From our base in Costa Caparica, we readied ourselves for a day’s visit to Lisbon.  Costa Caparica is on the other side of the vast inland sea that is the mouth of the Rio Tejo (Tagus), the longest river in the Iberian Peninsula.  Including the bus ride to the ferry and a quick and efficient ferry crossing the whole journey took an hour or so.

What’s immediately obvious is why Lisbon is one of the world’s longest-founded cities and became so important. Its massive sheltered natural harbour made it an important seaport for trade between the Mediterranean Sea and northern Europe.  Its proximity to southern and extreme western Europe as well as Africa and access to the Americas made it ideally placed for exploration and commerce.  The waterfront is lined with miles of docks, wharfs and drydock facilities that can accommodate the largest oil tankers.

It was immediately obvious why Lisbon became such a strategic, rich and important city.

The enchanting city of Lisbon or “Allis Ubo” as the Phoenicians called it.

But what intrigued us was how a small country of c 90,000 square kms (roughly the size of Ireland if you include Northern Ireland), with a population of no more than 2 mil at the height of its power, could become such a great imperial power to rival Spain, England and France.  It’s as if Ireland had become a great colonial power in the 15th and 16th centuries. It’s true Holland is smaller but it didn’t have anything like the reach and global spread throughout all continents that Portugal had.

Since early times, fishing and overseas trade have been Portugal’s main economic activity. But for centuries it was under the thumb of succeeding occupiers and was often ruled from neighbouring Leon or Galicia or Cordoba in Spain. It became an independent country under Alfonso I in 1128 but it was still not a powerful nation.  But by the 15th and 16th centuries it became a leading European power which while not dominant in European affairs, had an extensive colonial trading empire.

The answer seems to lie with the genius of legendary figures like Prince Henry the Navigator, Nunu Alvares Pereira (hence our waiter’s name in Evora!), Vasco de Gama, Alfonso de Albuquerque and other visionary naval explorers.  That coupled with Portugal’s strategic location and great advances in geographic, mathematical, scientific knowledge and above all, naval technology.  All that combined therefore made Portugal a powerful ‘thalassocracy’ (from ‘thalassa’ meaning sea and ‘keratin’ meaning to rule) which enabled it to build up a vast empire in South America, Africa, Asia and Oceania.  

It was the first to capture a foothold in Africa and bring back African gold from the Gold Coast bypassing Arab caravans in the Sahara. In 1499 Vasco de Gama discovered a route to India. In the next decade China, Japan, Madagascar, Goa, Ceylon and Mauritius were reached. In 1515, Portugal seized Hormuz and established relations with Persia.  Did you know that in 1521 Portugal even captured and occupied Bahrain for 80 years?!

Portugal’s golden age of discovery lasted 2 centuries.  But gradually, it lost wealth and status as the English, French and Dutch surrounded and conquered its widely scattered trading posts and territories.

It declined further after its defeat at Alcacer Quibir in Morocco in 1578 and was then was devastated by a terrible earthquake, fire and tsunami that destroyed a large part of Lisbon and killed a third of its inhabitants. It was weakened further during the Napoleonic wars and with the loss of its largest colony, Brazil, in 1822.

In 1910 a revolution deposed the monarchy. A military coup in 1926 installed a dictatorship that lasted until 1974, when it was ousted by a new government that brought in sweeping democratic reforms and granted independence to most remaining colonies in 1975.

But the fact remains that Portugal’s moment in history was in the 15th century and early 16th century. At a time when England was engaged in a bitter division between the houses of Lancaster and York and the persecution of heretics; when France was also drawn into the Hundred Years War and civil unrest between the Armagnacs and the Burgundians; and Spain had just started the Inquisition ordered by Ferdinand and Isabella, Portugal was developing ocean-going skills and starting a new age of discovery.

But like the Phoenicians before them who opened up the Mediterranean for the Romans after them, they were bound to eventually lose control of their colonies to more powerful and militarily ruthless powers. Clearly, that’s not to condone their or other colonialists’ plundering of the places and peoples they colonized of course!

We got off the ferry at Belem, a few kilometers south of the historic centre.  The name is derived from Bethlehem and it’s historically very significant in itself as it was from here that Vasco de Gama set sail to discover the sea route to India and other naval expeditions left from.  It therefore symbolizes the golden age of the Voyages of Discovery.  It has for instance, the Mosteiro dos Jeronimo, the construction of which was ordered in honour of Vasco de Gama in 1501 and was completed a century later.  Also the Padrao dos Descombrimento which commemorates the 500th anniversary of the death of Henry the Navigator.  And the Belem Tower, a military outpost built to protect the Tagus estuary.

We stopped at the Pateis de Belem patisserie to try their famous pateis de Belem – very similar to the pateis de nata we’d had the day before but more creamy!

The Mosteiro dos Jeronimo in Belem.

The famous Pateis de Belem patisserie.

A large statue of Jesus overlooks the port of Belem arms outstretched protectively.

From Belem we took a modern tram into the centre of town and arrive in the main square where we’re advised by some French visitors to avoid the touristic restaurants and look instead in the side streets. This is exactly what we do and order what everyone else in the restaurant seems to be eating – a kind of mixed ‘pot-au-feu’ of lots of slightly overcooked different things, or a Portuguese stew.  We were OK with the lean bits of meat and potato and cabbage but couldn’t quite handle everything on the plate.

Little non-touristic restaurants in the side-streets are best, we were advised.

Portuguese ‘pot-au-feu’ – not entirely to our taste.

The Tourist Information kiosk in Belem had advised us to take the No 28 old tram that did a complete tour of the old centre.  The queue for this was so long however that we decided to go for an alternative though more expensive tourist tram doing a similar tour.

Taking one of the quaint old-style tramcars is the most exciting way to see the old town.

It’s hard to believe how these tramcars have survived labouring up and down the hilly narrow roads in fierce competition with every other road user.

Hard to believe how these old tram cars have survived in modern Lisbon – they are in fact fighting for survival.

The drivers are superbly skilled.

The old tams have become emblematic of Lisbon and are all part of its irresistible charm.

We reach a high point on our tramcar tour where we can’t resist getting off.  It’s Sao Miguel square from which you can stand on a terrace giving a magnificent view of the old city, with the colourful and popular Alfama quarter below and the cathedral and pantheon in the distance.  On the square is a statue of the benevolent figure of St Vincent, the patron saint of Lisbon.  We pay a seller from Monte Verde to take some photos of us.

The magnificent view of Lisbon from Sao Miguel.

A seller of iPhone selfie holders kindly takes a photo.

The benevolent figure of St Vincent, Lisbon’s patron saint.

We spend most of the rest of the afternoon strolling through the colourful narrow lanes of the old Alfama district dating back to Arab times.  The lanes are so impossibly narrow it’s hard to see how any form of vehicles can pass through them and yet they do try nonetheless.  We were mesmerized by the sight of a truck trying to pass then getting hopelessly stuck and spending a good 20 minutes maneuvering back again, whilst another motorist was blocking the way behind! Felt a bit like Cairo!

The lanes of Alfama were all bedecked with multi-coloured ribbons and garlands in preparation for the final culmination of a month-long celebration of the feast of St Anthony.

Every now and then, as people were lighting the charcoal and preparing the food for the barbecues that would be cooked in the evening, the melancholy sound of a ‘Fado’ singer would ring out and reverberate around the walls of the old quarter.  ‘Fado’ is the characteristic music of Alfama and is the product of the rich variety of cultural and musical influences Lisbon absorbed through its cosmopolitan history.  It sounded very much like Napolitan or Sicilian music, but apparently, it’s mostly much sadder as many of the themes revolve around the loss and grief experienced by women during Portugal’s naval explorations.

The lanes are impossibly narrow yet cars still try to pass through.

The colourful Alfama district – celebrations were in full flow for the feast of St Anthony.

As does religion.

A devotion to the arts features prominently.

We find a beautiful old house that’s now a hotel – the Palacete Chafariz d’el Rei – so go in to take a look.  We’re greeted by a charming young man, Ivan, who tells us the house was built by a gentleman who made his riches in Brazil.  It’s called The Fountain of Kings because it’s actually built on top of a fountain that no longer works.  Ivan is very keen that we stay there the next time we come, but at prices ranging between 230 and 400 Euros a night we think it’s unlikely but we don’t rule it out completely so as not to disappoint him.

The beautiful hallway in the Chafariz d’El Rei.

The elegant but unassuming entrance to the Chafariz d’El Rei Hotel in Alfama.

After climbing a gentle hill above the Alentejo plain, we arrive at the town of Evora, where we were staying for the night, at the very comfortable Orbitur Campismo (one of a chain and very well-run).

Evora was a Celtic settlement before becoming an important centre of Roman Iberia.  It declined under the Visigoths (them again!) but flourished as a centre of trade under the Moors – at which time it was called Yabura.  It enjoyed a golden age in the 14th-16th centuries, became an archbishopric and  and got its own Jesuit university.  It was plundered by French forces in 1808 and suffered another decline which ironically protected its fine old medieval centre from development.  Its population today is smaller than it was then.

It’s now one of Portugal’s most beautifully-preserved medieval towns.  The 14th century walls surround narrow lanes, an elaborate medieval cathedral and cloister, columns of the Templo Romano and a pretty town square – the Praca do Giraldo, which witnessed some gruesome scenes during the Inquisition.

It’s now a lively university town again and the restaurants serve Alentajan specialities.

Narrow medieval winding lanes.

The medieval Se e Sao Pedro Cathedral and cloisters in Evora.

Despite its beauty, the Praca de Giraldo was once the site of gruesome events during the Inquisition.

The medieval town square – Praca do Giraldo – with the ‘Agencia do Banco de Portugal in the background.

Remnants of the columns of the Templo Romano – Evora became an important centre for the Romans.

The town is not too far from the campsite so we cycle into town for a ‘shufti’.  A Fair is being held in honor of St Juan, the patron saint of this area so we cycle through but see nothing of particular interest so carry on climbing up the hill.  We happen upon the old cathedral and convent which are closed.  On the steps are gathered a group of young women full of youthful exuberance and laughter.  No doubt students. We arrive at the large square (Praca do Giraldo) and have an aperitif.  Our waiter is very sweet and doesn’t mind being quizzed.  His name is Nunu Rafael Barbosa-…. (didn’t catch the second part of his double-barrelled name but he said it was traditional for everyone to have two Christian names and two surnames, from each side of the family).  He was from Figuera, a large seaside town further north but had moved down to support his separated mother and 8 brothers and sisters (he was the eldest).  The situation in Portugal had improved but was dire 2-3 years ago.  There was no work, cafes and restaurants were closing and people were being thrown out into the street.  He went to France to find work but 6 months later his friends said things had picked up.  He didn’t complete his studies because he needed to work to support his mother and brothers and sisters.  On his left forearm were two tatoos – on one side was Barbosa, his mother’s maiden name and the other, Claudia, his mother’s name.  How sweet – what would be the chances of seeing such demonstrable devotion elsewhere?

Nunu Rafael, with his mother’s name, Claudia, tattooed on his left arm.

After climbing higher up still to see the old Roman columns where the old baths once were, we wander around the old winding cobbled lanes and find a restaurant offering Alentejan cuisine.  The Ebora Megalithica is charmingly hidden away and opens up onto a wonderful little inner courtyard.  It’s staffed entirely by students who are now on their summer vacation.  They’re extremely sweet and helpful.  They’re both from the region. One is studying Landscape Engineering and the other Tourism and Hospitality.  The special Alentejan roasted chicken is off as it was so popular so we go for the ‘Bacalhau a Gomes de Sa’, which is basically a fisherman’s pie but with lots of things added to it to make it much more tasty.  As a starter we have antipasti that include ‘farinheira’, a dip that tastes a bit like hummus but is made with flour and ground sausage.  We go for a red wine (a Syrah) from Alentejo called Monte Velho which is excellent.

The Alenteyan fisherman’s pie – ‘bacalhau a gomez de sa’.

Octopus salad and ‘farinheira’.

Next morning, the weather has turned a little overcast and quite cool, almost chilly. It’s not unwelcome though it’s cooler than I expected for my swim in the campsite’s impressive pool, which of course, I can’t resist.

We set off for our next destination in the Costa de Caparico on the outskirts of Lisbon, ready to spend a good day in Lisbon the next day.  Brenda has only had one wash since we left almost exactly a month ago now and as we turn into a Brico-Marche for a gas-jar refill (they seem to last about 3 weeks) we take advantage of the jet-wash to give Brenda a good spray. A little apprehensively as the last time we did this in Bayonne it rained for a whole week practically non-stop.

Brenda gets her second jet-wash.

Coming back from the car wash, we spot a great little 2 CV.

The road to Lisbon again features the northern Alentejan plain, cork tree forests, the odd line of stork nests, some vineyards and olive groves. We pass through Montemor-o-Novo, Vendas Nova, Palmela, Corrojos and Almada (another name of obviously Arabic origin) until we arrive at the Campismo Orbitur on the other side of the mighty Rio Tejo that from here looks like the ocean.

When we arrive, it’s time for tea for two with the ubiquitous ‘pastel de nada’, very tasty Portuguese custard tarts made with flaky rather than shortcrust pastry.

Tea and pastels de nata for two.

It’s lunchtime by the time we leave Seville and we take a straight road to the border which takes us through San Juan de Aznalfarache, Cartaya, Lepe and Villablanca until we reach the bridge over Rio Cuadiana at Avamonte at just after 3pm.

Driving past Cartaya.

Avamonte – almost at the border.

The bridge over Rio Guadiana at Castro Marim crossing over to Portugal.

Over the bridge at Castro Marim and a banner over the road wishes us “Bem-vindo Algarve”.   It feels exhilarating – this is a place neither of us has been to before and we’re also reaching the furthermost western point in our journey. It feels at once like we’ve broken a psychological barrier and that the real adventure has begun.

Arrival in Portugal.

And in the Algarve.

We drive past the small towns of Tavira and Luz before arriving at Olhao where we were to camp for the next two nights. Though basic, it’s a friendly site, close to a fishing village and a popular beach on a lagoon.

Driving through slightly shabby Luz.

The simple and friendly ‘Campismo’ at Olhao.

Miguel welcomes us and is quite chatty. He’s amused to find out my name as his full name is actually Flavio Miguel. There is a town near Porto in the north where all the Flavios (or ‘Flaviencen’) as he says, come from. Naturally, we decide we must try and visit it.  He also talks about what a tough time Portugal has had economically, but the Algarve has done better, deriving half its revenue from tourism and the other half from fishing.  The campsite has done well recently and the latest big influx has come not from the Dutch but from the French – and they come with very smart and expensive campervans – are they selling their houses and just travelling around?  I’d do that if I could says Flavio Miguel.

Once set up and hooked up, we head for the lagoon for a refreshing dip. Though nearly 6pm the beach is teeming with people in a sea of multi-coloured umbrellas. The water is a little colder than we’d expected but it revives us. Then it’s time for a wander through the fishing village where we have an excellent simple grilled fish meal from a selection of fresh fish we’re asked to choose from.   ‘Batata frita o cusida?” (chips or boiled potatoes?) asks our jovial waiter whose name is actually ‘Joka’. (Interesting that they say ‘batata’ (as in Arabic) rather than ‘patata’. When we ask for the bill he thinks for a while then says 20. Not bad at all.

Olhao village.

The picturesque fishing port of Olhao.

Olhao fishing port at sunset.

We must select our fish for grilling at the restaurant.

And now grilled, with chopped coriander and garlic and ‘batata cusida’.

Joka our playful waiter.

The next day is spent ‘chilling’ and generally recharging our batteries. Longer swim in the morning followed by some catching up with the blog. The tide is low so I swim to the other side of the lagoon where men are squatting digging up cockles from just below the wet black sand. The low point of the day is when Judith is stung on the arm by a wasp and has a hyper-reaction. The ‘Allergex’ cream we’d brought from Egypt helps as do the anti-histamine tablets but it takes a full 3 days for the redness and swelling to subside. Poor thing!

Judith’s nasty wasp sting.

Cool-looking ‘Quattrelle’ spotted on our way back to the campsite.

On Monday 22^nd, we set off straight due north for Evora, which is roughly half way to Lisbon. In doing so we’re sadly missing out the south west corner of the Algarve as it would take too long, and we decide it would only be beaches and holiday destinations anyway. (Later, we meet some Austrians at the campsite in Evora who tell us they’ve come from there and it is spectacularly beautiful. Ah well.)

The Tomtom frustratingly takes us almost all the way back to the Spanish border before turning us north again. We travel through the northern Algarve and then the plains of Alentejo on fairly empty roads and past forests and forests of cork trees (or Quercus suber to use their proper botanical name) – in fact, apart from some eucalyptus, the odd vineyard and olive grove, there was nothing but cork trees the entire way, clearly cultivated, some young, others quite old. They look like small oak trees (they are in fact a type of oak) and some looked naked with their bark stripped off from the ground to three quarters of the way up. It was clear to see why Portugal produces 50% of the world’s cork.

Forests of cork trees on the Alentejo plains.

Other interesting facts about cork trees:

• They’re also found in Spain, Algeria, Morocco, France, Italy and Tunisia.
• They have a thick insulating bark that is waterproof and also resistant to fire so protects the tree from forest fires.
• When the bark is extracted, a new one grows making it a renewable resource.
• Harvesting does not harm the tree, provided it’s not stripped too deep.
• It can be harvested every 9-12 years and a tree can be harvested about 12 times in its lifetime.
• Harvesting is done entirely by hand, using a small axe.
• Cork trees live to about 150-250 years.
• It’s illegal to cut down cork trees in Portugal without permission from the Ministry of Agriculture.
• The European cork industry produces 300,000 tonnes a year at a value of Euros 1.5bn and employing 300,000 people.

Young cork trees near Beja.

The route takes us through the beautiful and historical little town of Mertola situated in an area of outstanding beauty. It has a fort which was originally built by the Romans, reinforced by the Arabs and finally the crusaders as well as a church which still has essential features (like the mihrab) of the mosque it once was.

The charming little old town of Mertola with the old Roman/Arab/crusader fort high up.

We stopped for an ice cream (‘gelado’) which we’re starting to do more and more frequently we’ve noticed.

The gelado seller in Mertola.

We seem to be eating more of these!

Apart from cork trees, the other interesting feature of this region, at this time of year at least, are the storks nesting on top of telegraph poles. The sight of them perched on top of a whole line of telegraph posts is quite astonishing.

A line of stork nests along the side of the road.

Seen from closer up, there was always a pair of storks but sometimes three storks in a nest.

The road continues, empty and peaceful, to the celestial sound of Mozart’s Agnus Dei. We drive past Beja, Vidigueira, Portel (where we see a large estate probably belonging to a ‘cork baron’) until we reach our campsite at Evora.

Evora, called Yabura by the Arabs.

We must confess straight away to the title here being a little misleading, because shamefully, we didn’t give Seville enough time. We were still feeling shattered from our exertions in Granada and our bad night in Olvera the night before and my back was playing up again – all I could think of was of finding somewhere comfortable and cool to lie down and rest my back. And, it was getting very hot.

On the way, we stopped briefly in the little town of Olvera to buy some bread.  In the bakery, we’re tempted by some doughnut-like sugar-dusted pastries which we’re told are called ’empanadillas’ (little ’empanadas’).  We buy four and have them later with a cup of tea – they’re quite tasty, if no doubt cholesterol-heavy.  Olvera seems livelier than any other small town we’ve driven through so far and there’s an old fort at the top of the hill.

‘Empanadillas’ – tasty cinammon-flavoured little doughnuts.

Beyond Olvera, the road to Seville is fairly flat though around El Coronil we appear to be going through Teletubby land as Judith says as well as sunflower fields where the sunflowers oddly seem to be facing away from the sun and drooping downwards.

‘Teletubby’ land near El Coronil.

Sunflowers facing away from the sun.

There seemed to be no decent campsites in or around Seville. Judith found a good offer at the Andalusia Palace Hotel in a district of Seville called ‘Heliopolis’ – we clearly gravitate naturally towards Heliopolises – and by 5pm we had parked (abandoned?) Brenda round the corner and checked into the quite large, very busy and non-descript modern hotel.

The Andalus Palace Hotel in Heliopolis, Seviile.

Seville’s history follows a by now familiar pattern. It was an important river port for the Romans lying on the Rio Guadalquivir which was navigable to the Atlantic 80 kms away.   In Muslim Spain, it was called ‘Ishbiliyyah’ and became the most important of the small Muslim kingdoms (‘taifas’) following the collapse of the Cordoba caliphate. For a time, the poet-king Al-Mutamid presided over a tolerant and hedonistic court in the Alcazar Palace. The strict Almohads took over in the 12^th century and made Seville their capital. The city then fell to Fernando III of Castille in 1248. It thrived when it was granted the monopoly of all commerce with the Americas and in the 16^th century became a rich and cosmopolitan city. Tragically, a plague hit the city in 1649 and killed half the inhabitants.   The river also became silted up and Seville lost the trade with the Americas to Cadiz after which it fell into decline. In the 1980s it became the capital of the new autonomous region of Andalusia and the Expo 92 exhibition brought it millions of visitors. It’s now Spain’s 4^th biggest city and has a varied economy based on tourism, commerce, technology and industry.

After a restorative 3-hour rest (and in Judith’s case, a refreshing dip in the pool), we summon our energies and take the bus into the centre of town to take a quick look around and for a bite to eat. It’s 9.30 by the time we arrive in the old and most touristic quarter of Santa Cruz and all we have time for is a short stroll to soak in the atmosphere. The entire area is sensibly pedestrianized with the exception of trams and splendid-looking horse and carriages with large bright yellow wheels, that look like something out of ‘Gone with the Wind’.

One of the grand palaces in the pedestrianized quarter of Santa Cruz plus tram.

Pedestrianized quarter of Santa Cruz.

Horse-drawn carriages outside the ‘Archivo de Indias’, the administrative building that dealt with all commerce with the Americas.

Pink fountain in Santa Cruz.

Santa Cruz.

We eventually move a little away from Santa Cruz and into a grid of narrow passages in neighbouring Arenal where we’d been told we’d find authentic Sevillian food. The place we plump for turns out to be a tapas restaurant which is fine as it’s already 10.30. The selection of cold and hot tapas is OK but not especially memorable, the mackerel and tomatoes and potato and aioli probably being the tastiest but the white verdejo at least is from the Seville area and very refreshing.

The district of Arenal.

Tapas in Arenal, Seville.

As we make our way back at 11.30 it looks like the evening is just getting started. The restaurants are full, the noise levels are rising and the eating and drinking is in full flow. Here and there, someone’s playing a guitar. We wait at the bus stop for our bus back to the hotel and realize just across the road is the Arena del Toro, the Royal Bullring, which seems slightly surreal – so they really do exist!

The Royal Bullring of Seville.

Seville is certainly a lively, vibrant city and a larger metropolis than we’d expected it to be. It is touristic, but it’s also a place full of joie de vivre, as we imagine all Spanish cities are at night.

As we left the next morning after an excellent café and croissant, which in Seville they put a light sugar glaze on top of, we drove past the port and it also brought home to us what a busy commercial hub Seville is as well, which again, is something we hadn’t expected.

Seville is Spain’s only river port and its 4th biggest city.

Much-needed sustenance before hitting the road again.

Time to move on. We’ve still got a long way to go and tempting as it was to stay on and linger at Camping Los Madriles a few more days (which would have still been nothing compared to the months other aficionados spend there), we can’t afford that kind of luxury.

Besides, moving on provides its own incentive – the addiction and thrill of having sampled something interesting, but energized by the prospect of something new and different. Like the ‘Lone Ranger’ whose mystique only lasts as long as he keeps riding off into the sunset. It could be there’s something of the nomad in all of us, that our default, elemental state is to keep moving in life.

On the road again.

The road to Granada.

In the Epic of Gilgamesh, King of Uruk in Mesopotamia c 2650BC we’re told: “Life is a bridge, cross it but build no house upon it”. And Issa (Jesus) son of Mary is said to have echoed the same words: ”The world is a bridge, pass over it, but build no house upon it. He who hopes for a day, may hope for eternity, but the world endures but for an hour; spend it in prayer, for the rest is unseen”. I love that – “the world endures but for an hour, spend it in prayer, for the rest is unseen”. Would Enrique have been satisfied with that as that answer as opposed to the one I gave him? Is this close enough to what ‘spiritual’ means as opposed to institutional faith?

“The world endures but for an hour – spend it in prayer, the rest is unseen”.

We’re headed for Granada and it’s a fair drive. We pass Mazaron, Saladillo, Totana, Lorca, Cullar and the landscape continues to be stark, arid and rocky.

Rocky, slate ground as we approach the Sierra Nevada.

By the time we reach Guadix and Purullena the humbling heights of Sierra Nevada come into view.

Driving past Velez-Rubio with Sierra Nevada looming in the distance.

The view from Purullena.

View from Purullena.

“All these things we’ll one day swallow whole and fade out again and fade out again” wails Thom York of Radiohead. Olive groves line the road again.

Olive groves in Diezma.

At 5pm we arrive at the Beas de Granada campsite, small and cosy, perched high up and with a stunning view of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. It’s fairly busy and we meet other friendly Brits there including an ex-head-teacher travelling on his own who we hit it off with, as we tend to with anyone who’s worked in education, and who gives us good advice. The site is perfect to use as a base from which to visit Granada and come back to and most people just catch the bus which stops conveniently just outside the entrance to the site. Our plan however is to drive into Granada the next day, visit Alhambra and the old city and drive to Seville – and this is what we set off to do despite advice that this is a touch too exhausting, which turns out to be quite true as we were to discover.

View from Beas de Granada campsite.

In the meantime however, we settle in for the night on a good pitch with a great view of Sierra Nevada and Judith makes a very tasty poached Baccalau fish (cod) with new potatoes and asparagus and hollandaise sauce (the high cholesterol content of the latter compensated for by the healthiness of the former or so we hope). All washed down with the rest of the 2013 El Coto Rioja we’d got from a motorway Carrefour. We were never that keen on Rioja, but in Spain at least, it really does taste rather good.

Judith’s poached cod, asparagus and new potatoes with hollandaise
sauce.

Photo of Beas de Granada at sunset

We leave Camping Sevinan and the ants on the morning of Saturday the 13^th heading in the direction of Valencia where at least the weather forecast appears more propitious. We’re now in the plains of the Sierra de Solorio and no sooner have we set off than dark clouds start to gather again.

Dark clouds gather over the horizon in Almonacid de la Sierra.

We go past Carinera, Paniza, Calamocha as the rain starts lashing down and strong winds pick up. By the time we reach Villafranca and Singra the windscreen wipers can barely cope with the almighty downpour. Brenda is a high-top and is being seriously buffeted by the wind. It might be true that the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain but at the moment it seems to be falling absolutely everywhere and all the time! We pass a motorcyclist who’s had to slow right down to avoid being swept off the road and we smile sympathetically at him. He smiles back through the visor in his bell helmet. I used to be a biker and know only too well how miserable it is riding in heavy rain and wind.

Strong winds and heavy rain as we pass Paniza.

The downpour is relentless over Villafranca.

As we reach Torrelarcel, there’s a temporary dramatic parting of the dark clouds as lighter clouds take their place – the sky looks like something on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Maria Callas is singing La Wally by Catalani with all her soul and her divine voice adds to the dramatic effect. The motorcyclist overtakes us slowing down slightly as he does so to smile and give us a V sign (the polite one!) then he rides off – we’re too slow, pity that would have been a nice photo. The respite is only a short one however – as we arrive at Santa Eulalia, it’s looking apocalyptic again.

Dramatic sky over Torrelacarcel as the dark clouds begin to part.

.. but come back as we reach Santa Eulalia.

It’s still raining when we get to Pozondon with a sign next to it saying it’s a heritage site (‘Centro interpretacion arquitectura traditional’). Old ramshackle crumbling homesteads line the road. We drive through the village and stop briefly to take photos. Not a soul in sight. It’s like a ghost town. We drive out again having seen Pozondon but none of its inhabitants.

Pozondon is advertised as a heritage site but no sign of any people.

It’s been such a dreadful journey, we decide to stop at a campsite nearby in the Sierra de Albarracin. It’s in a place called Orhuela del Tremedal but what we don’t realize is that we’ve been gradually climbing for quite a while and Orhuela as we’re told by the Campsite owner, lies 1500m high. The site is pretty basic and we get the feeling we’re intruding on something when we arrive at the reception-cum-bar where the owner and a group of friends still seem to be finishing off a boozy lunch at 5pm. It’s a little bit fresh when we arrive and install ourselves at the very basic site.

View of Orihuela from the 1500m high campsite where we froze that night.

But the temperature drops quickly. We put on a jacket and walk down and back up again into Orhuela village to try and find a restaurant. It’s a pretty looking old village from a distance but closer up, it’s clearly struggling economically. We go into a bar that looks like it could also serve food but are greeted by about 10 pairs of eyes staring unwelcomingly at us. Again that feeling that we’d interrupted something – this time, apart from the drinking, a bull-fighting tournament they were watching on the TV on the wall – honestly! We turn and go straight back out again and ask some women sitting outside where we can find somewhere that serves food – they point to the end of the road and say something about ‘ultima’. The place we find looks more promising as it says restaurant outside, but yet again, as soon as we step inside we interrupt a small group of people sitting at the bar and busy drinking – “nada comido”.

Judith beginning to feel chilly as the temperature drops.

The rustic but unwelcoming village of Orihuela – we’re at a loss to find somewhere that serves food.

So it’s back to the campsite and that chicken consommé and tin of cassoulet we’d fortunately bought in a Carrefour City (that’s their equivalent to Tesco Express or other mini-marts) before we left France. Actually, it was just the ticket as it was staring to get quite nippy. In fact that was just the beginning –the temperature dropped so low during the night that we had to sleep fully clothed and we still froze as of course we’d left warm blankets in Brittany and had only kept thin cotton ones. The wind had also picked up again and there was a terrible cold draft in the van all night – in a word, we had an awful night and slept very badly.

The best thing for it therefore was to have a hot shower in the morning, eat some hot porridge and set off as soon as physically possible, which is what we did. The aim was to get to the warm coast around Valencia and absorb some of that Mediterranean sun at last. Maria Callas again, this time she’s singing plaintively: “Reponds a ma tendresse, reponds a ma tendresse” in Saint Saens’s Samson and Delila . We stopped at Terual as it looked nice from a distance but in fact offered nothing of any particular interest. We had in fact yet to drive through a village or small town which, as happens in France all the time, immediately looks inviting with its boulangerie, café bistrot offering the day’s ‘formule’ and obligatory little town square and mairie. We did find a café though and had a coffee and Spanish pasties.

The town of Terual on the way to Sagunta near Valencia.

A brief stop in Terual for a coffee and Spanish savoury pasties.

We agree the cakes don’t look particularly appetizing.

Sagunto lies 40 kms or so north of Valencia but had been advertised as a site right by the sea with its own beach, which was just the antidote we needed to the arctic conditions of the night before. It was busy when we arrived, with quite a few children – it must be a place popular with locals at weekends. It’s warm but very windy and the sea is a bit rough but this doesn’t deter us and we’re soon in the water after setting ourselves up. The site is more like a caravan park and is very settled – there seem to be a few people there who are more or less permanently encamped and have enlarged their encampments with additional tents, small caravans, awnings and plants and little gardens. There are also permanent ‘casitas’ on the site complete with small inner courtyards surrounded by bright red and white bougainvilleas.

The campsite at Sagunto.

A pretty little villa at the Sagunto campsite.

The sea at Sagunto – it had calmed down the next morning – time for a good swim before we set off again.

After an early dinner of pesto pasta and good catch-up with the blog, we set off again in the morning for a quick tour of Valencia before heading to our next destination – Cartagena just south west of Murcia, avoiding the busier holiday destinations of Alicante, Benidorm etc on the coast.

Valencia immediately strikes us as a very appealing and vibrant city. The trouble we encounter, as happened in other places, is that all the car parks we see signs to are underground and have a height restriction of 2m or 2.2m maximum, which is too low for the high-topped Brenda who is 2.5m. After finding ourselves going round the city centre for the third time and trying unsuccessfully to fit in the one parking space on the road we could find, we abandon the idea of stopping and content ourselves again with just a drive around the city. It’s a pity as it looked like a very agreeable place to stop at for a coffee or a bite to eat and to explore further and the weather was perfect. Still, at least we know we like it and will come back again sometime in the future. The central Plaza was particularly beautiful.

The main Plaza in beautiful Valencia. It had a statue of a wise-looking Arab man in the centre. We didn’t find out who it was.

Valencia city centre.

An interesting-looking bridge in Valencia.