France Owes Us

We must have passed through some sort of electrical storm in the mountains, because my iPod suddenly died. Then the super-hi-tech phone that I found in the mud at Bestival which was acting as our GPS also died. Then the 12v-240v transformer that we'd been using to charge all our gizmos exploded in a cloud of acrid smoke. All within two hours. Bummer, dude.

We stopped for a few nights in the Pyrenees, and camped in a cherry orchard next to a man called Pascal, who spent his days talking to himself and whittling miniature chairs out of cherry wood. He was charmingly crazy, which may not be unconnected with his admission that he smoked 'great Lebanese hashish' for 20 years. We found a lane where we finally resorted to scrumping - picket apricots, cherries and plums off trees.

We left and headed to a small village called Blauvac, chosen, as all our campsites are, because it was the cheapest possible in the area. It turned out that we were right next to where the Tour de France finished - Mont Ventoux, and on the strength of many breathless descriptions from fellow campers about how INCREDIBLY AMAZING the experience would be, we went along, with a picnic.

Well, it was a fabulous experience after all. It was a bit like a theme park - maybe Middle Aged Obscure Sports Enthusiast World or something - where you could imagine what it was like to live a dull, mainly meaningless existence where waiting five hours - five hours, mind - for the infinitesimally short moment where a bunch of sweaty, grim-faced men whistle past at light speed, and then rushing for the car to beat the traffic constitutes a Good Time.

We moved on again to the Alps, and then into Italy, where the roads have been signposted by blind people, and ended up driving for another 24 hour stint, because the two campsites we headed to were 'Campervan Only'. By the time we'd been rejected for the second time, we decided to head to Pisa, to see the tower, and to see what would happen. Pisa was lovely, and I have no idea how the damn tower is upright, such is the crazy tilt. We mingled with The Kids by the river and got back into the car at 3am, and rattled away to Bologna, wondering when sleep might grace our lives again.

Another 24 Hours

We drove out of Yecla with heavy hearts, but light wallets - we had 'enjoyed' Spain too much and blown a disproportionate amount of cash there. 'It was all worth it, though,' we told ourselves, as we pootled on petrol fumes north up the coast. Alex's mum had cooked us a truly wonderful meal before we left, and, having stuffed ourselves, we weren't worried about needing to eat for another few days.

We were concerned about paying for pricy Spanish campsites. We were heading for Peniscola, in order to consummate the heavenly Coke-can/Male groin photo opportunity, but when we got there, it looked average, and we made a split-second decision to eschew the knob-gag and gun it for Barcelona.

We arrived in Barcelona and found the world's most expensive car park at the bottom of the Ramblas. It was dark (midnight-ish), and all other parking places were full. We got changed in the car and strolled, sophisticated, into Barcelona. We had enough money for drinks in three bars, but found that prices had rocketed since we were there a year and a half ago, and we only just managed two. The barmen had to prize the money from my fingers, and the grinding noise from my teeth echoed loudly.

We spent the rest of the night wandering around, being hassled by hundreds of Indian hawkers, all selling the same cans of beer for a Euro a pop. Just before sunrise, we went to the beach to watch it rise with the other Eurotrash drunks, slept for exactly 15 minutes, and went for breakfast.

We then made another (architectural) pilgrimage to the Sagrada Familia, drank enough caffeinated beverages to stun Amy Winehouse, got back in the car, and drove, exhausted, to France. We swore never to do anything like that again. A week later we did exactly the same thing, but that's a different story...

Heat, Road Movies and Extreme Kindness

Grenada was JUST TOO DAMN HOT. So we drove out of town, took a left and swung through what turns out to be the driest, hottest part of Europe, and where they filmed the Good, The Bad and The Ugly. It was thus hot, dry and had lots of straight roads through scrubland. I imagined we were in our own version of Vanishing Point, the ace 70's amphetamines and desert-speeding movie, and I felt ALL MANLY doing it.

Unfortunately, without the necessary Amphetamine-hard-liquor-and-fiery-death that would have completed my Vanishing Point dream, we pointed the Micra north, towards Yecla, a small town in the south east of Spain, where our amigo Alex Gil lives.

We stayed with his family in a spare apartment above the bar that Alex's dad owns. For the record, let me state that Alex's family are the most lovely people in Yecla, if not all of Spain, and they welcomed us into their home like long-lost relatives. It was wonderful.

Yecla is a hot town in the hills (I think), north of Murcia. When we arrived, frazzled and crispy round the edges, Alex whisked us off to a local spa, where for a few Euros, we lounged like sea lions in warm spring water all day. Alex and I fell asleep in the bubble pool, and Gem cruelly took photos.

Later, Alex took us around Yecla. He knows everyone. Sorry - I meant, Alex knows EVERYONE. A normally quick stroll across a quiet plaza involves people dropping shopping, babies, or anything else they might be holding and rushing over to chat with Mr. Yecla, who greets all and sundry with a cheery "Hey! Que Pasa?" It must be murder for him to get out of his seat in a busy bar to go to the toilet.

Alex's parents fussed around us, making sure we had enough to eat and drink, of which we had plenty, what with living just above their bar. Alex's brother, Victor, was there too; he is a supremely nice guy, and happens to be dating the most beautiful girl in town. And Alex's sister, Maria, is the cutest child of all time, without question. It was all just lovely.

In the end, we tore ourselves away, a day after eating a Paella served in a pan the size of a garden pond. It was excellent, and had a whole, chopped-up rabbit (head and tail included) in it, as well as snails. I hate snails, but Alex and his friend Reuben forced us to try them. So here's the verdict: the sauce the caracoles come in is delicious, but the mucus-like beings themselves are, well, mucus-like.

So we headed north, aiming to stop halfway up the coast, at the town of Peniscola, for obvious reasons. Oh, how wrong we were...

NORMAL SERVICE WILL BE RESUMED SHORTLY

Christ, we haven't been able to find any internets whatsoever in Italy or Croatia. But now we're in Slovenia, reknowned technological enclave, and there's wi-fi everywhere.

So we'll bring you up-to-date with the last month or so's goings-on, possibly in one, huge, migrane-inducing MEGA POST, but more likely in a series of small ones over a long period of time.

10-4 old buddies,

Joe 'n' Gem