Zaragoza, Ecce Homo, Bilbao & Condom

Streaming

Rach has politely advised me that my eyebrows have become unreasonably long. To be fair, the longest ones do reach my cheeks if I pull them down. They've just turned blonde in the sun though, so it seems a shame to trim them.

Day 32 was mostly spent frolicking in a stream. One of the best stops so far. Surrounded by woodland, mountains, rocky cliffs and an amazing stream running through the valley underneath our parking spot. I jumped into the stream off a tall rock. Rach sat and let fish nibble her legs. I had some album cover shots taken. It was a bit paradise-y.

Zaragoza

We stopped at a campsite in Zaragoza - or, ''tharagotha'' as Rachael would say. 

Listened to England lose the first Test by the pool, then we headed into Tharagotha center. Made a beeline (as in took a direct route, which bees just do not seem to do) for the Old Town. 

I ordered two excellent pizzas and a jug of Cava Sangria with two glasses. I ended up sharing the meal with Rach, as she looked hungry and thirsty as well. We ate by the massive impressive building by the river - the one that isn't the cathedral. It's got blue, green and yellow cone-shaped roof tops, you know the one.

When we got back to the campsite I had a stunning hour in the hammock, followed by more of a lesser quality in bed. The mosquitos and flies make it difficult to get a great night's sleep over here. To be honest, I'm not a fan of either species whatever the nationality, but the Spanish ones really do seem to be especially unlikeable.

The Painting

We departed Tharagotha and headed for Borja to see the infamous Ecce Homo. It's a fresco painting of Jesus from 1930 which was 'touched up' in 2012 by an untrained elderly amateur. She completely botched it and it ended up a global phenomenon. They've had hundreds of thousands of tourists visit the town since, just to witness the hideousness.

We arrived in Borja a few hours before the exhibition opened. We spent some time at a pleasant nearby bar with great views of the northern Spanish landscape.

At half 3 we wandered over to the exhibition. A sweet old man with a husky voice who sold sweets and ice creams next to the 'attraction' helpfully explained to us with hand gestures that the 'attraction' didn't open until half 4, as opposed to now, as we'd expected. I could've chinned the bastard.

We thanked the kind man for the information and instead split the next hour between the bar and a nearby pond filled with carp and turtles. After a while, the lovely old man from before appeared and lobbed a full baguette into the pond, sparking a feeding frenzy. He mumbled something, grinned and shuffled off.

Finally, we got into the exhibition. Seriously, it looks NOTHING like the original. It looks nothing like a human. It was actually very reminiscent of Gordon the Gopher. I half expected there to be a portrait of Phillip Schofield on the adjacent wall. What a mess. Truly abysmal. We were so appalled we only bought an Ecce Homo pen, fridge magnet and bottle of wine.

Navarette

After paying for the items, we ran out of the building screaming, got in the van and screeched out of Borja, throwing up out of our windows.

A couple of hours later we reached a town called Navarette and took a very dodgy winding mud path to a quiet little spot for the night overlooking a lake. That evening we watched the film You Were Never Really Here with Joaquin Phoenix. We'd picked him up on the way. I can't say what he was doing hitchhiking in Northern Spain. I asked, but he wouldn't say. Weird.

Earlier we'd stopped at a petrol station, just to nip in and grab some water and a snack. Rach put the steering wheel lock on. Unnecessary I thought (and said). When we got back to the van two minutes later we discovered I'd left my window open. Also, most definitely, unnecessary. Somewhere in between those two security strategies seems about right to me.

Bilbao & San Sebastian Again

I don't know which demon we roused in Navarette or Borja - maybe we ridiculed the Jesus painting a bit too much - but the following 48 hours were cursed.

Firstly, as we approached Bilbao, I started driving like a crash dummy, making all sorts of mistakes. Mind you, the roads do not help in Bilbao - more on that in a sec. Half hour after arriving, we got moved on from the empty, football pitch-sized car park we'd stopped at by the local police. They advised us to try a place called Kobeta.

Kobeta was up a mountain. We struggled to the top via winding roads, avoiding the usual obstacles, like wild horses etc. The view of the city below was superb mind you, and got better as it got dark.

The next day, I decided I would drive us into the city, to banish the memory of my last effort behind the wheel. What followed was 2 hours of driving round THE WORST road system either of us have ever seen, trying to find a parking space that just did not want to exist.

On Bilbao's roads, you don't go from A to B. You go from A - 7 and then on to ?. Roads split before you've had chance to notice and every junction seems to be right or left turn only so you have to go via the most convoluted route to get anywhere. This put us in a state of annoyed exhaustion for the rest of the day. It put me in a very strange mood. Almost delirious. I wandered round the Guggenheim making stupid pretend phone calls on the free audio-tour head-sets. 

After we left Bilbao (vowing never to return), we drove straight through to San Sebastian. It was dark as we arrived, and the town looked great all lit up. We were glad to be back to see the old town and try the famous pintxos. We were driving up the street to our stop for the night, with an orange sunset straight ahead warming our moods, when all of a sudden we noticed the road ahead was blocked off. A taxi seemed to ignore this and drive round, so we followed in hope.

No luck. For the second time in two days, we were getting a slap on the wrist from the local police.

''Didn't you see the signs?'' asked the arsey copper. My excuse that I couldn't read/speak Spanish didn't wash.

''No entry signs are universal.'' He had me there.

Weirdly, during the second half of the exchange the policeman cheered up and started being friendly. Not sure if it was Rach's Spanish - ''Lo siento!'' - or the way I irritably and abruptly cut him off when he was giving us his dressing down. A bit of both? Classic good cop, bad cop routine.

We ended up spending the night on the side of the road with regular trucks and lorries zooming past, rocking the van throughout the night. But it was the heat that really made it hard to sleep, even after a quick cold shower on the street outside. If it wasn't for our fan, 'The Fonz', I think we'd have melted into our sheets.

Back in France

On day 37 we realised there were no spaces at any campsites in San Sebastian - Spain had clearly had enough of us. The best we could do was number 8 on the waiting list at Camping Orio. We decided to leave for France and the cooler air.

The last person to speak to us in Spain was a traffic warden threatening to give us a parking ticket if we didn't move. Summed up the last two days really.

We crossed the border into France hoping for a reversal of fortunes. The curse of northern Spain had other ideas. During lunch at a stop in Bayonne, Rach got a message from her mum - we'd been issued a speeding fine from Spain - 100 Euros, or 50 if we pay within 20 days. 

God I hate Spain. Apart from the weather, the food, the beaches, the architecture and the way of life, it's a complete shithole.

We arrived at Camping Comtesse for our first night back in France. And something amazing happened. It rained! Thank GOD. We spent the evening in the van drinking gin and I taught Rach how to play poker as the rain peppered the roof. The bad spell was finally broken.

Condom

The next morning was really gloomy, chilly and wet, which was an absolute pleasure. It remained wet for the next 24 hours. Fittingly, we spent this time in a little town called Condom. It was a pretty place, but a bit strange. They had umbrellas hanging across the streets for some reason, and speakers blasting out naff pop music, interrupted occasionally by a deep-voiced French bloke announcing something or other.

We had a quiet evening back at the van eating tuna baguettes as the toads inhabiting the nearby river enjoyed a good old sing-song.

The next day I woke up realizing why the French call bread 'pain'. I had a bad stomach all night from the massive tuna baguette the night before.

Varen was the next stop. On the way it was still really overcast. The sunflowers in the fields either side of the road were hanging their heads to the floor as if depressed, or ashamed of something. Sundays are dead in this part of France. Proper dead, they don't mess about. We stopped at a little place called Fleurance, but struggled to find anywhere to get food. A polite girl working behind a local bar that was surprisingly open explained that they didn't do food but perhaps she could make us a sandwich, although she couldn't guarantee it's quality as she'd never made one before. We politely declined, a bit confused. Even I've made a sandwich before for fuck's sake.

We got back on the road. Rach drove over a dead animal of some kind and grimaced. She'd tried to avoid it, of course. I offered that it might just have been sleeping. She nearly burst into tears.

Varen seemed really nice on arrival. We would have a proper look round the next day, then head to Najac - voted one of the most beautiful villages in France!

Recommended park up in Condom:

http://park4night.com/lieu/4536/