GR223 MENORCA: 3/4/5th OCTOBER

With the weather set fair for awhile I set out for the wild northwest and North Coast somewhat weighed down by a pack full of provisions, and stopping at the last mini market to load up on sugary pastries. At the end of the tarmac 

 i met a couple of middle aged ladies coming back from the wildzone in sandles and flip flops so figured I’d be ok. I don’t know how they got far cos the track was rough across sharp and jagged limestone. The first point of interest was a nice rock arch.  

 The track made its way up to an old fortification though from what conflict I don’t know. It meandered across a landscape very similar to home on the western seaboard of Ireland. To the Burren or the Aran Islands, denuded of trees, with wind shaped vegetation  

 and a labyrinth of dry stone walls. But there was a lot more heat here which made it even less hospitable to plant growth.  

   Although the seed pods of Amarilis (?) showed that they liked the conditions more than they do in my garden. 

The sea cliffs and views were pretty stunning and the azure blue of the water tempted some high diving.  

       The way was well signed with very frequent posts that even had reflective strips for anyone out after dark.  

 Another feature on the route are the self closing gates, hinged on slant with beautifully crafted latches.  

 This section was littered not only with miles of drystone wall but also unique animal shelters known as baracas and looking like fantastical towers of Babel.  

       They obviously had a lot of rock to clear. But suddenly it was no longer clear and the scrubs had taken over for awhile with the path hacked through the undergrowth an attractive  environment for exotic creepy crawlies.  

   In the afternoon Cala Morell, the only little settlement on this stretch came into view, nicely situated above a sandy cove and with a fantastic necropolis that I’d have been tempted to stay the night in if I hadn’t wanted to push on further.  

       I met Olof here, a German living in Barcelona for the last 10 years, who was also hiking the Cami de Cavalls but in the opposite direction. He’d just come from where I was going , the empty quarter , and was able to give me some handy info. He warned me it was hard going and not to underestimate how long sections would take. I had been pondering this as Paddy Dillons guide had timings of 2km per hour hiking time, not including any photo, eating or exhaustion breaks and the man is no hiking slouch. Anyway Olof was a nice guy to spend some talk time with after the lonely trail. 

The rock had changed completely as had the house style with everything, including the roofs painted white.  

   On I went up and down along the rocky shoreline and even though I had filled up with water in Cala Morell by the time I came upon some little fisherman huts and a spring I was glad to resupply.  

     

Again there was a dramatic change with rock giving way to fields of sand and pine trees.  

   It was along this undulating area of forest and little sandy fields that I caught up with David, a Spaniard who had given up his job as fitness trainer and football ref to embark upon the project , a life of adventure eventually and hopefully funded by his youtube offerings. We carried on together, back over rocky shores again until just before dark making camp at a little house high above a bay.  

   

A long day completing nearly 4 official stages and nearly 2 of Paddy’s. It was more of the same the next day made even longer by the fact that we missed a signpost through concentrating on our mutual Spanish and English lessons and not on the route. This meant we climbed a long long hill needlessly, had to retrace our steps and then climb the right long long hill. And we had to spend half an hour fixing my broken pack Macgiver style. Still the effort was rewarded with nice scenery, another holy spring and interesting geological stuff.  

     

We came to a signboard at an official stage beginning indicating the rather off putting profile of the way ahead.  

 It was much worse than that. The graph had evened out all the short but very steep up and downs. 2 km a hour started looking like the stuff of champions. 

But efforts were eventually and continuously rewarded at peaks along the way.  

   

It was way too hot for that kind of effort and when we came down into a particularly attractive isolated beach I had to cool off braking my own rule of not swimming in salt water if I can’t wash off the salt afterwards for fear of chaffing.  

 Refreshed we were able to carry on, up and down again,and again on cliff top and level ground till we came a glorious beach that had a road to it. Glorious not only for the colour of the sand but mainly because there was a restaurant there. Sunday Lunch.  

       

After satisfying the craving for food and drink I couldn’t resist the sea again before we carried on for another 3 hours and finding home for the night, a simple shelter with level concrete floor on a beautiful clear water cove where I yet again could not resist its allure. Later David also had to go diving to retrieve his dropped saucepan.  

 

We were joined by a couple of gents from the mountains of Alicante where me and Sally had once wandered. The place looked nice at sunset.  

 And similar at sunrise.  

 

With the foreseen salt rubbing a reality I hurried on in the morning past beaches of driftwood and nice rocks 

  

 hoping the little resort an hour or so further on would have a freshwater shower on the beach. It did but only one for washing feet. So I had to perform Houdini like writings to hold the button in whilst getting my body under the low tap. Felt better. 

The place was obviously in the process of shutdown with amusements(?) of all kinds being taken away.  

   The others caught up with me at the supermarket and David and I carried on while the rest went for coffee   There was too much road walking for my liking but eventually we got off road again.  

 Passed some lovely dragon trees  

  and down trails that could have been borreens.  

   We hit another beach resort and stopped for a drink and admired the mornings catch.  

 David was suffering for salt chaffing badly and stayed for a shower so we made our farewells and I carried on.  

 

More sandy paths, more woods and then more resorts. I decided to join the holiday makers in a place right on the trail and attend to domestic affairs again. I’m gonna avail of the Buffett breakfast. Reckon I can gat enough in to last a day or so. 

How the other half live eh.  

 

GR 223 MENORCA: 2nd OCTOBER 

There’s been some serious clouds but luckily they have contained some good silver linings.  

 Hiking to the ferry port at 5 am I’m not too pleased to find it’s delayed again, only by 1 1/2 hr but it’s enough to throw my schedule off.  

 Arriving at the old Menorcan capital city of Ciutadella at 9.30 means there’s no way to get to my intended destination in a day.  

 There’s a bit of tricky planning involved in this hike. The GR223 traces the route all around the islands coastline on the Cami de Cavalls,a centuries old boundary trail made mainly for speedy defence. There are some long day stages, especially as officially it’s split into 20 and I’m trying to do it in 10. 

  Anyway there’s a bit coming up with no shops bars restaurants or anything for a couple of days so I have to be in the right place at the right time. And as it happened I was. After negotiating the cities squares,streets and harbour  

       I make it out of town, though the way was fraught with danger.  

  There were amazing narrow rocky inlets along the route with little swimming places cut into the sandstone rock and where villas lined the shore they seemed to try to outdo each other carving terraces and steps.  

   

I passed an interesting old Toyota Landcruiser camper and stopped for a chat with the German owners of the 30 yr old motor they’ve spent 4 years going round the world in. ( next project) 

  

 After awhile out of town I came to the first suburban strip leading into the resort towns of Cala en Blanes and Calespiques. Some of the old style villas were lovely in their simplicity.  

   But before too long I descended into proper British Beachholiday tack, quite a lot of it empty and forlorn.  

     

With skies darkening and shopping and clothes washing needed before ‘civilisation’ ran out I found a room with hot water and settled in to the orientation and preparation process. Just in time too, as the thunder grew in volume and the torrents started again. Luckily my balcony had a canopy so all my washed clothes could still dry in the strong wind. 

So fingers crossed for dry weather for the next 2 or 3 nights camping. 

  

GR221 MALLORCA: 1st OCTOBER

The last leg of the 140km Ruta de Pedra en Sec, the Drystone Route, has been successfully completed in Pollenca. 

Although the rain continued to lash at the windows of the full dormitory and the wind whipped the shutters backwards and forwards all night by morning only scudding black clouds remained of the tempest. 

I returned to the monastery pharmacy for medication for my still swollen and painful bites to find they didn’t open till 10. It was going to be tough to make the 4.30 ferry to Menorca 18km and 2 bus rides away but it gave me a chance to have a look around the basilica.  

   and the medieval statue, found beside a stream by a shepherd boy who showed it to a monk who took it to Escorca. It had disappeared the next day and was found again by the stream. This happened 3 times. They took the hint and founded a chapel there that grew into the big and famous monastery that has drawn pilgrims for centuries.  

 I also admired the mysterious sun dial that reveals, when the sun shines, all manner of ?? 

 

Finally the chemist opened and she was happy to sell me a tube of hydrocortisone to lash on my bites. And so I continued on my way, climbing up yet again through holm oak woods past more sitges to views of the refugi and the mountains.  

 

  The walls made for tall stiles that were tricky with a full pack.  

Over a Coll at over 600 m then it was down hill all the way, past steam beds no longer dry.  

   and into more open country with fresh growth and a celebrated 500 year old holm oak.  

      

The rains of the previous day and night had produced a fine crop of mushrooms and I met up with a couple of proud foragers.  

   Coming down through the woods on the old stone walled and paved tracks I stopped to admire the workmanship one more time.  

  Then I entered villa zone again with some fine gates hiding the secret world within.  

  

  

 One more tricky riverside stretch  

  

 and I was in Pollenca where the storm defences were still up in the fine back streets.  

  

 Straight to the bus to the coast, and straight on another to port Alcudia. Just in time …. Except the boat was cancelled due to rough seas caused by the storm. Next one 6 in the morning. Be there by 5. No sleeping in the terminal. 

The silver lining is that summer season prices for rooms ended today so I got one near the ferry at a bargain price. It’s all good.  

GR221 MALLORCA: 30th SEPTEMBER

What a difference a day makes. 

It was indeed a world of pain out there today and not all from the expected direction. After a good dinner in the refugi I shared with a nice Danish couple and about 20 others I retired to my dormitory still the only occupant. I couldn’t decide if the hospitalario was doing me or the others a favour. 

Actually the others , as I was sorely bitten time and again and on waking discovered I had really swollen up in numerous spots and my skin was tightly stretched and throbbing.  

 Not good. It had been a very restless night, not only because of mozzie vigilance but because of heavy rain making noises not often heard. Everybody was very weather wary at breakfast, discussing the infinite variety of forecasts, none good. A few were getting cabs out of there, others taking shortcuts to Lluc or the refugi at Son Amer. I was still hoping to complete the route over the high(est) ground. I dressed in my swimming togs and raincoat with nothing underneath reasoning to keep clothes dry in my rucksack. I was able to take a few photos before the rain started and rendered my phone and camera inoperable.  

 I followed a family out on the trail but soon found them returning, not fancying their chances with the lightening. The way was dramatic but unfortunately the rain put paid to much photo documentation.  

  

 I’m not sure you can make out the extraordinary aqueduct built through the mountains.  

There were frequent flashes of bright ultraviolet and loud crashes of thunder as I made my way up the old cobbled path through the holm oak. I got to a signpost pointing one way to my route into the big stuff (4 1/2 hrs) and another back to the reservoir and road at Cuber ( 1 1/4 hr). I hesitated, waiting maybe for something to make up my mind. On cue, a frightening series of lightening flashes and almost immediate CRASH of ear splitting thunder.   Message received I turned towards the road in the knowledge that you don’t go up on the highest ridges in THAT. 

Water water everywhere as I followed a big aqueduct delivering water to the reservoir whose levels must have been rising rapid. At last I could make out the road below and I wondered if there would be covered space at the recreation area down there. Unfortunately not, apart from the porta toilet that I briefly occupied whilst considering options. There was a bus at 3.30 but 5 hours sheltering in a toilet seemed a bit desperate. I heard a car approaching and burst from the plastic box and ran to the road throwing out my hand in a desperate hitcher gesture. It worked. Two angels from Zurich sped me the 12 or so km to Lluc and seemed not to mind the fact I flooded the back of their hire car. A 10 minute walk up to the refugi and I was safe, although unable to get a bed for another 3 hours. I spent most of the time drying my kit under the hot air hand dryers in the toilets, getting nice and warm in the process.  

 It continued to hammer it down, flooding the front door, as others arrived, bedraggled, from their taxis, hitches, buses and even hikes.  

 The views of the monastery below slowly began to clear and I discovered there was a pharmacy there where I thought I could get something for my painfully pulsing swollen bites.  

 At last the rain slowed to a drizzle and thinking they would reopen at 4 after siesta, struck out down the muddy and mossy path.  

     Arriving just after 4 imagine my surprise to discover they CLOSE at 4. World of pain. 

I had a brief look around this world heritage site, writing postcards and having a “drown my sorrows “pint.  

 I had hoped to catch the famous choir who perform twice a day but the timing was wrong for that too. You can stay in the old monk cells here which I would have liked to do if I’d known, saving a couple of walks. In my mood I might have been tempted to stay in a life of quiet, and dry, contemplation.  

   There were many platitudes on display concerning the righteous pilgrim that I struggled to fit into my current situation.  

   

Enough. I’d have to return in the morning for pain relief. The sky was looking ominous again and I made it back up the hill just before the heavens opened. A silver lining of sorts but I’m hoping for better tomorrow. 

GR221 MALLORCA: 28/29th SEPTEMBER

They say history has a habit of repeating itself and I certainly suffered from Deja Vu as I staggered up the trail out of Deia into the blue sky and dehydrating heat yesterday. It could as well have been 8 months ago when a similar scenario played out on the Camino Mozarabe. The common ground between events was 3 days hard partying and the debilitating effect it has on a 60yr old hiking body. 

Ah well, mustn’t grumble, no gain without pain and what goes up must come down. Best thing to do is sweat it out… So I did. I’m sure the toxic droplets burned themselves into the limestone as I climbed on narrow tracks between villas old and new.  

 

  High above the rugged coast.  
 Some of the ancient terrace walls were tumbling over but I did pass a 4 man crew who were working on restoring a section so they hopefully will survive another few centuries.  

   This section between Deia and Soller or Muleta was well signed and fairly gentle so was popular with day trippers who I did my best to shield from the toxic sweat.  

 The hills became well wooded again with sitges or charcoal burning sites and impressive cobbled tracks leading down to Soller. 

     The largest town on route so far the main square had the tram way to the port and a wooly tree.  

     Although at the end of the day’s stage I had decided to carry on for a few hours. The forecast was for thunderstorms so I wanted to cover what ground I could in the dry. The dryness was relative of course as I was still dripping. More toxins to shed yet. 

The climbing began pretty quickly and lasted for 10km. At Biniaraix I passed a lovely wash  house but the bar where I had hoped to get supplies was shut. Luckily there was an abundance of Fuentes so I was able to stock up on water before heading up the Baranc de Biniaraix, a fantastic example of cobbled and buttressed trail climbing to over 800 m through countless terraces. So fantastic in fact that it’s designated a site of cultural interest.  

   

   
 

   
 Finally reaching beyond the olives and entering wilder holm oak country I looked back in wonder at some of the old houses that have been restored in this place hours of hiking from anywhere.  

  

 It had been spitting with rain and grumbling with thunder while I had climbed the countless steps and I was glad to get to flatter ground with its possibility of a tent pitch. There was an unmanned refuge ahead but still a couple of hours away and after 8 hours of effort I was ready to rest. There had been a no acampar sign and another warning of big game shooting and not to leave the trail so when I found a discreet little spot I made an effort at camouflage.  

   And so with a very nearly full moon shining through the canopy above and the constant jingle jangle of a hundred sheep bells ringing around the surrounding peaks I fell into fitfull sleep. The animals were not bothered by the tent and binged and bonged right up to me in the night. I couldn’t imagine what they were eating.  

 The morning broke clear and dry and I headed still higher up into the limestone gryikes and groines, or whatever they’re called.  

 

  Whilst peering at the landscape below( that’s Port de Soller in the sunshine) I heard the clattering of a helicopter and could then see it circling around high up the Baranc de Biniaraix. A little later as I headed down the more open level valley towards the , fairly dry, reservoir at Cuber it came roaring overhead and then continued to make dozens of delivery runs with building materials, wether for the trail or the houses I couldn’t say.  
     Approaching the little refuge I past a little shed sporting a sign designed to keep the campers out. Pretty successfully I would think.   

  There were a lot of trees planting in protective netting which made for interesting sheep eaten topiary.  

 I stopped at the refugi for a rest and watched the groups of walkers coming down from the main road.  

   

It looked pretty busy which decided me to take the less used more rugged route which involved a head for heights and nimble agility. Pushing it in my condition.  

   There was, yet again, a whole load of climbing of steep zig zag paths only to go down steep zig zag paths. Passing a chopper that hadn’t made it on the way.  

   A lot of tiring scrambling along around and over and then came the tricky part.  

    Lengths of chain fixed to the sheer cliff to cling to.  

 The landscape was dramatic and after more ups and downs the Tossal Verds refugi roof came into view.  

    Soon I was down there admiring the flowers, water tank and building that contained bed, shower and food and drink.  

   

   
 

   
 So far I have a room to myself and I may have a lie in. The forecast is for heavy rain on the morning so I might put off moving till as late as possible as tomorrow’s route is the highest and most rugged of the route. 

Could be a world of pain out there. 

GR 221: Mallorca 23/24th September

Somebody asked me to write about what i was thinking about on the trail.

I thought about that……..

For some reason that reminds me of the old Bob Monkhouse gag:  “they laughed when I said I’d be a comedian,  they’re not laughing now”

In fact my thought processes whilst hiking are pretty indescribable. They can come quick and sharp or slowly swirl around. Some themes come and go like a rising and ebbing tide. The subject can be anything , everything or quite often, nothing. To start the day it’s normally functional stuff, kit check, how far, how long,how many, what ifs and buts. Then, brain awake, I’m taking in all the new surroundings as I move   off into unknown territory. After that anything goes until I’ve really settled into a long rhythmic hike. Then it’s pretty much shut down, thoughts a reaction to outside stimuli. A smell, birdsong, colour of flower, fall of light- whatever.

But you have to keep a bit of brain fully functional – or you get lost.

Yesterday I left my camp on abandoned and overgrown olive terraces on the outskirts of Espores and headed into the high hills again. I’d had a bit of a broken night, first having to get into my mozzy net tent after a couple of hours of buzzing and then, feeling drops of rain on my face , having to stumble about naked trying to get the fly sheet up and peg it into rock. Ah, the camping life.

A couple of 100m up the track I came upon this sign, which could have saved some ” carry on camping” style capers.

 Then it was up past more massive estates

 to a coll and up into the holm oak and limestone. Like hiking the Burren at home

 including the “get off my land signs”

 and with better views?

 For centuries there has been a thriving charcoal industry going on in these forests and they are thick with the remains. Sometimes a bit of funky” recreation”

 but mostly just quiet reminders of another time when the hills were alive with charcoal and lime makers, building their huts and bread ovens and living with their families on site from spring to autumn. On the high mountains the snow collectors came to make ice in the winter in huge underground stone pits. There are also remains of amazingly constructed water storage tanks and underground reservoirs. They had a lot of material.

       There has been no signing of the way, only following little occasional stone cairns, which were not easy to find amongst all the stone! I came across a couple of ladies lost in the woods, set them straight and then got lost myself. The tops of the hills gave good views.

 and we’re dotted with the strange structures of the Thrush hunters.

   I don’t know what they do but I don’t like it. Just before emerging from the woods I stumbled ( nearly into) this handsome cistern.

 The town below, Valldemossa, has a very extensive monastery

 and very upmarket shops, restaurants and hotels.

   No place for me. But looking for my way out of town, a dilemma. My guidebook says left- new , and very rare, sign says right.

 Hoping to avoid another barred path I went right, hoping for a continuation of signs now I was without a guide.

No such luck. I was led miles away to a government owned public Finca

   and proceeded to climb to nearly 900m only hoping I would find my way in the morning. As it started to get dark I finally found the refugio that had been signed, without a distance, back in the town 2 or more hours before. All locked up but with a lean to

 Exhaustion provided a good nights sleep although ,DISASTER, my trusty inflatable pillow died after so many hikes together over the years.

In the morning I climbed up to the ridge on a beautiful well made track.

 I was hoping this was the Cami de s’Arxiduc, the Archduke’s Path, constructed across the tops of these mountains as a carriage ride. I was supposed to be coming along it from the other end and had to look out for cairns that marked the ONLY SAFE WAY down the mighty cliffs to Deia way way below.

   I couldn’t find the cairn.

Up and down, backwards and forwards, never again will I be without my GPS and good maps. I found another hiker, also without a map, who led me the wrong way before finally coming across another hiker who knew his way around and had a map who sent me back again, until finally I found the marker and could start the descent.

 It was a long way down. It ended on ancient terraces long deserted with generations of work in the walls. There was a exquisitely crafted tunnel about 10m long under a terrace with a clear full well at the end.

 The whole town was/is pretty well crafted and obviously tightly controlled. This rustic chic don’t come cheap and the place is full of serious real estate. Big budget stuff.

  

   It means that my refugio is equally classy and even has a little museum attached.

  

 I’m having dinner here and notice there’s a bottle of wine on my place, I’m sleeping in a soft bed with a pillow, and I’m not walking for three days because the wedding starts tomorrow. Let the good times roll.

GR221 MALLORCA : 21/22nd September

No sooner had I started to settle back into the domestic bliss of homestead living, gathering winter fuel, cutting the grass, and floating in the hot tub than I found myself queuing up for a Ryan air flight from Shannon to Palma.

Abandoning my good wife yet again I took advantage of a wedding invite on Mallorca to reason it made sense to hike all of the Balearics while I was out there. It made even more sense when driving to the airport through squally rain under leaden skies with a promise of 23* awaiting me in Palma.

Sure enough, when the plane doors opened, a familiar blast of heat wave brought grins to passenger faces. Most folk were on a sun holiday to the resorts on the south coast and I joined a bus load to the end of the line at Peguera, where I could start the GR 221. Otherwise known as The Drystone Route this 140 km route makes its way from the southwest corner of the island across the rugged Serra de Tramuntana to finish at Pollenca at north end. From there I intend to get a ferry to Menorca to complete the 190km GR223 which encircles the island before devising a route across ,around or over Ibiza and Formentera.

But one step at a time. In order to fulfill my plans I will not only have to survive the Tramuntana but a three day wedding party at Deia, halfway along the trail.

It was odd to be walking the shorts and sandles filled promenade of Peguera with a full kit rucksack on my back and as soon as I managed to dump it in my cheap and cheerful room I joined the last of the days sunworshippers for a sunset dip.


They were back in force the next morning when, in full hiking gear, I set off from the beach heading inland on the wrong road immediately. Quickly and easily remedied but a reminder to stay focused- it may be a small island but it’s big enough to get very lost in and without my GPS and good maps I need to keep a close eye on my whereabouts.

IMG_3133

I was soon away from the resort traffic on a recently created footpath to Es Capdella with views reminiscent of the Camino Mozarabe in March, with white stony land, crumbly holm oak dotted hills and carob, almond and olive trees.

I soon passed by D’en Boira medieval tower house, the first of many structures strongly built to withstand pirate attacks. As I roamed the island of the next couple of days I saw there was a lot of wealth to protect from them.

A Spanish omelette in Es Capdella fortified me for the trek over the mountains towards Estellencs. The first signage for the “drystone route” appeared as did the first wall, although this effort was nothing to the constructions to come.

 The limestone also gave up signs of ancient life.

The peak of Galatzo loomed larger as I passed almond groves with earth grazing sheep on my way to the vast Finca Galatzo estate now in state ownership and being restored to its former glory.


 Set in a beautiful secluded valley, ringed by mountains, this mighty property, very seldomly visited, boasts miles of terracing and towers,

 gardens and forests

 and a collection of old agricultural edifices scattered across the land. Like the old granary for the storage of tithe grain, tax to the church and state.
 and lime kilns restored and not.

   and charcoal burners huts and pits.

A steep and rugged climb up through the tough and prickly vegetation and then on old cobbles was rewarded by fine views back down the valley to the sea in the distance, a reminder of the journey so far.

   until finally climbing through a stile onto the high plateau at about 800m and then heading down with the northwest coast now visible.

A few km further I reach the restored mountain farmhouse of Sa Coma d’en Vidal, all ready to go as a hikers refugio but for some reason stalled a while ago and sitting idle. It was a good place to stay anyway, making my bed in an old lean to shed with a view of the mountains and moon.

 I climbed the rocky hillock beside the Finca to watch the sun set turn the mountains pink and met Tom a young German out on his first long hike and finding it tough going.

  

In the night I heard some strange animal cries that could have been this critter that I later saw a warning poster for.

 Tom had gone in the morning by the time I had done my ablusions with the help of the well, a weight and a plastic bottle, but I met him again on the outskirts of the village of Estellencs below near the coast.

  

The original GR 221 route had been blocked by a landowner some time ago and now the official route goes along the coast road for quite a way. To avoid the road an alternative is used heading through higher ground and we used that.

Passing more lavish houses and estates it seemed that the cheap and boozy resorts of the south Coast were from a different planet.

  

The government has bought the massive Planicia estate that we eventually, and by separate routes, found our way to.

  

From there a cairn marked trail led up into woods of holm oak and arbutus that reminded me of the cloud forest of the western canaries.

  

Another fine old Finca at S’Arbossar

 was followed by the Cami des Correu, a fine ancient cobbled highway through the woods at times with massive walls alongside.

    

Hoping for a filling meal and a few beers I headed for La Granja, another big estate on route but although a lovely place with many interesting things in its museum the prices in the cafe/restaurant matched the general ambiance of high class and was no place for me and my sweat drenched clothing and odourous presence.

  So I carried on to the town of Esporles, got some crisps, bread and tuna, said farewell to Tom and sat on a park bench drinking cold cans. Proper job.

THE GRAND TOUR: FRANCE 25-30th AUGUST 

A couple of days family get together on the Loire was spent paddle boarding and kayaking around the tidal waters and picnicking on the beaches when the weather was good and holed up in Tranny playing games when it wasn’t, which was a lot.

When the others left for their ferry we left for Normandy. The day had started well

 But soon deteriorated and we had a wild and wet drive north. We were heading to another area we’d never been to ,the Alpes Mancelles in the Parc Naturel Normandie Maine. There was a free camper parkup next to the river Sarthe in St Leonard des Bois

 in the centre of it and we arrived in the evening with the rain finally easing. We parked under a massive slab of sandstone cliff that alarmingly had lost a chunk recently but awoke unharmed.

  A pretty town filled with flowers,

   and little curiosities

 it had numerous walks marked out around it. We chose a 4 hour geological ramble and set out on a figure of eight through time.

Included in the Natura 2000 list of remarkable European sites because of its geological and topographic diversity it’s been an area that has attracted nature lovers for centuries. To name it Alpes is overstating its height somewhat and it was hardly in the same league as a lot of the stuff we’ve been exploring but it was pleasant enough and the route was studded with signboards and viewing pipes and rock samples to explain the landscape, most of which was due to those volcanos again.  The first thing we came across was an ancient stone cross marking the pilgrimage to Mont de St Michel.

Halfway round we stopped at the Domaine du Gasseau, a big chateau with potager or veg garden which we obviously had to look over.

 There was also a show of photos taken in local ponds that was charming.

 Back on track we climbed up through heathy woodland to traverse an escarpment before descending to the river and Tranny.

Our next stop was St Ceneri le Gerei, listed as one of “France’s prettiest villages. “

  

It was indeed very pretty but its tweeness had probably driven up property prices and driven out the locals. We certainly came upon a few groups of Brits who had invested in a French dream home.

There was a wonderful garden open to the public , Les Jardins de la Masoniere,made up of 18 different enclosed spaces. The plantings and landscaping had a certain je ne sais pas ,a certain joix de vie. Magnifique! 

There was going to be a classical concert held there the following night lit by 1000 candles which would have been magic but we had to go in search of a shower. It had been too long.

We found one miles down tiny back roads at La Ribardiere organic cider farm, which was handy. They had a couple of caravans and people camping, so for a couple of quid we were able to wash and clean and sit in the orchard sipping the produce. No air miles involved.

 The sheds were covered in solar panels which was something we’ve seen a lot of in this area of France.

 A very quiet Saturday morning on the farm with only the sounds of cows and birds was followed by a short drive into “Swiss Normandy”.

Like the Alpes Mancelles, the name was a bit of poetic license but it was a dramatic landscape on a smallish scale.

 We stopped at La Roche d’Oetre where the escarpment peak at the Swiss like altitude of 118m, gives a fine view of the surrounding wooded river gorges. Like on our previous Alpinne experience the hills were all that was left of the oldest mountains in Europe, the Armorican massif. We did the trail.

 There’s a pretty convincing head profile in this slab of rock.

  The path circled around down through the oak woods and along the river below.

   The river meanders were impressive but I couldn’t get a decent view of it and in the end Serena came up with the best display.

We were gradually making our way north towards Cherbourg and the end of our time away. We had one more night on the road and we trusted our parkup guide to supply somewhere nice en route. It didn’t let us down and when we arrived at the Abbey in Cerisy le Foret at the edge of a huge oak forest we were delighted to find a sculpture park had been created there. Every year since the mid 90’s artists from around the world had been invited to an annual festival to carve a piece in public and in 2013 a park was made to house 112 works by 71 sculptors from 34 countries and the municipal camper park was in the middle of it.

 There was also a placid pond surrounded by the marble and granite pieces.

 And the mighty Abbey above it all.

 A fine meeting place of artistic cultures and a very tranquil spot to contemplate the end of our journey.

Which only left the next morning to complete our trip by returning to the sea we had left in Holland on the first day of our Grand Tour.

THE GRAND TOUR: FRANCE 23/24th AUGUST 

We left our restaurant side park up disappointed by being turned away from a deeply anticipated meal there. We’ve had some trouble being served a few times for reasons exceptionelle. ?

But as it was a very rainy day we’d had our first real lie in and hadn’t left the cloudy gorges till nearly midday.

 We had a few hours drive northwest cross country to get to our next park up in Oulches near the centre of France. The area around there, the Park Naturel Reginal de la Brenne, looked really interesting with acres of forest and a myriad of lakes.

 The weather improved as we went and after settling in to our temporary home and checking the facilities

 we went for a marked hike about the environs.

   It was all deeply rural. A little unknown (to most) patch of rich land and thick oak forest studded with little ponds and pools and rich in fungi.

                  

 The little village had a huge church and nice little houses.

We went further into the park the following day, to an interpretive centre, where there were boardwalks across some ponds and hides full of twitchers spying on the rich bird life.

 There was all manner of wildlife in the area including boar and deer and little terrapins.  You don’t often see this road sign.

The lakes and other man made ponds were often stocked with carp, a specialty of the region, which must have been great terrapin and bird food.

Time to move on again. Another few hundred km northwest to a family rendezvous on the banks of the Loire near Nantes. Keeping away from major roads again we past through one beautiful town or village after another , anyone of which would have a steam of coach tours and tourists but here were left to fade in a very chic fashion.

And so we arrived at our free parkup from the guide to discover yet another nice tranquil spot with water and toilets, walks and cycle ways, restaurant and bar, ancient ruins and history. How civilised this country is.

THE GRAND TOUR: FRANCE 20/21/22nd AUGUST 

3 Days of Hiking the Auvergne Volcanos.  32/ 21/ 16 km

We’d parked the Tranny outside the camper site with a little note saying we were walking the GR30 for three days and headed off hoping not to return to a parking ticket.

We had a vague circle in mind but with a multitude of trails crisscrossing the countryside we had options. Which was just as well because it didn’t take long to realise that we had bitten off more than we could chew.

Their was something indescribably French about the landscape and little details in it.

The way was littered with crosses, a lot ancient looking ones, and we realised we were on yet another Camino route. Or maybe the same one we were on in the Valle di Susa in Italy.

We were traveling up and around and down steep sided volcanic cones and the dogs were already looking to cool down.

This was also granite country and there was a big dolmen that seemed to be incorporated into a little village football pitch.

At the quiet hamlet of Olloix about 12km into the journey we were already heating up. The initial cool of France had gone and we welcomed a sign for the first Gite D’ Etape of the route.

 These places did food and drink and beds and were geared for the walkers. We had thought about using them as an alternative to carrying tent , mat, bag , cooking and eating stuff etc etc but didn’t know if the dogs would be welcome and anyway we like to carry heavy loads up steep sided mountains in very hot and humid conditions.

So we just had a cold coca cola.

A couple more hamlets and then a fairly big spa town ,St Nectaire ,was in view with the day’s goal of Murol in the background below the hill top chateau.

 Back into oak woods after all the beech of the last couple of months, and down into town where we passed bains or baths that had seen better days.

With over 20km and a lot of sweating done it was a bit of a slog back up into the menhir and troglodyte cave rich hills for the final push. We passed, bizarrely, a kangaroo and emu zoo where the fencing needed to be high.

 And then the Chateau de Murol which was heaving tourist bait.

 We had to get round the hill ,down into town where the pharmacy thermometer said it was 33*( this was 6 pm),pick up water and supplies, get out of town a couple of Km and hope we could find a lake side camp spot.

Unfortunately the place was more of a resort than we had realised and the lakeside trail was a running, cycling, family strolling kind of amenity path where camping was strictly interdit. 

But we found a little patch unseen to call home for the night and after an aborted nudey swim in water up to our knees, we’re happy enough to call it a day.

Next day dawned fair to the sound of a hot air balloon’s gas burner.

We were going to do a lot of climbing,up to 1700m , and do a long ridge walk across the spine of the Auvergne so we headed off as soon as we could down the boardwalk around the lac. 

 Passing through deeply rural villages with some lovely traditional buildings we slowly climbed higher onto the hills.

 

 Overjoyed to find a restored mountain hut operating as a Gite but disappointed to discover they were booked out.

 Still they had plenty of reviving water and cake and yogurt.

 Water was a crucial element in this hike. We were sweating loads so needed loads but couldn’t carry loads. And we were never sure where we could get it. And the dogs needed loads too. Scruff did a stirling job of carrying theirs but it got too much for him and I’d ended up carrying his rucksack too.

Anyway suitably revived we’d carried on to a saddle at Coll de la Croix St Robert were we erected some shade and rested up before the big climb up Puy de l’Angle at 1738m.

And on up and down along the ridge with beautiful views all around towards the next drop to Coll de la Croix Morand.

Salvation at the Coll. Another funky hostelry revived us with beers and replenished our water supplies so we carried on happy another couple of km and made camp beside the path where I spent the night in my bivvy bag gazing at the Milky Way in the crystal sky at 1440m and it was cold enough for Toby to wear his silks.

In the clear blue sky of the morning we crossed a broad flattish plateau and then started to descend passed many old summer grazing both us, to the lower ground.

The least exciting 10km section finished it and us off as the heat sapped us of strength and enthusiasm and we were relived to arrive back at Tranny to find him/her unmolested and without tickets. We snuck into the camp for showers and clothes washing and hung everything up on the railings around the football pitch to dry like proper travellers and as things cooled off joined the motorway madness of the return to the north for the thousands whose holidays were over this weekend, before quickly pulling off to park up in a lovely free camper spot next to a fine looking inn.