Once more, we've made the trip from the Costa Blanca, up through Spain and France to the UK and back again. It was slightly different this time, because we crossed the Channel via the Tunnel, so that our 6 month old puppy Paddy would be with us all the time. As an abandoned dog, he has separation issues, and we didn't think he'd cope well with being left in the camper while we were on the ferry. The things we do for our dogs!
One thing we've noticed is the lack of camp sites in the middle of Spain. It's never a problem going up, because we always stop over in the Pyrenees, where the camp sites are falling over one another, and the satnav goes ballistic trying to keep up. 'Camping ground in 300 metres - next opportunity, 500 metres.' I'm sure you get the drift. And of course, France is a slave to 'Le camping,' so there's never a problem there either.
The trouble comes on the return journey, because we hit the Pyrenees camp sites too early in the day, and then there's nothing for about 250 miles. In fact, by the time you hit the first camp site, you're less than a couple of hours from home, so it hardly seems worth the bother of stopping, parking up and paying. Because let's face it, not only are camp sites in the middle of Spain as rare as rocking horse excrement, when you do find one, it's going to be expensive, and you're going to be crammed in like sardines in a tin.
Last time, we detoured from our route to camp up in Pucol, near Valencia. It cost us 30 Euro for the night, and we were so close to our neighbours, we could have leaned over and dipped our bread in their gravy - if they had any gravy, and if we had any bread, but you get the picture. We did enjoy the night market outside the camp site though, so it turned out well.
This time, we were very concerned when it got to 8.00pm and there were no camp sites on the radar. We have three different camping books, and every one was showing a bare cupboard as far as camp sites went. In the end, we came off the A23 for the Laguna de Gallocanta, because, as I said to Tony, there's bound to be a campsite near the lake, and if not, we can wild camp on the lake's shore. What the sign didn't tell you was that it was at least 25 kilometres from the exit to the lake, so in the end we parked up outside a block of flats in Daroca, went into the town for a drink and something to eat, then slept in the camper.
Now Daroca is a beautiful old Moorish town, founded in the 8th century, with a load of interesting buildings and museums. A camp site nearby would be full all year round, because there are only a few hotels in the town. If we ever win Euromilliones, I'll set up a camp site at Daroca, or one of the many other tourist hotspots in the middle of Spain. Because it sure as hell needs it, and of course, it would all be done in the best possible taste. No camp site with my name on it would ever be a blot on the landscape.
Maybe next time we'll come down the north east coast, rather than right through the middle. Okay, it will add a few miles to the journey, but at least we can guarantee we'll lay our heads down in a state of the art camp site, and add a little extra to the local economy. And at the end of a hot day's driving, you'd kill for a dip in the pool. Okay, there was a fountain in Daroca, but I thought I might have got a few old fashioned looks if I'd stripped down to my bikini and dived in. What do you think?
