I Love Driving in My Car - in Spain!

I love driving in my car. I do. I bloody love it. Which is just as well because I’ve driven thousands of miles in my time both for business and pleasure and following my footie team which doesn’t qualify as either. It’s not the make or model of the car that I’m particularly bothered about because otherwise I'd treat myself to a Jaguar, it’s the freedom, independence and adventure afforded by the ability to travel. All I really ask from a car is reliability and a modicum of comfort, both of which the current ElRealThing Fiesta provides very nicely with it’s modest 1.0 EcoBoost 95 BHP engine allowing me to feel like I’m driving as opposed to aiming and usually without concern that I may unwittingly push the boundaries of speed camera tolerances from time to time. Usually. Not always.

Yes, it's a marked walking route but will your SatNav know?

Now I can’t pretend to rival Sir Ranulph Fiennes in the adventurer stakes but I’m certainly no Professor Chris Whitty which probably makes me normal, or at least pre-Covid normal before the nation ceded safety for freedom, started clapping like seals and considered a risk assessment necessary prior to venturing outside their front doors. But after seventy eight weeks of flattening the curve, squashing the sombrero, saving the NHS, fire breaks, tea breaks and lots more besides, Mrs C and I decided that it was time for a bit of adventure so off we set in our trusty wagon, early one September evening for the three hundred mile drive down to the Eurotunnel. After five and a half hours on the road, we stopped off for a kip in the car at the Stop24 Folkestone Services, just north of the tunnel in readiness for our 05.50 crossing in the morning. Armed with all the new-normal, "papers please" Covid-related documentation, we successfully negotiated the check-in booth and that was pretty much that. We were out the other side by just after half past seven local time and crossed the border into Spain, via our usual Somport Tunnel route, eleven and three quarter hours later. Lovely! Mrs C found and booked, via booking.com, what turned out to be a splendid accommodation in the small and extremely picturesque town of Biescas. We had sufficient time to nip into town and avail ourselves of a pint of the locally brewed draught Tensina IPA (ABV 6.4%) which also was lovely. And so were the next three pints.

A slightly later leave than originally planned the following morning but nonetheless we hit the road for the enjoyable bit - driving through Spain. Driving through Spain is a delight. The scenery tends towards the spectacular almost as a default. Mountain ranges, dramatic cliffs, lakes, rivers, sunflower fields, vines, olive trees. I could go on (don’t say it). Our usual toll-free route takes us past Huesca, Zaragoza, Teruel, Albacete and Murcia before landing at Mar de Cristal, a mile or so beyond the town of Los Belones. And with the next seven weeks on our hands, we had a lot more driving through Spain on the planner.

Deer my arse!

Little known fact. There are no deer in Spain. There are lots, hundreds, possibly millions of signs at the side of Spanish roads, every few kilometers all across this vast country, warning of deer. Warning: Deer (for the next) ten kilometers. Deer here. Deer there. Deer everywhere according to the signs but it’s all a big lie. I am sure that there used to be deer and I have no idea what the Spanish have done with them all but let me assure you that they do not exist. Not in Spain. Not anywhere near the road anyway. Approximately two and a half thousand miles or thereabouts over seven weeks driving through Spain and probably two and half thousand road signs warning of deer and not a single, bloody one of the little buggers. If you like to see deer when you’re out driving, don’t go to Spain.

Over the course of the next few weeks, we undertook a couple of airport round trips to Alicante, a three day trip to Valencia and an eventual route home via Frigiliana, Gibraltar, Salamanca, Ribadasella on the northern coast near Gijon and then on to Santander where, unusually for us, we took the ferry option back to the UK. That’s a fair bit of driving but I do like driving in my car, especially in Spain. Here are a few highlights from our final week.

Heading south of Murcia on the AP-7 Autovia del Mediterraneo provides, at times, a near assault on the visual senses and at unarguable value for the €10.90 toll charged on the Cartagena - Vera stretch. This was the second time in three months we had driven this route and the long coastal stretches between Almeria and Malaga offer scenery which is just breathtaking. Perversely, the same route heading back north up the coast is tame by comparison, as if all the scenery is constantly behind you. Anyway, first overnight stop is in Frigiliana, just inland from Nerja and famed for being “Spain’s most beautiful and well-preserved village” and it is indeed beautiful and well-preserved and well worth a visit. It is also jam packed with bus loads of tourists visiting for the day from the nearby coastal resorts. I love real Spain but plastic real Spain not so much. But Frigiliana did have one major redeeming feature and it was called El Colmao Wine and Experiences (El Colmao).

I don’t normally do wine bars but we were struggling to find somewhere to eat and there was a punter sitting outside this particular wine bar drinking a bottle of Estrella Galicia so that was good enough for me. We perched on two stools with a small high table outside the bar and awaited our fate. It always bugs me when we are recognised as being English even before I have opened my mouth and delivered a few utterances of Essex-accented pigeon Spanish. Nonetheless, we were banged to rights on sight by the proprietor, a local guy who spoke better English than what I do (joke!). This guy is passionate about his wine, I mean really passionate, so he was less than impressed with my ordering the Estrella Galicia. Nonetheless, Mrs C certainly does have a penchant for the Spanish red stuff and so the beer heathen was accommodated. A second round of the same soon followed and then a third accompanied by plates of iberico jamon of quantity guaranteed to induce a meat sweat. Almost replete, one for t’road was most definitely in order and by now, feeling suitably mellow, I asked our fine host what drink he would recommend I should indulge on this, our last opportunity at his fine establishment. Now, imagine any one of Guillem Ballague, Mikel Arteta or Cesc Fabregas responding with their heavily-accented but nonetheless perfect English and you’ll understand his retort of “You’re in a fucking wine bar, drink fucking wine” was entirely in keeping with a most splendid evening.

Scary mechanical theatre actors 

There is only one reason I would bother returning to Frigiliana again and that is the bar at  El Colmao Wine. I certainly wouldn’t go back for the various and arguably quaint mechanical theatre installations dotted around town because they can be a bit scary late at night, especially when you‘ve had several beers throughout the day and a glass of fucking wine.

The next morning and we’re on the AP-7 again beyond Malaga, then switching to the toll-free A-7 all the way down to Gibraltar which, of course, is not Spain. Gibraltar is where Mrs C and I met and married thirty years ago and we love the place which is why we’re here again, for the first time in over ten years, to celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary with some very special friends. The ElRealThing Fiesta however did not make the cut, opting instead for a three day rest in a car park just over the border in La Linear de la Concepcion and as this particular blog is about driving through Spain, we now fast forward seventy two hours to said car park from where we exit and follow a once familiar road out of town where we pick up the last stretch of the A-7 heading south before we hit the Autovia A-381 heading towards Jerez (home of sherry). We’re on our way to the autonomous region of Asturias, six hundred miles north.

I am not averse to driving six hundred miles and more in a day but we’re in no great hurry other than a desire not to fall foul of the post-Brexit ninety day rules so we determine to head initially for Salamanca, being around two thirds of the way, on the A-66 Autovia Ruta de la Plata which route roughly corresponds to the ancient “Silver Route” from the mines of northern Spain to the Mediterranean.

Autopista (AP) tolls in Spain tend to be fairly few and far between nowadays and not unduly expensive. Indeed, whilst of no benefit to us on this occasion, the AP-7 toll charges from the French border down to Tarragona were scrapped on 1st September, adding to other sections of the country’s AP motorway system similarly freed up over the last few years as the highway concessions expire. Over the two days and six hundred miles of this particular journey, we hit just the one toll road north of Leon at a cost of €13.50.

I have already alluded to the scenic delights that come with driving through Spain. The biggest surprise of this particular two day journey occurred between Jerez and Seville with a long stretch of completely flat landscape (wonderfully scenic nonetheless) which was not dissimilar to driving along the A17 through Lincolnshire except for the fact that you’re doing 75 mph and there are no tractors. But then it was back to normal again with the same old boring mountainous settings, rivers and lakes etc etc.

Salamanca is a beautiful university city, its Old City declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1988 and we did enjoy an hour or two wandering around the old bit from bar to, err, back to the same bar again as it happened. We had neither the time nor inclination to do the city any real justice and the one real memory that sticks is how bloody cold it was the next morning when we hit the road again. Are temperatures of four degrees even legal in Spain?

Ribadasella with the Picos in the background

We have decided to stay in Ribadasella, a town situated on the Asturian coast to the east of Gijon and our drive there takes us along the fringes of the Picos de Europa, a mountain range forming part of the Cantabrian Mountains. Before that, the Autovia A-66 remains a joy to drive before picking up the equally joy-giving AP-66 at Leon (with the toll referred to above) towards Gijon before turning right and heading north east cross country to Ribadasella.

Throughout this road trip, I have been poorly looked after in terms of decent craft beer but Ribadasella came to the rescue via two particular bars which stocked bottled craft ales. Cafe Bergantin had a fridge full of options including Mahou IPA, Alhambra Citrus IPA, Complot IPA, Ordum IPA and an Asturian Pale Ale, plus others, from Asturian brewer Cerveza Caleya. Needless to say, our four night stay in Ribadasella included four visits to said bar. Guadana IPA by Asturian brewer Asturian Brewing Company was another very acceptable quaff on our final evening but my memory is surprisingly hazy as to where I actually had it. Somewhere in Ribadasella is about as close as I can get.

Looking down on Ribadasella from
the top of Pico Mofrechu

The Picos de Europa are stunning. So much so that to control visitor numbers, you can’t get to a lot of it without indulging in something akin to park and ride schemes. Warning: The Spanish are not good at queuing. Particularly the oldies. However, it transpires that a bit of jumping up and down, demanding a refund of your bus fare because the oldies have gazumped your queue position does in fact work albeit would probably not qualify one for a position with the diplomatic corps. Anyway, armed with a cash refund, Mrs C and I thereafter explored the Picos independently of officialdom by using the age old method of driving around aimlessly which, on this occasion, proved to be reasonably successful (ha ha, take that you ill-disciplined, septuagenarian, queue jumping bastards). Admittedly though, we never did get within ten miles of the Lagos de Covadonga being the lakes we had originally intended to visit. Hey ho.

I think it may be an age thing but I can be a bit of a luddite from time to time. It took many years before I would consider using a satnav and even now I am a firm believer that one should only use it as an accomplice to a previously well researched route plan. But if you ever find yourself in or near the Picos, you must use a satnav. This is not because you might not know where you’re going but rather that the satnav will almost certainly add to the enjoyment if, like me, you love driving. It would seem that your typical satnav has little comprehension as to what may or may not constitute a modern-day drivable road in terms of road width, surface condition, steepness, oxygen levels or indeed a combination of all these things. In the Picos de Europa, set your satnav free and you will love it forever more.

Top of the world.

As we were getting a little tight by now on our ninety day European allowance, a firm plan was required for getting back to the UK by no later than 20 October. It had been our plan all along to undertake the twelve hour through-France journey in one fell swoop as we had done on the way down. The usually redoubtable explorer that is Mrs C is somewhat less redoubtable when it comes to crossing water and the prospect of a ferry crossing has long been filed in the "it ain't gonna happen" drawer. So it was with no little surprise that I received her suggestion we might consider the Santander (a mere seventy five miles from Ribadasella) to Plymouth crossing as an option to France. The weather forecast looked good. It would save us either the cost of a hotel on the UK side or another five hours in the car after twelve hours in France and it would be a final mini adventure to finish off what has proven to be a fantastic few weeks. So that is what we did.

It only took us an hour and a bit to get to Santander along the coastal N-632 road and Autovias A-8 and A-67 all forming part of the European E70 route. It was an easy enough journey but something was particularly intriguing. As one drives through Spain generally, the flora and fauna encountered is plentiful and majestic, not least of which Cortaderia Selloana, a species of flowering plant in the Poaceae family commonly referred to as pampas grass. Back in the UK, one tends to see this resplendent plant adorning suburban front gardens but here in Spain it grows wild and nowhere more so than along the E70 route. As we progressed towards Santander, the pampas grass was positively bulging out from the Autovia roadsides and central reservations and Mrs C was positively sniggering as we went. Me? I am none the wiser until Mrs C tells me why it generally only adorns suburban front gardens in the UK. Well, I never knew that. And does it mean that they are all at it

Very Pleasant

in Spain? Fortunately, I remain very happy with Mrs C even after thirty years of marriage so I won’t be looking to introduce Cortaderia Selloana to our modest collection of flora and fauna here in Burnley any time soon. But I’ll never be able to walk down Lakeland Way again without sniggering just a little bit.

The ferry was fine, ideal in fact in current circumstances and the Lagunitas IPA was a pleasant surprise. But it was a bit boring and I certainly wouldn’t choose it as a preference to driving. But there again I love driving my car. I do. I really bloody love it.

Walking (A Bit of) The Alpujarras

In early March of last year, with the business sale behind us and having flown to Spain for an initial four week break at the apartment in Mar de Cristal, I thought I would indulge myself and start a blog about aspects of real Spain which might appeal to your typical Brit. Hence El Real Thing was created with a view to Mrs C and I exploring the country in a quest for real football and real beer and then my spouting words of wisdom about our findings. But no sooner had I set up the blog then someone in Wuhan left the bloody fridge door open and nothing’s been the same since. Whilst we got to spend plenty of time in Spain during 2020 we obviously didn’t get to travel very far so no real opportunity to blog about much else other than my newly found dislike for politicians, a view which various “lockdowns” since our return to the UK in October has only served to reinforce. But anyway, after very nearly eight months away and without a PCR test in sight we’re back in Spain.

During the intervening months Mrs C and I have done a lot of walking, partly because there has been bugger all else we have been allowed to do for much of the time anyway, but also because last year - during the initial lockdown in Spain - we read several books about El Camino de Santiago, known in English as the Way of St James. And we quite fancy doing it.  It’s only five hundred miles after all and we’ve got to find something to do now that we’ve sold the business. So we’ve been getting lots of practice in - in and around the beautiful countryside surrounding our UK home town of Burnley and now that we are back in Spain we have Calblanque Regional Park pretty much on our doorstep so we can do the heat training.

La Alpujarra is a natural and historic region in Andalucia, on the southern slopes of the Sierra Nevada mountain range where the whitewashed villages and towns are collectively known as Las Alpujarras. British writers Gerald Brenan and Chris Stewart can both lay legitimate claim to having brought Las Alpujarras to the attention of their fellow countrymen. Brenan moved to the area in 1920 and from where he wrote The Spanish Labrynth, a historical work on the background to the Spanish Civil War and, later, South from Granada: Seven Years in an Andalusian Village. Chris Stewart is the author of Driving Over Lemons, A Parrot in the Pepper Tree and The Almond Blossom Appreciation Society, all three autobiographical about life in Las Alpujarras to where he and his wife moved in the late 1980’s. If you suffer from insomnia and have a propensity for retaining complex information then I would recommend Brenan’s Labrynth but for all normal people the Chris Stewart books I found to be hugely enjoyable. Whitewashed villages in the Sierra Nevada mountain range, as recommended by Gerald Brenan and Chris Stewart. And it’s only 350 km south. Mrs C?

Mary Poppins incoming? The town of Lanjaron hosts the world's biggest  
water fight every year on the 23rd of June to celebrate its water heritage.
They obviously need lots of umbrellas. And we found a few!

So that’s how we found ourselves, on Monday morning, heading in our Fiat 500 hire car to the town of Lanjaron, one of the many towns on the GR7 (Gran Recorrido - Long Journey) walking route. And I mean many towns. The GR7 is the path through Andalucia forming part of the European E4 route from Tarifa (southernmost town in Spain) to Greece. Yes, I said Greece. But as we don’t have the next year and a half to spare we’re just going to concentrate on that part of the route between Lanjaron and Trevelez. A 2.00 p.m. check-in at the rather splendid Alcadima Hotel Rural in Lanjaron gave us the rest of the day to relax, plan for walking day no.1 and explore the home of the eponymous bottled water company. In truth not a lot was open in the town, a factor we became accustomed to during the week as the absence of tourists to the area - all down to that bloody fridge door - has hit the area and it’s businesses hard. Having said that my beer nose did manage to track down two splendid little bars and we finished the evening with an excellent meal back at the hotel restaurant, washed down by a glass of Tempranillo. Lovely.

Looking back down to Lanjaron and we have only
just located the official GR7 route!

Oncoming Vehicles in Middle of Road. Is to me an example of a ridiculous road sign. To my logical mind why warn others of possible oncoming traffic in the middle of the road when, instead, you should put up a sign on the other side of the road saying Don’t Drive in the Middle of the Bloody Road (!) But in this respect the Spanish are no better. They like to mix it up a bit on the GR routes by sometimes putting a way-marker on the path you’re not to take rather than marking the one you should take. Yes, admittedly the red and white stripes on these markers form a cross instead of the parallel positioning of their correct-path cousins but surely, surely it’s just easier to mark the correct route, not the incorrect one? Anyway, that’s my excuse. That and the fact that at least 50% of the way-markers like to play hide-and-seek. Long story short, we missed (what should have been) the first important GR7 way-marker just outside of Lanjaron which cost us 4km. Accordingly, the cross-country route to the beautiful village of Canar, offering first opportunity to top up our water supplies, was achieved not in 8.4km but in 12.4km. All villages and towns along the route have ample drinking water fountains but an 8.4km gap between towns means that you have to ration your resources accordingly. Add 4km to the equation and an initial supply of 1.5 litres between you is clearly inadequate in 30 degrees of heat. Whilst we had originally planned to get to Soportujar that day, the appeal of Piki’s Bar in Canar was too great for two dehydrated mortals to resist and the fifth “copa” of the draught Cerveza Alhambra was just as sweet and satisfying as the first one had been, all of which were accompanied by complimentary tapas. The bar closed at 4.00 p.m. and we decided to miss out on Soportujar completely and head straight for the larger town of Capileira. The nice lady ordered us a taxi and it was worth every cent of the forty euro fare. Whilst at Piki’s, we booked the Finca Los Llanos Hotel Rural for the night and looked forward to soaking up the atmosphere of an excited Spanish public at the prospect of tonight’s Euro semi-final between Spain and Italy.

The Finca Los Llanos hotel was another little gem and the receptionist was lovely. Indeed a feature of our few days in La Alpujarra was how friendly and helpful all the locals were in their dealings with us. She advised me that the hotel pool bar had erected a big screen for Spain’s quarter final match the previous Friday and whilst she couldn’t be certain they were going to do so again tonight - why wouldn’t they? So we took a stroll around town. Again, all very quiet with not much open and a worrying theme emerging of most bars/ restaurants typically closing at 4.00 p.m. and not opening again until 8.00 p.m. I say worrying because that’s the time I usually like to start. Anyway, a couple of nondescript bars were open for drinks during this twilight zone, not that there was any great (or even modest) apparent football-related excitement and we determined to return to the hotel for our meal and then the footie. Hmm. The hotel pool bar not only doesn’t have a big screen erected, it isn’t even open. Bloody hell. We better have more luck tomorrow when England are playing. Anyway, a very nice steak at the hotel restaurant and we ended up watching the match on the small TV in the hotel room, albeit with several “resting my eyes” moments by the time penalties had decided the match in Italy’s favour. The Spanish may have their footie fanatics but they certainly don’t live in La Alpujarra.

Walking day no.2 and we leave Capileira at around 9.30 a.m. after a very nice hotel breakfast and with full chilly bottles of water, still only 1.5 litres but safe in the knowledge that the proposed route has plenty of villages en route in which to top up. This time we do manage to pick up the GR7 route albeit my “it’s downhill all day today” statement to Mrs C proves immediately to be wishful thinking as we head uphill out of town. However, what goes up must come down and the gentle uphill eventually turns to gentle downhill offering stunning views of Capileira behind us with the village of Bubion below it. Then a more or less level terrain of dirt track provides alternative stunning views as we make progress towards our first village of Capilerilla. We are surprised to see a 4x4 heading towards us at the dirt track junction where we are picking up the GR7 route. With map in hand we must look lost because the 4x4 stops, the drivers window winds down and an English voice asks “are you lost”? The English voice and his wife retired to nearby Pitres - where we should be heading to after Capilerilla - five years ago. The usual “where are you from” questions follow and it transpires that the English voice and myself were both born in Colchester, Essex. Anyway, unlike yesterday we are not lost and we part company in this small world of ours and proceed to Capilerilla where there is not much more than a collection of whitewashed houses and a drinking water fountain where we duly top up our supplies. Then a short and occasionally steep footpath down into Pitres which, whilst small, has a bit more to it than most of the villages with three bars, all open, in and around the town square. It is only just coming up noon but it’s been a nice walk so far, we’ve not got lost yet and we’re well watered. Time for a beer. The small bottled Alhambra lager is cold and sweet and it comes with a complimentary pork tapa. The second one comes with some cheese. I like Pitres. No wonder the English voice and his wife retired here. From Pitres we do some cross country down to Atalbeitar where there is not much except the drinking water fountain and a long uphill path into Portugos. The wrong uphill path as it turns out which brings us eventually on to the road between Portugos and our end destination Busquistar, albeit closer to the latter. No matter, we head back up the road to check out Portugos where we enjoy a large beer in the one and only bar/ restaurant apparently open in the place. We then head back down the road to Busquistar where, when earlier in Pitres, we had decided upon and booked Casa Sonia as our shelter for the night. As with many of the villages we were encountering, the steep paths and streets of Busquistar were at times every bit as challenging as the GR7 mountain tracks but we found Casa Sonia easily enough at the base of the village. Unlike yesterday, we had done as planned and reached our destination with only the slightest of deviations from the GR7 route and completed the 12.6 km without mishap. And Casa Sonia was delightful as was the hostess herself. We sat in the late afternoon sun on the property’s roof terrace, taking in the spectacular views of the lower River Trevelex valley whilst our washing dried on the line behind us. It was in many ways the highlight of the three days of walking.

The terrace at Casa Sonia, Busquistar enjoys stunning views over  
 the lower River Trevelex valley. And in the meantime our smalls are
now drying on the roof top terrace upstairs. All very efficient.

Busquistar is a small village community with a population of less than three hundred. It has one bar and it was closed. Not just between 4.00 p.m. and 8.00 p.m. but closed. Not permanently I suspect but it may as well have been from our viewpoint. Ooh ‘eck. England are playing Denmark tonight. I can’t miss that. Can I? We had no TV in our room. Sonia, bless her, said she could bring a small TV into the communal lounge and if we could find the appropriate channel (the footie was on something like channel no. 60 the previous night on the hotel TV in Capileira) then we were welcome. We trudged to the local supermarket - which was open - and spent 15 euros on beers and crisps then back to Sonia’s. “You did try Paco’s Bar?” Sonia enquired upon our return. No. Bar Vargas in the village I replied. Paco’s Bar. On the main road just outside the village. Doh! Back up the steep paved streets out of the village and just a couple of hundred yards West along the main road was, indeed, Paco’s Bar. And didn’t they treat us well. Every round was accompanied by a complimentary tapa. On round no. 5 I had to ask them for no more tapas. We were stuffed. They stayed open for extra time even though, by then, we were the only two in the bar and round no.7 consisted of a final celebratory liquor and a big fat tip to top up the ridiculous total of 22 euros they were attempting to charge us. What a result. It’s coming home. 

Walking day no.3 got off to a dull-headed start. It must have been a dirty glass or something. Our supermarket purchases of the previous night remained in Sonia’s fridge. 

Looking back at Busquistar as we walk along part of the Ruta Medieval
towards Ferreirola, close to Chris Stewart's El Valero homestead. 

Back in the UK we know that we can (relatively) easily do twelve miles a day on foot. Indeed we have been gearing up for fifteen miles a day with El Camino de Santiago in mind and have managed same both here in Spain and the UK but two days in the July heat of La Alpujarra and we’re peaking at twelve kilometres, let alone twelve miles. A bit of circumspection is called for and after consulting the GR7 route map with a particular eye on the proximity of villages en route, we decide to miss out on the sparse route between Busquistar and Travelex and instead to head back in the same general direction from whence we came. The alternative GR142 route takes in the lower slopes of the Sierra Nevada and whilst there is a similarly long drag were we to follow the route in its local entirety to Lanjeron, a small part of it runs literally from the doorstep of Casa Sonia, forming part of the local Ruta Medieval between Busquistar and Portugos. We decide to follow the first 2.3km of the route to Ferreirola which just happens to be the nearest thing to civilisation to where Chris Stewart’s El Valero homestead is situated. I think I am correct in saying that. Not that there is much to Ferreirola, a few properties and a church and that seemed to be about it other than Casa Ana which specialises in creative pursuits including painting, writing and walking, the latter in conjunction with our esteemed author friend so he must live pretty close. From Ferreirola we walked the road to the next larger - but nonetheless still small - village of Mecina and then up the world’s steepest uphill 1km footpath to Pitres. Walking uphill is hard work. This was purgatory. Bugger me we needed that coffee when we got to the bar in Pitres. I was way too knackered to think about a repeat of yesterday’s bottled Alhambra lagers. After recovering our breath, composure and with a quick visit to the local chemist for some Imodium tablets (needs must) it was off again to return along a 2.5km stretch of yesterday’s GR7 route to the place where we met English voice and wife yesterday, then to remain on the official GR7 route down into Bubion.

The earlier 1km of purgatory into Pitres had taken its toll and whilst we stopped to draw breath on several occasions between Capilerilla and here the landscape, whilst spectacular, was not conducive to a restful break. But one hundred yards from where we had met English voice and wife twenty four hours earlier, the GR7 produced. I strayed not ten yards from the official path to witness the view down to Bubion - below it Pampaneira and above it Capileira - when the dusty, gritty path gave way to smooth rocks offering the view of the trip and a comfortable, warm seat from which to enjoy. We made good use of it booking a room at the Villa Touristica de Bubion, approximately 2km south of our vantage point, whilst indulging in our recently re-charged water supplies. 

This panorama shot doesn't really do justice to the magnificence of the view looking down towards Bubion.
Capileira can just about be made out, further up the mountain from Bubion whilst the village of Pampaneira 
lies south of Bubion, just out of shot. The rocks on the left hand side provided a very comfortable resting place.

The 1.5km trail into Bubion cut a steep downhill zig zag path into the village. It would have been hard work in the opposite direction. Arriving at the bottom end of the village we walked up to the top end to find our hotel, check-in and take a breather before walking back in to town to explore. As before, very little was open and with 4.00 p.m. upon us only a couple of bars remained open although their kitchens did not. All the villages we encountered had a church and the churches would typically stand high and proud when viewing the villages from a distance. Try finding it though when you’re actually in the village itself. Such are the gradients in some of these villages that the tallest church tower will be obscured from view by just about anything and everything that might stand between you and said tower. So it took us twenty minutes to locate the church in Bubion, even though we could have walked the length of the place twice in similar time. But find it we did because where there’s a church there is usually a bar and thus it proved to be in Bubion. Restaurant Plaza 6 to be precise where, despite the fact that the kitchen was closed, the lovely lady rustled up some jamon and quesa and croquettes for good measure. Truth be told we were both still pretty knackered - last night hadn’t helped - and following our church-inspired mini feast we retired back to the hotel where a very quiet night was had by all.

The next morning we were up early, bright eyed and bushy tailed having decided the night before that we would catch the early bus back to Lanjaron where we had abandoned the hire car. Whilst we both felt fully recovered from yesterday’s lethargy, all walking routes back towards Lanjeron involved greater distances between villages and their drinking water fountains and there were weather warnings out for “extreme temperatures” and these certainly didn’t involve the prospect of snow. We booked the bus ride on-line at the princely cost of two euros each and the 07.55 bus duly turned up, albeit a few minutes late, for the one hour journey back and during which we passed through Pampaneira, Soportujar and Orgiva, the first two of which we had missed out on when abandoning our original plans, two days ago, in favour of the taxi.

Soportujar. Always handy to know an
LGBT-friendly Alpujarran village.

Soportujar looked to be particularly interesting. Not only does it afford great views of the lower Alpujarra but also of the Mediterranean beyond. The village also has a bit of a thing for witches. Local legend has it that any children of the village who strayed, unaccompanied, beyond its limits would be snatched by the local witches’ coven, duly despatched and their fat sold to the local dairyman to be turned into milk and cream. The village purports to be LGBT friendly. Less so child friendly it would appear.

Life needs a plan. The great thing about a plan is that it gives you a starting point and an initial direction of travel (in the case of a walking holiday both literally and metaphorically). Thereafter you adapt the plan if and as necessary and see where it takes you. At long last it was great to be able to get out and explore a bit of real Spain, to plan it, execute it, learn from it and (for me at least) write about it. So what did we learn from our three days walking in La Alpujarra?

First, don’t do it in July! In the normal scheme of things we wouldn’t have considered doing anything like this in July or August but frankly we were gagging to get going on our hitherto stalled retirement adventure so we did it anyway and we don’t regret it - we enjoyed it - but it was too hot. Also, make sure that you are aware of typical opening and closing times for local facilities. And learn how to read a map properly! If you have kids with you then don’t let them wander off on their own anywhere near or around Soportujar.

We arrived home, back in Mar de Cristal, safe and sound. We now know that the football didn’t quite make it home last night. Nearly but not quite. Ultimately, three of England's millionaire footballers failed to hit the back of the net from the penalty spot. Millionaires. Is it real football any more? I don't know. But there’s still plenty of real football to be found and now that we are out on parole at last, Mrs C and I are hoping to get searching for some of it here in sunny Spain.

Pandemics for Morons

A bit like using a sat nav, you need to have at least some sense of the direction you should be heading rather than simply placing absolute reliance on the route information provided. If you don’t, then just one misplaced digit in the destination postcode and you could be heading for trouble. 

This small can of session beer (3.9% ABV) is 1.3 units of alcohol. Chris Whitty is Chief Medical Officer for England and Chief Medical Adviser to the UK government. Chris recommends that men and women in the UK should not regularly drink more than fourteen units of alcohol per week and even then, he warns that “there is no level of regular drinking that can be considered completely safe”. I bet he’s fun at parties. But it’s his job. And you wouldn’t expect the Chief Medical Officer to be anything other than circumspect with his advisory offerings but then neither would you expect anyone with a modicum of common sense to conclude that such advice is anything other than cautious in the extreme with probably a bit more caution on top just for good measure.

So we should probably conclude that Chris gets paid £260,000 a year primarily to give advice to morons.

Now I am sure that the UK must indeed possess its fair share of morons. Unfortunately, it seems that some of them are currently employed as ministers in the UK government. Instead of applying the Does It Make Sense approach to Covid-19, government ministers - none more so than the prime minister Boris Johnson himself - have preferred instead to subscribe to Chris Whitty’s advisory services for morons. Now, don’t get me wrong, I do not blame Chris Whitty. We all have to make a living and it must be nice when opportunity arises to prove your worth. And I doubt if running the country was ever part of his original job description either so we can’t grumble that we aren’t getting our money’s worth out of him. But it is the politicians who are supposed to be running the country and our current lot, both in government and opposition, have proven themselves - with a few notable exceptions - to be morons when it comes to the handling of the SARS-CoV-2 virus. 

When videos started emerging out of China this time last year purporting to show citizens collapsing in the street, residents being welded locked inside their own apartment blocks and hazmat-suited goons sterilising empty streets, did we immediately jump to the conclusion that we’re doomed and we’re all gonna die.  And when the source of the virus outbreak was supposedly linked to the wet markets in Wuhan, did we all think yep, that probably makes sense, the fact that the Wuhan Institute of Virology is just up the road (where they’ve been working on coronavirus strains in bats) is probably just an unfortunate coincidence. And when videos emerged of the good people of Wuhan last August, now free from lockdown and partying away in celebration at having defeated the virus, did we all think to ourselves fair play chaps, now that you’ve been un-welded you probably deserve a bit of a do.  Or did the thought cross our minds you know what, even notwithstanding the Chinese Communist Party’s hard won reputation for openness and honesty, I’m not sure I entirely believe all of that.

But if you’re the Chief Medical Adviser to the government whose brief is to give advice to morons then, to be fair, you’re never not going to err on the side of caution, particularly when the prime minister comes calling. And notwithstanding the fact that the country had previously prepared for such eventualities with the ready-and-waiting UK Pandemic Preparedness Plan, you can’t be 100%, no-doubt-about-it, absolutely, completely absolutely, and absolutely again certain that this previously well-researched and sensible contingency planning will actually work. But the Chinese seem to have got it right. So let’s dump our Pandemic Preparedness Plan and recommend that we copy China instead. But remember, Chris doesn’t make the decisions. He only offers advice. To morons. Which brings me to Boris Johnson.

Boris historically has always been an instinct politician. He is smarter than he looks but not as clever as one might hope. He is certainly not one for detail but he knows that of himself and therefore relies on good, clever people around him. And the voters like him. You don’t win an 80-seat majority if that’s not the case. Indeed I liked him. Until he turned into a moron.

Boris had never doubted his instinct until this time last year when the following three factors combined to deprive him of his BoJo and transform him into a moron. 1) The SARS-CoV-2 virus presented itself as a clear and present danger to the world. 2) Boris went down with and was hospitalised by the resultant Covid-19 disease, and 3) Boris also went down with Expectant Father Syndrome or, to give it its proper name, Couvade Syndrome. Couvade Syndrome is a proposed condition in which an expectant father experiences some of the symptoms and behaviour as his pregnant partner. These can include weight gain, altered hormone levels, disturbed sleep patterns and lots and lots and lots of doubt. It’s the perfect time to strike if you’re a life insurance salesman but it’s about the worst thing that can happen to a bloke when he’s faced with the onset of a pandemic whilst trying to run the country. You’re just not yourself …….and a Snickers bar isn’t going to do the trick. THERE’S A KILLER DISEASE ON THE WAY - WHO YOU GONNA CALL - PROFESSOR CHRIS WHITTY.... oh dear.

Twelve months ago, we did have a killer disease on the way but three months later we pretty much knew who it was killing and who it wasn’t. Armed with this knowledge, do you think we should have concentrated our efforts on protecting the vulnerable whilst allowing the vast majority - who were not at serious risk - to get on with their lives? Or should we lock down the country, crash the economy, ruin lives and livelihoods and subject the population to a psychological barrage of fear, intimidation and coercion to bend them to our will - just to be on the safe side you know. What do you think Chris? Well Mr Prime Minister, if it were me.

And thus Boris Johnson, minus his BoJo, signed up to Professor Whitty’s Pandemics for Morons Plan whereby one applies the Does it Make Sense rule only, it would seem, for the purpose of determining the opposite direction of travel. Such has been the appalling mismanagement of this crisis by the government that it is no wonder conspiracy theories abound. The fact that the government appears now to be hell-bent on introducing vaccine passports can only feed into such narrative. Make no mistake, this is all on Boris’ head. But the panglossian in me still leads me to conclude that it is incompetence rather than conspiracy which has led us to where we are now. To be precise, it is Boris’ incompetence fuelled by Professor Whitty’s Pandemics for Morons.

Last week, our esteemed Chief Medical Officer at the government launch of a new campaign to emphasise the comparative safety of outdoor socialising, was quoted as saying (in terms of the virus transmissibility); “The evidence is very clear that outdoor spaces are safer than indoors. It is important to remember this as we move into the next phase”. Jeez. That bloke certainly earns his money eh? And of course, he hasn’t been deprived of his livelihood, nor his financial future, nor his liberty I shouldn’t wonder if indeed he lives his own life by the precautionary principles he espouses. So Chris is sitting quite comfortably in the back seat of Boris’ Jaguar XJ Sentinel as it poodles along. Unfortunately for the rest of us, it’s Boris who is driving the bloody thing and he doesn’t seem to have realised that the final destination appears to be right off the end of a cliff. Now, call me a cynic, but that doesn’t make much sense to me.

Off to the Penny Arcade

So, from today (8 March), I am "allowed" to step outside my front door for purposes of "recreation and exercise", not just on my own or with other members of my household but now - praise the lord - I can do so with one other person who doesn't live with me. Whoopee-bloody-doo.

How the hell have we allowed our politicians to do this to us? I have to confess that I am bitterly disappointed with my fellow Brits. Not only have we as a population willingly bent over so far that we could probably now tickle our toes with our eyebrows, it seems there are many who would contort themselves still further preferring the security of captivity to actually living life on anything other than a risk-free basis. It is said that with age comes wisdom. Did anyone think to ask the elderly whether they thought their being isolated "for their own protection" was actually a good idea? It seems to me that the vulnerable in our society, the elderly, the infirm, the poor, the disabled, much of the private sector and a whole generation of kids are the ones who have really paid the price - and will continue to do so for many years to come - for protecting the comfortably-off public sector and middle classes. 

Yesterday, in Scotland, Celtic's nil-nil draw with Dundee United meant that Rangers were crowned SPL Champions for the first time in ten years and the Rangers fans duly celebrated with hundreds out on the streets of Glasgow in contravention of current lockdown rules. Cue much condemnation and gnashing of teeth by politicians north of the border but what did they expect? Modest, family bubble celebratory teas? Sanitised hand shakes and virtual slaps on backs all round? Perhaps wait until next Monday when up to four Rangers fans from two households can meet outdoors (Scotland has a different "roadmap" to England for coming out of current restrictions)? Do me a favour, despite the apparent willingness (nay desire?) on the part of the population generally to bend over and accept what the government(s) is shoving, could it be that seasonality will now play its part in awakening the hibernation of the slumbering British populus? I'm not talking about the football season of course. I'm talking about Spring itself. The politicians conveniently forgot or ignored seasonality when it came to the impact of the SARS-CoV-2 virus, certainly when it came to the models of doom upon which they locked us down in the first place and against which the roadmaps out of lockdown are based. It would be ironic if it turns out that they have similarly forgotten other more general aspects of seasonality too. 

As footballing success brought the celebrating Rangers' fans out on to the streets yesterday, so too will the warmer weather and longer daylight hours of the approaching Spring bring the populus generally out from behind their front doors. We have been subjected to a communist playbook in pandemic control depriving us of our freedoms and liberties for too long, justified on the back of false positive testing and inflated virus-related death rates. It is one thing being "locked down" during the cold and wet of winter when we might typically not be that keen on venturing too far from the front door in the first place; quite another when the rain has stopped, temperatures start hitting double figures and the sun is peeking out from behind the clouds again.  

As from today, we are being told we have another three weeks until we can meet outside with up to five others and another five weeks before we can sit in a pub car park and have a pint. In ten weeks time we'll actually be "allowed" to sit inside the pub and five weeks later they'll even let us stand up (may be easier said than done after all this bending over). For crying out loud. Are we sheep...........or men (and women of course)?

For me, the celebrations of the Rangers fans are a foretaste of what will come with the onset of Spring. Life is worth celebrating. The vulnerable have been vaccinated. Infections and death rates are plummeting. People will see no good reason why they should continue to have their rights and freedoms denied them and they will be outside in such numbers that  there will be nothing the politicians can do about it. So, congratulations on your SPL title Rangers fans and well done on celebrating it appropriately. A light shone in the night some way ahead. Blue turned into green, then it was red. You have shown me the light. I'm off out now. And the Rangers fans know where I'm going.

Homage to Murcia: A Season of Football Anarchy

In 1999, British spy Austin Powers discovers that he has lost his mojo. It transpires that his mojo has not been lost but has in fact been stolen in a time-travelling heist by the morbidly obese Fat Bastard on the order of Austin's nemesis Dr Evil. The MOD sends Austin back to 1969 where he teams up with CIA Agent Felicity Shagwell and between them they end up saving the world but not before the phial containing Austin's stolen mojo is destroyed and lost forever. Austin and Felicity return to 1999 where she points out all the things he has done in saving the world which proved that he had never really lost his mojo in the first place. 

For Austin Powers now read Anthony (Tony) Higgins, the author of Homage to Murcia: A Season of Football Anarchy. For Dr Evil read Sky Sports; for Fat Bastard read Mike Ashley and for Felicity Shagwell read CAP Ciudad de Murcia (Murcia City FC). 

Tony is a football nut. But like so many football fans - certainly amongst my baby-boomer generation - he found himself losing his football mojo. Vast amounts of TV money from Sky Sports and others were changing the football landscape. The people's game was rapidly becoming the rich people's game with the loyalties and sensitivities of time-served fans a minor consideration only behind commercial interests. Tony had moved to the Murcia region of Spain by the time Mike Ashley became owner of his beloved Newcastle United in 2007 and it was at some time between then and 2013 that Tony discovered he had lost his football mojo. Then along came Felicity Shagwell.

Spanish football is complicated. The fourth tier of Spanish football consists 18 Grupos of 20  teams, a total of 360 teams. For the 2013/14 season CAP Ciudad de Murcia (Felicity Shagwell - hereinafter referred to simply as City) were competing in one of the even more numerous fifth tier Grupos. The club is the re-born reserve team of CF Ciudad de Murcia who were purchased in 2007 then moved 145 miles to Granada, re-named Granada 74 and went out of existence two seasons later. Their reserve team CF Atletico Ciudad stayed put in Murcia although lived a nomadic existence until they too went out of existence but were resurrected in 2010 a la AFC Wimbledon and FC United in the UK and re-named CAP Ciudad de Murcia. It is a fan-owned, fan-run club. In fact the CAP in the title roughly translates to "club of shareholders". There are literally dozens and dozens of similarly labyrinthine back-stories to various football clubs across Spain although few have ended up being fan-owned. 

There is also an awful lot of politics surrounding Spanish football, much of which can be traced back to historical allegiances from the Spanish civil war (see my blog Ghosts of Spain posted 23 June 2020). The City club and fans are vehemently anti-fascist and against the greed and excess of modern football. Indeed the team's shirts bear the slogan "Against Modern Football" embroidered across the back of their shirts. 

The book ostensibly follows City's 2013/14 season during which Tony missed only a handful of games, either home or away. But it is much more than that. Tony lives in the town of Caravaca de la Cruz which has it's own football club so he often goes to see them play and he also managed to watch football in the Basque country and Gibraltar during the course of the season. Interspersed with all the football-related comment is background on the various towns and cities visited, most of which are within the region of Murcia which enjoys a rich history dating back to the Romans.

If you like your football then this is an excellent read. If you also happen to like Spain in general and Murcia in particular then even more so. Football in Spain is very different to football in the UK in terms of its structure and history but the passions invoked by the people's game - the real people's game - are the same in both countries. Tony is a football nut. As with Austin Powers, he never really did lose his football mojo, he just needed a Felicity in his life to make him see it.

Adventures From Our Front Door

Of the two of us, I was always more the glass-half-full one. Mark and I have been mates for over forty years and our differing outlooks on life's prospects have always been evident. I recall posing the question of him once as to why he had a tendency towards pessimism. His response to my question was that by fearing the worst, he was mitigating the extent of any future disappointment if the worst was indeed to occur. Whilst I could understand that rationale, I much preferred the risks associated with blind optimism. Forty years on and our respective outlooks have done neither of us any harm. Mark is no longer the pessimist he once was and I'm probably not quite so gung ho as I might like to kid myself although I'm not up for admitting it just yet. 

Regardless of how one might personally describe that partially filled glass, the current Covid-related restrictions on individual liberties and activities, aided and abetted by the winter weather, make it difficult for some - nigh on impossible for many - to indulge in any type of adventure. Now, that might be okay for some but Mrs C and I didn't depart the world of work last year so that we could sit at home doing jigsaws. And to be fair we've been luckier than most in spending much of last year in Spain. But, right here, right now we're (still luckier than most but) stuck in cold, wintery Burnley unable to meet friends, see family, go for a pint, worship (my footie team of course), undertake a non-essential journey or (apparently) enjoy a takeaway coffee whilst having a walk. Jeez! It ain't always easy being an optimist.

One of the reasons that we're lucky is because we live in Burnley. The town nestles in a natural valley, surrounded by open fields with wild moorland at higher altitudes. From our front door is but a ten minute walk to the town centre and a similar hop, in the opposite direction, to the first of those open fields and beyond to the moorland. We literally have potential for adventure on our doorstep.

Today is cold with snow on the ground but not for long as the fine drizzle does its bit. But yesterday was beautiful, cold and sunny and with not much wind. Perfect! Armed only with an Ordnance Survey map and a small rucksack containing a flask of tea and some shortbread biscuits (yes, I know, it's an arrestable offence) Mrs C and I set off from our front door at 10.40 a.m., returning home almost five hours later. I will not bore you with the full route detail but it was a genuine adventure, undoubtedly assisted by an optimistic outlook on the viability of the passage through Hameldon Woods and the icy path to Hameldon Hill and its part-frozen moorland. Oh how we laughed as Mrs C went both feet ankle-deep in the slushy mud of the woodland path having traversed the fallen tree blocking our exit from the woods. And I always draw blood when I'm out anyway so the outcome of my tangle with a barbed wire restriction en route was really no surprise. But it was all worthwhile as we made it to the top of the hill, past the weather radar station and looked down towards Clowbridge reservoir. What a view. Mark would certainly have loved it.

There is something king-of-the-world about being up high, able to survey all around you, particularly when the landscape is so stunning. It's just a great feeling. And so of course is that celebratory pint in the pub afterwards but obviously that's much too dangerous in current times as none of us can be trusted. So in the short term Mrs C and I will continue with our no-pub adventures from the front door. But we'll be noting all suitable pub locations en route for future reference. Because this will all be over soon. I'm just not wired for fearing the worst.

The view from Hameldon Hill down to Clowbridge reservoir.

Covid-19 - Reasons to be Cheerful

Now is the winter of our Covid-19 discontent. But with Spring just a 
few weeks away, dare we look forward with a little more optimism in
terms of regaining our rights and freedoms? I would like to think so,
even if it does mean that slimy politicians will reap undeserved credit

Back in early November I wrote (Politicians - A Special kind of Stupid?), about the virus, that it was a new and unwelcome respiratory illness acting in the way that respiratory illnesses do in tending to unleash its greatest damage on the old and medically vulnerable, particularly during the winter season so congratulations to all politicians in suppressing the spread of the illness over the summer and into the winter..... followed by......they know that they have got it wrong. The politicians will continue with the undemocratic imposition of restrictions into the Spring and then, with seasonality playing its part in reducing these numbers, they will announce the measures to have been a success, thus justifying all that has gone before.

As a lockdown sceptic, I have to now accept that we sceptics have lost the argument. The great majority of the UK population has been won over by a government propaganda machine convincing us that a) they are following the science and b) the trampling of our rights and freedoms is a price worth paying for our safety. Whilst I still firmly believe that they are wrong on both counts I am in a small minority, defeated, ridiculed and even worse accused of irresponsibly exercising (what was previously my right to) free speech. So it might seem unlikely that I should be cautiously optimistic as to the likelihood of our getting back to a semblance of normality in the relatively near future. But I am. And that means getting back to Spain sooner rather than later, being able to travel freely throughout that wonderful country as El Real Thing in pursuit of our original objectives being the discovery of real Spain, real beer in Spain and real football in Spain. Blimey, I'm warming up just thinking about it. Reasons to be cheerful?

Reasons to be Cheerful - Part 1. I am a born optimist. Simple as. The glass is always half full etc. Blind optimism is a healthier option than clinical pessimism. A bit like the saying about smiling using fewer muscles than frowning so it's good for you (probably untrue but it's a nice sentiment). Being optimistic helps you get through life and lockdowns and Sheffield Wednesday so it's a good start.

Reasons to be Cheerful - Part 2. Whilst the prime minister Boris Johnson is also famously (infamously?) known for his optimism, the mood music coming out of government is now very much geared towards a stepped return to normality from Spring onwards. Boris' optimism aside, having now had us under metaphoric lock and key for ten months, why would the whole of government now be pushing this line if they weren't confident that such pronouncements won't prove to be the proverbial rod? Well, obviously the vaccine rollout is now underway but, as I railed back in November (see above), the onset of Spring etc etc. Of course they're bloody confident. And worse, the slimy buggers will hail their actions as having been successful and the majority of the UK population will believe them. But at least the restrictions will be loosened and rather than harking back on all that has gone before we will be too busy getting out there and making up for lost time. Which will suit the policiticians.

Reasons to be Cheerful- Part 3. Pandemics don't last for ever and the fantasy policy objective of "zero-Covid" is now acknowledged as being just that. Fantasy. Covid-19 is now endemic which means that we have to learn to live with it but the arrival of the various supplier vaccines should make a positive difference, at the very least encouraging those less optimistic than me that there is good reason to believe that we can soon begin the resumption of normal social activity, hug a few friends and family members and even enjoy the occasional peck on the cheek. I'm not one for wishing my life away but oh to revisit such pleasantries again.

If I am right and my optimism proves not to be misplaced, then perhaps we can indeed now start tentatively planning for the "great summer" that health secretary Matt Hancock has told us we're all going to have. If I am wrong, then at least the hope will carry me through the next few weeks until it becomes clear that I'm wrong. That, you see, is one of the benefits of being an optimist.

And finally if I was Xi Jinping, the Chinese president, then I would be supremely optimistic about the future. The new EU-China Investment deal will drive his country's further manufacturing and production growth, ensuring that even more EU member countries find their high streets filling up with Chinese Bazar shops - as is already the case in Spain - selling cheap junk into local markets impoverished by lockdown policies promoted by China to counter a virus promoted by.....errr.... China. Hmmm.