Heading West

I headed off late morning after the age that it takes to pack everything up and move everything that got damp in the night into the shifting sunshine to dry off, and after 15 miles of small roads was spewed out onto the motorway A8 heading west. It was great to be riding at speed even though it could be thought of as a boring road.

I stopped for lunch at a beautiful little seaside town whose name I've now forgotten. Faced with an incomprehensible menu I ordered the only thing I could be sure of knowing - a salad. It came and was fresh and edible, and with the view of the harbour below. The way back up to the main road was steep and I ploughed on through some narrow gaps of passing cars not wanting to stop and test my steep hill starting skill.

I'd got a campsite from the Alan Rogers guide that seemed to promise something special, close to the coast, and small it said.

I ended up needing to stop for petrol at a ghastly service station with no shade so made a quick snack of it sitting on a curb by the bike, my carton of milk bought from the campsite, still drinkable, and some nice fresh bread, followed by chocolate just starting to melt on my fingers. About an hour later I arrived at the suburb where the campsite should be. There was something odd in the guidebook, it seemed the site had two different names and true enough at a small junction in the town there were two sites. I headed to where the GPS wanted me to go but found a rather nasty ASCI approved (i.e. full of Dutch in motorhomes - the kind of place I have been staying in all over Europe) place with a grand entrance so turned around feeling smug heading for the other site. When I got there, it looked worse. The woman in the glass reception booth told me to park the bike and follow her but by the time I had, she was nowhere to be seen. I walked down to where a few tents were but the place was like a cross between a loud public swimming pool, a busy bar and a caravan site. This was no good, not the kind of place I would feel comfortable in for a moment, so in the car park, under a hot sun and in all my biking clobber, I leafed through the guidebook (which I am beginning not to trust so much) and tried a few different ways to tell the GPS where I thought looked safe to go to, about 35 or so miles further west. I jumped on and enjoyed zooming off. But with so much road building here the GPS was hopelessly confused and took me on some lovely twisty roads believing that I was actually a couple of hundred feet above on the new motorway whose great concrete stilts I rode under, from one side to the other. As ever the route to a campsite gets more and more remote and you need trust to believe that it really knows where it is going. Close to where it should be I slowed down looking out for signs and noticed a queue of traffic behind me. I darted off to the side of the road to let them pass and lurched to an undignified halt. Round the next few bends was the entrance, down a rocky track that Bertha laughs at (even if the rider doesn't).

So I am here. In some ways little different to the others - but subtly nicer - and I feel comfortable which is the point. The owner chain smokes roll ups and has 'Diabl'o tattooed on his forearm for a start, and explained (something) about the beer I just bought from him. I found a shady corner away from the happy families just flat enough to stand Bertha and I camped under orange trees.

I just ate one that I saw fall to earth. They smell beautiful and fresh. I've never eaten such a fresh orange - though the variety is not brilliant (maybe they are Seville oranges). The guide book says they have a great restarant here. I'm enjoying a cool beer as I write this but I'm not sure I'm up for sitting alone to eat surrounded by the happy families here. I think I will stay a couple of nights all being well and perhaps Sunday will have emptied out. Tomorrow is 1st September and perhaps everywhere will be quieter from now. I want to get to the West coast.