MOTORHOME TRAVELLERS' DIARY FOR JANUARY 1999

SPAIN AND PORTUGAL

Barry and Margaret Williamson

01 JANUARY 1999 E CAMPING BELLAVISTA, SANTANDER

New Year's day, the roads very quiet, weather fine. As we finished breakfast mum called on the mobile to say Happy New Year, sounding much better after her cold. From Hossegor we joined the A63 autoroute which bypassed Bayonne, Biarritz and St Jean de Luz, to cross the Spanish border at Hendaye. We called at the services near Labenne to make coffee and at the last services near Bidart for lunch. Both sold LPG and Bidart had a camping car service point, though neither could provide a stamp for Felicity's card nor change money. 3 toll points cost a total of 45 FF.

At the border the bank was closed and we soon faced the first toll point (just before the first Spanish services, near San Sebastian, where there was a cash machine!) No problem, we paid with a 50 FF note and got a handful of Spanish coins in change, then used the Visa card at the services to get a few thousand pesetas (230=£1). The Spanish motorways were good, if a bit expensive, and took us fairly smoothly past Bilbao for £16 in tolls, paying 1½ times the car rate. The countryside was hilly, with first glimpses of snow-capped mountains inland from the beaches. It was obviously not as prosperous as France, with tower blocks of flats clustered round every town. The new motorway from Bilbao to Santander was free and pretty empty, but without services or parking areas. We passed the resorts of Castro-Urdiales and Laredo, with no signs of a camping or overnight parking open, and pulled off at Colindres to ring the campsites at Santander. Abierto? Si? No? The only one open was the Municipal near the lighthouse on Cabo Mayor, at the far end of Sardinero Beach, and we found our way there through the back streets of Santander as night fell.

This whole stretch of the journey filled Barry with memories of his first long European bike ride, many years ago, from Roscoff in Britanny to Santander for a ferry back to the car waiting in Plymouth. It was a very hard ride: hot, dusty, very hilly (with a detour over the Pyrenees), camping and primus-cooking all the way. It took 5 weeks for only 1400 miles, a measure of its difficulties which included a 5,500 ft Pyrennean pass. We also knew this coast from an August 1993 car tour of the castles of Castille. This time round, a few English and Australian vans were in residence in Santander which is the Brittany Ferries port for Plymouth, Portsmouth or Poole, and we parked on the tarmac roadway as the grass pitches were too soft.

177 miles. £13.98 inc elc.

A rainy morning and all the other vans left except a young Australian couple on their way to France. We queried the excessive camping charge and found a complicated system of discounts (20% for 3-4 days, 30% for 5-6 days, 50% for 7 days plus). We decided to move on tomorrow anyway.

After lunch Margaret rode down the hill and along the water front to the port, in time to see the overnight ferry leave for Portsmouth at 3 pm. The next sailing is on 14 February - now we know why all the English went today. The town was busy with promenaders, rows of black wetsuits on body boards rode the waves, but no shops were open, the holiday extending over the weekend..

Later we celebrated 1999 with our second Christmas pudding and enjoyed watching John Cleese's 'A Fish Called Wanda', courtesy of mum's Christmas parcel.

We moved on to Santillana del Mar (which isn't on the sea), where the modest Camping Altamira was closed (whatever the C C book says) but a modern holiday complex of rooms, apartments, restaurant, swimming pool, tennis, horse-riding, etc, included a small area for campers and we manoeuvred between the trees to park on the service road. The only other campers, a family from Dagenham in a dismountable on a Ford pick-up, soon appeared but were leaving at teatime for tomorrow's ferry from Bilbao (the last until March).

After lunch we cycled to Altamira, a couple of strenuous miles away, the site of the famous prehistoric cave paintings of bison and boar from 12,000 BC. They've been closed to visitors for over 20 years, to protect the paintings from further moisture damage, and on a previous visit we'd seen the illustrations in the adjacent cave. The distant white peaks of the Picos de Europa shone in the sun and we rode without coats and gloves. Back past the campsite to a turning for the sea, 7 miles away at Suances. The road climbed briefly, then twisted and dropped to the coast, through cattle-farming country, sea views ahead, mountains behind, cactus, palms, oranges and lemons growing.

We saw little donkeys carrying panniers of fresh-mown grass, horses working in the fields, and flocks of white birds among the black & white cows which we later identified as Cattle Egrets. These are smaller than the Little Egret (seen in Crete), with short yellow bills, and commoner in southern Spain and northern Africa, but indeed found in fields of cattle and horses where they feed on the insects disturbed by the animals. At Suances there was a steep drop to the beach, where we got excellent coffee at a little cafe while Barry rang Eve on the mobile, the sound of surf providing a pleasing background. Feeling fit, we enjoyed the climb back and in the evening we watched a video about grizzly bears in Alaska, which made Paddington nervous.

24 miles. £10.70 inc elec.

Fine and dry again, with the campsite to ourselves. We hung out some washing, printed the diary for November and December, and wrote January up to date.

After lunch we cycled to Torrelavega, the nearest town, to post Felicity's card, buy a map and photocopy the diary. We saw a mobile phone shop selling our Bosch model but they had no spare batteries. Also found a Continente supermarket (French) next to Dia (Spanish), where we can bring Rosie as we leave tomorrow.

Returning to Santillana we wheeled our bicycles round the medieval village - the only traffic allowed through was a funeral cortège and a tractor. Cobbled alleys, noblemen's houses with coats of arms, hotels and restaurants with flower-decked dark wooden balconies, a Romanesque church and cloisters, artisans' workshops, quite charming without the well-heeled tourists who must throng it in summer. (Jean-Paul Sartre was a regular!) We gave the Museum of the Inquisition a miss and walked back to the campsite, as M had yet another rear puncture. Fed up with changing inner tubes, Barry changed the tyre as well, using one bought in Newark.

Spanish TV is the familiar mixture of dubbed American films and game shows, with most of the commercials advertising perfume (for men and women both), but we do like the weather forecasts - 15/20ºC and sunny.

Into Torrelavega, calling to buy diesel (cheaper than France, at 37p per litre, the price pretty well the same whether at supermarkets or motorway services). Also changed our remaining French money at a bank (where they converted it into Euros then back into Pesetas, at permanently fixed rates - GB has made a big mistake, the £ can only fall). Shopping at Dia which had everything except fruit & veg at very good prices (even digestive biscuits - both McVitie's and their own brand).

Finally we were underway, heading west and meeting the north coast at San Vicente de la Barquera, a fishing port sited as usual on a river estuary with a long low 15thC arched bridge linking its 2 sides. We parked by the shore for lunch.

After 8 miles we crossed the Ria Diva, over the border of Cantabria into Asturias. This was Celtic territory until the Romans came, and prides itself on being the only region of Spain never controlled by the Moors, cut off from the rest of Christian Europe by the Muslim invasion and developing its own unique style of pre-romanesque churches. Asturians call it the Real Spain, the rest is Tierra de la Reconquista. The heir to the Spanish throne is Prince of Asturias, and the saying goes 'if being Spanish is a matter of pride, to be Asturian is a title'.

A motorway is under construction from Torrelavega to Gijon, to link with the A66 running south from there, but for now we had a reasonable 2-lane road, quiet on the eve of another public holiday, Epiphany. This evening every town will have a nativity scene celebration, with the arrival of the Three Kings bearing gifts. Traditionally Spanish children get their presents tonight, though we suspect they now get 2 lots as they've also adopted Santa Claus on 25th December.

The coastline came in and out of sight, alternating between sheer cliffs, sandy beaches and rocky coves. Rolling hills and meadows, the distant view of the Picos de Europa giving way to forests, this is Spain's rich green pastureland, thanks to the rainfall along the Costa Verde in contrast to most of the country, dry and parched in summer. It's the main apple-growing and cider-making region, and we saw orchards and plenty of sidrerias (bars for sidra) - another Celtic link, as in Brittany and England's West Country.

The next estuary crossing was at Ribadesella, where our C C guide claimed the campsite was open all year, but a phone call proved otherwise, and the prehistoric cave paintings nearby were closed Sept-April, so we continued to Villaviciosa. Looking for an overnight parking place we turned off, following the western side of the estuary to the Punta de Tazones, a tiny port with a lighthouse but no space, so returned a couple of miles to the little quayside at El Puntal, where there were a few fishing boats and a bar open. We had a quiet warm star-lit night.

114 miles. Free parking.

Back to the main road at Villaviciosa and across rolling country to pick up a short stretch of motorway, past Gijon, the port for Asturian coal, to Aviles. We bypassed these industrial steelworks towns and were soon on quieter roads, taking a steep detour down to Cudillero, a colourful fishing village crowded round a little port. We had lunch in a layby on the way down, with a splendid sea view in the sunshine.

We thought of the Greek wave blessing ceremonies this morning and hoped they too have calm waters and mild weather.

The coast looked wilder, with cliffs and headlands, as we continued west on a good road past Luarca to Ribadeo, on the estuary of the Ria de Ribadeo, the border of Asturias and Spain's most north-westerly province of Galicia, tucked between the Atlantic and the Portuguese border. It was named (Gallaecia) by the Romans, but barely touched by the Moors. Again, Camping Ribadeo was closed, whatever our book said, and we drove on towards Foz, turning off near Reinante to a little resort where there was an excellent seafront car park. It was mid-afternoon and we had a walk along the beach and over the rocks, just a couple of men out fishing, the summer apartments all closed up, though the weather was better than many an August day in Blackpool!

Margaret used our surfeit of lemons and eggs (both very cheap here) to make some lemon curd and a lemon soufflé for supper.

114 miles. Free parking.

We continued westwards, through the next estuary port at Foz, around which the road was much worse for about 5 miles, narrow and badly surfaced, making us wonder whether to abandon the Atlantic coast and take an inland route direct to Santiago. But Spain's most northerly and north-westerly points beckoned and the road soon improved, through the next medieval port at Viveiro, then to Porto do Barqueiro, a small fishing village, where a side road led 5 miles to Bares (or Vares - V is pronounced B), Spain's northern extremity. We parked in the minute Porto de Bares and had lunch there, as the track to the headland was too narrow for Rosie. Nothing defeats cyclists, and we rode the last few miles to the cape, where there was an ecological wind-farm of a dozen modern mills and a lighthouse: Punta de la Estaca de Bares.

To the west lay Cabo Ortegal, pushing another finger into the ocean, obviously a near rival for 'furthest north'. A road signposted Semaforo lured us steeply up through the eucalyptus woods to an abandoned signal station and gun turret, with views all round. (Deforestation throughout Galicia is stripping the native fir trees and replanting with fast-growing eucalyptus. We've seen 2 signs of this - frequent logging trucks on the roads and graffiti declaring Eucalyptus No!) A short cut back to the port snaked down a gravelly 1-in-4, where Rosie waited with a pot of tea.

We noticed the change in style of the distinctive grain stores or horreos as we crossed Asturias and Galicia. In Asturias they were red-tiled square-based wooden structures, raised off the ground on pyramids of stone or concrete, often with a wooden verandah round. Some were old (perhaps 18thC) and dilapidated, some modern, some now only junk sheds but many still in use for drying and storing corn. Here at Porto de Bares were examples of the east Galician style, oblong, raised on a solid stone plinth at each end, with wooden slatted sides, granite ends, slate roofs and no verandah. Slate and granite, Celtic music, fishing villages with smugglers' coves, cider, even bagpipes - there are many similarities with the western Celtic extremities of France and the British Isles.

Invigorated by the steep ride and descent and views of the rugged coast, we returned to the main road and continued to the next wide estuary port, Ortigueira.

The shores were marshy, with no sandy beaches or seafront for parking, so we drove up the western edge of the estuary for 6 miles to Carino, a rough working harbour, and back. The next turning from the main road ran across to the resort of Cedeira and nearby Esteiro, which our Lonely Planet guide to Spain described as a pretty seaside town with good beaches for free camping, none of which were apparent, so back to the main road and on past Ferrol, Franco's native town. A naval base and shipyard since the 18thC, the shipyards and slums looked grim as we bypassed it. Just before crossing the bridge into Pontedeume, a more appealing medieval bastion, we saw a well-lit promenade with bus parking places among the trees, our base for another free night and a do-it-yourself McDonald's-type supper.

126 miles. Free parking.

About to cross the old bridge into Pontedeume, Barry noticed a motorway sign and we found a new autopista open, complete with new bridge and toll booths (about £3.50 in all). This joined the A9 for La Coruna or Santiago and beyond, the A6 for Lugo and Madrid, or our route, bypassing La Coruna for the A55 westwards to Carballo. A grey wet day, we were glad of good easy roads. There was even a service station shortly before the end, where we bought diesel, filled with water and made coffee. The C552 continued cross-country to our goal, the signposts at last indicating Fisterra, the village 2 miles before Cabo Finisterre (or Fisterral in Galician). About half-way after the end of the motorway, we stopped for lunch at Vimianzo, parking right by the little restored 15thC castle. Rain stopped as we ate, and we walked round the town before continuing though the castle was closed until 3 pm and a supermarket called 'Aldi' was anything but! The horreos were more substantial in this far corner of Galicia, all the sides made of thick granite blocks with small air gaps in the sides, and raised off the ground on about a dozen granite mushrooms. The slate roofs had a cross at one end, making them like tombs.

The road dropped to the coast at Corcubion, then wound round the headland to Fisterra, and out past the 12thC church of Santa Maria des Arias, once the westernmost shelter for Santiago-bound pilgrims from this end of the world. Luckily the road to the Cape was good enough for Rosie, with a car and bus park just before the lighthouse. Walking out to the point, plaques declared links with Argentina, to where many Galicians have emigrated. Here, at nearly its most westerly point, Spain meets the Atlantic, next stop the Americas, and the sunset was dramatic.

96 miles. Free parking.

After rain in the night a very different view, of mist and cloud. No other visitors up at the lighthouse this morning. We watched the sky gradually clear, read and wrote the diary. After lunch we freewheeled down to Spain's most westerly fishing village at Fisterra, calling at the Romanesque Santa Maria des Arias, beautifully simple and illuminated at night. Inside 2 black-clad women were dismantling the crib and tidying the flowers ready for the 1st after Epiphany. A statue group showed drowning shipwrecked men reaching out to the Virgin and Child, and a model fishing boat stood on an altar. The village was simple and functional, nothing touristy in the style of Land's End. Out at sea a storm was gathering, a rainbow brightened the black sky, and we quickly turned back up the hill. Before reaching Rosie in the car park we climbed a steep track leading to a telephone mast and the best viewpoint, reaching the top as the rain started to fall, but we were soon down again, home and dry. This stretch of the Atlantic seaboard is called the Costa da Morte (Death Coast) and a tall granite cross behind us was simply inscribed Cruz da Costa da Morte. Watching the rapid change in the weather, we understood why. We made supper, intending to spend a second night on the headland, but as darkness fell, regularly pierced by the beam of the lighthouse, the gale rocked our boat and the wind was tearing at the awning and TV aerial, though neither were out. We retreated, driving down to the shelter of the village, and parked on the main street, the side roads being too narrow. The television news showed snow-storms and traffic chaos in Burgos and other inland cities. We slept soundly!

3 miles. Free parking.

The storm which battered the Cape last night had passed and we followed the unspoilt coast southwards, with wonderful sunlit views across to Cabo Finisterre. These tiny villages reminded us how the Costas of southern Spain must have been until the 1960's, as described by Laurie Lee and Norman Lewis. We stopped in the village of Carnota, famous for its 18thC horreo, the longest in Spain at 34.5 m, standing in a watery meadow near the little church, where the noon bells were ringing. The whole area was dotted with horreos of all sizes, very picturesque.

Rounding another headland to Muros, we had lunch in a Mirador (scenic layby) with more views of this rugged coastline fretted by majestic estuaries. Then inland to the pilgrim city of Santiago (St James) de Compostela. The splendour and charm of its medieval heart and cathedral went unseen as we negotiated the busy ring roads in search of the campsite, but we finally laid our staff and cockles to rest on a quiet site, perfect except for the precarious angle of the hillside pitches. We chocked Rosie up on tiptoes and enjoyed the luxury of microwaves for a fast lasagne and the electric blanket for a warm bed - it was a clear frosty night.

89 miles. £10.93 inc elec.

A cold bright day, ideal for using the plentiful hot water. We cleaned ourselves and Rosie, inside and out, handed our dhobi over to the Señora, updated the diary, made a dozen mince pies and read about the 28 churches we should visit here - perhaps just the Cathedral!

The TV news is still showing scenes of ice, snow and traffic chaos in the interior. The new World Service morning serial is George Eliot's 'Silas Marner'.

Icy and frosty, a clear blue sky and no snow. We cycled downhill into the cobbled casco antiguo (old town centre), rich in medieval churches, monasteries and palaces, dominated by the Catedrale. It was begun in the 11thC, on the ruins of a 9thC basilica, above the 1st-7thC necropolis. From 12thC Romanesque to 17thC Baroque and 18thC Neoclassical, its facades and sculptures certainly impressed us - they must have overwhelmed true pilgrims who made the journey over the Pyrenees, along the Camino de Santiago routes carrying a staff and scallop shell (with which to drink from the streams). They were drawn to venerate St James (Sant Iago) the Apostle, whose remains are in a silver urn in the crypt.

According to legend, St James came to Spain to preach the Gospel but on returning to Palestine in 44AD was beheaded by Herod Agrippa. His followers brought the headless body back to Spain, landing at the Roman port of Padron, carried him a few miles inland and buried him under an inscribed altar in a forest. Christianity was still forbidden and the grave of St James was forgotten until 813AD, when a hermit saw a great light and heard heavenly music at the site. He fetched the Bishop and they found the Apostle's remains, identified by the inscription. Another version of this myth has the bishop following a guiding star to the place, hence 'Santiago de Compostela' (Campus Stella - Field of the Star). King Alfonso II at once proclaimed St James the Patron Saint of the kingdom and had the first shrine built. Another legend is of St James the Moor-slayer, who appeared as a knight on a white steed at the Battle of Clavijo, among others. The Christian war cry of the Reconquest was 'For St James and a united Spain'. From the 11-13thC, Santiago grew into the 3rd most important pilgrim centre in Christendom (after Rome and Jerusalem).

Since the 1980s tourism has revived interest in the pilgrimage and the city is one of 9 'Cultural Capitals of Europe' chosen for the year 2000. True pilgrims still come on foot or bicycle, with a letter from their Parish Priest, sleeping at the refuges along the route, collecting date stamps and a Compostela certificate on arrival.

We didn't think 3 miles and a healthy cynicism would qualify, but we did enter the cathedral with some awe - behind the massive doors it was light and airy, the high altar all adorned with ornate Baroque gold cherubs above the 13thC stone statue of St James which all pilgrims embrace. There were many side altars and rows of confessional boxes offering a whole range of languages for pilgrims (even Hungarian). The world's largest botafumeiro (incense burner), with a system of pulleys to propel it the length of the transept, is swung for Mass on special occasions, such as St James' Day, 25 July, when there are also fireworks and celebrations in the Praza do Obradoiro, the great square in front of the cathedral. 1999 is a Holy Year as 25 July falls on a Sunday.

We gave the Museum, Treasury and Crypt a miss (several floors of Roman Catholic memorabilia) and emerged in the Praza, past a lone busker playing his bagpipes.

The square is bordered by other majestic buildings in Galician granite, such as the Renaissance Hostal de los Reyes Catolicos, built by Ferdinand and Isabella for pilgrims and the poor or infirm and now a very exclusive hotel. Opposite the cathedral is an 18thC Archbishop's Palace which has since served as a prison and a home for choir boys, but is now the city council chamber.

After identifying these few monuments we were content to ramble round the old (and now pedestrianised) centre, past churches, museums, university buildings, along narrow lanes linking harmonious squares, religious bookshops and restaurants. We got a free guidebook from the Tourist Office and finally headed back to the campsite, calling at the modern shopping centre where we'd noticed a McDonald's for lunch before the last steep climb. Time to read the information and write this summary before tea, followed by an excellent video (the detectives Dalziel & Pascoe at their best).

Leaving the campsite, warmer and misty, Rosie wanted to go into Santiago to see the cathedral but Barry managed to back her out of the old town and steer her onto the ring road for the N550. This ran parallel with the motorway for 35 miles to Pontevedra and we chose to save the toll. It was certainly slower, but once clear of Santiago's urban sprawl there were farming villages and rustic scenes - you don't get brown spotted cows pulling carts of hay or firewood on the autopistas! Our route went through Padron, over the Rio Ulla, where St James' body was landed from Palestine nearly 2 millenia ago.

Pontevedra was a Roman town and important medieval port, declining from the 17thC as the estuary silted up, to be superseded by Vigo. We managed to park alongside the yacht marina, made lunch and walked round the Zona Monumental, its classic medieval centre. The Gothic Santa Maria church contained the most beautiful crib scene: not just a manger but fields with sheep and shepherds, a stream running through with fishermen and dhobi women, Roman guards at a fort on the hill, villagers at their crafts, all made from real sods of earth and grass, sand, pebbles and cork bark, with lifelike model figures. We preferred it to the many statues of Our Lady, draped in black velvet with pierced heart, or cradling Christ's crucified body. A faith obsessed with suffering.

We strolled round the narrow lanes converging on tiny squares, each marked by a cruceiro (the tall Galician granite cross with Christ on one side and a distraught Mary on the other); came across the market hall where the fish, meat and vegetable stalls were being cleared away; past the church and convent of San Francisco (founded by St Francis of Assisi, on his way to Santiago on pilgrimage); through gardens of palm trees and back to the Parking Turismos by the river.

We drove westwards for 15 miles, following the northern shore of the Rio de Pontevedra, through the resort of Sangenjo (or Sanxenxo in Galician) to a campsite tucked behind the Hotel Paxarinas, overlooking a sandy beach with a view across the water to the Isle of Ons. Man and dog appeared and assured us it was open (as our guidebook claimed) for only 2000 ptas - 'special price for my friends'. We settled right by the shore and watched 2 dozen black-suited surfers riding the waves until darkness fell at about 6.30.

62 miles. £8.70 inc elec.

Time to reply to some of our Christmas mail. Barry wrote to Mike Guggenheim (sending him a questionnaire to complete in the interest of educational research) and to Ken Norris. Meanwhile M worked on her own literary offering for the 'Which Motorcaravan' win a £30,000 Hi-Life Toyota Elddis motorhome competition - a 25 word poem which will only be revealed if it wins!

After lunch we cycled into the nearest village, Portonovo, and on to Sanxenxo, a slightly bigger fishing harbour-cum-summer-resort, but both post offices were closed in the afternoon. But we did find a Dia supermarket open with their own Digestive biscuits - both plain and chocolate coated - so life goes on!

We also wrote to mum and made up a package with the diary for November and December, notes on the Vodafone, plus the competition entry for her to send in.

A fine dry day for cycling. Into Portonovo to post yesterday's letters, then north to Dena, Vilalonga, up the side of the inlet to O Grove and across the bridge to the island of A Toxa (O and A being Galician for El and La). Once a forested beauty spot, the island had given way to upmarket hotels, casino, golf course, etc. We paused to look at a little church, its outer walls entirely covered in scallop shells, and a few local women sitting outside tried to sell us one of the sea-shell necklaces they were making.

Back on the mainland, O Grove was a more lively little town, its market in full swing. We got glasses of coffee and found a stall cooking churros to go with it (a cross between doughnuts and chocolate eclairs - delicious). Revived, we rode on round the harbour, past the off-shore mussel-farms and their packing plants, then west, climbing to a viewpoint high above San Vicente del Grove. Eventually we dropped down to San Vicente del Mar for another cup of coffee before the last few miles home into a gathering wind. Our longest ride for some time, but we soon recovered to cook fish and make lemon curd sponge and custard.

The forecast rain came with gale force winds, Barry went out at 3am to roll the awning in, and that was far enough! A busy day writing, reading, cleaning and cooking, which produced letters to Mick & Flo and Stan & Celia plus a large tureen of cream of carrot soup (now that all the English tins have gone). We treated ourselves to an episode of 'The Bill' in the evening.

Still stormy in the morning. Barry wrote to Jeff Mason and Barry Crawshaw. M made and microwaved a brown cheese-&-herb loaf and a pot of sweet & sour pork and wrote to Alan. After lunch the weather brightened and we walked round the 2 nearby beaches where the waves were smashing into spray on the rocks - no surfers out today!

With lots of handshaking, cheek kissing and promises to send our friends to stay at the Hotel Paxarina, we got back on the road, at least as far as Portonovo, where we parked alongside the Bomberos (fire engines) to post yesterday's letters, buy bread and make coffee. Then we drove to Pontevedra and joined the A9 southbound for a £3.20 toll. We stopped at the services overlooking the Vigo estuary for diesel and lunch, then crossed a long bridge, somehow missed a turning for Portugal (which was barely mentioned) and were dumped at the motorway's end in the thick of Vigo's chaotic traffic, right by a road accident. We decided not to stay, circled the city and eventually found the way out to the border, marked by the Rio Minho flowing between Tui in Spain and Valenca in Portugal. There was no sign of a frontier - Schengen at work!

Entering the ancient province of Minho, the extreme NW of Portugal, we followed the river estuary to the Atlantic, then turned south down the Costa Verde. The scenery resembled Galicia, with granite houses and grain stores or espigueiros. Like the familiar horreos they are made of tablets of upright stone with slits to let the wind through while keeping birds and large insects out. The stone mushroom supports raise them off the damp ground and keep rodents out, as they can't negotiate the smooth undersides. We've seen many stacked with maize cobs, though they look like tombs from a distance, with a cross on each gable roof. On road signs we saw the language had some similarity with Galician too (Igreja rather than Spanish Iglesia for church; Praia for beach; Praça for square - all using R in place of L - and o/os or a/as for the definite article). It's clearly a Romance language, easy to read from a knowledge of Latin/Spanish/French, but spoken Portuguese sounded more like an East European tongue when we sampled the local television later.

We bypassed Viana do Castelo, a fishing port at the mouth of the Lima, crossed the river and continued south on the brand new toll-free Autovia del Atlantico towards Porto, soon turning off to the little resort of Esponende on the Cavado estuary in search of a place for the night. Parking by the lighthouse, we brewed tea, found a helpful tourist office and walked round in search of a bank and a phonecard.

Then on to the campsite at F ao, a couple of miles south of Esponende across the river. Again we have it to ourselves, with minimal facilities, surrounded by static caravans, all empty in mid-January. The 4-amp supply won't take the microwave or kettle, but there's a handy tap and dump point.

The TV channels show English language films with subtitles, as in Greece, so we watched 'Flipper' in between trying to decipher the news and weather forecasts. We discovered that Portugal shares GMT with Britain, and put our clocks back an hour, gaining light in the morning and losing it in the evening.

Mum rang (the phone still takes us by surprise!) with news that (1) our packet, posted on Friday, arrived today; (2) we've made the front cover of January MMM, though Alan had to buy one as ours never arrived; (3) she'd been to the doctor with a leg infection and got antibiotics; (4) she'd been contacted by a Denise Brown/Wright about an FGS Reunion in July (?)

106 miles. £6.37 inc elec.

A showery morning. Margaret wrote to MMM about our subscription, sent Alan a card thanking him for getting January's issue, requested more info from Denise Wright and updated the diary. Barry wrote at length to Bill and Heather, and we made 6 lb of marmalade.

After lunch, cool and windy but dry, we took a look at the Atlantic and cycled back into Esposende to post the morning's mail.

The rain turned the campsite into a shallow pool and the 2 workers gave up their tree-pruning and tidying. We stayed indoors (yes, we have 3 doors!), read about Portugal (a 12 year old Rough Guide dating from our first visit, cycling in the Algarve, plus a new Baedeker) and typed more letters.

Barry wrote to 'Which Motorcaravan' magazine under a pseudonym (about the sychophantic nature of Peter Vaughan's test reports) and M wrote to Maria & Geoff, Pat Holroyd and Margaret Chapman. Pat's Christmas letter had seemed especially relevant and poignant - we had in common the visit to Ginchy on the Somme where her father was wounded in 1916, a recent visit to Bayonne and the Pays Basque, and memories of FGS through its reunions.

The rain had stopped and we drove to Barcelos, only 10 miles inland though it took us rather longer with an unplanned side trip north on the motorway. (Our Michelin map, dated 1997, is surprisingly out of date, and Portuguese signposting is poor - navigator's excuses!) Parking was difficult round Barcelos as Thursday is the great weekly market, which we'd come to see. We walked in and found the huge square of the Campo da Republica full of fruit and veg, live chickens, eggs, cheese, meat, fish and bread, some carved furniture and basketwork, and plenty of cheap clothing. Of course, there were rows of brightly painted pot cockerels, which have become the tourist symbol of Portugal. The story is that a pilgrim travelling to Santiago de Compostela was accused of robbery and condemned to death in Barcelos. He appealed to St James for help, and a roast cockerel on the dinner table of the judge (or hangman in some versions) crowed his innocence! The grateful pilgrim offered a pottery cockerel to St James in thanks! We didn't need one of these, but bought bread and vegetables, sold by village women bringing in their own produce.

Another 10 miles or so to the cathedral city of Braga, the religious capital of Portugal, which was very busy with nowhere to park, so we continued to the pilgrimage church of Bom Jesus 4 miles to the east. Approaching, we saw the huge ornamental stairway of granite and white plaster cut into the wooded hillside on the slope of Monte Espinho (564 m/1850 ft), built by Braga's Archbishop in the early 18thC. From the bottom you can take a funicular to the Baroque church standing at 401m/1316 ft; or walk up as a penitent pilgrim, pausing at each landing, where there are fountains and chapels with tableaux of the Life of Christ; or (as we did) you can drive up the twisting road and park near the hotel, ornamental gardens and grottos.

After a quick lunch we walked round to see the panorama of the city below and look in the church of Bom Jesus do Monte. A side altar with crucifixion scene had many notes of thanks from recent pilgrims, and another - the altar of reliquaries - had an assortment of hollow wax models of body parts or whole babies, left with a note of thanks or a prayer for a cure. (Reminiscent of the tin- plate tags of eyes, ears, legs, etc, in Greek Orthodox churches - certainly a legacy of pagan votive offerings.) The atmosphere was devout but light and welcoming, open and approachable, unlike the dark heavy Catholicism of many Spanish churches. It was open for daily use - a good place to retreat and meditate.

We continued on minor roads for another 10 miles through the Minho hill country, with its many small-holdings and vineyards. The vines are grown on tall trellises or even trained up trees, the original Roman way. Our next stop was the Celtic iron age hill settlement (or Citania) of Briteiros, dating from about 500 BC, among the hills of the Serra Falperra. The custodian gave us a leaflet with a good plan (in English, French and Portuguese - they don't like Germans or Spanish!) and we climbed up and round the excavated village. It had walls and ramparts, the stone foundations of about 150 round or rectangular dwellings and a larger meeting house, water conduits and paved streets, baths, traces of an extinct spring, wells, cisterns, a fountain, a court-house or jail, cremation site and enclosures for livestock. Two circular huts had been reconstructed, with thatched roof and stone bench round the inner wall, like the trulli houses of southern Italy or Sardinian nuraghi. It was discovered in 1874 by Martins Sarmento, an archaeologist from nearby Guimaraes, who spent his life excavating the many Celtic settlements in the Minho, both along the coast and in the hills, dating from the arrival of North European Celts from 600 BC onwards. Citania de Briteiros is the largest, and was probably their last stronghold against the Romans, who came around 20BC. It was occupied into the Christian era, about 300 AD, and showed little Roman influence. The finds are in Guimaraes museum, where we headed.

About 5 miles before Guimaraes the small spa town of Caldas das Taipas, with hot sulphur springs used by the Romans, had a quiet park on the banks of the Rio Ave. The campsite was closed, but we settled in a well-lit street by the park and watched the joggers as dusk fell.

79 miles. Free parking.

We walked into Taipas to post letters, then drove to Guimaraes, 'the cradle of the nation', where there was a free car park below the castle. A historic city with a picturesque medieval centre, a sign on the walls claims Aqui Nasceu Portugal (Portugal was born here). Alfonso Henriques, born 1110 in the castle built by his father Henry of Burgundy, became the first king of Portugal after the Battle of San Mamede in 1128, when he defeated his mother's troops. Guimaraes became his court, the stronghold from which the Reconquest (from the Arabs) started, and within a century the kingdom was established to its current borders.

We walked into the city centre to find the archaeological collection of the excavator of Citania de Briteiros, Martins Sarmento. It was hidden away inside a 14thC Dominican convent with the larger exhibits outside in the Gothic cloisters. We found the building, labelled as the library and Martins Sarmento Institute, from the town plan and were still unsure as we bought our tickets whether we were in the right place - the entrance hall and stairs were crowded with art students sketching, and the curator who ushered us along with a large bunch of keys only spoke Portuguese. But what a wonderful sight as he led us through the convent, which was being restored. Case after case of prehistoric to Roman finds from all the Celtic settlements in the region, especially Citania de Briteiros, all watched over by a bust of Martins himself, a Portuguese Arthur Evans. The curator, unused to foreign visitors, warmed to us when he saw our genuine interest and we showed him our tickets from yesterday's site.

At least we had Latin in common and managed some communication. The display had a wealth of stone, bronze and iron age tools, pottery, weapons and jewellery through to Roman glass, coins, lamps, Samian ware and even concrete paving slabs with cat and dog prints. Outside was an amazing collection of carved stones - funerary monuments and ornately patterned lintels and door jambs from the Celtic huts. He pointed out those of special interest to photograph: the huge Pedra Formosa (beautiful stone), a magnificently carved piece of granite which was part of the entrance to the baths (shown on the cover of the leaflet), and the Colossus of Pedralva, a more primitive granite figure with a bold face and prominent phallus, probably dating from pre-Celtic fertility cults of 1500-1000 BC. We emerged into the sunshine and wondered how many visitors (school parties, students and scholars apart) ever see the collection. (When we'd asked the Tourist Office for the museum we were directed to the Alberto Sampaio museum of religious art and sculpture in another Dominican convent!)

We walked into the heart of the old town - narrow streets with granite arches, medieval houses with flower-decked wrought iron balconies, enclosed squares, to the Largo da Oliveira. Here the (largely 16thC) church of N S da Oliveira (Our Lady of the Olive Tree) was founded by King Alfonso I in the 12thC on the site of an earlier convent. It was freely open, though it contained treasures like a Romanesque stone altar and Alfonso's baptismal font (brought from the castle). The cloisters of the museum of Alberto Sampaio adjoin it. The square and church are named after the legend of Wamba, the Visigoth, who was reluctant to become King. He stuck a dry olive twig in the sand and said he'd only accept if it grew - naturally, it sprouted at once! A modern olive tree marks the place, and there is also a crucifix under an elaborate canopy, erected after the 1340 victory of Portuguese and Spanish troops over the army of the Sultan of Morocco.

The Gothic arcaded town hall, 14-17thC, on the north side of the square still contains the town archives. Guimaraes was delightful, lively with students and a market to rival yesterday's in Barcelos. There were many more historic churches, chapels, convents and houses (though not a tourist in sight). 3 miles south of the town we could see the road twisting up to the Penha de Santa Catarina, a rocky pinnacle just over 2000 ft high with a pilgrimage church built in 1898, views across to the Atlantic and a campsite (closed in winter). Instead, we returned to Rosie for lunch.

Then onto the toll motorway, A7 and A3, towards Porto.

Fortunately we bypassed Portugal's 2nd city, crossing the famous Douro river to Vila Nova de Gaia on the south bank, home of the port wine lodges. Once the wine was carried down from the upper reaches of the Douro on the traditional shallow skiffs, barcos rabelos, now moored outside the port lodges for advertising. All the port producers offer tours and tastings, but Rosie doesn't drink and drive and wanted to get to the seaside, so we left the motorway at the next junction and drove towards Espinho on narrow, bumpy, congested roads (motorways are worth the toll in this country). Along the coast to the south 2 campsites were open and we tried the Club de Campismo do Porto at Praia de Esmoriz. It was mainly static caravans with a bumpy, boggy field for tourers and a single van taking the only suitable pitch. We brewed up and continued another couple of miles to Cortegaca, 7 miles south of Espinho, and its Club de Campismo e Caravanismo. It's excellent, a well kept and well guarded static caravan site by the beach, with a few level pitches for tourers, dump point, new hot showers and English-speaking receptionist, and all for under £4 (50% winter discount). We settled in gratefully.

64 miles. £3.57 inc elec.

A fine day, cycling without gloves and coats (shorts can't be far off!), we rode south through the pine and eucalyptus woods which back the Atlantic dunes to the little resort of Fouradouro. Then the road ran along a spit of land between the sea, beyond the trees to our right, and the Ovar Canal/Ria de Aveiro whose bank we followed. The sun shone on the water, fishermen were out in long flat lagoon boats, and we stopped to photograph some moored among the reeds, with religious scenes painted on prow and stern. A busy canal-side cafe provided coffee and cheese rolls. At the end of the peninsula lay S ao Jacinto, a little fishing port opposite a lighthouse at the mouth of the Vouga river, entrance to a system of waterways and canals which lead inland to Aveiro (a thriving port until the estuary silted up in the 16thC and reopened when the canal was cut in the early 19thC). Barry had another rear puncture to mend before returning the way we came (the only alternative being further, across a new bridge inland to Murtosa).

A fine day for cleaning Rosie inside and out, washing the sand off the bicycles, replacing Barry's rear tyre and mudguard, baking and reading. A few people came for the day or the weekend to their caravans, the cafe opened, cleaners and gardeners were at large, but we were left in peace with just one Portuguese Hymer for company.

Stan and Celia rang and left us a message, from a campsite at Los Lobos, 20 km north of Mohacar on the Costa Blanca.

Barry found that the poor non-toll roads were taking their own toll under our bonnet. He had to pop-rivet the oil filler pipe bracket which had broken and glue the alarm box which had cracked. The roads are often cobbled or skimmed in asphalt which is patched and pot-holed and the drivers are notoriously erratic.

M worked on the diary and some indoor mending (curtains, trousers, etc).

After lunch a short ride over the railway crossing into Cortegaca village, to see the church, its exterior entirely clad in blue & white azulejos (glazed ornamental tiles). In the early 16thC they were imported from Spain, made by Moorish craftsmen with geometric patterns in relief, until the Moors were expelled at the end of that century. Factories were then established in Portugal, producing flat tiles with new motifs, and by 17thC 'tile tapestries' with pictures in blue, white and yellow were decorating churches, palaces, staircases and fountains. In 1767 the King founded a Royal Factory in Lisbon (where there are still 3 tile factories) and by the 19thC mass-produced tiles covered ordinary middle-class houses and public buildings, inside and out. Cortegaca church (1910) had patterned azulejos on all sides, right to the top of the twin spires, with tile pictures of St Peter and St Paul on its front face. It looked most impressive from a distance, framed by a pair of giant palm trees, and dwarfing the tiny village.

We rode on along the main road towards Ovar, turning off for the coast and Furadouro and returning through the woods, where a NATO air base was hidden among the forest and dunes. Ovar is the centre of a semi-industrial area (we passed a Toyota car factory and saw-mills) with the Lisbon-Porto railway and motorway running through it, but relieved by the coast and lagoon to the south.

Onto the N109 south, stopping before Ovar at a Lidl store with a big empty car park. (The German store, seen in France, Spain and Portugal.) We found all we need (plus a bargain bottle of Port we don't), made coffee and continued to the A1 motorway link at Estarreja. Then 50 miles of smooth driving, pausing at a service station for diesel, LPG and lunch. Exiting at Coimbra (pronounced Quimbra) we found the municipal camping behind the football stadium and settled in, hoping there wasn't a match tonight. The only hitch today is that Barry's new organiser has got the lurgi he eventually lost all the stored data.

64 miles. £3.42 inc elec.

A short ride into the historic university city set on a hill above the Rio Mondego. It was Portugal's capital for over 200 years (until 1385) with 2 cathedrals and dozens of other churches and monuments. The university, founded in Lisbon in 1290 and established here in the royal palace in 1537, was the only one in the country until 1911 and is still the most prestigious with about 13,000 students.

The main shopping street had some academic bookshops and we finally found a good map of Portugal (based on a 1:300,000 survey by Geodata of Stuttgart, the same stable as our well-used map of the Peloponnese) and a Spanish campsite guidebook for Spain and Portugal, both of which should make life easier! Uselessly, the campsite guide came with a free CD ROM which we presented to the guy in our campsite reception. We also got a birthday card for Jim and 3 CR 2025 batteries for Margaret's organiser, which we will need when Barry's crashes again.

Entering the old city by the Arco de Almedina (a relic of the Moorish town walls), we looked into the church of Santa Cruz, through the grand entrance with 16thC sculpted facade, but the faithful were gathered for 11 o'clock mass so we didn't see the tombs of Portugal's first 2 kings, or the cloisters of the former Augustinian monastery, whose north wing is now the town hall. We walked the bikes up 360 ft along the steep maze of cobbled streets and steps to the university, one of the oldest in Europe, whose buildings crown the hill. There were crowds of young students emerging from the various faculties for lunch, though not a bicycle (or gown) to be seen. Cars and trolley buses filled the main courtyard, circling the statue of 16thC King John III, and we didn't queue to view the Baroque chapel, King John V Library or Graduation Hall in the former throne room.

Descending, we did visit the Romanesque Se Velha (Old Cathedral, begun in 1162) half way down the hill, plain and solid except for the beautifully decorated entrance door outside and the flamboyant 16thC Flemish Gothic high altar within. The nearby Bishop's palace, built on the foundations of a Roman granary, is now a museum of sculpture, but we left this and the New Cathedral (17thC Jesuit) unvisited and headed across town, through the market hall, to the Praça de Republica, a square bordered by a park, bars, cafes and a crowded McDonalds. Luckily it was warm enough to sit at the pavement tables while enjoying a McSnack.

An interesting route home, under the 16thC aqueduct and through the 18thC Botanical Gardens, terraced on the slopes of the Mondego. The formal beds of plants were a bit overgrown but the subtropical trees were splendid. Back at the Campismo we had time to update the diary (needing to split January into 3 parts rather than 2 - we must be doing too much!)

In the evening we heard the car horns blaring in a large demonstration, shown on the local TV news - a protest against plans for a toxic factory, though the details escaped us.

Beautiful weather, time to put away our winter Sidi shoes and Goretex coats and take bottles of squash and sandwiches when cycling. We rode out to see Portugal's largest uncovered Roman site of Conimbriga, near Condeixa about 12 miles SW of Coimbra as the crow flies. But we're not crows and we took a longer but quieter route through the villages of Ceira, Castelo Viegas and Assafarge until there was no alternative to the busy N1 for the last few miles. We're far enough south now to see olive groves, trucks loaded with stripped cork bark, and violets and daffodils out in the sunshine.

The Roman city, founded in 2ndC BC on the site of an earlier Celtic settlement, is still being excavated - a lot has been discovered in the 10 years since our 'Rough Guide' was written, and an excellent little museum and restaurant built. The women in the ticket office were happy to guard our bicycles, a school party had just finished its tour and were playing on the picnic area and we had the place to ourselves. There were houses with beautiful mosaic floors (especially a hunting scene; dolphins; Perseus with Medusa's head), a villa dated to the 3rdC AD with a garden of pools and fountains above a system of cellars, baths with underfloor heating, a huge forum, a section of the Roman road from Lisbon to Braga running through and stretches of the city walls. But the unique feature is the high wall across the town, cutting it in half. The use of housing bricks, fragments of pillars and inscribed tablets in the rough stonework show that the wall was erected in a hurry and the city seems to have come to a violent end, being abandoned for Coimbra in the 4thC AD and finally destroyed by the Suevi in 468 AD.

Both 'ruins' and museum closed for lunch from 1-2 pm, an hour spent eating our sandwiches followed by coffee and buns in the cafe. The museum had a good display of finds from the site, with Roman coins, inscribed tombstones ('may the earth rest light upon him'), mosaics, a sculpted head of Augustus, the usual pots and implements, a few pre-Roman artifacts, etc. The extensive site wasn't over-built after the Romans left, though we saw a medieval millstone quarry nearby.

We cycled straight back on the N1 (main Lisbon road alongside the motorway), busy with cars and lorries avoiding the tolls, and were pleased to cross the Mondego river on the Santa Clara bridge and return to the Campismo.

A fine morning's drive down the A1 motorway, calling at the services to make coffe, and so to Fatima, the Lourdes of Portugal, just off junction 8. There were acres of empty free car parks within sight of the Sanctuary (the pilgrim season hasn't started) with picnic tables under the trees and good toilets with foot-baths. After lunch we walked across to see what had been built on the site of a series of 6 apparitions of Our Lady to 3 peasant children, aged 7, 9 and 10. Lucia de Jesus and her cousins, Jacinta and Francisco Marto, were minding some sheep when the BVM appeared in the branches of a holm-oak on 13 May 1917, asking them to return at the same time each month until October, by which time 70,000 people converged and saw the 'Miracle of the Sun' (it swirled and shot multi-coloured beams to earth, and a spring flowed from the ground) though only the children saw the Virgin and only Lucia could speak with her and heard the Secrets of Fatima. (A message of peace - in the middle of WWI - and a prophesy of a worse war to come if the world turned away from God.

The 3rd Secret she divulged only in writing to the Vatican in 1941 where it is guarded, read by each successive Pope and considered too dreadful to reveal!) The cousins died in the great flu epidemic of 1919-20 but Lucia survives as an aged Carmelite nun in a convent near Coimbra, no doubt due for beatification. (St Bernadette did the same for Lourdes 60 years earlier.)

The children had also claimed 3 visits from an angel the previous year. Whatever the truth (soon after the exile of the last king and the dissolution of the monasteries, with an anti-clerical government and the church needing a miracle to revive its influence), there is an atmosphere of sanctity created by the vast scale of the whole thing and the obvious belief and devotion of the few faithful out today. To witness one of the great Annual Pilgrimages on 12/13 May and October, when hundreds of thousands arrive for an all-night vigil and 5 am Mass with priests moving among them hearing confessions and a statue of the Virgin is paraded by candle-light, would impress the most disbelieving.

We looked first in the huge white neo-baroque Basilica (built 1928-53) where a small army of women were polishing the wooden parquet floor and the scent of wax polish and incense was quite overpowering. To either side of the altar are the tombs of Jacinta and Francisco, with an empty tomb next to Jacinta, presumably for Lucia. With a high central tower topped by a crown and a cross, bells chiming the half-hours, the stone glowing pink as the sun set (changing colour like the Taj Mahal), it did have a kind of beauty.

Long curved neo-classical colonnades flank the basilica, facing an immense assembly area like an airport runway, holding up to a million people. There are several modern side chapels and the Chapel of the Apparitions stands on the site of the original holm-oak (demolished by souvenir-hunters), with a newer tree nearby. The whole area is surrounded by woods and seats, hospices and convents, and is pleasantly quiet and uncommercialised, set apart from the town, which is of course full of religious souvenir shops, restaurants and hotels. The only thing on sale near the information office is candles, in a range of sizes up to jumbo, with a special iron griddle on which to leave them, with hundreds burning and melting into fantastic shapes. Nearby were the boxes for wax effigies (babies, a foot, a head, a hand - what do they do with them?) The office had photographs of Lucia, meeting the Pope at the 50th anniversary pilgrimage with 1½ million worshippers, and later with the current Pope. A few visitors were lighting candles, half a dozen at a time, and sitting in quiet devotion in the Chapel of Apparitions. A long marble path ran the length of the gigantic arena leading to this Chapel, and a handful of penitents came painfully slowly along it on their knees, or just circled the Chapel kneeling.

We walked on, round the town, to buy postcards for those we know of the Catholic faith (Jeff Mason and family; Celia and Stan). We passed by the Museum of Wax (the story of the miracle in waxworks) and the Fatima Multi-media Experience, and returned to Rosie for a peaceful evening.

60 miles. Free parking.

Across to the Basilica early to light a candle for Jeff Mason (a genuine Orthodox candle, from the one-eyed monk at Meteora). The whole trough of candles and wax was ablaze, being raked out from behind, as weekend visitors arrived with armfuls of fresh candles - perhaps bringing them on behalf of neighbours and family - and the first black granny shuffled down the penitents' path on her knees.

We left to visit some of the many stalactitic caverns which are the natural miracle of the region. First to the Grutas de Mira de Aire about 10 miles from Fatima, famed as the largest caves in Portugal and only open since 1974. We had a personal guided tour in French and were astonished by the cave formations and underground river, and even more so by the lighting, music, staircases and multi-coloured fountain display in the lake at the bottom, 110 m below ground. There was even a lift to take us back to the surface. Brian James should see them!

After making coffee we drove another 5 miles of rough country roads up to the Grutas de Alvados, for another private tour with a French-speaking guide through a succession of caverns closer to the surface, again ending in a well lit fountain display across the subterranean stream.

The ticket included the Grutas de Santo Antonio, a mile away up an even steeper track past a marble quarry, so we gave Rosie a rest and cycled to them after lunch. Here we had to wait for the next group tour, in Portuguese. We missed the guide's amusing names for the various configurations of stalactite-mites, but the beauty of the main cavern needed no interpretation. Smaller than the other complexes, there was one astonishing vast hall of the most elaborate formations, and we even spotted a couple of hibernating bats. Again they were well lit, with background music, naturally ventilated, and at a constant temperature of about 60ºF. Freewheeling back to Rosie we had an excellent view over the rolling limestone hill country, amazed at what we'd seen lying just below the surface.

We then drove to the coast, via Porto de Mos with the green turrets of its restored 13thC Knights Templar castle standing high above the village, and Alcobaça, famous for its huge 12thC Abbey, home of the Cistercian Order.

At Nazaré, a little fishing village and beach resort, our new campsite guide promised a good campismo open all year, and it is. Set in pine forest a couple of miles north, separated from the sea by cliffs, it's a big commercial site with good facilities, almost empty now. It's got the most complicated pricing system ever, with 3 different pitch areas and prices, choice of 4, 6 or 10 amp hook-up at different costs and 3 price bands for motorhomes depending on length! Oh, and the 5th night is free if you stay that long, and the prices go up on 1st Feb!

45 miles. £6.82 inc elec (6 amp); £7.23 from 1.2.99

Warm, dry, sunny - a day to take full advantage of the washing machines and hot showers. We also cleaned the awning, which came up like new (as it should), and wrote the diary up to date. Barry's odd jobs included the long-planned linking of the 2 internal short-wave aerials through the wardrobe, shower, kitchen unit and dinnette. In the evening mum rang to let us know that the February MMM had arrived (though still no January) and we are again featured on the cover!