Musings

After the first 3 months of travel, I’ve been on my own for up to 6.5 weeks at one time – the first 3 weeks I was with my sister, and for one of those weeks with other extended family also, followed by the week visiting Lisbon and Porto, when my sister again joined.

The following are my reflections (not complaints) on how I’ve experienced this time and its content – for other travellers some or all of this may not of course be applicable:

Mentally and physically tiring – having observed the arrival/set up/take down/days out/departure activities of fellow motorhomers in couples, it occurs to me that doing the whole thing on my own has an impact for example on whether I want to make the effort to use the van as a vehicle for days out from a site rather than as a caravan, or even simply set up the outside table and awning, if I’m only going to be in a place for one or two nights;

to get to every new place, I’ve been the solo navigator, the solo driver of a heavy, 7m long vehicle, the solo motorway toll payer

to set up in a location, I make the arrival contact, select the pitch, determine the positioning of the van, negotiate getting it into/onto a pitch, and the use of ramps to level it, sussing out the services on the site etc

to visit/explore, I am mostly the sole ‘resource investigator’, the bus/train coordinator, and very importantly the KEY HOLDER.

Doesn’t sound like I’m selling this, but becoming mindful of it has enabled me to pace it, and hence enjoy it all better.

Neighbours – these are certainly more impactful I feel than if I were travelling as part of a couple; there have been two specific occasions where I’ve felt distinctly uncomfortable for completely different reasons, and which would not have arisen in my opinion had I been with others; the discomfort may not even have been justifiable – but given my subjective perception, was ‘real’ enough; the beauty of travelling like this is of course that one can move the vehicle even within a location, or simply drive onto the next one, which I duly did.

Both of the above two themes will result in my ‘hiding’ in my wheeled apartment, where I would therefore confirm a perceived british motorhoming stereotype – see post ‘Cock of the Aire’ 🙂

Particularly stressful events – these have been few – from the mountain drives, to equipment repair, but the one that tops it all sits in a continuing context of lack of practice and hence confidence in filling the LPG tank – see separate post. This is necessary to run the fridge when not on hook-up, and cooker, particularly in the latter case given that I damaged my portable induction ring.

Occurs to me, albeit somewhat late, that I may be assuming an understanding of what an Aire is, so by way of a quick explanation – these are glorified car parks dedicated to motorhomes which towns in many countries on the continent have seen fit to provide either for free or for a small car park charge. A different word/phrase is used depending on the country. The word can also describe privately-owned offerings and the rest areas/motorway service areas in France. They usually have water provision, and emptying of grey water – ie dirty waste water, as well as provision for emptying of chemical toilets. Here’s a rather lovely free example by a village called Barcos in the Douro – left-side pictures, and right side is a free aire in a tiny hamlet in the Pyrenees.

After 3 months of travel where I’ve taken advantage of these quite a bit, have decided that the French motorhoming tribe deserve the ‘Cock of the Aires’ designation; it’s their complete assurance, confidence, taking for granted attitude towards the use of these places. This was underlined by Sharon and John’s stories, and the caricature conversation at the photocopier equivalent, ie the aire parking meter – where one such Frenchman declared, after pontificating about Brexit, Margaret Thatcher, the British Empire and Commonwealth, that for all that, Les Anglais se cachent – ie on the aires.

Another way of looking at it would be that indeed I – perhaps speak for my fellow countrymen/women also – am not confident in asserting ones presence from the aire rooftops – rather tentative and not wholehearted about BEING THERE – struggling to rely on the fact that I won’t be moved on in the middle of the night, despite the parking ticket stuck to my windscreen, and whether I should (even if I think I’m able to) squeeze my van into the personal space of the two vans already assertively installed on either side of a space. Yes – as I muse on it, I bet there are books written on motorhome aire behaviours and national characteristics.

Seems to me there are lots of French trundling about in Portugal, loads of Dutch in northern Spain, lots of Dutch/Germans all over, lots of Brits in the Picos – no doubt the Santander/Bilbao ferry factor.

The aire (or Area Autocaravanas) at San Sebastian was very international – in addition to the usual French, Dutch, Germans, there was a smattering of Brits, the odd Austrian, Italian, Danish, Swedish and even a motorhome from Hungary. At one point a Slovakian pick-up truck towing a caravan circled the place, heaven forfend, and there was one ‘pitch’ available, but wouldn’t fit both. Not wanting to make the campervan curtains twitch that obviously to see the decision-making, abit later, when I emerged from hiding…, a proper, kosher, motorhome was parked there, and, phew, the correct order had obviously been maintained, no doubt by the French/Germans. 😉

Amazingly ended up on our selected Porto visit campsite and indeed the only pitch remaining, next to a Dutch couple I had met a month earlier standing at a campsite bus stop to travel into Granada. This coincidence was further compounded when we found them also occupying the table adjacent to the one we unknowingly took, at a cafe in the middle of Porto.

At the beginning of my time away, it was very funny to come across a work colleague who happened to be crossing the same Barcelona street in front of the market at the same time as I was. After the initial brain processing, which told me he looked abit like Tom, I came to realize it was actually him!

Loads of the usual Dutch, Germans and large ex-pat communities it seems of Brits in the busier Algarve.

There seem to be quite alot of Asian men working in various capacities on building sites, and in the fruit & vegetable sector which although in the Alentejano is nothing on the scale of Spain, including ‘plasticos’ coverings of the crops, it seems to be the only other main sector in addition to tourism in this area. According to Diogo (see post ‘Every Cloud’) there is very little work other than seasonal tourism outside of the main bigger cities – population of Lisbon only seems to be around 250000 – and the average wage is 700eu per month. Whilst the northern europeans have brought investment to the Algarve, they’ve pushed up property prices, and indeed the food prices in the supermarkets in the southern coastal areas are the same as in the UK. Diogo manages a campsite, but lives in an apartment, as can’t afford a house.

Have become aware of how difficult it can be to make decisions and then actually implement them, particularly those which involve stepping out of comfort zones, when one is doing this completely solo. And all sorts of things are outside the comfort zones, from driving a 7m long vehicle along unknown roads guided by satnav, to waiting for buses where no obvious stop is evident, to wondering whether the cycle track to Malaga really does involve that bit on the busy main road, to buying a crossing on a little boat to the beach and not knowing how often the little boat expects to enable the return journey! And I’ve found that it doesn’t get easier. But what propels me to make the next decision and the next are the prizes I have seen – amongst them the Canal du Midi, Carcassonne, the Rondas, Malagas, Cuencas, Cabanas beach, Andalucian countryside, Bay of Cadiz and more. It has been and so is, worth it. I must and will keep doing it. After all, what’s the worst that can happen, apart from eg ending up at 2000 metres in the Pyrenees with it snowing, down to 0.5deg and no snow chains?! And almost repeating the exercise 4 weeks later in the Sierra Nevadas, although at least it wasn’t snowing, and the road hadn’t got narrow enough for me not to be able to turn the van around. And I do not enjoy mountain driving unfortunately. Takes me about a day to recover from the adrenalin and stress hit. Still, seeing Granada is worth staying on a campsite up there in the foothills.