
Last Friday we left Foz and drove along the motorways of northern Spain to the town of Zarautz less than an hour from the French border. We would be in France on Saturday. It’s a five hour journey but we took lots of breaks and arrived at the motorhome parking about 7.30pm.

The parking was nearly full and there was a lot of noise coming from the building site next door. A new supermarket was promised for the future but in the meantime there was just noise. There were two supermarkets being built on the street, a Lidi and a Mercadona, which is a modern Spanish chain.

We went for a walk, Denis made Spanish omelette for dinner and we waited for the noise to stop. Surely the builders would be going home for dinner? Yes but Spanish dinner is late so probably 9pm. But 9pm came and went and still the noise continued. Surely they weren’t working in shifts overnight? No, at 10pm the noise stopped and a cheer went up from the mostly Spanish campers. It started early in the morning but we didn’t notice and felt like we’d had a good night’s sleep.

We set off at 10.30am after a coffee at the Eroski supermarket. Most supermarkets in Spain (and Portugal) have cafes included and the coffee is usually good and always inexpensive. But first we had to navigate the motorway. One of the reasons we chose this particular parking was that it was close to the motorway and we could easily get back on the road to France in the morning. But the motorway was between the parking and coffee and we had to walk on the bridge over it. How difficult could it be, you ask? Very.

This is not the first time I didn’t want to walk over a road where you can see traffic passing underneath you at speed. I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again, I’d find another way… there is never another way and I wanted coffee. It was fine, I even stopped to take a photo… while holding tightly onto Denis with one hand and the phone in the other and imagining, what if I drop the phone?

I didn’t drop the phone and we drove into France but it wasn’t as easy a journey as the previous day. We were only twenty minutes over the border when we got stuck at a toll booth. All through France and Spain and Portugal when we have to pay at toll booths, Denis drives as close to the machine as possible and I lean out the window and use the credit card to tap the payment. It always worked. On this machine the tap didn’t work so I put the card into the slot and it said (in French) retrieve your card it doesn’t work, use a different card. But it didn’t pop my card back, I couldn’t retrieve the card – it was stuck in the machine…

Cars and trucks were whizzing by on ether side of our lane. Denis put on the flashing indicators to prevent a queue forming behind us. And I pressed the red button to get the attention of the toll both operator. Fortunately she spoke English and said she would come out to help. Twenty minutes later she still hadn’t arrived so I pressed the red button again. This time the operator didn’t speak English and my French, bad enough in person, was abysmal over a clunky intercom. Finally, a recorded voice said, Someone will be with you shortly.

Ten minutes later the lovely English speaking operator arrived in front of us – I’m guessing she had to walk a long way underground. She asked me my name (to check the card was really mine) but looked perplexed when I told her (I couldn’t pronounce my own name in a French way!) but she opened the machine and mine was the only card in there thankfully. The toll was €4 and I paid in cash – just in case. The barrier raised and we waved goodbye to Madame Operator.

The rest of the journey was mainly uneventful but tiring and hot. We kept driving with the main objective to arrive somewhere cooler than where we were. In hindsight it was probably too much driving two days in a row. We thought we had found the perfect stop for the night but it was closed and we had given up being nice to each other when a group of French men standing near the closed barrier started waving, Irlande!

Turned out one of their friends, who they called over, had just come back from a holiday in Ireland the previous weekend! And he had a great time and spoke not one iota of English! Except for whiskey… But their smiles and excitement raised our spirits and as we drove off we liked each other again. We continued for another 40 minutes to a small town called Prahecq with parking on grass and the promise of a Boulanger in the morning awaited us. Unfortunately there was also a party awaiting us and the music went on until 4am…

But the croissants were good.



































































