Two Ports, one lemon

You know when you turn up somewhere and it’s a bit scuzzy and you think ‘Oh well, it’ll do for the night’? That’s how we feel when we arrive in El Puerto de Santa Maria, and yet…

There’s a lot of shabby ribbon development along the approach road, loads of graffiti, the campsite is arranged in closely packed rows that look like battery hen cages for camper vans. But the point is that the more we get to know it the more we like it and end up staying eight days instead of two. It’s not gorgeous and alluring like its neighbour just thirty minutes across the Bay of Cadiz, but it’s interesting and easy and a place where people live and work, not just spend their holidays.

We visit the Osborne Bodega, the headquarters of the famous brandy and sherry company (if you’ve ever been to Spain you’ll know their big black bulls which dominate the skyline up and down the country.) We buy fabulously fresh shellfish from the counter at Romerijo then go to their restaurant next door with our paper cones of langoustine and crab and tip it out to eat at a freshly laid table with china, glassware, bread. We wander the narrow streets of the old town and begin to get to know it. We find a favourite bar with a great waiter. We cycle to the ferry and spend a lovely day in Cadiz. We make friends with the slightly odd Spanish couple camped next door. We are sad when we leave and know we’ll come back one day.

After leaving Puerto we head for Almuñecar, tricked by reviews on our Camper Contact app that a ‘quirky, easy-going campsite you’ll love’ awaits. It isn’t. We don’t. We move on. The nearest alternative we can find is eight kilometres away at Motril, in our minds an unlovely place at the junction of the busy A44 to Granada and the A7 to Almeria.

We arrive at Puerto de Motril to find a palm tree lined oasis of peace and tranquillity. The campsite is friendly and relaxed and we find a spot with views through the palms to the sea. There’s a buzzing beach bar a short walk away with a Spanish version of Fat Boy Slim where we enjoy spectacular sunsets and giant gin and tonics. It’s lovely. Who knew? The only downside is that the sand is dark grey, not golden, but it acts like sand, feels like sand so…

Notes for campers: At El Puerto de Santa Maria we stayed at Playa las Dunas, an ACSI site. It’s touted as being close to the ferry to Cadiz but people with mobility issues should know that it is in fact a thirty minute walk away. There’s a really nice, friendly restaurant on site.

At Motril we stayed at Playa de Poniente, another ACSI site. The entry says the swimming pool is closed from 30th September but actually it was open, but without a lifeguard. The water was freezing in November!

The site at Almuñecar which we rejected was Camping Tropical. It’s right on a busy dual carriageway, tatty, full of discarded junk and has very small pitches with hardly any room to manoeuvre. Gertie is seven metres long and it was pretty challenging getting in and out. Inexplicably, it gets rave reviews from Camper Contact users.

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Chicken pie in El Puerto

The gas feed to our fridge stopped working a couple of weeks ago and we got it fixed in Anglet, near Bayonne (details below of the highly recommended Dometic engineer). The unexpected bonus is that the ignition for the gas oven and grill now works (we used to have to light it with a match and it took ages to catch) and it seems to be more efficient, so I decide to bake a chicken pie.

We camp near the wide, sandy beach of Playa Puntilla on the west side of El Puerto de Santa Maria. It’s 23 degrees with a cloudless blue sky. We do all the things that people on holiday do… have lunch at a beach side bar, sunbathe, swim in the still-warm sea. It’s lovely for a while, but what we’ve found we really really like is the feeling that we’re not so much on holiday as moving our home (Gertie) from place to place with a different view each time we open the door. Eating home-cooked food definitely reinforces this feeling and we cook at least four days out of seven. Gertie is equipped with a gas grill and oven and a three-ring gas hob. We also have a slow cooker and a Cadac barbecue, with griddle, hotplate, wok and pizza stone. In Burgos we bought a good, heavy paella pan for six Euros which fits the Cadac perfectly (Cadac’s own brand paella pan costs £45.75. Ha ha! Smug or what?)

El Puerto de Santa Maria is more interesting than it looks at first sight, by the way. The quirky Museo Municipal has some interesting archaeological exhibits and there are two sherry bodegas which offer guided tours. Plaza de Espana is in the heart of the old town and is dominated by the Iglesia Mayor Prioral. It’s a pleasant place to while away an hour or so, people watching.

So, back to the chicken pie. What with a potentially erratic oven, the use of an empty wine bottle as a rolling pin and the consumption of two large glasses of delicious Tinto de Verano (summer wine, recipe below) it’s something of a miracle that it’s edible. Luckily, we’re both ravenous by the time I get it to the table and although the pastry is a bit burned in places, it’s tasty.  I think the trick is to rotate whatever’s being baked a quarter turn every few minutes, so cakes are off limits.  Should do a good roast though.

Notes for campers:  The fridge was repaired by Save’Me, 4 Rue de L’Industrie, Anglet. We found them on the Dometic website.

We stayed at the Camping Playa las Dunas campsite at Playa Puntilla. They’re in the ASCI guide. We paid €18 per night including electric hook up. It’s a very large, popular site but this is probably because there’s no competition. It suited us for a few days but we wouldn’t have wanted to stay any longer. The restaurant and snack bar are good. Warning: The site is touted as being very convenient for the ferry to Cadiz but you should be aware that it’s a good twenty-five to thirty minute walk to the terminal.  Possibly a problem for those with mobility issues.

Tinto de Verano (Summer wine): One third cheap red wine, two thirds gaseosa or lemonade, a slice of lemon and lots of ice.

Battle of the pavement in Saint Jean-de-Luz

The harbour at St Jean-de-Luz

It’s been some time since I cycled extensively in France, and in the intervening years there’s clearly been a move to get cyclists off busy city streets by creating dual use pavements, pedestrians on one side, cyclists on the other. What a good idea, yes? Well no, apparently.

Picture the scene. Perfect blue sky, wild, surf-strewn sea, totally beautiful Saint Jean de Luz a mile or so away around the bay, a very wide pavement with clear dual-use markings and signage. It’s France, right? France is the cyclists’ friend. Cars understand the need to take care around us. Everyone rides a bike here. Cycling is easy in France.  Unless, apparently, you have to share a space with pedestrians.

On they come on the cycle side. Babies in pushchairs, joggers, lovers snogging, toddlers, women chatting, hoodies looming. I ring my bell. I smile. I politely say ‘excusez-moi’. They either ignore me completely or reluctantly move at the very last moment. What to do? In the end I give up and weave backwards and forwards through the lovers etc, across the whole width of the pavement and guess what? No-one cares or even seems to notice. No-one tuts or shakes their fist at me. Of course. I’d forgotten. I’m in France.

Bittersweet symphony

Lily

On Thursday 12th October, John retired and our beloved Border Collie Lily died.  We’ve waited so long for this time, the beginning of the rest of our lives, but we are now on our first long trip in Gertie with just two of us instead of three.

Our first stop in France probably shouldn’t have been St Valery sur Somme. So many memories of places she loved to run, restaurants she was welcomed in: ‘Yours is the best-behaved dog we have ever had in here’…and she was.  She gave us 15 years and 9 months of love and fun and we were so very proud of her.  But she has gone and life continues.  We’re on the road for the next seven weeks so here’s an update of the first bit.

After St Valery we head first for a place called Durtal in the Pays de la Loire, where a huge 17th century chateau dominates this little town, perched on the Loir, a tributary of the Sarthe.  Next day we head for Saintes, on  the banks of the Charente.  The town is amazing, stuffed full of stunning architecture. There is an incredibly well-preserved Gallo-Roman amphitheatre built in the time of the Emperor Claudius and a Unesco World Heritage site, the 11th century basilica of St Eutrope, including the crypt where he is supposedly buried, an important piece of Romanesque architecture.

Now, four days after leaving England we are in St -Jean-de-Luz, near the Spanish border.  In our imagination, this part of the journey was gong to be bathed in southern sunshine. Instead we are lashed by the tail end of Storm Brian. Better weather is promised for tomorrow.

Notes for campers:  The aire de camping car in Durtal is between the post office and a school.  It’s full around school drop off and pick up times but otherwise fairly empty.  The Raclet aire de service is not currently working.

The aire de camping car at Saintes is very popular so if you’re intending to visit it’s best to arrive early.  Some road noise.

 

 

The financial adviser tango

Retirement and escape in Gertie beckons so on Friday we meet the first of three potential financial advisers.  He arrives early, his voice so strident that it somehow penetrates the peaceful deafness of our ageing Border Collie who obviously thinks there’s an enormous punch-up going on.  She paces, concerned, and unusually for her avoids the visitor.

We have all our projections and pension information ready.  The meeting begins but doesn’t exactly follow the path we were expecting. Instead we learn that he plays rugby ‘Like to keep trim’ he beams, patting a not insubstantial stomach.  We learn that he doesn’t travel from his local station because he doesn’t want to be ‘at the mercy of those RMT b*****ds. Oops, lady present, pardon my French’. We learn that he and his second wife have a ‘double D relationship, she drinks, I drive.’  We learn that he has three children and was left to look after them when his wife did a moonlight flit, which I’m beginning to think was an eminently sensible course of action.  We learn that although he doesn’t exactly say ‘Put the kettle on mother and leave the men to talk’,  I am not expected to ask questions, especially questions like what his charges are and how many clients he has.  Next to me I feel John twitching.

Me: So how many clients do you have?

Him: Lots

Me:  How many?

Him: Hundreds

Me: How many hundreds

Him:  Several

Me:  Five hundred?

Him: Of course not

Me:  Four hundred?

We finally settle on ‘around 200’ which seems like a lot to us, considering he says he believes in doing everything himself so doesn’t have any help.

The next hurdle is the fees.  We ask what they are.  A simple question, yes?  No.  Sentences like High Current Income Mutual Fund, Law of Large Numbers, Bear Market, time value of money (he kindly suggests that I might want to look this one up later), Quick Ratio trip easily, and loudly, from his smiling lips.  We finally interrupt:

‘Yes, but what fees do you charge?’

‘Ah now, that depends’

‘On what?’

‘Every client is an individual’

‘Yes, but do you have any documentation showing your fees?’

‘Well, you can have this’ as he slides a printout across the table.  This is his firm’s client agreement. ‘But those figures aren’t what I’d charge’

‘Um…..’

Next he asks for John’s national insurance number.  John asks why he needs this.  ‘Well, we won’t get far without it, will we?’  ‘But this is just an initial meeting, we’re interviewing other financial advisers too, obviously.’  Smile disappears.  ‘Yes, well it goes two ways. I’m interviewing you too.’  Then we realise that he assumed from the start that we were taking him on.  We’re not.

Oh dear, two more to go.