Our Travels in Words

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 26

2007-11-19T03:54:00.000-08:00

Salmon Falls on my Tongue - 03/08/2007

As the third day of August unfurled before us, we left Alness to head for the small hamlet of Tongue, a mouth-watering prospect, on the Northern Scottish coast. Along the way, quite by accident, we found the Falls of Shin, a fast series of Rapids and Falls cutting through a small rocky gorge.
Following the tourist signs we were led down increasingly narrow roads, until eventually a single track led us out into a large clearing containing a car park, kids playground and tourist centre. Clearly, the Falls were rising. There was a sign indicating a path down to a viewing platform, and we went down to look.
“Not the best Falls I’ve seen” I rather unkindly said, after briefly peering down into the frothing waters, but Miki agreed. We headed back up to the tourist gift shop, which inexplicably sold a mountain of Harrods Goods. I found out later that this land and the gift shop were owned by that celebrated Scot, Mohammed Al Fayed. And we’re worried about the Premiership being owned by foreign investors….

Any how, as we exited the gift shop replete with souvenirs, having dutifully lined Mr.Fayed’s already overflowing pockets, I happened to notice the Falls of Shin logo, featuring a Salmon. Realisation, like a 10 ton cartoon weight dropping on my head, suddenly dawned. “It’s where the Salmon leap!” I exclaimed to a nonplussed Miki.
All credit to her, having not the slightest idea to what I was referring she accompanied me as we scampered back down to the viewing platform and almost immediately saw a beautiful, graceful fish explode from the foam, gaining seemingly impossible height, fighting against the roaring flow of the Shin. Then another, and another. Nature’s incredible struggle against almost impossible odds, the salmons overwhelming compulsion to return upstream, regardless of obstacles. Then, another, powerful giant of a Salmon, leapt gracefully, water, like a string of pearls, cascading in its wake, its tail already swishing ready to take the tremendous force as it dropped into the upper stream. It was thrown to the banks with the water’s force, almost grounded, but it flicked itself back in and we watched, open mouthed, in awe, as it held its own against the relentless torrent. Side to side, it slowly gained ground, inexorably making its way against the odds and all reason. It had won. It was one of the most incredible things I have ever seen in my life.

As the day drew to a close, we neared Tongue, and got a tantalising glimpse of the North Atlantic. It felt like we’d reached the end of the world.

As we crested the final hill before dropping into Tongue village, we saw a great causeway and bridge spanning the estuary on which Tongue sits.
We headed down to it, via a delightful switchback road that dropped us down the hillside, and found a small parking area right on the land bridge. The tide was out, and after careful inspection, I felt that during the night it wouldn’t rise enough to bother us. We set up for the night on this strange land bridge between promontories, it was most odd! Stranger still, we were joined by a further three motorhomes in our little area, one Belgian, a guy with four dogs, and two Spanish from Barcelona, travelling together. They’d made the run from home to the top of Scotland within a week. It was then that Miki and I realised once again just how lucky we are to have the gift of time to do the things we love. So there we were, a little international community, tucked in together on a small sliver of land at the top of Europe for the night, as the wind howled and the rain lashed….and the tide came in.

Text by Kev Moore
Art & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 25

2007-11-10T22:27:00.000-08:00

Loch, Stock and Barrel - 02/08/2007

The next day proved to be a veritable feast of Lochside travel, partly circumnavigating Loch Laggan. We travelled along the A82 towards Inverness and about ten miles North East of Fort William, near Spean Bridge, we came upon the Magnificent Commando memorial standing proud in the Highlands. It remembers all that have fallen since their formation in 1940.
They did much of their training in the surrounding hills and nearby Achnacarry. After spending some quiet moments reading all the humbling messages here, we moved on, discovering Loch Lochy (daft name) Loch Oich, and, inevitably, Loch Ness. So much has been written and postulated about Britain’s largest body of water, its difficult to know where to begin. Its deepest recorded depth is well over 800 feet, which is, if you’ll excuse the pun, almost unfathomable! It is connected by the Caledonian Canal which bisects the nation. It was designed by a famous Scottish son, Thomas Telford, promised for £300, 000 in five years, cost a million and took nineteen. Millenium dome, anyone? But it is Nessie that really makes the cash registers ring. The green backed monster that generates greenbacks.
Real or imagined, this water horse has become a worldwide industry.
I hope she exists, if only to see her turn up on the shore one day demanding a percentage of her image rights. We were mug punters, paying a fiver each to see an old documentary that probably predated Nessie herself, and 80 pence for a postcard. Now, its not the money per say, it’s the fact that they are insulting the tourist. 30 pence would be okay, 40 the tops, but 80 is like, we hate you, but we need you here for our business, so we’ll milk you dry, but make sure you’ve all buggered off by the end of August.

It makes you proud to be British

It had to happen. The indignant neighbour. There was always going to be the day when our horrid motorhome was going to be viewed as an affront to society. You didn’t need a degree to work out that this would happen somewhere in the British Isles, and the guy would be English. We’d been settled for a mere fifteen minutes when there was a knock on the door. We never get a knock on the door.
“Hello!” I answered cheerily. Middle class indignance with small-minded
Mentality stared up at me. The world slowed to treacle toffee as I could see him trying to compute the unlikelihood of a long haired English bloke greeting him from an obviously French motorhome.
“You do realise you can’t stay here overnight?” That curious pitch between question and statement.
“No,” I replied, “I do not realise that, after all there are no signs to that effect.” I continued, reasonably.
His reply was breathtaking.
“Well, there are no signs saying you can’t murder me, are there, but it doesn’t mean you can.”
This took the conversation to a whole new level. I wasn’t just dealing with small town pig-headedness here, I was dealing with a twat.
“Are we on private land? I’ll be happy to move along if so.” I offered.
“Yes, yes, you are, its British Waterways” he gushed, grabbing my get-out clause with his manicured middle class paws.
“Ah, not strictly private then, is it? “ I countered, “Is there a copy of the Waterways by laws displayed nearby?” He was sweating.
By now I had tired of the fight, but wanted to turn his head to the mirror of truth and shove his face in the murky reflection, so that he might experience a brief moment of clarity and see himself for the bigoted, Dickensian inbred throwback he really was.
“Why don’t you just admit it,” I offered, “Lets forget all this residential/privacy crap, you just don’t want anyone parking anywhere near your house, and you haven’t the guts to say so, have you?”
“Well, erm, yes, no, that is, of course I don’t.” he stammered.
“I’ll move this eyesore from your residential area immediately” I replied.
“Have a nice day.”
We left. After I’d made another coffee of course. He was the ultimate NIMBY (Not In My Back Yard) and yet we were in no way overlooking his property in any way, and were perfectly legally parked.
I hope, and I cannot emphasise this enough, that a horde of unwashed gypsies camp outside his house, steal all his valuables and neuter him. Twice.
We moved on, in search of more friendly pastures. Through Inverness, and over a mighty bridge across the firth, ever northwards we trekked, finally coming to rest in a lay-by set back from the road just after another stone bridge across another sprawling estuary.
We’d been in place for only a few minutes, and I was enjoying a quiet moment in the loo, when I heard a roar like a jet and the Boomobile was rocking. I emerged to an incredulous Miki. A car had screamed into the lay-by and goosed us at close on a hundred miles an hour. If either of us had been stepping out to switch on the gas, we’d have been history, not to mention a mile up the road. We dismissed it as a reckless overtaking ploy, but about half an hour later, a car full of Neanderthals went past shouting “Find a bloody campsite!” I was beginning to think Hadrian’s Wall had been a damn good idea. My riposte, had they lingered, was likely to have been “find an intelligent thought” but perhaps I was setting my standards too high for non-sentient beings.
We decided we weren’t welcome there either, and Inverness was rapidly being re-christened “Unfriendli-Ness”

Third time lucky we tucked into a services car park just outside Alness, and spent a thankfully undisturbed night. Eventually!

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 24

2007-11-08T03:03:00.000-08:00

Feels Like Heaven - 01/08/2007

Undeterred, we rose at the crack of noon and headed for Perth, stopping off for a bit of a clothes and shoes buying session, resulting in Miki looking pretty in pink and me the proud owner of some groovy footwear and a Fender guitar belt. Very Rock’n’Roll. We don’t go shopping very often, but when we do, we tend to get a bit carried away.
The city of Perth lies on the banks of the River Tay. Interestingly, the local football team, St.Johnstone, takes its name from the fact that the only parish church here in the Middle Ages was the church of St.John the Baptist, and Perth was often known in the local dialect as “St.John’s Toun”. Perth also hosts a yearly Arts Festival which in recent years has broadened its appeal to encompass major rock acts.The town has a small chart claim to fame, having spawned the group Fiction Factory, and their 1984 hit “Feels like Heaven” which coincidentally I used to play in my old band Tubeless Hearts. It was with the band that I’d last visited this city and its distinctive stone buildings Situated at the end of the M90, it is a natural gateway to the Highlands.
We moved on and via Dalwhinnie, we finally and spectacularly finished the day’s driving by the shores of Loch Laggan. With some stressful manoeuvring, Miki watching for traffic around the treacherous bends, we tucked into a little hollow by the side of the Loch, and Miki went into Painting and sketching mode.
The view across the Loch from our rear window was the stuff of dreams, and we enjoyed a wonderful evening by the quicksilver waters as the sun made its graceful exit beyond the mountains. Fiction Factory, it seems, were right.
It feels like Heaven.

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 23

2007-11-04T23:00:00.000-08:00

Take the High Road - 31/07/2007

The next morning we were off again, and Miki remarked how the scenery was changing and becoming, in some subtle way, more Northern. Bleak was a word that sprang into my mind…
We had decided to hang with the A1 until Darlington and then, wisely, if you’ve seen Darlington, veering North West on the A68 through West Auckland, Corbridge, and eventually Jedburgh in the borders.
We found it astonishing that this switchback of a road through wonderful scenery didn’t merit the usual “green ribbon” on the Michelin map. No taste these cartographers! Arriving at the beautiful viewpoint on the English-Scottish Border, I pointed out to Miki that a guy used to stand here playing the bagpipes. Some minutes later, we found a plaque on one of the huge stone monoliths that stand as silent sentinels by the road, marking his passing last year, a sad loss of a man that kept a lovely tradition alive.

As we headed into the beautiful Scottish country side, I could see in Miki’s eyes her dream of visiting this place slowly becoming reality, and although I’d travelled this road many times before, her joy was infectious.

Fortuitously we found a Lidl on the outskirts of Edinburgh, and replenished some of our dwindling reserves without requiring a mortgage! Circumnavigating the city itself, courtesy of the by-pass, we crossed the mighty Firth of Forth marvelling at the road and rail bridges.
(The rail bridge always reminds me of the movie of the John Buchan classic ‘The 39 steps’) and were content to stop some miles south of Perth, though it has to be said, not so content to stump up fourteen lousy quid to stay on some of Moto Services hallowed tarmac. So having extended them the digit, we went two miles down the road and found a perfectly serviceable lay-by near the peculiarly-named Milnathort. And that was the night the wind and rain kicked in. The tippy tap of the showers was whipped up into a frenzy by the gales, lashing at the motorhome and rocking it like an AC/DC gig. Needless to say, sleep, like cheap fuel, was hard to come by.

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 22

2007-10-30T05:56:00.000-07:00

Father to Son - 30/07/2007

Having breakfasted, I roused my son Corey from his slumber with a quick text, and told him to meet us in town around lunchtime. I figured even a 15 year old could summon enough energy by then to get up and catch a bus!

Arrangements made, Miki and I headed into Wakefield to do a bit of second hand book searching. It was strange, Miki, my present and future, here in Wakefield, a symbol of my past, it was like two worlds colliding. We had fun, though, finding a number of books for her. (She was getting a bit narked that our Boomobile library was favouring me 90%)
A text on my phone informed me Corey was nearby, he came down Cathedral walk, now standing over 6 feet tall, quite astonishing. It was wonderful to see him. We spent the afternoon together out at Pugney’s Water Park, Miki painting, and Corey and I chatting easily. Both Miki and I were impressed and amazed at his emotional maturity, his self-awareness. He has, Miki says, a very clear mind. He’s performed and improved well at school. He played me his band, Jilambis, new demo. His drumming is becoming very accomplished. Our relationship could have been fraught with difficulties, what with my divorce, then his move to Spain and back, then MY permanent move to Spain, but through all this, and despite the fact that we don’t see each other enough, he is laid back and takes life as he finds it. He seems well balanced, and the pride I feel for him is so strong I can almost touch it. I don’t know if sons ever realise it, but to make their Fathers proud is the most precious gift they can give. I’m not sure I managed it with my Dad, but Corey has most definitely done it for me. I think he’s heading up the right path.
That night, we headed up the A1,
the road I had travelled incessantly in the 80’s, gigging every single weekend, mostly in the North-East of England. Pulling into the services near Dishforth, we chanced our arm at an overnight stay in the Little Chef car park, and, I have to say, although they charge you ten quid for a bowl of soup, we enjoyed an unencumbered, on the house stay, even topping our water supplies with the sweetest water you can imagine, incongruously supplied from a grotty tap on the side of the Petrol Station. Tomorrow, Scotland beckons….

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 21

2007-10-29T00:05:00.000-07:00

Youlgreave and Plague Graves - 29/07/2007

The next morning, I even had time to help Dad put together a garden bench I’d bought for him back when God was a lad.
We had spent the night on the driveway, very odd somehow, but we used up Dad’s yearly water allowance by filling our tanks, and had the lunatic fridge on mains hook up during our stay, so things were looking good.
The afternoon saw us take a beautiful, if somewhat challenging on the driving front, route through Derbyshire and the Peak towards Yorkshire. We stopped off in the beautiful tiny hamlet of …… where Miki set about sketching the surrounding area, rich in motifs, a babbling brook, an old stone bridge, and delightful cottages and gardens on the riverbank.
Then, we visited Youlgreave, and Miki located my Grandma’s grave in All Saints Churchyard there. It was a poignant moment, and we collected some wild flowers to leave by her headstone as it enjoyed the newly appeared summer sunshine.
Then it was on to the fascinating village of Eyam, the inhabitants of which selflessly sacrificed themselves by voluntarily quarantining themselves off from the rest of the country, after a resident contracted the bubonic plague from a bolt of cloth delivered to the village from London. Only 85 of nearly 400 inhabitants survived. 1666 seems a long time ago, but when you see the plague cottages and the names and ages on the headstones in the churchyard, this extraordinary village’s bravery in the face of certain death is heart rending and seemingly only yesterday. Some of the graves are in other places in the village, near the houses of those who succumbed, and their simple headstones have been walled off with dignified reverence, creating tiny, sad, little graveyards.
As you walk through this village, you can plainly see that it wears its heart, and its past, proudly on its sleeve.

Nearing Wakefield, I was racking my brains trying to think of a safe place to lay over for the night. We tried the services on the M1. They only wanted £14 for the privilege of occupying a piece of their shoddy tarmac. Instead we gave them two fingers. I suddenly remembered the Wakefield Junction 41 industrial estate, situated quite near where I used to live. It had a myriad of
service roads where lorry drivers would sleep for the night before their journeys. We found a nice quiet corner, made the “Spag Bol”, and the night was ours!

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

Wherefore art thou, Weary Traveller?

2007-10-26T07:45:00.000-07:00

Kev takes a break from travelling

You may well ask...Indeed if you have been asking yourself what has happened to "Ten Weeks in a Box" Miki and I's Travel tale, it's just taking a short break, while Miki completes an important Art commission, but rest assured it will return next Monday, picking up where we left off in Derby.

In the meantime, why don't you pop on over to The Coffee Cup Club and join in with the conversation and maybe post an entry there yourself. Or, with Halloween coming up, why not scare yourself to death with my new tale for All Hallows Eve; "Pumpkin Number Six"? Its on my Muse on the Rock blog, where you can also find another couple of creepy tales!

That should keep you busy until our travel tales return......

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 20

2007-10-18T08:39:00.000-07:00

Birthdays and Salad Days - 28/07/2007

So we lazily meandered towards Derby on July 28th, for my Dad’s birthday.
As the distance grew shorter I began to see more and more familiar sights from my youth. Driving through well-known brewing town of Burton-upon-Trent, I pointed out to Miki the College I used to attend at the tender age of seventeen, and the memories of those times came flooding back. The famous pub crawl, which involved trying to get from the Bus Station all the way up the Main street to the College over a mile away, having a pint in every pub. Needless to say, with a pub on every corner, most people got lost halfway there. The familiar yeasty smell pervaded the motorhome as we crossed the bridge from the district of Stapenhill, a reminder of the town’s brewing traditions.
Then, it was down the A 38 and a detour past my old school, John Port, in Etwall. My third form classroom is right by the road on a very sharp bend.(It was the “A” Block chemistry lab) and several times during my time there an over ambitious lorry driver would lose his load on the turn. I remember well the schoolkid scramble for bags of sugar to take home for the parents after one hapless driver had misjudged the bend! We passed the bus park, which used to ferry us from Mickleover the three miles to school every day. There were two buses that went near my home, but your bus pass allocated you on one or the other, however, it could be annoying if the No.2 bus arrived at school before the No.1, causing an intolerable delay in getting home, so I set to designing a bus pass forgery that gave you the option of either. Needless to say, it proved very popular!
The reminiscences over, we reached Mickleover, the quiet suburb of Derby where I was brought up and we celebrated Dad’s birthday at my Sister Karen’s house, with her husband Steve and their kids Tom and Rachel, Dad and his partner Cynthia in attendance. I was so happy that we were able to coincide this part of our trip with Dad’s birthday, and a lovely evening was had by all.
We spent the night on the driveway at Dad’s, very odd somehow, but much less hassle for Dad! We used up Dad’s yearly water allowance by filling our tanks, Him pacing around, as though the water meter was eating five pound notes. Hilarious! Plus, we had the lunatic fridge on mains hook up during our stay, so things were looking good.

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 19

2007-10-17T04:01:00.000-07:00

Midlands Monkey Business - 27/07/2007

The next day as we manoeuvred the beast that is the Boomobile to leave, we noticed that the entrance to the car-park was now under a foot of water. The swans were expanding their territory as the waters invaded further into the town. Definitely time to leave. “There comes a time in the tide of the affairs of man, which, if taken at the flood, leave you with a very wet motorhome” I think someone once nearly said…..
Luckily, the exit from the car park was at a slightly higher level than the entrance, which was now under a foot of water. We left a sodden Stratford before requiring scuba gear.
Following an inaugural Sainsbury’s shopping visit for Miki in Warwick (inexplicably favouring the supermarket over Warwick castle) we came to rest in a lay by just shy of Twycross, home of the Zoo from my Junior School outing…ah, the memories, the short trousers, the powdered lemonade…
I fondly remember visiting the zoo in my second year of junior school. Founded in 1963 by two remarkable women, Mollie Badham and Natalie Evans, it was already making a name for itself in the late 1960’s, being the home of the famous Brooke Bond PG tips Chimps. I’ll never forget those TV ads, especially the Tour de France one, with the chimp cyclist asking, “Avez-vous un cuppa?”
By all accounts the zoo is still going strong.
Deciding to stay in our lay-by, Miki set up her desk and began painting a series of watercolours, while I rehearsed and read a little.
A cursory glance around our parking area revealed a sign allowing us to park for a maximum of twelve hours. Taking into account our time of arrival, we would have had to leave at 3 in the morning. However, taking into the account that the law in this case was an ass, we would leave whenever the hell we liked, adopting a sort of “rolling clock” system along the lines of: the first time we see a police car, is when the twelve hours start. Simple, when you think about it.
As it turned out, a peaceful night preceded our arrival in Derby on July 28th, for my Dad’s birthday, which I’ll tell you about tomorrow!

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 18

2007-10-16T04:55:00.000-07:00

Motorhoming; As you like it! - 26/07/2007

The next morning we decided to skirt as close as we dared to Oxford, driving through Banbury, catching a glimpse of a delightful statue immortalising the “Fine lady upon a white horse” who rode to Banbury Cross; the words to the old children’s nursery rhyme carved around the base. Finally, we reached today’s destination; Stratford upon Avon, the bard’s birthplace.
Driving into the historic town, we were alarmed to find the waters lapping at the riverbank, but we nevertheless parked up for the day and night in the Marina car park. We enjoyed (if that’s the word) a drizzly afternoon, wandering the old streets, Miki excited to be shopping in England for the first time. Our enthusiasm paled however, as we slowly came to realise that our primary target, second-hand bookshops, were in very short supply indeed. We returned to the Boomobile replete with Toiletries, but sadly no books. Shaking off our disappointment, we were rewarded with a brief appearance of the sun, and Miki set to work sketching the narrowboats and bridges, while I headed over to the tourist information centre which inexplicably had a life-size head of a Tyrannosaurus Rex on wheels outside the door. Perhaps Shakey had written the first draft to Jurassic Park before Spielberg got his hands on it?

Come not between the dragon and his wrath - Coriolanus

My reason for venturing into this monster’s lair was to find a postcard for Miki to send to her parents; our first from England. We were sending them on a regular basis throughout the trip, with a simple route plan on each one, so her Dad could follow our progress. Mission accomplished, I returned to the Boomobile, the T.Rex grinning wordlessly at my back.
The Marina car park was a lucky find, it being reasonably priced and very central. Close inspection of the tariffs revealed that, if I paid until 6pm, and then bought an overnight ticket until 9am the next morning, it would only cost £2. Well done, Stratford! And a Pox on the robbers of Clackett Lane! It’s an expensive lark, this travelling, and as Shakespeare himself put it in Henry IV;

I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.

The car park regulations were very firm about “parking in marked bays” and the rather hefty financial penalty for not doing so. As luck would have it, we had found a corner space, the only one in the entire car park that accommodated our lengthy vehicle. I sought assurances from the patrolling security guard that we hadn’t transgressed the letter of the law, and we settled down to an infinitely more peaceful night than that spent in the Beaconsfield lay-by.

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 17

2007-10-15T05:25:00.000-07:00

England under Water - 25/07/2007

After our lovely quiet night by the harbour in Gravelines, subject of more than one 19th Century painting, we travel the last few kilometres up the coast, and as I write this, we are sat waiting in the terminal at Dunkirk, (or more precisely, the wonderfully named Loon Plage, which I assume means lunatic beach, or perhaps it’s shaped like a particular style of 1970’s trouser) hoping to get the earlier ferry at 10pm, but, with a cup of coffee, and feet up with a book, we’re content to watch the world go by until we’re called at midnight to cross the channel.We keep ourselves amused making up stories about the exceedingly strange troupe of young east-european (probably polish) men and women in battle fatigues, driving military style 4x4’s exercising a pack of husky-type dogs in the car park.
It is a quite disturbing sight, and looks for all the world like a not-so-covert invasion of either a) the ferry or, and infinitely more ambitious, (given that the English like dogs) b) Britain. Putting such national security issues to one side, It transpires that luck is with us, and we are allowed to join the queue for the 10 o’clock sailing. So it’s Au revoir France, Hello England.

Kev Moore, Dunkirk, 25/07/07

Full of anticipation, we scampered up onto the passenger decks of the ferry and were assaulted by a plethora of plasma screens all carrying BBC News 24. Now, remember, we’d been insulated almost since leaving Albir, from the world at large, we were ignorant of news events, until we boarded that ferry. We were brought up to date in a cruel fashion. The screens were showing some kind of third world flooding disaster. Sadly the “third world” in question turned out to be Oxford, our first planned destination. They went on to report that people had died, and in Tewkesbury, they had run out of fresh water. It had taken several days of rain to do what the Luftwaffe failed to do, bring England to its knees. I was incredulous. Which is French for “pissed off.”

We hit the ground running in Dover, aiming to get west of London that night, thereby avoiding terminal torpor on the M25 the next morning. The M25 is less of a four lane super ring road, and more of a circular car park, especially at 9am, so I spared Miki that experience and we headed onwards, with a brief stop at Clackett Lane Services where we were immediately exposed to the difference in treatment of motorhomes in France and England. It would have cost us £10 to stay in the car park for the night. No thanks. We saluted some brave, or possibly ignorant Dutch motorhomes who had parked up, ticket free regardless, but I felt sure they would be feeling the long arm of the bottom of the food chain “security guard” by morning.

We finally came to rest just before Beaconsfield, off Junction 2 of the M40, in an enormous elongated lay-by, full of trucks. We tucked in at the end and proceeded to enjoy an interesting night rolling from side to side as a variety of heavy goods vehicles assaulted us with their slipstreams. What joy.
To paraphrase Robert Browning; “Oh! To be in England, now the traffic’s here!”

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 16

2007-10-13T03:52:00.000-07:00

Grey Nose and Gravelines - 24/07/2007

7am came and went…we had done it! We are invincible! Even our fridge decided to work today, the lazy pile of junk. Life is good. Through the binoculars, I caught a glimpse of England. Tomorrow, we sail, to paraphrase that singing sedative, Roger Whittaker.
But before we can welcome the dawn of our departure, we had to find a final place to lay up for a nights (hopefully) undisturbed rest. Miki pinpointed a spot near the ominously named Gravelines, and we headed for it. Our journey took us further along the coast and gave us a chance to visit the peculiarly named “Cap de Gris Nez”, literally Cape of the Grey Nose…perhaps some kind of giant handkerchief? The Cap was beautiful and windswept, not necessarily in that order, and under a little duress, Miki persuaded me to walk the cliffs and paths down to the beach. However, the find of the day was “Batterie Todt” an impressive concrete gun bunker that used to form part of Germany’s Atlantic Wall defences for their famously postponed British Invasion.
It had been turned into a fabulous war museum by an enterprising chap called David Davies, owner of the local Normandy Hotel and known in some circles as “The Taffy Frog”, for obvious reasons. The collection housed within this imposing edifice conjured up an era long gone, and the sight of the bunks, mess kits and mannequins in Wehrmacht uniforms caused a chill to run down the spine. Household names like Krupp and BMW were everywhere, makers of mayhem fifty years ago, economic behemoths today.
Curiously, we found a sign stating that the railway track for the giant gun outside had been manufactured in Tarbes, Miki’s French home town. One can only hope the workers didn’t know the use to which their handiwork was put.
Propaganda posters, trying to turn the French against the English and the English against themselves brought home the insidiousness of the failed Austrian painter’s regime.

But the hand painted poster of three allied troops, French, British and American, surging forward, flags proudly flying, said it all with its caption:
“ON LES AURA!”………….”WE WILL GET THEM!”

We arrived in Gravelines , a nice little town with a quiet estuary providing a home to a host of small boats. A series of small bridges criss-crossed the town, giving it a Venice kind of feel. We found a great spot for the Boomobile, several other motorhomes had parked down by the harbour in a lovely location, but we couldn’t find the service point, so it obviously wasn’t the real spot, but we resolved to return if we couldn’t find the one marked in the guide.
Some time later we found what we were looking for, but the site the service point was attached to looked like it provided half the audience and participants for Jerry Springer, so we decided to do our tanks, and then return to the Harbour idyll we’d found earlier. We pulled into the bay reserved for motorhome service. A strange orange coloured metal machine confronted us, and after some minutes we realised it needed to eat three fifty cent pieces in order to provide fifteen minutes of everything. By that I mean, a door would open and we could a) empty our toilet b) fill our fresh water c) have some mains electricity. But only for fifteen minutes. This was going to be a formula one pit stop kind of thing, so I prepared everything, opened the waste water tanks, set the fridge to mains, got the toilet cassette out ready, put the hose in the water tank, connected the mains lead up, then told Miki to insert the coins…Bam! I was off, running round like a lunatic, throwing unmentionable waste like a dervish down the chute provided behind the previously locked door, getting soaked by a spastic water pipe that insisted on giving me water before my hose was connected, it was organised chaos. As soon as the water was replenished I whipped the hose out and began washing the flies off the front of the Boomobile (it hadn’t been debugged since Spain, and was starting to look like something from Alien) I laughed with maniacal glee as I got this EXTRA service from the confounded machine. Following the debugging, I had a twinge of eco-conscience, and used the hose to direct some of my wayward “grey water” down the appropriate drain, meanwhile the fridge was enjoying a brief respite of “real power”
In my zeal to empty the toilet cassette in record time, I nearly got it wedged in the chute provided, but thankfully was spared any blushes when it suddenly came free and the cleaning hose retracted with a SNAP like some kind of manic reverse-stroke King Cobra. I slammed the door on this three-fold mechanised hell, disconnected, and made for the tranquillity of the harbour, secure in the knowledge that I had certainly got my 1.50 euros worth. Now I needed a lie down. A lovely quiet night was in order, and we relocated back at Gravelines harbour and got just that.

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 15

2007-10-12T03:41:00.000-07:00

Rainy-day beaches and Anarchic parking - 23/07/2007

Awakened the next day by the almost continuous rain that had become our constant companion, we consumed our usual copious cups of coffee, battened down the hatches and left the neighbourhood in peace once more, threading our way through a series of villages towards the coast and Boulogne. For me, there is nothing as depressing as a seaside town on a grey, wet day!

Thankfully, as the afternoon wore on, the skies cleared a little, and, buoyed by our earlier triumph in Martigny, we parked on the seafront just past the town of Wimereux, north of Boulogne, with the aim of staying for the night. In a shameless action of biting the hand that feeds, we parked in a car park that banned Motorhomes between the hours of 7pm and 7am, exactly when Motorhomes need to park, and when cars no longer use the car-park. Go figure. Applying our own faultless, if a little twisted logic, we settled in for the night, joined by some brave Belgians.
With several hours of daylight still ahead of us, we clambered down some wooden steps and took a walk on the wild beaches here.Dotted hither an yon, solitary figures could be seen digging in the sand, a lone dog scampering across the glistening surface, its owner, a yellow dot in the far distance, hooded against the wind, throwing a ball to amuse it. Encrusted timbers, the remnants of some forgotten wharf, now haphazard amongst the rocks and seaweed, a microcosm of life, and the lonely posts of a rotting fence, its battle with the sea lost, marking its course down into the sands. A beautiful yet desolate place.
Returning to the Boomobile, our cobwebs having been well and truly blown away, I buried my head in a good book, and Miki painted up a storm. As the hours advanced past the all-important 7pm, we knew we were in “the hot zone”. Would we make it through until morning without being arrested? For the answer to that, dear reader, you will have to wait until tomorrow!

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 14

2007-10-11T03:34:00.000-07:00

Cleres & the Coast; Neighbourhood Watch - 22/07/2007

The next morning, we went out on the bikes to explore the village of Cleres, and more importantly, to get some bread. It was a Sunday, so we thought we should get out early to the boulangerie. Leaning our bikes against the railings that stop drunks falling in the picturesque stream that meanders through the streets, we were greeted with a sight I’ve only seen on TV reports from communist Russia….people queuing for bread! Our hunger winning out over our non-conformist instincts, Miki and I gritted our teeth and joined the masses to wait for our daily bread. It was so nice, we ate it all before we got back to the Boomobile and had to call in at the shop again for some more!
The village of Cleres has a Zoological park, and the council have provided many parking spaces along the main road to accommodate visitors. We took the bikes along its perimeter, surprised at the amount of visitors it was attracting, if the number of cars was any kind of measure. We headed out on the gently undulating country road, and it soon became apparent that Miki was lagging behind. Now, knowing that in the athleticism department, Miki can trounce me, no problem, I realised she was having a problem with the bike. Mine was a gift from my dear, late friend, drummer Keith Webb, Miki’s an altogether more flash piece of kit, had some advanced form of disc brake on the front. So advanced was this stunning piece of technology that it had evolved a mind of its own, and seemed intent on braking when Miki was struggling to get the bike uphill!
We cut our ride prematurely short, before Miki suffered a stroke, and headed back to Cleres, taking time to wander around the old Churchyard on the way.
Cleres is a pretty little place, and it’s truly wonderful that the council haven’t adopted the money-grabbing approach, and allow Motorhomes to use power from the village grid, as well as top up their water at no charge. There are great sport facilities here too, a small football stadium, and some tennis courts. They have given great thought here as to how to attract the tourist, and the well-kept and generous motorhome area, here since 1998, is a testament to that. I hope the village reaps the benefits from this great welcome it offers. A gold star to Cleres!
Leaving Cleres, we made a bee-line for the coast, accompanied by rain, rain, and more rain. The sky became an ominous grey. We finally sighted the sea at a small resort called Quiberville. It was a grotesque parody of a cheap English seaside town, and my heart sank. It was almost as though the kiss me quick, stick of rock council house holiday mentality had seeped across the channel like an Exxon oil spill, contaminating everything it touched. It took an effort of will to focus on the good things we were going to England and Scotland to see.
I was genuinely shocked to see this kind of place in France, but that’s the Global Village for you. A McDonalds on every corner and a snotty nosed kid with an Ice Cream in your face.
We followed the coast as closely as we could, entering the outskirts of Dieppe, as Miki had indentified another rest stop with free electricity! We found it, after much hand wringing and roundabout-negotiating, but it was hardly worth the search. To be fair, it’s great that the town provide these facilities, but with nearly thirty motorhomes parked here in military precision, and only four power outlets, it was always going to end in tears. Like so many giant white battery hens, shooed into our pens for the night, and what now seem to be the obligatory obese motorhome owners lolling around in their “Captains Chairs” we felt the only plus for the place was the electricity, and, as all the sockets were in use, we had lunch and beat a hasty retreat. Call us snobs, but staying there was like joining a council estate on wheels.
We scoured the surrounding villages looking for a suitable spot for the night. “Too quiet” said Miki, “Too noisy” said Miki “Too much!” said Kev… but we took a collective deep breath and found a spot in a little village called Martigny near some nice bungalows. Now this is where the “snob” situation goes into reverse…people look out of their windows and see us set up across the road. “Oooh, Jacques, look at that terrible camping car stuck outside Notre Maison, call the gendarmerie!”
Well, it looked like Jacques, following a haranguing from the missus, did just that. We were tucked up in bed around midnight, watching Millenium, when we heard a car pull up outside. I took an executive decision and sent Miki down to have a look. “It’s the police!” she said, with measured hysteria. We watched. We waited. Suffice to say, they left their vehicle, went off, presumably to find out the nature of the complaint, decided there was no case to answer, came back, and drove off. It’s quite clear they were called out in response to our appearance. But I must take this opportunity to commend the local Gendarmerie for applying good common sense. Had we caused a disturbance? No. Had we parked illegally? No. Were we blocking the road? No. Did we deserve to be interrupted during a particularly fraught investigation for FBI Man Frank Black? Of course not. So we were left alone. Marvellous. Liberty! Fraternity! And…er..the other one!

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 13 - Part 2

2007-10-10T02:13:00.000-07:00

Diane of Poitiers – Royal Groupie - 21/07/2007

Having left Chartres behind earlier in the day, a coffee stop in Anet turned into something else entirely, as we noticed a curiously mish-mashed Chateau. It was festooned with a plethora of different symbols, ranging from the hunting goddess Diana, to mathematical, gyroscopic and physics icons, sundials, clocks, and religious iconography.
Atop the entrance a relief of a reclining nude Diana was dwarfed by a large Stag surrounded by four hounds.
Intrigued, we paid our money, and in we went… It proved to be the house of Diane of Poitiers, who, at sixteen years of age, married a guy forty years her senior, the senechal of Normandy, Louis de Breze. Upon reaching her thirties she fancied a bit of new blood, and, obviously employing the method of starting at the top and working down, assumed the role of “friend” to the sixteen year old King Henry the Second.
Apparently he had numerous “friends” (I think they call them Groupies now) but Diane was his favourite, and he indulged her in some serious gift giving, this Chateau for example, he had built for her. Plainly, he had adored her since early childhood. I quote from Philippe Erlange’s Diane of Poitiers;
“He saw once more the unchangeable huntress, majestic, glorious. Timid, he hardly spoke to her, but from this moment she was his Lady, the Lady whom a paladin serves to death. He was eleven years, she, thirty one. "
The architect, Phillipe De l’ Orme, was fascinated with Maths Physics and the Sciences, and the chateau just drips with his input, all strangely interwoven with the rampant religion of the private chapel. Science and God, strange bedfellows indeed, but it seems Diane had her share of those…… Her “Double D” logo is simply everywhere, from carvings to crockery to floor tiles. She reached a ripe old age for the time, too, sixty-six, and then only succumbing to a fall from her horse. She was enshrined in the funerary chapel on the estate, but fast forward 200 years to the revolution and those jolly fellows defiled her tomb, where she then lay at rest between her daughters, and reburied what they hadn’t destroyed in the peasants graveyard in Anet. Her sarcophagus was used as a trough for pigswill.

Mercifully, prior to the outbreak of World War 2, the French had an attack of conscience and the tomb was rescued and rebuilt, and though the remains of this remarkable woman no longer rest here, one can feel a presence as you enter the chapel and gaze on her black marble sarcophagus. Perhaps the weight of history is a tangible force.
Heady with the historical delights of the day, we pointed the Boomobile Northwards once again, me at the wheel, Miki consulting the Motorhome Rest-stop guide, where she had found an interesting entry.
Apparently there was a rest stop in a small town called Cleres, about 40 k short of Dieppe, with free water, waste disposal AND electricity, it said. Scarcely able to believe it, we made for it anyway. As we drew nearer, we began laying bets on the number of motorhomes there. There were place for twelve, it said in the guide…I thought at least 7 would be there, and indeed that was the case. The amazing thing was, it really WAS free electricity, with four access points….and one of them was EMPTY!! I whipped the cable out faster than you could say “alternating current” and there we were, plugged in for the rest of the day and night. Bliss!

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 13 - Part 1

2007-10-09T02:52:00.000-07:00

Chartres – Discovering the Labyrinth - 21/07/2007

Morning came, and we made our way up to the impressive sight that is Chartres Cathedral. It is quite simply, exquisite, the only complete surviving Medieval Cathedral, not only structurally, but crucially, in its iconography. There is a breathtaking amount of Stained Glass windows and sculptures surviving that are ultimately an encyclopaedia of the life and spiritual times of a distant age. The incredible, vast open spaces inside were only possible with the advent of the “Flying Buttresses” that were designed to channel the incredible weight of the stone vaulted ceilings outside and downwards. One looks up and cannot help but be open-mouthed in wonder at the architectural genius of this lost era. It may not bring this agnostic closer to God, but it humbles him in front of his predecessors. It is small wonder that the faithful and the obsessive, not to mention the devout and ignorant, could believe without question that this was God’s house.

It was most interesting to see the “Sun clock” on the outside of the cathedral. There is a great deal of sun imagery in the Catholic church, just look at all the halos, generally depicted as a golden disc. The Catholic faith is descended from The Cult of Amen-Ra, the Egyptian sun-god worshipping faith. However, this subversion of faiths is not uncommon. The Romans did it in England, cleverly coinciding their religious festivals with the locals. If you want to take over a country, just make sure the locals don’t suffer a break in their routine, and you’re sorted! How convenient that Jesus rose at Easter, the Spring equinox. This is why all organised religion is a lie, and a tool to subjugate the masses.
But our chief reason for being here was the Labyrinth. In the book, Ms. Mosse tells of a stone one being carved into the floor of the Cathedral, so big it can hardly be seen. (Labyrinths were popular as symbols throughout France in various designs, and can be found as far away as Rouen and Reims) Alas, after some time wandering we had failed to locate it. Then, suddenly, I spied a collection “font” with an etched crystal labyrinth on the top. I called Miki over excitedly…”It’s a bit small” she said, with characteristic understatement.

We went into the bookshop within the Cathedral. (A good Catholic needs a healthy turnover….or is it the faithful who are being “turned over”?) As we perused a layout of the cathedral…there it was! We ran out into the main body of the church, and there, on the floor, under around 50 chairs, we could make out the vast, curving geometry of this beautiful symbol. Legend has it that pilgrims would shuffle round it on their knees as an act of faith or penance (an act of stupidity more like) and in the centre, there used to rest a brass plaque which was ripped up during the Napoleonic wars, though the studs that held it still remain. Quietly stunned at the beauty and magnificence of this testament to man’s ingenuity, rather than his faith in God, in this humble writers opinion, and overjoyed to have found the Labyrinth, we left Chartres, and headed for the Coast.

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 12

2007-10-08T03:37:00.000-07:00

The Magic Electricity Box and Virtual Motorhoming - 20/07/2007

The very next morning we were on immediate cassette toilet alert, and set off to find a suitable repository. Now, nearly all Motorhome facilities, particularly those allied to Campsites, are notoriously expensive in this “Tourist-heavy” region. But we were having none of that, oh no! With Miki’s expert navigation, we found a communal facility in the middle of nowhere, well, Ouchamps, to be precise. It started well. A really helpful kid told us where to get bread, and pointed out where the motorhome stop was, with no prompting on our part. Such a pleasure to see the milk of human kindness still flows in some parts of the world.

Breaded-up, as it where, we wound our way out into the fields and came across the site opposite a small lake, a lovely view. We fed our 2 euro coin dutifully into the machine and pressed for water. Nothing. We fed it another. Held our breath. Even more nothing. On the verge of being seriously fed up, I at least managed to empty the cassette, so life could, at least in a very basic sense, go on. It was then that I noticed the service door to the water/electric unit slightly ajar, and er, broken. I peeked in…

Suffice to say, I discovered the water supply you pay for ultimately comes from the same point as the free one for the WC. So I hooked up to the other tap and began filling, feeling at least we hadn’t been ripped off for 4 euros.
I had another peek….
There were our coins, large as life (The only coins, mind you) sat in a tray. I liberated them. It was time to experiment, and oh, what a wondrous time it was! We had struggled to get our fridge running on gas in the morning, and I thought I’d try the mains supply. Nothing. I put a coin back in (secure in the knowledge that it was perpetually retrievable) Voila! Electricity! Free!
As I write, at my amply powered laptop, we have decided to enjoy the afternoon, “charging-up”. Our well-worn 2 euro coin is going through the machine faster than a dose of salts, and I for one hereby name the facility near Ouchamps as Numero Uno!

While we left the mains running, we set out on a small bike ride, confident I could negotiate a rough circuit along the country lanes that would bring us back to the Boomobile. Some time later, and not a little out of breath, we were deep in the woods on an unmade road, and I suffered an ever so slight dip in confidence….but the tree line cleared and thankfully I got my bearings so I could pretend to Miki that I had known where we were going all along!
That afternoon, we were somewhat concerned at the arrival of a chap with a video camera, who proceeded to film the wayward water/electric point.
Was he a spy for the council? Were we in trouble? Did we give a toss?
All these questions were answered as I sent Miki out to talk to him. (She has to be poked with a stick) It turns out he has a motorhome, but prior to his trip it developed a fault and he had to cancel. But he’s out travelling round, checking out all the sites, watering points, etc and carefully documenting them so that his eventual trip will be problem free. A form of ‘virtual’ motorhoming, if you will. But, I concluded after some thought, he will have already seen everywhere. What’s the point in that? Isn’t it the teeniest bit anally retentive? What price that frisson of excitement when you know you have only three fluid ounces of fresh water, and your toilet cassette is overflowing and threatening a toxic spill to rival the Bopahl disaster? Now that’s Motorhoming!
Anyway, operating on the premise that you can have too much of a good thing, and much to the consternation of an old French couple who had just pulled their motorhome up beside us, we left Ouchamps for Chartres.
After reading and enjoying Labyrinth (No, not the Jim Henson thing, wonderful though that is, the book) by Kate Mosse, (no, not that one, the one with a brain) I was keen to explore some of the locations featured in it. One being the Cathedral in Chartres, so I was full of anticipation as we headed in the direction of this ancient town with a view to getting as near as we could in order to see it the following day. Miki and I being what we are, we ended up parking in the centre, 5 minutes walk from the Cathedral, had our dinner and bedded down for the night!
Apart from the obligatory brain dead French yobbos speaking like Terry Jones as a woman in Monty Python, and hurling rubbish bins into the street (heey, that’s RADICAL boys, I can see how you started a revolution) we passed as near a quiet night as one could expect in a City Centre.

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 11

2007-10-05T20:53:00.000-07:00

French Spaghetti Junction & A Waste of Bamboo - 19/07/2007

After a good night’s sleep we hit the road again, refreshed, only to be reduced to acute mental fatigue and despair when we arrived in the traffic system madness that is known as Tours. When I am confronted with design horrors such as this, I find myself imagining the board meeting where they first float the idea of a new traffic system. (I did a similar thing when I saw the aesthetic abortion that is the Renault Multiplas)
Picture the scene;

“So, Pierre, I ‘ave designed ze main street to spiral round a round a few times, culminating in a six lane catastrophe with no signs, so ze ‘apless motoriste has to take ze spleet second decision on their direction, and almost inevitably gets it wrong!”
The Director replies; “Bravo, Michel! I shall be recommending you for ze Nobel Transport prize! Your road systems are genial! Why, even I myself could not find my own home for three hours yesterday!”

It took us three times of asking just to get the damn Motorhome going parallel with the Loire….only the finding of further cheap diesel avoided our mental meltdown. Upon refuelling, we pulled in at the first opportunity to have a coffee.
We resolved to follow the Loire as long as possible and perhaps take in a Chateau. (God know there are so many along here, the French architects must have been having a “Buy one, get one free” promotion in the Sixteenth Century!)

Having escaped the murderous clutches of Les Rues de Tours, we came and went through Amboise, where we spied a glorious looking chateau, but the town seemed to be overrun with tourists (even one of those damnable trains) and we declined to stop, finally arriving in our final “Cha” for the time being, Chaumont, complete with its own Chateau. The Loire here spreads its banks into a wide flood plain which expands for about 500 meters from its shores, rising up to a gentle mound providing a fantastic natural parking place for Motorhomes. We pitched up here, along with a host of fellow travellers, amazed to find there were no prohibition signs, nor indeed, requests for payment. As I’m sure you’re coming to realise, we like that sort of thing.

Heading up to the Chateau that overlooks the river here, we were subjected to some Spinning wheel like devices constructed from bamboo, a quick twirl of which induces the contraption to emit an initially interesting, but ultimately insanity-inducing, “tune” of sorts. Pandas are dying of hunger for the sake of this so called art….. A personal view, and possibly not true, but, I think valid, nonetheless….

Cresting the hill, we got our first view of the Chateau, a beautifully constructed edifice, complete with drawbridge. Initially more like a Castle, its riverside walls were demolished to give a more impressive view of the Loire. Now that’s what I call seriously implementing open-plan idealism! Originally the site of a fortress to protect the town of Blois, it was razed to the ground by Louis XI in 1465. In that same year Pierre D’Ambrose began rebuilding the Chateau that stands today, the work being continued by his son and grandson and finally being completed in 1510.

Surviving the Revolution, it had a long and colourful history before finally being handed over to the State in 1938 by the ruined sugar heiress Marie-Charlotte Say. I have pondered this. How can you become a ruined sugar heiress? I mean, if you invented the pogo stick for example, one can understand your empire collapsing as the fad wore off, but sugar? It’s practically a staple, isn’t it? Did France have an epidemic of diabetes? After careful consideration, I have reached the conclusion that Madame Say was just bad with money.

All this is well and good, and I am ever aware of the weight of history that drips from the eaves of these grand old houses, but we had to pay 5.30 euros to have a quick shufti, and three-quarters of the place was closed!
Chateau, Schmateau!

Well, having done the Cha-cha, we spent a quiet night on the banks of the Loire (our bloody fridge doing its best to interrupt our slumber, deciding to shut down on a whim.) The Fridge, now nicknamed The Lunatic Fridge, would now begin to engage us in a battle of wills that was to last the entire journey…….

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 10

2007-10-05T04:20:00.000-07:00

Things beginning with “Cha” - 18/07/2007

Mmm…well, it’s a bit embarrassing really, but we awoke to some seriously bad weather that put paid to our fearless assault of the river. (Well, we would’ve got wet and everything) So our second day in St. Leon drew hurriedly to a close and we hit the road to lose the rain, travelling via St.Yrieux, Limoges and Bellac, arriving quite by accident in Chauvigny, which proved to have a medieval town enclosed in ancient walls atop its hill.
The new town seems to have grown up around the foot of the hill, but after some searching we found our way up into the old part, and very rewarding it was too. Five forts situated within one winding stone battlement, it is an unusual example from this period. We wandered around the old streets and buildings for a while, discovering the strangely incongruous Caribbean Festival, which seemed grossly at odds with the medieval surroundings! On the one side of a small square was a minstrels stage, where small plays about the Crusades and the Templars took place, and a few feet away there was a layer of sand spread on the cobblestones, cardboard palm trees and reggae music pumping out. Talk about a culture clash! We wandered onwards, reaching the crumbling, yet imposing outlines of the old walls. The ruined, erratically castellated yet towering shapes served as a grandiose backdrop to a display of Great Birds of the world.
There was, alas, no sign of Mama Cass or Bella Emberg. There were, instead, two recalcitrant Heron type creatures (I’m not an ornithologist) with enormous wingspans, which treated the repeated requests of their handlers to come back to their cages with lofty disdain. It was fun to watch! Although there was a possibility to rest up for the night here, we decided to push on a little further, negotiating several unpronounceable hamlets such as Chatellerault, and eventually made it to St. Maure-de-Touraine, where, after driving up and down the main street a few times, we finally found a free motorhome parking area down one of the side roads. Perfect! Tomorrow, another “Cha” awaits us, Chaumont, but tomorrow is another day. Tonight, it’s dinner and a movie…..

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 9

2007-10-04T03:22:00.000-07:00

Ain’t no mountain high enough - 17/07/2007

The following day, invigorated by the athleticism displayed in our canoeing trip, we took the bikes out yet again and headed for the village of Domme. A wonderful lazy ride followed, crossing yet another bridge over the Dordogne, and then, a little over 2 kilometres from Domme, the road took a turn to the left, and up. I mean seriously up. This was like climbing the north face of Annapurna. (If indeed Annapurna has a north face.) We got off and walked. Forever. On the verge of requiring CPR, we reached the tiny gate to Domme, noting that our motorhome would have been a tight, if not impossible, fit. This discovery went some way towards placating us with regard to the decision to use the bikes.

The rather tasty chocolate crepe in the first café we came upon notwithstanding, the village itself was a crushing disappointment to this writer, at any rate. Domme seems to have overstepped that invisible line between good taste and rampant commercialism. There are shops selling art from Zanzibar, there are shops selling FBI caps. There is, if you can believe it, a stupid bloody tourist train like something from Benidorm or Blackpool for God’s sake. The simple question is, “Why?” the answer, similarly short and to the point, is of course, “Money.”
These people have sacrificed their soul on the bloody altar of commercialism, and their village is the poorer for it. We left, swiftly (for it was downhill all the way) nevermore to return, and prepared to set off for an altogether more serene village, St. Leon sur Vezere. Before we take our leave in search of the aforementioned village, I feel I must report to you, dear reader, an unseemly incident that took place prior to our egress from our trashy trailer park. As I was evacuating our waste water tanks, a French couple in an adjacent motorhome loudly proclaimed, “OOO, What a stink! Quickly, Jacques, ferme la Porte before it gets in!” (I’ve only translated partly, so as to give you a little bit of local colour) This is as a red rag to a bull for me. These kinds of people always moan loud enough to be heard, but never have the balls to say it to your face. “We all smell the same, missus!” I shouted at her retreating bourgeois back, feeling ever so slightly the Englishman abroad.

A brief and unpleasant flirtation with the traffic system in Sarlat convinced us to push on to St. Leon, and we were not disappointed. We found a spot just a stone’s throw from our new river, the Vezere. We spent an hour or two wandering the small streets, viewing the village from the bridge over the river, and discovering the wonderful buildings, a grand chateau, an imposing Church, and a mysterious large manor house of some kind, set in spacious grounds, our curiosity kept at bay by a pair of large ornate wrought iron gates. A quite delightful sleepy village…and guess what? We’re out in the canoes again tomorrow to conquer yet another mighty waterway. We laugh in the face of aquatic challenges! (Like emptying the waste water tank in front of a**holes)

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 8

2007-10-03T05:15:00.000-07:00

Roque and Rolling on a river - 16/07/2007

Arriving just down the river at Le Roque Gageac the following morning, we sold our souls and pitched up with what seemed like a hundred motorhomes at an admittedly cheap Aire du Camping-Car. It resembled some kind of low-rent trailer park, but we hung in there, and walked the narrow pathways up the rocky hillside of La Roque. At first glance, you don’t really notice there is a village there at all, but as you are drawn into its streets you realise there is a hidden beauty, lattice-worked across the stark rock face. This beauty has come at a dear price indeed. In the 1950’s part of the rock face gave way, destroying several houses and killing three residents. The rockfall was so severe it closed the road along the river for two years. But the at the time the President of France declared everything should be done to breathe new life into La Roque and make it rise again, and the results are good to see.

Miki and I exchanged gifts in the form of weird and wonderful clothing, and then the children within us won the day, as we clambered into a canoe and disappeared downriver for nine kilometres, having a whale of a time!
The Dordogne is a beautiful river, wide and fast-flowing, sometimes you sense deep waters, and every now and then your craft is caressed languidly by long green river weed, like a mermaid’s tresses. It is a wonderful sensation, a peaceful calm washes over you out in the middle of the river, and you can watch life passing by on the river bank with a curious detachment.
Picking up the pace and paddling furiously, at times we overstretched ourselves, almost causing my decapitation by a branch from a half-submerged tree as we struggled in vain to steer the canoe. Clearly, slalom was not our forte! Having put on this hazardous burst of speed, we decided we’d reached the prearranged rendezvous point too early, and, much to the consternation of the canoe company staff on the riverbank, we continued on a little way, before coming around and paddling like hell to combat the Dordogne’s swift current and crawl painfully back upstream to their great relief!
The canoe company provide a minibus to ferry the oar-weary customers back to where they started, and needless to say, we’d just missed one. We wandered along the riverbank enjoying a well-earned coke to kill the time, having been assured we could get the next one. In the interim, another bunch of canoeists had made landfall, and as the next bus appeared, they all seemed to imagine it was their god-given right to embark. The driver gave us some half-baked speech about getting the next one which we treated with the contempt it deserved, insinuating ourselves amongst these upstarts and demanding to be taken back. Shrugging in a gallic manner and moaning under his breath, he nevertheless thought better of arguing further.
A word of advice to canoe trip operatives; never argue with a tired, wet canoeist who missed his first bus!

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 7

2007-10-02T11:03:00.000-07:00

Beynac and Bicyclettes - 15/07/2007

As we left town the next day, we inadvertently chose the “Longest distance between two points” method of getting from Belves to Beynac-Cazanac, our next port of call, but, it has to be said, we encountered not only impassable farm vehicles on single track roads, but some beautiful scenery and buildings as well.

Eventually, we reacquainted ourselves with the Dordogne river (God knows it’s big enough and long enough, we couldn’t miss it forever) and the simply breathtaking skyline of the Castle and fortress village of Beynac loomed on the horizon in the summer sunshine. This was the seat of Richard the Lionheart between 1189 and 1199, when he held the Barony here. When you see the sheer impassable geography of the place, not to mention the forbidding walls of the keep and watchtowers, it’s a wonder anybody found a way of replacing him. I imagine most would-be invaders, if they had by some miracle managed to evade the hostile and revolting peasants, the barrels of burning oil and rain of arrows, not to mention the new age shops, would have reached the upper slopes of this incredible natural fortress, spied the towering stone walls and deep moat, and simply asked for some oxygen and a glass of beer, on a promise that they would just go away before the Coeur de Lion could, in the immortal words of John Cleese’ French knight, “taunt them a second time.”

Beynac is a medieval marvel, and long may it stand in such good repair to fire our imaginations and transport our minds back to that dark and fantastic age. I scampered around the passageways and staircases of the fortress, and discovered a very small dude had taken it upon himself to follow my every move. Unfortunately, one staircase was a journey to far…I looked down from the top as he cocked his leg to follow me and he couldnt quite haul himself onto the next step. Ah well, little fella, come back when your legs have grown!

Eschewing the “campitalist” approach beloved of many of our fellow motorhome owners, we managed to park illicitly on the edge of a cornfield,
and damn right too, when campsite owners are asking 20 euros just to use a bit of grass and 6 euros if you want to empty your kaka down a hole. They have a grandly titled “Aire du service de Camping-Car.” It’s a piece of wood with a hosepipe nailed to it. Honestly.
Our parking place of choice, in addition to be unencumbered with costs, afforded us a wonderful view of the clifftop fortress, and was dotted with large trees protecting us from the roadway.
As dusk crept upon us, we took the bikes down some country lanes and made for the banks of the Dordogne itself, and watched the quiet waters wind their way westwards for a while, before heading back for the Boomobile, concealed in the cornfields with its promise of a Cassoulet dinner….

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 6

2007-10-01T03:51:00.000-07:00

And the Band played on - 14/07/2007

We awoke to arguably the most important day in France, July 14th, Bastille Day, and just a few feet away from where we’d parked for the night we were privileged to witness a small, intimate homage to the birth of France that brought tears to Miki’s eyes. All in all, Montpazier has good reason to be proud.

Even as Miki and I were wandering round the town in the sunshine today, filming and photographing, an old lady interrupted us and made us pose for her camera! And there was I, thinking we were travelling incognito….
Exploring the backroads and alleys, we found many weird and wonderful things, ranging from spanking new Ferraris parked outside the city walls to decidedly antique Peugeots in hidden alcoves.
As we left for our next destination, we took away fond memories of this lovely town.

Arriving in Belves mid-afternoon, after a short drive from Montpazier, we witnessed their preparations for a great Bastille Day feast in the town square. There was a band unloading equipment onto a makeshift stage, so it looked a party was on the cards. Belves was yet another of the Perigord region’s seemingly inexhaustible supply of beautiful towns, most of which have an enviable Medieval history, rivalled only by their splendid hilltop locations. We parked in the town car park, bang in the centre of things and completely free! We wandered around its narrow streets and alleyways, following the old city wall, and browsing the colourful shops, before making our way back to the Boomobile for “dinner and a movie” as the Americans say. By late evening, the band was giving it what for and the car park was choc-a-block. Miki and I, unruffled, watching TV and bedding down for the night, as the revellers came and went, leaving us in peace at around 2am with the car park to ourselves. (But not before we had leafleted every one with our website address!)

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 5

2007-09-30T05:30:00.000-07:00

Entering the Perigord - 13/07/2007

We awoke the following morning to find the Donkeys had lost interest in us, wandering over to the far side of their field. Fair-weather friends! We quickly fell into our usual routine, Miki out of the Boomobile and painting boats on the water, Kevin lounging about eating breakfast. By way of my defence, can I just say, it takes me a little longer to ease into functioning mode…Anyway, we took our time, eventually packing up and heading off,
lazily following a rural route passing into the Dordogne, which is in the greater area known as the Perigord, on Friday, 13th. Unlucky for some, but not for us, as we found the cheapest diesel so far, and the first branch of Lidl since we left Albir, allowing us to stock up on necessities, like chocolate!
You will hear occasional mention of the retailing marvel that is Lidl throughout this journal. In the UK, it is generally synonymous with the patronage of the “council house” great unwashed, indeed, I even published a poem on the site called Lidl Dreams which says it all! But I must confess, on the road it provides for pretty much all our needs, and here on the continent it is visited by princes and paupers alike.

Early evening found us in a beautiful walled town called Montpazier, known as a “Village D’Art “, according to Miki, and indeed it was aptly so, with craft shops and artisans abounding, and concerts of every style from Celtic folk to John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers. I even saw posters advertising the Russian ballet performing Swan Lake, and an English rendition of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. It felt like the town was bursting with talent! I love to see a town give itself over so completely to this celebration of creativity. There were very few normal shops here, the premises instead given over to antiques, soaps and perfumes, traditional wooden toys,
all beautifully presented. Each was an artistic statement in itself, a way for the owners to make their mark on this colourful and creative town. Indeed, the attitude of the folk here can be summed up by the car park attendant, who, when asked by Miki if it was okay to stick a 7 meter motorhome in the town centre car park, said “yes, no problem, its 2 euros, but pay me when you want, if you stay until tomorrow and go in the morning, then it won’t cost you anything.” What a guy! Vive la France!

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 4

2007-09-29T04:20:00.000-07:00

Tour du Lac - 12/07/2007

The next morning, we wandered the entire circumference of the lake, via a man-made path. In fact, the local authority have created a pleasant little resort, featuring some lakeside chalets, a “pool area” that is part of the lake, with giant water slides, and fishing points dotted all around. It was a nice, peaceful place to spend some time. We were also pleased to find Motorhome facilities here, and I topped up our water supplies, whilst being harangued by some strange, incredibly old yet kindly foreign woman who insisted on smiling at me despite the fact that I maintained I couldn’t understand a word she was saying to me in her friendly, albeit slightly spooky way. Moving ever northwards, we found ourselves arriving at the confluence of two great rivers, The Tarn and the Garonne. Miki was shocked to discover that La Garonne actually originates in Spain, and travels forty kilometres through the Pyrenees before claiming French citizenship. A rare warlike mood overcame her as she threatened to commence hostilities with Spain to claim the offending territory that spawns La Garonne for La France. (Well, I guess people have started wars for less.)

Anyway, we settled down here for the rest of the day (and night) the scenery here being wonderful, and we got the bikes down for the first time on the trip and went for a ride around the lakeshore that the meeting of these two waterways creates. The cycle tracks meandered in and out of the trees, flirting with the shoreline, we persevered for a few kilometres before retracing our steps and heading back. Returning to the Boomobile, we found ourselves under observation by a pack of Donkeys, who wandered languidly over to see who was invading their turf. We remained there in the car park for the night, A nice dinner, some telly, and a chat about the day. Great days indeed, as somebody once said.

17.10.2007 - Afterword
I recently wrote to the office of tourism in Samatan to tell them about this article. I just received a reply, containing their tahnks for the kind words and... ironically... informing me that there has been "a little change" in their camping car area... it is no longer free, but 3€ a day!

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 3

2007-09-28T05:22:00.001-07:00

Childish Cries - 11/07/2007

The next morning we set out on foot up the mountain trail. Wonderful views greeted us, clouds caressing the higher slopes of the mountains that towered above. As we made our way, breathless, up the trail, we began to hear whoops and childish cries of delight echoing down through the forested ravine. Suddenly, a blue blur shot past us through the trees at an alarming rate. Some distance further on we saw the cause of all the commotion.
An all too eager queue of schoolkids were awaiting the dubious honour of being attached to a zipwire and chucked off down the ravine…they were loving it! The trees here were festooned with treetop platforms, rope bridges and zipwires. It was a kid’s dreamland, and they were making the most of it. As we made our way back down, child after child flew past us over the three stages of the wire laughing with glee, a wire which eventually took them all the way down to the river at the bottom of the valley. A fantastic place!
We stopped for a few moments below the zipwire, some metres before it terminated in a treetop protected by boxing-ring style padding, Miki getting some great shots of the kids flying overhead, arms and legs akimbo. (The kids, not Miki)

We left Camping Moudang (for that was its name) that afternoon, and stopped north of the Pyrenees for Miki to paint in a beautiful pastoral setting. With rolling hills and green and golden fields punctuated occasionally by a sleepy village draped across the landscape, it was a perfect source of motifs. Miki perched on her stool at the side of the road, some distance away. Me, bereft of a parking space, gingerly eased the Boomobile onto a soft verge that inadequately protected it from the occasional sales rep achieving terminal velocity at our expense.
Nevertheless, I heroically managed to produce several cups of coffee in the wake of their turbulence.
As I sat in the rear lounge reading a book, I would occasionally glance up to see Miki, deep in concentration, capturing the contrast between the wild mountains and the gentler lower pastures. I smiled, knowing she was in her element.
We left this idyllic source of inspiration in the late afternoon, travelling through Lannemezan and Boulogne (no, not that one) and by the evening, we had come upon the village of Samatan, and a lovely spot to overnight, by a beautiful lake – Luck was with us again! Alas, the only dark cloud on the horizon was the fact that my daughter was not speaking to me. It’s too complicated to get into here, but it saddened me greatly. I know I’d done no wrong, indeed, I’d warned her about the possible problems she had eventually encountered, yet still she blamed me.
I have thought long and hard about it since. I’ve always thought my relationship with my children was pure, untouchable. Perhaps I was being naïve. I imagine I must have caused my own parents similar pain, but it still makes it a bitter pill to swallow.

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 Weeks in a Box - Day 2

2007-09-27T03:01:00.000-07:00

Watching the river flow - 10/072007

The following morning, Miki ventured outside to do some sketches, while I ventured out of bed to grab some breakfast. I can’t start the day on an empty stomach. Come to think of it, I can’t finish the day on an empty stomach either, and therein, I suspect, lays the root of my problem. Still, it’s only been a couple of days since our daily swimming regime was interrupted, so the signs of my decline and fall are barely showing at this stage. Miki returns to the Boomobile with what was to be the first of hundreds of sketches and then, secure in the knowledge that we’d put the best part of 300 kilometres behind us, we made for the Pyrenees, and our third different tunnel through the mountains, Miki believing variety is the spice of life.(Or perhaps she was just lost.)

The inland route we chose was at Miki’s brother’s suggestion, and it allowed us to follow rivers almost continually after leaving the Autovia. Initially, we tracked the Ebre, one of Spain’s biggest rivers, a beautiful turquoise ribbon meandering its way through the heartland. Eventually eschewing the lovely Ebre for the equally scenic Cinca, we moved ever northwards. Some kilometres short of the foothills of the Pyrenees, we pulled over and gazed out over a vast valley through which the Cinca ran. The waters seemed to have reached out and claimed the entire valley basin, hundreds of trees were poking through the surface, with some almost completely submerged, only their uppermost branches showing. Their reflections in the water gave the whole scene an otherworldly quality, and I was reminded of the Florida Mangrove Swamps. Although I know we were in Northern Spain, the sight of so much water amid this arid landscape lent the image an incongruous beauty. We left regretfully and followed the road into the Pyrenees themselves.

Emerging from the comparatively short tunnel, we found ourselves on a beautifully scenic switchback road down the mountainside into the Haute Pyrenees region of France. Just after the village of Fabian, which may or may not have been named after a sixties has-been, we chanced upon a picnic area, that turned out to be some kind of outward bound centre and campsite – and it was free! Spain already a memory, we parked up for the night, and dreamt of the next part of our journey.

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

10 weeks in a box - Day 1

2007-09-26T04:27:00.000-07:00

Foreword

It has been said, at various times through history, and I’m sure by a wide variety of people, that “It is not the destination, but the Journey.” I find myself, sitting in the comfort of our home here in Southern Spain, wholeheartedly agreeing with the wise soul who first coined this pearl of wisdom. My consensus is no fickle statement, dear reader, for I have not sat, couch potato-like in the comfort of my own home for but one night. No Siree, I, along with my trusty sidekick, co-conspirator and navigator supreme (not to mention my partner) Miki, have been adrift on the roads of Europe for ten fascinating weeks, from the heat of the Costas, to the mists of the Western Isles, and all points in between. The things we have seen, the fun we have had, in our microcosm of home that we call the Boomobile, I describe in gory detail in this weighty tome. But, as the risqué comedian Frankie Howerd might have said, before you delve into our delights, let me have the temerity to leave you with my own twist on that dog-eared phrase; The Journey IS the destination.

July 9th, 2007 : Santa Barbara Bound, and then some.

We finally left the shackles of Albir behind after almost three days of solid preparation, stocking the Boomobile, (the affectionate nom de plume with which we’d christened our motorhome) and scratching our heads trying to remember what we’d forgotten. However, once we’d passed Javea, Albir and home became a distant memory, and our excitement for the enormous trip ahead grew. Miki was doing a good impression of a pinball, bouncing off the walls of the Boomobile with unbridled delight. Forsaking the back roads we normally love in order to get some kilometres under our belt, Miki and I kept faith with the Autovia until well north of Valencia before heading inland and overnighting in a small town called Santa Barbara, a nondescript little village sharing nothing more than its name with the rather more racy American city. Nevertheless, we passed a nice quiet, uneventful night here, complete with our new chains and padlocks to keep the unemployed Romanians out. (Yep, that’s right, Political Correctness is dead and buried right here folks!)
We had resolved to get a reasonably early night, as Miki wanted to do some drawings of the nearby fields and buildings at first light. Sleep came reluctantly, as our minds were buzzing like a child’s on Christmas night, wondering what the coming days had in store for us.

Text by Kev Moore
Drawing & Photos by Miki
Both on Planet Goodaboom

In the Footsteps of Don Quixote May 2007

2007-05-16T07:11:00.000-07:00

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

Destination Pyrenees

2006-12-17T05:26:00.000-08:00

Our second foray took us deep into the blood-red beating heart of Spain...
Reluctantly relinquishing the cosy coast roads around Valencia, we pushed inwards,
mile after mile of uninhabited landscape our constant companion.

We neared the city of Zaragoza, and at the airport Miki and I said our temporary
goodbyes as the silver bird took me to England and a concert to perform.

A mere two days later. and we are reunited, this time in Pau, the Pyrenees forming a
magnificent honour guard on the horizon to welcome me to this region for the first time.

So on to Tarbes, Miki's family home, and home from home for us. Within a day, the
house was transformed into both art studio and sound studio, Creativity fired by our
surroundings.

The trips begin... up into the Pyrenees, wonderful landscapes and breathtaking views,
strange sights and glimpses of birds of prey lords of the skies these peaks strive to
reach.

The wrongness of a Ski resort before the snows, chair lifts, as though cast around the slopes
by giant hands, In winter, a neccessity, in the last days of Autumn, looking like nothing more than discarded metal and wire carelessly abandoned.

Donkeys and Llamas, this lofty menagerie, wander unchecked across the fields and roads,
this is their domain, we are just passing.
The highest peaks, just glimpsed in the distance, play host to the first snows of winter,
and serve warning of the coming blanket to be thrown over this region for the coming
months.

Still we journey upward, until at its zenith, an abandoned hotel, shuttered, denying
travellers' rest, gazes out alongside us at a view that catches our breath.
Peak after peak, valley after valley stretches out in front of us, into the far distance....
Fresh, pure bubbling water cascades down the mountainside, exhilarating, life affirming.
This, if there ever could be such a place, is God's Country.

Another day in Tarbes and a trip is planned...this time, to Lourdes.
It is to prove, amongst other things, the inspiration for my latest composition,
"The Heretic's Song".

We arrive in this place, so favoured by the religious and afflicted, or both,
and I immediately feel the unease I always do in "holy" places. I have also visited
Jerusalem, and the similarities are striking. I can only describe it as "A quiet
Hysteria"

Thankfully, there are less afflicted here today than normal, but there are enough.
As we park the car, I wonder for a moment if there are more disabled parking spaces
here in Lourdes than in other towns...it would seem a sensible precaution.
I must make it clear that it is not the afflicted themselves that are the subject of my
derision, but the religion that exploits them. My song refers to Lourdes as
"Jesus Disneyland" and that is how I see it. The way they are wheeled into the
"Grotto experience" and subjected to the Holy Water on tap makes my skin crawl.

But surely the worst was yet to come... as we entered the church that has been built
to service the Miracle Industry, I noticed every single wall was covered in plaques,
commemorating individual miracles, but more importantly, commemorating
"thankful donations" by the families of the afflicted.
One child even had the middle name "Bernadette" after the girl who supposedly
saw Mary, which I found strangely convenient. The church is COVERED, without

a gap in these plaques, and all through the crypt too. The line in my
song "It takes
an awful lot of Euros, to get your plaque put up in here" refers to this.
It sits very uneasily with me that a religion that was formed to control the masses
still flourishes in the 21st century as a money-collecting service masquerading as
affirmation of faith. Nevertheless, each to his own, and it was admittedly fascinating

Once back in Tarbes, Miki painted with abandon, wonderful images from her mind, probably unconsciously inspired by the places that we had visited, and I expanded on my embryonic song idea, as it became
“The Heretic’s Song”. At times like this we seem to exist as one,
Feverishly working, apart, yet together. It is a complete joy.

We left Tarbes on an early evening, aiming to greet the dawn in Spain.
Once again we climbed into the great natural barrier between the two countries,
and crossed the border at an abandoned frontier post from a forgotten time.
Soon, our ascent was complete, and, denied further progress, we were plunged into
a tunnel seemingly with no end, hewn from solid pyrenean rock, barely wide enough
to take two vehicles, as juggernauts thundered by us on their way into France.
We inadvertently tried to make ourselves smaller as our car squeezed by these
giant metal missiles. Eventually, emerging into a Spanish night, we began a
graceful descent into the lowlands and home, but the Mountains would always
remain in our hearts.

KEV MOORE

Destination Bouges

2006-12-16T08:46:00.000-08:00

Racing against the setting sun, reliable German engineering sped us Northwards along the Autoroute, kissing the Spanish coast, and slipping past the Pyrenees as they relinquished their grandeur to the sea.

Then, au revoir to Nimes, and inland, into the Heart of Nowhere, a land rich with the echoes of religious battles, mysterious retreats and magnificent scenery.

The sun abandons us to the interior, darkness falls, and with it, the temperature, as we climb higher, Motorway gives way to Road, Road gives way to track as we wind around and around, onward and upward, sheer precipice inviting a quick death beckons at every turn. Then suddenly, there, then gone in a moment…did we glimpse a welcoming bouquet of light on the far darkened hillside? We dared to hope.

Still, we hug the edge, the car becomes a claw grasping for purchase on the well-worn track, and then, finally, the Lights, flickering, the wind and rain beat a tattoo of welcome, this cold and lonely place, the end of the road, the end of the day, the beginning of our adventure…..

Morning brings the gift of sunlight, a photo-negative of the night before, the rays dry out the heather on the hillsides that cradle this idyllic place.

The house, a cornucopia of delights…what stories these walls could tell! Our hosts, Fine wine and Conversation, Breads and Cheeses, Soup to die for!!

In moments, Bouges has us in its thrall, we seek out every nook and cranny, comb the Village end to end, our sketchbooks out and ready, we begin the process….take in every nuance…so much more to see through Artist’s eyes, that casual glances sinfully ignore.
And so they come, the drawings, village, doors, and trees all fall beneath the humble pencil, captured, kept and treasured memories, set in stone.

Day after day this wonderful cycle repeats. My soul, my heart is full. The songs begin to come. I know Miki feels the same. I write “Baby Paints The Stars”. We walk the meadows and insects explode in colour with our every step, a Rainbow dream to mark our passing.

There is talk in the village. Hushed low tones. No –one must know. An expedition is planned. Only the chosen few are told. We discuss it at dinner, though the shutters are closed and the lamps are low. The dinner conversation is wide-ranging. I discover the origins of the name “Bouvier” and venture the opinion that it is a most unfortunate occurrence that America’s former first lady was saddled with a surname that meant “Cow-Herder”.

But, as the sorbet is served… talk turns to the morning expedition. One word…MUSHROOMS. It is guaranteed to capture the attention of any Bouges resident. For the rare mushrooms of these hillsides are fought for with vigour, obsession, and not a little subterfuge.

It is a matter of pride for the Mushroom-hunter that they are not so much as even observed whilst hunting them. Camouflage fatigues are de rigeur, and the baskets are hidden from plain sight, for fear someone will tumble to their work. A circuitous route is always attempted, as rival families are often to be found on the end of a pair of binoculars, cynically spying on the location of the choicest mushrooms, unwittingly revealed by the careless hunter.

A tension pervades the house. You can cut it with a knife. Will they return laden with the bounty? Will they return empty handed? Will they return at all?

Dusk casts its cloak across the hills, and with it, the hunters return, victorious, with choicest fayre for our table tonight. We consume them with awe and wonder, and, for my part, not a little bafflement…..

Another day, and the morning begins with a gunshot. A little confused, emerging from a dream I briefly wonder if Miki has finally found the solution to my snoring, but, as reality seeps into my brain like spilt coffee on a tablecloth, I realize…..BOAR HUNT!

After breakfast, we watch them combing the steep hillsides with their guns, trying to flush out their almost pre-historic prey. The boars have roamed these hills for eons, they do not give up that right easily.

Throughout the day, an occasional shot punctuates the silence, and we wonder…..
Late in the afternoon, we stroll through the village and find the hunters, successful, butchering their prey. It is a humbling sight. The whole village shares this experience, for, once completed, Wild Boar meat is sent around to all the residents. A communion with the land and all its riches, in the purest form.

And all too soon, that fateful day arrives. Our day of departure. And we remember the stormy night’s arrival, with a smile.

Bidding farewell, our hosts, recede in rear-view mirror, and the treacherous tracks now cradle us, one of their own, in bliss descending, leaving this Secret Garden, for the Real World.

KEV MOORE