4. The Rain in Spain...

Day 10, April 23rd.  306 miles, Pamplona – Alba de Tormes.  7C – 19C, raining, eventually cloudy, sunny

Pamplona isn’t improved by a good night’s sleep.  We wake to a cold, steady drizzle; the view from our 6thfloor apartment is monochromatic and comprises of many more identical apartment blocks, melting into the gloom.  It’s a good morning for home schooling and admin, plus Ralph has a check-in Zoom call with school.

School work up to date, there’s nothing to keep us in Pamplona any longer.  We load up, ignoring the harassment from the builders who are keen on nabbing our parking space.  Suffice to say our car hadn’t fitted in the block’s underground parking last night, despite our landlady’s assurances that it would (necessitating an emergency reversing manoeuvre back up the subterranean ramp, to avoid ripping off our roof tent).

As we leave, an angry Spanish lady admonishes us for taking what appears to be her usual parking space.  We’re not really in the mood to placate her, so we offer a cheery “Soy Inglés”, bid her a wave, and depart.

The rain is set in for a few days in the north, so we’ve changed plans and elected to head south (again) in search of better weather.  We can visit San Sebastian, Bilbao and go surfing in San Vicente another time.  We head towards Salamanca; the visibility combined with the distance meaning it’s not really worth venturing off the motorway today. 

The northern interior of Spain is vast, flat and largely empty.  Passing Bergos at noon, we decide to find a small village for lunch and avoid the city. 

I consult our (paper) map.  There’s a selection of three promising little villages, a short detour off the motorway.  We turn off, passing a couple of roadside cafes in Estebar, adjacent to the motorway, and head into the countryside.  Very flat.  Three small, pretty and crumbling villages come and go; not an eatery – or shop – in sight.  I ask in my finest Spanish (now beginning to return) if we can get something to eat anywhere; we are kindly directed back to Estebar. 

Nina enquires if I checked Google Maps to see if these three villages had restaurants.  I hadn’t.  I check now; it validates this fact.  It also confirms the two roadside cafes in Estebar to be the only establishments in the vicinity. Bloody technology.  On our last trip we just drove into towns and found stuff.  Now it’s all on bloody Google.  Where’s the romance in that?

We eat in Estebar, in the better of the two restaurants.  It’s plastic tables and chairs haven’t changed since Franco was in charge.  Actually, it’s surprisingly good; tapas and plenty of delicious jamon Ibérico.

Much later, after an afternoon’s driving through the endless, flat and fertile high Sierra of the interior, full of olive groves, wheat fields and vineyards and punctuated with pretty, rolling oak parkland (home to delicious Iberican pigs in the autumn), we arrive in Alba de Tormes.  It’s a lovely town on a hill, big enough to have a traditional square complete with (open) bars, no traffic, and children playing in the sunshine.  Having set up camp in the rather tired campsite on the outskirts, we stroll in, sit in the sunshine and drink beer.  Heaven.  Our faith in Spain is restored.

Day 11, April 24th. 32 miles, Alba de Tormes – Salamanca – Alba de Tormes.  6C – 16C, sunny

Chilly overnight and in the early morning. 

We’re still sleeping fully clothed; it got down to 1C overnight.  How much further south do we have to go? 

After a hearty breakfast we venture into Salamanca, 20km away.  Parking in the centre is mercifully easy and we find ourselves, almost immediately, in front of the awe-inspiring doorway to the Convent of San Esteban, ensconced within three storeys’ worth of intricately carved rose-tinted limestone pillars and frescoes.  It’s only the amuse bouche of Salamanca’s cultural offerings.  It’s magnificent, in the warmth of the spring sunshine.

After lunch (a little too expensive – a reminder that we need to go basic in touristy areas) we climb the lofty twin bell-towers of the University of Salamanca (Laurie will venture into anything cultural if it involves a tower to climb) and finally, we visit the cathedral.  It’s very much ‘A-list’ so again, Laurie’s happy to pay it a visit.  Ralph, on the other hand, is up for every piece of culture and architecture we can find, and typically wows us with interesting facts about how each structure would have been designed and built.  Where he gets his knowledge from, we don’t know.

If there was an enthusiast’s magazine entitled ‘Big Cathedrals Monthly’, then Salamanca would surely win the ‘Organ of the Month’ competition on a regular basis.  It’s a colossal, ornate affair, bedecked with dozens of trumpets proudly protruding from all sides, and offset by a smaller organ (equally impressive) across the transept from the old cathedral.  Apparently, they are played in tandem.  We wish we’d been here for a service – the sound must be incredible.

Any further additions to today’s cultural petri-dish would render us appealing to microbiologists. We head back to our rustic little campsite, via Decathlon (brings us back to reality with a bump) and head into ‘town’ for a meal.  We’d cooked last night, as we had fresh food – thinking we’d enjoy the town’s many delights this evening. 

We wander in, everything’s shut.  It’s a Wednesday, it’s 8pm, what are we missing?  It’s simply impossible for a foreigner on a brief visit to work out any opening hours in Spain (and France, for that matter).  Perhaps that’s the point.  We eventually find one open bar, at the bottom of the hill by the main traffic intersection, full of cheery painters and decorators.  Simple, delicious jamon Ibérico and tapas.  We eat – relieved and contented – listening to the traffic and to the builder’s (evidently hilarious) anecdotes.

Day 12, April 25th. 114 miles, Alba de Tormes – Avila – Alba de Tormes.  6C – 16C, sunny, biting wind

Another chilly morning.  If it wasn’t for the trees in the campsite sheltering us, it might have hit zero.  If we’re still having to sleep in leggings and jumpers in Morocco, we’ll be sorely disappointed. 

Another day trip today, to Avila.  It’s a recommendation from my mother, on account of its imposing, and complete, crenelated city walls.  She visited 40 years ago.  Thankfully, they are still intact.  Avila is a heavily fortified little city that reputedly was never invaded; it’s easy to see why, protected by 2.5km of near 1,000 year old, 40 foot high and 10 foot thick granite.

We walk along said walls, taking full use of the photo opportunities offered by the semi-circular protruding watchtowers every 50 metres or so. Thankfully you can only walk halfway round, and upon reaching the bottom of the town, half frozen from the wind, we head into the walled city in search of lunch. 

The city itself is actually quite a workaday affair and lunch isn’t much different.  Most of our food appears to have been run over by something heavy in between leaving the kitchen and reaching our table.  We don’t linger, heading for the warmth of our car, and drive back to our campsite.

Camping in continually chilly conditions gets a little wearing, despite the warmth created by huddling together in our roof tent.  We cook a hearty meal of pasta carbonara, with fresh tomatoes and mozzarella to start with, and are snuggled down like fully clothed sardines by 9pm.

Day 13, April 26th. 302 miles, Alba de Tormes – Hacienda la Indiana (outside Seville).  6C – 22C, sunny

Head south!  We thought we were done with that mantra.  But not yet, it seems.  Despite our best efforts, we’re still caught in this continent-wide chilly spell that is stifling the European spring. 

We drive two hours, stop for lunch in the pretty, ancient city of Carceres (cheapest restaurant lunch yet at 37 euros, including the ever-welcome jamon Ibérico), then head on, southwards, towards Seville.  The grass by the roadside starts to yellow up, but the countryside, now rolling, is still remarkably green for this time of year. 

Purple and pink frangipanis adorn the central reservation and hard shoulders of the motorway for the next two hours.  Frangipani doesn’t grow in the UK, and every time we see it, we remark on just what a shame this is.  It’s almost worth moving abroad for. 

At 6pm, having got snarled up in a combination of (a) the Seville rush hour and (b) the Spanish motorcycle Grand Prix that’s starting in Jerez de la Fontera tomorrow, we finally roll in to the Hacienda la Indiana, a beautiful, 1920’s country house and stables, nestled in palm-punctuated gardens and surrounded by paddocks, in the still lush farmland to the south of Seville.

Alfonso and his charming family greet us warmly, welcoming us through the yellow ochre, bougainvillaea-clad courtyard, to their magnificent, almost colonial-style entrance hall and drawing room. Heavenly. 

We enjoy drinks under their sheltered veranda, a delicious three course dinner in their grand yet homely dining room, and – joy of joys – a comfortable bed each, spread between two rooms in a warm, cosy suite in their courtyard.   We sleep long and serenely.

Day 14, April 27th. 132 miles, Hacienda la Indiana – Tarifa.  8C – 22C, sunny

In the morning after breakfast, we hire four of Alfonso’s horses (he has many, as well as many, many friendly dogs) and go for a lovely ride with one of his staff, Carlos, in the countryside.  It’s the first time we have all been mounted together and Ralph is especially brave, overcoming his initial fears and agreeing to join us.  It’s a really special moment.

I’m on a magnificent Andalucian grey, Nina and Ralph on two lovely 15.2hh chestnut half-sisters, and Laurie is on a recalcitrant little pony.  He has the toughest time of all of us.  In true pony form, it won’t go. “Kick kick kick” soon turns into “give it a boot!!” – I sound like my mother.  Eventually Carlos leads Laurie’s pony off his horse out of the yard, Laurie still kicking, with the rest of us (literally) enjoying the ride.

After 20 minutes, Laurie determinedly insists on coming off the leading-rein, and his pony now behaves, and wants to lead the way – trotting off in front of the rest of us.  “Shorten those reins!” – I sound even more like my mother. 

We spend a glorious, relaxed hour, riding through the vineyards, olive groves and marine pine forests, before returning. 

On a different trip and with a different budget, we would have stayed for much longer with Alfonso and his family.   In fact, we were tempted to move in for the next four months, and just pretend we’d travelled to some other places.  But Morocco is calling; we say our fond goodbyes and head further south, towards Tarifa and the south coast.

We drive south through the Parque Natural Los Alcornocales, the south-westernmost tip of the Andalusian mountains.  Suddenly – and finally – the Spanish landscape springs into life.  Huge, rolling hills, with jagged limestone rockfaces fighting their way through the oak and olive forests, interspersed with pretty white hilltop villages, gets us thinking.  Did we get Spain all wrong?  Should we have driven round the other way and avoided the flat interior?  Too late now, and we can’t have regrets.  We’ll have three more days in Andalusia between Morocco and Algeria; we’ll have to make the most of it then.

We hit the coast, and turn right before the majestic, green-topped Rock of Gibraltar, which rises us sharply in front of us.  Having been wondering “where are all the people?” we’re suddenly availed of the answer. They’re all here – on the coast.  We drive through the sprawling, uninspiring high-rises of Algeciras; the ribbon development stays with us most of the way to Tarifa. 

We can see the huge mountains of Morocco now, only 15km away across the Strait of Gibraltar, their sheer grey faces dwarfing the Rock of Gibraltar and the Spanish hills.

We’ve booked a campsite in Tarifa.  It’s sandwiched between a busy road and a beach, which isn’t really a beach – or maybe it is at low tide, but definitely not now.  We admire the Atlantic surf crashing violently against the rocks where the beach should be, still wearing our quilted jackets to protect against the chill wind, and agree that maybe this isn’t optimum surfing conditions.

We cook a hearty prawn curry and do our best to empty our fridge, before entering Morocco tomorrow.  We’ve parked next to some Dutch overlanders in another Land Cruiser; we compare kit, vehicles (especially admiring their new leaf-spring suspension) and routes – they too are headed to Morocco tomorrow.

We’re in bed by 9.30, but don’t really sleep.  Many reasons, but primarily the road adjacent to us turning into a race-track.  What is it with bikers?  Do they attend a different school of social learning?  Nothing on this earth says “I’m a complete and utter t**t” more than driving a high-powered motorbike at high speed in low gear, past a line of campsites at 2am.

Day 15, April 28th. 13 miles, Tarifa - Tangiers  12C – 22C, sunny

Bleary-eyed this morning.  The motorbikes, coupled with a rainstorm and a crying baby in the campsite somewhere nearby (who takes babies camping?) put paid to much sleep.  Added to that, much milder overnight temperatures meant that, having gone to bed fully clothed per usual recent form, we all roasted.

Boiled eggs, yoghurt, granola and fresh bread for breakfast, and everyone’s in a better place. We make the most of the beach that has now appeared, then pack up and head to Tarifa for lunch, before our ferry departs at 3pm. 

Parking in Tarifa is – literally – impossible.  After 30 minutes of driving around Nina drops us off at a beach and continues driving round in vain for another half an hour, before we all meet up again and agree we might as well go straight into the port, and join the queue for our ferry.  A good idea as it transpires, as all the ferries are very full today and any remotely late arrivals run the risk of being kicked off.

We join a queue of snazzy Moroccan Mercedes and Audis, and a convoy of four French overlanders, in Land Rovers and Land Cruisers.  Again, we compare kit, modifications and routes – in French this time.  Some of them have got twin-spring rear suspension systems – proper stuff.  The boys are getting properly into how our modifications compare with others: upon mentioning “come and look at these shock absorbers” Ralph is out of our car like a rocket.

We board at 2pm and make our way up through the melee to the passenger deck.  There are far more foot than car passengers, and we realise – belatedly – that we should have joined the queue for Moroccan passport control (it’s done on the ship during the crossing) immediately upon boarding.  Consequently, I spend pretty much the whole crossing standing up, queuing, but we finally get our passports stamped as the ferry is arriving into Tangier.

There aren’t many parts of the world where a 14km geographical divide engenders such a big cultural change. Entering Russia from Europe overland, or China from South-East Asia – but this one is right up there. 

Driving off the ferry, the passport and customs officials are formal, and stern.  At customs, we’re all ordered out of the car while the sniffer dog is sent in; there’s a rather anxious moment until it takes a little too much interest in Nina’s dirty socks in the passenger footwell, but thankfully the Alsatian doesn’t consider them contraband.

We drive in to Tangier, slowly, getting used to the laid-back semi-chaos of Moroccan driving.  No-one stops at junctions, there’s more of a gentle and continual ‘creep’, but it’s good-natured, and reasonably patient.  We try – and fail – to find insurance, but we do succeed in drawing Dirhams from an ATM and securing a Moroccan SIM card (and credit) for Nina’s phone.  We even get the chap in the shop to set it all up for us.

Admin completed as much as we can for a Sunday, we find our apartment, on a hill (there are many) in the Marsham district, near the Medina.  It’s a large apartment, very grand on first impressions but we soon work out a closer inspection isn’t recommended. 

Bags dropped and car safely left in the hands of Rachid, our super-helpful block house-keeper, we walk down the hill to the colourful, heavily scented bustle of the Medina.  We buy fruit, walk through the alleyways, get lost, find our way out again, find a nice restaurant for supper, eat tagine (seafood pasta for Laurie) and walk home.  As we get ready for bed, a muezzin enthusiastically begins the call to prayer from a minaret, very close to our bedroom windows.  Everything we could have hoped for in our first few hours in Morocco – it’s still hard to believe we were in Europe this morning.