One Day Jour, Another Día, Into Spain at Cantallops

Zagan the motorhome’s in Catalonia, with his back to the low hills of the Pyrenees and his sides flanked with cork oak and, erm, some other bare and unidentified trees, figs maybe? We’re in a rather lovely spot, an aire perched above the road opposite the Can Pau
resturant, who provide motorhome, sorry, autocaravana, parking and services for free (N42.41842, E2.91407). The small road continues past us a km or two up to the village of Cantallops, where it reverts back into dirt road and winds its way off up hill, into the oak forests towards France. Out ahead of us lies Salvador Dalí country. His coastal home at Portlligat’s off out of sight, in the distance to the left (Ju’s previously enjoyed a tour around it) while the lights of Figueres flicker at night ahead across the green plain (the both of us enjoyed the whacky
Dalí museum there, although a previous version of me would have spent the entrance fee on wheat beer!).

Driving over most international borders in Europe these days is an odd affair, compared with the past. They’re both an event, and a total non-event at the same time. The journey out of France had taken us along the smaller non-toll roads past Narbonne (which will remain ever famous for us after our clutch replacement fun back in 2012) and around Perpignan. The landscape grew more interesting, more Mediterranean-looking, the further we drove, with white boxy prefab retail units falling away to be replaced with olive groves and terracotta tiled villas. The Spanish border, in among the low hills of the Mont Albères, came at us quickly with all the booths of officialdom still standing, faded but still retaining the power to instill fear. No need to worry, the severe-looking passport men of old, the searchers for a hidden bottle of whisky or two, are all off doing something more useful these days, and we drove across the border unhindered.

And just like that jour flipped to día, the D900 became the NII, the price of diesel dropped by 20c a litre, and the speed cameras sprang back to life, their cousins across the border having been universally mullered by the yellow vests. I am, typically, unprepared at this point. My smattering of French retains some use for a while as languages tend to merge in border areas, but I’m embarrassed to use it. My Spanish is nigh-on useless. My Catalan is utterly non-existent. I’m not even sure what time it is, or what the speed limit is.

We rolled along wondering what had happened to the high snow-capped peaks we’d expected to see, replaced as they were with flowing green hills. The warm pain in my shoulder was kept under control by the complete lack of twists and turns, and onwards we rolled into España. This is Catalan country, up to the top-right of Spain. You might recall it from the news when this area of Spain brought down the wrath of Madrid by holding an independence vote, and attempting to cede from the rest of the country. Nothing’s come of that, as far as I can tell, but it’s clear Catalonia has a strong sense of who it is, evidenced by all the flags being Catalan ones, not a Spanish national flag in sight.

The border towns we drove through were loaded with parked cars and lined with shops, a practical affair I guess, making good use of taxation differences between national governments. We saw a few motorhomes parked up, but we’d already this place loaded into the sat nav, and after a wee while turned left at a roundabout off the NII and up the smaller but nicely passable road towards the restaurant. Along the way I’d made the assumption we were driving through endless olive trees, bent Yoda-like in age. Nope. Once we’d found the parking area we realised the top level away from the road was meant for us, and requested Zagan haul himself up the steep hill (I’m always amazed how this thing pulls 3500Kg so easily up inclines like that) and position himself among the fallen olives. Ah, what? These look like acorns? Yep, I just mistook about 100,000 cork oaks for olives. Muppet.

Once we’d done gawping at the views, we poddled across the road and into the restaurant. Five minutes later we poddled back out again. The place was opulent, and huge! All 300-odd seats were either occupied or reserved. Sunday lunchtime, it seems, is the wrong time to arrive! In a way I was relieved, as I felt both hugely under-dressed and under-walleted – the food looked Michelin-starred stuff to me. The lady at a table close to the entrance where we queued wasted no time staring me up and down, squinting at my well-worn jeans, dusty boots and fisherman’s jumper. The waiter, rushed as he was, turned out to be a friendly chap, switching to English at our garbled Spanish, explaining the place was packed today and closed on Mondays. We later read on Trip Advisor that daytime menus are about €25 (not including drinks), so it wasn’t that expensive after all. That was yesterday. Since then we’ve enjoyed the views and growing sunshine, joined by five other motorhomes overnight, and today I’ve run 14 miles up to the dolmens and a huge castle in the hills.

We’ve also made a more ourtour-like foray into the local eaterie in the village, a sparser but far more interesting place (and unnerving, perhaps the two go hand in hand). With a huge TV spouting off to one side, universally ignored, the tables were already laid out with salads and un-labelled red wine when we arrived. The kindly old lady who took our order managed to get across the fact the two menus advertised outside (for €16 or €20) weren’t available. It was menu del dia, with no written menu, and which meant trying to work out just what was on offer. Thankfully some of it was fairly obvious – pollo (chicken), canelloni (same as back home), macaroni (again what you’d expect) and dorado (fish, complete with head, which Ju managed to quickly chop off and pop on a side plate provided). With bread and puddings, plus coffee, we’d no idea what the bill would be. €10 each, plus €1.20 added for reasons unknown and uncared for. Incredible value.

Ju’s still not in fighting form, so has spent the days mostly in Zagan (including writing about last year’s family finances) while I’ve been out and about in the village and hills. I really like places like this. They feel real. Surely there are tourists passing through, and we’re made to feel very welcome, but we’re unusual enough to be stared at, which in a way I like. The rural nature of the place appeals to me too, the vineyards and tractors, as does the view down over the Bay of Roses (we can see the astonishing custom-built marina-town of Empuriabrava from here). Time to move on tomorrow though, and Girona’s the likely target.

For now the darkness has fallen, and a dog’s endlessly barking out there somewhere, the poor thing. Blasts from a strong wind have died off a little. They earlier threatened to shred the bike cover, and seem to have driven off a beautiful Concorde motorhome from their place up here alongside us. Odd noises may well emerge. Groups of gunshots rang out yesterday (albeit in the light, thankfully!) followed around midnight by a series of curious blasts from a distant car horn. The heating’s on, as it’s down to 5°C out there, and we’ve an eye on our batteries, which seem to be holding up nicely now they’ve been fully recharged and we’ve sunlight again.

Right, that’s me done. Take it easy folks, cheers, Jay