In the Footsteps of Don Quixote May 2007

La Ruta de Don Quixote

08/05/07
It was a beautiful sunny Monday when Miki and I set out from Albir towards Albacete, and a rendezvous with the trail famously followed by Cervantes’ hero.

Opting to get to the area in one go, we took the Autovia, and as inner Spain seduced us with its charms, and the fabled windmills loomed on the horizon looking for all the world like Quixote’s giant adversaries, we tentatively left the highway and explored the meandering, often unmarked roads that criss-cross this region.

Parking on the “Balcon de la Mancha” quite literally, The Balcony of La Mancha, for it is the highest point for miles around, we shared the view that the windmills have seen for hundreds of years, looking out across the multicoloured plains of Spain stretching into the distance as far as the eye could see.

After briefly visiting the museum contained within one of “Los Molinos”, we put our feet up in the Motorhome with a coffee. It was then that something extraordinary happened. Extraordinary, and sad. For, whilst it is commendable that the Spanish authorities are preserving these reminders of a classic work by a classic writer, the new golden generation of dimwit boy-racer peasantry are defiling it with their rally-skirted tuppeny-ha’pny souped up second hand Fiat Puntos and the like. We watched several inbreds throwing their pathetic penis extensions around the carpark. What a sad juxtaposition, a whirlwind of creativity from Cervantes engulfed by a whirlwind of dust from the type of person whose only use for a book would be to prop a car up while he knicked the wheels. Sad, sad, sad.

Nevertheless, Miki and I opted to stay in the area, (though, having cast a wary eye on the characters mooching about on the balcony, a little further away) and the next morning we set out to explore the Laguna de Manjabacas. A haven for birdlife, and a small oasis of tranquility, we spent the day painting, sketching and composing. ( I even rehearsed for the new album) and as the sun began its lazy descent, we walked the shoreline, and marvelled at the flamingos, great swathes of white, pink and black as they stretched their wings…the falcons overhead, patiently staking out a field, waiting for the kill, and the stilt-like echasse, gingerly stepping through the waters, like an elegant duchess averse to getting her feet wet, then, soaring above the shimmering face of the lagoon, their dangly red legs streaming out behind them like a discarded party favour, wheeling and diving as they play with the air currents. As I write, I glance out of the window towards the lagoon, to see the sun gasping its last dying breaths of the day, casting a golden ribbon across the water. The cries of the birds create a countermelody with the cicadas,as they all sing together to welcome nightfall.

The Attack of the Mosquitos

09/05/07
…So the sun had set, and Miki and I settled down for one of my speciality Spaghetti Bologneses. It’s like eating in your own exclusive, private restaurant here in the Boomobile, as we affectionately know the Motorhome. However, on this particular evening, our intimate dining experience was gatecrashed in the most appalling manner. I raised the mozzy-net on the rear window to allow me to close it, and a host of the insidious creatures grabbed the millisecond opportunity to join us for dinner, and I guess WE were to be the dinner!

I set about killing them before we retired to bed and the ritual dvd, and Miki told me she needed to go outside! This allowed another host to gain entry, and they were duly dispatched as mercilessly as the first. It must be said that, biblical plagues notwithstanding, the Boomobiles mozzy nets are seriously effective at keeping our travelling environment pest-free (though they allow Miki through from time to time).

We spent an uneventful night unmolested by the mosquitos, and it seemed the genocide I had waged prior to bedtime had done the trick.

Come morning, and it was a different story….Miki opened the blinds to reveal all of the windows on the shaded side of the Boomobile were totally COVERED in mosquitos. Now, I’m not an entymologist or anything, so I can’t be certain that mozzies bear a grudge, but it damn sure looked like it!

We tried a few things, starting the engine, moving the vehicle..they weren’t budging. We bit the bullet, and had to get in and out stowing things for the journey, and once again were subject to an invasion. My continued annihilation of these creatures was desensitizing me..thank god I never went in for shoot-em-up video games!

We left the beautiful laguna with a few hundred thousand hangers-on, and they were seriously hanging on, even at 70 kph! After a while though, they seemed to be falling away. We stopped at a supermarket in a nearby town. Miki opened her door, and there were hundreds hiding in the door frame, and in the cracks of the bodywork of the Boomobile..Bloody stowaways!

When we reached our next set of windmills, (by a curious coincidence, ALSO visited by the legendary Don Quixote, well done, entrepreneurial Spanish tourist board!!) we leapt out and I attacked the little varmints with a brush, sweeping them desperately away from the Boomobile, and praying they wouldn’t fly back in.

Some time later, and we are surveying an infinitely better set of windmills than the first lot, and currently free of joyriders. We feel a sense of relief and normality returning as we sit down to lunch prior to Miki’s painting expedition for the day. We take a sip of coffee and I reach out to pull down the mozzie blind from last night….it reveals a veritable graveyard of flattened mosquitos, the unlucky ones who didn’t have the presence of mind to leap into the vehicle when I was closing the window last night. A tapestry of horror, death on the net, I guess you could call it. I imagined a poster of it up at Mosquito central, the commander in chief drilling his buzzing troops, and admonishing them- “Move it, or Lose it!!!”

The Wellspring of Opportunity

10/05/07
An interesting night, as we listened to the comings and goings of various vehicles at all hours. One stopped right by us , and a group of Spanish men got out to discuss whether or not to use gloves. We assumed they were planning a robbery, and hoped we weren’t the target. A hope not without foundation, as planning your heist within earshot of your intended victims would be the height of stupidity, but then again, we were out in the country, if you know what I mean….

We felt a little more secure in the knowledge of a German camper pitched across the car park from us, and after concluding that most of the “traffic” was due to people coming up to smoke a few j’s, we promptly got a good nights sleep.

Thursday morning found us on a mission, to replenish the water tank, and, as luck would have it unusually clear signage led us to a beautiful public fountain . That was locked. Except on Mondays and Wednesdays.
Undeterred, we accosted a female farm labourer (well, Miki did, I could get arrested for doing that) and she pleasantly told us there was one about 6 kilometers away. We set off.

Some time later, apparently in the middle of nowhere, there appeared a great open area for picnic, barbecue, with a church for outdoor worship. We immediately saw two water taps! Neither worked.

As I reigned in my discontent, Miki located a working source, on the side of a large building, not unlike the church. The pressure was weak to say the least, so we hooked everything up and settled down for lunch, confident our tanks would be replenished just in time to forestall global warming’s inevitable Armageddon.But only just.

I was just taking my first slurp of coffee, when a workers wagon from the local ayuniamento showed up. “Uh-oh”, I thought. “we’re in trouble here.”
How wrong I was. A very genial chap asked us how long we’d be, and would we like the pressure turned up. Wonderful, it was surging away in no time. Furthermore, he invited Miki and I into the building, and we gazed down in awe as he floodlit the glass-covered well that sank 70 feet down into the aquifer that secreted the water beneath the plains. It was strangely humbling, seeing what it took to bring this life-giving water to the surface. A great monument had been built outside to commemorate the fact that until 1943, this was the only source of drinkable water for many, many miles.

It was a privilege to be allowed in, and my pleasure was only dulled by the sadness of realisation that the Spanish in the tourist towns are now a world away from these friendly, helpful people out in the heartland. And it is the tourists fault, they reap what they sow.

Lunch over, we headed for the Tablas, a nature reserve Miki wanted us to visit. It was wonderful. Wooden walkways spanning the lagoons and marshlands on great wooden stilts made walking through this reserve and seeing the wildlife a joy. We encountered many “hides” where it was possible to watch the birds up close, the signs urging “silencio” at all times.
Needless to say, I had to beat Miki severely about the head whilst admonishing her to keep quiet, otherwise we may have been thrown out for unruly behaviour.

As the day drew to a close, we pitched up in Almagro, which has the sales pitch of “most beautiful village in La Mancha” Miki is undecided as yet. “La Mancha’s a big place” she announced, sagely.
We begin preparations for dinner, and look forward to seeing if the town lives up to its hype in the morning.

Almagro – Oasis of Music & Dance in the Spanish Wilderness

11/05/07
With the morning, Miki and I headed out into the town, interesting and in places picturesque, it nevertheless failed to give me that “medieval” feel that it supposedly has.

We persevered, and found ourselves in the Plaza Mayor, which was an enormous open area, surrounded by very old buildings fronted by green painted wooden tiny window frames. The whole façade was supported on columns, providing a covered walkway underneath through which you could browse the local shops selling linen and lace, safe from the heat of the sun. The old beams overhead reminded me of English Tudor period towns. The town was alive with students, giving it a cosmopolitan feel, all laughing chatting and being rounded up in a haphazard fashion by their tutors. The comic counterpoint to this festival of youth was the collection of characters from old Spain, the bow-legged old widows and grizzled old men.

We got a glimpse of their youth, too, as we sat in the park sketching. Three old guys were sat talking on a bench, smoking, perusing the newspaper, when a friend of theirs whisked by on a shiny new mountain bike…”Hey, chocolatay!” they cried, and he grinned, and proceeded to show off his machine, doing laps round the ornamental fountain. In that moment, you saw them all as young boys, you just knew the guy on the bike was called that, because as a child he ate all the chocolate. You realised these were four kids who had hung out together fifty years ago, had been through the marital mill, the lifetime at work, perhaps a factory, perhaps in the fields, and now, they were hanging out together again.

We discovered a big university dedicated to Music and Dance, and quickly came to realise that this town had a long history with the Arts. We accidentally fell into an exhibition detailing the old theatre that once stood in the town, from its beginnings in the 1800’s to its demise and demolition in the 1980’s. A wonderful collection of costumes, posters and memorabilia were on show as testament to its enduring popularity for nearly 200 years.
It was sad to see it had gone, but a shiny new theatre stood in Almagro now, a statement that the town would support the Arts into the 21st century and beyond. It was good to see.

We left Almagro and headed for the Castillo de Penahoya. It was an imposing edifice, perched atop a rocky outcrop, overlooking an equally imposing dam that had been opened by that old rascal Franco on May 23rd 1959. In its halting of the waters it created the first of the Ruidera lagoons, a series of stretches of water strewn across the arid landscape like a string of glittering turquoise pearls. We parked at the foot of the dam and climbed the rocks to reach the Castillo like some severely understaffed invading force. Luckily, the castle was severely understaffed as well, and we took it without a fight. Feeling distinctively juvenile, I espeied the old bell hanging in its open tower, and threw a rock at it to make it “ding”. Unfortunately, the rock described a graceful parabola straight through the tower, missing the bell completely, dropping into silence into the open courtyard on the other side. Miki and I scarpered like naughty kiddies, convinced I’d inadvertently brained some unsuspecting tourist. The fun over, we clambered back down to the motorhome and set off on the lagoon trail. It was a beautiful drive, following their shorelines, and we stopped overnight in a clearing by the water.

As night fell, we were joined by a Spanish motorhome, which was unusual. A couple of cars came and went, but all in all, we had a quiet night, and as 12 struck, we celebrated Miki’s birthday.

The next morning we were rudely awakened at about 7.30 by an insistent knocking on the door. I peered from the bedroom window in a state of undress…”La Guardia!” I whispered to Miki. I’m not sure quite what she replied, but I don’t think it was French. I opened the door to them and they asked for papers in that way that they have. To cut a long story short, after confusing them with a UK driving licence, a French Passport and so on, they bid us a good day, and left with good grace, considering.

Miki went to talk to our Spanish neighbours while I had breakfast. (We had now been joined by a further two motorhomes) They told us La Guardia had informed them it was illegal to “camp” here. Now the law in Spain is a bit fuzzy on this issue (and many others) but they insisted that if you put your step down, or even opened any windows, it was classed as camping. Now, forgive me, but I class that as b****cks. It is a short-sighted view regarding motorhomes. The French are more enlightened, and realise they are a great source of tourism and revenue and consequently provide facilities for them, we have seen it in action and it is regenerating some forgotten harbour villages. The Spanish can’t even be arsed to make a new law to deal with it, and just amend the existing camping law to try and cover the loophole that allows motorhomes to park overnight. To try and argue that opening a bloody window constitutes camping is not only stupid, but in the long term, detrimental to Spanish Tourism. You cannot build a multi-euro industry on the basis of cheap holidays, property and friendly services, then when you’ve got your captive audience, herd them like cattle, impose fascist rules on them and expect them to shut up and pay up. They will leave. They are not stupid. Spain is thriving and prosperous today because of the foreign tourist, and how they were welcomed. Fact. Never forget that, for the lord giveth, and the lord taketh away.

Of course, La Guardia could have been lying…but they wouldn’t do that, would they?

Things may come and things may go, but the Euro-dance goes on forever….

12/05/07
I’m paraphrasing Pete Brown and Piblokto, I know, but it seemed appropriate.
Today’s search for a suitable series of motifs for Miki’s painting culminated in our arriving in the village of Albatana.

We had initially parked on the outskirts, and Miki had found some nice scenery to capture. As we looked for a permanent place for the night, we came upon an unfinished series of roundabouts and service roads that were dead ends in the middle of nowhere. Deserted. Perfect. We parked up. No sooner had I got the handbrake on, than a small people carrier parked in front of us, disgorged about ten female members of the same Spanish family, who proceeded to tell us we couldn’t park there because of all the big lorry traffic, and disappeared into a deserted factory. Fair enough. We drove into the village. I favoured the outskirts, but Miki found a nice spot by the park in the centre. We settled down, and enjoyed our evening meal, observing a few old boys having a quiet drink at the pub across the road. By midnight, I felt we’d been dropped in the middle of Ayia Napa. Screaming teenagers, male and female, banging doors, barking dogs, the sound of discarded bottles, continually smashing into the bins, all accompanied by the most soulless, mind-numbingly boring pseudo Spanish euro crap you’ve ever laid your ears on. No wonder people need drugs to listen to this. I wouldn’t have minded a bit of Zeppelin or Whitesnake, but the mindless thud was like a jackhammer pounding me into the misery of a sleepless night. Miki was oblivious. She was wearing earplugs to combat my snoring. A kind of poetic justice? Probably!

A view for eternity

13/05/07
We made our way towards the coast on our last full day of the trip, stopping off in a windswept rural landscape for Miki to paint some farm buildings and skylines.

Our final destination for the night was El Puerto de…1020 feet above sea level with the most magnificent view into a beautiful valley of greens and golden browns and terracing. Far in the distance we could see the ocean, and Alicante. Only a short hop home tomorrow. I let my eyes wander from the vista, and they came to rest on the slope immediately below me. I suddenly noticed a pattern asserting itself in the previously haphazard rocks and earth.
Somebody had made a garden here! It seemed so strange that anyone would take the trouble to do it, all the way up here. There were carefully laid rockeries, small terraces and everywhere flowers and shrubs planted with care. I called Miki down to look, and suddenly found, in the centre, a flat slab of rock with a plaque attached it read….Tomas…Jerez 2005

It was a memorial to someone, but who was he? Was he from Jerez? Had he died there, or here? We resolved to find out when we got home.
But later that Sunday afternoon, a middle aged couple appeared and began tending the garden, watering, and tidying. The man fussed over all the area, the woman sitting smoking a cigarette for some of the time. Miki and I left the Motorhome to go for a walk, and saw the couple sat at the foot of the garden, in tears. It was one of the saddest things I have ever seen.
A little later, as they left Miki said goodbye and they managed a brave smile.
Their loss was palpable. Whoever he was, this garden with a heavenly view, is a testament to the fact that he was loved.

Night on a bare mountain

14/05/07
So night fell, and there we are cursing our stupidity as we are assailed by 60 mph winds, perched completely exposed on the highest point for miles around. We lie in bed listening to the gales raging outside, rocking the motorhome violently. No sleep is had, and at 5.30 am, we give up and head down into the relative peace of Xixona in the valley, where we stay for most of the day, asleep!

We trundle into Albir around 6pm, tired and happy. Don Quixote, we salute you!

Kev Moore