Our ferry home was at 14:00 on Sunday 12th September from Santander. Latest check-in is 45 minutes earlier but Mr. Cautious always likes to be two hours early, which gets us to 12:00. Santander is about a 2-hr drive from Haro but again, Mr. Cautious wants to allow an hour more for contingency. So, we departed Haro at 09:00.

We suffered no glitches on our journey, other than Sally Satnav being unfamiliar with some of the roads around Bilbao which we had to pass on the way. I loath driving around Bilbao. We were checking in at Santander shortly after 11:00.

Eventually, boarding went smoothly. We found our cabin and then went to find the C-Club Lounge (Commodore Lounge) which we had splashed out on for the first time. Being one of the earlier vehicles to embark, once admitted we had a great choice of seats.

The day was sunny and very calm; the Bay of Biscay was about as close to a millpond as you can get. Brilliant. It meant we could enjoy the hospitality of the C-Club Lounge without worry. During lunch, which is a buffet featuring both cold and hot food, wine of all three colours is free on tap. Tea and coffee are permanently available throughout. Sweet treats like macaroons are provided in the afternoon before a dinner service, which is once again a mixture of hot and cold accompanied by the good ol’ on-tap wine.

Now, the à la carte restaurant undoubtedly provides higher quality food but at a price (you would, of course, buy a bottle of vino to wash it down). We felt that the C-Club Lounge easily paid for itself and it does isolate you from unwanted entertainers in the bar and regular lounge areas.

After a decent night’s sleep we awoke in the English Channel which was ever so slightly choppier than Biscay but nothing this poor sailor found uncomfortable. Once again we passed our time comfortably in the C-Club Lounge. It’s something we’d definitely invest in again.

Docking in Portsmouth at 17:30 on Monday 13th after 28 hours-ish on board, we lucked out and were amongst the earliest of vehicles to disembark being fourth or fifth in line for one of the immigration gates. Modern formalities are such that checking each motorhome and caravan for stowaways takes 4 or 5 minutes. Even as fourth or fifth in line we took 20 minutes to clear. You really don’t want to be at the back of the lines but eventually it’ll happen.

I made some comment about it being a shame they weren’t this fastidious at Dover but the border force agent didn’t get it. “We do this everywhere”, she said. I was referring to the blasted rubber boats rather than the port.

The road journey home from Portsmouth was about as good as a dreadfully constructed southern section of the M25 would allow. We parked Frodo at home at around 20:00.

Now to plan the next bit of fun.

We ended our 2024 Spanish trip at Haro. It has a bona fide campsite that was recommended to us by a friend. The campsite is within easy walking distance of the small town where there is also a Mercadona supermarket, so everything needed is a short walk away. Additionally, it’s about 1½ hours drive to the Bilbao ferry terminal or 2½ hours to the Santander terminal. Our ferry home is at 14:00 on Sunday from Santander so we thought this would make an excellent last stop for us on this trip, too. Unlike the Burgos campsite, Francine managed to make a reservation for Haro just in case.

Haro is the capital of the Rioja wine region. Close to the campsite there are numerous bodegas where, with little effort, you can spend an awful lot of money on tasting good red Rioja wines. We spent €16 a glass on one particularly fine example on our previous visit. [Will we repeat the experience?]

We were already familiar with some of the eateries in Haro. On our last visit we ate at one restaurant/tapas bar called Chamonix and at a larger establishment called Beethoven I (there is also a more formal dining experience to be had at Beethoven II). Last year we ate in the more restaurant part of Chamonix. This time we popped into the tapas bar And had what has become our standard seafood lunch of navajas [razor shells] and zambouriñas [scallops]. we supplemented these with some pulpo brochetas [octopus skewers] and banderillas [peppers and olive skewers]. All were excellent, as were the two glasses of the Muga white wine that washed it down.

You could have a very decent bar crawl in Haro, popping into various establishments for another glass of Rioja. After eating, we left the Chamonix bar and went into Beethoven I for a glass of red Rioja crianza, also Muga.

On our second day in Haro we repeated our lunch at the Chamonix tapas bar; a seafood lover really can’t beat the zamborinas  [scallops] and navajas [razor clams], and this would be our last chance to indulge before returning home. Our revered leader from the escorted tour of three weeks referred to them as “sea monsters” but we love ‘em and can’t get enough.

Our plan had been to return to one of the bodegas for an unreasonably expensive glass of top drawer Rioja. However, having spent a post-lunch hour in Haro square on a glass or two of wine, wandered down to the bodegas only to find that they closed at 15:00. “Bother”, said Pooh, crossly. We retired to Frodo where we had more luck, though his wine was nothing like as expensive.

We stayed at the campsite in Burgos at the beginning of our 2024 trip to Spain, which was our first attempt at camping in Spain. Being newbies and with stories of campsites getting rammed over winter, we booked our stay well ahead of time. When we tried to book a return visit this time, just a few days ahead, we hit a brick wall. Various booking agencies said we couldn’t reserve a space and the site’s website didn’t appear to exist. Very worrying. Nonetheless, we departed Astorga and set sail for Burgos.

This journey was much smoother than yesterday’s bumpy ride across British-style potholes and bumps, being largely on autovias (free) and autopistas (toll roads). Because it was smooth, plain sailing it felt quite long though it was a shade less than three hours.

It was plain sailing at least until we hit the northern Burgos bypass when Spanish roadworks threw us yet another curve ball – the exit we needed was closed, as were the roads and roundabout beneath the exit. When the Spanish do roadworks, they really do roadworks, closing large sections all at once. We ended up driving through the middle of Burgos, which really isn’t that bad.

I had the crazy thought that we couldn’t reserve a pitch because the campsite was cut-off and inaccessible. Idiotic, I know but … Happily I was completely wrong and we arrived at a campsite that was less busy than we expected. Many of the pitches were rutted/potholed from spinning wheels in wet conditions earlier in the year but we found a space that was pretty flat and got Frodo settled.

Burgos is at 875m/2850ft above seal level so we were likely to be in for a cool night and early morning. Francine put the overnight heating on and we were fine. We awoke to 8°C outside so it had been a good decision.

We began at Burgos on our first Spanish camping trip in September 2024. Burgos is a city with a very pleasant feel, and that’s coming from someone who doesn’t care to “do” cities. Praise indeed. In 2024 we stumbled across what we thought to be a very enjoyable little tapas bar. We thought we’d try and repeat the experience and wandered the 4½ kms along the river into Burgos on our full day here this time.

Again, in 2024, we found an excellent coffee shop beside the river selling coffees complete with a small croissant and an small orange juice for the princely sum of €1.50. Here it was again doing a roaring trade but at that price, who could wonder at it? We did have to put up with the sound of a municipal hedge trimmer but the sun was out so all was well. We continued into the town.

Francine fancied a squint inside the cathedral so I parked myself at a bar in the square outside while Francine went in. I chose the bar well, it was a rather bland bar but was selling St. Miguell Selecta.

I sipped my beer and Francine eventually reappeared, admitting to having been somewhat underwhelmed by the cathedral. The exterior is quite impressive, however. I bought Francine a glass of vino tinto by way of compensation before we went in search of our tapas bar.

We found our tapas bar but, in truth, it was a bit of a disappointment this time around. We chose morcilla [black pudding], croquetas [croquettes] and langostinos [prawns]. Last year the bar had been busier with more atmosphere, though we had been a month earlier. Also, the tapas had seemed more varied but maybe that was our honeymoon period, being our first time in northern Spain. We also may have had our expectations reset by having enjoyed some excellent pinchos on this year’s escorted tour. It wasn’t bad, just a bit ordinary.

We wandered the 4½ kms back to the campsite to keep Frodo company for the late afternoon.

Frodo is getting adventurous, he’s going off grid.

Some areas of northern Spain are not well supplied with bona fide campsites but there are aires where motorhomes are authorized to stay. We had originally thought of going all the way from Chaves to Burgos, where there is a campsite, but that would have been a run of more than 400kms taking almost five hours. Instead, Francine found an intermediate, modestly sized town called Astorga, slightly off the route but which has a very reasonable sounding aire, according to its reviews. It also has yet another Gaudi building to gawp at for entertainment.

Astorga is about 200kms/3hrs from Chaves. We left Portugal after a handful of kilometres and re-entered Spain.

The initial part of the journey on an autovia was fine and pleasantly smooth, unlike Portuguese roads many of which rival the UK’s for bumps. Then our route took us across Spanish countryside, much of which had been scorched by this seasons wild fires. It could have been a very interesting journey but was an absolute nightmare on a road which made us think we were back in England, bumping and rattling all the way at low speeds for 25kms or so.

Francine decided it would be best to avoid another corner-cutting exercise in favour of an autovia. That threw us another curve ball in the form of a long contraflow with some exits blocked, including the junction that we wanted. After a 22km detour to double back on ourselves, we finally arrived at our área de autocaravanas, behind the local bullring. The bullring is apparently still used as such.

The aire claims space for 15 vans and has a service point to dump grey and black water, and to refill with fresh. With no mains hook-up, we needed to fire up the fridge on gas, likewise the hot water. Since we are usually on a campsite with power, and having an electric induction hob, we hardly ever use gas these days so it was a bit heart-in-mouth but the gas worked fine. (We had actually tested it before finalizing our travel plan.) We’re at 850m/2800ft so we suspect it’s likely to get cool at night.

Once settled and after a much needed two beers to get over the rather stressful journey, we wandered into town see our other Gaudi building. I sat in the square with a wine while Francine went in.

This Gaudi building, Palacio Episcopal [the Bishop’s Palace – it sits beside the Astorga cathedral], looks relatively plain on the outside, not something this artistic numbskull expects from Gaudi. When Francine returned with her pictures, the interior is somewhat different.

We stopped to sip a little more wine before sauntering back downhill the 15 minutes to the bullring parking area.

Throughout the evening more motorhomes arrived at intervals, in some cases shoe-horning themselves into spaces. One in particular seemed to shun a good-sized gap and park quite close to us. Odd. It then opened its side window facing our door and gave us the benefit of its conversation. I moved Frodo into the more generous space away from it. You do have to get use to the proximity of vans in such places.

Technically, aires have rules which are summarized as, “you can park and sleep but you are not supposed to show camping behaviour”. That means no levelling of vans (happily this aire was quite level), no sitting outside with table and chairs (should there happen to be room) nor open your windows (don’t increase the footprint of your van). You can open roof vents. The rules may or may not be frequently policed.

We’ve moved on from a decent campsite, rather like a CL, with no proper town to speak of to a  touristy town with no proper campsite – the Chaves Guest House. It is like an aire but with facilities. The facilities are quite basic but perfectly adequate in that the water is hot (even in the sinks for shaving, which is a bit of a novelty) and they are clean, just a bit rustic. I had mistakenly thought that we were heading for a bona fide campsite but no. However, I soon got used to it.

Getting used to it requires getting used to the “camping on top of each other” syndrome that is typical of aires. When we arrived the chap in charge was absent – it was lunchtime, after all – so we found ourselves a spare spot round the back where our door faced nobody else which is about as good as you can get in such situations. It wasn’t exactly salubrious but we had room for table and chairs.

With Chaves’s reputation, we had originally considered staying for three nights but given the camping environment decided that two would be sufficient. The whole site seems to operate largely on trust – if nobody is present, drop your money in somewhere – but later in the afternoon our man turned up and I managed to pay him €17.00 a night including electricity.

I found a slice of heaven. Heaven was nothing to do with the campsite or with Chaves but came in the form of a large Leclerc supermarket within walking distance through the neighbouring park. Here was real food. I snagged a round of Rustique Camembert cheese, a pot of Rilletes du Mans and found some seemingly decent beer in the form of Coruja IPA at 6.0% abv. [Coruja means owl, as you may have guessed from the artwork.] My hopes were realized; it tasted good, even if it was brewed by Super Bock.

On our full day at Chaves, we walked across a Roman bridge into the older part of town thinking we might find an eatery for lunch. Many of the streets in old town Chaves had very inventive, decorative shading strung across them. We wandered around quite a few in search of eateries that were open but this was Sunday and many were closed. I thought that was a curious decision. We finally found one that looked appealing and that was open but their first sitting was full and we’d have to wait until 14:30. We tried a second smaller place that was less appealing being much too twee; same story, full until later.

The street across from the Roman Bridge was being blasted with disco-style music of the Tina Turned ilk by a DJ set up in an entrance way. There was a bar nearby which would have been an interesting place for a drink but not with the inescapable music.

We gave up and began returning to Frodo when Francine spotted tables and chairs up a street in the more modern part of town. We crossed a newer bridge and discovered a place called Cavalo Cansado [Tired Horse] which, the waiter explained, had a tasting menu for sharing. This sounded perfect and we enjoyed a very relaxed lunch to the accompaniment of less intrusive music and a bottle of local white wine.

Back into Spain next.

Francine had found what sounded like an idiosyncratic campsite for just ten units at Perelhal. There was no reception, as such; we were to ring a number on arrival and the owner would turn up to let us in through the keypad-controlled gate.

Idiosyncratic was right. the site was run by a Portuguese who had lived a lot of his life in German-speaking Switzerland. We later learned that our host had been born in Angola, a former Portuguese colony. His parents had moved to Switzerland just before Angola’s independence. He said he disliked Switzerland for its money-grabbing, materialistic culture so had moved to his current home in Portugal. He has six children, three of each. Yikes!

The field was grassy but quite sloping. I couldn’t get anywhere near level on our first attempted pitch but moved to another, backing on to the surrounding woodland, with more success. It felt like a sort of CL [Certificated Location] but with the capacity for twice as many units [CL’s are limited to five]. In common with many CLs, here the grey water and black water went down a ground-level drain cover.

Being in a country location, I did have some insect entertainment in the grass around Frodo. We were particularly interested in a yellow and black beastie dipping its abdomen in the soil. It was very fast but more by luck than judgement, I managed to snag a reasonable shot as it lifted into the air again. It’s a so-called Tiger Cranefly (Nephrotoma scalaris).

There were also some small, blue butterflies flitting about the grass. It took me a while to track one down on pixels but I managed to identify it as Lang’s Short-tailed Blue (Leptotes pirithous). We’ve seen them before but it’s always a welcome sight.

Enjoying the afternoon in our country location I was feeling very relaxed and began preparing dinner. It was all going swimmingly until, at 19:30, some buggers turned up in a Portuguese-registered motorhome and shoe-horned themselves in next door to us. Being a foreign-sided van, our doors were facing each other not that many feet apart. Rather than sit outside eating as originally planned, potentially under the watchful gaze of our new neighbours, we retired inside to eat. Grump!

We thought we’d investigate the local village of Perelhal but frankly, it was quite bland. It had a supermarket which we used to supplement our supplies, and a café, where we sat outside with a coffee, but that was pretty much it. A German couple from our campsite, who were now moving along, also happened by the café and we compared notes with them; the man luckily had reasonable broken English. They hailed from an area very close to our hosts former home Small world.

On a later afternoon walk we went in search of a nearby river. En route we happened across a smaller vegetated stream which gave me my first opportunity on this trip to watch some dragonfly action. Keeled Skimmers (Orhtetrum coerulescens) were there buzzing about, accompanied by Small Red Damselflies (Ceriagrion tenellum). Not being present in my local patch, I was glad to see them but was particularly pleased to see one female which happened to be the black form melanogastrum.

We continued in search of the main river but somehow Google managed to lose us and we didn’t get there. The walk had not been a complete waste of time, though.

We found Caminha perhaps less than exciting, though the square was a pleasant enough place to sit and watch some of the world go by. One bar in particular appealed enough to merit two visits.

We are still on the Portuguese camino and there is an almost constant stream of pilgrims walking around the bay. Just outside the campsite entrance are water taxis which will ferry people across the Minho river estuary to Spain or into Caminha itself to avoid the 30-minute walk around the harbour. A longer 20km or so ride into Valença [I had to keep stopping myself calling it Valencia] is also available though I don’t know how the return might work. We walked into town and back for the leg stretch.

Woodland surrounds the campsite and a short walk through this leads to sandy beach. Francine investigates on the day we arrived and found an interesting offshore fort. We both went for a leg stretch afterwards to see it in morning light.

Portuguese shopping was a new experience for us. It is complicated by not knowing the Portuguese words [frango is chicken – where does that come from?] or the brands or the shop names. One shop did sound comfortingly familiar, Spar, but it proved almost a complete waste of space. Francine was looking for fresh milk, as she frequently is, and thought that the waste-of-space Spar did not have any, so we left.

Happily our erstwhile guide Andy, who had also stopped in Caminha in one of his favoured car parks, pointed us at another supermarket called, intriguingly, Pingo Doce [means “Sweet Drop”, apparently] which proved considerably more successful. Here Francine figured out that one carton, looking completely unlike milk since it featured Toy Story graphics, was, in fact, fresh milk. Maybe this was to go with the kids’ cereal? We’d maligned the poor old Spar just a little – it did have Toy Story milk (though little else). We just didn’t recognize it for what it was. We shopped in Pingo Doce twice.

I’m building up a few things that you do not come to Portugal to buy. Andy had warned us not to fill up with fuel here ‘cos it’s about 30¢ a litre more expensive than in Spain. I’m also having trouble with cheese and beer. Here are a couple of examples. The most prevalent beer [so probably not likely to be the best example], is Super Bock, there being absolutely nothing super about this bock, trust me. Here also is a cheese that looked as if it might be vaguely interesting being coated in some red pimienton-like stuff. I can best describe it as a large lump of Dairylea but just a little firmer, though just as plastic and tasteless.

Thinking we might eat out for lunch, we did, on our second visit into Caminha, seek out a seafood restaurant which Francine had seen advertised. The menu, however, looked both a little less than scintillating and quite expensive so we gave that a miss in favour of buying some prawns with bread and mayonnaise to eat chez Frodo. We’ve had tastier prawns, to be honest, but they were OK.

Having booked into our campsite at Caminha initially for three nights, since we were benefitting from brilliant weather and had a pleasant pitch, we extended our stay to four nights. Pleasant pitches in the Iberian peninsular are not to be surrendered lightly.

Following Andy’s escorted tour, we have ended up at Baiona, just above Portugal’s northern border. We have a further two weeks footloose and fancy-free.

One idea that Francine had was to head a bit further north into Galicia to a place called O Grove which has a reputation for seafood. However, it is currently hosting a seafood festival so we’re sure it will be rammed.

As an alternative, since we are so close to the Portuguese border, it seemed like a golden opportunity to set foot in a new country for the first time. Since Andy, who is very free with his knowledge, had recommended a campsite at Caminha, that’s where we headed. It seemed that Andy himself would also head that way but he’d be staying on free aires rather than on the campsite. We set sail at about 11:00, leaving the campsite at Baiona to shut down for the winter.

Taking the coast road (mostly) prior to crossing the border we drove beside an almost constant stream of pilgrims heading towards Santiago de Compostela on the Portuguese route.

Shortly afterwards, having been driving for a little over an hour, we paused in Vila Nova, where Andy had suggested another free motorhome area in which we might park for a short break. We joined many other motorhomes but there was plenty of free space. The facilities in mainland Europe are geared most impressively up to cater for motorhomes. Britain, by comparison, pales into insignificance.

Having parked, disembarking Frodo Francine stared at her phone quizzically.

“11:15?”, she muttered.

“Ah, yes, Portugal is on UK time; we’ve gone back an hour crossing the border”, I replied. Francine adjusted her analogue wristwatch accordingly.

We sat at a café in the Vila Nova square for a coffee and our first real Portuguese pastel de nata [posh custard tart – pretty much the national dish] before re-joining Frodo to continue on to Caminha.

Finding the campsite, we checked in where we were pleased to find that the lady on recepcão had perfect English. We checked in initially for three nights. With a completely detail-free site map, we managed to find a very suitable pitch on a corner such that we would not be staring at any other units. We got Frodo levelled and, with glorious sunshine, deployed his awning and front sun screen.

A little later Francine was again staring at her phone and scratching her head.

“18:00?”, she asked.

“No, 17:00”, I said staring at my phone.

Clearly, we were suffering from time zone inconsistencies. I can attempt to explain. Our campsite is on the south bank of the Minho river, which forms the northern Portuguese border. The hill just across the water on the north side is Spain. On our camping pitch we had both Apple time (Spanish, on the right) and Android time (Portuguese, on the left). If Francine wandered about 10m towards the campsite gate, her phone flipped into Portuguese time. Poor Francine was temporally disoriented.

Having switched time zones physically and occasionally logically, we did find ourselves thinking it was time for bed at 20:00 – Portuguese 20:00, that is. Nothing that a glass or three of wine together with a showing of Casablanca wouldn’t fix.