Well off with the caravan again, starting with a journey down to Portsmouth to get a ferry to Santander. We stopped a Winchester and had a couple of miles walk to the local pub, half way I’m sure that Richard had wished he’d taken the car as the conversation turned to “why are cows udders called udders and not boobs because they are just like a human on all fours?” and “how big are the slugs here!” (humongous!). All I could think of was, I have to walk back on this road in the pitch black in my flip flops and I’ll puke if I stand on one of those mothers! Much to his delight we reach the pub just as the pensioners coach trip does too, where there’s food involved these buggers move fast. Making our way through the lavender scented grannies & zimmer frames we nearly did score for a free carvery until I heard Richard saying, “No, I’m not with the coach party!”. You’ll be pleased to know that the pitch-black walk home was uneventful with no soggy slugs between the toes.
Next day off to the ferry and we scored for another “saga” bonus with free Sangria, their cabins weren’t ready so to avoid irrate pensioners with waving walking sticks best option was to give them alcohol & it seemed to work. Whilst wandering the ship we come across the dog park – how good is this? a little area where all the dogs can play, make other doggie friends and shite. That’s when I started to change my mind as little ruffus, who had diarrhoea, then needed it washed out of the way with a hose, just as I was passing with coffees the wind blew a little stronger – this is the second time within the last 6 months that I’ve had to dodge flying shit.
Off the ferry to Noja, a beautiful peaceful site on the beach, or so we thought. We pitch the van on what we later realize was the corner of Spanish Sesame St & “Shut the F**K up”. Needless to say, it is now going to be a flying visit with only time for a short trip into Bilboa. Oh joy, Bilboa the most confusing city to drive around – if in doubt keep going around the roundabout. It certainly was a flying visit as we realized we’d parked in the epicenter of the forthcoming “Tour de Spain cycle race” and by forthcoming I mean if you don’t move the car in 3 hours you’re here for the night. So chasing the police cordons we got out just in time. Plan B, let’s have a more relaxing time in San Sebastian, campsite chosen, sat nav programmed, off we go and then the words you never want to hear (especially when towing a 25ft caravan) where the hell it this thing taking us? We’re on our way up a single-track steep road, then I saw a sign for roundabout ahead – “it’ll be fine there’s a roundabout at the top I tell Richard”. Roundabout…really…it was the size of a bin lid with ditches either side. So I got out to direct or rather shouting “Stop” and then just closing my eyes as the edge of the wheels were heading towards the ditches. I’m not entirely sure how Richard turned it around but he did.
Onwards & upwards, literally…another single track lane and up half a mountain, I did say, “after the day we’ve had even if it’s a shit tip we’re staying” it wasn’t and we did.
Lets go for a relaxing coffee in San Sebastian, on our way we wondered why a car with flashing lights was right behind us (no it wasn’t the police, something worse…the bloody Tour de Spain escort car). Here we were in the centre of it all again except this time we were just stopped in the middle of the road with police tape around us. Seriously if I see another B**tard bike with a man in shitting lycra…OMMMMMM.
Next day…no bikes…no lycra…no roundabouts…off to Pamplona.
Gorgeous day, gorgeous city, then the trip home “no problem I’ll drive back” & the Sat Nav strikes again – this time lets take you all the way to the top of the mountain to bring you all the way back down to the campsite. This couldn’t even be classed as a single-track road, it was a garden path with a sheer drop on my side and bushes on the other. Needless to say every branch, bramble and tree bashed Richard the entire way down.
A lovely trip up the west coast of France travelling through Biarittz , the most pretentious place I think I’ve been to. There are 3 types of people there (excluding the surfers). Those who have money, the ones with the glossy cardboard shopping bags at 9.30 in the morning, Those who want to give the impression they have money – wearing their pearls, weird coloured trousers and look like they are smelling a fart & US – picking out the “money / no money people”. Biarittz is beautiful but you have to be too dressed and put too much make up on too early in the morning for me.
Off to Bordeaux & Arcachon & to the Dune du Pyla a 100 metre high sand dune, in parts as steep as an Olympic ski jump. All very nice until Richard decided the best way to get back down it was to slide on your backside. I wondered why nobody else was doing it as I was at the bottom emptying the ½ kilo of sand out of my ass!
Next stop La Rochelle & Ile du Rey – we’ve found our island of retirement, unfortunately we’d have to sell the house, cars & my mother to afford half a garage…back to Plan A (ish).
Next port of call, Les Sables D’Olonne lets not even start with the Sat Nav again. So on a little bike ride into the town, its only 6kms (even the map got it wrong) it was 6 miles each way and then another 6 to the beach where “toe gate” strikes again, thankfully not broken this time. So by the time we got back to the site I was nursing scuffed and bruised toes and a flattened foof, there’s something to be said for padded pants…note to self…pack them next time!
And then comes “Richards day of shit”…
Following the mother of all thunder storms, we thought we’d air the van and go for a coffee, then the heavens opened again, thinking nothing of it we got back to the van and realized all those windows we’d left open now had little puddles under them. So out came the duvet, mats and towels and they were hung over every available tree branch and chair and then there it was…Richard procession of Shite. Across the mat, up the steps, on the chairs and trainers. So hose out and start cleaning no matter where he was you could smell it, so he might as well as empty our loo too, so off he goes like a dejected trolley dolly pulling his cabin bag of crap. On his return, sitting back in the van those words are uttered “why can I still smell shit?”…that would be the shitty toilet paper stuck to your leg! “seriously?…get out of the van!”
Then I saw it, wedged between my toes…my own little packet of shite.
No, of course I didn’t tell him, as he was now standing outside stripped down to his swimming trunks with freshly hosed feet. “I’ll just pop to the loo and we’ll go to the pool as the sun has come out “ I said.
All is well again in Walsh’s World.
Middle Seat Passenger 