Heading Home

  

Not a bad view to wake up to.. And all you can hear are birds again, not one engine note in the lot. Breakfast is in an hour, which means I have time to write this, get my gear sorted and maybe read a little before setting off back to the Ferry. It leaves from Santander and goes to Portsmouth: I’ve  checked. 

Yesterday was curious. Some days you’re on it, other days you’re not. Yesterday was a latter day. Turning your wheels to home somehow resets a switch. The journey’s over. It’s time to go home.  

It wasn’t helped by the weather, which, after a promising start, turned dull and overcast and cold. I’d decided to head to Logrono, capital of the Rioja country, to buy a souvenir bottle of wine. I had imagined lots of shops selling the produce of the various Bodegas. Not a bit. I found traffic, lots of it, and a fairly run down town with some cafés, a few shops selling the usual, and a big church. Most Spanish towns and villages are dominated by the church. 

I love the sight of small Spanish towns as you pass them on the road. This is a big country and an empty one. You can spend a long time without seeing another car, especially if you travel in the middle of the day. As you pass you see a town, usually built  round a hill, with the houses terra cotta red and close together so the tall buildings  give shade to the streets in between. At the top there will be a church, or sometimes a ruined, simple, mediaeval tower. The respective positions the outcome of some power play centuries ago or the state of local tensions at the time. If you drive into one of these places during the middle day you will be on your own. It is as if everyone left yesterday, or 300 years ago. Go in the evening, however, and you will find people parading and a happy acceptance of noise, usually from children, or maybe from TVs in bars, or just bars, where groups of people are sitting with a beer and some tapas discussing whatever. 

My conversations this week, in the main, have consisted of ” can I have..” , “thank you”, ” where is…” And so on. I haven’t had an actual conversation of more than – (pause to listen to woodpecker.. What’s your background  soundtrack?) – three sentences. Your imagination takes off.  I could write a lot about that. 

Anyway, I couldn’t find any wine so set off again on a busier road than I d been on before, still cold, still fed up, still trying to lift the game when me and the Sat Nav lady made some mistake between us and we took a wrong turn. I said I was going to write about my Sat Nav lady. I probably won’t when I get back so let me set this down now. We have developed a relationship. This is not surprising as we have talked every day. She whispers in my ear telling me what to do. And she is mostly right. I would love a voice in my head telling me what choices to make with a 99% certainty of getting it right, and an almost instant correction facility if you make a mistake. Maybe that’s what religion does for you. See, I told you I haven’t spoken to anyone for ages…Anyway, I’ve discovered she can’t speak French and her Spanish is worse. Confronted with some street name that is not in the programmed English she just tries to put it together phonetically, and fails in a spectacular manner. Turn left at the roo de leghopperfondant. In one mile, turn right at the pongfrunpolfinderpo. Mind you, when she attempted to tell me to take the route of  Le General Foch she got close. 

So we turned to the wrong road, and the sun came out and we lost all the traffic and it was great again. No big scenery, no twisting roads just no cars and a fast road until in the distance more mountains. The Picos are not the same as the Pyrannees. I suppose their geology is different. They are still spectacular, as you can see. The roads are in poor condition and are never straight for longer than a few minutes, sometime less at travelling speeds. I didn’t pause to take many pictures this time as my destination always seemed to be half an hour away and I wanted to stop. Always just beyond reach, frustrating and not conducive to concentration. Then I was at Potes and the B&B which stands at the top of a hill accessed by the longest, steepest, roughest, drive you could wish for at the end of a long day. With turns, tight ones. Amazingly I didn’t fall off but the way down obviously gives me a second chance. 

Then shower and read and head to town for dinner. Now, here is my advice culled from the whole of this trip. If you see the words “typical of the region” beware. If in the description in includes phrases like ‘representing the dishes developed by the people of the mountains over the centuries before tourism’ , then go to McDonalds. 

I fell for that crap back at the Parador. First night, full of my self conceit at finding this beautiful place, a bastion of Spanish culture and hospitality, I ordered the ‘Platos Typicos” – don’t check if I’ve got that right -. Thistle. There is a reason we haven’t cultivated the thistle. There is a reason whole economies are founded on wheat and grain, but not thistle. It tastes like shit and has the consistency of boiled cardboard. Oh, you can throw a handful of shaved almonds (who shaves almonds?) for ‘authenticity’ but it’s still vile. And the grilled lamb with roast potatoes hasn’t been cooked over open coals by a raven headed farm girl with a full figure and generous heart but bunged on a hot plate by a bloke named Miguel who drives  a Micra and hates his in-laws. Oh, and my roast potatoes are better.

So why, in the name of all that’s holy did I do it again last night? I wasn’t even in that happy state where you do stupid things and they all seem fun. It actually said “typical peasant food of the mountains” in the description of the ‘Cantabrian stew’ I chose. You know what the main ingredients are of a a peasant stew? 4lbs of chick peas, 2 tablespoons of salt, a sausage, a gob of fat, a fng stupid Englishman with a fork and two Spanish waitresses pissing themselves behind a pillar. 

I think I’m done. I’ve maybe one story more but doubt it will get written as I head for the ferry and normal life. I’m putting all the wonderful fantasies of this week behind me and and re injecting myself with heavy doses of reality as I head back.  Thank you for following my journey and for the kind comments made in various forms. Thank you too to everyone who has kept me semi sane along the way. If I’ve offended you at any point then my apologies. If I’ve made you smile then I’m glad. If it’s made you want to come and explore Spain or have your own adventure then go do it. Just don’t choose the peasant food…

Hasta la vista et via con Dios. 

Pete 

  
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