Bulletin 038 - Westward Ho!
April 2005 - Northern Spain
Hola todo el mundo!
It was Saturday morning at Orgiva, another day that had dawned bright and sunny, like so many others over the previous months, and we were packed and ready to leave. Mixed were the emotions of course, we were sorry to leave the spot we love so much and say goodbye all our friends there, on and off the Camping, but we were excited about resuming the rollingness of our Rollingfruitbat status.
So - this is roughly how it goes. We say our farewells to various people on the Camping who are going off into town or out and about, and who won't be back until after we have left. Or so we thought. Annette, the Camping manager, and her partner Marc come to see us off - we've been fixtures for so long (and perhaps they want to really make sure we've left the premises?!). Finally, we leap aboard, all waves and smiles and … and The Lorry doesn't start. The immobiliser (the security system) won't switch off. Ha ha! Has it been so long since we've been driving The Lorry that we've forgotten something obvious? We go through the mental checklists and try again. Nada (nothing). No signs of engine life, though all the dashboard lights and gizmos are flashing correctly.
Small crowd gathers round us. We get help from new friends across the way Ange and Pete - Pete and Dave disappear under the bonnet, but they decide not to tinker with the electronics for the immobiliser since they're all wired into the Lorry's computery bits. They have several nail-biting attempts at re-setting the alarm - nail biting because apparently if you get it wrong too many times the whole thing shuts down forever. Well something like that anyway. That doesn't work either. Ange makes us a cup of coffee, some of the by-standers get bored and wander off, others obviously feel sorry for us and disappear to save our embarrassment.
Alarming situations
We then make attempts at phoning the company who installed the alarm/immobiliser system but the phone number we have is defunct. We enlist daughter Wendy's help remotely (i.e. via another phonecall to the UK) and she finds a new number for the alarm installers. Fortunately there's someone there on a Saturday morning and, when phoned, they strongly suggest the vehicle battery may be down, which would indeed prevent the immobiliser from de-activating. That makes sense, since we've only moved The Lorry once in three months, so very likely the battery's at least a bit under full charge. We begin to wonder if The Universe is suggesting we take root in Orgiva!
Annette's actually got the weekend off from work but has come in specially to say goodbye, and despite being on her day off, she helpfully goes off to find Antonio, who's covering reception while she's away, as he might have some jump leads. He doesn't, but his mates, a couple of Guardia Civil officers who are having a coffee in the bar, do. Thence ensues a bizarre scene with a Guardia Civil 4x4, a couple of police officers and a brace of 'assistants'/on-lookers all congregating round the Lorry's open bonnet. How many people does it take to attach jump leads to a motorhome? About a dozen apparently! All connected up, Dave leaps into driving seat and tries to turn the engine - nasty fizzing noise and the jump leads and Guardia Civil's battery start smoking ominously. Oops! Obviously need lorry-sized jump leads here, folks, so with profuse thanks, apologies and a few sheepish grins, we wave goodbye to the helpful - if bemused - officers.
Does this mean we have, for the first time ever, to invoke our Fiat Solar-System Wide breakdown cover? Well no, actually, we're among friends here. A quick phone call from Annette and less than ten minutes later Antonio roars up with a young local mechanic with a commercial-vehicle sized battery charger. He has a quick look, agrees with the diagnosis and says it would be better to leave it on charge for half an hour or so to give the engine a good kick-start. Fair enough, we're not really in a hurry at all, we assure him.
Ange and Pete leave us with chairs to sit in the sun (ours being all packed up of course) and more mugs of coffee whilst they go off to try and do their chores in town before everything shuts at 2pm. So down we sit, books out, lunch prepared, ready for a potentially elastic Spanish half hour. Linda from the miniscule Peugot van across the way brings us more coffee. Our Hero's version of 30 minutes turns out to be an hour and a half (not bad), but we don't mind in the slightest and he doesn't even want to take a centimo for his services, as we are friends of Annette. What a Hero! The Lorry's engine purrs into life, we say yet another round of goodbyes (since two thirds of the people to whom we had bid farewell had subsequently returned to find us still in situ) and we finally rattle out of the gate about 3pm. What a palaver!
Home on the Move
If we felt strange and disorientated being on the move once again, poor little Chip must have totally lost the plot! All these people fussing over him, saying the 'goodbye' word, then the team jumping into The Lorry ready to set sail, then leaping out again. (Repeat several times.) Another walk through the neighbouring field, another lie-down in the sun, more people stroking and tickling him behind the ears yet another time … and now, hours later, his whole home is on the move again. What are these humans like?!
We knew we wouldn't have the energy or daylight time to do the whole of the original journey we'd planned for that day, so decided to just drive for an hour or so and stop overnight near Granada. It might sound a bit daft only going an hour up the road, but it felt like a kind of psychologically significant break, actually leaving Orgiva and getting on the road again. We were also both surprised at the emotional exhaustion of all the farewells and felt completely wrung out! It was a quiet, scenic site in the countryside outside Granada, so Jeni and Chip went for a bimble across some neighbouring olive groves to stretch their legs and explore a bit (finding a handy sit-down spot if they'd been tired) ... while Dave collapsed with a book. We were in bed by 9.30pm too!
If we thought we'd taken root in Orgiva, it wasn't quite to the same extent as an ancient camper van we found tucked away in the corner of that Camping near Granada. But we knew exactly how it felt!
Yeee-haaa!
Next day found us bright eyed and bushy tailed from our early night, so we hit the road, driving West from Granada for five hours through the olive trees and agricultural areas to El Rocío, a small town in the heart of the Doñana National Park, Spain's largest wildlife reserve and, as our faithful Rough Guide tells us, a world class wetlands site for migrating birds and one of Europe's biggest wilderness areas.
How do we describe El Rocío? Well, imagine a cowboy town with sandy streets. A compact little town, which is almost deserted during the week and springs alive at weekends. That's El Rocío. The town itself doesn't need yellow lines or parking restrictions - few cars bother to try to negotiate the streets as they just get bogged down in the sand, and the deep sand at the sides of the streets is more effective than any yellow lines! If you ride into town, though, there are of course unlimited numbers of hitching rails or rings to tether your horse outside every house, public building, shop or bar. Probably 75% of the influx of people at the weekends are part and parcel of the 'Hermandads' or brotherhoods; and certainly at this time of year the vast majority of other visitors are Spanish. Perhaps that changes at other times, but it certainly seems to be predominantly Spanish visitors around the whole of this area.
The caballeros (actually, most of them aren't proper cowboys, but simply horse-riding farmers) and their families ride in from all the surrounding towns and villages in the province, and beyond, for weekend frolickings. They are preceded by those not on hoss back, who are crowded into great metal wagons pulled by tractors, ideal for the sandy terrain. Mainly it's the menfolk who are riding (but not exclusively) with the womenfolk, older people, kids, first cousins, neighbours, great-aunts and anyone else who can climb aboard, in the transporters, complete with vast quantities of food, drink, plastic chairs, tables, miscellaneous equestrian accoutrements and at least a couple of bales of hay.
Those who can't cram aboard the transporters arrive separately in coach loads, with their own cargo of picnic chairs, tables, hampers, barbeques and the wherewithal to create an instant community meal on a spare patch of green (of which there are plenty in the town). Not forgetting, in the luggage, a couple of guitars, some tambourines and maybe a drum 'box' for those essential, post-prandial impromptu flamenco music sessions. All talk, in and out of the transporters and coaches, is naturally at full volume and accompanied by screechings of laughter at all times when engaged in the serious business of eating and drinking.
As mentioned, the community mainly consists of large brotherhoods or 'Hermandads' with each one having its own separate 'house'. These buildings nestle shoulder to shoulder down the streets. Some are more elaborate than others, indicating the size and wealth of a particular brotherhood, but each has its internal space for the horses and community members behind large, ornate gateways and courtyards. Many of these fascinating buildings reflect the area from which the brotherhood comes - the Moorish features of the Hermandad de Granada, a full-sailed ship atop the building of the Hermandad de Palos de Frontera (from whence Christopher Columbus and his three ships sailed), and so on. They all, of course, have hitching rings and rails attached to the outer walls, these also vary from the plain to the ornate.
Fiesta! (There's a surprise!)
The big annual event at El Rocío, held at Whitsun, is the Romería. This part-pilgrimage, part-jamboree commemorates the discovery by a shepherd, in the 13th century, of a statue of the Virgin Mary (Nuestra Señora del Rocío - Our Lady of the Dew). Legend, and our Rough Guide to Andalucia (!), has it that this statue resisted all attempts to move it elsewhere, and a shrine was built on the spot where all kinds of healings and miraculous events occurred. The 80 or so brotherhoods from all over Huelva, Malága and Sevilla provinces, and even one from Gibraltar, make their pilgrimage on foot and/or horseback to the shrine for the Romería, taking anything from two to four days to do so. And it's a reasonable bet that it gets pretty lively on the way!
At the Romería the brotherhoods vie for the honour of carrying the statue of the Virgin from the church with much posturing and grand-standing as they state their case. Interestingly, the brotherhoods are mentioned throughout the history of Spain, as they supported or apposed the various twists and turns of ancient Spanish politics.
Look at the Birdy!
The backdrop of this interesting town is a huge lake and marshland area - the marismas - with magnificent birdlife. On weekdays, when they are not being ridden round the town, many horses graze in the shallows on the water-vegetation alongside the birds. Despite not being knowledgeable twitchers, even we could appreciate the huge variety of feathered life, including some very spectacular birds. The sensitive flamingos move further away at weekends with so much human life in the tiny town close to the lake, but when the transporters rumble out on Sunday evenings, they return to grace the marshlands and water in huge numbers at this time of year. The storks, herons, egrets, eagles, even vultures and a myriad other wading birds are not so people-shy and just carry on regardless. Jeni had severe concerns to see a huge booted eagle (yes, she checked the bird book for confirmation!) circling overhead, snacking on unwary pigeons and other smaller birds. She suggested Dave put Chip down the front of his jacket for safety in case the vigilant eagle spotted a main course opportunity in a little red harness - he's such a small dog, but probably a decent sized 'salchicha' (sausage) for an eagle's supper!
When we arrived on the Camping at El Rocío, we were greeted by Keith and Gayle, the charming couple with the Big One who we'd met at Orgiva. They too had decided to leave just before the Dragon Fest started as they didn't fancy being on the noisy edge of the techno-fest. They had been around for the whole weekend at El Rocio and said that they'd seen all kinds of sights in the town since Friday evening, including horseback weddings and lively goings-on. As we arrived on Sunday afternoon, they recommended getting into the town as quickly as possible to witness some of the weekend high-jinks. This is what we did, thanks to them.
Like Keith and Gayle, we were somewhat fazed by the contrast of this area with the one we'd left. There we'd been at Camping Orgiva in what Jeni calls 'the hub of the hills' - mountains all around - and suddenly here we were in the flattest of the flat. Strange. We also felt somewhat disorientated by the formality of the Camping - it was beautifully maintained, with immaculate facilities, neatly hedged and demarcated pitches and very helpful staff. Couldn't fault it on those points. However, it just felt somewhat sterile after the informality and friendliness of Camping Orgiva, which is much more Fruitbat style. So, having had another couple of days enjoying the lake and the (now very quiet) town, we decided to push on further West and see some more of the Doñana park and coastline.
Go West, Young Fruitbats
So off we went, driving through the edge of the Doñana park and its great swathes of pine woods - donut puffs of pine on short trunks. (Heck, we can't tell you exactly what sort of pines as we haven't got the tree book with us, we left it behind in Orgiva!) There's a huge stretch of coast which, being part of the Parque Nacional, is completely untouched - fabulous fine sandy beaches, backed by sand dunes and pine woods. Amazing.
And onwards though the strawberry fields. The strawberry season is in full swing in Spain, despite the cold snap earlier in the Spring, and the majority of them are grown in Huelva province. Yum. Did we mention we've been buying strawberries by the kilo again (usually about €1.50 or €2 per kilo, since you ask!)? And of course we are still munching through the bags of Orgiva oranges. All essential for Fruitbat well-being.
We crossed the bridge on the industrial outskirts of Huelva, skirting the port area with its huge quasi-cubist statue looking out from the bay across the Atlantic beyond. This is the statue of Italian explorer Christopher Columbus, the adopted son of Spain who, it is claimed, first discovered the Americas (or the Indias as he called it) in 1492. Interestingly (and Dave reckons this is a useful bit of info for those pub quiz aficionados amongst you) the name for America was later provided by another Italian explorer, again sailing under a Castilian flag, who was called ... yes! go to the top of the class you! ... Amerigo Vespucci.
A Dave Anorak Alert - Our flimsy hold on these historical facts was supported by Dave's reading of an interesting Spanish history book (see below). In the said tome, he also found masses of useful info about the Hapsburg lineage and the reference to their distinctive and somewhat large lower jaw - some of you may remember that Star claims that her small dogs, the Squirmies, are direct descendents of this royal line due to their own idiosyncratic under-bite. It sounds as though this might be right, as due to continuous inter-breeding amongst the family (the royals, not the dogs) one of the later Kings had such a big head with a huge lower jaw that as a child, his nanny had to support his frail body with strings and manipulate him like a puppet whenever he appeared in public! It sounds likely that the line eventually changed into small furry animals!
The good read referred to above, and for those of you who are interested, is Mark Williams' 'The Story of Spain' (Santana books ISBN 84-89954-13-5). We borrowed this book from Star and Dave has been avidly reading it, and doing a lot of 'Listen to this Jen!', and then relating obscure details of some of the places we've visited during our journeys through Spain. Dave's on a roll with this book, so watch this space for future references, including Joanna la Loca (Joanna the Mad) and The Spanish Inquisition (and remember, nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!).
Where were we?! Ah yes, thence, back on the road, down past Lepe and La Antilla and along through the coastal pine woods to find a Camping at Isla Cristina, which we'll tell you more about in our next bulletin.
Breeze up the bum
Chip just loves the beach - the breeze definitely gets up his bum and he's very frisky on the sand. Fortunately it's not sand fly season at the moment, so he was safe from the dastardly diseases dogs can get from same, and he was free to frolic. There is definitely something about sand that makes him particularly potty. He was very skippy in the sandy streets of El Rocío, but the vast expanses of sand across the road from our Camping at Isla Cristina made him quite scatty! However, after a good outing on the beach he would get quite exhausted - we all know walking on the sand is more tiring, as Dave discovered, but imagine if your legs are only four or five inches long - it must be totally knackering!
We've decided if we get really hard up we can hire him out as a 'Smile Ambassador' - he never fails to bring a smile to people's faces when he trundles along with his little legs going 19 to the dozen, or racing along with his dumbo ears akimbo. He also specialises in stopping small children from crying and having tantrums - he managed to do this 3 or 4 times during the few days we were at the beach. And of course he is also a Language Development Tool, since loads of people want to get into conversation about him - how old is he? Will he get any bigger? What breed is he? (they're not used to pure bred miniature Dachshunds here in Spain). Jeni's honed some impressive sounding phrases about him, especially ones about him making a lot of noise (for those embarrassing moments when he gets unaccountably freaked out by someone and decides to have a protective bark) - 'mucho ruido pero nunca muerde' - lots of noise but he never bites. 'Qué precioso!', 'IPerrito bonito!' the admirers cry (once they're sure they won't get a savaged ankle).
One day when he and Jeni were on (yet another) walk on the beach and the breeze was indeed brisk, he rushed over and stole a man's sock which was neatly tucked into his boots while the man was gathering something at the water's edge! Chip grabbed the sock in his teeth and pranced off across the sand with it held aloft. The wind caught it and whipped it out of his mouth and tossed it further ahead, so he proceeded to chase it (with Jeni in hot pursuit). When he realised she was after him and the sock, he did a handbrake turn and skipped back, so Jeni hurtled off after the sock which the wind was by now tossing wantonly across the beach. Phew! She managed to catch it and turned round to head back and pop it into the guy's boots … only to see Chip making off in the opposite direction with the other sock! Eventually, Jeni managed to restore both socks to their rightful owner - well actually she didn't think he noticed this madcap escapade at all, thank goodness, but maybe the shell-fish gatherer will have wondered why both socks were rammed hard into the toe of one boot, when he'd left them tucked individually into separate boots !
Isla Cristina itself was interesting too, the core of it being a traditional fishing community, which is still very much the heart of the town. There's been some development on the edges, inevitably, but because of the importance of the conservation area around the coast, it is of a very different nature to many of the other coastal developments and relentless urbanizacións elsewhere. The town also boasts a very helpful young woman in the Información Turistica - she would do well to mentor the woman at Rute who, you may remember, resented giving out any information about her area!
Tight Squeeze
We had a bit of a hairy trip into the town which is how we came to see how lovely it is - it was about 6kms away from our Camping so too far to walk. As we needed some shopping, and to go to the Correos (post office), we had to take The Lorry. Jeni suggested to Dave they stop in a car parky type area on the edge of town, which she spotted as we came into the outskirts (it's only a small place). 'No, let's try and get a bit further in', he said. Hmm, she thinks. A short way down the road Jeni points out a 5 ton lorry weight limit sign. We're only (!) just over 3.5 tons but nonetheless such a sign is a pretty good indication it's going to get narrow and difficult. Dave insisted, however, that it was actually just a weight indicator, rather than to do with size … huh! Narrow and difficult, Jeni predicted, narrow and difficult. And that is of course precisely what it did get (you can tell that Jeni's writing this bit can't you?!). Very narrow and very, very difficult with cars and service vehicles double parked down the slender street as well. Oh gawd!
We're going to spare you all the detail here as we know that some of you are of a sensitive nature, but suffice to say Jeni ended up practically frothing at the mouth and hysterical, and woke up in a cold sweat for the two subsequent nights, having had flashbacks of what she could see in the wing mirror (i.e. two centimetres to spare down the side and someone else's wing mirror bouncing down the side of the Lorry at one stage!). No major damage was sustained to us or anyone else's vehicle (just enough of a scrape on our garage door for Jeni to be able to say 'I told you so!'). Although Dave, in his usual manly way was heard to mutter 'You could get a bus through there!'. We had that discussion (yet again!) about the differences in men's and women's brains - you know, the old chestnut about spatial awareness!
The psychological damage to Jeni is much more severe, however. No wonder, she claims, that she woke up in the night doing a Cedric (her Dad) going 'Oh dear, oh dearie me, oh dear!' and 'Beasty boy! Beasty boy!'. Every time she nearly fell back to sleep, she had yet another flashback of the episode and shrieked out again (Dave reckons that she was also speaking in tongues in agitated tones too at one stage!)! At least she gave Dave a couple of disturbed nights, which she feels is appropriate retribution for playing wantonly with her delicate nerves! Dave reckons that the term 'Beasty boy' will now go down in the annals of Fruitbat history along with 'Big H', the name given to him by Jen's sister Jane (Big Husband!).
More about our Camping at Isla Cristina in our next bulletin, should you be interested! We'll also introduce you to the Viaduct of Death, the 'Fat Head' mountains and amateur topiary … can't wait eh?!
Hasta la proxima!
Much love and in great fruititude,
Chip, Jeni and Dave
XXX
p.s.Funky Chicken
Talking, as we were, of nocturnal activities ... just when you thought it was safe to come out from under the blankets, we've had a special request ... 'Please can you repeat the cartoon of Dave doing his funky chicken impression?' So here it is for your delectation. For those of you who can't remember the incident (or have been supremely successful in putting it out of your mind), this was when Jeni peered out from the bedroom in the early hours of one morning to see Dave, back-lit by moonlight, strutting up and down and doing a remarkable impersonation of a constipated chicken! His explanation, poor lamb, was that he'd woken up with a bout of painfully trapped wind, and that this was how he got rid of it! Enjoy! (The cartoon, that is, not the bout of trapped wind!)
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