Al's Travel Blog - Part 5

Saturday, June 7th

It's not the most pleasant of towns. Not that it's unpleasant, mind—just, not really very pleasant. Not hostile, just, not the most pleasant place. Barcelona was pleasant. It seems that the further up the Costa Brava we get, the more we see that all the money is on the seafront, for sunbathing tourists. Still, I wander the town a bit after breakfast (a stunning affair involving all sorts of bread and jams and a whole carton of juice, good coffee and a cake.). It's a cool day and we go to tourist information to find tomorrow's way out of town. I find a footpath that takes us almost all the way up the coast to the region north of the Baix Emporda. We also discover that he only launderette in town is a dry cleaners—when asked about washing machines the lady in tourist information replies solemnly that "such a thing no longer exists in Feliu." And of course, we slept in and left it too late. Because tomorrow is Sunday our laundry now cannot be made ready until Monday and we want to be gone by then. So we buy cheap washing powder from the supermercat and wash our clothes in the bathtub, drying them on every surface we can find.

I have a nap because I've already overloaded on Hemingway and when I wake up it is time to go and buy more supplies for our trip, and then, rubbing my hands with glee, I leave Claire to read more Toni Morrison and I set out to the history museum. Entry is free and I find myself so very excited. I'm fascinated by the history of Spain, from Carthage and Hannibal and Rome and Celtiberians through Christianity and Islam vying for power to the pirates along the Costa Brava and o the Peninsular War and the Civil War. Even more so, I am fascinated by the minutae, the little things that took place in small towns, specific cities and area, before and during the great events. I can't wait to find out the hidden history of this town.

From the museum, a wonderful old building next to the famous Roman facade of a glorious church I fail to investigate, I gather the following history of St Feliu de Guixols: early man ate and buried his pals here, then history disappears under several hundred years of worshipping Christ (presumably the Romans were deterred by the frankly mythical opening hours of most hostels in town), and then the people here made cork. Recent historical activity includes building a big arch for a saint, and digging up the pals of early man, itself so long ago that there is an exhibit about the archaeologists themselves alongside bits of early man. There's a Roman bit, incorporated into the aforementioned impressive church—but most European churches seem to have Roman bits. However, ther was one photograph in the cork exhibit of a very well turned out young man posing in demonstration of his machine. I imagine him to have been both sweet and unbearable, but finally I realise why my grandmother used to make us dress up and pose for sickeningly fey photographs as children: it's not about wealth and the show of sophistication, or even about sculpting memories before they are formed. No, it's about making people who see it long after you're dead look at you and say: "Oh bless. Look at all the effort he went to. What did it really mean?" We tend to look down on the people who came before us as if they're stupid, because we can't really understand that they didn't know what was coming.

I'm not long in the museum because I can't see much use for cork except as an impediment to accessing the wine in the bottle and so I go back to the hotel and I work. I sit downstairs and I write as much of this blog as I can. Claire comes back with the shopping and we get on the internet and finish everything for the Taste of the Wight magazine and can now concentrate purely on our writing, this trip, and of course, the Gatehouse Blog. (It is now, by the way, that I realise Claire has described the three-year-old boy we played pinecone football with as a German, belonging to Germans. This is in fact not the case, unless they were trying very hard to hide that they were German. They spoke Spanish, to each other, their child and to us; they were not looking at the view but were instead out for a walk, so they probably weren't tourists—in fact, the idea that they were German must only come from the fact that the child was blond. Honestly Claire, stereotyping isn't that accurate...)

Sunday June 8th

Today Hillary Clinton steps out of the official race for the Democratic nomination and on the other side of the world, marginally less historically and a little after breakfast, Claire and I step out of the hostel Zurich. We are seen off enthusiastically, told to return next year, and I cannot wait to read Claire's entry about that little hostel. We walk and Claire bought a lot of food and I realise that I'm actually in a very bad mood because I feel guilty about staying in a hostel. Luckily I feel guilty about being in a bad mood and after a polite telling off from Claire I'm back to my old self again. Well, I'm back to my happy self, that is. I have decided that it is definitely crowds that upset me and the more distance we put between ourselves and the cities the better I feel. We follow the trail, laughing and taking pictures and when we stop for lunch after Sagaro we watch boats pass and then, to our near delight, we are lost. We walk through a marina and miraculously pick the trail up on the other side. Turns out that this is a feature of our little foot trail—those white and red painted markers disappear and reappear almost whimsically.

Through the Marina we pick our boat for the next adventure—surprising ourselves by agreeing almost straight away. However, we have packed too much stuff so our bags are even heavier than usual. We rest and play 'Go Fish' again before walking down the Platja d'Aro and out to where we hope to find a camp spot near the Cap de Rogques Planes. There is nowhere—we consider several places while losing the light and I know I'm starting to get grumpy and tired and unbearable but my pack is getting ehavier by the second and the thought of not being able to find somewhere to hide is causing me much consternation. We are off the trail and on the highway again, and we walk into a campsite as the sun finally disappears, desperation driving us to spend the money we don't want to. The security guard shows us where to go and as we are pitching the tent someone approaches us. Her name is Sheila, from near Manchester. Her and her husband Steve work as camp couriers and she saves both our lives, Claire's sanity and our relationship with two mugs of strong tea and a bottle of red. We eat cold beans and pasta from tins and drink the wine (the tea made pitching the tent possible) and in the darkness head to the shower blocks and that night we sleep like the dead.

Monday June 9th

We go for a swim in the morning. It's bracing and heavenly and then we shower and dry our clothes on the tent. Claire decides she's going to read by the beach. We have acquired several books from the bookswap on the site, and while she goes off I sit and read and drink cold beer all day. I'm in heaven and I never want to leave, sod Palermo. I spend a nice lazy afternoon in a chair and just about finish my book. Then Claire comes back, angry, frustrated, covered in pine resin and near to either crying herself or making something close to her cry. She's very fair, you see, and can't be in the sun for extended periods of time. So she sat in the shade, got covered in pine resin and is convinced she'll have to cut all her hair off.
"It can't be all that bad, surely?" I say, still glowing with the pleasure of my day.
"It fucking is."
I calm her down with some beer, some chocolate, and when she's showered and washed her hair and hasn't had to cut any of it off she's okay again. We go back to the shop and for dinner Claire will be making us an enormous salad. She buys cabbage instead of letuce but it's a surprisingly good salad nonetheless. Actually, it's fucking awesome and I can feel all the vitamins returning to my body after days of camp food: crackers, meat and cheese. But I won't tell her this.
We got to the bar and I buy Claire her cocktail, the one I promised her on a bleak December morning in Norwich when neither of us wanted to go to work. It's blue and I taste it and it's so sugary I nearly choke. She loves it and I drink more beer and we share a pizza and some chips while watching Holland trounce Italy. We both decide that Holland will be our team for this European cup: Claire becuase she likes the football they play; me because I have a lot of respect for anybody with the guts to wear that much orange in front of that many people. After the game we read until they throw us out of the bar. Later, as I'm brushing my teeth in the men's bathroom area, I am approached by a stranger.
"A bit too noisy for reading, wasn't it?" he says.
"I only read at half-time!" I protest, laughing nervously. I am trying desperately not to look like a big woopsy. It's very hard when you're caught reading a thick novel during a football match by men with shaved heads and tattooed eyeballs. I ask him if he is Dutch and he says yes. "Good game," I say to him.
"Ya. But I can't understand why England aren't in the competition."
Now this is a football question I can answer. I nod sagely, lower my shoulders to a more masculine position, and adopt the expression of one who really knows what he is talking about. "Don't worry old boy," I say. "It's because we're shit."

Tuesday June 10th

Bugger the hike—we read all day today as well.

Wednesday June 11th

We finally leave camp. Oh, how we will miss it. It shows because we argue all day, even over the most trivial things. We walk along the main road into Palamos and are told off by impolite people—okay, it was our fault: we wandered into another campsite looking for a store, having finally decided to buy a camping stove. We were told we couldn't just walk in. I think they were about to make us pay but I demanded directions and they were glad to be rid of us. We finally locate a place to buy that most treasured luxury item I've been saying we don't actually need ("It's okay Claire, I'll build us a fire." "Sure you will Al, but when?") and it's cheap and the gas cartridges are less than 2 Euros and I fall in love with it immediately. We buy a few things from the supermarket and then walk on a bit. In La Fosca we stop for a coke and to watch Spain thrash Italy and then we walk a bit further on, to an observation point past the beach of La Fosca. We make our first hot meal on the move there, a Jamie Oliver budget recipe for carbonara that Claire has memorized (if it's cheesy and involves pasta, she can make it by heart—oh Scottish cuisine!). Despite the insects and my frustrations with Claire's use of our Mosquito repellent as a bug spray (what a waste! I almost cry as she uses considerable quantities of the not inexpensive stuff to blast the things out of the air.) the meal is absolutely gorgeous and afterwards we press on along the path, around a cove with a lovely beach not yet developed, and we make camp in the dark by torchlight in a bush, right by the path.

Thursday June 12th

I wake up to the sound of running feet. This is not wat I want to hear. Turns out the stretch of track we are camping beside is popular for people out for an early morning run. I can see why, though. The terrain might be physically demanding, challenging even, but the beauty of the scenery is such that it would take the mind away from the physical struggle. This is my favourite thing about running. I imagine moving out here and running along these clifftops every morning. The I remember that I should probably get a job before I start spending money in my head, and I return to the task at hand: the washing up of last night's cooking utensils. I leave Claire to lie in (she's had another sleepless night, listenging to the sounds of the undergrowth and snorts of small creatures wondering what the bloody great fabric thing on their garden path is, while I snore gently beside her, no good to her should it be a bear that wants a Full English breakfast) and I retrace our steps back to the beach where I need to scrub our pan in the surf. I pause en route to explore the semi-excavated remains of an ages-old, pre-Roman stronghold. Sadly I cannot read the Spanish explanation of the archaeological dig, and all I can make out is in fact about the history of the dig itself, rather than the site. I will look it up when I get home. As I scrub the pan (and by default, myself) in the cold surf a school of English children/teenagers walk past, set for lessons in sea kayaking. I envy them, just a little bit.

When I get back we break camp and I am keen for us to press on but Claire is feeling horribly pre-menstrual and I am pushing us both too hard and she yells at me through tears when confronted with another steep hill.
"It's not much further."
"What's the fucking point!"
"Claire..."
"Every time you go up a hill it's just got another one on top of it."

I panic, and to make her feel better I pretend that the less steep way she wanted to go is in fact the right way, making up some story about a sheer cliff fall and big red and white crosses (the trail symbols for 'WRONG WAY, DICKHEAD!'). Claire, convinced that it will lead us to a road and thus easier terrain, insists that is the way we should go. I point out that it in fact goes 180 degrees in the wrong direction from where we want to go, having walked a bit along it already. But I nobly decide to sacrifice myself, and brace for a long, hard day of walking in the wrong direction with an increasingly demented girlfriend. As the road curves and steepens a bit I am hoping we haven't made a massive mistake when suddenly we come across a signpost informing us that Claire's way was, in fact, the right way and I am an idiot. It says that on the sign: Calella: 30mins. Palafrugell: 2h 45mins. Alex Hammond: Fucking Moron.

We press on, from Cap Roig to Calella de Palafrugell to Llafranc where we slog an exhausting and ugly kilometre to a place called Kim's Camping. The price they offer is more than a hostel would cost and little short of violent robbery and we shake our heads and like most places they immediately give us the real price which is significantly lower and also at the bottom of the big hill the campsite is built on. Everything is, of course, at the top of this hill, after what Claire describes as a thousand steps but we pitch our tent, shower and skip dinner, choosing instead to get very drunk and eat peanut M&M's while watching the football. There we chat briefly to a father and son from Norfolk and when they escape while we aren't looking we meet polyglot Michael and Joseph who speaks no English, both (really this time) from Germany. We conform to the stereotypical Brit on holiday and spend the rest of our time in the camp in shame.

Al's Travel Blog - Part 4

Friday June 6th 2008

With morning we come to a shivering start. There are huge puddles of water in the tent and very little remains dry. I'd dearly love to wake up furious and snappy but Claire tells me not to—she takes a couple of pictures as we pack up and we are setting off early enough that I don't mind anything and she has said that we will walk the (what we suppose to be) 13km to Sant Feliou de Guixols. This is a town that we have already given up trying to pronounce and are instead referring to as 'Felix'. Bloody English—they're rubbish abroad. The winding S of the highway starts to become familiar and we settle into the routine of walking. Occasionally Claire asks for some army songs and I remember a couple from Vietnam war films and Tim O'Brien novels and they get us to the small community (abandoned ghost town) of Canyet. We have covered most of what our days hiking should be and we walk downhill to the beach to eat and read through the heat of the day. I dry the tent.

Now would be a good time, however, to tell you one very important fact I have gleaned from hiking in my time: be suspicious of everything that goes downhill. Inevitably, you'll only have to walk up it again.

We make tuna and sweetcorn sandwiches and paddle in the sea. We are running low on sunscreen, and by the time we need to get going we're both a little burnt. And now we have a big uphill bit before we even get to the road. Biggest of all our problems, however, is that the cooler parts of the day are still very hot and we have no water. None. Claire is struggling upwards in the heat and I am getting angry.

"I told you we should have carried four bottles!"

"You can barely carry everything with only three!"

"I can carry anything and everything! I'm a superhero! I just need water."

"You're a dick."

"Yes, and a thirsty one."

Eventually, I leave Claire in the shade with the bags and I run up and down hills around the town looking for a shop. Naturally, there isn't one, and when I get back to the shade hot, sweaty, bothered and at one point chased by dogs and by now really, really mad at myself, Claire says she'll buy me dinner. I immediately perk up. The one restaurant in town is open and not serving until eight, another three hours away. So we sit and look at the sea and drink coke and take it in turns to go fill the bottles of water from the taps in the restaurant bathroom. Coke is a wondrous thing, restoring all our energy to us and we keep going in the fading sunlight, headlights flashing at us with smiles and waves from the host of motorcyclists that come zipping past. We wave back but try not to distract them too much—this road is strewn with memorials to motorcyclists who've not quite made some of the demanding turns along this stretch of the coast. We take a wrong turn off the road down a little path above Canyet but we neither of us mind and there is a little bench by the cliffside and we sit on it and I carve 'CLAIRE AND AL ON FOOT 2008' next to similar legends from the last eight or so years. Looks like my creative writing degree is getting more valuable by the second.

We walk, and keep walking, and Claire says that if we make Felix by seven-thirty she'll buy dinner. We still haven't made it but tells me I heard wrong and that if we make the town by eight we are going to a restaurant. We aren't going to make that, either, but then just after Felix adventure park a car pulls over. We' walk over to it and the two Spanish guys offer us a lift to 'Feliu' bus station and we gratefully accept. It's 5km more than we thought it would be. They take us to the station and drop us at the stop for Barcelona, recommending it thoroughly, and we have no Spanish to tell them it's very nice and we've come from there (or German, which surprises them greatly because my attempts to communicate in French led them to the conclusion that we were Germans—I shall never be proud of my French again.). So, we hide in the bus station until they've driven off and then walk into Feliu to find a restaurant. We eat cheaply at a wonderful place, and then we get to talking.

"I really can't be bothered with camping tonight."

"Me neither. Not with the 5k back out of the city, and it's too crowded to stay any closer."

"But if we get a hostel we don't get a full rest-day to regroup."

"Tell you what—I'll pay for tonight, you pay for tomorrow night."

"You're a bad man Hammond."

"I'm my father's son and born to a life of American luxury."

We track down tourist information but, like the two hostels we passed on our way from the restaurant (we feel bad, by the way, because we had to pay by card but when we tried to add a tip the lady thought we were complaining about the bill.) it too is closed. We ask at a hotel in the Placa Mercat (Market Square, check out my Spanish...) that is way too much but the receptionist directs us to the Hostel Zurich, right next to the museum, and we are thoroughly encouraged by how relaxed they are and their generosity. We take a room for two nights, and are shown up by an older woman who has leg problems and a formidable pair of spectacles, and she infact follows us up, calling out directions ("Up! Up mas! Now, Right!"). I think that before we had even reached our room she had adopted us as her token foreigners. In the room I have the best shower of my life because it comes with complimentary Aloe Vera to combat sunburn. Claire let me go first and I'm asleep before she gets out.