Day Thirty Four

Day Thirty Four

Spain: Madrid

Spain: Analucia

Thursday 7th August

Meltdown!

We were on the move again quell surprise, heading back over to my parents villa in Andalucía.  At least that was our plan.  Priscilla on the other hand had ideas of her own. 

It was a blisteringly hot day, as we hit the road to cover the distance between Madrid and my parent’s place,.  We learnt later it had been the hottest day of the year, in that part of Spain.  Itt was to cause an almost irrecoverable effect on the adventures of Priscilla, Queen of Europe.

We thundered along the motorway needing every ounce of aircon Priscilla could muster.  Nearing Murcia, about 150km from my parent’s villa, disaster struck.  Priscilla had journeyed over 11,000 kilometres in the last 34 days, it was a burden too heavy for her to carry, she collapsed under the strain.  The heat was all too much for this Japanese geisha from northern Japan, that I’d fondly nick named Priscilla.  Her engine temperature suddenly shot skywards, I managed another 80 kilometres with massive engine temperature variations before Priscilla called time and collapsed, exhausted from the journey and heat, her engine temperature went awall, I swerved off the auto route as we passed an exit pulling into the nearest safe spot to investigate.

Hurling open Priscilla’s bonnet, I was greeted to a hissy fit of boiling vapours,  screeching out of her radiator, engine coolant leaching its way through the system, gurgling and spitting onto the road below.  Priscilla had called time on these adventures and I needed international rescue.

What I was to encounter over the next few hours would provide the sub text for a whole book, let alone my little ol blog.  But to try and be brief the narrative consisted of; blistering temperatures beyond belief; A George Michael looky likey, undercover as a breakdown assistance man, with a mission to test out his English on me, non stop; Hours of waiting around whilst my breakdown insurance company worked out what the hell to do in a country that totally shuts down for a whole month of August; Priscilla being precariously towed off one breakdown truck onto another, in the middle of no where. A second breakdown recovery man who spoke only Spanish, smoked lots of cigarettes and had pictures of busty Latinos and the Virgin Mary in his breakdown cab;  Johnathon in lock down mode muted by the magnitude of the situation; the nicest kind of international rescue, my mum and dad.

We finally got to my parents villa about 9pm in the evening, over 6 hours later than Maureen had estimated.  It was a complete relief to be somewhere familiar, homely and safe.  My parents did a sterling job of watering and feeding us as they listened to the Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of Europe.

Where am I?

OK a quick post, i'm home and alive! Priscilla broke down on day 34 - and its all been a bit kinda crazy since then!!!!!!

I've written blog entries but not been able to post them. To add insult to injury my old laptop, I had lugged around Europe, died on me today just as i was about to copy off pictures and the blogs i had written!!!!!

So as soon as i get that laptop in a state i can copy stuff off the hard drive, the adventures of Priscilla Queen of Europe will continue and conclude........I promise.

There was definitely much to write about!!!!

Hugs

Ray
xxx

Day Thirty Three

Spain: Madrid

Wednesday 6th August

Sex in the City.

Another Carrie Bradshaw moment as I’m writing this………! When you’ve been away from a metropolis for an extended period of time, you forget how enticing they can be. We awoke the next morning, what with new a new city to discover, I simply couldn’t wait to get out and about. I don’t know what happens to the tree hugger in me, when I have a new city to explore, but there is something I find totally exhilarating about exploring a new urban environment, at least for a day or 2.

We had the text from Ian saying he had made his flight and polished off a hearty breakfast, Spanish style, before heading out on the metro to explore. Any new metro system is always a challenge to navigate and Madrid was to be no exception. But navigate we did, an unplanned metro line closure had us rambling through the streets of central Madrid. It was hot, but in the shade of the buildings we managed loads of ambling and window shopping, inevitably turning into real shopping as we bagged bargains, in the summer sales.

Madrid has some very interesting architecture, its no match to Barcelona, but I was intrigued by the architectural nuances. We lunched in Placa Mayor eating an uninspiring snack at prices beyond belief, but it was desperately hot but the location made up for it all as we sat shaded from the sun, eating and drinking.

Clearly eating and drinking is a key theme of this trip. I don’t know when I turned into a ‘foodie’, but as I write this blog I realise that hardly a day goes by without food featuring on the daily menu of events. I’m totally comfortable with that, but its kind of creeped up on me un announced as middle earthdom (other wise know as my 30’s). I’m one of those types who are amazed at those people who see food as function and not the individual tasting treat I now view it as.

Time flew by in Placa Mayor as we chatted and people watched. It’s hard to believe this square was once a bull ring, it felt more like St Marks Square, Venice, than another other square I’d visited. I think I was born to sit in squares, drink and chat, I love it! England is seriously lacking in that department. We don’t have that café culture that the rest of Western Europe oozels in abundance. And I could sit in café’s taking in the cultures of the world as a career, if someone would pay me!

Suitably refreshed and watered we headed on through central Madrid reaching the royal palace, stopping for refreshment in a perfectly manicured square by the side of the palace. The café we chose was piping air cooled mist onto the tables below the canopies. Its hard to describe, it’s like outside air conditioning, very dramatic and fabulously cooling to sit under. We glugged on some very tangy long, lemon drinks I had spied the table behind us drinking, my Spanish lessons coming in very handy to get that for us.

Hot and sight seeing weary we headed back to our hotel for siesta. It turned into a mammoth sleep in as I struggled to muster the energy to move myself from the hotel to refuel. They call Madridians, party people and despite not setting out until almost 10pm Madrid was only just awaking. We headed over to the gay quarter, famous for its night life, restaurants, bars and clubs. Our restaurant choice however was packed with no chance of a table, we opted instead for a funky little noodle restaurant.

Now I’ve learnt a long time ago that I can’t combine sight seeing and late night partying which frustrates the hell out of me but I simply can’t do both like I used to. So come 1am I was ready for sleep, despite the fact that Madrid’s night life was pulsing on around us still.

Day Thirty Two

France: L’argentiere to
Spain: Madrid

Tuesday 5th August

Duracell any one?

We were all up early and it wasn’t long before we had packed up Priscilla, showered and ready for our mammoth drive down to Madrid to get Ian to his flight Wednesday morning, as he returned to China.

All eager and raring to go I turned the key to start Priscilla and nothing happened. My heart sunk, I tried again checking that the immobiliser was definitely off. Nothing. Not even a sound. Priscilla was on strike, clearly unhappy about Ian leaving us. She had decided that a trip down to Madrid was not on her agenda today. We all looked at each other in a panic stricken horror. Everyone’s minds racing ahead, will we get Ian to the airport? What would happen now? What about contingency plans? What do we do?

I scrambled off to campsite reception to see if any immediate help might be available before calling the breakdown service. Mr and Mrs Cheveliere, the campsite owners, were up early just taking coffee and croissant in the bar before starting their working day. They kindly explained that the pool man had a 4x4 and could help give us a spark.

It wasn’t long before the pool man arrived, a Scotsman by all accounts. With his engine facing Priscilla jump leads were engaged and a glimmer of hope glistened in my eyes. But Priscilla was having none of it. She wasn’t taking any energy from some casual passer by, oh no not Priscilla!

A phone call later and the breakdown repair truck was on its way, courtesy of my breakdown insurance. Craving my morning fix of caffeine Johnathon and Ian magically appeared with coffee from the café/bar, as if by magic. We talked over the panic that was now sinking into the reality of our situation. A 10 hour non stop drive to Madrid ahead of us and an international flight from Madrid to catch, the clock was ticking and our options very limited. God this was living life on the wire!

The breakdown truck was not too far away and within minutes of pulling up the mechanic had diagnosed that batteries were dead beyond recharge. How they discharged, I’ve no idea. Ian remembers seeing a light on in Priscilla at some point in the middle of the night, but we have no recollections, I can’t sleep with lights on, so it was an unusual scenario, but hey, when your on the road and had a glass of wine or 10, anything’s possible!

The next obstacle to unfold was that the breakdown repair man only had one battery of the type Priscilla needed, in his truck. He needed to travel to the nearest battery stockist to purchase a second. Given the electric gadgets Priscilla has, she needs 2 batteriesa and both were dead. The repair man indicated he would be back at 2pm with a second battery. It was now 9:00am and we were already about over 2 hours behind our schedule, the thought of an additional 5 hour delay was demoralising, beyond belief.

Ian and J went off to connect to the Wifi in the café/bar to review contingency travel plans. There was a possibility of a flight down to Madrid, from somewhere local to us, but it was going to be tough to get Ian there. We decided to hope and pray it was indeed only the battery and that we could be on our way not long after 2pm.

Whilst I blogged in the café bar, DJ watched the rehearsals for the next nights canmp entertainment on stage. (sounds like butlins huh!). The Kylie looky likey, with too much makeup on, was trying to teach some of the campsite staff their dance routines for the next performance. Ian in the meantime sunbathed and swam in the wellness centre, god only knows what was going through his mind, but he did a great job of hiding it all.

We ate some take away lunch together without much being said, all the while keeping a look out for the breakdown recovery truck. As we finished our last mouthfuls, Mr Chevelier came to tell us that the next family had arrived, booked to take our camping spot. It was an embossing moment with Priscilla going no where but with heads held high we jumped on Mr Cheveliers golf cart and scooted back to our pitch just as the assistance company called to say that the batteries had been replaced and the mechanic needed us to test the engine.

He had come back in a kind of buggy car, not the breakdown truck we had been expecting and so had totally missed his arrival. As we jumped out Ian went over to apologise to the family waiting to pitch a caravan and I turned Priscilla’s engine.

With a renewed spark, Priscilla made a fiery growl back into action, to cheers and applause from the campers around us. All systems seemed go, but Priscilla wasn’t happy she made a screeching sound like a slipping fan belt as I pulled away, something that had been getting worse and worse, but seemed to stop when I turned the aircon off. Regardless we thundered onwards to L’argentiere, following our mechanic and his silly little car, as I pulled out the cash to pay for the king’s ransom now required for her new batteries.

We were finally on our way. Maureen was estimating an arrival time in Madrid around Midnight. Ian and I hammered the kilometres, the heat of Spain requiring full aircon, but Priscilla wasn’t happy. Every now and then she would let out a little groan something wasn’t quite right. We relayed the driving; allowing big brother and little brother to catch some sleep, in the back of Priscilla, in-between stints.

The parts of Spain, beyond Barcelona, I was hoping to see, disappeared into the dusk as the Spanish motorways threw their worst at us. French motorways are simply outstanding, English one not so bad, Spanish ones death defying, especially in the dark. It was a full on hellish drive with bends that appeared from no where, the kind you would expect on a minor road and road surfaces that made you wonder if Maureen had taken us off route. What with Priscilla moaning, agonising searches for fuel and the stopwatch ticking away, it was a hellish journey, but one we were all absolutely determined to make.

Around 1am the following morning we pulled up at our hotel by the airport. Fatigue overwhelmed us all, the sense of relief that we might have felt, falling into insignificance against the We said our good nights and goodbyes, Ian booking a taxi shuttle to take him to his flight in 7 hours, but we made it.

Day Thirty One

France: L’argentiere

Monday 4th August

Wellness

We’d planned a day off the sight seeing circuit today to allow us to take in the wellbeing of the wellness centre. So the day was punctuated with lots of sunbathing, swimming, saunas’, Jacuzzi and steam. Add into that mix, ice creams, beer and sparkling wine and it was a recipe for relaxation of the wellness kind.

And well we all did feel. Well that was until it transpired that Johnathon had burnt himself to a lobster consistency. He was literally day glow. It had been gorgeous weather but he hadn't put on the suntan cream, thinking his shirt would protect him, but he'd spent a lot of time in the water without his shirt, lethal, but I’m sounding like Mother Teresa, so I’ll shut up. Needless to say he was to come to regret not slapping on that splosh, for the rest of his holiday.

We all rounded the day off a suntanned glow as we took a final trip that evening to the Auberge for a goodbye meal. It was Ian’s last real night with us as, Tuesday was to be spent travelling to get home to his flight back to China. We were all tucked up in bed fairly early ready for an crack of dawn start the next morning.

Day thirty

France: L’argentiere

Sunday 3rd August

Messing about on the river.

We awoke as early as we could muster and set out with the intention of hiring canoes for the day. We didn’t quite fancy the 32KM route and 8KM didn’t really seem worth it so we eventually found a hire place offering a 14KM stretch. We were to be taken up river at 2pm and in the meantime we were free to Lunch on the beach, exactly what we did.

Swimming in the river to cool off we bucked up the courage to do some more river jumping this time from a higher rock, I took the fist plunge in an unusual rush of courage screeching as I whizzed through the air. I landed at an angle, the velocity stunning me somewhat, but giving a real sense of exhilaration. Soon Ian had plunged with similar screams and Johnathon was tinkering on the edge trying to muster up the courage to make the leap before his own silent panic as he took a leap of faith into the cooling water. Having used up all our courage we lunched under some trees by the beach watching other canoes’ sail by before heading back up to base for paddles and life jackets and our trip up stream.

Initially the collection of people that had gathered were asked to take a seat in a clapped out old mini bus, jumping into the front cab had a birds eye view, but it soon became clear that there were more passengers than seats so after somewhat of a kafuffle, another mini bus was brought up from the beach and we were on our way.

We wound our way upstream, nearing our set sail point our minibus veered past a camel, a llama and some baby goats! All of whom were tied to trees at the edge of the road. We assumed they were part of a circus act, a big top on the other side of the road being a bit of a give away, clearly not many vehicles came up to this part of the river.

As we bounced off route on an unpaved road we pulled alongside the rivers edge disturbing a group of young guys and a few girls who looked to be kind of camped out for a few days (the number of beer bottles pilled up around their cars being a bit of a give away). They all had eyes as big as plates so I’m guessing that beer hadn’t been the only intoxicant! Without batting an eye lid, our drivers commenced their canoe lessons, how to steer and how to navigate the river etc, first in French then an abridged version in English for our benefit.

It wasn’t long before we were messing about on the river. The first hurdle was a water shute over a weir, not many meters from our launch point. We all managed this without a hitch giving us all the confidence to paddle on. It was a blisteringly hot day so the water sploshing around us was all very welcome. Johnathon and Ian managed some serious zig zagging, it was Johnathon’s first time in a solo canoe but no one seemed to mind. We managed the second weir with no problem, being helped along the way by an amazingly friendly Dutch family who seemed to be having great fun guiding us to the right spot and sending us on our way for the second water shute. The second shute being a lot scarier as it had no sides just a ramp, but again we all sailed down like pros, my faith in the Dutch restored.

As we glided down the river, dragon fly’s zooming around us, we gathered pace stopping frequently for swims and cools downs and for that all important beer o’clock. As we sailed deeper into the gorge the rapids gave us something more challenging. Johnathon stumbled at one of them, none of us were really sure what happened, one second he was upright the next completely under water. He made a surprisingly fast recovery and soon we were all on our way again.

One of the highlights of the trip was that our route took us under the Pont D’arc, the site of our picnic, the previous day. It was a special moment and as we glided underneath I had a passing memory of canoeing here as a teenager. Here the river is at it deepest and the accessible rocks at their highest. I remembered that some of the teenage group I had sailed with all those years ago had jumped into the river from this spot. Not having had the courage as a teenager, I now flagged down Ian and Johnathon for the jump of a lifetime. We clambered up the cliff side and reached the jump point and without too much hesitation I threw myself off the cliff. Wow it was amazing, even more so because I’d conquered something I didn’t have the bottle to do as a kid. Ian and Johnathon followed, all still alive to tell the tale!

As we neared our destination, our arms and shoulders aching, it was a relief to arrive at the beach dragging our canoes ashore and clambering back up the beach to Priscilla. We ate that evening in the Auberge, another splendid meal accompanied with plenty of wine to numb our aching limbs. That night we took a late night amble down by the river, quite how we clambered on down there in the dark I’ve no idea (we certainly had a few scratches the following morning). But the view of the milky way, in all its splendour, was well worth it. I remember drunkenly ambling our way back through the campsite taking a short cut and somehow or other we woke up someone sleeping in a hammock. It was all a bit of a blur!

Day Twenty Nine

France: L’argentiere

Saturday 2nd August

River Rats

We awoke hung over and dizzy from the previous night’s excesses and we forced ourselves into the wellness centre for a hang over swim. It took us all a while to muster ourselves. We had planned a visit to a local street market and a trip to Pont d’arc on the Ardeche for swimming and a BBQ.

We reached the market, a little later than planned and floated around the stalls, taking in the sights and smells. I say floated as we were all still a little delicate from the previous nights excesses. We bought some duck breast and other ingredients for our BBQ but not the tuna streaks we had planned on. The fish stall having closed by the time we reached it. As we trailed back to Priscilla we stopped at a chicken rotisserie stall and bought some aromatic roasted potatoes to go with our BBQ.

On route we stopped for groceries and realised that we had things missing for our BBQ, like plates and wine glasses etc so we routed onwards via our campsite. We eventually made it to Pont d’arc about 2pm and headed down onto the river beach. It’s a very beautiful and dramatic location the Pont d’arc being a natural bridge that the Ardeche river has carved through, right in the heart of the gorges. We swam in the warm waters, another blue sky day and it wasn’t long before we had the BBQ sizzling and the corks popping.



Johnathon rustled up a duck brest salad to start, when I think back this was quite appropriate considering we were by the river! More swimming and splashing about followed, a glass of wine gaving us the courage to do some river jumping off the rocks around the Pont d’arc into the river. I took the first plunge and having survived we were all soon clambering through caves, up onto rocks and jumping back down into the river. Our second wave of cooking consisted of chicken breast with an orange sauce, the potatoes from the market and petis pois. Quite a feast considering we were on the beach cooking on our little BBQ! We stretched the day out and as people left for the day the the beach began to feel like our very own.

Still very warm we were swimming and gazing at the views when around 7:30pm things came to a standstill on the beach. A river rescue team had canoed onto the beach on the opposite side of the river with what looked like a body wrapped in the reflective foil sheets, strapped onto the top of the rescue canoe. The body or human (we couldn’t work out if the person on the stretcher was still alive still) was taken onto the beach and an eerie silence enveloped the gorge. Soon things became a little clearer as 2 significant others were rowed from the other side of Pont d’arc to the beach. By this time we had guessed the body was still alive and that an air ambulance may well be flying into the curve in the river to take the poor person off to hospital.

Indeed our suspicions were confirmed as a helicopter scoopped in overhead breaking the silence, it was scouting out the landing spot. Not long after, the chopper glided in through the gorge landing on the beach opposite us, men dressed in white, jumping out with medical bags etc. It was all a little surreal, just like something out of a movie. Eventually the patient was stretchered into the helicopter and off it flew, up and out over of the gorge, the significant others being rowed back to shore by the river rescue. It was all a little sombre, especially considering we had planned to canoe the river the following day, but kind in a strange way exciting, simply as its not something you see everyday.

Undeterred we swam some more as the sun slowly sunk, at this point we were the only people still swimming in the river, the temperature remained incredible warm, really refreshing. We ambled back to base camp with a sunny glow and some fab blog material!

Day Twenty Eight

France: L’argentiere

Friday 1st August

Bumpy Landings

I awoke early and was on the road by 7:15am to pick up Johnathon from the airport in Montpelier. He was to join me for a further 10 days and I had been looking forward to seeing him all week. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, but I think perhaps that is a romantic ideal that reality has the cruel habit of surpassing. I’d clearly had too much thinking time and with my head running away with me, I had far too much to say to J.

One of the many things I’ve learnt on these adventures is that when you’re away from the day to day reality of life, you really do have a chance to live a dream, naively perhaps, but I’ve had the thinking time and space to be able to put a completely fresh perspective on life, to allow myself to sift through the negatives, grasping onto the positives in life. Reality however, is never too far away and we found it hard to reach equilibrium together. My flouncing around Europe clearly has no comparison to the harsh realities of the rat race back home; we were already balancing an uneven keel.

As we wound our way back to L’argentiere, we stopped off at a Hypermarket for groceries and also the sweetest little farmers cave. I call it a cave, as it really was straight out of the Aladdin genre, stocked full of homemade pates, conserves and all manner of farm grown fruits and vegetables, beautifully set amidst a restored stone outhouse by the side of the road. We bought melons from the tired looking farmer’s wife. My head in the clouds living the “goodlife” dream I narrowly avoided death as some French Madame veered onto the other side off the road, narrowly missing me as I bounced myway back across the road to Priscilla, entirely forgetting that It was the same road that had seen Priscilla’s wing mirror smashed, earlier in the trip.

We returned to camp and Ian and J chatted, catching up on life’s goings on as I pulled together some wine and nibbles for lunch. It was a surreal place to meet, especially as my immediate family is now so spread across the continents. The three of us needed to pull together a new dynamic, Priscilla being the common theme. The wine of course went straight to our heads and as the heat of the afternoon built, it was soon time for a cool down in the wellness centre.

Retiring for the evening to the Auberge we had a superb meal, as we had now begun to expect from this fine little eatery, we ate like kings and drank like queens!

Day Thirty Five

Spain: Andalucia, Arboleas, Cuesta Azul, Casa Beaumont.

Friday 8th August

Heatwave

The temperature at my parents was unbelievable 38 degrees +.  I’m not good with mega heat, it makes me ratty and irritable, lethargic and un inspired.  I liked the warmth for sure, but I’m really a temperate flower not a bloody cactus! 

So J and I spent much of the day trying to cope with the heat.  I did some laundry and went out to peg it out without any sun creak on and got burnt!  Such is the intensity of the desert heat to my Viking skin.  Johnathon was also clearly struggling given his pre existing sunburn or Lobster affliction, which ever you prefer.

All that we really managed was to lounge around in between the shade and the pool. I do remember having one of those; I’m not at work and still on holiday moments, as I tried to put the calamity of Priscilla’s situation on one side. 

Deep down you see, I was utterly devastated, the situation that had unfolded was deeply depressing for me.  I know I’m probably sounding pathetic, its only a car right?  And (slap) what the hell, I’m on day 35 of what’s been a beautiful, life enriching adventure.  But, you see, Priscilla’s premature collapse had happened at the time when I was due to start the 4^th and final chapter of my own personal adventure.  Deep down I was totally and utterly miserable. 

What I had also wanted to gain from this adventure, was a chance to experience once again some time on my own, as I had in my twenties. Yes I’ve had lots of time away from the rat race, heaps of thinking time but “I’d never been to me” as those lyrics go.  What I was craving was a chance to re-discover my independence. 

Life gets so full of dependencies, most of them co dependencies, they envelope you.  I know that deep down dependencies, the push and pull of the people in your life are what constitutes life, makes it rewarding and satisfying.  But when I’m on my own, exploring, travelling, there is no one else to negotiate with.  No one else to try and make happy.  No one else to think about.   It’s a totally self indulgent experience and one that I haven't in years and I’m craving it.  Well Priscilla’s managed to put a spectacular spanner in the works for me on that front didn't she!

So back to Casa Beaumont.  My parents pool was a whopping 30 degrees Celsius today, it was like a thermal bath not a swimming pool all heated entirely by the sun on the water.  Its insane but the nicest time to swim now is in the late evening or after a few drinks at night with the pool lights on and the stars above  you it’s a unique experience. But its still puzzles me that the pool is only 10 degrees cooler than the air temperature either way it makes a hell of a difference in terms of cooling down your body temperature. 

I totally understand now why Spain has its Siesta but I shouldn't talk about Siesta as I’ll be off on another Victor Meldrew style rant.  I simply can’t get my head around the fact that everything outside of the major city’s in Spain just stops for 3 hours!  It’s mental and drives me up the wall especially given my own “I want it done now mentality”.  Ok I’m stopping there I promise.

Day Twenty Seven

France: St Tropez to
France: L’argentiere

Thursday 31st July


Blogging on the beach

We were up again early, packing Priscilla and heading off to the beach by 10am. Not due at our next destination until the early evening, I was keen to "do" the beach for a morning. Now I’m not really a beach bum, despite telling everyone I’m off to be a beach bum for the summer! I’m not overly keen on the sand and salt water, preferring a river, lake or swimming pool any day. However, I couldn’t come to St Tropez without a swim in the Mediterranean and some posing on the beach, so the scene was set.

Ian headed off down the beach in search of that all over St Tropez tan whilst I settled under my umbrella with my laptop running catching up on the blog writing. It was the most scenic location ever for my blogging. As the waves lapped at my feet, the crystal clear waters of the plage pampelonne glistened in the morning sun, it was divine. I can certainly see now why Ian has such a fondness for the area. The campsite was fabulous, the weather amazing and I was feeling more relaxed and happy that I’d felt in a long time.

It was a while before I splashed my way into the warm waters, having brought to the beach that snorkelling kit I had purchased earlier in the adventure, I had a perfect opportunity for some peering into the cystal waters. Geared up with flippers, mask and snorkel I stumbled into the sea like some over grown frog, before disappearing under water, the flippers making light work of the water. There wasn’t so much too see but I was having fun untill one of the flippers broke and I realised that they had gouged cuts into the tops of my feet. But it didn’t matter I was too happy to care.

Before long it was time to move on to our next destination and we showered back at the campsite before hitting the road again, destination the Ardeche, L’argentiere. Enroute however Maureen had another fight with Priscilla. This time as we pulled onto the motorway, Priscilla was heading in one direction, Maureen in the other and a split second decision meant we headed down the wrong motorway ramp (following Maureens instructions) taking us east instead of west. In the scheme of things, this might not have been so bad, had we not pulled onto a stretch of motorway were the next exit was 30KM away! We grumbled our way eastwards swearing at Maureen, before returning back on our selves west, Maureen complaining back all the way, she shouts at you, “recalculating”. I shouted back “your on you final written warning bitch”!

What caused the next calamity was that by now Priscilla was eager for revenge having had enough of Maureens tricks, how dare Maureen make her work harder in these temperatures. She pulled one of her own tricks on us all, letting me know we were about to run out of fuel, just as I pulled back onto the return 30KM stretch of motorway westwards, her red fuel light flickering on at me! Now, I’d travelled down a mountain on fuel fumes earlier in the adventure, but never a motorway. As we neared the return motorway exit, 30KM back on ourselves Priscilla suddenly laughed, sticking 2 fingers in the air at Maureen and she stopped accelerating, I groaned we’ve run out of fuel, I’ve got no acceleration! Ian eyes almost popped out of their sockets. He stayed as calm as he could muister, but I could see inside he suffering a silent scream. I coasted on over a hill and some dregs of fuel must have sploshed back into the system and I managed to chug to the exit and some how we made it to a fuel station I’ve no idea how as I couldn’t accelerate properly, Priscilla just wouldn’t respond, just plodded on. We both couldn’t believe our luck (and my incompetence at forgetting to re-fuel in St Tropez). Ice creams were in order to chill us down.

On a full tank of fuel and the feminine in fighting behind us, we raced onwards to the Ardeche having lost much time as a result of the cat fighting. It was now a race to get to the next campsite, before closing time. As I hurtled along the final stretch of the route, I spun around corners and flew over the hills, Ian turned a little green around the gills, going very silent, his finger on the electric window button, just in case an emergency vomit was required. We made it to the campsite with five minutes to spare before closing time.

I was back at Domaine Les Ranchisses, I couldn’t help but come back here, I love the campsite, the region, the food, the wine, the people the whole package. J and I had planned the adventures to allow J to fly back into France for another weeks holiday, joining me and Ian in L’argentiere. I received a very warm welcome from the team at the campsite reception, now a familiar face. Before pitching our site, I negotiated with Ian a quick swim in the wellness centre. It was a successful plan, as we cooled off and relaxed after the journey, it was a fulfilling way to immerse ourselfs in the beauty of the location.

We pitched our site (now complete pros) and soon it was beer o’clock, basking in the evening sunshine, surrounded by trees, we chatted to our new neighbours around our site, closing the days adventure over at the Auberge with the three P’s; Pastis, Pizza, and a Pitchet of vin blanc.

Day Twenty Six

France: St Tropez

Wednesday 30th July



Eau de Toilette

We woke early as we had decided to take a drive through the coastal resorts that border St Tropez and then up over the mountains and into the heart of Provence, to visit the famous perfume town of Grasse. The coastal road was magnificent, the beaches and coves that surround St Tropez radiating cote d’azur beauty and making for an inspiring journey.

We arrived in Grasse as the sun beat down, first stop the shown room of Fragonard. We’d both been here several times before and so decided to skip the free walk through the history of perfume and scent manufacturing, presented to all visitors, heading instead straight for the shop to bag some elusive designer fragrances. As you walk into the tasting room (ok smelling room, but that doesn’t have the same ring to it) your senses are overwhelmed by a plethora of scents that waft through the air. Top notes of citrus, middle notes of lavender and jasmine and bottom notes of musk and amber, delight your senses, stirring distant memories.

Trying to identify your own particular scent preference, in amongst all the fragrances of the world, is almost impossible. However, after spraying each and every visible part of our bodies Ian and I had identified the fragrances that awoke our senses. Our noses tiring (to the untrained nose your brain begins to confuse scents after a while) we attempted to wash off the scents of Fragonard, the aim being to have a fresh testing ground for the next perfume house, Galimard (it didn’t really work, the scents just diffusing into the pores of your skin).

Neither of us had been to Galimard before and I was keen to test it out. Taking the obligatory free tour of the perfume factory, we had within 5 minutes worked out how to get to the shop at the end of the tour and signalling to each other, we sneaked down a stair well as the guide looked the other way. Feeling like 2 naughty school children, we had cut out the Galimard indoctrination tour and were now in the the tasting shop. Galimard was definitely at the cheaper end of the market, the scents not being as diverse, the packaging frilly and fussy, all very different from the aluminium and designer packaging of the Fragonard perfume house. Ian did however, spy some industrial sized carafes of our favourites scents, lemon and grapefruit (funny how we both love this) and at factory prices we could not resist the temptation to stock up. I was beaten to the pay counter by a coach party of Croatians, each buying a single soap all herding together like sheep (or Japanese tourists), they were clearly used to queuing, complete masters of the old elbow routine.

Our noses now exhausted, we decided that Fragonard was still leaps ahead of the competition and so headed back to the Fragonard tasting shop to pick up out our new found signature scents, beaming like little boys in a candy shop of the senses. Now stocked up with all manner of scents and lotions and the heat of the day wearing down on us, we jumped into the air conditioned luxury of Priscilla, driving back to back to St Tropez for a very late lunch and a swim on our campsite, rounding our final full day on the Cote D’azur off with a BBQ and some SVB (surprise surprise)!

Day Twenty Five

France: St Tropez

Tuesday 29th July

Ladies that do Lunch.


That was to be the theme for the day. We awoke slowly, a lazy morning gathering our selves together before glamouring our selves up, for a trip into St Tropez centre, to live for an afternoon amongst the wealthy and glamorous of St Tropez.

We arrived as the traffic was just beginning to jam, ignoring a cap park full sign and bagging a perfect spot right on the port side, opposite all the expensive boats and yachts. It was another beautifully clear blue sky day, making a stunning backdrop for the elegance of St Tropez.

We were soon swishing our way past the moored boats, snapping pictures and taking in some of the joir da vive that is St Tropez. I’d been before many years ago as a student, but didn’t really remember much of it. It’s intriguing to look at where each of the boats are based, the Cayman islands being popular today! As strolled past all the big boats interlaced on the port side are artists, displaying their latest creations on various sizes of easel on the harbour front. As we ambled we spied a restaurant recommended in my guide book, a cost effective people watching spot over looking the harbour. The picture was set, the menu classically French, the rose wine chilled to perfection and the sun beating down.

We munched our way through some French classics, Ian loving the Soup de Poisson and both of us gorging on Moules Mariniere and Frites. Ian followed with an amazing melt in the mouth chocolate explosion, I tried to stay cool with homemade lemon ice cream, partfait! We spent several hours people watching, boats, the people and the cabin boys!

Feeling decadent after lunch, we hit the boutiques that radiated off the harbour for a spot of shopping, we were still in search of those elusive designer Speedos we had spied on the beach in Sitges. But white linen was also still on the radar. The Speedos had obviously not made it into the boutiques of St Tropez yet (but watch this spot). The white linen boutiques had us waving our credit cards as we created our own St Tropez looks.

Loaded with shopping bags and tiring from the heat we headed back to the campsite and dived into the pool to cool, the temperature being around the 32 degree mark, not a cloud in the sky. I spent the rest of the evening there being chucked out as the pool closed at 8pm. We drank sun downers and reflected on the glamour of the day.

Later that evening an incredible electrical storm bounced around on the other side of the mountains that engulf St Tropez. It was an eerie experience, similar to how I imagine the northern lights might be. Above us crystal clear skies, the stars twinkling and the electricity in the mountains illuminating the different cloud formations. We didn’t hear a clap of thunder so it must have been many many miles away. We sat and watched the spectacle, like too little boys, amazed at the forces of nature.

Day Twenty Four

France: St Tropez

Monday 28th July



Relfections.

Still loving the campsite it’s was a pleasant 18 degrees C last night, I slept with Priscilla’s moon roof open, drifting off to sleep as the stars twinkled above me, it was a unique experience, one I would have loved to share with J, so maybe I should bring him here. I awoke and stood with coffee, gazing out at our sea view, the sea’s spectrum of blues and turquoise’s, accentuated by the clarity of the morning light. There is something special about the quality of the light down here.

I had a very lazy day, stocking up on some provisions, lounging around the pool and sunning myself. Ian and I cooked and chatted into the early hours. We are still getting on extremely well not a crossed word (yet). It’s the first time I’ve been on holiday with my brother as adults, I think we have both approached the experience with a sense of in trepidation. But as I say, so far so good.

There are some fabulous palm trees by the edge of the pool and as I listened to my mp3 player, I drifted through the experiences and adventures of the last 3 weeks, my thoughts swaying around like the branches of the palm tree in the breeze. I finally had some thinking time, to reflect on the last 3 weeks, hey even the last decade and to think about what my future might hold. Ian was asking me the other day, what I had gained from the whole trip so far. I’ve been so busy experiencing and planning the next adventure that I’d not given myself the space to reflect fully on this. What was I expecting to experience? What did I want to achieve? Was I searching for something I didn’t have? Or escaping from something I didn’t want? Craving something new or was I simply on a quest for new experiences to further enrich the tapestry of life? These were all questions I contemplated.

Certainly my adventures in Priscilla to date have enriched my life experience even further. Some would say that life is a journey through the echelons of time. One thing is for sure, I’ll never have enough time in my life to visit all the places the world has to explore. Having Priscilla as a home, these last few weeks, has however, make me realise that you can be so much more in control of your own journeys end. And maybe that’s what I’m really searching for from this experience, perhaps a test run for life on the road, a dry run maybe before some mega trip through Europe and beyond, sometime before I reach the end of my life, only time will tell.

But one conclusion I’ve reached is that it’s far too easy for apathy, routine, materialism and some form of duty and obligation to set in on life, mean while, time slips through your fingers, like water down a drain. Naturally change is not for everyone, many people do indeed thrive on routine, security and sensibility. It’s a certain kind of person that embraces challenge and change and I think that’s probably me.

I feel I’ve perhaps fooled myself into thinking that loyalty, hard work, routine and life’s creature comforts will reward me with a full filling and rewarding life experience. I’m definitely still searching for more of life ingredients. Certainly in Priscilla I’ve found a new route for gathering, searching and experiencing many of those elements that make up my recipe for life. This little camping car, my home for 6 weeks, is certainly going to become an important feature in my life going forward. I’m certain Priscilla can continue to fuel my renewed sense of freedom and adventure, something I’ve been putting on hold for far too long.

I don’t think I’ve spent as long a period of time, away from home as this, not since I went on my 3 month working and travelling tour of North America. As a 20 year old, that trip was to be a life changing experience, in many ways. For example, on that trip I wrote my first and only diary, until now of course. It’s strange that it takes me to be away from all the routine and familiarity to pour my thoughts out like this, but it’s extremely cathartic.

I’m remembering also my first ever solo adventure as a young ‘lad’, jetting off to Barcelona on my first university term break. The people I was to meet, the sights I experienced and the confidence, that solo trip gave me, opened up my mind to the many possibilities and adventures the world has to offer. I’ve re-ignited all those feeling again on this trip with a wiser, more mature attitude.

Life has many adventures and challenges ahead. There is no one model that defines my life, but regeneration is the key to my own character. I’m regenerating right now, preparing myself for the challenges and adventures ahead of me in my next decade. I’m different, everyone is, its just I’ve allowed myself to forget this, to forget the things in life that make me content, hell even happy!

I’ve learnt again to “Vive la difference”, as the French might say!

Day Twenty Three

France: Avignon to
France: St Tropez

Sunday 27th July

My My how time flies when your having fun. Havn't posted for ages. But I have been writing the blogs each day so I'll catch up with loads of posts today. I’ve decided my blog entries need a little more of a chapter title, especially considering I seem to be writing a chapter every entry.

The Escape.

We awoke, with dull heads and that sense of deflation you can get after a turbo charged Saturday night out. Knowing how bad the campsite was I didn’t want to get out of Priscilla and spent an hour or so with the guide books trying to find a luxurious 4 star campsite we could go and pamper ourselves in. Feeling hung over and travel weary I wanted to put down some roots down for a few days, somewhere that would be home for a while, somewhere that was far away from this campsite from hell.

We mustered ourselves together I think my first words to Ian on stepping out of Prscilla were “I want to go”. We had hatched a plan over drinks the previous night, to take in more of Avignon and walk onto the famous Avignon Pont (bridge for those that don’t know the song). We’d been signing the song and felt as though a visit here just wouldn’t be complete without standing on said bridge. But all I wanted to do was get the hell out of this campsite and have a shower and swim in a pool. With a look of total relief on his face, Ian said good and jumped up to pack.

Within 30 minutes (we literally threw everything into Priscilla) we were back on the open road again, destination Cote D’Azur. I had aspirations on visiting Cassis and the calancales, having dreamed of swimming in the turquoise blue waters of a secluded cove. But after 3 phone calls to campsites in the vicinity, all with no availability, we needed a new plan.

Valiantly (and battling his hangover) Ian scoured the guide books, recognising a campsite he had been to several times set back from the famous Pampelone beaches of St Tropez. A phone call later and our new destination was secured.

We arrived at camping Domaine ?????? and were immediately impressed by the efficiency of the camping reception, a friendly young Dutch receptionist utilising her database to give us options for sea vies, shade or a combination of the 2. We were both smiling again, a massive site with over 450 places I was a little concerned that it may be heaving and over run with people, but these fears were easily overcome. Its an absolutely super site and the pitch we finally chose did indeed have an amazing sea view. The site is set back on level terraces into the hillside of a pine and eucalyptus forest shielding, campers from the sun and preserving the landscape. As we pitch we peered out at our sea view, the weekend yachts and boats of the rich and famous moored in the bay, stunning and all very exciting.

It was another beautiful day, clear blue skies and intensely hot, and we were soon showered refreshed and down by the pool complex swimming and sunning ourselves. We ate pizza and drank wine in the camp restaurant that evening, reflecting on the last 24 hours of madness relived at being able to spend 4 nights in one spot and pamper ourselves a little.

Day Twenty Two

France: Nages to
France: Avignon

Saturday 26th July

Back again with more goings on in “big brother’s little brother camp”.

We came up with that one en route, its very descriptive don’t you think? And talking of enroute, the Dutch couple and their deranged children drove us away. I have never known a child that spends every waking hour squawking, but this one sure as hell did. It was an overcast morning with rain in the air and clearly a day at the lake, was a no go. So we avoided a massacre of Dutch children packing up Priscilla to take to the open road again.

Ian was clearly relieved. Whilst set in a beautiful location overall the campsite was a huge disappointment. Part of the same Hutopian chain that J and I had visited near Versailles, I had lots of expectations, but it was a totally different set up, a shop with nothing in it, a bar/ restaurant with no menu (Ian worked out they may be selling pizza having read the chef’s menu’s pinned to the wall as he peered through a kitchen window). Even the tiny pool was over run with toddlers, everybody seemed miserable and everything was badly organised. Shame as the location was great but in need of some serious trouble shooting. Hey maybe there’s a new career in that for me, yes I can see myself touring Europe, mystery shopping campsites, that would be right up my street!

Our next destination was Eastward, I had identified a campsite right on the edge of Avignon and was craving culture and no screaming children. We motored on down through the hills on the twisty turney roads via some stunning scenery, Ian doing his best as he held on tightly to Priscilla’s grab handles. Bless him, my brothers not quite the mountain goat that I am and would rather avoid a twisty turney road. He took the executive decision to check Maureen’s route, not happy with what he found he routed us around a mountain via the N roads. All part of the journey together, I was just happy driving. As you’ve probably guessed by now I love to drive and this kind of scenic driving makes for such a change from the M25. The M25 commuting having been a bigger part of my life than Johnathon, these last 2 years.

As we journeyed we certainly had some fun tricking Maureen, she did eventually give in and followed the N roads but not before countless “recalculating”. We passed more stunning scenery as motored of particular note was a lake set in a landscape akin to life on Mars, all blood red rock and soil, very unusual.

It wasn’t long before we had arrived in Avignon. We had picked a campsite just on the edge of the river, allowing us to walk in and discover the walled city, a sort of cultural pit stop on the way to the Cote D’Azur. Unfortunately, the campsite was a complete shit hole. I’m sorry, I can’t put it any other way. The first pitch we were allocated had no shade and with the sun beating down and no electricity evident, I went marching off back to the camp reception ready for a fight. Without too much fuss we were allocated another spot with shade and electricity but already I wasn’t comfortable.

Next stop was to check out the toilet and shower facilities. Up until now I’d been staying in 3&4 star campsite and perhaps been somewhat spoilt. I had come to expect a modern clean power shower and cleanliness next to godliness. I certainly wasn’t prepared for the 2 star urban campsite experience that was ahead of us. Having pitched we went to check out the shower blocks. I was never to recover. I’m not going to go into details, you may well be eating. Lets just say it was an experience I would not want to repeat any time soon. Putting a brave face on it we both calmed each other, re-iterating it’s the location we are here for, as we strolled our way over the Rhone and into the walled city of Avignon.

What I hadn’t told Ian, as we sauntered on, was that I was expecting Avignon to be in full festival swing, having read that the Avignon Festival was running during our visit. Expecting a full on Edinburgh fridge festival experience, minus the rain, I was not to be disappointed. Avignon had indeed been totally taken over by the bohemians. It was like waltzing our way through a scene in Monmatre, Moulin Rouge. All that was missing was the Absinth (but that’s very fortunate as that stuff makes me see fairies and I can assure you it wasn’t Johnathon or even Kylie!)

The Avignon festival, for the uninitiated, centres around theatre and drama with every conceivable space being commandeered as a performance space, from staff canteens to churches and public parks. Avignon was alive with all manner of theatrical types in full costume and make up, performing there way through the streets.

For a while we sat in the main square sipping pastis (next to a French equivalent of the golden girls, out to watch the spectacle) we goggled in amazement at the free show in front of our eyes. All manner of performance artists were parading their way through the city, all singing, all dancing advertisements for their very own shows. All the artists were in full costume and make up, we saw everything from a performing zoo troupe (complete with dancing zebras, giraffes and lions) to jazz players, fire eaters and Spanish dancers. It was mad. I could write an essay about all that we saw that day (and I almost have), it was definitely the day Avignon went mad.

To give you a flavour we scattered ourselves amongst the party atmosphere, taking in sight seeing, shopping, a meal, beer, wine, barcardi, rum and ice cream. I remember wandering the streets, as pissed as newts, around 2am in the morning, as a French bohemian type told us to relax and love the world. Ian and myself, alcohol charged, must have been in full on debate mode (I think that one was gay marriage) we were having a whale of a time putting the worlds to rights (but clearly the bohemian type thought we were having a full on argument, us both being opinionated types!).

We finally called it a night, some point before sun rise, crawling our way back through the streets to Priscilla, leaving the party behind us, our heads hitting our pillows, as we dreamed of life as bohemians.

Day Twenty one

France: Nages

Friday 25th July

Awoke in the early hours with a red wine head, but with more sleep and I was up and out in the camp shop buying bread and pain au chocolate by 8:30 (maybe I’m never going to have a beach bums alcohol tollerance!)

We both had a lazy day. The kind of battery recharge day you might have on a Sunday if you one was working, but I’m not! Ok so all the days are blurring into one I know, but I’m liking it that way. After 14 years of working non stop I’m having a ball not having my life driven by deadlines.

So I’ve spent much of my day with the blog. Talking of the blog its terribly time consuming, but I’m having great fun writing it. I hope those of you keeping tracks of my travels aren’t bored out of your minds. And talking of boring there hasn’t been much to blog about today. I’ve spent much of the day sat under the trees, laptop in lap. Its been tranquil with the birds singing and the sun filtering through the trees.

Well it was until the Dutch brats arrived on the lovely empty pitch to the side of us. I should have known from the moment they arrived they would be trouble. I mean why at the start of a holiday would the young boy be crying as he’s extracted from the car by his dad? I think dad might consider investing in an ejector seat, that’ll shut the kid up.

Anyway going back to the broken piece and tranquillity as the children played, or was that screamed, it all became a blur, Ian hinted that we might indeed only be staying 2 nights! Ok I know I’m sounding like Victor Meldrew but really why can’t children play quietly whilst their parents set up camp? Do they not know my thoughts are easily interfered with? The mums miserable as well, I want to give her a slap and say hey your Dutch and Dutch people are always happy and your holidays chill!

Ok I’m being way too nice, do those children not know that screeching whilst playing annoys the hell out of me (and Johnathon wonders why children don’t interest me!). Its blown all my mis conceptions I had about how Dutch parents and how well they manage their children. These ones clearly didn’t attend the same parenting classes that the rest of Dutch Society seems to have.

Ok so bar humbug over I did manage to pull my self away from the blog to round the day off with wine, food and beer. The Dutch brats never really did shut up except for an hour around feeding time at the zoo, so we drowned them out with some music whilst attempting to re-create the goats cheese salad we had had in Spain ala Ian and Ray minus the eye candy (lets just say we desperately need Johnathon’s culinary expertise).

Day Twenty

Spain: Sitges to
France: Nages

Thursday 24th July

I woke early eager to move onto the next destination, France. Ian had a hang over from the excesses of the previous night, the bottle of wine we downed back at out campsite not helping matters, but for once I was fine I think I’m acclimatising to the beach bum lifestyle and so packed up Priscilla and we were soon the road again.

As we headed over the border into France we both cheered. We’ve been brought up on family summer holidays in France and both have an addiction to the food, the landscapes and the people. I’d planned our route with a pit stop at the Carrefor hypermarket in Narbonne. Ian was looking forward to the gastronomic experience that is a French hypermarket and he was suitably rewarded, wandering round like a little boy in a toy shop, he had a permanent grin on his face as he picked up all his old favourites. I picked up a bargain cool box to replace the one that had given up on me last week as well as a snorkelling kit (not sure why but hey it was a beach bum thing to do!) and proceeded to pull some food together for the next few days.

We snacked on bread and cheese in the car park before continuing our journey into the Languedoc-Rousillon region. I’d read a review of a campsite, again in the cool camping France guide, that had sparked my imagination, being set amongst rolling pine forests on the edge of a lake.

The journey deep into the forests was great and again I was in tree hugger paradise. We had a challenging hunt for the campsite, not being able to pin Maureen down to get the exact address. We arrived at Indigo Rieumontagne to a some what disorganised reception, not the most welcoming of experiences and problems ensued having chosen our pitch as the pitch next door had hooked their electricity point into ours. But eventually reception sorted things out and we relaxed with a beer on our large and leafy pitch.

As we poured wine and lit the BBQ we heard the distant boom of thunder rolling around the hills, Ian looked at me ominously, suggesting we might need a rain plan. But we had soon re-arranged things to be high and dry.

As our BBQ progressed the thunder got louder and the lightening stronger and it wasn’t long before spots of rain were tapping on Priscilla’s tunnel tent. Safe inside we carried on drinking and eating in comfort as the orchestra of the storm boomed away in the background, it certainly made for a dramatic evening. It turned out to be more of an electrical storm than a rain storm and it passed over without incident as we engaged in meaningful conversations late into the night.

Day nineteen

Spain: Sitges

Wednesday 23rd July 2008

Awoken by the heat of the sun beating down on Priscilla I had coffee and breakfast using the boot of Priscilla as a make shift sun canopy and spent much of the morning reading and planning a possible itinerary for the next week.

We then set out into the centre of Sitges for lunch. As we exited the campsite a bus pulled up, Ian looked at me and said should we? But I was already running to stop it. Result, it was indeed heading into the centre of Sitges and saved us the hike in the midday sun. We were swiftly dropped off in the centre and wandered down to the beach, window shopping as we went, before reaching the sea front and heading for a beach side restaurant we had spied the previous day.

We lunched overlooking the beach on a fabulous goat’s cheese salad, sharing a massive cuttlefish and prawn rice dish, the type with the black squid dye in it. It was an unusual choice for me as I’m not a great seafood eater but Ian really wanted to try and I was up for a new experience!

As we slugged a perfectly chilled white, we both checked out the eye candy on the beach. Speedo style trunks are definitely back in fashion, gay men always being early adopters, and black swimwear was definitely on the way out. We spent a blissful 2 hours lunching and were suitably inebriated having renewed confidence to whip off our shorts and strut our stuff on the beach, in black trunks (no the gay fashion police didn’t execute us), breathing in to hide our tummies!

The sea was great and we relaxed on the beach watching the world go by but come 6pm I was bored of holding my stomach in and recognised I’m not very good with all that sand and salt water. We headed off to the catwalk again for sundowners and shopping. We had both decided we needed new swimwear and spent a good amount of time trawling the shops trying to find those elusive speedo’s. Disappointed at our lack of success, we headed back to Parrots bar for more bears and people watching, rounding the evening off with a final cocktail. We congratulated ourselves on re-conquering Sitges, we felt as suntanned and beautiful as the next boy (alcohol is wonderful for giving you a sense of delusion!).

Day Eighteen

Spain: Casa Beaumont, Arboleas
Spain: Sitges

Tuesday 22nd July

I awoke in the early hours with a rotten migraine, clearly too much wine the previous night had taken its toll, I popped a migraine pill (otherwise know as my bombs) and slept some more before a sudden awaking as my alarm buzzed in my ear. Today my brother Ian, Priscilla and myself were making an early start in search of new adventures.

Our first stop was Almeria, further south than my parents Villa, Ian trailed Priscilla south in his hire car which we needed to be return to Almeria airport before motoring north together.

We made good progress en route, catching up on each others lives, intermingling conversation with the destinations we might visit. Ian was keen to hit France as soon as possible, having not been back for 5 years. We stopped for lunch on the motorway services, discussing where we might reach on our first days travelling. It became clear that we would struggle to make it into France before the early evening, Ian suggesting that we might try an over night stop in Sitges.

Seeing the time and feeling travel weary it was a plan I was happy to entertain. We had both independently visited Sitges several times over the years and both had mixed emotions about the resort. But, it was a perfect stopping point and we both knew of a campsite in close proximity to the centre, a plan was hatched.

Ian drove the remainder of the motorway journey. It was strange being a passenger, with Johnathon not driving; I’m not used to life as a passenger. It took me ages to sit back, relax and let Ian take the controls. However, he was soon overcoming Priscilla’s foibles and we motored on at speed north, arriving in Sitges in the early afternoon.

Our arrival in Sitges was somewhat disappointing. We searched around for Camping El Roca but a noticeable lack of sign posting made us suspicious. Our fears where confirmed as we pulled up in dismay as the site of the once camping El Roca was now half a building site, half a dilapidated dereliction site. It was sad to see a half knocked down campsite we both knew so well. Undeterred, we had rapidly made new plans and headed out to a campsite on other side of the resort.

Camping El Gafor was very full and we struggled to find a camping spot we liked, finally deciding on a pitch in a newly developed field at the back of the campsite with little in the way of shade. But not long later we were pitched, with a beer in hand planning what to do for the evening.

With little in the way of food we decided on a trip into the heart of Sitges to eat. Walking on down to the sea front we discovered a new and really nice looking campsite (camping Sitges) clearly a replacement for Camping El Roca. I made a mental note for any future visits to this part of Spain. We slowly ambled our way along the beach promenade arriving in central Sitges hungry and for ready for another drink.

We picked Parrots bar, which has outdoor tables on what Ian and I call the cat walk. So known as its where all the holiday makers stroll up and down of an evening, literally as if it where a cat walk. Its jam packed with patio bars, clubs and shops and restaurant. So we joined in the parade treating ourselves to cocktails at Parrots, soaking up the atmosphere and feeling terribly glamorous.

After cocktails we moved on further down the catwalk to a pizza restaurant, knocking back some table wine before ambling back home along the sea front, watching the palm trees sway and listening to the waves as they gently rolled onto the beach.

We both concluded that Sitges does have a certain special charm, despite its pretensions and pre-Madonna’s.

Day Seventeen

Spain: Casa Beaumont, Arboleas

Monday 21st July

I awoke today and carried on with the preperations for the next stage of the journey, a fews days pit stop at my Parents and some creature comforts being enough to re-charge my batteries and get Prsicalla ready for the open road again.

Farther needed a lift back from the local town where his car was being serviced and the rest of the day was spent in and out of the pool, reading and writing, before a final nights Family meal.

I’d brought a duck cassolet and charontelle melon from France and the Pastis from Andora. All of which brought back many memories of family holidays, camping together in France. Again the wine and food flowed as we exchanged memories, chatted and sang.

Day Sixteen

in the big brother house.........

Ok well not quite but day 16 in little ol Priscilla.......!

Sunday 20th July

Spain: Casa Beaumont, Arboleas

I awoke before sunrise, after a stiflingly hot night in my parent’s villa. The worry of my lost passport was buzzing around in my head and I decided that I needed to strip Priscilla out before making plans to visit an embassy. I started by giving Priscilla a wash, much to her relief, unpacking 2 weeks of washing ready to load into my mother’s washing machine.

The last thing to come out of Priscilla was her rug and bingo! There lay my passport beaming away at me on the floor. I leapt for joy, dancing round my parent’s pool to repeated woops of “I got my passport”. I thought this might have woken the family up, but the previous nights drinking and catch up had gone on late into the early hours and not a murmur was to be heard from within the villa.

The remainder of the day was filled with chores, washing and blogging, punctuated with frequent dips in the pool to keep cool. Its unbearably hot in Andalusia at this time of year and lethargy soon sets in. Splashing around in the pool however, is a great antidote and lots of fun. My brother bombing me with water, footballs and the like as my mother screeched “watch my toe” (an unfortunate encounter with a board walk on the beach a few days previously to blame for a broken toe).

As the day’s heat began to fall back, we rounded together for a family BBQ, always an event in itself. Mum and Dad clearly enjoying having all the family together for the first time in a couple of years. We cracked open wine, feasting late into the night, as the conversations and alcohol flowed.

Day Fifteen

Saturday 19th July

Spain: Playa D’aro to
Spain: Arboleas

My blog writing has continued apace but access to the internet in Spain was poor with no 3G so I’m still behind!

Saturday morning and the heat drove us out of Priscilla early. Johnny cooked up some lunch whilst I packed up Priscilla. We had to leave the campsite by midday but Johnathon’s flight wasn’t until 5pm so we had some time to kill and decided to hit the beach one final time together.

We took Priscilla up to the car park outside of the campsite and dropped into reception to pay. It was packed full of people with a long wait to pay. As Johnathon queued up a new drama unfolded in front of me, I couldn’t find my passport!

I looked everywhere but to no avail. We asked at the reception, but they knew nothing. My last memory of the passport was showing it as we checked into the campsite. I was convinced the reception had kept it and that by now it had made its way onto the black market. Its sentimental I know, but my passport is such a personal thing, its got stamps in from many of the countries I’ve visited over the last 9.5 years, its my own little piece of history and I felt much sadness at its loss. I gave the campsite reception a hard time but it was useless. I’d searched all the obvious places in Priscilla and after an hour of stressing I gave up, resigning myself to the possibility of a trip to an English embassy and the necessary faffing around and delays that this would entail. It was Sunday and nothing more I could do about it so we headed off to the beach as planned.

The waves were crashing onto the beach as a sea breeze blew in. It made for great fun as the waves threw us around, so much so that one of the breaks threw me underwater, ripping off my sunglasses, lost to the undercurrent. That will teach me to ponce around in the sea with my sunnies on!

We tucked into Johnathon’s lunch on the beach as the sun beat down. It was fun watching everyone being happily tossed about by the waves but too soon it was time for a shower and the short trip to the airport. It was a sad journey, knowing that we wouldn’t be seeing each other for a couple of weeks, we were both very solemn. I dropped J outside the terminal doors, we said our goodbyes, I couldn’t look back at him as he disappeared into the airport terminal; I was battling back my tears and had to pull myself together for the long journey to Andalusia ahead of me.

As I travelled the 850KM down coast to Andalusia I felt an intense sense of loss and sadness, leaving my best friend, partner and lover behind, a significant part of me was lost. I tried lifting my spirits by blasting repeated airing of my theme tune for the adventure; the sound track to The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Dessert. With speakers pounding, I sang myself silly as Priscilla rode the kilometres with impressive speed, as if somehow propelled by the soundtrack. We had weeks of adventures ahead of us and my sadness at loosing my travelling companion was slowly being replaced with a giddy sense of nervous anticipation.

Stopping only for fuel and the bathroom I made the journey in less than 7 hours. The roads being free flowing, I pulled into my parent’s villa moments before 11pm to looks of complete amazement, my family not expecting me to until the early hours of the next day.

Day Fourteen

Andorra:Pal to
Spain: Playa Diaro

Friday 18th July

We awoke early and were soon packed and on the open road again ambling through the beautiful mountain scenery on route to Spain. As we hit the Spanish border all the cars were being stopped and asked to open their car boots. It suddenly occurred to me that there might be a duty free limit and I needed to think on my feet. We had 4 litres of spirits and a couple of our cases of wine remaining from Calais. I had no idea how I was going to explain away with this one. But a moment of inspiration flashed before my eyes and instead of opening the boot to Priscilla (where the cases of booze were stashed) I opened up her side sliding door revealing our bikes, camping gear, cool boxes and other paraphernalia.

The border guard asked me in Spanish if I had any liquor but instead of answering I did a classic Brit abroad routine and started speaking to him in English telling him I didn’t understand and that we were just travelling through Europe etc. Baffled by the amount of stuff packed into Priscilla and a lack of English he walked away waving me on. I slammed Priscilla’s doors shut and we hurtled off into Spain before anyone could change their mind!

The journey through Catalonia was lovely as we commented that we should visit the area on a future holiday. With the valleys opening up in front of us we left the Pyrenees and Andorra behind motoring on to the coast. We’d decided as it was Johnathon’s last full day that some sun, sea and sand ;-) would be an lovely way to end 2 weeks. I’d sourced a campsite right on the beach north of Playa D’aro in a area called Calogne on the Costa Brava not far from Girona airport. We arrived in baking hot weather managing to bag a pitch right on the edge of the beach with lovely sea views.

The campsite was set in a secluded little cove and we spent the afternoon on the beach splashing around in the sea and dying out in sun. Johnathon had planned a bottle of cava on the beach which we had bought duty free in Andorra, but he was most disappointed when on opening we discovered it was corked. I couldn’t let his last full day end like this (the Cava just wasn’t drinkable) so I managed to blag a chilled bottle from the campsite bar (they were obviously not used to people asking for a whole bottle!) and soon Johnathon had a smile on his face again.

We rounded our last night off together with a restaurant meal, typical Spanish fare but very tasty and the views of the cove and beach made for a very romantic final evening together as we reflected on the adventures we had shared.

Day Thirteen

Thursday 17th July

Andorra: Pal

We awoke to cloudy skies today  but they were looking very wispy and dramatic as they shrouded the tops of the mountains. We’d decided to head on out in Priscilla for a walk in the lakes. The previous day I had asked the campsite owner, a husky Spanish matriarch with a permanent cigarette in her hand, to recommend me a walk. She stopped in a moment of contemplation, wiping out a map to show me how to visit the mountain lakes, her serious demeanour breaking as she spoke fondly of how beautiful the lakes are.

The drive took us through more stunning mountain scenery, passing streams that poured off the mountains, splashing onto the roads as they journeyed to the sea. We climbed higher into the mountains, as an eyrie stillness settled over the landscape. We passed closed ski resorts imaging the buzz that would bring the ski resort to life in the winter months. Pricilla hurled us on up the mountain tracks no problem, her turbo charger purring as we finally reached the end of the paved road in Vallnord sector Arcalis. Johnathon wanted us to bound on up the shale track in Priscilla, but still wary of our last mountain track experience, I refrained.

Full of anticipation Johnathon through open Priscilla’s door, only to be hit by a wall of cold air and a gasp of surprise, 1,900 meter’s above sea level, we clearly needed every bit of warm clothing we could muster.

Suitably geared up, we headed to the ski lift, a total lack of people and tourist information left us in a quandary but the only working ski lift, whisking empty chairs off into the clouds, was too tempting an adventure not explore. So I attempted my broken Spanish with the ski lift ticket lady, asking her if it was possible to take the ski lift to the lakes and walk back down. She indicated we could and the walk back was 45 minutes, so with some in trepidation we bought single tickets and were soon floating up the mountain into the clouds.

The ski lift experience was surreal, in virtual silence and visibility down to one ski chair we where whisked up the mountain, through the clouds. We reached the top with no idea of what to do or where to go and no return ticket! There were no marked walking tracks and visibility was terrible, I had visions of being trapped on the mountain. Undeterred we followed something that resembled a path twisting up through the crags to what felt like the top of the mountain. We stopped for a photo of the two of us in the clouds, resting the camera on a granite extrusion, when a sudden change in the weather saw the clouds parting in front of our eyes revealing an incredible lunar like landscape. The view, punctuated with the beautiful cobalt blue of lakes was simply awesome.

It wasn’t long before the visibility closed in on us again, the clouds shrouding the sun as the temperatures dropped back. We had decided that a walk down the mountain was a possible death ticket and so confidently jumped back on the ski lift flashing our single tickets at the ski lift man who, in true Spanish style, took absolutely no notice allowing us to glide off back down the mountain with a sigh of relief.

As we heading back down the mountain in Priscilla, a herd of mountain horses stopped our path, a superb photo opportunity. We stopped via a stunning waterfall and a duty free shop (Andorra is full of them) to stock up on Liquor for my Father and provisions for us. I was stunned at being able to pick up a litre bottle of Pastis for 2 euros! We rounded the day off with drinks and a meal, as was becoming common practise.

Day Twelve

Andorra: Pal

Wednesday 16th July



We awoke as the sun began to illuminate the valley, not a cloud in the sky, we headed out from our camp site for a hike. We had planned a route along a yellow marked path that originated over the river and up one side of the valley from our camp. We headed out and it wasn’t long before our hearts where pounding as the oxygen levels at one and a half thousand meters above see level thinned. We clambered up the steep gradient over a mixture of granite extrusions, deciduous trees and pine forest. Every now and again, through a clearing in the trees, we were treated to a peek of the valley and the other side of the mountain as we made are way onwards, and upwards. Our route was littered with wild orchids, 3 distinctive varieties, as well as many other alpine flora and fauna. We reached the top of the mountain to be stunned at the view that opened up, snow capped mountains framing a picture postcard vista.

As we made our way back down the other side of the mountain it became clear that we may be able to turn the route into a circular hike. We trekked on down the other side of the hill like mountain goats, expecting to bump into Heidi and Peter!

Those dreams were soon to be shattered as two mountain bikes came hurtling down the mountain at us. It was a lucky escape as we jumped aside. We had figured we might be on a mountain bike route the tracks on the floor a give away sign, but it wasn’t obvious that the marked path had become a shared mountain bike route. In a smattering of seconds, with flint stones flying into the air, the bikes disappeared on down the mountain leaving us with an uneasy feeling as we trekked on down the remainder of the mountain, constantly looking behind us, wary of further encounters with high speed mountain bikers.

Our hike continued on in safety, fortunately not a busy mountain bike route and we hiked on round the valley floors returning to our campsite, exhausted but exhilarated it has been a superb hike. We celebrated our ‘butch’ achievement with a late lunch, cracking open a bottle of sparkling Blanquette Limoux we had picked up in the Alet les Bain. As the sun shone we swam in the campsite swimming pool in the late afternoon sun. Definitely the most scenic swimming pool we had ever swum in. Again that evening we cooked and drank our way through another evening as we fell in love with the mountain landscape surrounding us.

Day Eleven

France: Carcassonne; Alet les Bain;
Andorra: Pal


Tuesday 15th July 2008


We awoke early, somewhat bleary eyed after a peaceful night ‘boon docking’ in Carcassonne and headed off to the hypermarket. Now for those fellow Francophiles you’ll know what I mean when I say we spent 2 hours wandering the isles of Geant, we left with our trolley loaded up with all sorts of gastronomical delights.

We headed back to our base in Alet les Bain via a Toyota dealership to enquire about a replacement wing mirror glass for Priscilla (to no avail) planning the next destination along the way.

We lunched in Alet les Bain packing up and heading off onto the open road again on route to the principality of Andorra, our next stop. The journey was an adventure in itself. Maureen (our renamed sat nav) decided to play a little trick on Priscilla and routed her up an unpaved single dirt track! Still listed as a D road, 5 minutes into the deepest countryside and I got cold turkey and decided that this donkey track couldn’t possibly take us over the looming mountain and somehow managed a turnaround in an open field. This really tested Priscilla’s resilience as she bumped her way along the dirt track, shredding my nerves but Priscilla took it all in her stride.

As we passed back through the hamlet on our return from the donkey track we understood why the old man brushing straw off the road had stared so strangely at us on our first pass through. We must have been the only foreigners he’d seen this decade! Having sorted out the squabbles between Maureen (our sat nav) and Priscilla (Maureen was subjected to her 1st verbal warning) we were back onto a D road (this time with tarmac) and proceed to wind our way through stunning countryside as we journeyed deeper up into the Pyrenees.

As we drove on the gradients where getting steeper and the views more and more dramatic, Pricilla bounded along as though she had been made for the Mountains and continued to be a real pleasure to drive. We stopped briefly to be amazed at a lengthy aerobatic display of an eagle swooping through the thermals above a grassy meadow at the side of the road.

Arriving at the border of France and Andorra, snow capped mountains above us we motored on cutting directly through the heart of the border mountains via a road tunnel. We had to stop as we exited the other side not only to look back on the stunning mountain view that we had tunneled through, but also to check that we hadn’t entered into Narnia!

Andorra definitely feels like another country, the architectural style of the buildings, and the price of diesel (only 1.1 euros V 1.4 in France) even the road signage being different.

We headed on through the valleys, Andorra’s development is narrow and ribbon like with every available bit of building space in the main valley being chopped into for real estate. A tax free haven, the volume of new construction was quite amazing. The local building materials being a combination of the local stones so lots of dark granites, it’s a little over bearing at first but as you head out of the main urban areas the vistas open up and we were treated to stunning mountain scenery.

We arrived at our final destination camping Xixerella in the Vallnord of Andorra. A lush green open plan site with free find pitches, loads of space, heated shower block and swimming pool. Surrounded by steep mountains, granite crags, pine forests and a bubbling crystal clear stream at the side of our pitch, we were in tree hugger paradise!

We were now becoming experts at pitching our mobile home, within an hour we had wine in hand and were relaxing discussing the merits of living in such a picturesque landscape. Again J rustled us up another splendid supper as the sun set behind the mountains; life doesn’t get much better than this.

Day Ten

France: Carcassonne

14th July 2008 – Bastille Day

A bank holiday in France and we where treated with a cloudless blue sky as left our drive away awning at the campsite in Alet le Bain and headed off for the day to discover the medieval city of Carcasonne. We where hoping to be able to watch the biggest firework display outside of Paris. On route we stopped for photos in fields of sunflowers and I sneakily borrowed one (well ok nicked one) and popped into a cut off evian bottle to brighten up Priscilla.

On arrival into Carcassonne we headed straight to the medieval walled city and managed to bag one of the last remaining camper spots on a grassy verge shaded by plain trees, right by the river Aude with a view of the medieval city. It was cool, loads of French camper cars all lined up creating a little village all of our own and our first ‘boondocking’ (for the uninitiated that’s Australian for camping for free!) experience.

We where next to a friendly half German half French couple with two young toddlers. Happy with the spot we where soon strolling off into the cobbled route to the picture perfect walled city, loads of photo op’s, it was going to be a snap happy day.

Carcassonne was looking stunning and and was much larger than I had imagined. We wandered around soaking up the festival atmosphere and getting our bearings stumbled on a cute little restaurant with a secret sunny garden for lunch. I had Foi gras, steak enfant and frites followed by chilled pineapple and mint soup and lemon sorbet, all washed down by a bottle of house wine from the restaurant owners own vineyard, very tasty.

All set for more sight seeing we entered the main inner gate building to commence our trip along the inner ramparts and through into the main chateau. As we qued for tickets everyone was handed Bastile day ribbons. We didn’t realise it but we where one of the last people allowed up onto the ramparts as they were to be closed to the public from 3pm to allow for the final preparations for the fireworks, to be launched from the outer ramparts.

A beautifully clear day the view of the new town of Carcassonne and the hills and mountains surrounding was stunning. You could see why it made a great garrison spot to keep the Catalunyans at bay. Security was very tight with people patrolling up and down the ramparts with walkie talkies looking terribly serious. As we looked down and through the walls we could see why, with massive vats of explosives just below us we could be seconds away from death!

The ramparts lead us through into the inner courtyard of the chateau and within the great hall we watched a multi media presentation giving us a flavour of the history of the city, its subsequent decline and more recent preservation, now a Unesco protected site. Next we visited the cathedral with its stunning stained glass windows and our feet were tiring so we descended back down the hill back to Pricilla for a power nap.

As the evening drew on people were already beginning to take spots for the evenings fireworks on the road by the river, so we freshened up, packed some bottles of wine and sandwiches and headed out. The medieval pedestrian bridge linking old Carcassonne with new Carcassonne has been closed, and the new road bridge had een closed to traffic which by the time we arrived at around 19:45 was already packed with people, sat down waiting for the fireworks.

With insider knowledge courtesy of the tourist info office we headed through the throngs of people down on to the east bank of the river to a grassy verge (again absolutely packed with people) and threw our rug down and cracked open some wine and waited for the night to close in and the fireworks to commence.

There was such a great party atmosphere on the river bank, with some French chaps teaching children at the side of us how to juggle and people cheering as brave souls waded through the river to a grassy island for a prime view of the imminent fireworks. With our mp3 players treating us to our favourite sounds and the wine flowing, Johnathon was soon catching everyone’s attention as he did a crazy sit down dance thing to his music! Intrigued by what was making Johnathon move we got chatting to a French trio behind us. Caroline and Antionne, the more confident of the 3, seemed some what disappointed to find out it was Madonna! Never the less we had a fun time finding out about each other in half French half English as the sun set. As we headed beyond 22:00 darkness had crept in and dramatically all the new towns street lighting was cut off and old city’s was lunged into darkness then blasted into illumination as the first barrage of fireworks exploded throough the air.

The waiting had been well worth it, we were treated to a 45 minute crescendo of fireworks, blasting their way above the walled city, a stunning back drop for a truly amazing firework display. We rounded the evening off, back at the side of Priscilla, throwing some sausages onto our gas bbq and knocking back some beers.