Fes - not the hat

...that's a Fez, and we haven't seen one of those yet, not even in Fes.

Well, what a place! We'd read so much about it, but nothing can do justice to the Real Thing. The sounds, smells, all the sensory stuff can't be got any other way than to be here and rub shoulders against it.

We'd decided to hire a guide for this. Several reasons: it puts some money into the local economy, it makes it easier to find the must-see highlights and it keeps unwanted attention away, by which I mean the constant hassle we experienced elsewhere from folk wanting to be "helpful". This always involves an unspoken contract: "I'll show you something you don't want / take you somewhere you don't wanna go, then you pay me for my expert guidance." This is a major problem here apparently, and while we're not keen on accepting comments like that without our own experience to confirm them, on this subject we do have some "previous".

So, enter Mohammed. Nice chap, mid-forties I'd guess. Arranged through the site receptionist and waiting for us at the appointed hour. Earlier actually, and the taxi meter was running already...no matter, let's enjoy this. A minute to agree the fee - 300Dh plus the cab each way- and we're off. It's quite a way to the medina, not the 3kms mentioned in our site guidebook, so we're glad to have the taxi.

I'm not going to try to describe Fes medina here. Plenty of other, better qualified and articulate writers have been there before me and the information available could fill a large library. Our experience of it, though, was unique to us and I'm sure others would experience it differently and see different things. It's also difficult to compare it to anywhere else people from our culture might've been. I was put in mind of Mary King's Close in Edinburgh - that semi-subterranean warren of rooms and corridors that used to be streets and alleys open to the sky but have now been overwhelmed by later developements. There are, apparently, 11,000 alleyways in Fes and we saw quite a few of them which are barely shoulder width but are, nevertheless, main thoroughfares. They say a picture says a thousand words, so here's a few thousand from our cameras:

I asked Mohammed if he could explain the story of "Fatima's Hand". I'll not cover it here, but he used this door hinge as an example of how the image of the "5 Fingers" crops up all over the place in Moroccan decoration.

 It'd be very easy to get lost here. Mohammed obviously had a well-rehearsed script but was quite happy to chat about any subject and had a level of knowledge of facts and particularly figures that'd keep even American tourists happy. Without wanting to sound rude, our cousins from the USA seem obsessed with the "numbers" that attach to any topic. I remember getting a bus tour of the Kennedy Space Center that told me as much about the bus I was on as the rockets I was looking at. Whether I really needed to know how many bolts were in the transmission is open to debate...Anywaaay, back to the point of this:

 Car boot-type alley sales are everywhere, and you have to be careful not to accidentally step on something that looks like, to our eyes, just junk.

Every alley has a slightly different "feel" to it but unlike other souks we've been in, they don't seem to be specific to any particular commodity. Everything is mixed up together and in tiny shops that are more like cupboards. Certainly, Sue's got a walk-in wardrobe at home that'd make a good shop here. In fact, thinking about it, we could've brought the contents along and made a bit of cash.......

Some alleys are more residential in feel, but all have an air of graceful decay about them. If there's no-one around in modern dress, then the scene you glimpse is timeless. The medina is  - if I recall the fact correctly - 1200 years old, and you can feel every day of that in the air.

Wide enough for 2 people to pass - just. Add a little something else to the mix, and it all gets quite up-close-and-personal......

These guys are known, if they're mules, as "Medina Mercedes". The donkeys are "Dinkies". There's no other way to move cargo around as there's no room for anything more mechanical than a wheelbarrow. We saw quite a lot of these chaps, some loaded to the point that you had to marvel at their ability to stand up, let alone move.

This chap's making decorative combs from some form of shell or I guess it could've been plastic. I've no idea how long each one takes, but here's a craftsman at work and the fruits of his labours were for sale at 5 dirham each. If you're from the UK, that's 30p....

One noticeable thing is how cool the place is. This is the interior of a mosque glimpsed from the "street". The temperature was almost chilly, in fact, enhanced by the lack of any breeze - like opening a fridge door.
We were encouraged to take photos of whatever we liked, but we couldn't cross the threshold.

Each of these buildings we looked into had the most amazing mosaics, plasterwork and cedarwood carving, all going back centuries. Since it all looked pristine, I asked Mohammed when the last restoration had been, and he pointed out the date carved above a door - 1324. I was amazed and said so. What I didn't appreciate until later was that this date is of the Muslim calendar. Our equivalent would be 1906....

Pretty much the top slot on everyone's sightseeing list must be the tanneries. We'd seen so many pictures of these and read so many descriptions that the only thing we hadn't experienced was the well-known stink that you can't get without SmelloVision. Pictures of the vats of coloured vegetable dyes appear in every guide book and this is what we expected to see -

The camera never lies, right? Well, what you see here is a photo that Sue took of a video screen. We'd been led to the tannery entrance by Mohammed and had it not been for him we'd have walked right past it. Nothing but a tiny door amongst others equally nondescript, there was, if you were alert enough to see it, a small hand-painted sign on the wall. Nothing else, not even the notorious smell gave a hint of what lay at the top of a narrow - less than a broad shoulder width wide - staircase and I wondered about that as we climbed. It's supposed to be an overpowering odour. Makes your eyes water, apparently. Obviously whoever wrote that is a lot more sensitive than us - I can't really smell anything that bad... Mohammed handed us over to the tannery guide who gestured towards a wide balcony and invited us to view the vats. As we moved from the darkness out into the bright sunlight, Sue said excitedly "I've been waiting so long to see this...."

We both gasped in disappointment. Everything below us, vats, storehouses, doors, metalwork, woodwork, paintwork, all brand spanking new. Clean, unsullied and almost monochrome. I haven't mentioned that the medina is now a UNESCO World Heritage site, and the tanneries have been "restored" as part of that status. The project has just been completed and they're waiting for the king to come and officially open it. Until that happens, if you want a whiff of the pigeon shit they use to cure the skins, go to Trafalgar Square......

To make up for it, we took the opportunity to photograph the rooftops:

Sue liked this view of contrasts - an aerial farm on the roof of a building that could be nearly a thousand years old.

 

 

 

Back inside, there was plenty see and buy, but no "hard sell". This was a pleasant surprise and gave us the chance to examine the craftsmanship and variety without having the proprietor or one of the staff hassling us. This was, unfortunately, in marked contrast to the other emporiums that Mohammed introduced us to....

This carpet shop was in an ancient building, the purpose of visiting it supposedly to admire the architecture. Definitely not to buy carpets. That was Mohammed's line, and we made it clear that we were only interested in the culture, not the commerce. Now, I don't mind a bit of a joke and the real reason for our visit was blindingly obvious from the start. However, we played along and the description of the building and it's features was fascinating, as was the explanation that it was now used as a showroom and sales outlet for a co-operative that supports single women. Unlike our society, an unmarried, divorced or widowed woman in Morocco is in for a hard life unless she can find some means of support. These co-ops give that opportunity. We're all for supporting it...but not as part of a subterfuge. We made it clear from the outset that we weren't in a carpet-buying mood but the escort/architecture expert/carpet salesman wasn't having any of it. He tried every trick he could and, not wishing to appear rude while drinking his tea, we tried again to explain that desert driving and expensive carpets didn't mix well. OK, he could wrap it so well it wouldn't get dusty, or he could ship it home DHL for a mere £150 - which gives you an idea of how much a carpet might cost you. While we now know a huge amount of really interesting stuff about carpets and how they're made and decorated, we've also had our prejudices about Moroccan "guides" reinforced. We were eventually dismissed - and that's the only word for it, really - and as we left I asked Mohammed if we could leave a donation for this worthy cause. His reaction was odd: "No. Not welcome. This is not a charity". As it happened, we'd had, earlier, a demonstration of the weaving technique by a young woman working alone in an attic room. Sue had slipped back unnoticed and given her a 20Dh note "for your baby". A pittance by our standards but a gesture anyway. I still don't really know whether we did the right thing, how it was received by her or how to translate what we experienced overall into something other than a blatant and actually downright rude attempt to get Mohammed some commission on a sale. Without banging on about it too much, the same thing would've happened at the next "craft exhibition" we were encouraged to view had Sue not taken a liking to a silk scarf. The supposed deal with these co-ops is that they're sales outlets and everything is a fixed price "because you kind people are uncomfortable with bargaining, so we make it easy for you and take away the strain of shopping." Believe that if you like, but the scarf would've been part of a larger sale if the jellaba that Sue tried on had fitted. It didn't, but that didn't matter to the salesman - she could have it at 200dh discount if she bought the scarf as well...No? 300dh then. No? How much you want to pay? Make your own mind up about how that works in a Fixed Price Co-Operative...

So like a said at the beginning of this, our experience of the Fes medina and our guided tour was unique and "others would experience it differently and see different things". Now that I've distilled some of my thoughts and feelings about it, I'm actually not sure that statement is true. I believe that if you employ an official guide - and they're all supposedly licensed - you'll see what we saw, go to the same or similar places and possibly feel at the end of it a bit like we did. A head full of interesting facts and memories, and a bit more cynical than when you woke up this morning.....

Riding the Rif

Finally - we've left the rain behind us....although from what we've just heard on the radio news it was rather the weather that left us. As it's a Bank Holiday Monday back home it is, true to form, p*ssing down and blowing a hooligan. Smug? Moi? A bit like our correspondent to the last post. How d'ya feel now with Hurricane Katy rattling the windies, Plancky? This is being written in glorious sunshine in Figuig (32 degrees North, 32 degrees Celcius) on Easter Monday after an eventful few days, of which more in due course....

So, here we are, all 3 of us - or actually 4, but more of our unexpected guest later. I'd like to think that some of the regular readers - both of you - have missed us over the past few days, but probably not. Just to recap, then, the last you heard from us was our missive describing our fun time in Chefchaouen. Or something. We left, heading south, on another wet morning feeling somewhat dispirited. Our plan for the day - Wednesday 23rd -  hatched in the warmth of the kitchen back home, was to start our off-road adventures with a route down to Fes through the Rif. Under the conditions applying presently (as they might say at the BBC) we didn't have much enthusiasm for this. We stopped a little way down the road at Bab-Taza, where the route began, and gave ourselves a stern talking to. Actually, I ranted at the weather and Sue fed me Haribos while we debated the options. After a few minutes we decided that - to hell with it - we came here to do this, so we should just get on with it and stop moaning. Sue was trying to dry the bedding by holding it against the heater vents and the whole of the cab was beginning to feel like a sauna since our Defender heater does actually work pretty well. I had to open my window a bit to clear the windscreen and accepted a wet arm for the benefit of some visibility. Not that we could see much through the murk anyway.

As we progressed I was aware that things weren't right with Daphne's electricals. We have a split charge system that feeds power into the aux (leisure) battery when the main starter battery is up to capacity. With the fridge and lights running at night this depletes the aux to a point that it needs a top-up and once the engine's running it generally gets it pretty quickly. That isn't happening today and the reading on the voltmeter is gradually dropping. Something isn't right. It could be that the extra load of heater full on, windscreen wipers beating themselves to a frenzy, inverter running and headlights on aren't allowing enough spare ergs to pass to the aux battery. I upgraded the 65A alternator to 100 to cope with that, I thought. There must be something else....The red (not enough volts) light is now blinking on the fridge. As we go along, I'm going through the "what if" scenarios in my head, trying fault find without actually stopping and doing anything about it...mind you, in this deluge, I don't fancy opening anything electrical 'til it's a bit drier. I'll investigate later.

The route, as far as we could tell from maps and Google Earth, was what's known as "piste"; that is, unmetalled tracks at best graded but generally, and hopefully for our plans, often just bare earth and rocks. The reality was a bit different from what we'd expected. The track had been sealed....but some time ago judging by the state of the surface. Good by Moroccan standards in places but broken up and deeply rutted in others. We had a 220km line to follow through the western Rif mountains that'd bring us out at Ain-Aicha. I won't say that you can buy a map that shows any of this, but if you're determined enough it can be drawn onto a satellite photo and, combined with a bit of GPS magic, some form of navigation assistance can be concocted. We followed this as best we could but, with the rain now coming down in biblical amounts the visibility needed to navigate with confidence just wasn't there. For that reason also, we didn't get many pictures to show how it was, but those of you who are familiar with the Scottish Highlands in Summer will know exactly what I mean when I say "driech". We topped off the fuel tanks in B-T and I tried, with the pump attendant, to get an idea of the track conditions higher up using some of my newly-acquired Dharija. I got a blank look as a reply. I tried again French. Similar result. He called to his mate to come and help using a dialect that I'd never heard before, and he struggled in French, as I was now doing, to understand. I thought about adopting the Standard English tourist routine and just talking more loudly, but we all gave up in the end. The rain didn't, though.

Conditions higher up weren't any worse, in fact, which was just as well given the condition of the "road". We passed through a little place called Beni-Ahmed where the main street was almost washed away, with the crumbling remains of tarmac in places, split with huge ruts that were over a foot deep. Lots of huge puddles which were more like ponds that I was very careful to drive through slowly because we couldn't know how deep they'd be. It'd be a bad start to our trip if we dropped into a crater and got bent.

The locals didn't seem too impressed with the weather either, slopping along in wet shoes, huddled into their Hobbit coats. The kids going to school seemed to have plastic tablecloths that did double-duty as raincoats. They were all, without exception, apparently happy to exchange a wave and a smile despite the conditions. There was the occasional attempt to wave us to a stop by local entrepreneurs who were operating the local hash franchise. Sue initially thought that one bloke was holding up a mobile phone in a plastic bag - quite a sizeable "score" if you like that kind of thing. The Rif is rife (sorry - couldn't resist that) with drugs and has a reputation for unpleasantness which might be justified. Like a lot of other things we've read or been told about Morocco, the only real way to get at a bit of truth is to bite hard and make up your own mind about how it tastes. We saw nothing but friendliness. We stopped for lunch as the rain abated and a guy driving a road grader chugged up alonside us and waved. Climbing down from his rusty cab, he crossed to us carrying a plastic bag and a large bottle of milk. We assumed that, having seen us eating, he'd decided to join us. Yes, in a way. We had a brief exchange of "hellos" and "how're you doings" and expected him to sit down with us but instead he produced half a loaf of bread packed full of large chunks of what looked like cheese, and offered it to us to taste.

 The "cheese" was home-made butter which he was keen to stress was from a cow. Of course there are a number of other alternative sources, but "vache" is clearly "la creme". As we passed it back, he made it clear that it was a gift, with the milk. The rest of his lunch. Then he climbed back into his grader and made off, but not until I'd gone after him with an offering of an apple. He took the apple and gave me an orange in exchange....."Watch yourself in the Rif - dodgy bunch of ruffians...."

At this stage I managed to sort out the electrical snag that'd been bugging me all day. The rattling and bumping had done two things - shaken the cover off one of the big bar fuses that isolate the split charge relay, and also dislodged the little bit of bent aluminium that I use to open said cover as it's a bit tight. I store it wedged in the insulation in the electrical compartment under the passenger seat. You can probably guess the rest. I didn't hear the crack as the fuse was shorted by the bit of ally, but it was probably pretty loud. The fuse is a bit of a "rare animal" too, so good to have a few spares available. Satisfying to cure the problem, too, as where electrics are concerned you can chisel my knowledge and understanding on a pin head. With a fire axe.

We worked our way through the hills and as the day wore on the rain lessened until it was actually pleasant, even if not yet as warm as we'd like. The villages didn't have any signs, names on shop fronts or other ways of working out our position and the names on the map didn't always tie in with where we thought we were. Professionally speaking, this translates as being Temporarily Uncertain Of Position, but maintaining a general compass direction and the occasional hint from the Garmin did the job well enough. An old instructor of mine used to say "You don't need to know where you are, just where you want to go" and we had a pretty clear idea of that. For those who want to chart our progress, we reckon we passed through or close to Tabouda and across the Oued Tasrafte where we were checked by a very pleasant copper who expressed some concern about the state of the road ahead but let us pass with a "bonne chance". El-Khemis, wriggled up through the mists and cloud to Rafsai (or Rhafsai or Rafsi) up hairpin bends and eventually to the road at Taounate. And sunshine!

 By late afternoon we were negotiating the traffic on the Fes ring-road, or what passes for it. At one point I think I missed a red light at a major junction, but given that no-one else seemed to pay them much attention it probably wasn't such a crime and we didn't hit anyone. We were intercepted at one roundabout by a guy on a moped who had clearly "pinged" us as tourists looking for a campsite, and drew up alongside as we went around the circle, offering his services as a guide. I nearly wiped him out as we took our exit, but he was clearly well practiced at this and reappeared at Sue's elbow having switched sides better than a Red Arrow. He persisted for several more "rondpoints" before giving us up as a Bad Job and breaking away to starboard, nearly colliding with a donkey cart as he whizzed off. After a long day, we made our nightstop as planned, and had a bit of a rearrangement of cargo:

While sorting out the damp chaos in the back, Sue discovered a little surprise:

From Sue:
Apparently Mike volunteered to do some product testing for our local craft brewery. The idea is we take this little chap somewhere hot, shake him about a bit (lot) and see how his contents taste after 4 weeks...and after I was persuaded to ditch a similar weight of really useful foodie things! Mike says he can be a mascot. This is clearly a pathetic attempt to appeal to my cuddly side, and "what are we going to call him?" We? Nothing to do with me, buster.
Suggestions by comments, please, but Mike's working with variations of "Wilson" - remember the coconut that Tom Hanks adopted on his raft? If Mike starts talking to him the same way, I'll be absolutely sure he's lost it.....

Tomorrow is our Fes tour........a rest day.

The Rain In Spain....

Falls mainly on the Tourists. Apparently. The last post you got from us was halfway up – or down – that country and now we’re in the top half of Morocco, so a bit of catching up to do. It’s tempting to rewind and give you all a blow-by-blow of What Daphne Did on Sunday – Monday – Tuesday etc but, let’s be honest, that’d be as boring as your rellies slideshow of their holiday in Barnstable. Nothing wrong with Barnstable….nah – you’ve read all that before.

So, no recap on where we’ve been and what we’ve done. Except for this bit:

1. To complete the stuff about the campsite Chopera…lovely place. Full of interest and tapestry of life. The debate about where we ate was decided by another deluge and we headed for the site “restaurant”. This was co-located with the bar. A typically Spanish affair, with tiled walls and floor which makes cleaning up easier, but does nothing to deaden the sound of a family of Irish “Travellers” on holiday. This group of characters hailed from Limerick. We know that from a brief interrogation of one of the junior members who, at the time of the inquisition (it is Spain, OK?) was almost 100% engaged in trying to shine a laser pen into his sister’s eyes. When I suggested that it perhaps “wasn’t really a toy, your laser pen” I got the only eye contact made during the entire conversation..”It’s me beamer, ain’t nuthin’”. That’s alright then. His name was Liam; wants to be a doctor…when he’s not blinding his siblings. We’d noticed his sister – about 18 months old and toddling around the bar – seemed to have no knees, stomping about in quite an odd fashion, a sort of rolling gait like someone who'd wet themselves. Then we watched the rest of the family, who all seemed to move in the same way. The patriarch waddled – and that’s the only way to describe it – in and perched on a bar stool and – well, sorry, but I have to say that this is probably the ugliest individual I’ve ever laid eyes on. When this guy fell out of the Ugly tree, he hit every branch on the way down, then landed face first on a picket fence…The guy who coined the phrase “ a face like a Bulldog chewin’ a wasp” must’ve had this bloke in mind. Scary and fascinating at the same time. I really wanted to take a portrait photo of him but I doubt either me nor the camera would've survived the experience. I’ll let Sue pick up on what she remembers:

“It was then that we appreciated that the very loud ‘manly’ group propping up the bar were connected to the wife and children group at the other end of the room. TV blaring, loud verbal interchanges, much gesticulating. After a while we realised that this was not typical Spanish repartee, but Irish. One chap had been in the wars and was propped up on crutches – bright yellow. There was the Granda of the group, who looked has if he’d thump you if you made eye contact. There was one chap who was so drunk that he kept falling asleep on his bar stool, and every time he woke up he started thumping the stool next to him and shouting ‘ guttup guttup’ to a toddler who spent the entire evening waddling up and down the room with the bottle of milk in her mouth bobbing up and down. We got the impression that she was looking for someone to sit her on their knee and feed her the contents of the bottle. When she did fall over, her ‘uncle’s’ shouts of  encouragement did little to help her “Guttup”. A boy of around 12 – another of her uncles, apparently -  was on hand to plonk her back on her feet and give her a gentle push to get her going. I suppose it's possible that the reason she kept falling over was that she was blind.  Mike wrote about the ‘beamer’.”

2. So that was Sunday. We made it to the bottom of Spain on Monday night and spent a frustrating 2 hours searching for a campsite. The problem with using satnav POIs is that quite often they’re just plain wrong  - see the previous re gas stations in Portsmouth – or if not wrong, then out of date. Which explains that for Plan A, after an hour’s diversion to what looked like an ideal nightstop, MsGarmin guided us unswervingly and without error to the best campsite in Cadiz that was closed. For Sale. Not operating; except as a collection point for windblown garbage. Plan B was more successful, but after an 8 hour drive, another unplanned 40kms ain’t welcome. At least it’d stopped raining for a few hours. We met a nice couple with a 5-star campervan who were heading the same way as us, but with 3 months to do it in. Jealous?....nah…course not. Kerry and Tim – good luck!

3. Tarifa and Tangier on Tuesday, hurrah!

3. Wish it’d stop bloody raining though, if only for long enough to get the bedding a little less damp. We hadn’t planned on crossing until we’d cruised the shops in Algeciras, so decided to take the time for a small diversion so we could say we’d stood at the bottom of Europe.

 

Well, Tarifa in the rain is about as exciting as anywhere else in a downpour (see previous re Wigan) and we didn’t hang around. Looking at Europe’s bottom, that is. Straight to the ticket office in Al-g to discover that the 1400 ferry we were kinda expecting to use - and would give us 3 hours of shopping time – wasn’t running this year but we could catch one at 1200. Wasn’t this even better? No hanging about. Well, yeah, except that leisurely cruise around Carrefour turned into a mad dash to get the “necessaries” (mainly beer) before we missed the boat, literally, and then we’d have to wait until Wednesday as there’s no way that the 1800 sailing was going to work for us. Driving in Morocco in the dark? We may be a little adventurous, but not suicidal…We made it though, with time to spare as we really knew we would. It didn’t sail until nearly 1 o’clock.

As we got off the boat, cleared the Moroccan bureaucracy- pretty painless by normal North African standards -  we finally got to take off our wetproofs:

The road south beckons.....

So now you’re almost up to date, or rather you would be if I’d managed to get this post out yesterday morning. As it was, the campsite we used at Chefchaouen had decided that wi-fi wasn’t going to be part of the deal. In addition to that, enthusiasm for sharing our feelings about the continuing monsoon was hard to find. 

We (note the diplomatic language, chaps) left the “tent door” open and while enjoying supper were ignorant of the deluge then soaking the mattress. Nothing better to brighten your evening than a soggy bed….nuff said. Maybe sometime this millenium the bloody heavens will run out of wet and give us a chance to stop “dripping” as the Marines might say....

Until then, our Sense of Humour is coming out of a glass. Bismillah!

All at Sea....

Saturday, halfway across the Bay of Biscay….(well, that's when this was written. Those of you who followed our journey last year will remember the trouble we had keeping up with events. This is being sent from a bar in a campsite near Placensia in Spain on Sunday night.)...and "G'day" to our new readers in Oz!

So far, so nothing much to report, Cap’n. The expedition departed Moray Base at 7 on Thursday morning in a cold, damp clag which persisted until we crossed the mountains about 3 hours south. 

After that it was a beautiful day with an easy drive to our overnight stop near Warrington and our first foray into the world of Airbnb. Steve and Ian made us very welcome and it was a pity that the 10-hour drive had left us too knackered to socialise – we were both asleep in front of the TV by 9pm.

The remaining few hours to Portsmouth and the ferry reintroduced us to “proper” traffic again. We know we’re spoilt in that respect up in the Northeast of Nowhere. Although the number of cars has increased everywhere over the years, we still have relatively clear roads and we forget how unpleasant it can be negotiating a fair approximation of a dodgem ride when on the highway. We hit the first major holdup 15 minutes into the journey as we attempted to get back onto the M6 motorway. The Traffic Info on the radio eventually revealed that the road had been closed by a couple of horses running loose along it. Given that this would have initiated a full-on Imminent Disaster response from every blue light in the Midlands, we weren’t surprised to see solid lines of stationary traffic in all directions. A quick scan of the map (old-fashioned, see) revealed that the only viable diversion required that we join one of these lines anyway, so we decided to stick with Plan A. As it turned out, the southbound line crawled along for a mile or so then, as if by magic, began to accelerate. The two police cars – blue strobe lights blazing  - on the hard shoulder seemed to be the only reason for the slow traffic which was now up to full speed within three hundred metres. If the coppers sitting on the fence having a jokey natter had turned their lights off, perhaps things would’ve improved more quickly….? Presumably their colleagues on the northbound carriageway were doing something similar, but perhaps with brighter lights, as the queue over there went on for another 5 miles. Oh, the joy of motoring.

We arrived at Portsmouth about on schedule, had a quick recce to make sure we had the right place to check in, then went looking for a fuel pump. I guess we now do what everyone with a satnav does, and just asked the computer. Well, for the second time in 24 hours the precise directions to a petrol station took us nowhere even remotely resembling a purveyor of motoring spirit and, once again, we just used a bit of common sense. Despite Mr Garmin insisting that petrol stations can be found in residential streets of terraced houses it’s not in our experience so we reverted to basics and just found a main route and followed it. An Esso station soon appeared, unannounced by the satnav. A great toy, but with limitations. If the human navigator (HN) is having a bad day, this is generally obvious before any reliance is placed on the advice forthcoming, and an appropriate bias placed on it. Maybe the menu of annoying comments issuing from the Guidance Computer should include “I’m more stupid than usual today so be prepared for me to direct you off a cliff”. This works well for HN. I think that’s enough of that for now. Dodgy ground.

In the line at Portsmouth. Why is it that everyone keeps their engine.... gasp...cough...retch...

running?

So, here we are then, all at sea and forecast to arrive in Spain by 1700. The water’s fairly calm and the crossing of this notorious stretch of the Atlantic is, so far at least, a non-event. We’ve had a chat with a rep from one of the overland trekking companies who’s tipped us off about a campsite near Santander that would be convenient for tonight, but a quick internet search on the ship’s not-so-quick wi-fi indicates that it doesn’t open for another 2 days, so we might be disappointed there. The back-up plan is the site we’ve used before at Burgos. 

We reverted to the back-up plan. The site recommended doesn't open for another 2 days. This required a 3 hour drive in driving rain and deepening darkness into ever-higher terrain. Add to that the lack of "cats eyes" and a Brit White Van Man who preferred to keep us in front of him rather than overtake and stop blinding me with his lights, and the whole business got bloody annoying. Eventually I slowed down enough to force him to pass me and he was followed by a convoy of artics that I hadn't realised were there. No doubt my slow progress has soured Anglo-Spanish relations again, but as far as I'm concerned the loss of the Armada was their fault, anyway.

And now, it's Sunday. 20th. It's been p*ssing with rain since we landed, everything is damp except our spirits and we are halfway through Spain. Personally, I am also halfway through a bottle of Merlot, but that's not unexpected after a hard day steering. We're drying towels over the still-warm engine, plotting tomorrow's leg and considering the merits of a cafe's burger n'chips vs beef bourginon from Daphne's kitchen. By the time we're done with the rest of the bottle, I guess the decision will make itself. Slobs, aren't we?

Hello, Boys....

....I'm Daphne, and I'm the Star of this Show.....

For those of you who aren't Serious Landrover Geeks, it's OK for you to skip the rest of this post, as we're going to get really into my insides, if you know what I mean.

Tick....tick.....tick.....tick

OK, don't say I didn't warn you!
I was born in Solihull in December 1998 and was a special baby, made for Aberdeen City Council. They had me painted a unique shade of lemon yellow, which has caused my present owner some trouble in getting a match for giving me a bit of touching up.
As I grew up I was taken to the seaside a lot since ACC used me as a support vehicle for their outdoor activities - Mike thinks I was used to tow a dinghy trailer. Since I'd spent a lot of time with my backside in salt water my rear crossmember rotted off and had to be replaced at some point. This is his guesswork though as the only paperwork - other than my V5 Birth Certificate - that I have from those years is a scribbled note in my handbook that says I might have had an oil change sometimes. I arrived at my new home in 2010 with 83000 miles on my clock which means I was practically a toddler by Landrover standards. I looked pretty scruffy then as I'd not had a bath for years and smelled of 1. diesel and 2. damp. The reason for this was
 1. My fuel tank was leaking because the bodger who fitted a new one didn't fit the sender unit properly. This only came to light when Mike gave me my first full tank and I disgraced myself by spreading it all over the driveway like an incontinent puppy, and
 2. I had a sunroof. Or Rainroof as it's now more accurately known. All Defenders leak. It's designed in. With a hole in the roof they just leak more. It's part of our charm.

 I've had several refits since I first arrived here, and this is how I look from behind for this trip:

Mike had the idea that he'd like to sleep in me and set out the whole interior to be a bedsit complete with space for a double bed, kitchen, boxroom...well, after a few compromises and rethinks, I now have a cooker, fridge, fitted kitchen, sink, water tank, workshop, spare parts store, gas BBQ, enough gadgets to navigate to the moon and that very important double bed.

The fridge and cooker are on heavy-duty drawer runners so they both slide out to the middle of the kitchen and make them really easy for the chef to use.The doors have had a bit of a "tweak" so they open a lot wider than they used to which makes them a bit more friendly to use, and you can see how everything fits in really easily.

No space goes unused, and in the spaces underneath the floor - along the chassis rails -  there are 2 boxes that used to hold Black and Decker drills. These are the perfect size to slot into the space behind the front outriggers, and hold stuff that we don't mind getting wet - engine oil, grease, transmission fluid etc. Gets it out of the way and the smell stays outside. These are vulnerable to damage but if they get a bash or two, it won't matter. The space in the wings has been used to provide storage for spare coolant hoses, a back-up footpump, rope and bungee cord, more engine oil....yawn.

"Up Front" I've had a complete facelift. My original seats were pulled out and some very nice leather numbers put in their place. £50 from the local scrapyard, donor vehicle a Volvo. Heated too. Got more knobs and levers than a 747. Like my maplight? The customs bloke at Tangier last year thought it was a microphone until it was turned on. Used to be a £5 desk light from Ikea. I think perhaps you're getting the trend here...most of my "improvements" have come from dusty corners of the house and garage or the nearest skip. A lot of stuff has come from Proper Places, though. Over the last 2 years I've had a new clutch, springs, shock absorbers, radiator, vacuum pump, brake servo, exhaust system, alternator and a whole raft of other little bits and pieces including tyres and wheels. What could possibly go wrong after all that?

Mike says he wishes I hadn't said that.......

 So, now I'm all packed up and ready to go tomorrow. All the rethinks on what we take, what we don't really need and what has to do at least two jobs has resulted in a lot of empty space. This is a Good Thing but I can't help wondering what important  - nay, vital - item is still on a shelf somewhere and won't be identified until we're too far gone to turn around. Like passports, perhaps.

One more sleep.

...and some overdue introductions.

Dunno why we didn't do this earlier, but reading back through what we've written so far it might appear that we're trying to remain anonymous. No excuses, really, just clueless.

Hi! I'm Sue. I like travelling and exploration. I don't like hats. But if I don't wear one my hair goes a funny colour in the sun, so this is how you'll see me if we meet on the road anywhere south of Santander and HE said I should wear it for this photo and it's easier if I just agree.
I'm currently in the middle of a Masters in Forensic Science which I've put "on hold" for 6 months while we enjoy ourselves on this trip. My Day Job is in Transport (Human Resources). I don't read maps upside down, change flat tyres or lift heavy things. I do the cooking, keep the Ship's Log and an eye on HIM, which is always a Good Idea. I have a sense of humour - luckily....



                             

I'm Mike. I don't like hats either, but the (one?) trouble with getting to my age is the usual protection from the sun - hair - gets a bit thin and some help is required. Nor do I usually have the Face Fur, but it makes for an easier life. For this trip I decided to grow it early to save on the annoyance of scratching like a Columbian crackhead all the way to TanTan. Like last year. 
I used to work in the transport business too, mainly heavy metal delivery. That job took me all over the world but I retired from an active role about 12 years ago, and since then I've worked in an advisory and training capacity in the same business.  I can read a map upside down and lift things heavier than a handbag. I don't do cooking to the same standard as HER so I stand back, guard the Barbie and admire her expertise. With a beer, generally.    
...and I'm posting this on my birthday. Unlike HER, I'm happyto admit that I'm on the "good side" of 64....