A Van of One's Own Read online

  Travelling with Tanya means that I can employ the Completion Backward Principle, an idea I came across in the early eighties thanks to an album of that name by The Tubes. The idea is that you visualise the end result you require (this can be anything), and you relax knowing that all the steps required to achieve it will appear effortlessly and in the correct order. It works brilliantly. Tanya is doing the same thing, using programmed information. Where does this information come from, I wonder? It’s all a matter of trusting someone or something we don’t necessarily understand, and I am starting to trust Tanya.

  *

  Continuing towards Spain, I decided to stop in Pays Basque, where, on the internet, I had found a little campsite that looked perfect. Tanya found the village and signs guided us to the entrance of the campsite, but I saw that it was closed. What was I going to do? I sat for a while, thinking, when a young woman called and waved from the driveway. ‘Fermé?’I gestured with a hand across my throat. ‘Non, ouvert!’ she shouted, and opened the gate, much to my relief and joy. I had misread the sign, as I was getting tired and projecting the idea of failure onto current circumstances.

  It was a truly tranquil spot: nobody else around. I cooked a casserole, drank some wonderful beers I bought from the tiny camp shop and began to feel relaxed. All night the rain hammered on the roof and came inside the back doors, but by morning it had stopped, and the day looked full of warm promise. Wasn’t this how it used to be on all those camping holidays in Wales in the seventies? I seem to remember that it rained all night and every night, but a bright, dry morning always followed, during which the bedding could be dried out before the next shower drenched everything. Happy days. There are few things I love more than to sleep close to the earth in a warm sleeping bag, under canvas, under rain. And here I was, revisiting wonderful camping memories in Myfanwy, complete with indoor kettle. Sadly, my three-way camping fridge was in a sorry state: warm and unpleasantly cheese-scented. I realised it no longer worked on gas.

  I walk downhill to the village, passing sweet-faced goats and their kids. The church is simple and whitewashed, the houses pretty and typical Pays Basque: half-timbered under red pantile roofs, reminiscent of a Swiss alpine scene on a biscuit tin lid. Passing a few shops, I arrive at the wide river Adour, and walk along its bank for a while. The sky is soft and grey and, after so much rain, the water is high and full of mud and debris. Whole tree trunks float by silently, gradually overtaking me. The opposite bank seems a mile away, complete with a shabby château surrounded by a light mist.

  After a second night at the little campsite I made an early start, and before long I crossed the border into Spain. For a few hours I seemed to be climbing up and up, weaving through industrial sprawl, surrounded by spectacular mountains reminiscent of the Pyrenées. I pushed on for as long as I could, anxious to find somewhere to spend the night.

  The next stop was my first experience of a place that felt a bit dodgy. It was a campervan aire that was located on the banks of a river and sounded quite good on paper, but for some reason the planners had sited it in a nasty little alley at the abandoned edge of town. Any ideas I’d had about taking a refreshing evening dip were soon dispelled; this was not a place to undress and relax. I parked up next to the only other van and had a feeling that I needed to be on my guard. Sure enough; within minutes I was approached by a scruffily dressed man who reeked of booze and seemed pleased to have someone to talk to. I didn’t share his enthusiasm, but I said hello. He stood at my door and got into his flow, proceeding to tell me, in French, all about the many problems that were being dealt him by life, the police and the mayor. After a while, I realised he was stuck on a repetitive loop, and I tried to ignore him, turning away and getting on with cooking, and he wandered off, much to my relief. Minutes later he returned, looking decidedly grumpy, and started the routine again. After four or five more visits, I got fed up and went for a less subtle approach, telling him to get lost. This seemed to do the trick.

  As my French is almost passable, I was able follow what the problems-guy was ranting about. However, I have no grasp whatsoever of Spanish, and after he had gone, my Spanish neighbour took the opportunity to come over and welcome me to the dump. She was smiley and friendly and seemed concerned that I was alone. She talked enthusiastically for some time without pausing, adding a fair amount of body language, which helped a lot. I think she was saying things along the lines of, ‘We must all stick together; this is a dodgy place and we must park very close, almost touching, to show that we are all together: a family. Come and have some coffee.’ I nodded a great deal, unable to remember even how to say ‘I don’t understand.’

  I was relieved when a couple more vans pulled in for the night and I was tightly flanked. It was beginning to grow dark and everyone had retreated to the sanctuary of their vans for the night. This is something that happens most evenings; the feeling of community quickly evaporates and, once again, we all become separate units isolated in our own little homes. It can be a bit of a relief, settling into one’s own quiet space, but it can also feel a bit lonesome. Most people travel in couples, and so my aloneness, though I chose it, is highlighted at this point in the day. Still, I am getting quite comfortable with campervan life, and I felt relaxed now, gazing at the last remnants of light in the western sky.

  Suddenly there was an unsmiling face at my window. The problems-guy had his nose pressed up against the glass, peering in. I snapped my curtains shut, locked the door and got ready for an early and possibly sleepless night.

  Strangely, I slept like a log and felt elated to wake up safe and sound. I got some water from a lone tap, which was the only ‘service facility’ at the aire, then headed off in a southwesterly direction. The day became clearer and hotter, and I put a CD into the player to serenade me along the quiet roads through the mountains. I was heading for a destination and focussed on getting there as quickly as possible, though Myfanwy is more of a friendly old pony than a racehorse. I wasn’t particularly enjoying the journey for its beauty or culture, but simply driving, sleeping, resting and eating. I was making progress and calculated that I could easily be in Algarve by the date on which I hoped to meet my friends from Wales.

  In my bible of aires, I had spotted a parkup that was right next to a well-preserved castle in a small town of timber-framed buildings, just a short detour from the route I was travelling. I arrived mid-afternoon, when everything was, of course, shut. The streets were all lined with ancient wooden verandas, creating shady walkways beneath. There were plenty of houses, but only a few shops, and no people at all. It felt like a stage set: unreal, deserted. Perhaps everyone was having a nap; the heat was intense, and I fancied a siesta myself. With that in mind, I parked up next to the fabulous castle. I opened a window to let in the breeze and within seconds the van was full of flies – scores of them, a veritable plague. I realised the folly of travelling without mosquito nets and put up my one and only fly paper. Realising I couldn’t stay in the van, infested and hot as a sauna, a moment longer, I closed the flies in and abandoned ship. I walked the silent, sweltering streets and viewed the church and the castle with its little stone hermitages. I wandered down to the mini supermarket, which was closed for the afternoon, and thought about my bare cupboards and infestation of flies. I sat with my bottle of water next to a fountain in the tiny village plaza, mercifully shaded by knobbly little trees. Three old men appeared and sat together on a bench, their comfortable silence suggesting lifelong friendship. We greeted each other with ‘¡Hola!’ and sat in silence for a while. The church bell chimed five o’clock.

  Finally the shop opened, and I bought an apple, bread, a tomato and some cheese. I returned to Myfanwy and counted well over a hundred flies stuck to the deadly sticky paper, and several more still buzzing about. I remembered that I had a plastic swatter that came with van. Within a short time I became expert at killing flies, sickening though it felt. It was me or them, and I won, but I could no longer open my windows. Thankfully, the night was
cold up in the mountains, and I slept well again.

  Next morning, with not a single living fly in the van, I hightailed it out of the aire, away from the dream-like town and along the long narrow lane that would connect me with the road to Salamanca. Within five minutes I had pulled over and was throwing up in a ditch. Was it the flies? Ah! I remembered now: the dodgy place with the single tap; the water had been a bit warm. How stupid of me! I had thought of lots of things in the planning stage, but not mozzie nets, and I had completely forgotten the warnings about suspicious taps.

  Arriving at a campsite on the outskirts of Salamanca, I decide I have to get my fridge running on electricity and keep my meagre food supplies edible – not that I am eating much. I realise I don’t have the right electric hook up adapter for Spain. The campsite receptionist directs me to a local shop that he says sells such things. I set off on my bicycle but I can’t find the place, which I imagine from the description to be a camping shop on a nearby corner. I ask a few people, who point further and further away from the campsite, and I keep going. It’s a challenge because I am sick and weak, but eventually I find the giant megastore on a huge intersection. Walking around the store is another big effort, but at least it’s cooler than outside. I buy an adapter which I know is wrong, though the assistant insists it will work. It doesn’t. It was a total waste of energy, pushing my exhausted body around for two hours; I still have no electricity. My fridge is now nothing more than a stinky cupboard. The next few days are a bit hazy: intense heat and a lot of showering, nil by mouth except bottled water. I am burning up, feverish, drenched in sweat and feeling lousy. I feel I ought to see the sights but I am too weak.

  On Sunday I felt a bit stronger, so I got the bus into Salamanca centre. I walked under an arch and found myself in the city’s main square, looking up at vast, almost golden sandstone edifices on every side. I felt lukewarm about it all, though, wandering about in my linen clothes – which I suddenly realised were scruffy and creased – surrounded by hundreds of very smartly dressed people, everyone in their Sunday best. I was trying to focus less on my attire and more on the architecture, but I was too exhausted and pathetic to appreciate its magnificence. I took a few photos to look at later, which is something I have always thought a bit ridiculous. I must be ill! I thought.

  As people sat outside cafes enjoying food, company, sunshine and the view, I was walking across the Plaza Mayor where, just in front of me, a smart young woman strode purposefully. She was probably in her late twenties, my daughter’s age, and was wearing very high heels and a tight, elegant red dress. It was like a scene from a film. Suddenly she turned her ankle on the cobblestones, and I overtook her as she paused to right herself. She was wiping tears from her eyes. Did the ankle twist hurt? A moment later I turned my head to see her running towards a handsome man and a gorgeous boy of about three. They all embraced. Tears sprang to my eyes as I watched them hugging one another, reuniting.

  I was glad to leave Salamanca’s historic centre. I realised that, for me, there’s no point in visiting cities alone, though having come all this way it could be seen as a stupid waste to miss the opportunity. I know the buildings are grand and the history and culture inspiring, but it doesn’t touch me; perhaps it’s because I am ill, though I suspect it’s because I am here for something quite different, though I don’t yet know what that something is.

  The next day I packed up, ready to leave Salamanca, and on the way out of town I swung by the megastore to return the adapter and to see if I could buy mosquito nets and chemical fluid for my loo. I couldn’t find anyone who spoke English, so I had to mime these items. The mosquito net was quite easy. I knew ‘fenêtre’, which didn’t ring any bells, so I made myself into a flying, buzzing insect and mimed a window, which did the trick and amused the assistant who directed me to a distant aisle. The inexpensive kit I found there was going to change my life on the road. I returned to the desk and asked the same woman about fluid for camping toilets. This was much more tricky. Puzzled, she called two colleagues over to help her decipher the request and all three watched as I attempted to describe, using only actions, a porta potti. They shook their heads in bewilderment. Whatever it was I wanted, they didn’t think it was anything that might be for sale in their store. Eventually we had a breakthrough and they sent me to a partitioned display area, where stood an impressive array of porcelain bathroom suites. Sadly, I had no use – or space – for these luxurious delights in my van. Having embarrassed myself in front of three shop assistants and quite a few customers who had stopped to witness my performance, I was not prepared to leave empty-handed, and at last, after a long trek, I found the product about six feet along the aisle from the mozzie nets. I’d worked up quite a sweat, so I paid for my goods and walked out of the store and into the fresh morning air, then scuttled away comfortable in the knowledge that I would probably never see any of these good people again. Sometime later I discovered that a mosquito in Spanish is ‘mosquito.’

  *

  I have been following, rather slavishly, a route that seems logical if one wishes to get from Wales to the eastern end of the Algarve: one used by my friends who travel there regularly and by people I meet along the way who are chasing winter sun. It’s a bit of a slog, because I am moving fairly slowly and I am not enjoying the sprawling city outskirts, or the motorways, or, for the most part, the landscape. That’s fine – it’s a means to an end. But what about the journey? The journey is the point, isn’t it? I look at the map. I am halfway along my route from northeast to southwest Spain, a journey that only takes some people a matter of hours, astonishingly.

  If I divert and go west a bit, I can stay at an aire I spotted in my book, in the Sierra de Gata, which sounds like a wonderful place. Fear comes up and tries to make me play it safe, saying, ‘Stick to the main roads; don’t go up unnecessary mountains.’ But this is nonsense; one road is much like another when you are driving along it – what does it matter if I take a scenic detour? So I head west and suddenly feel optimistic, and a little less nauseous.

  The village of Torre de Don Miguel is slightly ramshackle and instantly lovable. The cobbled, narrow main street is entirely unsuitable for Myfanwy, but, thanks to Tanya, we take it anyway. It doesn’t lead to the aire, which I find by using my own instinct. It’s on the other side of a small valley and has a wonderful view of mountains and a distant ruined castle. I lock up and take the grassy footpaths around a patchwork of allotments, climbing the gentle hill to the edge of the village. A warren of back alleys eventually leads me to the main street where there’s a small sloping plaza and, at the top, overlooking everything, an imposing church. Over the castellations of the tall, square tower, gargoyles lean out precariously, pulling menacing faces. Weeds grow in all directions, giving them wild, green hairdos which soften the gruesome effect a little. Beyond in the distance are more splendid forested mountains and another castle. Everything is green and lush in the afternoon sun. I feel I have entered another reality.

  There are four bars in the square and I plump for ‘Carpe Diem’, because that is what I am trying to do: seize the day. I start to relax, enjoying sitting alone and lingering over a cold beer and olives in the warm evening sun. The square is quiet, apart from the chatter of a handful of people, the dull chime of the church bell at six o’clock and the occasional car rumbling up the cobbled street. Meandering back through the lanes to Myfanwy, I love what I see: layers of blue and green paint peeling off ancient doors, beautiful stonework, vegetable plots and olive groves. This is a place unspoilt by modernisation.

  The following morning I get pulled back into my old pattern and rejoin the main road leading south to Caceres, just because that was the next place in my original plan. It’s a city I am told I absolutely must visit. It’s not a bad idea, but when I get there, I cannot face a walk around the scorching streets. I eat some dry bread and look at the map, willing it to show me what to do. It suddenly occurs to me that I don’t have to doggedly follow the main road to Merida, t
hen Zafra; I can head straight for Portugal, right now! Within minutes we are travelling due west, Myfanwy, Tanya and me. It’s searingly hot and, happily, the fan works well, but Myfanwy’s CD player is slightly damaged, and once I have managed to insert a disc it’s nearly impossible to eject it. Consequently, I have had one CD on all the way through Spain. At first I was not sure if I liked this album, even though I am a big fan, but it went round and round so many times that I got to know it well and started to love it. Over a few days I learned all the words to Jamie Cullum’s aptly named Momentum CD, and a lot of the lyrics seemed to resonate with me. Like Jamie, I feel I’m on the edge of something.

  I start putting on a harmony here and there, accompanying Jamie as he accompanies me on my travels. It’s so good to have a companion who sees the world a bit like I see it. We fly along, I sing a lot and realise I am experiencing a new feeling – a good feeling. It’s the absence of nausea, a returning strength in my body and joy. I am on the right road. Suddenly I am excited to be so close to the border where I will cross into the land which, for reasons unclear to me, I have dreamed of entering. I pull in at a supermarket. Outside is a large banner bearing my name, which seems a bit weird. Did they know I was coming? I go inside and over the loudspeakers they are playing the very same song I was just singing along to in the van. I do love a coincidence.