Day Twenty Three - Christmas Day part 2

Towards mid morning on Christmas Day the rain stopped and the wind died down. Now the weather was looking a bit better I ventured out. I needed to do the dishes from this morning.

What is it with Germans? There are four sinks at the shower block for doing dishes. Of course, I could have done them in the van but the hassle of driving to the motorhome service point each morning to get rid of all the waste water makes that a bit pointless. Besides which, the sites hot water is free!
At the washing point were two Germans, happily washing away, each with a large pile of dishes and each taking up two sinks. Despite seeing me waiting they continued, leisurely chatting to each other, using one sink to wash and the adjoining sink to drain. Totally oblivious to the fact I was waiting. It's behaviour like this that causes wars. Selfish gypsy German bastards! I'll mention it to my German friend in Dusseldorf. Of course, she'll claim they are Bavarian and the Bavarians are quite different from normal Germans.

Eventually one of the 'Bavarian' Germans finished and I quickly got my breakfast pots washed. I'm quite impressed with my new non stick camping saucepans. They are actually non stick and this mornings scrambled eggs just dropped off the inside. I wonder how long that'll last?

It was only after wandering around the site that you could see how bad the winds last night actually were. A number of trees had broken branches and there appeared to be quite a bit of damage. An elderly English couple I'd been speaking to appeared worst affected. A huge branch off the adjoining pine tree had fallen on their awning and wind break and wrecked both, it did also leave about a dozen pine cones and together with the smell of myrrh was very Christmassy, albeit in a not too Christmassy for them way.

They were in the process of clearing up and I stopped to have a chat. Annie, the English lady had a black eye and a rather nasty gash above it. "What happened" I enquired "Oh, don't ask" she replied.
Given that Christmas is historically a period of domestic violence, I didn't ask.
I suspect that she'd been hit upon the head by the falling branch rather than beaten by her husband Tim, but I didn't pursue it. Best not too!

Today, being Christmas Day and all that, the swimming pool is closed. I'm not sure why, it's not as if it's manned with a strapping Spanish lifeguard or anything. The majority of time I've been swimming, I've been the only one on the pool. I'm now feeling a bit guilty having missed swimming yesterday due to my alcohol induced fragile disposition. Hopefully tomorrow I can continue my quest for a body like Tom Daly.

Surprisingly the bar is closed too. It was actually closed last night, Christmas Eve. Not that drinking alcohol was the top of my 'things to do' agenda last night. Strange, the cleaners are out, the bins are being emptied three times a day as usual but the bar and the pool are closed!

Although I didn't feel nearly as bad as I did yesterday morning, I still felt in need of a bit of fresh air so decided to take myself off to the beach and a walk by the sea's edge. Spending only a few minutes there I decided it was a bad idea. Although the rain had ceased, on the shoreline the wind was blowing strongly off a sea that looked more like the irish sea in the depths of winter than the Mediterranean. Within minutes I was soaked. Giving that up as a bad job I headed back to the site. A hot shower and start preparing the Christmas lunch.


So much for the hot shower, it's those fucking Germans again! Used all the hot water! Tepid at best, I did think, think hard about coming back later. Bugger, I decided, if I can live with the monks in the in the Kathmandu valley, for four months, with no running, never mind hot water, I can put up with this. Head down and in!

Once spruced up, complete with shave, it was back to the van and Christmas lunch. My turkey crown turned out to be chicken (a big fucker!) it had been thawing since early this morning. Veg prepped, paxo balls rolled and it's all in that little oven. Jesus, there's a lot going on in there! Better facilities than the 'unit' in the middle of the South Australian desert two years ago where I cooked a full turkey dinner with all the trimmings.

I even made my own Yorkshire puddings! Complete with onions and herbs. Iceland in town did actually sell aunt Bessie's but I resisted. To be fair, they weren't my best, although better than those in the south Australian desset. There I'd bought a 'pancake mix' , thinking it was the same difference, added onion and herbs and when I tasted it, it was sweet.. While this was the real McCoy, I did cook it in a small frying pan like a pancake,

Two hours later, bingo. A dinner fit for a king. A bottle of white was opened, for the gravy of course. By the time dinner was served I was about 7 on the Richter scale of sloshedness. It tasted all the better.

Now, I'm not a greedy boy but those melamine camping plates are too small for a 'fuck off' Christmas lunch. Out comes the matching serving platter. Good enough for me!

A small bottle of fizz, half a bottle of red and that's me done, replete and happy.

The kite runner on DVD, a buffet plate of bits and at 9:30 I'm in my bed. At 12:30 I'm wide awake and eating again, what is it about Christmas that brings out the glutton?

Can't say I'm not glad it's over for another year. Happy Christmas, Joyaux Noël, Feliz Navidad everyone.































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Location:Cabopino - Calahonda - Spain

Day Twenty Three - Christmas Day

' Boy, what day is it' I shout out to a passing youth from my van's tiny bathroom window, having a crafty fag and too nesh to go and stand out in the torrential rain.

'Why it's Christmas Day, sir' was the cheery response.

'Go fetch me the biggest goose you can find' I reply throwing him a €2 coin.

So, it's Christmas Day. Cold and pissing down with rain while blowing a gale to boot. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

My visions of eating scrambled egg and sipping Freixenet Cava, waving to the people passing my pitch, in their Christmas onesies or dressing gowns, on their way to the shower block, and wishing them a 'Merry Christmas' are dashed.

The weather during the night was appalling. Torrential rain and gale force winds came with a-vengeance and no one is about. Everyone locked in their little metal boxes having their own celebrations. Ho fucking Ho!

Those who know me would probably not use the adjective 'festive' to describe me at the best of times. I'm afraid a damp, blustery, cold day is not going to change that any day soon.

Christmas Eve was a bit of a damp squib, the glorious weather we had enjoyed for the last week or so had given way to cloud and bit of a chill in the air. I woke up feeling a bit fragile. I celebrated the fact that the gas was connected, not with a slap up oven cooked meal but with a bottle of red, a couple of rum and cokes and Jesus, do I know about it. Aside from a walk into town to get some fresh veggies and salads I did nothing bar take nana naps and try to read my ebook. So fragile I even missed my swim.

At 7 pm I decided I really ought to get something to eat, having had only a banana and water all day. Rummaging through the cupboards to find something I fancied that had to be quick, I settled on making a tuna pasta bake. It actually was quite nice, if I say so myself. I made the decision to empty the bin and go to the washing area to wash the dishes straight away. My rationale was that if I didn't, I'd have a van that had the smell of 'yesterday's sex' all Christmas. Not nice.

After dinner and my chores, at 8:30 I settled down with my book. I woke up at 1:00am, the noise from the rain was like shaking a tin of rice. I'm not sure I got back to sleep for more than 20 minutes for the rest of the night.

And now it's Christmas Day. I have had the usual eggs and smoked salmon, but with a cup of tea rather that cava. Still off the booze. My plan for the day? I was going to go for a walk in the morning then get down to cooking the traditional Christmas fayre. Given the weather it looks like I'm going to be confined to the van. I will have a shower and a shave, after all, it is Christmas.










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Location:Cabopino Camping - Calahonda - Andalucia - Spain

Day Twenty One - Calahonda

Did you know.....
Butane burns with a higher calorific value than propane, hence, things get hotter more quickly. Another interesting fact. Both Butane and Propane are bottled in a liquid form, as they are released from the bottle they vaporise, producing a gas. Butane will not vaporise at temperatures under about 5 degrees while propane will. Glad I read this. I've driven through some pretty cold areas on the way through France and Northern Spain where the temperature dropped well below zero. I'd have had no idea that the reason my butane wouldn't work was the outside temperature and probably had things in pieces.


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Location:Cabopino Camping - Calahonda - Andalucia - Spain

Day Twenty - Calahonda

Those following my foray into the world of gas engineering will be pleased to note.... I am now Corgi registered and have a fully functioning gas system working off my newly acquired Repsol K6 gas bottle. It's only taken two fucking weeks!

After returning back to base on Friday I was starting to get a little exasperated. Or should I say, Exgasperated.....

I went back into Fuengirola on Saturday morning to track down the all elusive 'thingy' ( it's "Corgi" talk) that would connect my pipes,gas bottle and adaptor to the gas regulator in the van. The bus ride into town was a huge disappointment, not nearly as exhilarating as the first one.

Once in town I set about tracking down the shop where I had purchased the other "thingys" on Friday. It was Saturday and quite a few of the shops only worked half a day so I had taken the 10:00am bus thinking it would give me loads of time. Not so... My first mistake was I got off the bus at the wrong stop. Try as I might, I couldn't for the life of me find the bloody place. I went in the direction I thought it was only to find my geographical attributes are similar to my mechanical attributes. Sadly lacking.

On my way, wandering aimlessly round the narrow streets of Fuengirola, stopping at every hardware shop I stumbled across, I had no luck. Each hardware shop I went into answered me in the negative. I've travelled enough to realise now that very often, in fact more regularly than not. When you are in foreign parts and the command of the English language is sparse, if someone doesn't understand you they tend to say 'no'. Knowing this fact, when they said 'no' I challenged them. Trying, in the little Spanish I know to draw a picture and speak louder. It usually works, but not this time.

After a good 90 minutes wandering around I had a thought. I had a receipt, on that receipt was an address, at that address was a lady who could provide me with a piece of milled metal that would enable me to have a Christmas dinner.

I took the receipt out of my backpack and asked the first person I saw. She didn't know where it was. I asked several more and got the same response. I was still walking at this stage, albeit aimlessly. By pure chance I had aimlessly walked to the very street I was looking for. I headed towards the shop. Guess what, it's closed. Fucking typical......

Not one to give up I headed up to a large retail park. I had noticed they had the equivalent of a B and Q there. Worth trying. No luck though, they had everything but the bit I needed. I was about to give up and head back to camp when I came across another hardware shop that sold BBQ's . Worth a shot, while they didn't sell the connectors, this very helpful English lad pointed me in the direction of a gas heating suppliers. I'm now sweating like the proverbial bacon pig. It's a warm day and I've walked miles and miles. I decided to give this place a go and sure enough, they didn't have what I needed either. The chap in the shop did speak English and helpfully told me there are only two places in town who would have the connector and they are both closed on Saturday. I showed him the receipt with the address. "Yes" he said. That's is one of them. With that I headed back to camp. I needed a glass of wine...

While I was in the Scottish highlands with Bill and Katrina a few weeks ago Bill showed me a very useful app for the iPhone and iPad. It's called 'maps with Me' using the inbuilt GPS in your phone and iPad it can pinpoint where you are, by downloading the country maps it gives you a street level view. The best bit, you don't have to be connected to the internet. Ideal for travellers overseas as it doesn't incur data roaming charges. During my daily 2.5km swim it occurred to me. I sure wouldn't get lost on Monday when I did my third trip into town.






Sunday was a leisurely day, breakfast of eggs on toast, a wander to the supermarket to replenish the basics. Wine and more wine. I thought it prudent not to buy the goodies for my Christmas dinner just yet, unless you can cook turkey and all the trimmings in a toaster, I'll be living on roots and berries.

A relaxing Sunday evening watching The Man who fell to Earth on DVD and a couple of glasses of wine. I need to watch the wine consumption. The wine glasses I have are huge and very deceptive. Pouring my third glass I realised I'd downed a whole bottle. Fuck it, it's Christmas and I'm on me holidays.

Monday morning, up at 8:00am. A cup of coffee and then off into town. Again, a pleasant trip with no dramatic and erratic driving. With the aid of my iphone I went directly to the gas shop and guess what. ? Got what I needed.. Not before I first got a 'no' and my heart dropped into my boots. Drawing and talking louder did the trick. Ding Dong. Christmas dinner is on again...

As I'm walking out of the shop I remembered I needed a flat screwdriver to tighten up the jubilee clips, oh and to be on the safe side, a couple of spare jubilee clips. I would walk up to the retail park and get them from B and Q (the Spanish version)

Having got what I wanted ( the day is turning out good!) I popped into Iceland. The sign outside promised 'English' groceries. I filled my bloody boots. Paxo stuffing, pigs in blankets, a pork pie and a turkey roast. I would pop to the local supermarket in the morning for the rest of the stuff. I hope I'm not being previous and I can rig up this bloody gas system....

There is only one thing worse than and excitable bus driver and that's a stressed out incompetent one. At the bus station I got my ticket and went looking for the bus. It appeared that the usual 'bendy bus' was broken and a replacement was brought. The only problem was the driver appeared not to know how it worked. The fact that he did not know how to set the destination sign on the front of the bus should have been a clue. As he weaved his way through the little streets of Fuengirola, the rear doors kept opening and closing.

Once on the auto via he had similar problems. You could see he was getting more and more stressed. His driving skills also appeared to be a bit suspect, narrowly missing a number of cars as he pulled out. A couple of stops from camp he picked up a lady, to be fair she looked a bit of a fuck wit. She got on the bus muttering in Spanish, paid her fare and walked down the bus. As the bus pulled off she screamed to the driver to stop, pointing behind her, it was. just as he joined the carriageway of the motorway. Everyone turned to look. Sat there by the side of the road was her suitcase.

Incredibly he stopped and started to reverse. A rather helpful Somalian chap jumped off the bus, ran back down the motorway, picked up her case and loaded it onto the bus. The driver stuck in first gear and carried on as if nothing had happened.

The Somalian was duly thanked by the woman and his mates. As I got off the bus I was sorely tempered to ask if they had any dodgy. DVD's. I'm running out! Where are those Somalian dodgy DVD salesman when you want them?

Back at camp I got out my screwdriver all the bits and bobs and I'm now up and working with a fully operational hob cooker. It's been a good day so far.
I shall now be mostly cooking myself a nice meal and getting shit faced. If this turns out badly and I go up like a new year's rocket. You read it here first.....and remember. Don't mess with gas or electricity. They can kill you.

By the way, I'm not really corgi registered ;-)

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Location:Cabopino Camping - Calahonda - Andalucia - Spain

Day Seventeen - Calahonda to Fuengirola

The saga with the gas continues......
Now I have a bottle, I have an adaptor, I have a hose but the nut that connects to the van supply I bought is the wrong size. It had to be didn't it...?

I took the bus into Fuengirola this morning. Despite the very windy start to the day, there was not a cloud in the sky, sure, it wasn't beach weather, but it was touching 17degrees. Probably 17 degrees warmer than it is in the UK.

Parallel to the beach is the N7 highway. It's a very very busy dual carriage way with cars and trucks pelting up and down at full whack. To get onto the highway you have to stop and wait for a gap, then go for it. I can't help thinking the planners got it wrong. Quite a lot of the towns and village are situated on the mountain side of the highway, to get to the beach, you have to cross it, to get to the next village, you have to walk on the hard shoulder. Believe me, it's not a pedestrian friendly road.

While there are pedestrian bridges from time to time, it still is a ball ache to get from the mountain side of the highway to the beach side. Because it is busy and I suspected that the traffic in Fuengirola would be heavy, I decided to take the bus. I crossed to the beach side to catch it. They are quite frequent, every 30 minutes in the week. And a bargain, 1.52 euro, not only for the journey into town but also the a white knuckle fairground ride to boot.

The driver was laughing and joking, chatting to passengers, taking fares as he pulled out into the main highway, dodging cars doing at least 70mph. By the time I got to Fuengirola I was thinking it would have been a good idea to drive myself. At least I would have had some control over my life rather than in the hands of laughing boy the psyco bus driver. I have taken some hairy bus rides in my time. In India, Nepal, the coast road of Vietnam, but this is up there with the hairiest.

The journey to Fuengirola was about 25 minutes. My intention was to find a large store called AKI which is apparently the equivalent of our B and Q. I was told they were bound to have what I needed. I knew where it was but when the bus stopped in town I decided that, rather than walk back to the retail park by the motorway, I'd have a look around for a hardware store in town.You never know, I may get the opportunity to do the second half of the two Ronnie's sketch.

Within only a five minute walk I found what I was looking for, unfortunately the very helpful lady didn't have what I was looking for but, pointed me in the direction of a store she thought could help. She even drew me a map. Having tracked the store down, I tried to explain to the young Spanish girl, in broken Spanglish what I was looking for. She tracked down the parts. A couple of bolts, a length of high pressure hose and a couple of jubilee clips. Once on the counter we set about building the connector. It was finished in no time and very nice it looked too. The price, only 6 euros. I was quite chuffed with myself. Gas mission accomplished. Or so I thought!

Having satisfied the reason for the journey I set about on a wander through town. This is the first time I've been here. Unlike quite a few of the 'costa' towns, it's a nice mix between the old and the new. Some beautiful architecture. I had a coffee at a little bar then a walk on the beach. The day was turning out quite nice and gone was the wind from further up the coast.

Fuengirola, in ancient times known as Suel and then Suhayl, is a large town and municipality on the Costa del Sol in the province of Málaga in the autonomous community of Andalusia in southern Spain. It is located on the central coast of the province and integrated into the region of the Costa del Sol and the Commonwealth of Municipalities of the Costa del Sol Occidental.
It is a major tourist resort, with more than 8 km of beaches and a mediaeval Moorish fortress. In common with much of this coast, it has been the subject of considerable urban development.
The area has a subtropical Mediterranean climate, with annual average temperatures of 18°C and average summer temperatures of over 30°C






























As I came to the end of the promenade I turned back towards the town and headed to the retail park. Now I'm here, I might as well have a look around.
The whole Mirramar retail park was a bit like Meadow Hall. Despite the heavy traffic in town and it being four days to Christmas, there were a lot less people than I expected. It wasn't like Meadow Hall which resembles trying to stroke a cat backwards at the best of times. After a wander I decided to head back to town and make my to the bus station for the white knuckle ride back to Cabopino.












The journey back wasn't nearly as hairy, maybe because the driver was paying attention to his driving rather than entertaining his passengers. Off the bus I took the short walk to the site. Tim the chap who tried to help yesterday shouted to enquire if I'd got what I went for. All sorted I cheered, Christmas dinner is back on.

Oh no it isn't. The nut that should connect to the vans gas system is the wrong size. I'll have to take the white knuckle ride once again tomorrow morning and get the right one. At least we are going in the right direction.....


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Location:Cabopino Camping - Calahonda - Andalucia - Spain

Day Sixteen - Calahonda

For several years now I've had the princely sum of £1.00 a week on the national lottery. When my numbers come up, which is less frequently than I would like, I tend to put the tenner back on with a series of lucky dips. A couple of months ago I won £10.00. It was the week that the robbing gypsy bastards at lottery HQ decided that £1.00 was too cheap and they would double it...

To cut a long story short I won £50. I decided to reinvest it, speculate to accumulate and all that shit. Anyway, the last of those draws was on Saturday 7th December.

As I was travelling, I had no access to the internet. Stopping off at a service station in south west France I logged into the internet to get my emails and up pops that email from the lotto people that started ' we have some news about the ticket you purchased on Saturday December 4th'

Generally, you would sign into your account and check your lotto messages which would tell you what you had won. But when abroad it's not as easy as that. Until last year you could sign into you account when you were overseas. You just got a warning that they thought you were overseas and if you bought or changed a ticket it would be void. You can't play lotto from other countries.
Obviously that didn't dissuade people enough as now you can't even check your account if you are outside UK, Northern Ireland or the Isle of Man.

This happened to me twice before, once when I was in Thailand! a few days before I was due home, and once in Australia last year. When in Thailand the ticket that won was one that was on direct debit and the winnings are paid into your bank account within to days. I got notification of that so I knew I hadn't won the 'big one' even so, the front wheels of the aircraft hadn't hit the ground at Manchester before I was on to the lotto site to see how how much I'd won.

It's not that I'm greedy. Seven years ago I got five numbers. I was like a dog with two dicks. The £1400 paid for a very enjoyable trip to Peru and Machu Pichu. All my friends could say was how unlucky I was not to have got the six and scooped a 3.5 million share of a £14 million double rollover.

As this latest winning ticket was not on Direct Debit there was no way of finding out if I was a millionaire or £25.00 better off.

Last night, exchanging a few texts with my friend back home. I couldn't wait three months to find out. I gave her my user ID and password and asked her to check. I'm really not sure what I'd do if it is a big win. But we'll soon find out......

And as I write this a text comes through "not the big one, £25.00"
Bollocks, Bollocks, Bollocks.... As I said, I'm not greedy :-)







At least the wind has dropped and the sun has come out.

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Location:Cabopino Camping - Calahonda - Andalucia - Spain

Day Fifteen - Calahonda

It's been a bit of a wild and windy night. I've not slept much at all, what with the sounds of the strong winds buffeting the van and the cheap B and Q garden furniture blowing around the campsite and large plastic bins being swept like tumble weed down the service roads.

When I did eventually drop off bloody pine cones the size of cricket balls were being blown from the tree above me, landing on the top of the van and putting paid to any chance of a snooze.

It rained for the first time yesterday, it was forecast so it should have come as no surprise. The timing could not have been better. I'd just left the van for the short walk to the indoor swimming pool to do my, now daily, 100 laps of the pool when the heavens opened. It's not the warmest of 'heated' swimming pools, especially as the heating is done by a huge bank of solar panels and there has been a distinct lack of anything solar all day.

By the time I got there, a short 5 minute walk, I was absolutely saturated. I did have the good sense to stuff my towel up my fleece so at least that would be dry. It was good to get in the pool to get warm. After I'd finished my swim and exited the pool, I was rather disappointed to find the rain had increased somewhat during my 45 minutes in the pool. My previously dry towel was situated under the only bloody leak in the pools roof and it was as wet as I was. If the wind keeps up during today, at least it's going to dry.

My gas saga continues. I am at least some way towards a solution though.
Yesterday I procured a 6kg Repsol gas bottle. I quite simply lied and made up an address. I was asked for proof of address so made one up. I'd written it down when I went to the supermarket. My friend Mandy had given me the idea. She has a place not far from where I am and suggested that I use her address. I didn't do that in case there were repercussions but wrote down some unsuspecting soul's address I happened to pass and gave that as mine.

The put on the confident look I used often as a sales person and Ding dong. I got the bottle. Now I have one it is quite simple just to swap it when I need a refill. But it's not quite as easy as that, it never is ;-). Although I have the Spanish adaptor that goes on the bottle to connect to the high pressure hose. , I appear not to have the right high pressure hose. I have propane, I need butane.So I now have gas but no way to connect it to my pipe. I know exactly what I need, it's just finding one.

I very helpful English chap who has pitch at the end of my 'street' offered it assist. I got chatting to him at the communal area where you wash your pots. He said be had a big box of hoses and offered to have a look. He came round to my 'house' with what only be described as a Heath Robinson array of pipes, connectors, regulators and jubilee clips. I'm sure, if I'd have let him he would have bodged something up. I'm afraid I declined. I really would prefer not to go up like a New Year fire cracker.

During the afternoon I wandered into the small town. There was a ironmongery shop there and a shop, owned by a Chinese bloke that seems to the equivalent of the pound land shop. I know he doesn't speak English at all as a couple of days ago I tried to buy a 30amp fuse for the battery charging unit that I know full well is broken but can't seem to let go.....

Trying to explain that I wanted a high pressure gas hose to the old Spanish man in the ironmongers was not unlike that sketch with the two Ronnie's. I didn't get one, despite him trying to persuade me that I could use a water hose. Fortunately I also didn't get any 'O' or 'fork handles'.

I did stop off at the Chinese shop, just on the off chance. No luck there although I did buy a few bits, including a 30amp fuse. I had already tried the 25 amp fuse which didn't do the trick. It was only 75c for a box of mixed ones and you can never have too many fuses....

For those that know me, they will well appreciate there are only a couple of people who dislike Christmas more than me. Ebenezer, somebody or other and Matthew Williamson. I quite like Christmas Eve but that's about it. It's a distraction to real life. Shopping is like stroking a cat backwards. It's tortuous and I dislike it a lot.

Today I mellowed somewhat, I saw something in the Chinese emporium that is my (so far) only acknowledgement of the season. I know it's a small step. I bought a mulled wine and cinnamon air freshener. It's now installed in my van and it smells like Christmas!

Today I will be taking a trip to Fueingirola in search of that elusive high pressure gas hose. I think I'll take the bus. Visions of trying to park a big van in a shopping centre car park meant for small cars, with that added nightmare of it being four days before Christmas and if the Spanish are anything like the Brits, they will be on a mission, wanting to buy anything that isn't nailed down whether they need it or not. No.... The bus it is.........


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Location:Cabopino Camping - Calahonda - Andalucia - Spain

Day Twelve - Calahonda

I leaned something about myself today.
I'm not, nor will I ever be, a mechanic.

I can work out what's wrong, but when it comes to fixing it, I should bring in an expert. My sister constantly reminds me of what I was like as a child. I was never happier than with a screwdriver in my hand. Taking something apart. Did I ever succeed in putting it back together again. No, I didn't. I still remember getting a good clip around the head one Christmas. I had been given a watch, a quite nice watch. Before the Queens speech on Christmas Day I was sat on my bed, skriking and surrounded by bits of the said watch. I had taken it apart. Could I put it back together, could I fuck. You would have thought I would have learned during my formative years that reassembly of mechanical 'things' is not a strong point. I should also have learned that disassembly of things should be avoided. Not at all. I'm still at it to this day.

During yesterday evening there was a smell that I didn't recognise. A bit like the smell of electricity !!) I thought nothing of it at the time. This morning I noticed that the light which indicates that 230 volts are coming into the van was no longer lit and, none of the lights were working.

I went outside, checked the connection, came back in. Still no light. I went out again, changed the socket that I was plugged into, came back in again. Again no light on the console. I went out for a third time and removed the polarity reversing cable, the one that stops you getting electrocuted. Still nothing.

Oh bugger, not only am I out of gas, I'm also now without electricity. I checked the fridge and all the sockets in the van, they were working fine. Out comes the manual for a read up.

Here goes.....
When not plugged in the lights, electricity needed for operation of the diesel heating system and the fridge are powered by a big leisure battery. None of the plugs will work as they are connected to the mains ring. The fridge obviously uses quite a lot of power so you also have the option to switch is to gas.

When plugged in all the appliances and the fridge can operate on the mains. By powers of deduction I worked out that, plugged in or not, lights will always work off the leisure battery, as would the electrics needed to heat the plugs that make the central heating system work.

If that is the case then, there must be something amiss with the circuit that charges the leisure battery. A month ago, whilst 'wild camping' on the island of Mull on the East coast of Scotland! my friends Bill and Katrina had hired a camper van. 'Wild camping' consists of, as the name suggests, camping in the wild. In the wild there tends to be an absence of electrical sockets so you are very much dependent on gas and the charge in the leisure battery. The camper van that Bill had rented appeared not to be holdings charge very well. I suspect it was more to do with having the fridge on the battery and all the lights on, nevertheless, by running the engine for 20 minutes he was able to recharge the leisure battery to near full. This is because both the leisure battery and the normal battery can also be charged from the alternator.

So, with that knowledge in my little heed, I put the van into neutral and turned on the engine. Lo and behold, we had light. I left it running for a little while and saw from the console in the cab that the leisure battery was indeed charging.

I now knew that, although the problem with the direct connection to the mains not charging the leisure battery, it was no big deal.

Pulling my vehicle papers from the locker I set about emailing the Fullers leisure salesman in Nottingham. The vehicle had come with a 6 month guarantee. As I'd only bought it in August, that guarantee still and had few months to run. My hope would be that, if I emailed the service department, explained the diagnosis, they may have come across it before and better still, there may be a quick and simple fix. This I did.

Anyone normal, with the knowledge that, while diagnosis of problems is a skill, the practical 'fixing' of the problem if it has anything to do with wires or 'bits' is most certainly not a skill, would have left it that and waited for the service department to get back in touch.

Not me, oh no. As I write I reflect on my attempts to change the light sockets in the house from standard white ones to brushed stainless steel. Quite a simple task one would have thought (providing one switched off the mains first). Not in my case, for almost six years my attempts resulted in it being anyones fucking guess which light came on when I pressed a switch. Being an open plan apartment this was a problem. Almost every night I was up and down the spiral staircase pressing switches to find the right combination for all the lights to go off.

I did eventually call in an electrician. It took him almost all afternoon to put it right. Of course I abdicated all responsibility, blaming an electrician I had employed !!!

Anyway, whilst waiting for a response I had a little read and undid a few screws, poked in a fuse box. Nothing seemed apparently wrong, I would have no clue what I was looking for. Invariably, when i have a screwdriver in my hand, I end up left with either a screw too many or a screw missing.

As I was just in the process of putting the cover back on the fuse box, my phone rang. The number that came up was Nottingham. I can't fault the service of Fullers Motorhomes. The guy on the end of the phone was Nathan. I explained the symptoms.

" sounds like the charging unit" he said.

I had sort of worked that out myself but I let him carry on.

" Have you checked the fuse" he asked.

"Is it I the fuse box, I responded'

"No, it's on the charging unit"

Where is the charging unit"

"It's usually under the drivers seat." He advised.

Torch in one hand. Phone in the other I pulled open the cover under the drivers seat to reveal a black box.
Nathan told me that there should be a green fuse, I needed to remove it and check it hadn't blown. After a bit of poking around I found something that looked green, removed a small clip and took hold of the green thing. As I pulled it out, I dropped it, it disappeared under the box with a rattle that suggested it may have landed somewhere that was not that accessible.

"Fuck" I cursed, I've dropped it.
" it probably isn't the fuse" Nathan said trying to reassure me, " these charging units are prone to going faulty", " we changed out two only last week"

After a couple of minutes it became apparent that the only way I would stand any chance of accessing the said green fuse would be to take the side cover off the drivers seat.
I told Nathan I would call him back and set about unscrewing the cover.
To cut a long story short, I couldn't recover the fuse!!

By now I had covers and screws all over the floor. I called Nathan back. Told him the fuse was lost forever and asked what he suggested. He again suggested that it probably wasn't the fuse but, if I wanted to be sure, get hold of a 30 amp blade fuse ( I have actually got everything but a 30 amp fuse in my fuse and bulb replacement kit which is a mandatory requirement when travelling on the continent.)

Nathan did confirm that as the vehicle was still under warranty he would raise a job and I should pop in when I returned. In the meantime, just run the engine for 20 minutes when the charge drops to top up the leisure battery.

I should have just reported the fault in the first place and left it to the experts . Will I have learnt from this. Probably not.




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Location:Cabopino Camping - Calahonda - Andalucia - Spain

Day Eight - Seville to Calahonda

Phew! The last bit of the drive from cold Chesterfield to the sunny Mediterranean Coast of Spain. It has been a long drive, but not unpleasant.
The route from Seville to Calahonda, between Marbella and Fuengirola is probably the easiest of the drives so far. Down from the plains of Seville through some stunning mountains and drop down to the coast line.

The last bit of the journey consists of numerous viaducts and tunnels on new toll motorways. Once again though, not as expensive as France. Most of the tolls are manned by pleasant Spanish girls, greeting you with a hello, how are you when the see it is a British number plate and I'm busy scrambling from one side of the vehicle to the other. Needless to say they're probably thinking " another Essex crook escaping British justice' or something of the sort.

As I drop down the mountains to the coast I get my first view of the Mediterranean Sea, glistening in the afternoon sunshine. A welcome sight. It's another beautiful day. Very warm, it will be more than acceptable if the weather stays like this for the next month or so.

Once on the coast road the traffic gets quite busy. I follow the signs to Malaga, passing the numerous hotels that play host to the drunken 18-30's during the hot summer months and the oldies who can't or won't pay the astronomical UK power prices in the winter. Of course I'm not one of the latter, I'm a free spirit. A nomadic gypo

The place I have chosen to stay is a site called Cabopino. It's about equidistant between Marbella and Fuengirola. Although could have booked through the trusty caravan club 'winter escapes' magazine, when I looked on the website the prices were pretty similar to going direct. I also thought there was maybe an opportunity to get a better deal for a longer stay. My plan was to put down roots here till mid January.

I pulled into the site, parked up and went into reception. I asked the lady what the best price was for over 30 days and she gave me a figure which was more attractive than both the web site and the caravan club magazine. Job done. I was given a map and told to go and find a spot then come back to formally check in.

The site was certainly packed, mostly with motorhomes but also some caravans. Their were some lovely vehicles. Mine was certainly one of the smallest. Many looked bigger than some of the articulated trucks I had passed on the way down. The plots were nothing if not cosy. Quite a tight squeeze, especially with my reversing skills. Christ knows how some of the vans got in. After driving up and down for a while I chose my favoured spot, reversed in and was installed in my new home for the next month.

The reason I has chosen the site, apart from location was the proximity to the beach, the fact that it had an indoor swimming pool and a bar. It was Oslo close to the little town of Calahonda and the supermarket.

I wandered back to the reception to settle up and advise the receptionist where I was parked up. I'd read, whilst doing my research that bottles of gas are quite difficult to get hold of. You have to either have a Spanish address or have a bottle to exchange. Apparently this is due to the fact that numerous people have been killed by unscrupulous gas sellers and this the governments response. You often hear stories like this and I took it with a pinch of salt. Unfortunately it was correct. The receptionist told me that it would be very difficult to get hold of one but I might try the garage across the road and they would be able to give me address in Marbella, about 15km away. I did as suggested and the person in the garage had no idea. First problem!

I had bought a full bottle of Calor gas before I left, unfortunately I had no idea how much was left, I'd been using it to cook and heat the water for the last week. Better put my thinking cap on?









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Location:Artola,Spain

Day Seven - Salamanca to Seville

Yet again, I didn't sleep well - nothing to do with being parked in a Lidl car park in the centre of the medium size city by the ring road. I had one glass of wine, cognoscente that there was a slight possibility of being moved on. That said, that is unlikely. The fuck off Winnebago that had parked at the side of me had actually put down foundations and was building an extension!!!!

It was another bitterly cold night. The few cars that were left in the car park were covered in a deep frost. It looked bloody cold from the comfort of by centrally heated double glazed van.

At 6:00am I decided to get up and have some breakfast. I thought I might head off early. I didn't want to get caught up in rush hour traffic, nor did I want to find myself hemmed in the car park as it started to fill up with those going about their daily work.

I did have half a tank of water on board, plenty to have a shower but there is something not quite right about havering a shower in the back of a van parked in a Lidl car park. I settled for a good flannel bath! I did reflect, I'd spent some 4 months doing the same 6 dats a week when I was working in Kathmandu living with the monks so it's nothing new. At least I had warm water here!

Just before first light I headed off. It was pitch dark still. My beam benders appear to be working as I got no flashes on the way out of town.

Today, I was heading for Seville. It was going to be quite a long drive. At this stage I didn't have a plan, I was just looking at the map and picking somewhere to go. Seville looked like a good bet.

Seville is the capital and largest city of the autonomous community of Andalusia and the province of Seville. It is situated on the plain of the River Guadalquivir. The inhabitants of the city are known as sevillanos or hispalenses, after the Roman name of the city, Hispalis. Seville has a municipal population of about 703,000 as of 2011, and a metropolitan population of about 1.5 million, making it the fourth-largest city in Spain and the 30th most populous municipality in the European Union. Its Old Town, the third largest in Europe with an area of 4 square kilometres (2 sq mi), contains three UNESCO World Heritage Sites: the Alcázar palace complex, the Cathedral and the General Archive of the Indies. The Seville harbour, located about 80 kilometres (50 miles) from the Atlantic Ocean, is the only river port in Spain.

Seville was founded as the Roman city of Hispalis, and was known as Ishbiliya after the Muslim conquest in 712. During the Muslim rule in Spain, Seville came under the jurisdiction of the Caliphate of Córdoba before becoming the independent Taifa of Seville; later it was ruled by the Muslim Almoravids and the Almohads until finally being incorporated into the Christian Kingdom of Castile under Ferdinand III in 1248. After the discovery of the Americas, Seville became one of the economic centres of the Spanish Empire as its port monopolised the trans-oceanic trade and the Casa de Contratación (House of Trade) wielded its power, opening a Golden Age of arts and literature. In 1519, Ferdinand Magellan departed from Seville for the first circumnavigation of the Earth. Coinciding with the Baroque period of European history, the 17th century in Seville represented the most brilliant flowering of the city's culture; then began a gradual economic and demographic decline as silting in the Guadalquivir forced the trade monopoly to relocate to the nearby port of Cádiz.


















The GPS was telling me the drive to Seville was about 6 hours. I needed to take the E803 motorway which goes over the Sierra del Feude. This wasn't a toll road. More like a duel carriageway with the ubiquitous trucks wandering all over the road. I had noticed, for some reason they all appeared to be Lithuanian or Polish.

One thing they don't have, in either the south west of France or Spain are the same sort of service stations that we are used to in the UK. The further south I have driven the less frequent they are. What tends to happen is there are sign posts off the motorway and you get a big restaurant and petrol station, or signposts to a nearby town where there is a service station. Today I wilI be driving from Salamanca via Caceres ( famous for the Marquis de Caceres wine), then Merida and on to Seville.

I needed to get fuel so once through the foggy weather I pulled off the motorway and headed to the closest town called Guijuelo. This town is quite famous for it's cured ham. As I pulled into the town looking for the service station that the GPS was guiding me towards there was an awful smell. At first I thought there was something wrong with the van. It turned out it is the smell of the manufacturing of Jambon. All the factories were spewing out the rancid smell. It was enough ( but not quite enough) to put you off.

The first service station I came to had a huge queue of trucks so I drove on a couple of miles to the next one. At first I drive straight pat as it appeared to be closed. I parked my the van and walked back to see that The owner was obviously trying to save power as all the lights were out. He was indeed open though. I drove into the forecourt and the little chap came out and did the filling up for me.
" Diesel" the attendant asked
"Si, Diesel Normal por favour" I responded.
" Frio, señor' " I added trying to make conversation
"Yes" he responded " it's very cold"
It must be my accent.. But I'm getting there with the Spanish language.

The fuel is slightly cheaper than it is in France and interestingly, unlike in the UK, diesel is cheaper than petrol.

As I drove back to the motorway every other shop was a cured ham shop. The more festive had pigs dressed up in Santa outfits ( not real pigs I hasten to add). The adage Turkeys voting for Christmas sprang to mind.

This part of Spain is quite high, I'm not sure what the elevation is but it is susceptible to very strong winds off the Sierra de Fuentes. These strong gust of wind played havoc for the drivers of the high sided trucks, it wasn't ideal as most seemed to have a problem driving in a straight wine at the best of times. Given the driving conditions I tended to err on the side of caution and keep the speed down.

The A66 motorway changed to the E802/A66 and I seemed to be heading downhill. The weather was getting noticeably warmer as I headed towards Seville. My trusty GPS had given me a number of alternative options to stop off in Seville. I opted for one that was about 10km outside the centre. As Seville is the fourth largest Spanish city I really wanted to avoid the centre of town if at all possible. The stop off I opted for was at a place called Puerto Gleves. It offered water dumping facilities as well and hot showers and electricity. All for the princely sum of 12 euros.

As I headed to the ring road of Seville, it was quite busy. I passed field and field of orange groves and olive groves. The orange groves still had ripening fruit on them so I suspect that the weather was still a good deal milder than I had experienced so far.

After a couple of bum turns I found my resting spot, I delightful marina at the side of the river. True to form it had showers and electricity. One thing to be careful of in both France and Spain is the fact that quite often the live and neutral wires are reversed. This can cause problems, namely electrocution !
I had done my research though and bought a tester and a reverse polarity lead that swapped them back around again. Good job !

The marina had a nice little shop, a bar full of the 'sailor' types drinking rim and beer. I purchased some bread and a big bottle of beer for later. Came to just over a euro!





There were a few other campers on the site ( basically it was a road by the side of the river with electric points and water. It took a bit of reversing skill ( not my strong point) to get into a spot where my cable could reach the outlet but I got there in the end. My neighbours were a German couple on one side and a Dutch couple on the other. The German Hymer motorhome had a satellite dish that could put Jodrall Bank to shame. A late snack of bread, cheese and chorizo and a settled down to read a bit of the latest free e book I had downloaded from amazon.

I desperate for a good nights sleep so opted for a litre of beer, a couple of glasses of wine and lasagne for dinner. Topped off with a couple of antihistamines which usually does the trick.



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Location:Seville - Andalucia - Spain

Day Six - Biarritz to Salamanca

The best laid plans and all that.... I woke up and realised that the leisure battery was neary flat and wouldn't sustain another evening of draining without a long drive, if I was going to drive, the. I might as well drive south.
I showered in the action man shower, to say there is not enough room to swing a cat is an understatement. A cat wouldn't fit in with me...

I topped up the water, not full as it's heavy and tonight I was planning to stay on a proper campsite at Tordesillas, near Valladolid.
Another long days drive 5 hours.

Didn't start off well. Went for fuel, thought I'd get it at the supermarket rather than the motorway service station as it's quite a bit cheaper, about 14 cents a litre cheaper and every little helps. Unfortunately, I d rove into the car wash instead and had to reverse the big bugger with mirrors round a tight bend with big concrete kerbs to get out. Fuck that for a game of soldiers. so I left and carried on towards the motorway.

It was another bitterly cold and frosty in the morning and was icyon the roads. The French seem to spray the roads with a saline solution rather than salt grit. It seems effective because as soon as I got on the main roads it was as clear as a bell.

My Passport was ready ready on the passenger seat as I drove south to cross the border. What border? I must have missed it. One final toll road and I was in Spain. I didn't see any sign, the language on the motorway signs just changed.

As I was changing motorways I made a schoolboy error and didn't spot a give way sign on the entry to the motorway. Nearly took a French twingo and angry driver out.

It is a spectacular drive over, or should I say through the picos mountains, the end bit of the Pyrenees. It was getting higher, and colder. There were countless tunnels and viaducts and stunning vistas of the mountains in the distance. Unlike France, Spain seemed not to have as many toll roads. I passed through three bit what they charged was peanuts compared to French prices. Most of the other motorways that I travelled on today were two lanes and in very good condition. The roads were not busy at all. Most of the traffic appeared to be heavy articulated lorries who, incidentally, seemed to have a habit of wandering to the near side and offside. I had to hold my breath on a couple of occasions as I put my foot down to pass one and he suddenly wandered towards the side of my car.

Once out of the mountains and the clouds the scenery changed. This is real Don Quixote county. If I'd have seen a bearded chap on a donkey I don't think I'd have been too surprised at all.

It had been a long drive as I pulled into the campsite I had picked to spend the evening. It was in a small town called Tordesillas, not far from Valladolid. I had sent away for a brochure from the Caravan Club, yes, I'm a member of the caravan club... Quite shocking, I even have a sticker ;-)
To be fair, the discounts you get makes it worth every penny of the £43 subscription.

Anyway, I rang the bell of the El Astral caravan park an a chap wandered over. In bad Spanish I told him I wanted to stay over night. In excellent English he told me they were closed for the season. He was very helpful though. He gave me the addresses of a couple of sites in Salamanca which was only about 60km down the motorway. By this time it was getting on. I was very keen to get my foot down and reach my destination before the sun went down.

As I was setting my GPS with the address, I checked out other local sites. There was a free stop over, right in the middle of Salamanca. I'd head there.

I pulled up just as it was getting dusk. The temperatures were already plummeting. On the drive down the winds were driving across the Sierra de Feude from the mountains and on the side facing the mountains, all the vegetation was iced over. It looked pretty if not a tad eerie in the setting sun.

The camper stop was actually a car park in the centre of town outside the council offices, next door to a Lidl supermarket. There were a number of other vans already there. As I was setting up a HUGE one parked next to be.

Salamanca is part of the Spanish region known as “Castilla y León” (Castile and Leon). Despite being a medium-size city (with around 170.000 inhabitants), Salamanca is famous in the world for its culture and for its student atmosphere. In fact, the University of Salamanca is said to be the third oldest university in Europe, founded in 1218.

Located in the western part of Spain, right besides the border with Portugal, Salamanca is in the inner part of the country, 200 kilometers west of Madrid, which made it difficult to reach for tourists.

Salamanca also features a small local airport which receives international and domestic flights.

Tourism is probably the most outstanding industry of the city, thanks to its historical heritage and to the charm of the city itself, since Salamanca can be considered one of the most beautiful Spanish cities. It is also in Salamanca, where the purest Spanish (or "Castellano") is spoken, which makes the city a popular destination for students wanting to learn Spanish.

Weather conditions in Salamanca are quite extreme, with cold winter, hot summers and very little rain.

In its gastronomy pork meat is the star, the cured hams produced in Guijuelo, a village in the Southern part of Salamanca, are among the most famous Spanish delicatessen.

Salamanca has been declared World Heritage City by the Unesco, and in 2002, it was chosen as European City of Culture.

It was late so I didn't get a chance to explore, a short trip to the supermarket to stock up with bread, water, meats and a bottle of Spanish wine. A evening of Tapas watching Moulin Rouge in the TV. Perfect.


















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Location:Salamanca - Castile-Leon - Spain

Day Five - Arcachon to Biarritz

I didn't sleep well, you can't with one eye open, can you. I was a little concerned that the hobo in the corner may come and murder me in my bed. Nothing happened though and although I didn't sleep that well, I did sleep and woke up at 8:30 to start the day. After breakfast of co-co pops (very French I know) I hit the road.

This morning I'm heading for Biarritz, it's mostly a motorway journey but through the vineyards of Bordeaux. My trusty travelling partner tells me it's going to take 3 hours. Once again, despite the beautiful winter sun of yesterday it was a clear night and a very thick frost. Despite the fact that I had had the central heating on all night the sides of the van were icy and it took a good while for the plugs on the engine to warm up.

Biarritz is a city on the Bay of Biscay, on the Atlantic coast in the Pyrénées Atlantiques department in southwestern France. It is a luxurious seaside town and is popular with tourists and surfers.







Lying at the heart of the Basque country and at the foot of the Pyrenees, Biarritz is a welcoming town with a sporting side to it. Known as the European capital of surfing, Biarritz also has a reputation as a golfing hotspot. This charming seaside resort nestles in the cradle of the Atlantic ocean, and acts as a gateway to Spain.

The town turned from quiet fishing port into elegant holiday resort when the monarchy began to holiday here, in the early 19th century. Now you can find top quality seafood restaurants and tapas bars here.
The phare or Biarritz lighthouse overlooks the Landes sands and the Basque country rocks. From the top of the lighthouse (if you have the energy to tackle the 248 steps) the viewing platform offers a spectacular view: you can see as far as the Virgin's rock and even to the beaches of Spain.

If you are keen to take to the waves, there are numerous surf schools who'll teach you to tame the ocean. Or just sit back and watch the pros battle it out during the Gotcha Marbella Tag Team. Biarritz celebrates the extroardinary power of the sea at the Biarritz Ocean Festival.
And at the Maritime Museum it's all about - you've guessed it - the sea. There are over 150 acquatic species to be found in these waters, including sharks
Biarritz is very much a Basque country town and hold its traditions very dear. On the first Sunday of every month you can see the traditional Basque "mutxiko" dancers on the esplanade in front of the Casino.
From Biarritz you could explore the area with a couple of day trips: check out the pretty port town of Saint-Jean-de-Luz, or Bayonne, the capital of the Basque region, where you can see traditional Basque bull-fighting.

I arrived in town at around 12:30, it was another beautiful day. Sun shining in a cloudless sky. The camp site was once again free and just out of town, right on the beach. It was quite busy given the time of year. Once installed and a spot of Iunch, I set out to explore

Most of the afternoon I walked, first one way, then the other. There is a massive hotel that looks like a ship. There were lots of surfers and hundreds of French people promenading. I stayed out to capture a wonderful sunset then headed back to the van.
Dinner of bangers and mash and a glass of red wine ( South African)







I had plenty of food but only one glass of wine in the van, I did try looking for a shop but the closest one announced he was closed, you can come back tomorrow.

I spent the evening reading in the van and made a plan that I was going to stay in Biarritz an extra day.




















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Location:Biarritz - Aquitaine - France

Day Four - Les Sables d'Orlonne to Arcachon

Today was going to be a long drive, the longest by about 100 miles
Unfortunately I took the Motorway, by mistake.
It was a beautiful day again, lovely sunshine. Driving was a dream, such a great vehicle to drive. Stopped every couple of hours for a break at the service station

Happily driving a long and that dreadful word 'peage' cropped up on a motorway hoarding. It was much easier that I thought. Stop, handbrake on, gear I. Neutral, hop over take the ticket and do it all in reverse. No drama.

My original plan was to stay at Arcachon Aire in la Teste du Buch. Unfortunately, my super dooper GPS was a little out of date and this particular camper stop had been turned into a tennis court. No worries. Press of a few buttons and the next nearest one flashes up on the screen. A place called Lanyon.

I am getting pretty used to driving around these small little villages doing the left and right turn. On the way to the Aire, I was followed for a good few miles by a gendarme on a motorbike but I paid particular attention to my driving and the speed. No worries.

The GPS took me directly to the camping spot.
By the sea, quaint fish restaurant, had a walk on the beach. Watched a beautiful sunset the. Drove the 100 yards or so and parked up for the night. Their was a sign that said 'sauf camping cars'. I was pretty share that that didn't mean 'no camping cars' but needed to check. A quick text confirmed that the sign meant No. Parking except camping cars. I was ok to set up camp.

This was the only place so far that had been a) quite a bit off the beaten track and b) didn't have anyone else in it. Or so I thought. I went for a bit of a walk into the little village, everything was shut at it was a Sunday evening. It did seem however that fish food was popular here. I counted about half a dozen fish restaurants, some actually specialising in just mussels.

Got back to the van
Still no one there, growing dark now. In the corner was a rather dilapidated car and at that side was a large tarpaulin made into a sort of tent come shelter. Looking out was a hobo. As I climbed into the van my mind wasn't on what I was going to have for supper, more Wolf Creek! I could see the headlines on channel 4 news now. Jon Snow announcing that the body of a Brit has been found inside a camper van. The fridge emptied. A fence man of no fixed abode has been apprehended. The Tesco finest sticky toffee pudding stuck in his beard was a give away.


















Dinner of chicken in a Bordeaux wine, potatoes in goose fat, baked tomatoes topped with blue cheese washed down with a glass of South African wine
Will be criminal if I don't shell out on some French wine soon....

I had a fitful sleep..



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Location:Arcachon - Bordeaux - France

Day Three - Carnac to Les Sables d'Orlonne

I'd had a reasonable nights sleep, despite being in a car park in the middle of town. Despite the glorious sunshine yesterday the temperatures had plummeted. I have the luxury of a diesel fired central heating system in the van. It was on all night too. A quick shower and then a small shop for fresh bread for breakfast.

Today's journey was a tad longer than yesterday, as I'm in no rush I'm intending to take it steady. Before leaving I did want to see if I could track down that gite we had stayed at all those years ago. Carnac is not a huge place and I did manage to find it. I also found the beach where I had nearly drowned!

Carnac is famous as the site of more than 10,000 Neolithic standing stones, also known as menhirs. The stones were hewn from local rock and erected by the pre-Celtic people of Brittany. Local tradition claims that the reason they stand in such perfectly straight lines is that they are a Roman legion turned to stone by Merlin (Brittany has its own local versions of the Arthurian cycle).

The Carnac stones were erected during the Neolithic period which lasted from around 4500 BC until 2000 BC. The precise date of the stones is difficult to ascertain as little dateable material has been found beneath them, but the site's main phase of activity is commonly attributed to c. 3300 BC. One interpretation of the site is that successive generations visited the site to erect a stone in honour of their ancestor.









Today's journey is 163 miles and will take me to the seaside town of Les Sables d'Orlonne. Translated this means the sands of D'Orlonne. During the summer this is a hugely popular resort town

The town is also famous for hosting the Vendee Globe, a single handed round the world yacht race which is held every four years. The race starts and finishes in Les Sables-d'Olonne, in the Vendée département of France; both Les Sables d’Olonne and the Vendée Conseil Général are official race sponsors. The course is essentially a circumnavigation along the clipper route: from Les Sables d’Olonne, down the Atlantic Ocean to the Cape of Good Hope; then clockwise around Antarctica, keeping Cape Leeuwin and Cape Horn to port; then back to Les Sables d’Olonne. The race generally runs from November to February; and is timed to place the competitors in the Southern Ocean during the austral summer.
Additional waypoints may be set in the sailing instructions for a particular race, in order to ensure safety relative to ice conditions, etc. For example, in 2004, the racers had to pass north of the following flexible waypoints:
a gate south of South Africa, situated at 44° South, between 005° East and 014° East Heard Island
a gate to the South west of Australia, situated at 47° South, between 103° East and 113° East
a gate to the south east of Australia, situated at 52° South, between 136° East and 147° East
a gate in the Pacific Ocean, situated at 55° South, between 160° West and 149° West
a gate in the Pacific Ocean, situated at 55° South, between 126° West and 115° West
The competitors may stop at anchor, but may not draw alongside a quay or another vessel; they may receive no outside assistance, including customised weather or routing information. The only exception is that a competitor who has an early problem may return to the start for repairs and then restart the race, as long the restart is within 10 days of the official start.
The race presents significant challenges; most notably the severe wind and wave conditions in the Southern Ocean, the long unassisted duration of the race, and the fact that the course takes competitors far from the reach of any normal emergency response. A significant proportion of the entrants usually retire, and in the 1996-1997 race Canadian Gerry Roufs was lost at sea.
To mitigate the risks, competitors are required to undergo medical and survival courses. They must also be able to demonstrate prior racing experience; either a completed single-handed trans-oceanic race or the completion of a previous Vendée Globe. The qualifying race must have been completed on the same boat as the one the sailor will race in the Vendée Globe; or the competitor must complete an additional trans-oceanic observation passage, of not less than 2,500 miles (4,000 km), at an average speed of at least 7 knots (13 km/h), with his new boat. Since trans-ocean races typically have significant qualifying criteria of their own, any entrant to the Vendée Globe will have amassed substantial sailing experience.

Ellen MacArthur finished in second place in her boat Kingfisher in 2000/2001 at only 24 years of age.

The journey to Les Sables d'Orlonne was pretty straight forward. Intentionally missing out the motorways it took me through some spectacular western French countryside.












My lodgings for the night was once again a car park in the middle of town. During the summer there is a charge, something like 10 euros but this includes electricity. While the leccy is not available in the winter months the Aire is free. Once parked up I had a spot of lunch. French bread and cheese before heading to explore the town. The long promenade is full of French cafés and bistros. It was another glorious, cloud free day. I got back to the van just after 5:00 pm as the sun was starting to set. Dinner of bangers and mash, washed down with a nice South African red wine.

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Location:Les Sables d'Orlonne - Vendee - France

Day Two - Roscoff to Carnac

That 'choppy' crossing never actually materialised. The crossing was as calm as I guess it could be at the beginning of December. We arrived at 8:00 am.

During the night I had an awful thought. I had bought some beam benders. It's the contraption you stick on your headlamps that stops the headlight pointing to the left and dazzling the oncoming traffic. Unfortunately, the instructions were just beyond me so I put them on one side 'to do later'. I'd still not stuck them on. In fact, they were on my desk back in Chesterfield. To make matters worse, the one hour time difference in France meant that at 8:00am, it was still dark. At least the French won't see me heading down the road on the wrong side!

As luck would have it, as I headed to the cafe on board to get a cafe and croissant ( when in France!) I noticed gag there was a little shop selling travel "things' in the window were 'beam benders' and it was open. Phew! I quickly bought pair, and a couple of maps. One of France and one of Spain and Portugal. I have little idea of the geography of all three countries so despite the "super dooper Mini Cooper fuck off GPS with lifetime maps, it would be nice to see where I was heading so I could programme it.

As we headed into port the intercom suggested all drivers headed for their vehicles, pronounced 'Vee Hi Cals' by the French lady on the tannoy. That made me smile. On the Vee Hi Cal deck I located by van and quickly stuck the 'beam benders' on. No fuckin clue if they were in the right place!

I needn't have concerned myself. On boarding last night the boarding crew were having great difficulty getting a static caravan on board. It was massive. They obviously succeeded because now they boarding crew were having great difficulty getting a static caravan off the boat. In truth, they had got it stuck. By the time they had it sorted it was well after 9:00am and light. No beam benders needed.



So.... Here goes, driving on the wrong side of the road!
Actually, it was easy, no worries. In anticipation of anxiety I had programmed the GPS with a "camper stop' only a couple of miles from the port. As my coffee and croissant had been superseded by the 'beam benders' I hadn't had breakfast.

I arrived at the camper stop in no time, no drama, no arm waving frencies in berets. Nothing. As I pulled up, went to the back of the van to have a pee I had a strange 'motion' feeling. Strange I thought, although I have experienced that feeling before after being on a boat, the crossing was pretty smooth. At that stage I realised in my excitement of doing my first two miles of driving in 'foreign lands' I had forgotten to put the handbrake on. The van was heading across the car park into the sea! I don't think I've ever moved so quickly, pulling the handbrake on and thankfully coming to a stop. Zut Alors!
A cup of coffee I think!

So.... Where to go. I had made a decision that I was going to avoid 'toll' roads within reason. I was in no rush and I wanted the trip to be as much about the journey as the destination (wherever that might be). I was also quite keen to keep the driving to a sensible level, no more than 200 miles a dat. That way I could leave early and reach my destination with time to explore. Perusing the map I saw Carnac. Now Carnac was the first and only foreign holiday I took with my parents and the rest of the family. I must have been 15 so it was back in 1974. Three families hired 2 Gites and we had a really nice time. There are a few things I clearly remember:-

* Being sent for the baguettes in the morning - I can actually smell them now.
* My uncle Bob - not my real uncle - betting me 10 French fracs I couldn't
swim around the buoy in the bay. He won, I was so knackered I was hanging
onto it for a good 30 minutes while he came and rescued me in a pedlo.
* My Mum imposing a fine of 10 franc from my spending money every time I
was a twat. I recall I came back owing money.

So, first destination. Carnac it was. I programmed it into the GPS, opted for 'no tolls' and it gave me a course, 145 miles that's a reasonable sensible first day.
The weather was beautiful, cloudless sky and really quite warm. I had a couple of 'misdirections' but arrived in the little town of Carnac just after lunch time.






The continent, particularly France is well set up for camper vans, or camping cars as they are known. To encourage owners of 'camping cars' to stop off in cities, towns and villages and spend money they have what are known as Aires. These are stopping off points, often in the centre of town and often free.

So, ready to bed down for my first night on the continent.


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Location:Carnac - Brittany - France

Day One - Chesterfield to Plymouth

I'm not sure if I've been watching too many episodes of My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, or the travelling bug I caught in 2010 has made a reappearance. Whatever the reason, I've once again decided to once again take to the road. Nomad, Traveller, Gypsy, Pikey, call it what you will. From today I am one....

Last year, while spending three months in Australia I had a holiday (not that most of the last three years hasn't been !) Matthew and I travelled to Christchurch in New Zealand and hired a Camper-Van to tour the South Island. I mention this because for the next couple of months in OZ and when I returned to the UK, I looked at every single motorhome I saw on the road with the envy of a green eyed monster. I had to have one. I wanted to live in one, the carefree life on the road where it's the journey rather than the destination that matters.

I am known for my impulsive behaviour, not least in the arena of buying things. They do say that the good sales people are all like that. I bought my first house without seeing it, I bought a brand new SUV after taking my current one in for a service ( and actually paid for the service too). I bought a £3k 3D smart TV, despite the fact that I only really watch Channel 4 news. It didn't surprise me that, one rainy day in August, at a loss for something to do. I drove over to Nottingham to 'look' at a camper-van and arrived back home some two hours later owning one. It must have been the easiest sell the salesman had made - ever ! I was desperate for him to ask for the deal, he didn't, not, that is until I asked him to. He did, and I said yes. The rest is history. A week later I drove a nice 4 year old Fiat Ducatto from Nottingham to Chesterfield. Was this going to be the best or the worst decision I had ever made?









After a first trip out to a local camp site, a couple of trips to Scotland, here I am sitting on the bed of my cabin of the "Bretagne" , bound, with a one way ticket to Roscoff in Britanny, Northern France.

I've never driven on the continent before. To be honest that is a concern, a big concern. I paid £4.99 for a sticker that adheres to the van windscreen to remind me which side of the road I need to be on and which way I need to go round a roundabout. I hope the French are ready for this!

The journey down to Plymouth was uneventful. If you can call the worst winds I have experienced "uneventful". The van was full of clothes to cover every eventuality. I was also carrying more food than the local Asda. I'm pretty sure they have shops in France and Spain, but you can't be too careful. I think the weight was the only thing that stopped me being blown over.









Arriving at the ferry terminal in plenty of time, I was able to set my new super, dooper, mini-cooper fuck off GPS (with free lifetime European maps no less!) to TV mode and watch channel 4 news whilst waiting to board. Who needs a fucking 3D smart telly anyway!

The boat was pretty empty. I had treated myself to a cabin. To be fair, it only cost £ 39 as opposed to £5 for a reclining seat (which usually don't actually reline that much). My rationale for the cabin was I had a quite stressful day ahead of me and I needed rest. The disadvantage of course is you don't get to meet new people, more of a disadvantage when I saw half the French army get on the boat. You win some - you lose some I guess.
In reality, the boat was pretty much empty. So much so that most of the bars and restaurants were closed. One boarding I settled myself in the cabin and watched "I'm a celebrity, get me out of here' on the GPS. No TV and a basic bunk bed. The cabin was £39 for a reason!!!

I was fully expecting, given the weather on the way down, a rather choppy crossing. As I settled down to sleep mentally checking I'd got and done everything, I had an awful thought. I'd only gone and forgotten my fucking mountain bike. I hope the shops are open when I get to the continent!

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Location:Plymouth - Devon - United Kingdom