Tin Can Travels

9th June – 13th June 2024

Population about 5.5 milllion. Lots of mountains. Strapped to the Czech Republic in 1918. Various changes in status and a bit of Soviet communism between 1948 and 1989. Velvet Revolution ended communist rule of Czechoslovakia in 1989. Amicable ‘velvet divorce’ from Czech Republic in 1993. Joined EU and took on the euro in 2004. It’s word for ‘Hi’ is ‘Ahoj’ pronounced ‘Ahoy’, which is jolly. It is the the world’s largest car producer per capita, manufacturing 1.1 million cars in 2019. Who knew?

Our trip through Slovakia was brief and a bit of a blur. Brief as Slovakia is not a very big country, especially in the north-south dimension, and a blur because for much of our time here it rained cats and dogs. Our run of weather luck had come to an end. We were happily back to using Euros, but unhappily had another language to contend with. More unpronouncable words with a lack of vowels and odd accents. We started our Slovakian visit with a stop just on the other side of the Tatra Mountains, in small village called Stará Lesná. This whole area is criss-crossed with world class hiking trails and there were several close enough to our camp to be able to do some good loops. That, and the views of the mountains from the camp were (allegedly) amazing….

Nope.

We arrived in the rain, set up in the rain and spent the rest of the day sat inside looking out at the rain. The mountains were hidden in the low clouds and never made an appearance. The next day was no better, the forecast awful and any prospect of doing any hiking over the next few days was out of the window. The campsite was actually quite expensive (due to its location and ‘views’) so there seemed little point staying here and we left after only one night. Our next planned destination was a national park not far away called Slovensky Raj (Slovak Paradise). This is an area of the Carpathian Mountains with lots of forest, gorges and waterfalls and is another hiking hotspot. We hoped that it would live up to its name.

On the way there we stopped for provisions at a very familiar place: a Tesco superstore. It was huge compared with any supermarket that we had seen so far on this trip, it sold everything and anything, and compared to a UK version, it was deserted. It seems the Slovakians need yet to be trained to use shopping as a recreational activity. We restocked our supplies with plenty of familiar products, many in the same packaging as they have in the UK. Nick was optomistic, but then very disappointed to find that ‘HP sauce’ is not one of Tesco Slovakia’s stock lines.

Our next campsite was in a small national park settlement charmingly called Podlesok. The road in was narrow and it had been a job to avoid the ditches when confronted with fast moving oncoming traffic. We arrived in a dry weather window and although we had planned to stay for two nights the chap behind the desk would only let us pay for one night initially. Due to all the rain the grassy sites were waterlogged and all but one of the hiking trails were closed due to dangerous conditions. Hmmm. This was sounding ominous. We found the least boggy patch of grass to park on, plugged in and put the awning out just as our weather window closed.

The rain was back and the temperature dropped by about 10 degrees. The coats, jumpers, jeans, socks and boots were back in service. We were ok, tucked up in our comfortable space, but we felt for the groups of tent campers, all in tiny pup tents. One group was a bunch of blokes who had rigged up a shelter using a tarpaulin strung between two cars. They were just drinking through it. The other was a group of families all with toddlers. They were grimacing through it, wishing they could drink.

The camp site had a laundry, so I decided to kill some time by washing the bedding and towels. This was a great idea until I discovered that on this wet, miserable and cold day the (only) (condenser) tumble dryer was not working. By then our only set of bedding was washed and, like everything else, decidedly damp. The drum of the dryer was turning, but not generating any heat. I walked the 200m down to reception in the driving rain to see what could be done, and the chap said that he would come up and look at it once he had a lull on the desk. I walked back to the laundry (in the rain) to wait for him, where I discovered that the machine was now seemingly functioning correctly, so I walked back to reception (in the rain) to give him the good news. It was working, but as anyone who has ever used a condenser tumble dryer will tell you, they are rubbish when it is very humid as they attempt to not only extract water from the clothes, but also from the adjacent 5km radius of atmosphere. It took the rest of the afternoon, and a fistful of euros, to get everything in the vicinity of ‘dry’ -Here endeth the protracted laundry tale.

The plus side of my faffing around was my discovery of the ‘Beer Machine’. Here, on the veranda of the camp kitchen/laundry area, was a machine that dispensed beer to anyone who wanted it, whenever they wanted it. €1.80 bought 500ml of very respectable quality pilsner and it accepted both cards and cash. There was a small home-printed sign sellotaped next to the machine which advised that alcohol was not to be bought by those under 18 years of age..that’ll stop’em, I’m sure… The rain finally eased in the evening and the beer machine helped everyone on the campsite cheer up a bit.

The next day we sat out some light rain in the morning with the prospect of the front clearing away by midday. Finally we could get out for a walk. We packed the usual picnic (ham and cheese sandwich with mayo and mustard, ready salted crisps and an apple to share), donned our coats, grabbed the Polskis and squelched ourway in the direction of the only open trail. The rain soon cleared as promised, and the afternoon turned out fine. Our trail started on a small lane, on which we encountered another Beer Machine, and then it headed up the Hornad River gorge, winding its way through a forest alongside the by now raging river. The path initially only gave us muddy puddles to contend with, but soon there were a few rocky sections that had a metal rungs and chain handrails to help us climb past them and then a ladder or two. After an hour or so we stopped for lunch and continued. Then it got serious.

We were confronted with a sheer rocky bluff that had metal grill steps embedded in the side of it, overhanging the river. They wound around the rock face, the curve hiding the extent of the terror ahead. Despite the chain handrail this spooked both of us. Nick, usually the more nervy of the two in these situations led the way slowly but only managed the first three or four steps before running out of courage. His comment was “No way, the next step looks like a grill off a BBQ. I’m not doing it. This is crazy.” I had no more courage than him, so we opted out and turned back. We had a very pleasant walk home and thus our planned 3-4 days of hiking in Slovakia was reduced to a two hour stroll and a ham and cheese sandwich.

That evening we had a very nice meal in the traditional Slovak restaurant next to the campsite. The only other diners left as we arrived, so this was also a private dining experience. Nick had meatballs and mashed potato and I had pork medallions and potato pancakes smothered in a very delectable wild mushroom cream sauce. Both dishes were delicious and definitely elevated beyond the expected rustic fayre. We also had a very drinkable bottle of red wine for the princely sum of €12. Slovaks should all be raging alcoholics given the beer dispensers and prices. Perhaps they are….

Our next stop in Slovakia was Spiš Castle. This hilltop monolith was built in the 12th century and up until 1464 belonged to the Kings of Hungary. It then passed into the hands of various influential families, was extended and modified, finally being destroyed by fire in 1780. It was gifted back to the country in 1945 and has been a UNESCO site since 1993. It looks like the sort of castle we are more used to: on a hill, made of stone, in a state of restored ruin. We free-camped in a carpark halfway up the hill which had a very fine view of the castle and spent a very pleasant hour or two wandering the ruins and its grounds (dodging more groups of school kids who this time all seemed to be armed with wooden swords and intent fighting duels with each other).

Later in the afternoon we strolled down the grassy path from the castle to Spišské Podhradie, the small town at its base. Here we visited a museum in a small historic synagogue which had a great photo exhibition of shots of both the castle from various angles and in various lights and a reportage series from a local Jewish wedding. Otherwise the town seemed a bit run down and there was not much to see so we walked back up the hill and waited for dark. The castle apparently looked great after dark when bathed in the yellow glow if its external uplighters. This unfortunately never happened and it remained resolutely un-uplit. I guess we can’t complain about the lost photo opportunities when we don’t pay the electricity bills.

Our carpark co-hosted a few other vans for the night, including a German couple who had a very cool looking truck camper, a smaller, more rugged version of Big Dave & Tin Can. Nick got chatting to them and had a quick guided tour inside. His verdict was that it was very sexy (and expensive), but lacked a lot of the space and comforts that Tin Can had, and Davide has.

So that was Slovakia for us, for the time being. Our wanderings will bring us back in a month or so, but in the meantime we are now off to Hungary.

6th June – 9th June 2024

The flatlands and benign rolling plains of Poland finally gave way to hills as we reached our final stop in this suprising country, the tourist town of Zakopane. Located in the very south, it is nestled in the shadow of the Tatra Mountains and is a popular hub for walkers in the summer and skiers in the winter. No doubt that this tourit town is busy with weekenders all year round as it is it an easy 2 hour drive, or 3 hour train ride, from Kraków and has about a bazillion eateries, bars, shops and lots of entertainment activities. We were still slightly ahead of the summer crowds so easily found a spot at one of the campsites on the edge of town and it was an effortless cycle down to the main pedestrian area in the centre. Again this place was awash with groups of school children who were maurauding around the tat shops and icecream stalls. Some enterprising street seller had managed to sell high quanties of annoying bird whistles to one group, thus maximising the noise levels of the sugared-up darlings and completely wiping out any residual mental health of their teachers, not to mention everyone else on the street.

We bought a hiking map and scurried home ready for a day in the hills the next day. The weather forecast wasn’t great, with rain and cloud expected in the morning but we pushed on regardless, packed the wet-weather gear, a picnic and headed off at about 10.30am. Our plan was to cycle the 3km up to the gondola base-station, ride the gondola to the top of the mountain and then hike back down. A bit of a cheat’s walk, or so we thought….

At the top of the gondola it was cloudy, wet and windy. All the warm clothes and coats went on and we faffed about for a bit hunting out the (actually quite well signposted) route down. Here at the top is the border with Slovakia, indicated with a bollard. We did the required thing of having a photo taken with a foot in each country and then started heading down hill.

Down, down,down, down, down, down. The weather soon improved, the layers came off and the scenery was beautiful, but the ‘path’ underfoot was harsh. More like small stepping stones than a formed route it required eyes down at all times and soon had the legs crying for mercy. The ‘proper hikers’, climbing up hill, sweaty and breathless, planning to get the gondola back down, might be forgiven for thinking that we were in less pain than them, but they would be wrong. It was brutal on the knees and calves. It took us three hours to get back to the base station and we were very pleased to see our bikes. It was still a great day, but when we got home and after a short rest, we cycled back to town and I purchased a pair of walking poles from one of the many ‘outdoor stuff’ shops. I had been thinking of getting some for a while and the day’s uneven terrain spurred me into action. They shall be henceforth known as the Walking Polskis, obviously.

The next day the sun reappeared and we had plans to do another walk. There was a loop from our campsite which headed up a gentle valley, over a saddle, then down the valley on the other side. It looked far less taxing than the mountain of yesterday. HAHAHAHA. Less taxing if our legs weren’t weak and whimpering for mercy after yesterday’s efforts. Paracetamol, brunch and some limbering up helped slightly, so we boxed on. Our route was quite a popular one, so there was a bit of human traffic, especially on the pleasant, mildy inclined valley sections. The saddle section was a b*&tch! Another offering of large stone steps up and down, hard on the legs and balance, even with my new Polskis. We endured and there might have been some swearing, but of course we had a marvellous time, and rewarded ourselves with icecreams once we had returned to civilisation. The next day the legs weren’t wimpering, they were screaming and for 48 hours we could do nothing ‘leg-orientated’ without involuntary outbursts of ripe language and sobbing. Even turning over in bed was difficult.

It was time to leave Zakopane, and Poland, and with no food in the house and with our sore legs we unsucessfully hunted for a supermarket on the way out of town (main one closed for refurbishment, others down odd one-way streets or with height restrictions/no parking), bought some diesel and LPG with cash to try and get rid of our remaining złoty and headed the short distance along hilly back roads towards Slovakia. With about £20 worth of cash to get rid of we kept our eye open for a shop or eatery as the border quickly grew ever closer and we became ever hungrier. A desperate foray into the last seemingly deserted Polish village on our route brought us to a small pizzeria/grill/bar with a nice big car park. It was just opening up as we arrived at 12pm and it felt like discovering an oasis in the desert. The manager was from Czechia and had met his Polish wife whist working in the UK. His English was excellent. We ordered a couple of breaded & deep-fried, ham & cheese-stuffed pork roll things served with chips and salad, and two coke zeros. ‘Breakfast’ of champions. Our bill, rather embarrassingly, was 2 zł (about 40p) more than the sorry pile of small notes and change that I emptied out of my wallet. We offered to pay the extra in Euros or only have one Coke, but he wouldn’t hear of it. The shame!

The place seemed to function as the local hostelry for the gentlemen of the village, as the two chaps that were there as we arrived were incrementally joined by about seven or eight others. There were convivial handshakes all round with each arrival and civilised imbibing of half-pints of pilsner. All were well turned out and, given that it was Sunday, had the air of a bunch of men given an ‘after-church-pub-pass’ by their wives to go and hang out with their mates from the village for an hour before lunch. After our meal, which was unusual yet delicious, we headed off, now more than adequately fuelled to continue our journey into Slovakia. Just as well we had dealt with our developing ‘hanger’ as I overruled the satnav (which to be fair, is occasionally awful at both the ‘sat’ and ‘nav’ parts of its duties) and sent us down a road that was going the right way, but then indicated a height restriction. This was technically about 10cm taller than we are, but it was not obvious whether this was a bridge or a tunnel, or what our ongoing options for turning around would be. So we bottled it and back-tracked, I ate humble pie -begrudgingly, of course- and we finally entered Slovakia.

Despite our ongoing searing lower limb pain, we had really enjoyed our days in the mountains and it had been a great final stop in Poland. We had had chance to reflect on our time here and the impression this country had made on us. These are our main thoughts:

1. Compared to the UK, Poland is quite big, quite flat, quite rural and quite quiet. Its population of about 36 million people, about half that of the UK, has about 25% more land area than the UK. Compared to NZ, Poland is quite big and quite flat.
2. Poland is very clean and well tended. We saw almost no litter and the homes and public areas all were tidy and well cared for. One day I even saw a council worker wiping bird poop off park benches. They are not big on mowing grass, however, and there are lots of ‘meadows for the pollinators’. It would drive my lawn-mowing enthusiast father insane!
3. Poland has great main roads and motorways. Some side roads are awful.
4. Poland loves block paving and will, if it can, seemingly block pave everything. They are very good at it and it looks great.
5. The Polish diet is vegetable light.
6. The Polish diet is pork and potato heavy.
7. The language is bonkers but most people will make a good bash at speaking English if you ask nicely. They also have funny money.
8. A lot of Polish people seem quite reserved and have ‘resting grumpy faces’, choosing not to engage with spontaneous eye contact or a smile unless forced to by a pair of weird tourists who gaily confront all passing strangers with a jolly ‘Dzień dobry!’ at every opportunity. They will mostly reply.
9. Most Polish men between the ages of 18 and 80 look like they could easily kill you. They are lean, with buzz-cut hair, clean shaven, cold-eyed and all look like they are home on leave from military service, or used to do military service, or wished they were doing military service. May it be noted that none of them made any moves to kill us at all. They were quite nice.
10. A Polish winter may best be avoided, but we sure can recommend visiting this amazing country in late spring.

4th June – 6th June 2024

A journey through this part of Poland would not be complete without coming to the town of Oświęcim (pronounced ‘Osh-vien-chim’), or Auschwitz, as it is better known. The museum and memorial sites of Auschwitz Camp 1, and Birkenau, also known as Auschwitz Camp 2 are not so much ‘tourist attractions’ as they are an essential physical reminder of one of the most heinous episodes in human history and a place that one must come to bear witness. Well that is how we felt, anyway. Up until now we had visited places from which the Third Reich’s ‘undesirables’ (not only Jews, but also political prisoners, Soviet POWs, non-Jewish Poles, Roma and others) had been rounded up and transported away, and read museum exhibits on how they were incarcerated in terrible conditions in concentration camps or exterminated in unimaginable numbers. Now it was time to see the worst of those places in the flesh. A major site of ‘The Final Solution’ to the ‘Jewish Problem’. A place where so many innocent people were tortured and murdered. It was going to be a sombre experience.

The weather added to the mood. We packed up and left Kraków in the pouring rain which continued for the hour’s journey across country to the modest sized town of Oświecim, and we had checked in, set up camp and had lunch before it started to ease. Our campsite was the large and well tended lawn area surrounding the ‘Prayer and Dialogue Centre’. This provides affordable rooms and food, conference and meeting rooms to groups large and small, providing a multi-denominational space for discussion and reflection. We had an English language tour of Auschwitz booked for early afternoon and the entrance to the museum was only 1.5km walk from here. The rain fortuitously stopped as it came time for us to set off, but the cloudy gloom persisted.

There were understandably many people visiting the site and except for early in the morning and at the end of the day, all visitors have to join a tour. The groups were about 15-20 people each, so it was still quite intimate and we managed to get some photos without other visitors in them. Our guide, Christoph, was a serious chap of about 35 who delivered his deadpan narration in accented English via a transponder and headsets. I wondered whether doing a couple of tours of Auschwitz a day attracts the serious, whether it creates a level of seriousness in a person, or whether he wasn’t serious at all but that the job requires the appearance of seriousness. Probably a degree of all three.

The original camp, Auschwitz 1, is suprisingly close to the town of Oświęcim. Selected by the Nazis as an excellent location for their purposes, this pre-existing Polish army camp was central to the area of Europe they were hoping to ‘cleanse’ and it had much of the infrastructure they needed already in place. The much bigger Aushwitz camp 2, 2km away in Birkenau was later constructed from scratch once their operation had grown. There was a third camp in Monowice, 12km away that provided forced labour in a rubber factory. The museum is not traditional in the sense of being a building full of exhibits, but uses the space of the camps themselves to tell the story. This is aided by the knowledge of the guides, a judicious selection of amazing large scale photos, collections of the possesions of the victims such as shoes and suitcases, and the most macbre of all, a huge pile of human hair, removed after death. The long hair had a monetary value as it was sold to carpet and mattress makers. Gold teeth were also looted from the dead. One of the most moving exhibits was an urn containing a small sample of the mixed ashes taken from the enormous stockpile found here after the liberation of the camp.

In Auschwitz Camp 1 most of the deaths were caused by starvation and overwork, illness and death penalties metered out for ‘crimes’, such as someone else trying to escape. The unimaginable, large scale extermination of victims occurred at Camp 2, Birkenau. To be stood on the tracks where the trains pulled in, to be present in the space where hundreds of thousands of exhausted, hungry, terrified men, women and children poured off the putrid box cars to be lined up and go through ‘selection’ (by qualified doctors) where it was decided whether they were fit enough be worked to death or to go straight to the gas chamber, to see the ruins of the chambers and incinerators themselves, to experience the sheer scale of the place, it was overwhelming. If I believed in ghosts, the air would have be filled with a million silent screams.

Everyone should come here. However you feel about the holocaust, the reality of what happened here cannot be minimised or ignored or rewritten. Its history needs to stay alive to help humanity from repeating its horror, although it continues be be apparent that some humans seem to be incapable of compassion and empathy towards their fellow man.

We stayed an extra day here, enjoying the serene space of the Prayer and Dialogue centre gardens and soaking up the warmth of the returned sunshine, letting it dry everything out after the rain of the day before. We also took some time to cycle into the town centre of Oświęcim which is an otherwise normal town, occupied by normal people living normal lives. I wonder what it’s like to have a place like Auschwitz, and all its infamy, right on the doorstep?

A few days after we left Oświęcim we watched the 2023 movie Zone Of Interest. This is based on the family life of the Nazi Auschwitz camp commandant Rudolph Höss, his wife, Hedwig and their five children The family lived a fairly idyllic existance in a large house right next to the camp. So much of the movie was based on truth and fact and many of the details resonnated very loudly for us having so recently been on ‘the other side of the wall’ and knowing what we now knew. Their original house still exists as a private residence, although was not used for the filming due to its age. It was pointed out to us on our tour where we could see its roof from the location we were standing in the camp, the specially built gallows where Höss was executed for war crimes in April 1947.

We continue our travels and continue living our lucky lives even more aware and cognisant that happiness, health, peace, freedom and love should not be taken for granted.

30th May – 4th June 2024

For a couple of non-practicing Anglicans, we sure are finding ourselves a lot of Catholic people, places, parades and paintings as we progress through Poland. With about 75% of the population of about 38.5 million identifying as Catholic, it is definitely the dominant religion of the land and there is a seemingly infinite array of beautiful and impressive churches to explore and admire. Our travels are often fairly freeform, taking in some obvious tourist attractions whilst also happily happening upon the less conventional and slightly esoteric places and events.

This is how we ended up in the lesser visited town of Łowic (pronounced Wo-vich). The 30th of May, unbeknownst to us non-Catholics, was to be another big day in the religious calendar: The Feast of Corpus Christi. This is when Catholics celebrate the ‘Body of Christ’ and how mass, communion and taking the sacrament is central to their faith. I think. Sorry to all my Catholic friends if I have misinterpreted it. Corpus Christi is celebrated with a special mass and often a parade and in Poland it is a public holiday. Łowic has one of the most important parades in this part of Poland and as we happened to be passing we decided to stop and experience it. As it is not a classic way-point on the tourist trail the town does not have a formal camping site, but there was a carpark alongside the park where spending the night was permitted. We arrived the day before the celebrations and settled in. We thought that it might be busy as thousands of people reportedly travel to the town for the day, but there were no other campervans here. It was a nice spot, away from the main road, surrounded by parkland and would have been quite tranquil were if it was not, as we discovered the hard way, a popular evening meeting spot for boy-racers, motor bikes and people with loud voices. I slept ok thanks to a damn fine set of ear plugs, but Nick was awake most of the night. In the morning we wandered into town and followed the general drift of people, all dressed in their Sunday best, towards the old square and the basillica.

Here mass was underway in the church and was being broadcast to the gathering crowds by loud speakers. We stood amongst the melée waiting for it to finish and the parade to begin. Finally it did and there was a civilised crush to see the paraders who were mostly dressed in traditional Polish costume and carrying banners. The parade then took off -slowly- around the town, stopping at various other churches for further prayers.

By now it was lunchtime and we had worked up a hunger listening to lots of religious stuff in a language we didn’t understand, so we retreated to find a purveyor of a hot Polish sausage in a bun. Near where we were parked we had seen lots of stalls being set up earlier in the morning. Surely that would be the place! It came as a great disappointment to us that there were NO hot food stalls. All the traders were selling ‘stuff’ ranging from honey to handbags. The only food was a stall selling enormous piles of bagel-shaped breads either by the bag, or mini ones threaded on a string, like a high carb necklace. I suspect there is a traditional aspect to this being the only food on offer, in a ‘bread-symbolising-the-body-of-Christ’ sort of way, but we had hoped for a sausage. We headed back to Davide and made do with a sandwich. There was an schedule of Polish folk music performances in the afternoon, but we decided to head off, thus avoiding a second noisy night, and going to our next stop a day earlier than planned.

We headed south to the city of Częstochowa (pronounced ‘Chen-sto-hova’). This was well placed as a stop, and as that stop was going to include a Saturday morning, it also just happened to be a city with a Parkrun. (My travelling companion is warming to the concept!) We were vaguely aware that there was a church here that was home to a very old painting of The Madonna which had a swarthy complexion, thus known as ‘The Black Madonna’. We knew that pilgrims came to see it. We knew that the carpark of the monastery had a designated area for campervans and that it was cheap to stay here. What we hadn’t realised was that up to 5 million people a year make the pilgrimage to come here to see the painting, thus we accidentally visited Poland’s most holy and popular of pilgrimage sites. The carpark was enormous giving some indication of just how busy it can get here, but on our arrival it was 2/3 empty and all was ordered and civilised. Two night’s camping here cost us the grand total of 20 zł, about £4 in a compulsory ‘donation’, and this included all services and power. A bargain! Every 10 minutes there was an incomprehensible public service announcement over a tannoy, informing the newly arrived of something important, I am sure.

The painting probably originally came from Jerusalem and is likely darkened due to the soot from candles and being hidden for many years. Legend has it that it was painted by St Luke, maybe even on a section of the table of the Last Supper. The painting is here because in 1382, when it was already an important icon, it was being transported to a safe location and en route spent the night in Częstochowa. The next morning the horses pulling its wagon refused to move and so the icon was put in the care of the Order of the Hermits of Saint Paul at their monastery here called the Mount of Light, or in Polish, Jasna Gora, where it remains. She has been damaged and repaired over the centuries, and still has some battle scars on her face.

We walked the short distance up to the monastery on the evening that we arrived on our way out for dinner (more pork and potatoes), and the area was pretty quiet. The next day, however, we had a glimpse of just how busy this place can be. The Madonna is housed in a side chapel of the main basillica and is available to see for much of the day, except for an hour or so in the middle of the day when the painting is covered, presumably so that the monastery staff can have a break. At 1.30pm she is uncovered again and then there is a service in the chapel, broadcast on screen to the ante-chapel and the basillica. This is a popular time for people to visit. There is absolutely no crowd management or organisation of the flow of people anywhere on the premises. It was mild, spiritual bedlam. We got caught up in this rush to find a spot for the 1.30pm unveilling ceremony and found ourselves wedged into a corner of the chapel in the hot crowd. With no view, no idea of what was being said, and no religious feelings on the matter, we extracted and opted to come back later.

We filled the next few hours with a stroll down the 2km long main avenue through the city which links the monastery to the old square. This had a delightful, tree-lined, pedestrianised, central thoroughfare which was clean and well maintained and very charming. We rewarded our kilometers walked with a ‘lody’, which is Polish for icecream. I think that lody comes a close second to Catholisism in Poland. There are stalls and sellers everywhere, and seemingly every third person walking down the street or sitting on a bench will be tucking into a cone. A tall serving of soft scoop is the preference. No flakes or sprinkles required.

Back at the monastery the crowds had eased imperceptibly and we managed to get a peak at the Lady herself. A visit to see her is obviously a major moment in the life of a devout Catholic and it was interesting to witness this depth of feeling and faith in the people around us. There were people of all ages making their pilgrimages but there was definitely a skew to the older age group. There are many that make their pilgrimage here on foot, but, to quote The Lonely Planet, Poland, ‘many, many more come by coach from Kraków’. Boy, did they come by coach. Coachload after coachload after coachload of late middle aged people. It was quite a sight.

In the morning we were all organised to muster early and drive the 15 minutes to the Parkrun location slightly north of us. Unfortunately it was raining quite heavily at ‘decision making time’ and the radar didn’t look very positive for any improvement by 9am. I am no bad-weather-running-hero, so reluctantly opted to stay in bed a bit longer. Shame! Then the rain stopped and the sun came out just as it was too late to get there on time. Rats! We headed off at about 9.30am and had one of the most surreal experiences of this trip so far. Just as we pulled out of our parking spot we were engulfed by the disgorged passengers of a coach, intent on their goal. Not one of them made eye contact with us or made any effort to wait or give us a wide berth. Once the crowd had cleared we headed for the only exit of the carpark, which was the same as the only entrance. By now there were already hundreds of coaches parked up, with thousands of preoccupied pilgrims making their way throught the carpark, none of them acknowledging any (attempting to be) moving vehicles or making any eye contact with us. There were nose-to-tail coaches pouring into the carpark and we were trying to get out. There were no designated pedestrian walkways and absolutely crowd or traffic management. It was ridiculous to the point of hilarious. We finally made it out without having injured a distracted pilgrim or lost a wing mirror to a coach and escaped the city via a stop for laundry and supermarket supplies.

Our onward journey took us on to Kraków. This southern city is Poland’s second largest by population and one of its oldest. Situated on the Vistula River it has been an academic, cultural, artistic and economic hub for Poland and was its capital until 1596. It is also reputed to be one of Europe’s most beautiful cities and its Old Town and Wawel Castle were one of the first sites granted UNESCO World Heritage Status in 1978. Our camp was about 3km from the Old Town, situated on an amazing cycle route that ran along the river directly to the city centre.

After the invasion of Poland by the Nazis in WW2 Kraków became the location for Germany’s General Government and the sizeable Jewish community was forced into a walled zone called the Kraków Ghetto, from which many were transfered to concentration and extermination camps like Auschwitz and Płazow. The city was, however, spared from major bombing and destruction.

In 1978, the same year that the city was granted its UNESCO World Heritage Status, the archbishop of Kraków, Karol Wojtyla, was elevated to the lofty status of Pope, and thus Pope John Paul ll became the first non -Italian Pope in 455 years. He is still very much revered in Poland and there are many statues and images of him throughout the country, and many things named after him, like Kraków’ airport.

Wawel Castle looms over the Old Town from its perch on the river bank, and built of brick, as is usual in these parts, has the air of a fortified stately home, rather than a defensive stronghold, which is perhaps why it was repeatedly sacked and vandalised by the Swedish and Prussian armies over the centuries. There are many stories and legends associated with the castle, but its enduring one involves a dragon. It is said that the fearsome beast lived in a cave on the site where the castle is now built, and terrorised the people of the city by demanding offerings of cattle to eat, or eating people if no cattle were provided. There are two stories as to how he was defeated. In one a cobbler called Krak suggested a sheep be stuffed with sulpher and left out for the dragon to devour. The sulphur ignited in its belly, causing it to gulp down gallons of water from the River Vistula and then it exploded. The city rejoiced, Krak married a princess, built the castle and the city was named in his honour. In the other story the dragon appeared during the reign of King Krach who sent his two sons, Lech and Krak Jr to defeat the beast. They also came up with the ‘sheep stuffed with sulphur’ solution, but had a fight amongst themselves as to whose brilliant idea it was. This ended up with Lechs killing Krach Jr, who on his victorious return lied to his father, saying Krach had been killed in the battle with the dragon. The King discovered the truth, however and exiled Lech renaming the city for his Krach Jr. The castle is built atop some limestone caves, which in medieval times were used as a tavern and brothel, but now are part of the tourist trail, complete with a bronze firebreathing dragon sculpture. We opted out of the castle visit, mainly as there are at least five seperate areas all with seperate entrance fees but also as there were large crowds. We just admired it from the outside instead.

Our city-tripping took in the magnificent central square, Rynek Glowny, which at 200m x 200m is Europe’s largest medieval square and The Cloth Hall which is plonked in the middle of it. This started as an open air market and was repeatedly upgraded until its current gothic form was built in 1555. St Mary’s Basillica is on the square and apparently has one of the most spectacular interiors in all of Poland, including a set of colourful wall paintings behind the main altar that were dubbed by Pablo Picasso to have been the eigth wonder of the world. No, we didn’t see those either. Too expensive, too many school children! On the hour a bugler plays a refrain from one of the towers of St Mary’s, stopping mid-bar. This signifies the moment the original bugler was shot with an arrow, apparently. We cruised on around the streets, taking in the old buildings, a few more churches and a tower or two. Where the original city wall once stool the land has been retained as a city park, the Planty. This hugs the majority of the Old Town in a horseshoe shape and is a fine place for a stroll, or would be if it wasn’t raining. We decided to call it a day mid afternoon and cycled home getting a bit wet, but with plans to revisit the city later in the day for dinner.

By 6pm the sun was shining again and we headed back to the Old Town. I know that I bang on about it, but I love to visit places where easy and safe cycling is given equal importance as pedestrian pathways and roading. The drivers were all so polite and patient and the cyclists stuck to the designated trails and observed the specific bicycle traffic signals. It makes getting around a pleasure, especially on our very fabulous little e-bikes. By the time we got back to Ryny Glowny the crowds were starting to sit down to drink and eat and the square was abuzz with outside dining, all the retaurants’ parasols being a uniform cream colour. We procured ourselves beer aperitifs in a sunny spot off the main square then went for dinner in a restaurant that had good reviews for its traditional Polish fayre. If you think that that might feature large quantities of various pork products, two types of potatoes, pancakes and a scattering of perogies, you’d be so very right. We could not resist ordering a ‘platter-for-two’, which of course could have fed four but that we very nearly finished between us (having only failed to eat the enormous pile of pickles and some pancake-type things). The waitress, obviously very accustomed to providing take out containers for the meaty leftovers was slightly astounded that we didn’t need one. The photos speak for themselves and we were far to full to even consider a digestif, so we slowly rode home in the fading light, the city looking glorious and us both feeling very happy.

The only tourist monument that we paid to go and visit in Kraków was the nearby Kościuszko Mound. This is quite literally a mound of earth, built atop a hillside looking down on the city. There is a spiral walking path winding up around it to the top where there are good views of the city. The steep drop-off is unguarded by a rail and people are protected from falling off it by….well, I guess by being careful and not being idiots.

It was constructed by the people of Kraków between 1820 and 1823 to celebrate and commemorate the life and contribution of one of their national heros, General Tadeusz Kościuszko (1746-1817). This man, with humble origins and of small physical stature, was a soldier and military engineer, studied art in France, was a general in both the Polish and American armies, fought in the American Revolutionary war where he also designed fortresses and met presidents, fought in the Polish-Prussian war of 1792 and was architect and Commander-in-Chief of the Uprising in Poland in 1794. He was a a rare beast of his time, not just for his bravery, but also for his committment to equality for all people, regardless of sex, race, class or faith. The mound was built by the people and contains soil brought from the battlefields of the Polish Uprising, and in 1926, on the 150th anniversary of the American War of Independance, it was supplemented by soil from American battlefields where he also fought. The base is now surrounded by a fortress, and numerous restorative efforts have been needed as the mound has suffered from instability after heavy rain. It is however, a fine and unusual monument to a seemingly splendid chap of which the co-located museum taught us all about. Bravo Tadeusz!

We had cycled slowly up the hill to the mound, even with the aid of electricity, and then had an easy freewheel all the way down, trying not to melt our brakes. We headed back into town and beyond the Old Town to nearby Kazimierez. Founded in 1335 this had long been an independant town with Christian and Jewish communities living side by side, but in 1494 King Jan Olbracht expelled Jewish people from within the city walls of Kraków, rapidly increasing their numbers in Kazimierez. They formed a large community in the northeast sector of the town, with the two communities separated by a wall. Over the coming centuries Jews facing persecution in other areas of Poland found safety in Kazimierez and the Jewish culture became the dominant influence on the city and making it the most important Jewish centre in Poland. As previously mentioned the Nazis managed to nearly annihilate the Jewish population here during the war with only a few thousand of the 65000 inhabitants surviving. The area became very rundown after the war but in recent years it has regained some of its Jewish character with kosher restaurants, cultural music and museums. Much of its renaissance was in no small part down to Steven Spielberg choosing it as a location for the filming of Schindler’s List in the early 1990s. Although it was not the setting of the real life events of the movie, Schindler’s factory and the Płazow extermination camp are no more than 6 km from here. It is now a charming area with original cobbled streets, many restaurants, street art, original buildings and not much traffic. We wandered, saw a small area of the Ghetto and found a cafe that served spectacular, freshly filled bagels for a late lunch before we headed home.

Kraków had been an utter delight, with our riverside camp and the cycle path contributing to our enjoyment. Our final night and morning were quite rainy, but nothing that earplugs to aid sleep, and a poncho to stay dry whilst getting ready to leave could not remedy. Onwards, with windscreen wipers.

23rd May – 29th May 2024

History buffs will know how intimately involved the city of Gdańsk was to the start of the World War 2 but many, including me, will not be aware of how focused the Nazis were in their desire to secure this strageic port city as part of their invasion of Poland, or what a pawn it was in the relationship between the Third Reich and the Soviets. It was here that one of the first battles of the war was fought, and in an unlikely place, the main Post Office building. The Nazis, believing (correctly) that it was acting as as a base for the undercover operations of Polish intellegence operatives, attacked it in the early hours of 1st Sept 1939 at about the same time they were hurling shells from the German battleship Schleswig-Holstein at the nearby military outpost at Westerplatte. The 50 ‘Post Office workers’ who just happened to be quite well armed and good at fighting, managed to hold off the detatchments of German police and elite SS units in a seige lasting 17 hours, providing a David and Goliath narrative, but without the victory unfortunately. They eventually had no choice but to surrender and predictably the survivors were executed by firing squad along the side of the building. The facade of the building, which now houses a museum, survives with bullet damage still visible and there is a fabulous memorial sculpture outside.

There are a few other things that we wanted to see/do whilst we were here. The first was to see the famous Gdańsk shipyards. It was here in 1980 where organized resistance first challenged Communist dictatorship in eastern Europe. A strike by 17,000 ship builders saw Solidarity (Solidarność), led by shipyard electrician Lech Wałęsa, recognised as the first non-Communist trade union in the then Soviet Bloc. The move was one of the first successful steps in a campaign of civil resistance that contributed to the eventual collapse of Communism across eastern Europe. He was Time magazine’s Person Of The Year in 1981, was award a Nobel Peace Prize in 1983 and was elected president of Poland in 1990, being the first democratically elected president in Poland since 1926.( He only stood for election as he was exasperated by the views and allegiences of other candidates and his election slogan was ‘I don’t want to, but I have to’.) He saw Poland modernised, facilitated its membership into NATO and the EU and continued to positively contribute to the country’s future prosperity long after his presidency ended in 1995. Despite an abrasive leadership style and some quite conservative political views, he was the type of leader that today’s world is seriously lacking. He is now 80 and hopefully living out a splendid retirement with his wife.

Seeing the shipyards did not require any sort of special journey as that was where our campsite was located. There was space for about 8 vans lined up on a dockside near a small boat yard, surrounded by a moderately dystopian collection of abandoned warehouses and disused cranes. There were some active docks with large cargo ships being loaded and unloaded and fledgling signs of the revitalisation of some of the dilapidated buildings. Otherwise it was pretty quiet around us, until about 3-4am in the morning that is, when it became apparent to us that one area of warehouses near us has been converted into a drinking & partying district and drunk revellers made their way home past us, laughing, shouting and shrieking as they went. It was otherwise a great spot to watch the shipping channel, the yachts and motor boats coming in and going out of the marina and it was only a fifteen minute walk from the old town. The grittiness was part of its charm.

The other thing to do here is to visit the amazing World War Two Museum. This is housed in a very modern, eye-catching building, although mostly below ground level, and tells the story of the conflict in a way that focuses on the human toll of the war, rather than the military campaigns. It also is incredibly enlightening on how big a price the Polish people payed both in lives lost, its destroyed culture and infrastructure, and the loss of its self governance. The statistic that hit me hardest was the ‘percentage of the population killed or significantly wounded’. USA 0.9%, UK 3%, Poland 21%. It underwent such a program of ethnic cleansing that Poland is now still one of the most homogenous populations on the planet. The museum was incredibly moving and a highlight of the trip so far, in a moderately depressing way.

As for Gdańsk itself, the old town was quite lovely. It mostly escaped damage from Allied bombing but at the end of 1944 almost a million refuges from East Prussia poured into the city hoping to escape the Soviet Army. As the Soviets advanced a final battle raged and 90% of the city centre was destroyed by shelling and fire. It is a testament to the resurrection of post-war Poland that has seen the city rebuilt so impressively. It is hard to believe that most of the beautiful ‘old’ buildings are not original. The most impressive of these is St Mary’s Church, a massive brick construction that commenced in 1343, that is one of the two or three biggest brick churches in the world. Apparently. It is huge.

We had our usual day of ‘walking around a lot’, exploring nooks and crannies. Unfortunately this was interrupted by a spell of rain, for which neither of us was prepared for, so we took shelter in a coffee house. Fortuitously for us this served a fine version of the local cheesecake for whick Gdańsk is renowned. ‘We didn’t want to, but we had to…’ We also partook in our first Polish meal whilst here. The obligatory perogies were sampled (dumplings filled with a variety of fillings, mostly meat and cabbage) and other delicious plates of food involving various iterations of meat, potatoes and cabbage. It was very tasty, very filling, and very good value.

Our day to leave Gdańsk was Saturday and I managed to sneak in another ParkRun on our way. There are two runs here and we got up early and headed to the one to the southwest of the city centre in a suburb called Południe. It was in an area of parkland containing two lakes with the course being one and a half loops around them. The advertised parking was not an option as it was gated residents parking for the local appartments. We managed to find a corner of another carpark nearby to wedge ourselves into and went off to find the start. There were lots of long, lean club runners bouncing around, seemingly doing 3 0r 4 laps as a ‘quick warm up’, thus making me feel quite inadequate. It was hot already by 9am and my performance was no where near as good as last week’s PB in Świnoujście. It was a good job that the route was obvious because here there were no marshalls and no signs at all out on the course!

After Gdańsk we headed south, finally leaving the Baltic coast behind us and heading inland, vaguely following Poland’s most important waterway, the Vistula river, in Polish the Wisła, pronounced ‘Viswa’. We were heading to Malbork, ostensibly an itty-bitty place with nothing to see except it happens to be the site of the enormous Castle of the Teutonic Order of Malbork, the largest castle in the world measured by land area (52 acres), and a UNESCO World Heritage site. So there is definitely something to see here. It was constructed from handmade bricks over a period of 132 years and was completed in 1406, at which time it was the largest brick castle in the world. The Teutonic order were very much like the Knights Templar. Warrior monks who seemed to be creative at combining the teachings of Christianity with battling their enemies for power, territory and wealth. The castle changed hands many times over the centuries being variously occupied by Poland, Sweden, Prussia and Germany. Having undergone a long restoration in the 1800s it was significantly damaged again in WW2, and further by a fire in 1959. Another long restoration spaning 60 years was completed in 2016 and it is now absolutely magnificent.

We took a small detour off our vague trajectory to visit Malbork and it was well worth it. The entrance ticket for the castle included a very good audioguide, which walked us through a quite epic tour, talking us through the vast labyrinth of rooms, staircases and gateways. It automatically moved on to the next passage of information as we moved between stations and even though it was quite busy, everyone was moving in the same direction at about the same pace so it never got congested. Genius. Most impressive was the central heating system. Like the Romans, they had built underfloor heating ducts that were fed by hot air from furnace fires burning in lower levels. Far toastier in the winter than a damp, stone-built Scottish castle with a small log fire in the corner. We had a couple of nights here, our campsite having a great view of the castle across the river, an easy stroll away.

Next on the ‘wandering-south-through-Poland’ section of our travels was the city of Torún. Another place we had never heard of. Situated directly on the sandy banks of River Vistula and home to about 200,000 people, the old town of Torún is one of Poland’s oldest cities. It was first settled in the 8th century and then expanded in 1233 by our old friends, the Teutonic Knights. A lot of history happened, the city passed between lots of different factions and countries and finally was restored to Poland after WW 1. Although its people suffered many atrocities during the war, Torún’s buildings did not suffer any damage as a result of either of the world wars. It is now another UNESCO World Heritage Site with large sections of intact city wall, several beautiful churches, a ‘leaning tower’ (nowhere near as impressive as Pisa) and many surviving Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque buildings, none of which I took any photos of.

Its most famous son is Nicolaus Copernicus. Born in 1473 he was a polyglot, a polymath, obtained a doctorate in canon law, was a mathemetician, astronomer, physician, classics scholar, translator, govenor, diplomat and economist. In 1517 he derived a quantity theory of money, and in 1519 he formulated a key economic principle. But his life’s work was the writing of a book in which he formulated (quite correctly!) that the earth revolved around the sun, not the sun around the earth. The book was published just before his death at the age of 70 in 1543 and it made a pioneering contribution to the scientic revolution. Makes one feel a trifle ineffectual, does in not?

Torún’s other contribution to Polish culture is gingerbread. Made here since the 1300s with excellent growing land for the wheat and a good supply of honey from the surrounding villages, it has become an important part of the history of this country. So much so, that a 17th-century epigram by poet Fryderyk Hoffman speaks of the four best things in Poland: “The vodka of Gdańsk, Toruń gingerbread, the ladies of Kraków, and the Warsaw shoes”. We bought a packet and ate it whilst sitting on a bench in the shade of a tree in the main square. It was tasty but a bit dry and would be much enhanced by a quick dunk into a cup of tea.

This place was also crawling with many large groups of school children, bused in from who knows where. In one tense moment we got wedged between two groups moving in different directions down a narrow side street. It was noisy, there was no room to manouver, none of them were looking where they were going. It’s a miracle we got out of there alive……

17th May – 23rd May 2024

It was only a 30km drive to get to Poland, which was still on the island of Usedom. The only thing that told us that we had arrived was a signpost informing us of the various different speed limits for different vehicles in different areas, in Polish of course. Here was our first exposure to a language of which we knew nothing. Many of the rules of pronounciation that we ar familiar with were thrown out of the window, decorated with little accents, strikethroughs, dots and the odd tail. They have a total of 17 letters and letter combinations that are unknown to English speakers. We were in trouble! Luckily many Polish people speak some, if not excellent, English, and as previously mentioned, having Google Translate is like having a Babel fish. (Google this too if you have never read Dougla Adams’ Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy). We did not have plans to go very far today, only to the town just on the other side of the border, Świnoujście. Roughly prounounced ‘Schvin-oo-jzay’. Here we initially tackled two immediate tasks. Doing laundry and getting some cash. Laundry was easy. The internet directed us to a nice modern laundrette which took card payments, provided all its instructions in English and had a nice big car park right next door. Perfect. In the meantime Nick had to take a 10 minute walk to find an ATM, and having ‘hunter-gathered’, returned to his washer-woman with his catch….a fistful of funny money. Poland has retained its currency, the złoty (pronounced ‘zwoh-teh’), since joining the EU in 2004. One złoty is equal to about 20p and I have yet to see any coins smaller than that. Change is often a bit arbitary and prices seem to be always rounded up (never down) to the nearest whole zloty if paying with cash. Who are we to complain? How are we to complain???!

Chores done we found a campsite about 2km from the town centre at the marina. It looked out onto the shipping channel which gave access to the town’s rather unexpectedly busy port. Świnoujście is a major ferry terminal for the many massive ferries that cross between Sweden and Poland and many other freighters that carry cargo across the Baltic, thus providing an important link between Scandinavia and the rest of Europe. It also has purportedly one of Poland’s best beaches, also touted as it’s largest and longest. The town was always regarded as a health resort, but in recent years it has seen an influx of serious money and the building of many large, global brand hotels, appartment blocks and a rather swanky new promenade lined with restaurants, shops and bars. This new strip is built a block inland from the beach offering shelter from the omnipresent cool breeze coming off the Baltic. It may be sunny, but the wind chill can be significant. We didn’t really know what to expect of this place but found it quietly humming with the small crowds of shoulder season. It was clean and what wasn’t brand new was well maintained and cared for. There were dedicated cycle paths and walkways everywhere and, the yardstick by which all places should be measured for civility and respect, there was zero dog sh*t. I even saw a council contractor wiping bird poop off park benches.

We had an outing to the famed beach and it was quite epic. A vast expanse of white sand dotted with people most of whom either had all their clothes on or who had deployed their wind breaks. The glorious sunshine was not enough to counter the relentless cool breeze. We attempted to ‘relax with a book and soak up some rays’ but it just wasn’t quite warm enough. The locals know this and were still all wearing coats. It was only us tourists, mainly Poles and Germans, who were determinedly willing summer to be here. The Baltic coast does deliver a summer. It’s short and sweet – July and August only. Non negotiable. Otherwise, put your clothes back on and find a sheltered spot to sit in. And whatever you do, don’t even think about going swimming……

Our trip to Świnoujście coincided with a Saturday, and that meant that I was able to do another ParkRun. Number 2 on my ‘Not-A-ParkRun-Tour’ tour of Europe. The course was 2 laps through a section of a rather lovely tree-filled formal park, only a hop-and-a-skip (on an electric bike) from camp. Here there was no helpful welcome briefing in English, no marshalls out on the course and no yellow signs with direction arrows marking the route. Instead the course had been permenantly signposted with some rather subtle ParkRun signs, often hidden in the foliage so it was more a case of ‘follow the leader’ to find the way. I found myself running alongside a chap who was a bit older than me, and luckily knew the way. It soon became apparent that we were matching each other stride for stride and so we struck up a conversation of sorts. He was Polish and spoke some German, but no English, so I murdered some very rusty school level German to try and chat with him. Running with my new pal, Irek, delivered me my ParkRun PB of 31m26s, and at the end he told me (via Google translate) that he was ‘happy that we had found each other in the crowd’ (of 39 runners). I understood his sentiment.

Back at camp there was the ongoing amusement of the constant procession of ferries and ships going by with the added entertainment of watching the tugs and pilot boats doing their work. The ferries were enormous from our conservative distance across the channel but it got quite exciting when one was moored up on the dockside right alongside the campsite. No idea why it was here but it had arrived and off-loaded so I guess it was waiting for a delayed embarkation slot. It was quite a spectacle. No safety barriers errected here, no, just a thin tape to indicate where you couldn’t approach. I’ve been on large ferries and seen cruise ships what I thought was ‘up close’ but being so close to such a massive vessel on the dockside was quite remarkable. Mildly amusing was the fact that just prior we had been watching some fellow campers manouvre themselves into ‘the best’ positions with water views along that section of dockside whilst simultaneously annoying each other in mini battles for territory. The ferry eclipsed it all, and then filled the air with the hum of its generators, even after the engines were turned off. What’s the Polish for Schadenfreude……?

By morning it was gone and the Marine Shipping website advised that it had sailed at 0130. I’m not sure how it left without disturbing us. It was time for us to go too and we continued eastwards along the coast, or the ‘Polish Riviera’ as I have dubbed it. Our next stop was in another beachside resort town called Meilno. Our route there was mostly on a main road that is in the process of being upgraded from a single carriageway that passes through the towns and villages to a snazzy, new dual carriageway. This meant that the journey was 50% fast and smooth and 50% slow and lumpy, with roadworks. There is a lot of freight on this road and in the summer it must also be the route for all the holiday makers coming to the beach resorts. It will be a relief to everyone when it is finished. The final 20km or so of our journey was on a very pot-holed minor road and it felt like Davide was going to be shaken to bits. We did arrive in one piece, selected a campsite with a view and settled in. Meilno is home to another glorious expanse of sandy beach that stretches for miles. As a non-port town it was developed in the post war, communist era as a resort town where ordinary folk could come and have a holiday with state provided accomodation and entertainment. The legacy of that origin lives on as the town has continued to cater to middle-of-the road Polish families and there are countless small holdiay appartments, hotels and cabins. The ‘strip’ was inhabited by a parade of identikit, budget restaurants serving affordable menus of exactly the same food: Kebabs, pizzas, sausage and chips, chicken and chips and fish and chips -substitue mashed potato on request. The tourist tat shops all sold exactly the same plastic chaff and there was a scattering of fairground type rides and some large marquees set up containing arcade games and penny-pushers, or should I say ‘zloty-pushers’? There were a few people around, but again, despite the fact it was a hot, sunny Sunday, it felt quite empty. This is another town waiting for the onslaught of Summer proper. Meilno sits on a narrow isthmus between the coast and a large lake, and this was our view. It would have been the perfect place to break out the paddleboards if it hadn’t been blowing a consistant 20 kph for the entirety of our stay here. Another day.

There was a lovely walking path along the beach front, including a long section of boardwalk, and the ubiquitous bike paths and walking tracks along the lake shore too. This made for a nice loop to walk, and so we did. The beach itself was dotted with a few folk but there was no-one in the water. We tested the temperature.

It was a refreshing 10 deg C. Baltic by name, Baltic by nature. Polish people have a reputation for being quite stoic. This is one of the reasons why, I think. They are made to swim in the sea when they come here on their summer holidays. A highlight of our time here was calling into a roadside seller of smoked fish. The smell lured us in we passed as the smoker was open and cooling and we couldn’t resist buying a few pieces for our dinner. It was delicious.

Next on the journey was the Pomeranian town of Łeba, pronounced ‘Webah’. This is another coastal resort, similar to the others, but it has an ace up its sleeve. It is next door to one of the jewels in Poland’s crown, The Slowinski National Park. This covers an area of nearly 200 sqkm with forest, a large lake and about 32km of Baltic coast. It’s main feature is a large area of sand dunes that are shifting continually east by about 10m/year. It is one of the few places in the world where dunes meet living forest. There is apparently much wildlife to see here, although our only sighting was a slightly mangey fox that had obviously been habituated to humans by being fed.

Less ‘nature-y’ is this area’s history as a site for long-range rocket testing in the war. Along with the V1/V2 rocket program in Peenemünde, there was a lot of impressive ordnance flung off into the Baltic from this bit of coast, its infamy being explained in a slightly tired, open air museum half way along the path to the dunes.

Our stopping place here was the rather euphamistically titled ‘Soul Camp’. It was a (nearly) lakeside, grassy site with several (empty) A-frame type cabins, a (cold) pool, a (closed) bar/foodtruck, an (unmanned) office, an interesting (lock-free) unisex shower hut and space for about eight campers with only one other van here when we arrived. There was a number to call on the reception door, but no-one answered so I sent a text and we settled in. We never did see any staff here. I eventually got a text back to say leave the cash payment in a lock-box when we left, and so, after two peaceful days, we did. The few other Germans that were here did the same thing. Seems a very relaxing way to run a business.

The national park entrance was an easy 5km cycle from camp, and then another 5km through the forest to the dunes along a very elderly and very uneven concrete road (apparently constructed using POW labour). It was very beautiful, although a bit of a bone-rattler as our bikes don’t have any suspension. There are no vehicles allowed in the park except for electric golf cart style buses which made it very peaceful….except for the hoards of children. This was our first exposure to the phenomenon of ‘Polish School Trip Season’. From here and now, whenever there has been something or somewhere of note to visit, there are coach loads of backpack-wearing children, of all ages, being marched around in loose crocodile formations. The young ones are all a-chatter and excited, the teenagers are trying simultaneously to look cool and surly, and naturally group themselves into emos, jocks, geeks and jokers. Kids are the same the world over. We shall henceforth be spending our time trying to avoid them. Also, no German Shepherds were allowed in the park, although a nearby sign indicated that frogs were permitted.

We cruised into the park, past the school groups, who were being forced to walk at least one way, and having stopped to peruse the rocket museum and survived a visit to a porta-loo, we headed to the dunes, where we saw the fox, tied up the bikes, took off our shoes and hit the sandy hill.

They really were quite amazing. The higher we climbed the breezier it got and by the time we reached the highest point with the best view it was quite blowy and not an ideal place for our planned picnic. I guess we had failed to consciously acknowledge the basic concept of the mechanism of ‘shifting sand dunes’ happening as a consequence of a stiff wind. We descended, dodging school children, some unable to resist the urge to roll downhill, and found a moderately sheltered spot in which to eat our sandwiches with a reduced risk of grit b’twixt our molars or embedded in our corneas.

Łeba was bigger and a bit fancier than the other coast towns that we had visited, but again felt quite subdued and waiting for the craziness of summer. I can imagine that in peak season ‘Soul Camp’ isn’t quite so tranquil, and doesn’t have the same ‘let yourself in and make yourself at home’ vibe. After two nights here we headed off. Next stop Gdańsk.

11th – 17th May 2024

Berlin. A city which has seen so much change in the past eighty years. War, division, fear, reunification, rebirth, rebuilding, optimism and reflection. It was definitely a place we both wanted to see. I had visited a couple of times as a young child in the latter part of the cold war, my military father having been posted to Northern Germany twice in my childhood, and Nick had been here on a school trip as an 18 year old, months before the fall of the Wall. Our plan was to stay outside the city, in the nearby, picturesque town of Potsdam and visit Berlin by train.

Potsdam is full of charm and has plenty to offer the tourist in its own right. It is a popular daytrip destination for both Berliners and tourists from further afar Its main attraction is the UNESCO World Heritage Site, Sanssouci Park, the wonderful royal summer palace and gardens of the Prussian king, Fredrick The Great. The original palace, built in the 1740s, is fairly modest in its scale and Rococo style but he built the Neues Palais, the New Palace, in a very grand Prussian Baroque style about twenty years later mainly as a place to accommodate visitors and have parties. Hulluva guest house, Freddie. He is buried near his beloved Schloss Sansouci in a very unprepossessing grave covered with commerative….potatoes… This is a nod to the fact that he was instrumental in bringing this previously unpopular vegetable-disaffectionately known as ‘the devil’s apple’-into the hearts, cuisine and bellies of the Prussian, and laterly the German, people, where it has resolutely stayed

Our camp in Potsdam was another glorified car park. It had a few power hookups, but they were all taken, so we found a sunny spot on the perimeter and let the sun power us through our solar. Sanssouci was an easy 1km walk from here and the old town an even easier 2km cycle. We spent some time cruising the old town which was buzzing with people wandering the streets in the sunshine. Lots ice creams were being eaten and the pavement tables were full with happy people drinking beers listening to the quite talented buskers.

Potsdam has the original Brandenburg Gate, another of Fredrick The Great’s splendid errections. It was completed in 1771, 20 years before he decided to build another one in Berlin and call it the same thing. Potsdam’s gate now stands alone as the remains of the city wall was demolished in about 1900. It was the perfect backdrop to our ice cream and beer sampling in the sunshine. A nearby square looked like it was hosting a market but it was in fact a wine festival. Here there were also lots of happy people cooking in the sun getting quietly, and in some cases noisily, sloshed on local German wines. We resisted.

Unfortunately, after this foray into the old town, Nick sustained another rear puncture. Two in two days. Unlucky. Luckily we were just about home and managed to walk it the last 200m or so. We had no spare tubes, but did have some patches and resolved to fix it ourselves this time. It took an hour and a half, some trial and error, a bit of swearing, fleeting moments of marital disharmony, moderate sweating (remember we had deliberately parked in a sunny spot) and a liberal distribution of grease and dirt over all four of our hands but we managed it. The isolated puncture was located and patched successfully and having realised that our bike pump was actually non functional we remembered that we were actually carrying a footpump for the van tyres, and this worked a charm. The thorny issue of re-connecting the electric motor was also successfully navigated. We were very pleased with ourselves.

We spent half a day wandering through the gardens and parklands of Sansouci. The four or five palaces of various shapes and sizes are dotted throughout the park and we decided to make the day about the park and to appretiate the buildings from the outside, rather than buying tickets to do the interior tours. There were formal and informal areas, formed and unformed paths, mown grass and unmown meadows. It was charming. The modest crowds, (because although this complex has been likened to Versailles, Versailles it ain’t), were concentrated mainly around the palaces, so there was plenty of quiet and lovely, peaceful corners. Weary with wandering, we slowly shuffled home and had a nice cup of tea.

We took a day trip against the traffic and headed to Berlin. The station was an easy and safe 4km cycle from camp, with Potsdam also boasting a fabulous network of cycle lanes. With the bikes locked up in a seemingly safe place we bought some tickets, found our train and were soon on our way to the capital. This was, as you can imagine, an efficient, clean and pleasant experience. The main station building is an epic structure of glass and cavernous space, built in the grand spirit of the late 19th century heyday of train travel unlike most other modern and modest station buildings. It provided quite a welcome to the city. I didn’t take a photo for some reason.

With the mantra ‘you can’t see it all’ in our heads, we gave it a bloody good go. Well, to see the things that we wanted to, anyway. I had no recollection of Berlin at all, but Nick did quite vividly remember his time here in early 1989 when the city was divided into East and West by the infamous wall. We took in a few of the classic sights starting with The Reichstag and the other, more famous Brandenburg Gate. In the past there were fences and barriers here to keep people in their place. Now there were still fences, but to cordon off the construction sites that will become a massive fan zone being prepared for the Euros Football tournament which Germany is hosting next month. Nick had found an old photo of himself here, and we tried to recreate it despite it missing his old friend, Ed.

We took in the spot where Hitler’s bunker used to be. Here he holed up in the final weeks of the war, here he married Eva Braun, here he died by his own hand, here his body was removed and burnt. Here is now a completely normal, un-paved car park with only one modest information sign. The lack of any monument is a deliberate act to deter it becoming a shrine to those who might feel the need to celebrate their idol.

Someone who has been memorialized in modern art, face profile form is Georg Elser, the man, who in November 1943, nearly managed to assassinate Hitler. He played a long game, guessing that Hitler would return to a Munich beer hall to repeat a speech a year after a 1942 gathering. He moved to Munich, made his own bomb from explosives he stole from his work at a munitions factory and spent many months of nights in the beer hall hollowing out a pillar near the lecturn and packing it full of the explosives . Hitler, Goebels and many other leading Nazis did indeed return to the venue for a meeting but the bomb exploded 8 minutes after Hitler left building, his onward travel plans having been brought forward due to bad weather. Eight were killed but Hitler, as we all know, was not. Elser was caught, sent to Dachau concentration camp, and killed on the orders of Hitler in 1945 just before he himself died by suicide. Esler’s exploits were only discovered in the 1960s when Gestapo records were made public and in Nov 2011 a 56 foot sculpture depicting his face in profile was errected in the city. It’s very cool, and apparently lights up at night, which is even cooler.

The holocaust memorial was only built in 2005, so not a memory lane item on the agenda. It is an epic, city block-sized sculpture of concrete blocks that you are encouraged to walk amongst, the ground levels and the heights of the blocks changing so that one moment you look down on them and the next they tower above you. It was both sombre and a place for reflection but also a place where children and grown ups alike could have fun playing peek-a-boo. I think both are equally valid ways of remembering the normal people this momument was built in memory of.

Our next stop was Checkpoint Charlie, officially Checkpoint ‘C’ in the Berlin Wall. It was the highest profile of the check points and the only place where allied military personnel were allowed to cross. All of the original structures and watch towers on both sides have long since been removed with most memorabilia being transferred to a nearby museum, but on its original site there is a mock-up of the guard house as it appeared in 1961. I took my place in the queue to take a photo. Near here are segments of wall left as a memorial and in other places there markers on the ground where it once stood. Nick clearly remembered seeing the intact wall and passing through Checkpoint Charlie on his last visit.

Our wanderings took us past the Gendarmenmarkt, allegedly Berlin’s most impressive square. It houses three large buildings: The Deutscher Dom, originally a church and now an exhibition space, The Franzosischer Dom, a French church and domed tower, and the Konzerthaus, a concert hall. I am sure it is all marvellous, but currently all closed off for construction and renovation. Onward we marched. We crossed the river, passing by ‘museum island’, another UNESCO site of five impressive Prussian-built buildings housing museums and another exhibition space and found ourselves coincidentally in the Nicholas Quarter, a place to stop for lunch. Nick had identified a local Berlin delicacy that he wanted to sample – Königsberger Klopse. Veal meatballs in a creamy, anchovy flavoured sauce. I was in! We found a little family run restaurant with sunny outdoor tables that was serving the aforementioned, served with a pile of potatoes, and to add to our light lunch, I ordered Schweinhaxe, a whole slow cooked, crispy skinned pork knuckle served with potatoes, veg and gravy. It was all delicious. There was masses of food. We ate it all. Good job we were putting in some kilometers today to work it off.

Our post-lunch waddling took us back over museum island and via a bike shop to get some spare inner tubes and a new pump. Next stop on our tour was possibly the most exciting of them all. An Atlas Obscura special, the David Hasselhoff Musuem. I know, I know, how thrilling! Many of you may not know that The Hoff, as he is affectionately known, is incredibly popular here in Germany. This started when he sang his 1988 song ‘Looking For Freedom’ at the recently fallen Berlin Wall at a New Year’s Eve event in 1989. It became an anthem for German reunification and he became the darling of the German people, many saying that he was instrumental in helping Germany unite (?!). All of the publicity certainly helped to boost his musical career, which possibly might not have done so well based purely on his singing talent…. We headed to the museum to see how this city had celebrated and glorified its favourite former Baywatch actor, turned crooner. Poorly, is the answer.

In the basement of the hostel-style Circus Hotel, unsignposted and unadvertised, near the toilets and the baggage storage room, is a short dead-end corridor. This is the museum. There was a mural which he had signed, a few pictures, and a cabinet of crap. Surely The Hoff deserved better? So did we. We had walked 2km out of our way to get here! We were amused, took the obligatory photos and then it was time for the long walk back to the station and then to get the train back to Potsdam. We had walked 13km and were quite weary by now. The bikes were just where we had left them, of course, and they carried us home in no time with no real effort. I love this electricity stuff.

The next day we headed north from Berlin to Peenemünde, on the recomendation of our friend Phil, who lives next door to my parents. This place, originally a sleepy fishing village, is situated on the northern point of the island of Usedom, on the Baltic coast. Known now as ‘Berlin’s bath tub’, it being a very lovely piece of coast with lost of safe boating within 3 hour’s drive of the capital, it was identified by the Nazis in the 1930s as the perfect place to build a research and manufacturing facility for the fledgling technology that was to spawn the V1 and V2 rockets of WW II. Thus it became one of the most important military-industrial sites in all of Germany. The inhabitants were relocated and the area was covered with hundreds of acres of concrete and buildings to support the huge endeavour. A massive coal-fired power station, and a port to supply it, was built to produce the energy needed to produce the hundreds of tonnes of liquid oxygen needed to propel the rockets. There was an airport, a railway, thousands of personnel and all the support infrastructure. There is a test launch site here from which the first man made object was propelled into space, so Peenemünde is not only infamous for being the home of the first real weapons of mass destruction, it is also famous for being the birthplace of space-flight. In 1943 the RAF staged its largest single bombing raid of the war, sending about 500 planes to destroy the plant. The powerplant and the oxygen extraction building survived, but much of the other infrastructure was damaged or destroyed. Then the Soviets further smashed it up it after the war.

Nowadays this place is only partly returned to its original state of natural peacefulness as it is home to a world class, but very low-key museum about the rocket program. Most of the exhibitions are housed in the surviving power plant building with a few outdoor exhibits including an example of both the V1 and V2 rockets built from spares. Of note, the V stands for Vergeltungswaffen, the German word for vengence. The museum told the story of this place in a very measured and neutral way, a testament to how relationships between countries can be rebuilt and flourish despite the horrors of war. We had the obligatory few hours here and it was well worth the trip. There is also a guided tour of the ruins of the area, which we didn’t do.

Instead we took a ferry across the inlet to the tiny fishing and holiday village of Freest. Here there are, according to a local fish restaurant owner, only two things to do: one can either take a walk around the small harbour then have a fish sandwich, or one can have a fish sandwich then walk the harbour. We took the latter option, substituting a beer for a fish sandwich, and adding in a short walk on the beach. I dipped my toes into the water. Although this is nearly the Baltic Sea here it was suprisingly warm. For the Baltic, that is.

One of the highlights of our stay here was the place that we found to camp. This was a grassy area belonging to the local sailing club and overseen by Rolf, the ‘Hafenmeister’, the harbour master. He spoke no English, but a combination of sign language, my very dusty GCSE German and Google Translate helped us make friends. We managed to grab the prime waterfront spot, overlooking the inlet, the marshes and the small yacht marina. It was beautiful. A couple of times a bunch of kids and teenagers came down, rigged up their sailing dingies and went out racing and there was a fairly consistent procession of yachts passing past, all making use of the persistant easterly breeze that blows here. This is was dubbed ‘Putin’s Wind’ by one lady we met.

Peenemünde’s main harbour is also home to an eye catching, large 1960s Soviet U-boat which houses the largest submarine museum in the world (allegedly). It is quite impressive up close from the outside and that was enough for us. We took a stroll with a picnic on our second full day here. Having battled a few gazillion mosquitos and come across a couple of naked Germans (normal for Germany) our route was unfortunately cut short by coming upon a large chain link fence and some scary signs warning of not going any further due to ‘the danger of death due to unexploded bombs’, a problem that will probably blight this area forever. Sorry, chaps.

The island of Usedom is shared between Germany and Poland, with the border running through it. We bade our farewells to Rolf and gave him our glass recycling so he could collect the deposits for his ‘kaffeekasse’ or ‘coffee cash’, seemingly a euphamism for a tip. We only had a short drive today, but it was take us all the way to Poland. A place that was physically close, but far removed from our comfort zone. A completely different and totally incomprehensible language and a new currency. Our brief journey through Germany had been amazing, and we hadn’t expected to enjoy this country so much. It is clean and organised, the roads are great, the food is hearty and the people are really friendly. Oh, and we may have mentioned the war, but I think we got away with it……

6th May – 11th May 2024

Davide had spent a few months parked up, winterized and under a cover at my parents’ place in Shropshire, all of us waiting for spring and the next trip. He was made ready again and before we packed him up we had to have a quick overnight trip to Nottingham. This was for his first service and to have our snag list addressed, namely that the alarm and tracker kept setting each other off as they were installed too close together and the fact that the whole central screen unit had stopped working. We had a night at the on-site rally field by the motorhome/caravan dealers and apart from an hour’s walk at noon we spent the whole of the next day (plus 2 cups of coffee, a spectacular plate of bacon and scrambled eggs, a cup of tea and much screen time)) sitting in the dealer cafe whilst he was dealt to. All was fixed by 5pm and we headed back to Shropshire where we had a few days to get loaded up before the off. We now had the paperwork to support being 4000kg on the road, rather than the standard 3500kg, so now we were a) legally not overweight and b) had weight allowance for a few extras – like our paddleboards. We had fresh haircuts, six months plus of prescriptions, clothes for three seasons, 480 decaf Tetley teabags and three jars of Marmite. We were ready. We bade our farewells to my folks and departed. First stop on the grand adventure…Wigan, where Nick’s brothers live. Of note here is that I was driving Davide for only the second time, and all by myself. Nick was driving his brother’s car that he had very kindly loaned us for the past 7 weeks and which we were returning. We were both a bit nervous but my driving was magnificent and I managed just fine without his ‘help’.

With Davide just fitting on Rick and Catherine’s driveway and blocking it from either of them parking on it, we had a great evening with the brothers and sisters-in-law and it gave me a 24 hour window to get my paddleboard repaired at the very nearby inflatable boat repair centre. Two years ago, in a French heatwave, some of its glue had failed and it needed remedial work, with time for the glue to cure before it was rolled up again. Job done, we scooped it up in the morning and headed off to our next port of call, Beverley, Yorkshire. Here we were guests at a weekend of birthday merriment for our friends Jon and Sally. We had secured a spot at a small campsite in town a mere 1.5km from their house and spent the weekend cycling to and fro for the various well catered, well lubricated, house-based celebrations with a great bunch of people. Some of us even managed Beverley ParkRun

Bringing your whole home to a house party and sleeping in your own bed is really the way to go. It also means that when you stay for 3 days and are the last to leave, your hosts don’t go off you. On bank holiday Monday, after sneaking in a quick load of laundry in our host’s machine- when on the road never look a gift washing machine in the mouth – we had a trip out to the beach with Jon and Sally and their girls which included a frisbee lost in the sea (Oops, Nick….) and the obligatory icecreams.

Then it was time to head to Hull and get our ferry. Our embarkation was possibly one of the most relaxed we have had yet. This Hull-Rotterdam route mostly carries freight and only sails overnight, thus they have all day to clean, restock and load up all the commercial vehicles and trailers. On this trip we were accompanied by about 20-30 new static caravans because, little did we know, that this area in Yorshire is a major manufacturer of mobile dwellings. Who knew? We were on the ferry by 5pm, had found our cabin, settled in, had 3 trips back to the van to collect forgotten items and deactivate the alarm, had a drink in the sun on the outside deck, been to the bistro for our dinner and had arrived in the bar for a digestif all before we set sail ahead of schedule at 8pm. We did not make the most of the ferry’s extensive entertainment offerings (quiz, cinema, casino, nightclub) as the battery levels were low from the weekend of excess and we retired to our cabin early.

We were blessed with a flat crossing but slept poorly besides and were rudley woken by the Captain’s announcement over the tannoy at 7am. This was essentially “Time to get up and buy a hearty breakfast-even though you are not hungry-before we arrive in an hour and three quarters”. After a shower we found a coffee and a toastie and found a window out of which to watch our arrival into the Port of Rotterdam. This was unexpectedly huge, and is, according to extensive (Wikipedia) research, apparently the only one of the ‘ten largest ports in the world’ that is not in Asia. Unfortunately our early alarm call turned out to be unecessary as, due to a gas leak somewhere in the port, our arrival was delayed by an hour. Major incident not forthcoming, we finally docked, disembarked and once we had smiled sweetly at the the nice Dutch border officer and assured him that of course we were only staying for 90 days, we were off!

In America we have have spent a whole week driving across a state. We were across the whole of The Netherlands and into Germany within two hours. Our feet did touch Dutch soil/tarmac once as we had a brief pitstop in a rest area, but otherwise this was going to be the limit of our time in this small country. Instead we were off to Düsseldorf for our first stop. Here we were seeing our new friend Anke who we had met with her sister, Meike, on a campsite in Lyon last September when we were all there for the Rugby World Cup. The fledgling friendship had been sealed by them gifting us a coveted collapsible washing up bowl, which we had named in their honour. Our farewells had included them uttering those foolish words “If you ever come to Düsseldorf, get in touch and we shall show you around”, and now, like it or not, we were on our way. Unfortunately Meike wasn’t in town during our visit, but we had arranged to meet Anke for dinner.

Our roost for the next two nights was a car park right on the banks of the Rhine/Rhein, only a ten minute walk from the Alt Stadt, the old town. After a very wet start to the year the river was in full flow and was busy with barge traffic going in both directions. Boats travelling up river made very slow progress, laboriously pushing against the raging torrent, down river they were flying and it was a miracle they had any control at all. We passed several hours just watching them.

It was great to catch up with Anke again. She speaks excellent English and is great company. Despite having a sore knee she stoically gave us a guided tour around the Alt Stadt. This took in the market, a local mustard shop and a quintiscential Düsseldorf bar, Uerige. Here they sell mostly the local brew, Alt, a copper beer neither an ale or lager. It is a hybrid. It is made with the pale malts and Saaz hops of a classic German Pilsner, plus some darker roasted grains. Then it employs an aggressive, top-fermenting ale yeast that attenuates the wort completely to reduce the sweetness. (Beer Geek 1001). Anyway, the beer is served in small 200ml servings by waiters walking around with trays laden with the pre-poured, froth-topped glasses. Empty glasses are continually and automatically replaced by full ones, unless you indicate for them to stop being delivered, with a running tally being marked with a felt-tip pen onto one of the beer mats on the table. So simple and tickled Nick enormously. There is a similar tradition in Cologne/Köln, the nearby, rival, up-river city. Their local beer is lighter in colour although apparently tastes very similar. Dinner was in an Argentinian steak restaurant where Anke’s family are well known, which is her explanation for hugging the manager on our arrival! We forgave her the non-German choice of fayre as the tapas-style starters were delicious and the steak was divine. After dinner she insisted that we sample another local delicacy – Killepitsch. This is a full strength herbal liqueur served in red plastic souvenir shot glasses from a ‘hole-in-the-wall’ window on the side of a bar. It is dark brown, sweet and will put hairs on your chest -and possibly on the inside of your stomach too. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, we all opted out of a late night as we were still in recovery mode and Anke was working the next day, and we made plans to meet for brunch on Thursday, which was to be a public holiday.

The next day we did our usual thing of ‘walking around a lot’ We had no real agenda or hit list of things to see. It was misty and cool and we found ourselves exploring the docks and their industrial area. It wasn’t the most scenic of perambulations but it is always interesting to see the parts of a place that explain what makes it tick and what it is founded on. We finally found our way back to the Alt Stadt and refuelled in the market with some very delicious Bao buns. So far our food choices had been fairly un-German. We continued to explore the city centre, which included many designer stores that we bypassed. There is obviously some money in Düsseldorf judging by the shopping and the cars that we saw. On the topic of money, one very unexpected thing that we discovered about Germany is that is is being very slow to embrace contactless payments. In many places they do not even accept card payments at all and cash remains king. This is disconcerting as I have finally started to use ApplePay regularly and really am not used to having to scrabble around for real-life money. Our trips to ATMs will need to be much more regular.

Back at Davide we did some more boat watching and had a 6 o’clock beer sat on a low wall on the promenade. The sun was shining by now and it had warmed up considerably. There was an air of ‘Friday night’ as people were heading home, or coming into town on the eve of the public holiday. This had been a great start to the trip. The next morning we drove about 7km to a suburb village down river of the city called Kaiserswerth. We met Anke again, walked through a lovely riverside park, saw some castle ruins and the old town, and had an enormous plate each of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for brunch. Very lovely. It was then unfortunately time to say our goodbyes to Anke again, but we have a vague plan to meet up again later in the summer down in the south somewhere.

Our next destination was Hannover. Reached easily by thumping along one of the huge network of very well maintained and free autobahns. The Germans mostly drive very well and there was not much swearing from my driver at all. As many of you will know, large parts of the autobahn network has unrestricted speed limits and there is only a problem with driving fast if you stuff it up. On a practical note, this means that when performing a slightly lumbering overtaking manouvre in a laden van cars can appear suddenly in your rearview mirror – when only a split second earlier there whad been empty space. Another curiosity of Germany is that heavy commercial trucks cannot drive between midnight and 10pm on Sundays or public holidays, such as today. This meant that the roads were clearer but that all the rest stops and service stations were all chock-a-block with trucks which were parked up and waiting to get back on the road, often partially blocking fuel pumps and thoroughfares. It was chaos.

In Hannover, selected purely because it was equidistant between Düsseldorf and our next stop, Berlin, on the A2 autobahn, we stopped in one of the Northern districts which had a dedicated motorhome stop – a Stellplatz. Here we could plug in, get water and dispose of waste. Important to do every few days. There was a tram stop right outside the campsite but as there was also a fabulous network of bike lanes and bike paths we decided to break out the bikes instead and explore under our own steam. Our day of exploration took in the Royal Gardens of the Herrenhausen Palace, the 17th C summer residence of The House of Hanover. The palace itself was destroyed by a bombing raid by the RAF in 1943 and was modestly rebuilt between 2009 and 2013. The formal and informal gardens rival those of Versailles and were well worth a visit.

A bike path down a long avenue through the nearby Georgengarten Park took us to Hannover’s Alt Stadt and we spent some time wandering the streets and squares looking at the old buildings and churches. Our meanderings were significantly influenced by hunger pangs and we found ourself in the covered market which was a temple to food and drink. We just couldn’t resist sharing a plate of bratwurst and chips with mustard and mayonaise, accompanied by some Pilsner. Finally! German food!

In the middle of town they have, slightly randomly, created a surf wave on the river and there was a constant supply of hardy souls who took their 10-30 second turns (depending on ability) to do a few tight turns on the 15ft wide wave, under the gaze of many tourists and passers by. The last surfers we watched were in Nazaré, Portugal.

A hop and a skip from the centre of the city is the 190 acre Maschee Lake, an artificial lake created by the digging out a river and surrounding marshlands in the 1930s. It is used for countless recreational watersports and has separate cycling and walking tracks around its perimeter. It looks like an amazing facility to have in the middle of the city. We cruised a lap and then headed home.

The next morning was Saturday and that can only mean one thing to a small section of society…..ParkRun! This trip was not to revolve around finding ParkRuns to do, my non-runner husband informed me, but if we happened to be in the vicinity of one on a Saturday morning, that was ok. I was in luck, Hannover had a ParkRun and it was in Georgengarten Park, where we had cycled through the day before. I think that Nick is a secret ParkRun fanboy, although he hides it well, so he insisted on coming with me. We headed off on the bikes in the morning and found the start with tons of time to spare. This was on that long avenue which was a rather grand setting. The briefing was helpfully in English as well as German and the field a modest 120, despite such a prestigious setting. I had a PB of just over 32 minutes and so, as Sally from Beverley declared, my ‘European ParkRun Adventure begins’. Sorry Nick!!

The morning’s fun was slightly marred by a flat tyre on one of the bikes. Luckily we had some of that foam stuff to do a temporary repair and fortuitously there was a bike shop on the way home which could do an inner tube change for us on the spot. The shop was co-located with a Seat car dealer and we sipped complimentary coffees and teas in the showroom lounge whilst we waited, which was a bit surreal. The bike shop, which was very new, then said that our repair would be free in exchange for a five star Google review. Yes. We can be bought.

We arrived home finally, had breakfast and a shower, then headed off back up the A2 towards Berlin.

16th Dec 2023- 10th Jan 2024

I am writing this in the last few days of April having procrastinated the final post in epic and unsurpassed (even by my standards) style. I don’t know why I run out of steam at the end of each of our trips, but I do, and I have, and here I am over 3 months later. I work quite well under pressure and as the ferry for our next trip is in less than a week’s time I feel suddenly motivated.

If one wants to escape the wintery weather of northern Europe by travelling to coastal Spain, one does not head to the north or north-west. The reality of travelling in December and into January finally caught up with us and the jumpers and coats that we had been driving around for months were pressed into service, along with the hats, scarves and gloves. As a rule, living in a van is best in the warm and dry. Cold and dry is okay, warm and wet is doeable. Cold and wet…well let’s just say we survived.

The second phase of our Spanish travels took us into Galicia, which stole our hearts with its emptiness and its rugged and beautitful coastline. The whole region is flavoured by the paths of the Camino de Santiago that cross it and the its provision to the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims that walk to its heart, Santiago de Compostella. It is such a massive part of Galicia’s identity and economy but at this time of year, aside from the occasional hardy soul, the pilgrim trails were deserted. Most of the countless auberges were closed and many of the restaurant and cafe owners had shut up shop to have a break before Christmas. We saw the Camino trail markers everywhere, constantly reminding us that in summer, this whole area is humming (figuratively and literally) with countless sweaty, unwashed folk nearing the end of their long treks having spent weeks and weeks walking all day and their nights sleeping in crowded, noisy, bed-bug infested dormitories. Sign me up!

Our first stop was in Padrón, home of the eponymous pepper, which when fried in lots of oil and sprinkled with salt is one of the most glorious tapas dishes. It also hosts an epic weekly market, which coincided with our visit. We arrived the day before and wandered around the small town. Like every village, town and city, it was adorned with Christmas lights and looked quite beautiful after dark.

The whole lead up to Christmas, and how they celebrate it in Spain and Portugal has been quite different from the capitalist carnivals of other places I have spent time at this time of year (UK, USA, NZ, Australia). Aside from the pretty lights and the odd Christmas market there was almost no hard sell on buying gifts, special food, excess food or doing anything particularly different. It was so refreshing to not be bombarded with crass Christmas advertising and marketing and cheesy festive soundtracks for months and months. There were also no Christmas cards for sale even if there had been the remotest thought in my head to send one. In fact, there were no greeting cards for sale, full stop. Just not a thing here.

Anyway. Padrón. We stayed in a carpark next to the empty market square and presumed, when we woke late the next morning, that we must have been mistaken on the timing of the market day because we had not heard any noises that might indicate that one of Spain’s biggest markets had been set up. Wrong. They had just done it very quietly. The morning was icy cold so we bundled up, made hot coffees to walk with and set out to investigate. The market was massive, lots of cheap clothes, bags and shoes, plenty of ham and cheese, some plants, the occasional vegetable stall and plenty of stalls selling useful things. There were NO Christmas gift stalls. In fact, nothing about the market suggested that Christmas was only 8 days away at all. Heaven! (I am a grinch. It’s official.) We bought nothing but were drawn into a large food tent cooking hot, meaty sandwiches on a large open charcoal grill at it’s entrance. A few butchered Spanish words and lots of gesticulating saw us each served with one of said sandwiches which truely hit the spot.

A coastal meander from here took us to to ‘The End of the Land’. Literally. A village called Fisterra at the tip of a pennisula that juts out into the Atlantic. Beyond the village is a handsome lighthouse, and for some, this is the true end of their Camino pilgramage, a four day walk beyond the classic finish at the cathedral in Santiago.

One of the biggest advantages of travelling in this low season is how quiet it is and the complete lack of competion for camping spots. Our journey here had brought us via a beautiful beachside camping area that was purpose built for campervans by the local council. It had services, a nearby beachside bar, an epic sunset and was free. In the summer it would have been full to the brim. Now? Only 2 other campers. This was the situation for the whole of the rest of this trip. Fisterra was a planned 2 day stop that extended to 4. The campsite had a great view, was right in town and was peaceful, quiet and cheap.

We did an great couple of walks to the lighthouse and back, sat out some rain and explored the village. This is an active fishing village with a small fleet that sells its catch dockside at a rather swanky fish market. This has a viewing gallery where you can watch the deals being done and the fish still flopping around in their death throes and eels trying to escape their crates.

A shortish drive from here, across the Galician lowlands, was our next stop, Muxía. Another fishing town, another pilgrim destination. Some pilgrims end their journey here, not Fisterra. This area of the Costa da Morte (Death Coast) has a rich pagan history with its large coastal stones being imbued with beliefs of magic, healing and sacred powers. Many centuries later it is said that the Virgin Mary appeared here to the Apostle St James who was preaching the gospel to the local people without much success. Having arrived in a stone boat which broke up into three pieces and became big coastal rocks, she then encouraged him in his work. There is a chapel here to commemorate this story and thus this is the desination for the pilgrims.

We parked on the dockside which was again deserted and after strolling our own mini-camino to the chapel we hunted out a place to have dinner. This was easier said than done as most places were either shut completely, or in true Spanish style, shut until 9pm dinner service time. We discounted one place that seemed quite busy with a bunch of smelly fisherman having ‘after work drinks’ but we found one other reasonable looking place that had customers. There were two couples sat at tables, one of which finished and left not long after we arrived. We managed to order some food and wine with the help of sign language and Google translate at which point the other couple got up from their table, put on aprons, and went into the kitchen to cook our meals. We were the only customers. A private dining experience.

From Muxía we headed into Santiago de Compostella. Our campsite here was perhaps one of the oddest on our trip. It was only a short walk from the city centre and definitely one of the most secure camps we have had. The views were non existant though as it was a lockup industrial unit. It was a slight mission to find the entrance which was tucked away down a back lane, liberate the key from the lock box and then master the technique of magic wiggling to get it to open the massive double doors.

Then we had to manouvre Davide into the tight space between another stored camper and a scary looking concrete post. This was the base for a camper rental business and a vehicle storage facility, as well as accepting overnight campers. Amenities were scant and it was cold inside as there was obviously no sunshine to help warm us up. This may have been one of the reasons that we had the place to ourselves. Be even weirder if it was busy, and probably unbearably hot in the summer.

We had a couple of forays into the city, wandered the narrow streets, visited a museum and of course visited the cathedral, the conventional end of all of the pilgrim trails. As a registered pilgrim you can attend a mass here on your arrival if you so desire, and its crowning glory (quite literally) is an exquisite carved and painted stone edifice inside the main doors called ‘The Portico of the Glory’. No photos permitted. Look it up if you are interested!

We obviously also found several spots to sample more tapas, more vermouth, more coffees and the occasional beer. Our endeavours also took in a brief spell of gift shopping. Our main present to each other was already taken care of, but we had a €20 budget to buy a small thing for each other to open on the day so we split up for a nail-biting, frantic thirty minute rapi-shop. Who says Christmas shopping can’t be exciting…

Then it was Christmas eve. Our gift to each other was three nights ‘on dry land’ in an AirBnB. When Nick asked me what my criteria were for our chosen property, these were the main ones: a bath, a big comfy bed, a cozy living room with a real fire, a nice big smart TV, and some splendid isolation. It also needed safe parking for Davide on site. After spending many hours reviewing every single available property in Galicia we found a little gem, and this is where we were heading next. On our way we stopped at a Lidl to get the festive provisions for our stay. This might not have been our first choice for our shop but it was the only supermarket nearby that didn’t have underground parking or a height restriction to the car park. In fact it did us proud and although we couldn’t get many of what we would see as ‘traditional Christmas Fayre’ items, we came away with enough food for a week at half the price that we were expecting. No Christmas crackers to be seen though.

Our cottage was a mere 20km from Santiago and we had a few hours to kill before it was ready so we parked up in the sun in a nearby village waiting to receive our text to say that we could check in. Finally, the message came and we beetled over there. Our host met us with a freshly baked cake from the bakery they run and we quickly settled in. It was tiny but perfect. Davide was parked right outside, the fire was a one touch, thermostat controlled pellet fire – so all the ambiance with none of the hard work , the bedroom was on a mezzanine with a massive bath, the views were of distant hills and horses in the paddock in front and there were no close neighbours.

The kitchen had everything we needed except an oven but that didn’t matter as we had our own gas oven parked right outside. We had an amazing few days and it was great to stretch out. The three days was obviously dominated by the planning, preparation and eating of food and Davide did an excellent job of cooking our Christmas stuffed chicken. We also watched many movies including that pinkest of films -Barbie. We were sorry to have to leave and quite astounded at the amount of guff that we had brought into the cottage when it came time to pack it all back up again. We rolled on

Next we headed up to the north-west coast and a town called A Coruña. This is the second largest city in Galicia by population and partly inhabits a pennisula at the end of which sits Torre de Hércules (Hercules Tower), a Roman built lighthouse which is apparently the oldest lighthouse in the world still in operation and a UNESCSO World Heritage Site. We found a free parking spot overlooking the city from an elevated roadway to its west from which there was an epic view over the bay and the pennisula and on a coastal promenade that headed back towards the city. There was space for about 15 vans but we only had a couple of co-campers. The road was quiet but it was obviously a popular route for cyclists and walkers, well it was until mid afternoon when the wind and rain hit. We knew it was coming and we were prepared for it, but jeepers, it was relentless. For 20 hours! Gone was the view. Gone was any prospect of even stepping outside. Gone was being able to hear the TV over the din of rain on the roof! We were happy though. We were warm and cozy thanks to our diesel heater and we had infinite cups of tea and treats.

Eventually at about midday the next day the storm was gone and we emerged, blinking, into the sunlight. It was definitely time to stretch our legs and explore our surroundings. We set off down the promenade which was busy again with lots of other people appreciating the sunny, dry day. We had an epic day afoot, following the coastal path down into town, past the octupus sculpture, the millenium obelisk, along the rocky coastline to the city beach, up and around the headland to admire the Torre de Hércules, around to the marina and funky harbourmaster’s building, through the old streets to the beach and then back up the hill to our perch (via a stop for a beer or two-after walking 14km we were very thirsty).

The second night in our camping spot was not quite as secluded as there were more vans staying the night and the addition of a very intriguing, yet highly annoying, late hour rendezvous of a couple that arrived in separate cars, parked right next to us and played their music very loudly before heading off separately again. Hmmmm.

After here we were heading east along the coast and picked a campsite in a largish village called Valdeviño. It was selected as being the only place within stiking distance that had the following qualities: 1) it was open, 2) it had power plug ins and hot camp showers, 3) there was a laundrette nearby. We do shower in the van from time to time, but it’s not the same as having a proper long soaking with mains heated water.

We arrived at the hillside camp which was a terraced marvel of retaining walls and a steep paved driveway. Check-in was via a very sophisticated website and automatic number plate reader. As we were the only residents for the first of the two nights that we were here, and it only cost us €11/night, it was going to take a while for the owner to recoup his civil engineering costs and technology investment. The camp faced west and from its elevated position had some epic sunset views. We made use of the facilities and warmer, dry weather to do some cleaning of Davide, inside and out, and of ourselves, and having also done all our laundry on the way in, we felt like brand new.

The next day we headed out on another 14km loop walk which took us over the hill out the back of camp, through a gum forest, down a lane to the beach, up to a headland lookout and then back along the coast to our village. It was another gorgeous stroll that was deserted aside from the odd passing car. This trip was starting to feel quite exclusive! We thought we might have camp to ourselves again, but – horror of horrors – two other vans arrived in the evening! What? Share? Hmmff! The other thing that came that night was the next storm with more crazy wind and rain. Davide has internal privacy shades for the front cab windows but since it has been colder we have been deploying our external insulated front ‘eye mask’ screen too. This keeps us much warmer and cuts down on condensation and although is waterproof, is definitely not, in its current form, designed to withstand a strong wind! We woke in the middle of night to an unholy flapping and spent a damp and chilly few minutes prancing around outside in the dark restraining and removing it then trying to fold it up to get it into the garage locker. Sorry to our neighbours for the din of slamming doors and stage whisper shouting and swearing. Modifications needed.

The next day was New Years Eve and we continued eastwards and headed to a town called Viveira. This was a moderate sized town of 16000 people in the Lugo province on the river Landro. There was a free parking area close to the town centre and we thought that we we might find some New Year festivities to soak up and perhaps there may be some fireworks at midnight. That was the plan anyway… We arrived and found our parking spot which was some designated campervan spaces in a large municipal carpark next to the town’s small football stadium. There were a few other vans and although it felt a bit desolate, we were comforted by the presence of our neighbours. And then they all left. Back to solo camping then!

We explored the town in the afternoon. There was a terrible rock band playing awful music really loudly in the square and a very weird display of lifesized models in ‘olden days’ dioramas circling the church. This included a full sized model of an elephant. We were not entirely sure how this fitted with the medieval theme. There were a few bars and restaurants that we thought might be open later for some merriment, even if only from the sidelines, and we went back to Davide to recharge our batteries for the upcoming late night.

And then the next storm arrived. Now we were alone in our dark, deserted carpark, with the wind and rain lashing at our windows and had absolutely no enthusiasm to venture outside, New Year or not. We made the best of the moment with home cooking and ‘fancy drinks’ (ie vermouth rather than beer) and celebrated the strike of midnight in a unique and traditional Spanish style. Slightly bizzarely this involves grapes. At midnight, on each of the twelve strikes of the clock one must eat a grape. If you can manage to eat all twelve you will have a year of prosperity and good luck, each grape signifying each of the twelve months. This tradition started in the late 19th C, but became popular in the early 20th C. It was promoted by grape farmers in Alicnate who were trying to increase sales of their bumper crops. Genius! Fortuitously we had enough grapes in the fridge, and although not all were in their peak physical condition, they were edible. We found a live ‘count-down’ on an internet radio station and scarfed grapes as tradition dictated. There were a few lone fireworks which we looked at from the window, and that, Ladies and Gentlemen, was how we saw in 2024. Happy New Year!

The next day the sun was shining again, although it was still quite windy and we headed to a campsite just east of Foz. This was unmanned and the gates were closed, but a quick phone call and my near fluent ‘Buenas tardes, Señor. ¿Hablas inglés?’ followed by a short conversation in English, resulted in the owner opening the gate remotely. There was no mention of how to pay during our conversation, no information in the camp and at no point over the next 48 hours did a manager arrive to collect our camping fees. There were about 5 or 6 other campers but as the cold, windy weather continued, everyone was holed up and we saw no-one to ask. We fitted in a windy, waterfront walk that afternoon, watching a few hardy surfers, then holed up ourselves as the wind got stronger as the evening progressed. When we ordered Davide we had organised to have hydraulic levelling/stabilising rams fitted as an optional extra. In the end there was not time to fit them before we left on this trip so we headed off without them. We have come to realise that 99% of the time that they are unecessary as we happily manage with levelling blocks and the wind is rarely strong enough for the rocking to bother us. The 1% of time where they would be excellent would be nights like the 1st Jan on the Galician northern coast in a gale. The onshore wind made Davide rock like a crazy bouncing American lowrider. It was very unsettling and we didn’t sleep well. Still not worth the cost of the rams though! The next day was wet and windy as well but cabin fever forced us out for another walk during which we predicatably got quite wet. The ‘fun factor’ of travelling in the depths of winter was waning slightly. We left the next day having put the correct money for our stay in the suggestion box.

Ribadesella is a lovely place. This was our only stop in Asturias, the next province along the coast to the East. Asturias has some gorgeous jagged mountain peaks, and apparently the roads up through the mountains have gorgeous views and the landscape is magical. Doing it in a 2 wheel drive, 7m, 3.5t van in winter was not going to be sensible so we stuck to the main road along the coast, which was still beautiful. There were countless tunnels and viaducts and it was very scenic. We had chosen the town of Ribdasella in our traditional manner: totally at random and were very pleasantly suprised to find out how lovely it was. It is built at the mouth of the river Sella at the foot of the Picos de Europa.

It has stunning views, a white sandy beach, a lighthouse on a small headland accessed by a flat walk along the promenade and a small river waterfront with a small fishing fleet. Its claim to fame is that it hosts one of the most anticipated kayaking events of the year: The International Sella River Descent. Kayakers from all over the world gather here for the event that is held in the first week of August. The aim is to be the fastest to descend the final 20km of the river from the mountains. Over 1000 entrants take place and, as you can imagine, it is absolute bedlam, both on the river, and in the town generally.

Here we explored the town and sampled its most famous nutrients: flat cider and blue cheese. The cider is poured with great skill and from a great height into tumbers by experts in order to create a degree of foam and froth, in lieu of bubbles. Only small amounts are poured at at time as the froth quickly dissipates. In a bar, despite the fact that the cider is purchased in 1L bottles, one does not pour one’s own measures, one waits patiently for the bar staff as they circulate the bar, pouring 50-100 ml into each persons glass from their personal bottle. Can’t imagine that working in the UK! Along with that they eat the driest blue cheese in the world. It is so dry that just one bite can remove all the saliva in your mouth. The combination with the cider, though, is magical and they complement each other perfectly. I am not a fan of cider in general (too much in too short a span of time in my 1st year university Oct 1991 to June 1992) but it really was a delicious combination.

The next place we found ourselves in was Santillana del Mar, in Cantabria. This well preserved medieval village was slightly inland and was selected as a place to stay as it looked quite pretty and the camp was very close to the village. The campsite, although not full, was uncharacteristically busy but this fact initally passed us by. It was my birthday on the day that we arrived here but unfortunately I was feeling unwell and very ‘digestively upset’ (probably due to something I had eaten the evening before but I could blame the cider…!) This, along with with enduring gale force winds, was one of my most challenging days of the trip. I shan’t go into the intracies and the limitations camping toilets. I spent the day wrapped up in a blanket on my sofa, accepting medicinal cups of tea from my nursemaid whilst fielding birthday calls and messages. Much Netflix was watched and by the end of the day I was feeling 50% better.

The peace and quiet of the next morning was rudely disturbed at dawn (8am) by a series of sporadic loud explosions. What was this? Deliquent youths getting rid of their New Years Eve fireworks? But hmmm? Deliquent youths aren’t usually up and about so early. I Googled the matter. It seems that we had stubbled on something, again completely by accident. Although Christmas Day is fairly low key in Spain, it seems that the 5th Jan is a bloody big deal. This is ‘El Día de Reyes’ or Three Kings Day. The day is spent in preparation for a big festival and parade in the evening, with effigies of the Three Kings being mounted on floats or carried through the streets. Large crowds come out and celebrate, with a special round cake containing a hidden suprise being traditionally served. Sweets are thrown to the children and there is much excitement. It is this evening when gifts are exchanged and then the 6th Jan, or Epiphany, is celebrated quietly as a family holiday. It transpired, according to my Google investigations, that although the biggest parades are in the big cities around the country, there are some excellent and noteable parades in some of the smaller towns and villages. Top of that list? Yup. Santillana del Mar. No wonder the campsite was a bit busier! By the evening I was feeling much better and we went out to investigate. Here they tell the ‘Story of Christmas’ by way of a walking play, where scenes are played out by costumed actors in various scenic locations in and around the very beautiful streets of the village. The crowd follows the action, itself becoming the parade for the inital part of the celebrations.

Later there were some firework flurries, interdispersed with announcements and proclimations over the public address system, none of which we could understand, of course. We stood amongst the masses, all in good spirits, all responsibly and politely drinking small beers and wines on the streets and in the square. (It’s rare to see public drunkeness in Spain). Nick had a few beers, but I didn’t feel like it. What I did have the taste for was churros and hot chocolate, which was delicious and perfect for the moment.

In true Spanish style the parade proper wasn’t scheduled until ‘later’ and we had no idea what time that might be. It was by now 9pm and there was no sign of it. More rain was imminant and it was cold. I was flagging. We headed home having had a lovely few hours and not too sad to be missing the main event. Ten minutes later is started pouring and didn’t stop for 36 hours. Good decision by us.

After another day of looking at, and listening to, the rain (and bouts of hail) out of the window we headed off. Nick had heard about a place in the hills near the village of Galdames in Basque Country where a chap who lives in Concejuelo Castle on a hill has an impressive private Rolls Royce collection. It is reportedly the only complete collection in Europe of all the Rolls Royce models manufactured between 1910 and 1990, as well as dozens of other classic cars. It is housed in several outbuildings on his property and is open to the public every Sunday and public holiday. We had timed the journey to be here on a Sunday, and set off into the hills to find it. We knew where the castle was, but we approached it from the wrong direction and the roads weren’t passable for us, so we had to ars* about for a bit to find the right road, which was still awful. Finally, after much swearing (not by me) about the poor navigation (apparently by me), we arrived and went in. For a private collection it was pretty amazing. We ooh-ed and aah-ed, agreed it had definitely been worth the stress of getting there, and left by the correct route.

We had one more solo camping experience in a non-descript town in a steep sided valley called Balmesada which actually was quite pretty. It sat on the banks of a river, which after all the recent rain, was a raging torrent. Our camp was a dedicated municipal campervan park in the shadow of a newly built, large and imposing Old Age Care facility. Not the prettiest building, but at least the neighbours were quiet. The park was electronically controlled with a barrier and cost the outrageous sum of €2. No wonder everyone else was boycotting it. Far too expensive!

Next stop, Bilbao. We love being able to stop within striking distance of a world renown city, whether that be on foot, by bike or on a bus. Bilbao didn’t disappoint. Our options for camping close to the city were limited, but we found quite a spectacular spot. It was high on the hill to the west of the city and had the most amazing view down onto the centre.

It was an easy, gravity powered walk into the city, down a rabbit warren of steps through a residential neighbourhood, and there was a regular bus service to get us home. We, of course, had plans to visit the Guggenheim and had luckily been organised enough to pre-book our entry tickets a few weeks earlier. We spent some shoe-leather here too, exploring front streets, back streets, the riverside walk, the funnicular up the hill on the opposite side of the city, and down again.

One evening we treated ourselves to one last nice meal in a restaurant called Victor Montes, where allegedly Ernest Hemmingway had eaten once, (that chap really got around) and on the other evening we found a welcoming and cozy bar where we had enough plates pintxos to warrant it being called a dinner – which is not really what it’s designed for.

Of course the jewel in Bilbao’s crown is the Guggenheim. One could forget that it was actually built to house modern art collections, as it really is the most spectacular piece of art in its own right. Its shape and form change as you walk around it and its surface changes as the sun appears or disappears from the clouds. It is a marvel. As with most modern art galleries, Nick and I are not shy in mocking/critiquing pieces we perceive as lame, or giggling at the pretentious, self-important description cards that are mostly word salads. There was a good Picasso exhibition and an amazing installation of massive, weathered steel pieces called Matter of Time by Richard Serra which must be permenant because there is no way they’re coming out of there!

Bilbao was our final stop and a great place to finish this trip. After two nights here we retraced our steps to Santander to catch our ferry to the UK. We had a quick stop in Lidl again to stock up on vermouth, the small cans of olives with the anchovies stuffed into them and Serrano ham and then headed to the port. Here was the first test of our New Zealand passports giving us extended time in Europe over and above our 90 day Schengen allowance. We had been in Europe for 112 days. I was armed with a copy of the paperwork in both Spanish and in English, an acurrate record of our dates in each country, and proof by way of bank transaction statements. Not an eyebrow was raised nor a question asked. Our border officer just stamped our passports and waived us through. Easy as that.

Our crossing was 29 hours across the Bay of Biscay in stormy January. I don’t sail well. I love the sea, but it hates me. I was prepared for it to be awful. We had booked an outside cabin so I could see the horizon. I had purchased some sea sickness tablets (which turned out to be medicated chewing gum – perhaps Google translate didn’t work as well as I’d thought) and I avoided having an alcoholic drink at dinner. In the end it was bizarrely flat calm and I felt perfectly fine. The ferry was brand new and only one third full. It had a lovely top sundeck but an icy wind precluded any significant perambulations. We amused ourselves with a few meals, watching our individual downloaded movies and sleep. It was a very civilised way get back to the UK. Until we got back to the UK, that is. It took an hour and a half to disembark and get through immigration at Portsmouth. Every van and camper was having to open up and be checked for stowaways. Border Force obviously don’t think you can stuff a few illegal immigrants into the back of a Range Rover. We finally got underway at 10.30pm and decided to make a push for my parents’ house. Many road closures and diversions later we finally rolled onto their place at 3am, where we crashed (in a sleep way, not a collision way). We had made it.

Our first trip in Davide had been a success. It is hard not to compare Davide and Europe to Big Dave and Tin Can in the USA. What Europe lacks in its wilderness and epic roads it makes up for with its history, ancient buildings and the quality of its food. Travelling in Davide felt easier, but we had exchanged certain compromises for others. We learnt our own work arounds to these as we met them. We did far more ‘free camping’ and campsites were alot cheaper in Europe, but the facilities were far more basic. Language is always going to be an issue when travelling. I tried hard to learn some basic Portuguese and Spanish to add to my moderate French, but its never the same as being able to communicate in a mother tongue. Even if our ‘English’ can sometimes feel quite removed from ‘American’

So now, after three and a half months of catching up with family and friends in the UK and Australia we are just about to set off again. Spring nearly feels like it has struggled into being and Davide is being repacked and readied to hit the road.

My Dad and Step-Mum, Tina need an honorable mention as they continue to provide us with a base to call home. We could not continue to live our current life without their gracious, and oftentimes bemused, support. We intermittantly occupy space in their home and their lives and we are eternally grateful for putting up with us.

Tin Can Travels will continue, hopefully in a more contemporaneous fashion, during our next adventure. Coming soon!

26th Nov – 16th Dec 2023

This is possibly a record for me. A post spanning nearly three weeks that contains our travels through an entire country. I am now resigned to the fact that I will never be ‘caught up’ with my writing, but that it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. I shall endeavour to stop worrying about it.

So Portugal. Another place which neither of us had ever been to before and another language of which we knew nothing. One could assume that as Portugal shares its entire mainland border with Spain that the languages would be very similar, but it transpires that Portuguese is based on Russian. Or at least that is what it sounds like. Duolingo helped us with a few basics, although even after three weeks of learning and being here, deciphering spoken Portuguese is still a complete enigma. My favourite word learned thusfar is “Oi”, which means “Hi”. How jolly, whilst sounding rude if you shout it loudly in an East End of London accent, and “Tchau” is “Bye”. Pronounced exactly like the Italian “Ciao”, but meaning entirely the opposite. I will never be a polyglot. It’s too confusing.

We left Seville, and Spain, and headed west into southern Portugal’s Algarve region. The border was a complete non-event, as is the norm in the Schengen Area and the Spanish motorway joined seemlessly with the Portuguese system delivering us to our first problem. An electronic toll system. This is camera controlled, number plate recognition cameras identify the vehicles and the tolls are debited from credit cards which are linked to the vehicles. If you had any idea prior to hitting the toll that this needed doing. Which we did not. There was helpfully a pull off for ‘foreign registered vehicles’, but none of our cards worked in the machines (because we hadn’t pre-registered online) and there were no humans to ask. The little ‘help’ button was entirely unsuccessful in summoning assistance on the intercom and there was a queue building up behind us. What to do? Well there was also a lack of a barrier so we just drove onto the motorway and onto our first stop, Tavira. I figured that we could sort this out later*.

* Later: It has taken over three weeks, several emails, and a couple of online registrations but I have finally paid our €11.57 toll debt. The Portuguese motorway toll system is bonkers. There are about four different companies that manage roads in the different areas. Some are electronic tolls, some are pull-a-ticket as you join the road and pay at the end of your journey, some are a set price at the entry to the road. I finally found out which company managed our road and it took three weeks for the debt to appear online, but was then easily paid off without penalty. There are another couple of e-tolls pending, but now I have a handle on the system and have stopped stressing about being fined.

Anyway, back to Tavira. This is, at this time of year, a sleepy fishing town located in the eastern Algarve. In the summer I imagine a mecca for sunseekers not seeking high rises. It sits behind a long barrier island,’Ilha de Tavira’, giving it an inland waterway and there is an expanse of wetlands between it and a huge length of Atlantic beach on the island which is a only short ferry hop from town. We pulled up at our park in Tavira and quickly found Dave and Sarah, who appeared in the Jerez and Seville post, sitting outside their van in the sun. There was a space next to them, but we didn’t want to (literally) cast any shade on their day so we parked up nearby, within shouting distance if we had been vulgar enough. The whole park was situated right next to a train track and trains passed by about once an hour at great speed. Our spot was so close to the tracks that Davide even did a little shimmy in the turbulant pressure wave of air. The trains didn’t run between 11pm and 6am, but it did mean a slightly earlier wake up time that we are used to. “If the vans’s a’rockin’, then it must be the 06:03 from Seville to Faro….”

We did six things of note in Tavira.

1). We took the ferry out to the island. There were numerous bars and restaurants, bungalows and beach clubs but all but one bar and one restaurant were closed on this winter Monday. We could imagine just how manic this place must be in high season. Today it was very chilled out. We wandered up the beach, picnic packed and almost had the place to ourselves. It was lovely and sunny and reports of tolerated nudism were confirmed as we spied a couple up ahead, playing ‘catch’ in the buff. Why do nudists alway have to be doing something contrived whilst nude? It’s never enough just to be sitting or sunbathing. And when was the last time you saw a clothed late middle aged couple throwing a ball back and forth? That is the sole domain of the young or sports teams in training. They were obviously not fully committed to their nakedness as our approach prompted them to retreat and cover up. We walked, we ate our picnic lunch (always a ham and cheese sandwich with mayo and mustard, some crisps and an apple) and then headed back to civilisation where we killed time until the return ferry with a very welcome beer at the beach bar. Bliss.

2). We got haircuts. A randomly selected hairdresser called Nella did a very fine job of making us look presentable again. She was an ebullient, sixty year old, biker chick whose english was excellent after living in the USA for many years. We saw many photos of her motorbike and swapped stories about America. She was appreciative of our efforts to say our ‘please and thank yous’ in Portuguese, taught us a few new words and gave us advice on other places to visit. What a gem.

3). We cycled up to the neighbouring village called Santa Luiza, the (possibly self-proclaimed) world capital of octopus fishing. It was pretty quiet but we did find a restaurant open to serve us a couple of incarnations of octupus based meals. I had a very respectable octopus risotto and Nick had Octopus ‘peasant style’, which was that sightly offputting offering of whole grilled tentacles. Delicious nonetheless.

4). 5). and 6). We finally sat down with Dave and Sarah with some pre-dinner drinks and snacks each of the three evenings that we were here. We spent hours sitting at a picnic table close to their van, chatting, creating a reasonable amount of bottle recycling and doing damage to many types of salty snack and processed carbohydrate. The conversation was diverse and constant and we sat out until the time for ‘dinner’ had, in truth, passed, but borderline hypothermia, and a realisation that everyone else on the park was inside and probably starting to get annoyed with our noise levels, put a halt to the party each evening. They were/are very good company.

Our onward journey from here took us west through the Algarve. We bypassed the conurbations of Faro, Albuferia and Lagos and headed to the small town of Sagres which sits at the most southwestern tip of Portugal, and indeed mainland Europe. Our campsite, another massive, wooded and sandy, but out of season, sleepy place was on the outskirts of town, an easy bike ride away. We were now in surfing territory and most of the other campers were in small vans adorned with surfboards and drying wetsuits. A huge section of the campsite was obviously given over to housing a surf camp in season and the toilet/shower blocks were enormous. There are downsides to travelling in the winter, but peace and quiet, not battling for camping space and the absence of crowds are not amongst them.

Sagres itself was quite charming, in a Portuguese sort of fashion. In a similar way to Spain, the Portugal that we saw was light on beautifully preserved, picturesque, and historic, architecture and settlements. (Unlike France.) There are definitely handsome features and some beautiful aspects of places, but the overall effect is one of utility and functionality. (Unlike France). Sagres had a large marina/fishing port, a beautiful beach, and a few older buildings, and even its own beer, but its strength is its location.

It sits near to the end of a cliff-top penninsula that hosts a lighthouse, a fort and some spectacular sea views. The fort is unusual in that it only required the building of one wall across the narrow end of the pennisula to be defendable. Job done. Not far from Sagres is another penninsula hosting another lighthouse, Cabo de São Vincente, and this provided us with a perfect destination for a cliff-top coastal path walk. The forecast was good, the picnic was packed and we sauntered off on the 15km round trip. It was a beautiful walk only moderately dampened by a sudden but brief downpour. We could see it coming and had donned our waterproof coats just in time, but we had absolutely no hope of seeking shelter. For a few of the heaviest minutes of rain we stood with our backs to the weather like a couple of wild moorland ponies. Nick’s sartorial choice of a pair of cotton shorts suddenly seemed like sheer folly as they instantly absorbed their own weight in cold rainwater and stuck to his legs, never destined to dry out for the remainder of the walk. Luckily the rain didn’t last long and spirits quickly improved back to pre-rain levels. We arrived at the lighthouse complex to find it shut, despite there being a fair few people around. There is an inescapable draw to places like this, which for us included the potential for a hot drink and a place to have a pee. But t’was not to be. We found a sheltered spot in the sun to warm up and had our lunch (the usual), before walking home again with a tiny detour behind a discrete rock.

By the time we got back to camp we had been joined by a couple of familiar faces. It was bloody Dave and Sarah again! They had had one night in Lagos on the way, but otherwise this was our fourth consecutive camp-in-common with them. It had been decided that we should all go out for dinner and they had booked a table in a local restaurant earlier in the day. Washed and dressed we walked the 1km into town and found the place, which was otherwise empty all evening apart from us. Booking perhaps not necessary in retrospect. Our host spoke good English and we all decided to get the local delicacy, fish stew, a hearty pot of vegetables, potatoes and hunks of random fish like eel and ray. It was delicious, the wine was ridiculously cheap and we were still sat there nattering three hours later, the staff patiently waiting for us to go home. So we went home. The next morning we said our final goodbyes to our new friends as our paths were to diverge from here. They were heading inland back towards Spain and we were continuing our coast route. We shall meet again somewhere!

From here our trajectory was northwards, up along the Portugal coast. Late November was still delivering us sunshine and warmth, with temperatures in the late teens, but on the whole it was getting gradually cooler and darker. Most travellers head south and stay south at this time of year. We felt like we were going a bit against the flow. Our next journey took us along some smaller, undulating roads that wound through small coastal and slightly inland towns and villages and we pulled in at a randomly selected town called Vila Nova De Mifontes. This was another lovely small town that was blessed withan amazing location. It is situated at the end of an estuary and had a couple of lovely yellow sandy beaches along the sheltered tidal inlet, a low headland overlooking the bar, a sandy beach on the ocean side with lots of interesting rocky areas and a coastal path. It was delightful. We had planned two nights here, but a good campsite, a nice town, places to walk and some intermittant rainy weather led us to extend our stay to four nights. Easy come, easy go.

Finally we extracted ourselves from the peace and quiet of Vila Nova and continued north to Lisbon. This involved more toll roads, but the simpler, non e-toll version. The final toll was for the bridge to get to the city. This looked like a mini Golden Gate Bridge, and coupled with Lisbon’s hills and waterfront made it feel like a small version of San Fransisco. There were no obvious formal campsites close to Lisbon with good transport links to the city, so we decided to go for a free park-up option. We use an app called Park4Night which lists pretty much all formal campsites, loads of free-camp sites and lots of services like water/waste sites and laundry. Staying outside a formal campsite gives us a lot more to consider when picking a spot. Is it safe for the van when we are away from it? Is it safe for us overnight? Is it going to be noisy? Are we going to get a door knock in the night to move us on? Can we easily access the places we want to go? The app has tons of information, up to date reviews and good maps, so is really useful in helping us make a decision. So we earmarked a recommended car park to the west of Lisbon old town area and headed there for a planned two nights. The water was topped up, the waste tanks empty and the batteries full. The massive car park was free, level, well lit, a five minute walk from a train station, right on the waterfront and already had a few motorhomes in residence. It all looked very promising. We were staying. We had a spot of lunch and headed to the station to catch a train to the city. Procuring a ticket for the 11 minute train ride took a bit of detective work. There were no discernible ticket machines on the platform or in the underpass to the station, only a machine to reload credit onto pre-bought tickets, so having asked at a tabacco kiosk we discovered that the tickets were sold outside the station on the other side to the direction that we had entered. We had to buy the re-useable tickets and guess how many trips we were going to take to get the right amount of credit loaded on. This was a bit faffy. We made it back to the platform just in time for the next train and were soon in the city. It was another lovely sunny day and perfect for another city mooch-athon. Lisbon is suprisingly hilly. All things worth seeing or visiting involve some serious altitude gain, not least the castle atop the highest of the hills. For this purpose Lisbon has a series of elevators, funiculars and rickety hill-climbing trams that take some of the pain out of the ascents. Many of these are tourist destinations in their own rights and we began our tour by setting out to see the prettiest of them all, the Ascensor Da Bica. It was shut for 2 weeks for renovations. Hmmmff. Winter travel woe.

Next we put our heads into the Time Out Market, in the Mercado de Ribeira, a huge food hall. This was buzzing with dozens of restaurants and a few thousand eaters and drinkers. We did a lap and decided to come back for lunch the next day. Our wanderings, up hill and down dale, were pointed in the direction of the Castle from here and at one point we considered catching one of the historic yellow trams up some of the steeper streets. But no. Each one was packed with tourists. We continued on, cardiovascular workout ongoing. Back at low altitude we discovered a pedestrianised shopping street which had Lisbon’s answer to the Arc De Triomphe at one end and a Christmas market at the other. Half way up this road was another of the noteable elevators, Elevador De Santa Justa, a 45 m tall, free standing, neo-gothic tower.

It was packed with folk going back up the hill we had just come down, and we were now headed up a different hill so we admired it from afar. Our ascent up to the castle was assisted by a couple of more mundane and conventional lifts. You know, the kind that you find in an office building or a multi storey car park. Utilitarian and not worthy of a photograph. The castle itself was a sprawling and mostly ruined affair that was suprisingly busy despite the moderately high price tag for a visit. It did, however, have splendid views and as the sun was starting to set it became more and more apparent why so many folk had schlepped up here. It was hard to tear ourselves away.

Back down at more normal street level we accidentally happened upon one of Lisbon’s most treasured food secrets, As Bifanas Del Alfonso. This is a unprepossessing food kiosk situated on a small square that, despite displaying a menu with a range of several different items serves mostly only two things: bifanas and beer. The beloved bifana is simple and delicious. A modest sized bun stuffed with juicy grilled or pulled pork. That’s it. Can be accompanied with a squirt of mustard or chilli oil to taste. The beer is cold and nameless and served in plastic. All is eaten out of paper whilst standing on the street corner, or seated at one of the coveted benches in the square, or using a nearby post box as a leaner table. There is always a queue and its sales transcend conventional meal times. It was about 5pm when we collided with this sight for sore eyes and decided that we needed a bifana appetiser and beer apperitif. We were not wrong! Whilst standing and (lightly) filling our faces (with half a bifana each- this was only a snack after all) we got chatting to a couple of young American lads who were both living and working in Lisbon. They gave us a ‘local’ recommendation for a restaurant for dinner and despite it being a half an hour walk away, we booked it there and then for later on that evening. We filled the interim few hours with a wander through the streets lit with some amazing festive lights, a walk through the aforementioned Christmas market accompanied by the obligatory cup of ‘hot wine’, and half an hour in a very bizzare ‘speakeasy’ style cocktail bar. The restaurant was an excellent recommendation and we sampled a selection of dishes, the most noteable of which was hunks of slow cooked piglet. Just divine. Our trip home via feet and train was unremarkable and we had a quiet night’s sleep.

The next day rain was forecast so we headed out mid-morning to try and get ahead of it. We donned coats and our most water resistant shoes and set off on foot, heading along the waterfront to see some sights before jumping on the train at the next station down the line. There was the Tower of Belem, an ornate limestone tower completed in 1520 as part of the fortification of Lisbon harbour. It survived the great earthquake of 1755, has been restored many times, and is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

There was a monument called Padrão dos Descobrimentos, dedicated to the 15th and 16th C Age of Discovery when the Portuguese were having their hay day as a nation and pretty busy setting sail and exploring the New World.

There was the Jerónimos Monastery, an impressive late-Gothic behemouth which was completed in 1601 and has been the burial place of many royals and famed as the place Vasco da Gama spent the night before setting off on his expedition to the Orient, thus making it a fancy sort of airport Travel Lodge. By the time we got here the rain had caught up with us and it was tipping down. This really has been the first time that we have been truely rained upon on this whole trip. Not bad for ten weeks of Autumn.

There was an enormously long, wet and miserable looking queue of people waiting to get into the Monastery, so we kept a’walkin’ to our next destination, the Pastéis de Belém. At this bakery they apparently make the finest iteration of Portugal’s most beloved pastry, the pastel de nata, a small filo pastry filled egg and custard tart. Legend has it that these were first baked by the monks at the nearby monastery, but when it was closed in 1834 a baker monk set up business on the outside and a cultural icon was launched. We found the shop, which had another four zillion soggy tourists waiting to purchase tarts and so walked on past that long, rain soaked queue too. There would be other pastel de nata. Soon we reached our train station and were quickly whisked back into the city on the next train, by which time thankfully, the rain was abating.

By now it was midday and we were down a snack. Through the gloom of the grey skies and wet pavements shone a beacon of hospitality, Casa Portuguesa do Pastel de Bacalhau. Maybe it was the warm orange lighting. Maybe it was the blown up photos of their only foodstuff for sale- a lozenge shaped, melted cheese filled, cod fishcake. Maybe it was the display cabinets full of glasses of beer. Whatever it was, we were in there faster than scalded cats and spent a very satisfactory hour with a beer and fishcake each whilst drying out. First lunch.

From here we explored back streets and dodged showers whilst taking in more recommended sights. There was Livraria Betrand, ‘the world’s oldest bookshop still in operation’, opened in 1732. (Unremarkable). There was Conserveira de Lisboa, apparently the best place in the world to buy tinned fish. This started as a small grocery store in the 1930s and is now a multigenerational family business run from the same shop. Portugal and especially Lisbon has a love affair with tinned fish, and this place is a great example of the many shops that sell it. The cans from here had some great retro styling and the four tins that we bought were loving wrapped up in paper and string. The owner gave us a suggestion for the can of pickled sardines we bought: in a brown bread sandwich with gorgonzola and endive. (Remarkable) We nipped into a shopping centre just as the heavens opened again and killed some time waiting for the rain to pass. Considering it was only two weeks until Christmas in the heart of a capital city it was remarkably relaxed and completely missing the urgency and frenetic spending of this time of year in the UK.

We continued our amblings through the old streets and up and down hills until we decided that it was time for second lunch, and we returned to the big Time Out food court. Our quest to find a restaurant that served food that we wanted was easy. The quest to find a couple of free chairs at a table at which to eat it, impossible. The place was heaving!! The people of Lisbon are not wasting their free time Christmas shopping. They are out eating and drinking. Even at 3pm on a Thursday. We finally found a spot to eat at the bar of a seafood restaurant and had a lunch that could be generously described as satisfactory. It is disappointing to not experience great food when it is all around. Some you win, some you lose. We consoled ourselves with the purchase of a six-pack of pastel de nata from a bakery here. Can confirm: delicious.

That night in the carpark was not so quiet and restful. Early evening was punctuated with multiple cars pulling in, being met by the same black Mercedes saloon car which parked right next to them and exchanges through open windows. Hmmm. In the middle of the night we were woken by loud voices coming from two cars parked up not far from us. There were doors opening and closing, girls and boys getting in and out of the back seats and clouds of smoke coming out of the windows. Hmmmm. At least they weren’t playing loud music and they kept to themselves. Still leaves us on edge though even though we are locked and alarmed and this is why we prefer to stay in designated campsites. In the morning, quite amusingly, we were roused by the close parking of a different sort of visitor altogether. Some military police vehicles. Not sure where they were going or what they were off to do, but quite literally, Lisbon had sent the cavalry…..

We bade farewell to Lisbon and travelled an entire 30 minutes to the nearby town on Sintra. This is another UNESCO World Heritage Site town situated in the hills to the northwest of the capital. In the past its cooler summer weather attracted the wealthy who built a series of impressive and scenic palaces on and around the jagged hillsides here and it also boasts the remains of a Moorish castle. These landmarks, and its close proximity to Lisbon makes it a perfect destination for day trippers, thus rendering it unbearably busy for most of the year. Were hoping that not to be the case in early December. There was a complete lack of formal campsites here and so we set off to the park-up spot with the best reviews and the fewest reports of van break-ins, the carpark of the the town’s justice centre and court complex. This was constructed atop a hill about 2km from the town centre and was a monolithic, brutalist concrete structure surrounded by a wall. It was a public holiday Friday, so the place was deserted save for three other campervans and a single car that presumably belonged to the building’s lone, out-of-hours security guard. It felt like a modern type of fortress and had some great views of the town and surrounding countryside. We felt that we would be quite happy and safe here for twenty four hours.

Once settled we had a late breakfast and then headed into town. The closer we got, the busier it became and we were glad to have found our quiet parking spot. The town is arranged on a series of hills and we spent the whole day either walking up or down fairly significant gradients.

There were some palaces and houses to potentially see inside around the town, but we opted instead to loose the crowds and take the walking route up to the summits of two nearby hills to see both the Moorish castle and the whimsical Palácio de Pena (of which we got no good photos) We finally reached the top and popped out of the wooded path, moderately hot and sweaty, looking forward to visiting the Palace. But horror. A queue of about 200 people waiting to get in. The very efficient system of buses and a fleet of tuk-tuks meant that access to the top of the hill is easy, and thus popular. We, as usual when confronted with a large crowd like this, walked away. Our trip down the hill seemed to bypass the route to the Moorish castle, so we missed visiting this too. Oh well. Back in the old town we explored the narrow streets a bit more before heading back to Davide. By now we had the place to ourselves. Our own private Idaho. On the way home I had come across a perfect little van-sized festive, tree-substitute decoration. A cactus in a hat with googly eyes and a beard. Christmas personified. He was promptly named ‘Sintra Claus’ and continues to accompany us on our Iberian travels.

Where next? Nazaré. Home of big wave surfing. Here, on Playa del Norte, is one of the biggest surf breaks in the world and the location for 7 of the 10 biggest waves ever surfed. These big waves only occur during the winter storm season and although neither of us are surfers, we felt this place warranted a stop on our coastal tour. Nazaré itself is a small fishing town that has mostly been spared the horrors of mass tourism and the ugly overdevelopment that this brings. It has three areas: the beachside settlement, Praia, the upper clifftop pennisula settlement, Sitio and Pedermeria, which sits on a hillside inland of Praia. Our camp was on the inland side of Pedermeria. The big wave forms due to a deep underwater canyon that runs up to Playa del Norte, on the north side of the Sitio headland. The canyon increases and converges the incoming ocean swell which, in conjunction with the local water current, dramatically enlarges wave heights. The wide sandy beach to the south of the headland is not exposed to this, so is safe and sheltered from the monster surf. We walked from camp, up the hill and through Pedermeria, then down again to Praia. We knew that there was a funnicular railway that then linked the beach with the elevation of Sitio up on the headland. But. It. Was. Shut. For. Winter. Repairs……Story of our lives! So back uphill we went again, trudging up the nearby staircase, with my disgruntled companion grumbling that we could have maintained altitude and avoided all this miserable climbing. Apparently the funnicular being shut was my fault.

As there was not a winter storm currently, or recently in progress, the surf was a mere 5m in height. Compare this to the 25-30m that this break can potentially produce. The world record for the biggest wave ever surfed is held by a German surfer called Sebastian Steudtner who, in October 2020 rode a wave which was measured at 26.2 m. The headland provides an excellent view point to watch the surfers and its photogenic lighthouse has provided the foreground for many an iconic ‘big wave’ photograph. We weren’t alone in our pilgrimage to the point. There were about ten – fifteen surfers out whilst we were watching. Most of them were using jet skis to be towed in, but every now and then a surfer would catch a wave under their own steam, causing a huge cheer from the headland. There can’t be many surf breaks in the world where surfers can get this sort of audible crowd support of their skills. Today Nazaré was benign but still impressive. A brief look at some You Tube clips can show its other side and demonstrate the bravery/craziness of big wave surfers.

Here is a photo from the internet for some idea of how big the waves can be:

We continued our meanderings, heading back down the steps to the beach and hunting out a restaurant for lunch, which was an excellent offering of fish, then yomped back up over the hill to get home. The next day, to break up the hours spent not walking up hills, we walked up another hill. This was a rocky lump close to the campsite which had a fire lookout tower and a chapel at the top. After our short, sharp ascent we arrived at the top, then came down again, thus justifying the ongoing idleness for the rest of the day.

Our next stop was planned to be Porto, but the up coming weather forecast was for 24 hours of rain on and off which had the potential to be heavy. Our soggy day around Lisbon had taught us that exploring a city is much more fun in the sunshine so we decided to delay our arrival there by a day. We headed northwards and stopped at at town called Averio, the ‘Venice of Portugal’, camping in a free designated motorhome area in a carpark near the station and a supermarket. It certainly did rain cats and dogs for several hours, with a respite long enough for a walk into town. There is a small network of canals here, and even on a bleak, damp, winters day one can take a gondala ride. This appeared to be a trifle different from the romantic experience of being gently punted along the canals of actual Venice as we observed several boatloads of tourists clad in disposable ponchos being whisked about in noisy diesel powered gondala-style vessels that were moving so fast that they were nearly up on the plane.

After a suprisingly quiet and undisturbed night’s sleep we continued north to Porto. Here we were staying in a beach-front campsite just south of the city in a residential suburb populated with new looking appartment blocks and plenty of beach cafes. There was a waterfront cycle lane from here all the way to the city, which was about 7km away, a very easy and scenic way to go sightseeing. The old town area of Porto is perhaps the prettiest city on our travels so far. It too is perched on a hillside, tumbling down to the Douro river. It faces south, bathing it in winter sunshine. Across the river gorge is Gaia, another hillside settlement which faces its more well known sibling from the afternoon shade of its north facing cliffs, the two places being linked by a series of impressive bridges. They say that the two best things about Gaia are the view of Porto and its Port Wine, for that is what this place is famous for after all.

Port wine, the fortified sweet wine crafted from Douro wine and brandy, so beloved (and probably invented) by the British all comes from Gaia, not Porto. The big Port houses all located themselves on this side of the river to avoid paying high city taxes and their product is ‘Port Wine’. ‘Oporto’ is the similar product from the city itself. Here one can do Port tastings at any number of Port houses and this is, of course, what we were here for! We chose a house called Kopke, the oldest of them all, and sampled a variety of white, ruby and tawny Ports. They were all delicious, but the most delicious was a tawny that we would have bought a bottle of it it wasn’t €150 per bottle. We bought a €50 bottle of a really interesting white Port instead.

In the golden light of the fading day Porto really did look beautiful from the vantage point of the rooftop terrace bar where we had a cocktail after our tasting, but once shade fell upon us it got pretty cold pretty fast and we remounted the bikes and beetled home, shivering.

The next day we retraced our steps/tyre tracks and having locked the bikes up on the Gaia side of the bridge, headed over to Porto itself. It was a delightful melange of riverside promenade and market, narrow old streets, interesting shops and businesses, old churches, and historical municipal buildings. Less delightful were the steep streets, but we are now in improved physical condition after a few weeks of Portuguese urban mountaineering. There were a few things that we actively sought out on our day in the city. First of these was the Lello bookshop, a small but magnificent establishment was built in 1906 and is considered one of the most beautiful bookshops in the world. It has many beautiful elements, most notably the huge central, ornately carved staircase that dominates the space.

JK Rowling, who once lived in Porto, is said to have based the bookshop in Harry Potter, Flourish and Blotts, on this place. These factors make it very popular and you have to buy tickets to get in. The cost of these can be used as a credit against any book bought,which we used. Quite a genius way of managing the situation, I think.

We made sure to swing by the main railway station building, the foyer of which is decorated with impressive tiles and frescos and we also popped into the city centre Mcdonalds. This is housed in an Art Deco builing and boasts chandeliers, ornate ceilings and stained glass, not to mention the old Imperial Eagle adorning the front door. Fancy.

For lunch we had to sample the iconic dish of Porto, the Francesinha.

“What is that?” I hear you ask. Well, and I quote directly from Wikipedia here:

A Francesinha meaning little French woman^[1][2]) is a Portuguese sandwich, originally from Porto, made with layers of toasted bread and assorted hot meats such as roast, steak, wet-cured ham, linguiça, or chipolata over which sliced cheese is melted by the ladling of a near-boiling tomato-and-beer sauce called molho de francesinha [pt].^[1] It is typically served with french fries.

Now that you are all fully educated on the nature of a Francesinha and that as most of you know my husband either very well, or fairly well, you will realise that there was no way that we were leaving this town without sampling one. This is literally his spirit sandwich. And he is a sandwich man. He did his research (ie asking the lady that hosted our Port tasting) where was the best place in town to get one and there we went. This place, Brasâo Aliados, even added a fried egg to the top of theirs. He could barely contain himself. When we arrived the place was packed (always a good sign) and there was no plate being served that wasn’t containing a Francesinha. They helpfully served half portions for the less ravenous and we can confirm that they are delicious. It’s not gluttony, it’s a cultural experience. We wandered back to our bikes, only briefly distracted by a sunset drink at a riverside bar on the Porto side, joining the masses that had congregated along the river frontage to see the sun disappear behind the Gaia hill, and then had another chilly trip home. Old Porto was gorgeous and we would definitely return.

So that concludes out Portuguese travels. How do we feel about this country after spending nearly three weeks here?

The language is odd. I have learnt a few words and phrases and probably at this point know as much Portuguese as Spanish, but I think I will concentrate on the Spanish from here, it will be more useful in the long run. Otherwise I will confuse myself! Luckily for us basic English is quite widely spoken here.

The people are low key and seem, in general, to be quite private and introverted, saving their energy for friends and family, rather than striking up conversations with random, blithering, Portuguese language-murdering tourists. As a nation they seem content to have moved on from their world domination and colonisation years and delightfully seem to lack any sort of collective hyper ego of delusions of importance.

What a coastline! We haven’t explored inland Portugal to any degree, but this country was at the front of the line when the beautiful beaches were being distibuted. I don’t envy southern Europe its blisteringly hot summers, but the cool sea breezes apparently make this a rather pleasant place to be when the rest of the region is baking, and Autumn here has been amazing.

These people go out to eat, drink and socialise as much, if not more, than the Spanish. True story.

Shopping does not appear to be a recreational activity here. Even on the run up to Christmas. They also do not have a greeting card culture. We hunted high and low for a card to send a friend but they don’t exist.

With the occasional exception the architecture is also very utilitarian here and nothing to write home about. Even if you could find a blessed notelet on which to do that.

Back to Spain we go.