A week ago today we headed over the water from Plymouth to Rosscoff, with the van and black dog for a trip to south Spain.
In the past seven days we’ve drunk tea overlooking the Brittany coast, motored hard south to the Pyrenees where little French men in berets wander through quiet village squares and snow capped mountains are framed with flower splattered meadows.
We drove over the Pic du Poutalet pass, where the roadsides were 20ft deep in snow and ski resorts dotted the route.
Passing through into Spain, chasing the sun, we’ve arrived in Cabo de Gata, an unspoilt corner of Almeria. All sleepy little fishing villages, hills laced with wild thyme and rosemary, ruined Moorish castles, and the Med. And we found the swallows!
The black dog has been a dream. Riding up front and snoozing for most of the long haul driving, conking out where ever we lay his bed, and generally being a bit of a hero.
And we still have another 5 weeks of adventures to go.