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.
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