Ablutions

It is a beautiful morning on the camp site. I am at the washbasins, in the shower block, brushing my teeth. On my left is a large German man with a walrus moustache which he is trimming with a pair of long-nosed scissors. Actually, everything about him is walrus, from the snorting as he clears his throat to his enormous tremulous body in singlet and shorts. To his left is an uncouth Englishman I met yesterday, loud-mouthed and opinionated, in a string vest, smirking at his reflection as he shaves. To my right is another Englishmen of the unworldly, slightly genteel and rather pale kind, brushing the few strands of lank hair on his head, and beyond him is a Dutchman who is bent low over the basin and irrigating his nose with a plastic device like a miniature upside-down snorkel, pouring water in and making gagging noises. A Belgian is putting his shaving kit into his washbag. Someone in the showers is quietly humming a tune from opera, possibly La Traviata.

It is a blissfully peaceful atmosphere, heady with the perfume of after shave, shower gel and toothpaste. The washroom is a temple to the goddess of chemical obliteration of all traces of male pheromones along with general body odours, leaving us smelling like cheap air freshener. As we shave, brush, snip and irrigate we contemplate our images reflected in the long mirror with admiration, despair or indifference.

We are a veritable cornucopia of body types, mostly of the running to fat variety. For my part, I regard my upper torso with a certain amount of satisfaction – exercise and a low-alcohol intake has made me lean and muscled and yet when I lean forward over the washbasin, two small breasts appear dangling from my chest. I straighten up. Where did they come from? There's no trace of them when I am upright shoulders back, stomach in. I lean forward again more slowly this time and, sure enough, they appear gradually with a slight swinging motion, mocking my vanity. I glance from side to side and am reassured to see that others have the same problem, albeit they seem unaware or not bothered by it.

We are all getting on with the various tasks of our ablutions wrapped in our thoughts and respectful of each other's personal space when someone breaks wind suddenly and very loudly. We are all startled out of our reverie. The walrus snorts and sticks the point of the scissors in the soft part of a nostril. He swears in the uniquely rich and serious way Germans do, as if invoking the wrath of ancient northern gods. It is low and guttural and sounds like: Gerstinkenerdasblastendamm! It is a rip snorter of a swear word. I snigger and glance round. The uncouth man says “Nice one, Cyril” and the genteel Englishman blushes. It is probably not him, but maybe he thinks he should apologise on behalf of all humanity. Two small Spanish boys being washed by their father in a shower cubicle giggle uncontrollably. The Dutchman splutters, in danger of drowning in his irrigating water. and blows a spout from the end of the snorkel.

To a man, we glance along the mirror to spot the desecrator of our tranquility. To my mind one face betrays the perpetrator by its false air of innocence. It belongs to the Belgian who turns, with a beatific smile and ambles away, towel casually slung over his ample shoulder. There is much tut-tutting in mock indignity as the rest of us get down again to the various tasks in hand. The walrus turns to me with a serious face and sums up: “I think he has no manners.” I smile and nod: “ It's not much of a country, Belgium,” I say, unaccountably as I have nothing against the place. The walrus nods now. He raises his eyebrows, dabs his nostril and leans to the mirror. I turn to leave. We are men of the world, he and I, united by mutual understanding. We have damned a fellow member of the European Union for no good reason. We are set up for the day.

Madrid

As we drove north from Moratalla, the weather got colder and colder. Snow tipped the mountains, the trees were bare and the sky was winter grey.

We found a campsite about 50 k south of Madrid at Aranjuez. The bad news was that the ground was flooded. The good news was that the prices were very low, the wifi worked and there were frequent trains from Aranjuez to Madrid. So we booked a couple of nights in a hotel in Madrid and left the van on the campsite (parked on the tarmac).

Aranjuez is the Spanish version of Versailles, full of beautiful 18^th century palaces which we walked past on the way to the station. Martin played at being the sentry.......

The old centre of Madrid entranced us with its street art

and its pretty bars

and its small independent shops – including this rather large sweet shop which would have enraptured Bella and Taylor but bewildered them with its vast choice.

Here are some more photos from the streets

an electric bus

a funny menu

and our very own Lowry photo!

And some photos from our visit to Reina Sofia Museum

including some arty reflections

and the inevitable visit to the cafe

After a couple of days immersed in art at the Prado and the Reina Sofia, we returned to Aranjuez and prepared for our journey home.

After Sopalmo

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The night before we left Sopalmo, we had a party and invited everyone we could find on the campsite.

The weather was chilly, so we were delighted that everyone came and most stayed until it really was too cold to sit outside (even wrapped in rugs!).

We were given a great send off in the morning and promised to return – hopefully next winter. Bernie played the harmonica whilst Doris flourished her white handkerchief and everyone else waved.

We felt quite sad to leave but wanted to explore the coast further north for a few days before going to Madrid. However, the coast did not look too appealing and it started to rain very heavily so we turned inland and ended up miles away in the hills north of Murcia at Moratalla.

Moratalla is an attractive hillside town overlooking a huge fertile plain. The town is busy and prosperous as well as unspoilt and not too dependent on tourism. This is a view from the castle:

Camping La Puerta, a few kilometers north of Moratalla, is a large campsite (with very good facilities) in the middle of pine woods at the entrance to an amazing gorge which cuts steeply through the surrounding limestone hills.

The river feeds a reservoir and then rushes down a weir and along the side of the campsite.

There were few other campers when we arrived but many Spanish families came for the weekend when the weather had improved. We ate our last Spanish Sunday 'menu del dia' in the campsite restaurant.

We spent a few days here, exploring Moratalla and walking in the hills and then headed for Madrid.

Sopalmo

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The little hamlet of Sopalmo is perched on a ridge, sitting either side of the winding coast road between Carboneras and Mojacar surrounded by hills and valleys where grey shingly ramblas make their way to the sea.

Camping Sopalmo is a small very friendly international campsite. The owners, Simon and Macu, work hard to keep everyone happy and speak good English. It is a very special place.

Although most of the campers have stayed here for many winters and are really good friends with each other, they welcome newcomers with open arms, passing on useful local information and socialising in the Friday evening bar. When we arrived we thought we would stay for a maximum of a week but we stayed over four weeks only moving on when we needed to start our journey back. This despite the lack of nearby shops or a good bus service - things we normally require from a campsite. The genuine friendliness of the site, the traditional Bar Sopalmo (20 minutes walk up the rambla), the interesting landscape and lovely walks kept us very happy here. Occasionally (when we needed food!) we explored the surrounding towns and villages where there were fantastic local produce markets.

From the campsite we could see hills across the valley where a herd of goats was taken to graze during the day

Sometimes the goats came into the fields next to the campsite and ate carob pods which the goatherd beat down from the tree with a stick

Just across the rambla was a wild orange tree. The windfalls we picked up were small but sweet.....

Here are some photos taken on our many walks up and down the rambla:

Almond tree sprouting from a rock

Carob Tree

The goats

Dry rambla (it's normal state)

Rambla in flood (after just a few hours torrential rain)

Car damaged in the floods

Coloured rocks at the side of the rambla

Cormorant on a rock

Crocodile log on the beach

The quiet valley had once been farmed and irrigated more productively and was full of history. We frequently stumbled across fascinating ruined buildings and walls and old irrigation systems. This abandoned mill must once have been surrounded by water:

Abandoned farmhouse

Terraced hillside

Ruined animal enclosure

We walked several kilometers from any tarmaced road to see the ruins of a village which had been abandoned in the 1960's because people were starving:

Here are some pictures taken from the ridges we climbed either side of the rambla:

The scents of thyme, lavender and another pungent herb which we have yet to name were around us every day and every day we saw different flowers blooming, many of which were new to us:

orchid

wild sweet pea

beautiful black lavender

In various secluded spots we came across dozens of beehives and it was lovely to see and hear the bees.

During the month we were at Sopalmo we watched the almond trees come into blossom. By the middle of February they were fully out: