Motorhome News from Europe 15

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Motorhome News from Europe 15.

France January 2005
Adios Spain, Bonjour France!

Beyond the Orange Blossom Coast we camped for one night on the Ebro Delta; a dire site with electrics to make your hair stand on end and facilities to match, but we were here for the birding along the salt marshes and the beautiful beaches looking out towards the east. We saw no new birds, but the real excitement was a regimented line of over 100 herons sunning themselves along the bank like white ten-pins, five marsh harriers in the air at one time, and red breasted pochard yet again.

We sneaked into Tarragona for a look and drove both ways along the Ramblas but found nowhere to park - well, it was Saturday. With our sights set on reaching Sitges on the coast, we ventured onto the expensive toll motorway (Peatje, or Peaje; they spell everything twice here, in Spanish and Catalan) with windsocks to warn of high winds stretched out horizontally making driving a motorhome quite an experience. Smiley is about as aerodynamic as a wardrobe in these conditions.

Alongside the roads here, the buildings are salmon pink in contrast to the stone and white of those further south. Here too are the ‘urbanisations’, the coastal developments stretching north. The orange trees stop at the Ebro, the countryside becoming more open, with vines, apricots and some almonds in evidence.




Daughter Suzanne had told us about Sitges and we could see why she liked it so much; the Old Town, with the church of St Bartholomew atop a small rocky promontory dividing the two sandy beaches. Sitges is smart and chic with a culture leaning towards the young-set; there was an open-air concert in practice for later that night. The mile-long promenade was full of week-enders, strolling, cycling, roller-blading walking the poodle; and generally showing themselves off! A great place to be seen, for sure, with some fabulous houses facing the sea-if you’re very rich indeed - and not a neon light or a stick of rock in sight.





We have many fond memories of Barcelona from our visit some five or six years ago. We fell for its artistic wealth in particular, but it is the one place where we have experienced pick-pockets at first hand: the bird poo credit card hoist, the gypsy school kids with their cardboard signs stuffed under your nose (a la Rome) and the ladies trying to put roses in your pocket - so this time we skirted the City and drove inland for the spectacle of the Monastery at Montserat. The road up twists and turns for 12km, rising 3000m towards the ragged mountain-tops. The Monastery is a huge utility looking building of square lines in austere stone, the local conglomerate, sitting near the top of the ridge, in stark contrast to the strange wind blown forms of the granite coloured mountains. The Basilica is lovely, and a brief performance by the choir and the opportunity to see The Black Madonna made the visit very enjoyable. The Museum next door houses one of the most magnificent art collections that we have seen. In one room alone, perhaps fifteen feet square, there are works by Picasso, (a portrait) Ribera, Rubens, Soler, Monet, Pisarro and Renoir! I could almost have forgotten art amongst the list of passions that drive us to do what we do, but it is there somewhere, along with walking, birds, architecture, photography, writing, golf etc.



Following our visit to the monastry, we took the funicular high up into the the mountains and walked amongst the conglomerate pinnacles for a couple of hours absorbing the most spectacular views in all directions. Our plan was then to drive on to Vic, some 30-40km to the north-east and we arrived shortly before dark to find the campsite closed! We were totally exhausted and had little option but to camp outside the gates for the night outside some private houses. Nice and quiet, but we should be off early in the morning before they’re all out of bed!

By morning the temperature had dropped dramatically again. Both our water and our gas had frozen! The last time this happened was in Cornwall one February at around -6C, It’s not really so much of a problem. The answer is to get dressed quickly and make a run for the nearest café for breakfast, laughing the tears away - washing can wait until the sun comes up! Disasters like this don’t often hit us twice in as many days, but there was yet worse to come. ‘Lightning always strikes in the same place three times,’ as my old granny used to say.

We drove north to Manlleu, up to Olot and east to Santa Pau, en route to Manyoles and Girona (Gerona). This is such a beautiful stretch of winding road though extremely slow driving, but who would want to rush such a heavenly experience. The white peaks of the eastern end of the Pyrenees could be seen away in the distance, topped with strawberry pink clouds in the morning sunshine. Suddenly, as can only happen in Spain, the evergreen oaks, the olives and the almond trees were left behind, for here on chalky ground the hillsides are spread with deciduous trees, beech and oak, and hedges divide the cultivated frost tinged fields. Much of the appeal of this area was its ‘Britishness,’ the rolling hills and cattle pasture and small hedged arable fields and we drove slowly, savouring the scenery, greener than of late but bare trees signifying winter. By mid-day we were sitting beside the motorhome at Santa Pau having lunch, surveying the terraced hillsides to the call of a local cockerel, the drumming of a woodpecker and a robin picking up our crumbs, scorching in the sun with the temperature hovering around 20 degrees. That’s a change of about 26 degrees in five hours!

Disaster number two struck later the same day when we discovered the campsite at Girona was closed. Fortunately it was still early, and we set off for the warmer climes of the Costa Brava (Brave Coast) just to say that we had seen it, arriving just before dark at a campsite near Platja d’Aro. The following day, we took the road of 365 bends south along the well preserved and under-developed coast as far as Tossa de Mar: a smart resort this, with a small but good beach and lots of fashionable shops. We were truly impressed and pleasantly surprised. This area is surely a reflection on Catalonian pride, though it is probably not a true picture of the Costa Brava.

And then, disaster was to strike yet once more. This time with more disaterous consequences. We had hoped to meet daughter, Catherine, and her husband, Tony, in Girona this week, but business, as it often does, got in the way. However, we didn’t want to miss this City, voted the most desirable place in Spain to live. It’s our usual practice to stay at sites near major towns and take the train or bus in, but our objective was to travel north later that afternoon and we parked in the City whilst we walked the narrow streets and lunched in a small café. Our motorhome was broken into whilst we were away, all the cupboard contents strewn across the floor. They had clearly taken their time, seemingly undeterred by our screeching alarm. It’s the old story; who is going to stop a robber running off down the street with his spoils! We lost very little however, and have now learned the lesson to follow our pattern and our instincts. To console ourselves, we made a long list of all the things the robbers missed (they left the telescope, binoculars, the laptop - and Todd and Ron!) - and felt better for that. The police were helpful, though not hopeful and after a delay of perhaps an hour we set off for the Bay of Roses.

Thursday was Dali-day. There is only one road into Cadaques; up the winding road high above the semicircular golden beach of the Bay of Roses, Rhodes as the Greeks named it, over the oak and pine studded hills and down past the long forgotten dry-stone terraces. Cadaques is the home town of Dali and a must for those of us who hold a strange fascination for this even stranger man of art. Patterned cobbled streets ascend to the church on one side of the bay and through narrow passages in the fishing quarter at the other, somewhat reminiscent of Whitby. Dali’s statue stands with its back to the sea, facing an arc of smart cafes, restaurants and low-level hotels. There are no boats bobbing in the harbour in winter and it looks a little unloved, losing some of its summer flavour.

Dali’s house, that he shared with his second wife, Gala, lies a few miles to the west, at Port Lligat. It is now a museum, though not open at the time of our visit, but it was wonderful just to walk in his footsteps, to look out from the neat olive groves above the house towards the islands dotted across the shimmering seascape. The light here is wonderful, highlighting the passion of Dali, Miro and Picasso for this area. They are pouring concrete at it still of course, but this area is still pleasantly underdeveloped. The coast north towards el Port de la Selva (note the ‘de la’ influence of French in the Catalan) is delightful; beautiful blue bays with shallow white houses lining the shore. It almost needed a team of horses to drag us away from the Dali Theatre Museum in Figueres just inland. Whilst most of his better-known works are displayed across the world, those here are enough to sharpen the minds of everyone, even those without the slightest interest in his work. We were enthralled as you can imagine.

Finally we left Spain after 98 exciting days and headed north on the motorway towards Beziers and entered France beside never-ending fields of vines. There were thousands of people at the border town of Le Jonquera; half of France buying up Spanish produce and filling their tanks with cheap fuel. Diesel in Spain was costing us around .83 euro/litre, and in France it’s around .93 to 1.04 now; up from .88 when we left in September. We joined them! I have never seen so many petrol stations and lorries in my life; they lined the highway and a mile of parking lots, along with hundreds of new-car transporters, seemingly going in both directions.

We knew we were in France as soon as we arrived at the campsite just to the west of Beziers. Whilst the French have the edge on all other European countries for serving the needs of the motorhomer, they have still to learn a few things about quality and standards. In these respects, they are well behind the rest. Spanish sites have all been superb, though in general, more expensive than in France. I guess the French don’t expect any more.





The temperature had risen to just above freezing when we left Beziers the next morning, ambling alongside the Canal du Midi, calm as a millpond with mile upon mile of majestic plane trees reflected in the mirror of its dark waters. The ‘Flamingo trail’ started along the coast to the east at Marseillan Plage and we followed the road all the way up to Saintes Maries de la Mer on the southern tip of the Camargue, with the sea shining in the bright winter sun on our right, and shallow inland lakes to our left. This is the land of the stunningly pink Greater Flamingo, their prime breeding site in Europe - along with black bulls and wild white horses of course. It’s strange to look out on water through 360 degrees for a whole day, and it’s even flatter here than the Norfolk Fens!

Whilst we were having a little difficulty remembering to say “Bonjour” instead of “Hola”, we are happy to be back in France. It was also good to be back in the Camargue, (we were last here 20 years ago) sharing a couple of days with our Australian friends Brian and Kathryn who had travelled across from the ski-slopes of Italy in their motorhome to meet us for as little birding. The weather broke on Sunday and heavy cloud set in for the day, blown by a chill wind. The birds were all tucked up somewhere warm and we didn’t see a lot! Things improved over the next 24 hours and we had a worthwhile list eventually. Brian and Kathryn are avid walkers and their keen observation skills and enthusiasm will quickly make them good birders. It was great to have some special company and it gave us all a holiday from travelling. We left them early morning at the mouth of the Rhone, at Port St Louis, where they headed north for Arles and Avignon and we set the compass for the coast east of Toulon and Hyeres.

Our journey took us back to Provence and the medieval town of La Cadiere d’Azure where we stayed more than 20 years ago, the Hostellerie Berard still there, but closed today denying us access, high on a hilltop above the vast fields of immaculate vines, black now they are pruned, standing like echoes of military graveyards in Normandy. We had forgotten how lovely this area is, and will enjoy the coast from here beyond St Tropez, Nice and Monte-Carlo to the Italian border over the next few days.

See you there!



David and Janice
The Grey Haired Nomads

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Photos

Sitges
...smart and chic

Sitges
cheerful carvings at the church of St Bartholomew

Montserat
The Black Madona in the Basilica

Montserat
we walked amongst the conglomerate pinnacles

Cadaques
the home of Salvador Dali

Canal du Midi
...reflections

La Cadiere d'Azure
fond memories of our brief stay here some 20 years back