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.