We’re here: N37.10905 W1.84495. It’s a small patch of waste land next to the Captain’s Tapas bar, run by a friend of my brother in law named Jon. Our lack of planning means he’s busy working (the bar is closed for another month, he’s doing construction work). There’s also a sort of gone-to-seed Jean Claude Van-Damme fella parked up, strutting about half naked and ignoring any attempt to communicate. We think he may be offended by my Uke playing.
The weather is: roasting. And it’s only March. I’ve had to remove my ski socks.
As we departed last night’s kipping spot, Ju let on we were about to oil up our leaf springs again to the fellow Brit vanners surrounding us. A minute later we have Mike the mechanics number on a scrap of paper. Ju calls him and he can look at Dave on Saturday. Great news. That clonk’s gotta go.
We head up the coast, with the road twisting back and forth up through the hills alongside the sea. It’s frankly stunning how people have had the courage to build these roads. We’ve seen some incredible legacies of past people’s efforts on our travels. It is humbling.
As the hills retreat a little inland, the road takes advantage and drops down alongside the sea. Before long we’re in Mojacar. Playground of the rich and famous, also know as Adele and Murray, my sister and brother in law. Like Jon, they’re busy working too so we’re here alone.
A little stuck for something to do we drop off two huge bags of laundry and head for the best food deal we can find. Despite it being well out of season, lots of food joints are open to serve the local population of, well, crusties :-). Ju and I are probably 20 years below the average age of the mixed Spanish and British population here.
Having said that, the locals generally appear to have far more discipline than me as I order the special. Two chicken and chips and a bottle of vino for €15. At about midday, winner! The waiter even bought Charlie water; much appreciated by us and our rapidly panting mutt.
Back in the van, our neighbour’s ignored our waves and is hiding in his little caravan thing. It has a pop up top, which Ju thinks he may have had to have fitted after standing up and putting his head through the roof. He’s a BIG fella.
We have a couple of days here. It’s a pleasant rambling place, running for miles along the beach, but all low rise white washed affairs, and only a block or two away from the sea, bring held in check by the nearby hills.
For those of you at work tomorrow, it’s nearly the weekend guys, hang on in there.