Eight Legs in Llafranc, Catalunya, Spain

Zagan the motorhome is alone, feeling free and privileged in an empty, sand-gravel car park a few minutes from the resort of Llafranc, Costa Brava, Catalunya, Spain (N41.89340 E3.18684). We’re free-bagging it as this isn’t officially an aire, also known as boondocking, free camping, wild camping and winging it. That said, we met Rob and Emma (the couple whose names we didn’t get in Sant Feliu de Guixols) on the way in here and they stayed in the same spot last night, imparting the good news the local guardia passed ’em a couple of times without calling in the armed forces, sweet.

Not all car parks are in equal in the wonderful, fairy-filled land of motorhoming. There isn’t, but probably should be, an entire lexicon devoted to them. Last night’s might have been called a ‘longstaydomervillage’ and tonight’s a ‘cheekynochanceinseasoner’. A Team Zagan discussion on whether to stay an extra night at Platja d’Aro was quickly decided: nah. Officially you’re allowed to stay 48 hours. Folks had buckets under their grey water tanks though, and since these tanks easily hold two day’s water, they were clearly staying for a while. I get this: our style of travel is to keep moving most of the time, but not everyone wants that. Fair enough, but there were maybe 60 or more motorhomes there (you wouldn’t believe how many of us fridge-freezers there are wandering the continent) – and sooner or later the local authorities will lose patience and close the place to everyone.

Motorhomes, wohnmobiles and autocaravans everywhere!

Anyway, back to it! Last night’s tea was lush. And impossible to recreate. A risotto knocked up from half a Lidl mushroom and truffle mix, morcilla asturiana (black cured sausage) , butter-fried onions and garlic in a pollo caldo (stock) with a wee (massive) splash of Lidl 59c a litre vino blanco. After a pooch walk wander this morning we packed up Zagan and drove the 500m to Lidl, buying every single last bottle and box of wine they had, for a grand total of £60. There’s enough wine in here to keep a Roman army marching for a month.

Where next? To be honest, sat in Sant Feliu de Guixols I was getting a tiny bit jaded. Spain’s turned out to be as easy as France to motorhome through, which yes, is a good thing. And no, it’s not. A challenge, I need a bit of a challenge. The roads we sought out in and around the Anso Valley were that: not easy and required us to lean forwards and face down some fear, with the associated feeling of success afterwards. But what next?

Looking at the map we were struggling a bit to see where we could head to, not helped by the fact we seem to have already visited the entirety of France. A chance conversation with Rob and Emma threw us a bone. They’d free-camped/boondocked etc their way up the southern coast of Spain, which by various accounts is supposed to be impossible without the Spanish equivalent of the SAS dropping in on ropes, blowing your habitation door off and dragging you away to a covert interrogation facility on the Ivory Coast. Good for them, without knowing it they inspired us to pull our finger out and head here, where there was no guarantee of finding a place to stay. But what a place.

I’m buzzing a wee bit, which might come across as my trademark gush, as I’ve seen an octopus. I’m jumping the gun though, back a bit. We cruised up here to spot Rob and Emma heading into a petrol station pumping out the gazole for less than €1 a litre. Diesel-deflation, what a beautiful thing. Fearful of coming across as stalkers, but so much wanting the cheap go-go juice, we pulled in alongside. They shared the good news about this parking spot, had a quick look at Zagan’s drop-down bed, and nipped off in the opposite direction, heading for a volcanic park (guess where we’re going next?). We drove into the resort, weirdly the last km or so is down a dual carriageway since the place at the end is rather small (intimate), and discovered the co-ordinates we had for parking was someone’s driveway (or might as well have been – we weren’t fitting), so we came back this car park Rob had told us about ‘near the dive place’.

Geared up, we headed off into the town and up the coastal path to the north. I immediately loved the resort. It’s certainly developed, but as though I’d made all the suggestions on how to commercialise it. Low-rise everywhere, with people’s front doors opening onto the promenade alongside the small sandy bay. The restaurants which are open lack tack. The Med is perfect. The sun shines on the whole place like it’s giving out it’s blessing.

Llafranc

Up the path, up up, up to the lighthouse, a mirador hands out a perfect view of the world: rugged coast and coves to the south, Alps-rivalling sierra of the snow-dipped Pyrenees to the north. I’ve often tried to work out my perfect place, geographically speaking, and this might well be it: incredible ocean within a scooter’s scream of a mountain pass. Wonderful. Before Christ folks lived up on the peak where the lighthouse now sits, good for them.

Pyrenees to the north of Llafranc

On the way back across the bay Charlie’s foot started to drip blood. Gulp. He’d not let out a yelp, so we picked up the wee fella and washed his paw under a tap. His habit of dragging his claws had worn through one of them. I used to be told off for scuffing my shoes as a nipper: such a telling off for our pooch would result in a yearning stare from his black pool eyes, so we just carried him the rest of the way home.

With the blood stemmed, Charlie got to kip in Zagan while we headed back to the bay. In the sun I dragged on my 5mm wettie, the gloves master spear-fisher Paul gave me 2 years back, and flopped of into the sea. End of November? Is this wise? Yeah man. The suit was perfect. Either I’ve gone harder than Andy McNab or the water’s not that cold. I floated about the ocean with the familiar sensation of flying over a parallel universe. A teeny bit of adrenaline from spotting small, potentially stingy little pink jellyfish propelled me beachwards, right over an octopus doing a very passable impression of a rock, the sight of which made my day.

Right, enough! It’s 6:14pm, the sun’s gone the same way as all of the tourists here (elswehere). My feet are getting chilly and I’ve an array of flavours of Lidl Argus beer to try. It’s a hard life folks.

Cheers, Jay

Bonus piccy: 3D sign of falling rocks. Is it just me, or does this look a bit like the outline of the UK, with Scotland honking down massive rocks on a small 4×4 Fiat Panda driving across Devon?