Did the pre-flight checks. We were now getting into the habit of getting the tents packed away before the sun makes it much above the horizon. To do any work in under this sun was murderous.
We set off across the Spanish Plains in the direction of Castella-y-Leon, Salamanca and on towards Caceres. We stopped in a Spanish Truck stop for lunch. Now that was an experience. A combination of our lack of Spanish and the waitress’s lack of English (and patience) led to a lot of guessing and pointing. We ended up going for a plate of “Pollo” on the basis that if it was chicken then it would be edible. Jackpot. Leg of chicken (or something that once had feathers) boiled then grilled with garlic and served with a small salad and hunks of bread. We couldn’t get over the amount of beer, and harder drinks, that the Spanish lorry drivers were knocking back. We made a mental note to give them more room when they passed us at 70+ mph.
EL TRUCKO STOPPO
We got lost several times. We stopped at a garage in one town and Henry asked for directions for a supermarket. Henry came back and decided that the directions that he’d been given were no good so we set off the opposite way. We inevitably got lost and I took the lead trying to get us back on track. We went with the traffic flow around the town and 10 minutes later arrived at the garage again! We decided to abandon plans for the supermarket and I switched on the Sat Nav. We entered the destination town and set off. Another 10 minutes and another circuitous route of the town and, yes you guessed it, back to the garage! Third time lucky and we made it out of town. It was no coincidence that my Ipod was playing “Hotel California”.
“You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave….” Cue Guitar Solo.
South of Caceres we needed to head west overland and head for a camp site that Henry had found in his “Boy’s Own book of places to camp”. The problem was that it didn’t have an address that the Sat Nav could understand. We pulled over onto the side of the road and started doing our ritual “map spinning”, to see which way up looked the most inviting. Enter the Spanish version of white van man (Hombre blanca vano?) He spoke no English. You’d think that they’d make the effort! After a lot of preamble, we managed to tell him where we wanted to go. He gestured for us to follow him and off he went. This went on for about 5 miles when he stopped at a junction. I gathered that this was where our paths parted.
I’ve never understood why some people, even though they know you don’t speak a word of their language, proceed to give you extensive directions – in their language! We might as well have started a card school. Eventually he stopped jabbering and waving his arms around and looked at me for some form of acknowledgement.
“Si seňor, muchas gracias” (I told you I was fluent). I hit the electric boot button and left him in the dust. “Hasta la vista – baby”
We stopped a little way down the road and put the village name near to the camp site into the Sat Nav and tried to follow that. Up one mountain, down another, along a valley and up another mountain….. it went on and on.
Between the Sat Nav and me, we ended up in a very quaint cobbled village.
QUAINT VILLAGE
We rounded a corner and came upon the village church where half a dozen women were sat on a stone bench outside the church, passing the time, like you do. We stopped the bikes and Bill decided to go for directions. He approached end of the rank of old girls and bowed low .
“Bounas tardes, seňoras”. They all giggled with his attempt at their tongue. He sat on the end of the row and tried to make his acquaintance with the old girl next to him. He took her arm and tried the thread it though his.
WHICH ONE'S BILL AGAIN?
That’s when it happened…..
She upped with her walking stick and started to rain blows down on Bill as if he was the Worcester rapist! Bill made a fast exit, wishing that he’d kept his helmet on.
Despite this debacle, Henry managed to get directions and we mounted up and made a swift exit from the village before any of the men woke up. We got ourselves back onto the main road and the Sat Nav regained its marbles and soon we were back on the road to Miranda De Castena and a camp site.
We went on and on, through very mountainous but barren land with no sign of civilisation. It was getting late in the day. Soon the sun would be going down behind some of the peaks. Things were getting so bad that both Henry and I had started to eye up the hilly countryside for a flattish bit that we could pitch our tents on.
Then we saw it. A sign for a “camp site”.
We followed the signs and, a mile or two out of the hill top village we ended up at a pair of locked gates. The view beyond them was bleak! The pedestrian gate on the side was open and so, in I went.
KOMMONDANT'S OFFICE
“Si” the proprietor said, they were open and he went for the key to the gates. A worrying sign. Things went downhill from there. The proprietor’s boyfriend (seemed like a nice boy!) showed us all to our pitch, once we had passed Passport Control and Immigration. When he had decided on which pitch we could have (there was only two other parties on the entire site!) he came out with pages of typed rules for the site. Perhaps it was because we were on bikes or the fact that Henry and I hadn’t shaved since England?
I stopped paying any attention and he equally ignored me sensing that my attitude (me, attitude? as if!) wasn’t doing much for the situation.
He did however seemed to have taken rather a shine to Henry and insisted on showing him the toilet block. I offered Henry the frying pan to take with him but he assured me he would be OK. He returned 10 minutes later and didn’t seem to be walking any differently. He had had to have a demonstration on everything from “how to turn on the shower” to “which sink to use for sock washing and which sink for co** washing”. Oh, and to top it all, the bar didn’t for another two hours! That didn’t fit in with our “early to bed, early to rise” routine. Neither did the fact that the gates would not be unlocked until 9 a.m.! Thank God it was only to be one night!
I looked around for the watchtowers and guard-dog patrols. If this was Stalag 31 then there must be an escape committee?
THE BEST PITCH IN TOWN
We managed to get him to compromise and sell us some beer that we could take back to the tents and so we rustled up some supper (Fray Bentos Steak & Kidney puddings) and sat around the camp fire getting pissed. Bill serenaded us with his version of several songs sung in the fashion of a German Camp Guard. Sounds so lame now but when you outside of several bottles of beer and some wine, we were all in tears. Stupid hysterics, I suppose?
STATSISTICS - DAY 5
300 miles Camping Noverette – Miranda De Castena
1042 miles in total
Average 208 miles per day
