From the north coast of Spain, green and humid, through the narrow defiles of the Picos; across the dry upland plain of Castilla-Leon, and into the gorges of the Pyrenees to the French border just after the Somport Tunnel is about ten hours on Google maps, so I took a stopover just past Burgos at Ameyugo, at the Camping de Monumento de Pastor. This journey was not completely without incident.

This started at the beginning. I’d gone off grid at Shaun’s place, so to charge my new watch, I’d plugged into the van socket. To make the socket work, the dash needs to be on; I’d left it on overnight. Consequently the van battery was at 11.2v, not enough to turn over the engine. All sorts of warnings coming from the dash, predicting at least the end of the world if not worse. Anna found jumpleads, organised Shaun to bring their car round, and we eventually coaxed Willma into life. Saying farewells replete with duck egg, lemon from their tree, and hollow brick as souvenir, I set off. Only, a short way down the road realised the EMS light was on. Do I turn back and call for help? Try to reach the main road, or the service station/restaurant we ate at last night? Keep going?

After a short while, I noticed stop/start kicked in, so battery was charging well. Perhaps foolishly, given the route I had chosen, I opted for #3. And spent the rest of that day fretting, with the little orange engine sign glaring at me.

The route goes up through Potes, a pretty little place, through narrow gorges, following the Rio Devaup into the mountains where it is fed by melting snows. It looked as if, in spate, it had washed half the road away: every few kilometres a work gang with heavy equipment was building a new road platform, while the rest of us squeezed by in single file.

After Potes the sign says Via Montaña en 12km. It’s that little en that’s the trouble. In 12km time? For 12km? I’m assuming that the latter is the case, a mountain road that barely contains two carriageways, sinuously climbing up to the pass. You can see why this area has so often been a refuge region. The snowy peaks were awe inspiring. At the viewing area, the mirador, at the top I met a couple of middle aged bikers on rather large Triumphs, who said it’s only a little descent onto the plain.

Autopista alternates with backroads with amazing frequency: it’s like they’ve done the easy bits and are awaiting divine intervention to dig the tunnels. Or maybe their road builders are all down at Potes. But I did get to Amejugo: in my confusion I’d put the village rather than the campsite in the satnav. I stopped for directions: “¿El camping el pastor, por favor?” A lond string of complex rural Spanish from the elderly gent in the street. I latched on to derecho, repeated it and he nodded. Stopped and did what I should have done and put the right destination in.

Eventually found reception, in the bar of the restaurant, and was signed in by a lady which had just been, solo wit three dogs in a van like mine, to Crufts in Birmingham. And she won! She also had a friend in Brackley who drove trucks for a formula one team. Dinner that night was eggs, black pudding, and game chips. And a reassuring video conference with our Allan, whose instinct with cars is the best.

NEXT DAY

Another long day, but with Heather Small to inspire me, how could I go wrong? And the EMS light had gone out!

………….

Cause I know wherever the road goes
I will always find my way
I know (when I think it’s all behind me) wherever the road goes (history knows just where to find me)
Every heart will have its day

‘Cause I’ve been down and I’ve been lonely (wherever the road goes)
Every day another story
But I know, yes I know (I will always find my way)
I’ll find my way, yeah (I know)
I’ll find my way, yeah
Every heart will have its day
And I will find my way (every heart will have its day)
Find my way

Don’t know where the road may take me
Every day another story
(I will find my way)

Don’t know where the road may take me
Every day another story
(Every heart will have its day)

And yes Heather, I am doing something to make me feel proud!

Following the Cantabrian Mountains eventually you hit the Pyrenees. I chose to cross further east than the sensible (and quicker) route at Irun, through the Tunel de Somport. This is 8.6km long, and completed in 2005. I’m glad I chose this route, the views were truly awesome; I did miss out a trip to the hotel at Canfranc Estación, though I caught a glimpse from just before the tunnel. I saw the end of the rail line at Urdos where I thought I might camp at one point.

Got to Oloron Ste Marie, with enough time for a shopping trip to restock the larder, with temperature around 27deg and bright sunshine. Talking coherent French and cracking jokes with reception, (and being told I spoke it well) made me feel so much at ease. Even the thunderstorm, which Madame had cautioned me about, failed to dampen my quite annoying Bambi-ish bounce. So two nights here just to decompress.