugal is so popular, both as a holiday destination during the peak season months of July and August and more permanently as an alternative home for many an ex-pat. The pace of life is slower, the people friendly and welcoming and the weather (even in winter) is often warm enough to encourage some bare skin. For those looking for non-stop entertainment, Albufeira’s numerous Irish bars, hemp shops and massage parlours can more than satisfy but in contrast many of the whitewashed fishing villages are still accessed by dirt roads, prices for food and drink are so much cheaper than many other European countries and the lifestyle is easy.

The less developed western part of the coast has some stunning coastal walking routes whilst close to Tavira in the east are the Rio Formosa wetlands, home to hundreds of species of birds including the straw-legged flamingos. Bottlenose dolphins and humpback whales are regular visitors as they cross the Atlantic and just 20km inland sit the Monchique mountains offering a cooler, forested environment complete with secluded eco-resorts and Roman spa towns. Traditional industries are very much in evidence and it is not uncommon to come across a group of local ladies sat around a large table hand-painting their pottery. Olive oil producers are eager to show you around their farms and this wine rich region is now coming of age.

For us, it was the ideal place for a bit of re-organisation, not that we have too many things to deal with, but Ian needed to get a new passport, I needed a chance to catch up on some admin and Bob needed a service and his reversing camera and lights sorting out. Unlike both Spain and France, there are no language issues in Portugal as everyone speaks enough English for relatively easy conversation and given that many of the businesses are run by ex-pats we were not too surprised to leave Bob in the capable hands of ‘English Autos’ aka Wayne from Manchester who promptly replaced our ‘made in China’ reverse switch with a genuine part and gave Bob an overall thumbs up.

As is often the case, idle time flies by and it was soon time to leave and back on the road we followed the coast almost to the border of Spain before turning north and back into the interior region of Alentejo. This vast area covers over 30% of Portugal and is often described as Portugal as it used to be. The rural countryside is characterised by gently rolling hills, fortified towns and intense summer heat. It is the agricultural heartland planted with olive groves, vineyards and cork forests.

Cork is not something we had ever really given much thought to but once in Portugal we would have had to be going round with our eyes closed to miss the numerous gift shops crammed full of cork merchandise, from keyrings to furniture and everything in-between, every town had one. But, it wasn’t until we reached Alentejo and noticed the cork oak trees, many of which were marked with numbers, that our interest was piqued. We had no idea – Portugal is the largest producer of cork in the world, responsible for over 50% of the world’s cork supply with an area of cork oak equivalent to a quarter of that on earth; cork exports in 2023 totalled over €1.2 billion last year. Although the vast majority of cork is made into wine bottle stoppers, its versatility has captured the imagination of many. Lady Gage once sported a gold and silver-plated cork dress, the artist Scott Gundersen spent 50 hours and used over 9,000 bottle corks to create his gigantic work ‘Grace’ and this versatile natural resource has also been sent into space courtesy of NASA and the European Space Industry who value its insulation properties. Big business indeed; in fact Portugal’s richest family,, the Amorim family, and a frequent name on the Forbes Rich List, made their multi-billion dollar fortune in cork.

Monetary value aside, the best thing about the cork tree is that its sustainable. Harvesting the cork doesn’t damage the tree and it is in fact illegal to cut down a cork tree without a permit. The Quercus suber tree can live to anywhere between 270-300 years with harvesting beginning when the tree is 25 years old. The cork is stripped from the tree by pairs of skilled workers using an axe with a slightly curved blade. Once the cork has been peeled away the exposed trunk is painted with a number showing the last digit of the year of harvest. This serves as a reference to when the next harvest can take place 9 years later. All things not being equal, cork quality varies and it is not until year 43 that the tree produces cork good enough to be used for bottle stops which command the highest prices of any cork products. 30kg of cork bark from a single tree could produce about 700 corks, the highest quality champagne corks often fetching several Euro each.

We had hoped to visit a cork farm, but being out of the harvesting season of May to August it wasn’t an option and so we continued north through Alentejo and on to Lisbon where we had arranged to spend a few days with some friends who were flying in from the UK. As with many cities in Europe, Lisbon has implemented a low emission zone and as Bob is a Euro 5 diesel we are constantly confused as to where he is or isn’t allowed to go. To be on the safe side we opted to stay on the outskirts of zone 2 in the area of Lapa, which worked well as far as Bob was concerned but not so great for us as it meant that every time we left the Airbnb and headed into the centre we had to deal with Lisbon’s topography. The city is famous for many things; colourful azulejos (ceramic tiles), yellow trams, Fado music and, of course, its seven hills. It was a constant struggle to admire the fantastic views over the River Tagus as we puffed and panted up steep winding streets and even steeper staircases, navigating our way from one part of the city to the next; yes, Lisbon was exhausting but what a fascinating place.

fado in the still standing fado district

The capital city of Portugal, positioned at the mouth of the Tagus, has long enjoyed the commercial advantages of its proximity to parts of Europe as well as to sub-Saharan Africa and the Americas. From the fifteenth century onwards, the port of Lisbon was one of the most important in the world with great wealth accumulated from maritime exploration, colonisation and trade. Unfortunately, little remains to be seen of this period within Lisbon’s architecture due to the 1755 Lisbon earthquake. Estimated to have had a magnitude of 8.5-9 on the Richter scale and the largest known earthquake to impact Europe and northern Africa, the epicentre was just 200km southwest of Lisbon in the Atlantic Ocean. Lasting for over 3 minutes, havoc was wreaked across Portugal but most significantly in Lisbon due to a catastrophic turn of events. The earthquake struck on All Saint’s Day, a time when candles were lit in homes and churches all around the city. Gigantic fissures up to 5m wide appeared throughout the city centre causing buildings to topple, in effect flattening the city and claiming thousands of lives. As if that wasn’t enough, 40 minutes later the earthquake triggered a massive tsunami that hit the city’s harbour causing yet more chaos and destruction. There was still more to play out though as the lit candles started fires that raged throughout the city for some days; the city was left in ruins with as many as 70,000 people – around a quarter of Lisbon’s population – gone. Ultimately, over 90% of Lisbon’s buildings had either collapsed, been flooded or burnt, the least affected area of the city being the Alfama district, which today is still a maze of charming narrow cobbled streets and tall pastel-coloured houses and a great place to experience the mournful Fado singing in one of the many traditional tavernas.

At the other end of the harbour to Alfama stands the Belem Tower, one of only two significant buildings that survived the great quake. It is a 16th century tower that serves as a monument to Portugal’s Age of Discovery and viewed from the deck of one of the last remaining traditional boats, you can just about make out the stone relief of a rhino sticking out below one of the towers??? Apparently, having managed to survive the 120-day sea voyage from India, the diplomatic gift of a white rhino arrived in Portugal. The then king Manuel I no doubt enjoyed showing off this exotic creature as it was incorporated into his birthday parade throughout the city streets but he soon grew tired of it and decided to have it shipped off to Pope Leo X with the hope of receiving political favours in return. Tragically, the rhino didn’t quite make it to Rome, drowning in a shipwreck off the coast of Northern Italy. On a slightly brighter note, the Lisbon Zoo welcomed the birth of a male White Rhino last August weighing in at a healthy 40kg. https://www.instagram.com/reel/Cxda-icAfjg/?utm_source=ig_web_button_share_sheet&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==

February 03, 2024

Yet More Portugal

February 03, 2024/ Sarah Lock

All too often the hype found online regarding a “must see” place needs to be taken with a pinch of salt as the reality can fall far short of the promise. So, reading about a place in the foothills of Portugal’s Sintra Mountains where fairytale palaces are hidden among majestic pine forests did seem a little far-fetched. But this was one instance when, if anything, the reality exceeded the expectations. The drive to get to Sintra was straightforward but as we approached the historic centre the congested traffic had us crawling along the narrow one-way system in first gear. Up until now we had found Portugal to be mostly quiet and even in Porto there weren’t too many people around but Sintra was bustling. Fortunately, we had booked accommodation close to the centre and were able to avoid the hunt for a parking space which, looking around, would have taken up most of the day. Our last minute search on Booking.com had resulted in us snagging the most amazing self-contained villa on a private estate which had previously belonged to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – who would have thought? This was the second time that we had crossed paths with this prolific author and creator of Sherlock Holmes. Many, many years ago we climbed up Mount Roraima in Venezuela, a tepui plateau within the Pakaraima mountain chain which was the inspiration for Sir Arthur’s “Lost World” – a book that I am embarrassed to admit is still on my ‘to read’ list. We waited outside the estate’s heavy iron entrance gates for someone to let us in, our escort duly arriving in a little golf buggy indicating that we should follow him down the estate’s steep winding access road. It was a bit unfortunate that Bob didn’t quite make it around one of the sharp bends and managed to get the side of his bumper stuck on the stone wall. Persuading him to detach from the wall and perform a reverse hill start up a 15% gradient did provide some entertainment for the interested spectators but probably wasn’t the type of entrance we would have chosen.

Anyway, back to the delights of Sintra which, to be honest, had paled a bit considering our high-end digs and it was with some reluctance that we walked back through the main gates to join the masses. For centuries, the Portuguese elite escaped the summer heat of Lisbon by retreating to this wooded enclave of Sintra, home to numerous private estates, five palaces and a castle. It is not just the architecture that is impressive, the landscaped grounds surrounding these buildings are home to an abundance of exotic plants artfully planted alongside meandering paths that take you past fountains, through tunnels and grottoes and to hidden chapels and mock ruins. Despite the crowds we were able to purchase tickets to Palacio da Regaleira and Pena Palace which although not really old compared to many of Portugal’s national monuments, were unbelievable in terms of the forethought and effort that had gone into their creation. Just as promised Sintra was magical and possesses an energy of such calm that even the crowds and continuous background noise of the tourist tuk-tuks was unable to spoil.

Whilst Sintra is undeniably the jewel in the crown of the Sintra-Cascais Natural Park there is a lot more on offer in this protected area of around 144 km². This westernmost part of Europe contains an amazing diversity of environments and landscapes, including sand dunes, forests, lakes and some of the most spectacular Atlantic coastline that we have seen to date – not that I particularly want to go in it but I am completely in love with this ocean and the rugged coast that its awesome, unrelenting power has created. All of this natural beauty just 25 km away from the Lisbon capital.

Located on the border of the park, again less than 30km from Lisbon is Cascais, a wealthy resort town and the preferred seaside retreat of bygone kings and queens. It sits in splendour along the Portuguese Riviera, and as well as local nobility, has attracted Kings from England, Spain and Italy as well as one exiled Cuban president. The casino in neighbouring Estoril is said to have inspired Ian Fleming’s first James Bond novel Casino Royale. In more recent times notable names such as Henry Kissinger and Roman Polanski have lingered in the area and Cristiano Ronaldo has just purchased a luxury mansion, a steal at EUR 20 million. The charming, cobbled streets of the historic centre contain grand villas, an imposing fort and a good selection of restaurants and bars. The town is a mix of its illustrious heritage and the inevitable infrastructure required to accommodate the modern tourist. There are a number of competing hotels and high-rise apartment blocks that although quiet when we were there must be quite overwhelming when the summer season is in full swing. We stayed in one such apartment block about 2km out from the centre that was marketed as having an ocean view. True, provided you stood in one particular spot on the tiny balcony and craned your neck at a specific angle, an exercise necessary to justify the sudden increase in cost of accommodation being so close to Lisbon. But, it served its purpose and we spent the best part of a week discovering yet another face of Portugal.

The marina at Cascais is the largest on the Portuguese Riviera and with a total of 638 berths is the third largest in the country. As you would expect in such moneyed surroundings, there is no shortage of catamarans, speed boats and luxury yachts many of which seemed to be for hire, with or without a friendly skipper. However, the highlight of the area for us was just a few kilometres north of Cascais, Cabo da Roca, a wild and rugged coastline once thought to be the end of the world. It is a landscape of raw, untamed beauty with craggy cliffs that rise vertically out of the ocean, secluded sandy coves and incredible views in every direction. What a nature lover’s paradise, strewn with stunning hiking trails that repeatedly fall and rise from the top of the limestone cliffs to sea level and back.

Two rather nice events occurred whilst we were in Cascais. Firstly, we were contacted by the owner of Topo Tents who offered us the free use of one of his rooftop setups with which to tour Portugal and Spain for free. As we already have a sleeping system installed we didn’t take him up on his offer but how nice to be given the opportunity. The other contact we received was from a Swiss gentleman who, whilst walking along Cascais seafront, had spotted Bob and taken the time to drop us an email wishing us all the best on our journey. It is easy to become disillusioned with the world and its inhabitants whilst watching/listening to a constant stream of negative news but, Tangier aside, we have been constantly heart-warmed by the kindness and genuine gestures that people have extended.

In our on-going saga to get Bob’s water tank readings back up to speed we arranged for Enerdrive (Aus) to send us some replacement pressure senders. We eventually managed to get these released from customs by paying almost as much again as the purchase price and now just had to instal them. The electrics inside Bob are a true testament of Daniel’s (https://www.expeditioncentre.com.au love of what he does. A quick look at the mass of different coloured cables heading off down various holes and connecting to a fiddly fuse block was way too daunting for us to consider replacing the entire sender from inside the car and so we decided to cut the wires of the existing senders underneath the car and reconnect from there. Keen to do a half-decent job, way too much time was spent trawling through various internet sites until eventually deciding that the Deutche DT 3-pin connectors would be ideal for under-chassis, harsh environments. Connectors duly sourced we were a bit dismayed to realised that we would also need a crimper and terminal ends – what on earth would we do without Utube?? Eventually these also arrived and after some trial and error (terminal ends put on upside down which meant ordering some more) we now have two accurate water tank readings showing on our Pico Simarine screen. Delighted with our success we celebrated with a new sticker for Bob. Two days later our reversing camera and rear lights stopped working – and no it’s not a blown fuse!

Although every day isn’t a sunbathing day, the winter in Portugal has been relatively mild, particularly when compared to other parts of Europe and the UK where snow sports seem to be having a year to remember. Disinclined to leave this little micro-climate just yet we have decided to head down to the Algarve. Giving Lisbon a swerve for the time being, we crossed the Tagus River on the Vasco da Gama Bridge (17.2km), the second longest bridge in Europe. The longest is the Crimean Bridge (18km) linking the Russian mainland with the Crimean Peninsula, an unfortunately located bridge that has suffered a series of recent attacks and currently looked to be closed. No such issues on the VdG, the traffic was flowing quickly across the huge cable-stayed bridge and it wasn’t long before we were back on the coast, now in the region of Alentejo. We took our time passing through a series of sleepy fishing villages and small coastal resorts enjoying having the amazing stretches of wild sandy beaches to ourselves. Everywhere was quiet and mostly closed, even Vila Nova de Milfontes, one of the most popular towns along this stretch was a bit like a ghost town although the numerous loudspeakers placed along the streets did provide some background music as we wandered around.

We peeled away from the coast at Zambujeira and headed up into the mountain range of Serra de Monchique, an area that has suffered from devastating forest fires over the last few years. It was easy to see the damage as we drove up through the devastated landscape, damage exacerbated by extensive planting of highly flammable eucalyptus. With demand growing for a world without plastic and a strong push for paper packaging as a sustainable alternative, the fast-growing eucalyptus has been planted extensively throughout not only this area, but many other parts of Portugal. This area however, on the border with the Algarve, has benefitted from considerable contributions from Ryanair and its carbon offset programme. To date, the Irish airline and its customers have donated over €400,000 which has helped in the planting of around 300,000 trees to date. These trees have included the endangered majestic Monchique oak, cork oak, chestnut, ash and elder.

Monchique itself is a small town located in a valley surrounded by the Serra de Monchique mountain range. Sat at 450m above sea level in what is known as the “Garden of the Algarve” it is an attractive place with its white-washed houses and steep cobbled laneways, features so synonymous with Portugal. The white-washing is a relatively cheap and effective way of protecting the buildings from the sun and heat and we are seeing this more and more as we drive further south. The cobblestones have been prolific throughout the country, more so than any other country we have visited so far. Monchique is not really the easiest place to get to as it is a case of one road in and one road out, both of which are narrow winding mountain roads but it was a dramatic way to enter the Algarve where we are looking forward to chilling out for a while, ever hopeful of some sunshine.

January 05, 2024

More Portugal

January 05, 2024/ Sarah Lock

For such a small country, Portugal certainly packs a punch. As we have been travelling around we have been constantly impressed with the strong homeland connection that many Portuguese exhibit and our knowledge has been increasing organically as people have enthusiastically shared their country’s history with us. Exploration, colonisation and political upheavals have characterised much of Portugal’s history. Portugal was the pioneer of transoceanic navigation, discovering lands and sea routes formerly unknown to Europeans and during the 14, 15th and 16th centuries, Portuguese explorers and colonists built an empire that extended to parts of Africa, the Far East and South America. The extraction of resources from these conquered lands, which included precious metals,

spices, ivory, cotton, sugar and slaves, resulted in Portugal being one of the world’s major economic, political and cultural powers. It was one of the longest-lived colonial empires in European history, lasting almost six centuries from the initial conquest of Ceuta, North Africa in 1415 to the transfer of Macau to China in 1999. Unfortunately, despite its vast colonial assets, the 17th century saw the beginning of Portugal’s long, slow, economic decline, due in part to lack of domestic industrial infrastructure, competition from the Dutch, English and French over the scattered Portuguese trading posts and the rise of independence movements in its colonies. Following the independence of its most valuable colony, Brazil, in 1822 and the intervention of the British in 1890 which halted expansion in Africa, the monarchy eventually collapsed in 1910 to be superceded by the First Portuguese Republic. After a short, troubled period which included the First World War, a military coup emerged, the Estado Novo (New State), which established the Salazar Dictatorship over Portugal that lasted until 1974.

In 1974, left-leaning military officers overthrew the fascist government and ended Europe’s longest-surviving authoritarian regime. Referred to as the Carnation Revolution it was an almost bloodless coup, signalled to start when Portugal’s entry for the Eurovision Song Contest ‘E Depois do Adeus’ (And After the Farewell) was played on a Lisbon radio station just before midnight. Tanks entered the centre of Lisbon in the early hours and just 24 hours later government ministers had surrendered. During this period, people flooded the streets handing out red carnations to the soldiers who placed the flowers inside their guns and on their uniforms, a symbol of democracy.

Portugal has long had problems due to mass emigration, only Ireland and New Zealand have a bigger percentage of their native-born citizens living abroad. Internal migration has added to this leaving hundreds of rural villages almost deserted. But, the last 20 years has seen immigrants from Brazil, Asia and Africa settle in the country and tourism is healthy, encouraged by many creative projects.

Just south of Porto, the Arouca 516 suspension bridge and surrounding 8km boardwalk is one example and certainly made an impression. Lack of updates on Goggle had us turning up under the impression that we were about to cross the longest pedestrian suspension bridge in the world, having been completed in 2021 for the seemingly cheap cost of €2.3 million. However, as we listened to the guide prior to crossing, we were a bit disappointed to find that we weren’t about to step on the longest bridge at all, as the Czech Republic had since been busy and constructed the Sky Bridge at 721 m long and Andorra had also got in on the act and built the Tibetan bridge of Canillo spanning 600 m. Oh well, it was still mightily impressive, elevated 175m above the Paiva River. The project also included construction of the Paiva Walkways, an uninterrupted boardwalk built on the banks of the river between Espiunca and Areinho. The area that the walk passes through has a unique natural beauty that would otherwise be inaccessible and despite (or perhaps because of) the hundreds of steep steps has been an outstanding success. Expecting visitor numbers to be around 300/day the project has seen around 3,000/day during the summer months and is a fine example of how Portugal is starting to invest money to different parts of the country to promote tourism.

Leaving the north of Portugal we were soon back in the central Beiras region, a land of deep contrasts. The Atlantic coastline with its white sandy beaches and lagoons, vineyards, pine forests and fortress towns. And, not forgetting our old friend Mt. Torre, part of the Estrela Mountain Range, which is the source of Portugal’s longest river, the Mondego.

People that you talk to always tell of how fantastic Portugal is for seafood and it is definitely the only country we have been in so far where the pervading aroma of highly stacked codfish hits you as soon as you enter the supermarkets. But, so far the only seafood that had been on offer was either octopus, shrimp, sardines or eels and it was definitely time to rectify this. Sao Jacinto is a tiny town situated at the end of a peninsula that runs between the Aveiro Lagoon and the Atlantic Ocean. At last count its population was less than 1,000 but what it lacks in people it makes up for with fish. A Peixaria is an unassuming restaurant that sits just back from the ferry terminal that has a long-standing reputation for fresh, locally caught fish. We worked up an appetite beforehand by visiting the Sao Jacinto Dunes Nature Reserve. As had been our experience of hiking in Portugal so far, we completed the 8km loop through pine forests and dunes without seeing a single soul. The persistent drizzle also seemed to be keeping the birds away as, despite being a refuge and breeding ground for our feathered friends, we didn’t see any of them either. With appetite suitable activated, we arrived at A Peixaria and couldn’t believe that it was almost full. Up until that point we only seen two people all morning, now we knew why, they were all at the restaurant eating fish. You know you are in for a good meal when a selection of whole fish are brought to your table for you to choose from. There were no fillets or steaks, you just purchased a fish which was then cooked on the hot coal bbq out the back. Served with a simple salad and a bottle of young vinho verde, it was finger-licking food at its best.

An extremely brief 15-minute ferry ride took us across the lagoon to Aveiro, the Venice of Portugal and once off the ferry we found ourselves stuck in the town’s one-way system trying to navigate our way through narrow streets and find somewhere to park Bob – rarely an easy task and one that is often fraught with frustration as we invariably also need to go to the loo. Matters weren’t helped by the extensive construction that was going on in the centre, yet another sign of Portugal’s investment towards tourism. We eventually managed to park in a small dead-end street which was possibly a restricted zone but getting a ticket was not too much of a concern (one of the advantages of world overlanding) and we figured the area was too small to get a tow-truck into which increased the odds of Bob being there when we returned. Immediate business attended to we set about exploring.

What a different face of Portugal. Named for the network of canals that run through the centre and the colourful barcos moliceiro boats that ply romantically minded tourists along them. Joining a handful of multi-nationals and three huge huskies, we boarded and enjoyed gliding past rows of colourful houses and under pretty bridges adorned with fluttering ribbons. The moliceiro did have a life before tourism though. Traditionally, these long, narrow boats with their highly decorative artwork, were used for harvesting and transporting molico, a collective name for sea grasses which were used as agricultural fertilizer. The ornamental artwork on the boats was varied, covering a wide range of themes, including what appeared to be Portugal’s version of the UK’s saucy seaside postcards, circa 1960s - “a ventinho abencoado” (the blessed wind), one such example.

Whether as a result of showing their bottom or not, how many women have ever received a town as a present? Certainly not in this day and age, but no doubt things were done a little differently in 1282 when King Dinas gifted the town of Obidos to his new Queen Isabel on their wedding day. Today, Obidos is probably the best example of a Portuguese walled town dominated by a medieval castle (turned luxury hotel) and filled with a labyrinth of pebble streets and white-washed houses. Around 2,000 people live within the crenelated walls which were completely restored in the early 20th century making an ideal backdrop for the numerous festivals that take place throughout the year. Our visit coincided with the Christmas festival when the entire village was lavishly decorated with fairy lights, garlands and a life-size nativity scene. The local tipple Ginja de Obidos (cherry liqueur), originating from the region’s 17th-century monks, was offered in little chocolate cups and the occasional sprinkling of manufactured snow added even more charm. The Icing on the cake, however, was the Harry Potter themed extravaganza which had been constructed in the castle grounds and included a quidditch ice rink, the Obidos express train, a Giant’s House, a herbology, potions lab, various magic shows and a selection of crystal and incense selling shops. The infrastructure involved was staggering, particularly considering it was taking place in such a small hilltop village.

Our next stop was Coimbra, an animated city that is scenically situation next to the Rio Mondego. For more than a century it was Portugal’s medieval capital and it didn’t disappoint with its steeply stacked historic centre, cobbled lanes and monumental cathedral. It was particularly atmospheric in the lead up to Christmas and we had a fun time exploring with the aid of the city’s scavenger hunt app which proved to be surprisingly competitive and often had us standing in the middle of the street heatedly discussing which buttons to press for the correct answers. Obviously, the app wasn’t our primary reason for visiting, we had two objectives …..

….. Coimbra University library is a Baroque architectural masterpiece, built in the early 1700’s, it is one of Portugal’s National Monuments, not surprising given the lavishly gilded interior, fresco adorned ceilings and exquisite mosaic floor tiles. The collection of ancient books amounts to over 60,000 volumes encompassing subjects such as philosophy, theology, law, medicine and natural sciences. The books themselves date back to 1150, the oldest in the collection being the Latin written Giant Bible. Most of the books are in Latin and are meticulously kept in bookcases crafted from exotic woods such as Brazilian oak and Asian teak, those within reaching distance stored behind metal grills. We entered the library through the prison – granted its own jurisdiction, the University had two tiny cells where law-breaking, book-taking students were held and subjected to corporal punishment, although it seems they were allowed out during the day to continue their studies. As you would expect, the library is cool and dark but perhaps a little unexpected is the colony of common bats that live there. Sleeping behind the bookshelves during the day, they emerge at night to feast on any insects that have found their way into the library. There are small gaps around the huge front door which enable them to exit and re-enter at will and, rather curiously, it is not known whether they were intentionally housed there or whether they found their own way to one of the most beautiful libraries in the world.

The other draw to Coimbra was to find out more about Fado, the song of the Portuguese soul, in particular, Coimbra Fado. Although this music genre originated in Lisbon – typically sung by shawl-wearing women - it has a second home in Coimbra with a deep connection to the university students that study in Portugal’s oldest (1290) and esteemed place of learning. What differentiates Coimbra Fado, is that it’s exclusively sung by male students wearing heavy black capes and accompanied by Portuguese and classic guitars. Dating back to the 1800’s it became particularly important during the time of the Salazar Dictatorship when it was used as a form of intervention through ballads that expressed the students’ political opinions. After a short briefing, introductory performance and nip of port at the Cultural Centre, we upgraded our experience to the A Capella bar, which we eventually found in a 14th-century chapel hidden down a narrow alley just behind the Monastery. The various performances of this dream-like, nostalgic music were hypnotic but I think the highlight of the evening was being on the receiving end of the friendliness of the Portuguese around us who seemed delighted to chat away, keen to increase our knowledge of their beloved Fado.

Portugal is fascinating and we are falling in love with this slow-paced, gentle country.

December 04, 2023

Portugal

December 04, 2023/ Sarah Lock

What on earth were we thinking?? Obviously, we weren’t thinking at all as, having crossed the Spanish/Portuguese border just a couple of hours previously, we were now in first gear crawling up a vertiginous, narrow, winding mountain road in pitch blackness. A snowy mist was swirling around with visibility down to just three of the white centre lane stripes as we crept along at a snail’s pace praying that we weren’t going to shoot off the side. Ian peering at his phone reading out our increasing altitude levels might well have been designed to help but was just adding to the ludicrousness of the situation. 1,200m, 1,500m, 1,800m and we were still climbing.

Our current plan - to spend the winter in Portugal where we are hoping for some winter sun. Small snow drifts banked up on the side of the road where not quite what we had in mind. As we continued ever upwards, a white tower suddenly appeared out of the mist and the realisation struck that we were on the top of Mount Torre, at 2,000m, the highest point in mainland Portugal. Of course, there was no one else on the road, what possible reason could you have to be there?

Since leaving the UK we have been on a bit of a tight schedules as we left ourselves a rather small window in which to drive down to Portugal to meet some friends over from Oz. No excuses, but we have been flying by the seat of our pants and logistic preparation has been non-existent, which is why we found ourselves a little off the beaten track.

Our destination was Loriga, a small village within the Serra de Estrela Park, a park that, had we been paying attention to its name would have informed us that we were heading into a mountain range, in fact the highest mountain range in Continental Portugal and the only place in the country where it is possible to ski. Having no intention of hanging around until the ski season officially started, we drove out of the park the following morning. It was still very misty, but we did catch glimpses of glacial valleys, major river systems and large swathes of Juniper and Eucalyptus trees, a stark contrast to the flat and uninspiring landscape of the Spanish central plateau that we had just crossed.

So, Portugal. Less than half the size of the UK, this small nation lies along the Atlantic coast of the Iberian Peninsula in southwestern Europe. The history of Portugal can be traced from circa 400,000 years ago when the region was inhabited by Homo heidelbergensis. To put this into perspective, it is generally agreed that the first human ancestors appeared between 5-7 million years ago. Evolution from there went through the periods of H. erectus @2 million years ago, H. heidelbergensis @200,000 – 500,000 years ago, H. Neandertalensis @300,000 years ago with H. sapiens arriving on the scene @200,000 years ago. Fast forwarding, over the last 3,000 years, inhabitants and rulers of Portugal have included Celts, Romans, Visigoths, Moors and Christian crusaders but with independence from Spain in the early 1100’s and firm borders defined shortly after, Portugal is the oldest nation-state in Europe.

Today, mainland Portugal is divided into the regions of Minho, Tras-os-Montes, Porto/Douro Litoral, The Beiras, Estremadura, Ribatejo, Alentejo and the Algarve. There are also a series of archipelagos in the Atlantic Ocean, the Azores and Madeira. Broadly speaking, the northwest is hilly and rainy, the northeast mountainous and drier, whilst the south has low plains and gentle hills. It is 218 km wide and 561 km long with 832 km of Atlantic coast and a 1,215km border with Spain.

We had crossed into Portugal on the eastern side of the country into the central area of the Beiras and we now had a couple of hundred kilometres to go to reach Golega and our friends. Why Golega? Well, every November, for a 10 day period, the spectacle that is Golega national horse fair (Feira Nacional do Cavalo) is celebrated. Located on the outskirts of the region of Lisbon, where many breeders of Portugal’s famous Lusitano horses are found, the usually sleepy historic town of Golega transforms to a frenzy of horses, carriages, food stalls, bars and a huge selection of vendors plying everything from traditional tack to artworks and antiques. The name Lusitano is taken from Lusitania, an ancient Roman name for the region that today is Portugal, and the breed is valued for its intelligence, courage and ability to form strong bonds with man. Over the years they have been used as war horses, cattle horses, carriage horses and bull fighters but today, their exceptional athleticism and grace makes them particularly well suited to the higher levels of dressage. Many of the riders were elegantly turned out in traditional Portuguese attire and watching them as they danced and weaved their horses through the crowds was quite something. There didn’t appear to be much in the way of official organisation although you could hire a horse for a day and join in the fun. Having been to many horse shows and events over the years, I had certainly seen nothing that compared in any way to Golega. Horses appearing through the front doors of the local houses was certainly a little different and there can’t be too many places where you can watch tiny children on huge stallions performing piaffe. There was no doubting that most of the horses were stallions and to observe them in such close proximity to each other without even a squeal of protest was surely a lesson in horsemanship. It was a real celebration of the Portuguese horse and Europe’s oldest horse breed.

A week later we were on our way north to Porto, Portugal’s second largest city. The journey was just 200 km but as we would have done had Leroy still been with us, we stopped to go for a walk. Well, we tried to, more than once, but the entire area had obviously received a lot of heavy rain and each attempt to head out on a walking trail was abandoned due to flooding. We even watched a local pull an impressively large fish out of the water where our AllTrails app was clearly showing there should have been a path. So far, the Portuguese climate was not really selling itself but, fingers crossed, by the time we get down to the south our shorts will be making a re-appearance from the depths of our storage bags.

Porto sits at the mouth of the Rio Douro, a river that runs for nearly 900 km from northern Spain, through Portugal to the Atlantic Ocean and one that has been crucially important to the local economy. Porto is the kind of city that grows on you and from what we could see is increasingly being recognised by travellers as a holiday destination. The old town forms the heart of the city and there are plenty of steep cobblestone streets, narrow alleys and tall colourful houses to ooze authentic charm. The Livraria Lello (1906) would have to be one of the most beautiful bookstores in the world and, apparently, a direct inspiration for JK Rowling and her Harry Potter books – she lived in the city from 1991-1993. It is also emerging as a strong foodie scene although its two main offerings might not be for everyone. One of these is Tripas a Moda do Porto, a hearty dish of slow-cooked tripe, the other is the Francesinha, an intimidatingly large Portuguese sandwich that contains all kinds of meat, including cured ham, roast pork and garlic sausage which is covered with melted cheese and topped with a fried egg – oh, and not forgetting the accompanying spicy sauce that contains whiskey and beer. On the plus side, there is no shortage of port wine with which to wash the food down, a product that the area is world famous for; evidence of which can be seen from the high plaza surrounding the hulking, hilltop fortress that is the city’s cathedral. Emblazoned across the various roof tops throughout the town are the well-known names of Taylors, Cockburns and Grahams, some of the founding port companies.

It stopped raining as we continued north to Minho, a region in the far northwestern corner of the country with a gateway to Peneda-Geres, Portugal’s only national park. The 703-sq-km park was established in 1971 to ensure that both the habitat as well as the ancient customs of the region are kept intact. It is spread across four impressive granite massifs and shelters more than 100 granite villages, the inhabitants of which live their lives much as the generations before them. The landscape was wild and ruggedly beautiful, and we hiked amongst huge granite boulders, pine and oak forests, gorges, meandering rivers and Sorraia, Portugal’s wild ponies. As beautiful as it was, there was no denying the effects of mass emigration; many of the villages seemed to be existing with a skeleton crew of just a dozen or so oldies, younger generations long gone in search of work and a modern lifestyle. As we made our way east, never too far from the Spanish border, the countryside continued to wow, and the gentle pace of life was all too obvious as we repeatedly shared the road with the long-horned Barossa cattle being moved along by a stick wielding octogenarian and his large black Castro Laboreiro cattle dog. It was impossible to hurry along the narrow mountain roads and we had plenty of time to absorb this other-worldly part of Portugal. We stayed in various accommodations, mostly in small villages. Some, like Aldeia de Pontes (Bridges Village), were just a collection of a dozen stone houses that had stood abandoned for years before being brought back to life in the form of rural tourism.

Miranda Do Douro in the region of Tras-os-Montes (behind the mountains), is about as far east in Portugal as you can go. A small municipality that, aside from the Pauliteiros, men in skirts dancing with wooden batons, seems to have little to offer. However, it’s location, perched on a cliff high above the cavernous valley that sees the Douro River cross the border from Spain is dramatic and the surrounding countryside is home to a vast number of bird species, including the Golden eagle, Griffon vulture and Peregrine falcon. Following the course of the river would take us back towards Porto and the N222 is one of Portugal’s most scenic drives, passing through charming villages and the vine covered terraced hillsides that this area is noted for.

The slopes of the valley that the river has carved on its way to the sea are home to one of the world’s oldest demarcated wine regions, a region that produces both red and white wines but is probably best known for its fortified sweet wines. Following the establishment of the kingdom of Portugal and the ensuing Treaty of Windsor (1386) that established strong trading relationships with Britain, many English and Scottish merchants settled in Portugal. The demand in Britain at the time was for strong, full-bodied red wines, exactly the type of wine that the Douro valley grapes were producing. The only way to transport the wines from the distant hillsides to the coast was by boat down the River Douro to Porto where it was common practice to add a small amount of brandy to the wine prior to shipment to preserve it from spoiling. This practice had the effect of not only arresting fermentation but also creating a stronger, sweeter wine – a port wine.

The Douro valley is one of Portugal’s main tourist attractions and there are plenty of opportunities to stay in one of its many historic country houses. It is a bit like going over to a friend for dinner with a sleep over. These rural properties usually have a limited number of rooms and full capacity would probably be around a dozen people. Once everyone is checked in, the locally produced port is offered and introductions are made. Aperitifs are served in the lounge prior to a communal dinner where a generous selection of home-grown wines are available. The evenings usually conclude in the lounge where the port makes another appearance alongside the coffee. Aside, from the copious amounts of alcohol, these occasions are a great opportunity to meet fellow travellers from UK, Norway, Italy, Sweden and Vietnam to name just a few.

Had you asked us a few weeks ago what we were expecting to find in Portugal, our response would have been sand, sea and hopefully sun. We had no idea that such thickly forested, mountainous countryside was to be found in the north and we have loved exploring this rather special part of Europe. However, we are now turning south, searching for some sun.

July 27, 2023

Basque Country & France

July 27, 2023/ Sarah Lock

Over the years we have visited Spain many times, but our previous experiences of coastal Spain has never extended further than the ever-popular Costa del Sol and we were quite unprepared for the spectacular Costa Verde (Green Coast) of Asturias. A dramatic stretch of coastline with soaring cliffs, woodland, small sandy coves and long white-sand beaches running alongside the Atlantic Ocean. In stark contract to the Mediterranean coastline, there was a noticeable lack of development as we hopped from one beach campsite to the next making our way from the port town of Ribadeo along the Cantabrian coast and into Donostia-San Sebastion, a drive of nearly 500km.

A common sight all along the way was that of the many walkers and cyclists progressing along the network of ancient pilgrimage routes to Santiago de Compostela or Way of St. James. The Camino de Santiago has been a pilgrimage route for more than 1,000 years, one theory of why it became such is that when St James, one of the original 12 apostles died, his body was placed in a boat which landed on the coast of Spain, just west of where Santiago de Compostela stands today. It’s said that he is now buried in the specially built Cathedral which is still attracting pilgrims from across the world. Of the many route options, the GR65 El Camino Frances or the French Way is the most popular, so called as it begins in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port on the French side of the Pyrenees. A trail of 800km that traverses the Pyrenees before continuing through the La Rioja wine region and along the rolling hills of northern Spain to the burial site of St James. Just as hikers walking England’s Coast to Coast trail carry a pebble from one side of the country to the other, walkers here tie a scallop shell to their bags to show that they are walking the Camino. I don’t know why, but it is always uplifting to see walkers striding along with full packs on their backs and to see so many of them was quite motivational for us and our future plans.

Leaving Cantabria we arrived in Basque country armed with two valuable pieces of advice for local integration. Firstly, don’t refer to the area as being part of Spain, IT IS BASQUE COUNTRY and secondly those little eats that you are enjoying with your local tipple of Txakoli are PINTXOS and NOT TAPAS. The Basque Country is a slice of land that straddles the border between France and Spain, consisting of three provinces in northern Spain and another three in south-west France and is considered to be a separate nation by most of the 3 million people who live there. It is a country with a unique culture, its own flag and traditions that differ greatly from its Spanish and French neighbours. Basque people are widely considered to be the oldest ethnic group in Europe and their language, Euskara, is quite unusual in that it has no known connections to any other language. Traditionally whalers, ship-builders, mariners and explorers, the Basques are a tough people, with a strong, long-standing history of determination to preserve their national character. Their demand for independence from Spain has waxed and waned over the years, the violent Spain-ETA (Euskadi Ta Askatasuna/Basque Country and Freedom armed conflict that started in 1959 ceased in 2018 and the Basques now have more autonomy that any of Spain’s other 16 regions. On the receiving end of a series of benefits from Madrid and an independent taxation system, the Basques currently seem “satisfied” with their lot and content to focus on Jai Alai and a steadily increasing tourist trade.

Hang on ….. Jai Alai?? Also known as Cesta Punta, Jai Alai is a faster, more dynamic and violent version of squash. Teams of two players take to the court or fronton, which has three walls on its four sides, where they take turns to hurl a pelota, a hand-wound rubber ball covered with hardened goat skin against the walls using a cesta, a curved wicker catching and throwing device about 75cm long with a leather glove sewn to the outside. The balls, which are by the way harder than golf balls, travel in excess of 300 km/h, faster than in any other sport and players will often run and jump off the walls in order to catch them. Despite periods of huge popularity and a few appearances at the Olympic games, the most recent being Barcelona in 1992, this fastest ball game in the world is banned in many countries but in the Basque country is still going strong.

Ask anyone what they know about the Basque country and their response is likely to be the city of Donostia-San Sebastion, a place most famous for its food, boasting the second most Michelin stars per capita in the world, behind Kyoto, Japan. But away from the fine dining there is another side to the culinary offerings, the famous pintxos, originally a slice of baguette bread piled high with food all held in place with a cocktail stick or ‘pintxo’. As with most things, that traditional idea has evolved into today’s miniature haute cuisine, flavours elaborated and concentrated into tiny, mouth-watering experiences. A pub crawl along the narrow, cobbled streets of the Old Town doing our best to sample as many of the hole-in-the-wall taverns and pintxos bars as possible was woefully inadequate. I don’t think we have every been surrounded by so much quality food and even flushing it through with the local Txakoli, a young fruity white wine, we were defeated after sampling just five out of more than 180 pintxo bars. Oh well, maybe next time!!

People often ask if we get a bit bored travelling and I think they are referring to a lack of the usual daily distractions of family, work, routine and life in general. This question had also crossed my mind before we jumped in at the deep end, sold everything we owned and took up residence in Bob. After an initial period of adaptation during which time the normality of mainstream living was shaken off, it has been a little surprising to find that we seem to be just as occupied as ever, just different subject matters. To give an example….

…… shopping! The most important aspect of shopping is of course food shopping, something that used to be done at warp speed as the required items of purchase were grabbed off shelves in an all too familiar environment. Nowadays, supermarkets have taken on similar characteristics to a black hole, one into which we disappear for ridiculously long periods of time as we try to find what we want amongst some very unusual items and foreign labels. All too often we have reached the front of the check-out line to find that there are no credit cards accepted just cash (Germany, you know we’re talking about you), at which point we have to abandon our hard-won basket and head off to find a cash point – another time-consuming activity. And, just as we familiarise ourselves with the main chain of whichever place we happen to be in we change country and have to start all over again.

Aside from groceries, online shopping is another excellent way to while away a few days and have yourself quite a treasure hunt at the same time. So many online retailers use couriers now rather than the old-fashioned Post Office and said PO is not always willing to accept parcels from these external delivery methods. Poste Restante seems to be a thing of the past and when we have tried this method it has failed spectacularly. So, the method we are adopting now is, once we have sourced whatever it is we need, is to find out who they use as their shipper. We then look for a collection point for that shipper whether it be UPS, DPD, DHL or a multitude of others and believe me there are many! The collection point is decided on by how long shipping is likely to take and how long it will take us to reach said destination. To make things even more interesting we usually tend to do an online shop for a number of items so will end up with one particular town receiving about half a dozen parcels, all of which are being delivered to different collection points. OK, so far so good but then what invariably happens is that we arrive in town excited to collect our parcels only to find that some of the businesses acting as collection points have closed??!! Some are on holiday for two weeks, others tell us that they have no parcel for us until we go back for the third time and insist they have it at which point it is eventually located and others, even with the help of Google maps, we simply cannot find. There really is no opportunity to be bored with all this going on, frustrated perhaps but definitely not bored!

The Basque Country on the French side of the border is not as extensive as on the Spanish side and it wasn’t long before we were in France proper. We followed the Atlantic coast for a while up to the popular seaside town of Biarritz and after observing just how busy things were starting to get we headed inland and up to Bordeaux, the wine capital of France. A friend of ours from Australia had just completed a solo walk of the Coast to Coast and we were meeting her in Bordeaux to celebrate her achievement. It is always great to see familiar faces now that we are travelling full-time and this was no exception. It is a wonderful thing how you might not see someone for a few years but, when you do, you pick up right where you left off and the time between doesn’t make any difference at all. We had a great day cycling around Bordeaux on a rather dry, but nevertheless interesting, tour followed by a generous contribution to the local economy via one of the many organic wine bars.

And then disaster struck….

…. I crashed my bicycle! At speed! My face took the brunt of the fall which probably wasn’t a bad thing as a recent heavy-handed top up of fillers probably cushioned the blow somewhat and the suspected fractured wrist now seems to be healing well. It was undoubtedly a nuisance though, as any debilitation whilst travelling is frustrating and impacts hugely on the dynamics, probably more so for Ian as, in his mind, he was forced to drive with one of the worst passengers in the world.

abbeye de la bussiere, la bussiere-sur-ouche

We did have something on the horizon to cheer us up a bit though, we had booked a two-night stay at Abbeye de la Bussiere, a 12th century authentic Cistercian abbey in the beautiful countryside of Burgundy. We stayed here many years ago whilst on a cycling holiday from Paris to Monte Carlo and had met the relatively new owner, an English banker who had married a French woman and spent what must have been millions bringing the old place back to life. We have been fortunately enough to have stayed in some amazing places over the years and the Abbeye would definitely be in our top three and so the opportunity to revisit was a highlight. On checking in we were a bit disappointed to find that the Englishman owner had, just 6 months ago, sold the Abbeye to the Americans but that aside the property was obviously getting looked after and we booked in for the gastronomique Gromolu dinner. Being in such celebrious surroundings meant that we needed to get our storage boxes off the top of the car in order to access our decent clothes. Horror of horrors – Ian opened up the large canvas bag which housed our three storage boxes to find that everything was covered in thick black mildew, no doubt a result of the many storms that we had been caught in whilst up in the Pyrenees. The smell and the state of everything was just awful and going through each of the boxes we were left with no choice but to throw most of it away. We left the Abbeye the following morning leaving behind a rather smelly room for the Americans to deal with. An unfortunate outcome which has left us with a capsule wardrobe that would be hard to beat – we really are resembling homeless people more and more. One the one hand, it is great to be travelling so light, but we do need to at least get some replacement clothes which unfortunately means more online shopping!

Our run of bad luck however, had not quite finished…..

….. heading up into the French Alps, partly to escape the intense heat sweeping across parts of southern Europe, we decided that as we were so close to Geneva it would make sense to do another UK run thereby extending our stay in Europe by another 90 days. We took turns to fly into Gatwick returning later the same day, actually much later given the amount of disruption that seemed to be taking place in both airports with lack of ground crew and disrupted flight schedules. However, mission eventually accomplished we drove to a campsite just outside of the town of Chamonix where we planned to spend a few days walking in the mountains around Mont Blanc until I discovered that a further 90 day stay in Europe was not the only thing I had brought back from the UK. Surrounded by some of the most stunning countryside in all of Europe, the next four days were spent sprawled across Bob’s bed with some sort of virus that sapped all energy and demanded an epic sleeping bout of around 75 hours straight. What a disappointing way to be in such an amazing part of France and we were unable to extend our stay as we had a pressing engagement in Italy, but more about that next time.

Feeling much rested, we packed up and then another disaster. Bob wouldn’t start. We now seem to have a problem with the keys, key fobs, immobiliser or a combination of all three. Both key fobs now do nothing, well that’s not quite true, whilst they have no impact on locking or unlocking the central locking system they will turn off the immobiliser light on the dash. However, once the immobiliser light is off, turning the key in the ignition either does nothing at all or turns over the engine for about 2 seconds before it cuts out again. Great, the next four hours were spent trying unsuccessfully to find help, language difficulties, excessive traffic issues during peak season and a location high up in the Alps all conspired against us. Eventually, with the help of the local tourist office, we were able to book a tow truck for the following day, a tow of 70km to a garage who had agreed to try and help. Standing in the rain ready to load Bob onto the tow truck the following morning we were astonished when the truck driver worked some kind of magic and got Bob to start????? Advising us not to turn off the engine, we paid a somewhat reduced towing rate and drove ourselves to the afore-mentioned garage where we spent the rest of the morning watching the mechanic dismiss one possible problem after another. Eventually, he admitted defeat and suggested – using Google translate – that it was either a relay problem or a key problem. It was almost a complete waste of time except that he showed us the trick to get the engine started. Turn the key to position II, press the unlock button to get the immobiliser light to go off, turn key off and fully on whilst holding the lock button on the fob which after the third or fourth attempt will cause the engine to run!!!!!

Okaaaay, on that note Italy here we come!

July 01, 2023

Via Ferrata

July 01, 2023/ Sarah Lock

At 9am on a sunny morning we drove down the impressive Hermida Gorge to the small village of La Hermida in the Picos de Europa.

Hermida Gorge is the largest gorge in Spain, 21km in length, with limestone rock walls up to 700m high on either side. It is home to cork oak, oak and beech forests and is a special reserve for birds, notably eagles and vultures, as well as chamois (goat-antelopes) and capercaillies (a rare type of grouse).

We had booked to go on a guided walk of the Via Ferrata, which a quick look in the dictionary defined as "a protected climbing route found in the Alps and certain other Alpine locations.The protection includes steel fixtures such as cables and railings to arrest the effect of any fall, which the climber can either hold onto or clip into using climbing protection."

Although it is possible to do the walk without a guide, you are required to have the right gear, namely a climbing harness, carabiners and a hard hat. Given that we didn’t have those items and didn’t really know what we were doing, we went for the guided option. We were met in La Hermida by two guides, Raphael and Lucia, both young, professional and fun. With them was Alejandro, a commercial pilot from Spain who spoke perfect English, making for an easy day of communication on the odd occasion when Raphael couldn't find the right word in English. We were also ultimately joined by two others, Daniel and Allie, and off we went.

There are four via ferrata routes from La Hermida, although one of them is not generally used by the guide companies as it is a genuinely challenging route only undertaken by skilled climbers. Our route was the longest of the other three routes. We quickly ascended, one at a time, duly clipped onto the cable railing and using the metal staples fixed into the rock for climbing. The via ferrata routes were inaugurated in 2010, and it is testament to the skills and perseverance of the locals that the entire route, including the bridges, were erected by hand, without the aid of mechanical lifters.

Although the walk was not technically challenging, it was physically demanding, involving a climb of about 700 metres, mostly vertical. Rather more fun, and challenging, were the two 'tibetan bridges' that we had to traverse. The first of these was a 40m long steel cable over a 300m drop. It didn't surprise us that quite a few people have to be rescued from the mountain when they get stuck at this obstacle. Safety involves clipping a carabiner to each of the parallel, shoulder-high, steel cables, one on the left and one on the right. This isn't for the faint hearted nor for those suffering from vertigo.

One of our group struggled with the crossing and had to be escorted by Lucia, who was incredibly supportive and patient. The rest of us crossed with varying degrees of trepidation. For my part, I was a lot more gung-ho before I started the actual crossing. I had visions of running across, secure in the knowledge that I was safely tied on. The reality was a bit different, as the wire was a lot more wobbly than it looked and the safety attachments were not actually supporting the crossing, they were just there in case you fell. It was still a relatively quick crossing and more exhilarating than frightening.

A short distance further on we came to the second of the tibetan bridges, a 100m long ladder bridge, the wooden slats just far enough apart for your foot to step in between them if you weren't looking where you were stepping. The drop underneath this bridge was more like 500m, and again, it looked a lot more stable before setting off than it did half way across. Fortunately only our previous nervous bridge crosser needed help, again from a very supportive Lucia, and the rest of us made light work of it.

It was a long walk down the mountain back to the car, which afforded a great perspective of where we'd been, especially the 100m ladder bridge suspended high up. We arrived back just before the regular afternoon thunderstorm started, delighted to have enjoyed yet another unique experience on our travels.

July 01, 2023

Spain

July 01, 2023/ Sarah Lock

After 3 months in Morocco, a short ferry ride across the Med took us back into Spain. Our previous experience of Spain was fleeting as we needed to get out of Europe before our 90 day stay expired and, in our hurry to reach Morocco, we drove from the French/Spanish border to the southern port of Algeciras in a matter of days. Obviously this was not ideal and, unfortunately, this time started in a similar vein as a family wedding in Barcelona, Catalonia meant we were once again reacquainted with Spain's excellent motorway network. Disembarking the Algeciras ferry we first needed a get Bob some TLC. Trying to get Bob serviced at short notice is always tricky as good mechanics seem to be in strong demand and are normally booked up for weeks in advance. We have found the best solution is to locate a reputable garage specialising in 4x4s and park out front where Bob never fails to pique some interest and, keen to have a closer look, a space in the diary magically appears. Spain has long been renowned for its laid-back attitude which often translates to shorter opening hours, long lunches and a relaxed approach to time and punctuality but, our tactics worked and Bob got some well needed attention before racing north.

It was our niece and her Argentinian groom getting married and it was a great opportunity to catch up with family, some of whom we hadn’t seen for quite some time. Travelling full-time means that we are inevitably absent from normal family get-togethers and it was great to re-connect with family and new friends, not least the large contingent of Argentinians seemingly still cerlebrating their recent World Cup win. Ian's twin sister and her partner had made the trip over from Australia for the event and had decided to join us on the road for a couple of weeks in a hired campervan. So now, not only did we have some company for a while but we finally had the chance to get to know Spain a bit better.

Spain is the 4th largest country in Europe (1st, 2nd and 3rd being Russia, Ukraine and France), with a population of 47.1 million living on the mainland, 48 inhabited islands and two exclaves in Morocco. In the Spanish cave of Atapuerca, just off the Atlantic coast, Spain has evidence of being the cradle of Western Europe humanity with the discovery of a flint tool and early human fossils dating from about 1.2 million years ago. A recurring theme in early Spanish history is Spain’s susceptibility to foreign invasion which includes the Romans, Celts, Visigoths, Arabs and French. A Roman occupation of 700 years gave Spain roads, architecture in the form of temples, aqueducts, bridges and the Latin language, whilst the 800 years under Moor rule further developed the thousands of kilometres of irrigation channels across the country, was responsible for the building of great palaces, castles and mosques which today are amongst Spain’s greatest tourist attractions and the introduction of many new crops which continue to contribute to Spain’s economy. Following mass expulsion of the Moors, Spain eventually emerged independently unified and during the 16th and 17th century was one of the greatest political and military powers in both Europe and the World. This golden age was a time of global exploration and colonial expansion and the Spanish Empire extended to vast territories that stretched across the Caribbean Islands, half of South America, almost all of Central America, most of North America, the Phillipines, North and Western Morocco, Western Sahara, and Equatorial Guinea. The downfall of this vast Empire mostly occurred during the American wars of independence in the early 19th century when most of the acquired territory was lost, a situation not helped by the intrusion of Napoleonic forces into Spain cutting off effective connections with her Empire. Today, only the North African exclaves of Ceuta and Melilla and the Canary Islands off the African coast remain under the Spanish flag.

Today Spain is divided into 17 autonomous regions offering buzzing cities, beautiful beaches, diverse landscapes, artistic treasures, charming medieval villages, fiestas, gastronomic delights and, of course, plenty of wine.

so many buildings, barely room to squeeze through

After final congratulations to the bride and groom we were back on the road, our team of three now expanded to five as we headed to one of Spain’s unforgettable destinations; the Pyrenees.

The Pyrenees has been one of our favourite places ever since we first visited back in 2012. The combination of scenic walking trails set amongst snow-capped mountains and charming stone villages nestled in lush valleys has drawn us back a few times over the years and we were excited to revisit. Forming a high border between Spain and France, this mountain range of craggy peaks extends for more than 430 km from the shores of the Mediterranean Sea in the east to the Bay of Biscay on the Atlantic Ocean in the West, running through the Spanish regions of Catalonia, Aragon and Navarre.

The area is surprisingly unexploited and it is easy to escape onto a network of seldom-travelled paths, climbing to hidden lakes and high peaks. Spain is home to over 100 long-distance walking routes known as Gran Recorrido (Great Tour). These 50km+ trails are recognisable by red and white striped waymarks and well maintained by the Federacion Espanola de Alpinismo (Spanish Mountain Federation). The GR11 is a 840 km trail that traverses the entire length of the Pyrenees, a trail divided into 46 day long sections making use of numerous mountain refugios and passing through some of the best landscape that Spain has to offer. Although we have hiked various sections of the trail on previous visits we have yet to complete it in its entirely on one long multi-day trek, something that is quite high up on our bucket list but not on the cards for this visit.

The GR trails aren’t the only hiking options in Spain, there are a seemingly never ending choice of walks marked with the green and white Sendero Local (Local Trail) or yellow and white Sendero de Pequeno Recorrido (Short Walk Path). And the best bit? All of the paths are open to dogs!

Another appeal of these Spanish mountains is their accessibility. There are a number of towns from which to explore the mountains and our initial starting point was the valley town of Benasque in the heart of the Pyrenees. This charming stone town is surrounded by the highest concentration of peaks over 3,000m in the entire Pyrenees and typical to other towns dotted throughout the area offers basic services and a plethora of camping shops. It sits within the Aragon region of north-east Spain, an area best known for Catherine of Aragon, who foolishly married Henry VIII of England; Catherine’s father, Ferdinand of Aragon, whose marriage to Isabella, queen of Castile and Leon in the 15th century, led to the unification of Spain and the renowned artist Goya.

The region has a rich architectural history dating back to pre-roman times which can be witnessed in the medieval towns and villages that dot the landscape, many of the villages regularly making it to the final in the competition for Spain’s most beautiful village. There were surprisingly few tourists around and walking the Ibon de Escarpinosa, set in the Posets-Maladeta Nature Park and rated as being one of the most beautiful walks in the area, we saw just four other hikers in the five hours that it took to complete. Surrounded by such peaceful and beautiful scenery it would have been easy to stay a lot longer but our plan was to steadily progress west and onto our next stop, Torla and Spain’s oldest nature reserve the Parque Nacional de Ordesa y Monte Perdido. Torla is yet another beautiful alpine-style village of slate-roofed houses clinging to the hillside above Rio Ara with a backdrop of the national park’s mountains. Being slightly out of the peak season of July and August, the village was quiet and a great base from which to walk the Faja de Pelay a walk that we had done not once, but twice before – anyone would think there was a shortage of trails – but in our defence this particular walk does showcase the absolute best of the Pyrenees. Plunging canyons, towering cliffs, thick forests, rivers, waterfalls and snow peaks, a non-stop spectacle of nature’s beauty.

Our final experience of the Pyrenees (on this trip) was the Valles de Hecho, a tucked away river valley in Aragon’s far northwest corner. Less visited by tourists and therefore more basic in facilities, the area is nevertheless a walker’s paradise with access to many of the surrounding peaks amid gorgeous scenery.

If all this sounds too good to be true, you would be correct. As stunning as this part of Spain is, the unpredictable weather, typical of mountainous regions, is challenging with huge swathes of moist air blowing in from the Atlantic. The frequent and heavy rain/hail storms have resulted in nearly all our attempts at camping to be a complete wash-out and we have been relying more and more on casa rurales. These off the beaten track, self-catering accommodations, have been mostly excellent, the only exception being the wonderfully isolated stone house that obviously had a nest of maggots somewhere. Everything was fine until we turned the heating on and lit a wood fire, six hours later and during the rest of our three day stay we were besieged by a never-ending stream of flies that just kept appearing regardless of how many Ian caught between his clapping hands – something he is surprisingly good at!

The time with our new travelling companions ended all too soon and as they headed back to Barcelona we continued towards the Atlantic and into the wine region of La Rioja.

La Rioja derives its name from the Oja river, a tributary of the second largest river in Spain, the Ebro. Situated in a valley surrounded by mountain ranges and criss-crossed by rivers, the area has probably the richest lands in Spain and is universally famous for its wine production. It is estimated that this second smallest region of Spain (5,000km²) has over 500 wineries and a history of wine making that stretches back to the 11th century BC. The Ancient Romans founded many of the Rioja vineyards, the reputation of the wines carried by the many pilgrims passing through the region on their way to the shrine of St James at Santiago de Compostela. Today, Rioja is a main contributor to Spain’s economy which is probably not surprising considering it is one of the largest producers of wine in the world.

The picture-perfect fortified medieval town of Laguardia, yet another one continually vying for the most beautiful village in Spain, is set atop a hill surrounded by an ancient wall. Once inside the wall, the layout of the village is not unusual of its era and consists of three narrow elongated main streets connected by bisecting smaller streets or squares. What sets it apart, however, are the network of tunnels and passageways that exist underground, originally used as a defence tactic, they are now the perfect place to store wine made in the surrounding vineyards. Now a wealthy hamlet full of gourmet restaurants, charming small hotels, wine bars and fantastic views it was the perfect place for us to spend a Sunday afternoon sat in one of its narrow cobblestone alleys enjoying a refreshing white Rioja. Circumstances improved even further when a break in the constant storms meant that we didn’t have to go through the hassle of finding accommodation for the night and were able to wild camp off an isolated mountain road overlooking the fertile valley below.

Slightly ahead of the short tourist season of July and August we arrived into Potes, Cantabria, a pretty medieval town and one of the access points to the Picos de Europa. Cantabria is part of “Green Spain” and there was no disputing the claim as we hadn’t been surrounded by such lush greenness since leaving the UK. Correctly assuming that we were still in an area of unpredictable and wet weather we based ourselves just outside Potes at the aptly named Apartamentos Los Picos de Europe, in the sleepy mountain village of Colio. With outstanding views in all directions, this would have to be some of the best accommodation (excluding Bob) that we have enjoyed and was an excellent base from which to explore the area. The Picos de Europa, a national park located in the Cantabrian Mountains, straddles the regions of Asturias, Cantabria and Leon. An area of wild limestone landscape rising up off the Atlantic coast with over 200 peaks, 14 of which exceed 2,600m, divided into three great massifs. Acidic rain weathering on the limestone rock has resulted in amazing formations, steep-sided rifts and fissures and some of the world’s deepest caves. The lower slopes include sweeping fields and forests with a wide range of wildlife including the elusive Cantabrian brown bears.

The park is strewn with walking trails and we clocked up the kilometres discovering a slow and rustic way of life. The scenery wowed us as we walked the most spectacular and well-known hiking route in the area, La Ruta del Cares followed by a climb up the zig-zag path from La Hermida Gorge to the tiny mountain village of Treviso, famous for producing one of Spain’s best blue cheeses, Picon Bejes-Treviso The Via Ferrata, also at La Hermida Gorge offered us yet another great experience which you can read about here.

Crossing into the Asturias region, the scenery remained much the same. Still within Green Spain and with mountains covering more than four-fifths of the region, the area is perhaps more notable for being the sole patch of Spain never conquered by the Moors. It is home to the Lakes of Covadonga, two glacial lakes Enol and Ercina located 1,000m above sea level right at the centre of the Picos National Park. If ever there was paradise on earth for cows this would be it. Grazing on vast open meadows surrounded by mountains, the docile mountain cattle far outnumber any visitors to the area and the sound of their bells was a constant as we walked around the lakes.

Moving on to Cangas de Onis, we had just one more thing to do before heading away from the mountains and onto the coast. The descent of the Sella River. The International Descent of Sella River is the most popular celebration in Asturias and one of the largest canoeing races of its kind in the world. Held on the first Saturday of August, the race starts in the town of Arriondas and makes its way along a 20km stretch of the river Sella to finish at the seaside resort of Ribadsella. Amazingly, the race has been going since 1933 and is now the centre point of a four-day festival. We were a little early to take part in the race itself but the opportunity to kayak down the river is available all year round and although dogs are encouraged to participate the advised 20kg weight limit meant that a day on the river was not on the cards for Leroy. Once we had been given our kayaks, access onto the river was an exciting push off down a steep ramp and onto the water. I went first and, keen to see Ian descend, battled against the strong downstream current to stay in a position where I could watch. Ian started off ok but for some reason about half-way down the ramp he started rocking from side to side and the outcome was inevitable as the minute his kayak hit the water it overturned pitching Ian beneath the surface. In retrospect it was just as well that he popped up fairly quickly as I was doubled over with laughter and would have made a hopeless rescuer. Eventually back in his boat, we started our journey downstream but perhaps still a bit disorientated Ian headed straight into a bubbling mass of white water and promptly overturned again. What I would have given to have been holding the GoPro and what a shame that Ian, who did have it, had yet to turn it on. On the bright side, had his entertaining antics taken place just 5 minutes later, he would have had the embarrassment of performing in front of a group of about 40 school kids that came down the ramp with no issues whatsoever to join us on the river. The remainder of the descent was uneventful in comparison but what a fun day!

Two years on the road and there are no signs that the novelty is wearing off, in fact quite the opposite, as the longer we travel the more we are relaxing into this new way of life. Despite living in the UK for half of our lives there is much of Europe that we have yet to explore and we can’t wait to see what happens next.

March 01, 2023

France & Spain Briefly

March 01, 2023/ Sarah Lock

Crossing the Swiss Border we are once again in France and still haven’t managed to shake off the virus we picked up in Austria. I think this is probably travel at its worst as neither of us has much energy which means a lack of motivation combined with short tempers leading to the most ridiculous arguments that would be laughable if only we could muster the strength. The only thing we seem able to do is drive, which means Bob is eating up the distance between us and our chosen destination of Morocco, but such rapid travel is unsatisfactory and leaves a lot unexplored and opportunities missed.

It wasn’t until we reached the Rhone-Alps region of southeastern France that we mustered the enthusiasm to leave the motorway in order to drive through one of the most beautiful parts of France, a region that we visited some years ago and which allowed us a brief trip down memory lane.

The Ardech River descends from the Massif Central running for 125 km as a right-bank tributary of the River Rhone between Lyon and Avignon. Over the last 110 million years, the river has carved out caves and gorges, creating some strange and beautiful rock shapes out of the surrounding limestone countryside. With granite mountains bordering the western side, the scenery is a mix of wild rugged landscapes interspersed with beautiful stone farmhouses and wineries and one that we explored quite extensively a few years ago as part of a cycling holiday from Paris to Monte Carlo. Our route through France then was a selection of 3-5 day cycle guides taken from Lonely Planet and other cycling resources which we had pieced together to provide a more or less continuous route from start to finish.

The Ardech region is well known for its wine and finding ourselves cycling through the quaint village of Chateneuf de Papp we stopped to do a bit of tasting at some of the local caves. The tasting went a bit too well and Ian ended up purchasing a substantial amount of wine which he then arranged to have shipped over to Australia. We were building our home in South Australia at the tine and one of the features we had planned was a wine cellar – what better to decorate the walls of such a place than the end panels of wine boxes? Great idea, and to start us off we persuaded the wine seller to hand over one of his wooden boxes as part of the deal. Obviously, we only wanted the end with the stamped logo but unbelievably no one had a tool with which to dismantle the box and so Ian secured the complete box to the top of his panniers and we continued on our way. A couple of days later we arrived at the small town of Bedouin and whilst enjoying a typical French breakfast, we remarked upon the large number of cyclists in the town. In fact, once we really started looking around, the place was packed with some serious looking pro bikes and riders. Typically, our own organisation was a bit casual and it wasn’t usually until the last minute that we looked at our route map for the day, so tearing our attention away from the many lycra-clad bottoms surrounding us, we got out our cycling profile for the day. WTF, surely there must be some mistake – this is what the relief map looked like!

Okaaay, might need some more coffee and croissants! Not really comprehending the information in front of us, we eventually set off heading out of town and uphill. In fact, 1,579 metres uphill for 21.3 km at an average gradient of 7.4%. To this day, I don’t know whether we were there when a special event was taking place or whether the route up is always popular, but the seemingly never ending road up to the top was lined with people shouting encouragement to the hundreds of cyclists labouring up the hill. Of course, we were the only two on the mountain on fully laden road bikes with, apparently, a box of rather nice red wine. It was without doubt a challenging day but with shouts of “Courage!” coming at regular intervals from the delighted crowds and looks of surprise followed by delight on the face of nearly every cyclist who overtook us, we were without doubt quite the novelty.

We did eventually make it to the top where we briefly enjoyed the party atmosphere before it was time to reap the rewards of all the hard work and freewheel down the other side.

Returning to the present and back on the money grabbing French motorways, we could no longer ignore Bob’s rapidly deteriorating situation with regard to his lack of brakes. The slightest pressure on the pedal and Bob lurched violently to the left and the handbrake was incapable of holding on even the slightest of slopes. We found a garage just outside Perpignan, close to the Spanish border, and despite language difficulties managed to get the job done. Of course, the discs also needed replacing but the guys did a great job and even re-synced one of our key fobs which hadn’t been working since replacing the battery back in Finland.

Still feeling very unwell, we crossed into Spain over the Pyrenees, and still keeping to the motorways crossed the Sierra Espuna and the Sierra Nevada before eventually arriving at the Costa del Sol which is so built up that you would be hard pushed to find a gap between the various villas and apartment blocks large enough to slide a piece of paper through. Being out of season, tourist numbers were comfortable enough to deal with and we decided to spend a week just outside Fuengirola. The down time was just what we needed to finally shake off whatever virus we had picked up and our last night in Spain was spent in San Roque, sleeping in Bob for the first time since Norway. We caught the 1 hour ferry from Algeciras over to Cueta the following morning - still Spain but on the Moroccan side of the Med - ready for the next phase of our adventure.

aroundtheworldin-definitely

aroundtheworldin-definitely

Southern Europe Blogs

aroundtheworldin-definitely

Italy - Part II

Italy - Part I

Andorra, Corsica & Sardinia

Spain & Gibraltar

Goodbye Portugal

Still Portugal

Yet More Portugal

More Portugal

Portugal

Basque Country & France

Via Ferrata

Spain

France & Spain Briefly

aroundtheworldin-definitely