In the Footsteps of Don Quixote May 2007

La Ruta de Don Quixote

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

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

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

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

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

The Attack of the Mosquitos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wellspring of Opportunity

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Almagro – Oasis of Music & Dance in the Spanish Wilderness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A view for eternity

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

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

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

Night on a bare mountain

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

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

Kev Moore

Destination Pyrenees

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

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