Omar

Don’t miss the short video at the bottom of this page.

We’d not long arrived in Moulay Bousslham after a day sitting on our bikes and we needed a walk. We headed for the lagoon, which is beside the campsite, followed by a breathtaking walk. After no more than an hour, we found ourselves on the end of a sand spit, with the wild Atlantic on one side and the serene lagoon on the other. A fast flowing channel joined the two.

As we meandered about, picking up shells and watching the little fishing boats ride the surf and then the narrows to return to safe harbour, a man caught my attention. It was Omar, who had spent the day line fishing and wanted me to take a picture of him with his meagre catch. He spoke as much French and Spanish as me; so, not much!

We exchanged phone numbers, so that we could send the photos to his smart phone, which he kept at home. That evening, after a great meal in one of dozens of fantastic and cheap restaurants here in town, we sent off his photos.

The next day dawned misty and cold and we headed off to a small town an hour away for a huge local Sunday market. Two hours later we arrived, but that’s another story. When we got back we checked our messages to find Omar had invited us to his home the following day. After a couple of WhatsApp video chats, everything was set. He would pick us up at 9.00am, we would buy food, eat at his home, look at his village, go to Larache, a beautifully elegant seaside town, and then be returned to our campsite. It was a risky opportunity and we accepted graciously. We were now ‘Omars Amigos’.

The campsite service vehicle, emptying the bins.

The next day went to plan. We were picked up, we shopped in Omar’s local town for fish, vegetables and fruit and then whizzed off to chez Omar, deep in the Moroccan hinterland.

His little village; cart wide mud tracks, no tarmac, well water, jury rigged house electricity, small junior school and a small mosque, buildings limewashed in pinks, sand and blues. The whole place feels like a warren of tunnels. Behind the ubiquitous 2m high, walls and double steel gates, was the milk seller, behind others, their father, brother, cousin (mi prima/o), uncle. Suddenly the lanes dissolve into a clearing and there is a tiny shop, bustling with buyers, and someone repairing a vehicle, horses and carts ply their trade; and then we squeeze back into the maze. It all flashed by so fast.

Here the horse and cart rule. For Omar to own and run a car is a status symbol and a source of income. He ferries people to and fro within the dirt track system that he calls home. It is a place no ‘Petit Taxi’ dares to enter, for fear of the damage that would be done to the cars suspension.

The more usual transport here, horse and cart.

We had to wait for the food to be cooked by the women of the family. The men and I chatted and drank tea and water, in a pristine sitting room, as Omars mother presided. Mum and I wandered in and out of the man space and gave a hand with the food preparations. It was a chance to meet every one else.

Dancing in the kitchen with the women and children.

After our meal, eaten with no cutlery, in a different, equally beautiful room, whilst sitting on softly upholstered, ground level seats, at low level tables, I was dragged away by mum. The women and children had cleared the kitchen and it now it became a disco. And we danced.

Soon Omar turned up and dragged me away from the party; I seem to be popular in these parts. It was time to head off to Larache and then afterwards back to the campsite.

We recommend Larache. The influence of the French is evident. This place has it all, sandy beaches, fishing port and market, ancient Spanish fort and a fading charm that is hard to resist.

We were returned to the campsite to find the Chinese Emperor and the German couple gone. We now have a new neighbour. Let’s see what tomorrow brings.

The Road To Morocco

Imagine, you want to spend a couple of weeks in Morocco. You’ve never been there. It’s a 400 mile ride from your base on a Spanish campsite to the ferry port; and the weather is fine.

How is it, that on Wednesday, almost the moment we locked up Barri the VWT4 camper bus and left him and our fondly waving friends behind in the campsite, the weather began to change. Not enough, you understand, to make us rethink our ‘plans’. No. Just enough to make the first couple of hundred miles, shear murder. The wind blew stronger and stronger and gusted wildly. We ended up at a steady crawl and hanging onto the handlebars like silly puppets on strings as the wind attempted to lift us off our saddles.

Overnight, we had a sheltered spot for our little tent and the bikes, but we could hear the wind howling all around us, all night. At least it didn’t rain and the evening slipped by quickly, helped by the folks in the campsite bar who were very welcoming.

Thursday came, grey and easily as windy as the day before. We set off, fresh and enthusiastic. The moment we hit the main road, the A7, it started all over again. Just like the previous day, the scenery was jaw dropping in it’s diversity and rugged beauty. The sea on one side and mountains on the other; the reason we chose this route. Were we able to enjoy it? Not a chance. We settled on stopping every hour to recover; Jen for hands and Wally for his white finger, which the bike seems to provoke mercilessly. What a pair of crocks. The wind increased massively as the day went on. We took to slip streaming behind trucks for a bit of stability. It was remarkably noisy all the time and pretty frightening to ride some of the time. Could it get any worse? Hell Yeh! It began to rain. Why us? Peering through my road grease, rain smeared visor, a sign loomed large; Deer. We wondered what else nature could throw at us.

It took us 3 hours longer than our estimate to get to the edge of the port city Algeciras and the agent who would set up our paperwork so that we could get into Morocco without hiccups.

Enough was enough. We headed for the nearest hotel (not the one next to the agents!) and luxuriated. No boats sailing Friday, the sea state was an issue. It seems we’d decided to ride 400 miles in hurricane force winds. No wonder we were tired.

What a pair of numpties.

Biker Blues

You would think that by buying what were, essentially, new bikes, that we would have no problems with them, or with the seller, Blade Motorcycles, Swindon. One of the Dukes we have bought had just been run in and serviced for the first time and the other was returned by the original owner, new and unused and had to be run in, by us and was then serviced.

OH HOW WRONG CAN ONE BE?????

We left the UK with a beautiful shiny trailer containing our 2 fresh from the dealer, newly serviced and ready to ride bikes. The member of staff who handled the sale at Blade Motorcycles in Swindon, could not have been more pleasant or helpful. He was a decent person. A huge discount would have been nice, but none was given, unfortunately.

The drive all the way through Spain, from Bilbao in the north to the Mediterranean in the south, was uneventful. So imagine our surprise, when we arrived at our final destination, emptied the trailer, cleaned it and found a bolt, about 3ins long on the floor! Something that size will have an important job to do, it couldn’t be ignored.

Much searching of the trailer later, we decided it must be from somewhere else. The trailer was fine. The obvious next thing to check was the bikes. And there it was. A hole. A hole made for our wayward bolt. In Jens bike. At the top of the rear shock absorber. It’s job? To hold the shock absorber firmly in place, so that it can do it’s job, safely.

“I may be an adventurous sort of person, but riding a bike with a slack back end isn’t my idea exciting. It’s more my idea of exiting….in an untimely manner.”

We replaced the bolt, having checked the manual; you can’t just bung these things together you know. We had to secure the bolt with a particular type of Locktite glue and then tighten it to a specific torque.

We needed an adapter for our wrench and some magic glue, both of which we were spending time looking for, time we’d earmarked for other things. So, we phoned Blade Motorcycles, Swindon, talked to our sales rep who was perfect. Our rep apologised, said he would find out how this could of happened and, of course, get the parts to us ASAP; he even confirmed all this in a brief email. Several weeks later and a follow up email or two from us and we’re still waiting.

In the meantime, Wally’s bike was behaving very badly, so badly that he checked the tyre pressures and the rear was at about 10lb psi. He was pumping the thing up and cursing Blade Motorcycles Swindon, as I noticed, glinting in the hot Mediterranean sun, a nail in the tyre. So this one probably wasn’t Blade Motorcycles, Swindon’s fault. A local guy plugged it for 10 Euros.

The moral of the story?

Don’t buy a bike from Blade Motorcycles Swindon.

Whatever their excuse is for going silent on us, there is no reason for it.

Please feel free to share this story, shabby dealers MUST be named and shamed.

Unexpected Pleasures

When we washed up on this campsite last winter, cold, bedraggled and unhappy, we thought we were running away to a CAMPSITE. And I guess we were. But this is no ordinary campsite as todays blog will attempt to demonstrate.

People come here for a variety of reasons. Like us, I’m sure you assume it’s to keep warm and live longer. Well, you are spot on there, but you win no coconut Sherlock. Once here reason goes out of the window and over the months and years, a real village community has formed, which some fully embrace, whilst others brush up against this bubble and bounce off onto pastures new and less invasive.

Like many people, we sit somewhere in between. We know that we will want to keep coming back, as there is something deeply appealing about a fully formed and welcoming community. It would very easy to fall into the habit of being here, year in, year out, but we doubt that we’re ready for the quiet life just yet.

Today, better late than never, we bring you a 4 minute video about the new year here as celebrated in our parallel universe.

The Campsite As A Nature Reserve

With about 100 pitches, our campsite is small. It’s also fairly basic, sporting three shower/loo blocks, a laundry room, two places to hand wash clothes and a couple of sets of sinks to do the dishes. Apart from that, there’s not much here, other than the owners house, which also accommodates the small bar/shop and the social room. Like many campsites along the Spanish Mediterranean, it doesn’t need much more. Except, shade in the summer. On this site that is provided by a good variety trees and other tall plants.

Over the winter the clientele want as much light as possible and so the Eucalyptus trees are heavily pruned and yet still put on about a metre of growth a month. Buy the start of the high season the trees have a full canopy again, thus offering the goldilocks formula of summer shade and winter sun.

It turns out that this site is rather unusual, as the original owner, the mother of the current management, called this caravan park her garden and took great pleasure in selecting just the right plants for each pitch. Her first job was to give the land a skeleton, by marking off the boundary of each pitch with some low shrubs. She then had to punctuate the garden with some statement plants and to do this she hadto have date palms, the sign of a hot, sub tropical climate and so exotic to her northern European clients. The choice of a large number of Eucalyptus trees for their tolerance of the heat, their cool grey green colour, their aroma, and their shady, dappling canopy was inspired. She also picked trees for their berries and seeds and indigenous trees too.

As an underplanting, there are a range of succulents, including the sweet fruit and vicious needle bearing Prickly Pear. Beneath all these tall plants there are pots of plants absolutely everywhere.

When the ‘garden’ was planted, people arrived with modest caravans, small camper vans, or tents. There was no real struggle to negotiate these little homes around the the site and onto a pitch. Times have moved on, as has the motor industry. Caravans and motorhomes are generally much bigger than they were 20 years ago, when many of the regular campers first began to come here. Watching a modern vehicle or radio controlled caravan, shunting back and forth in order to turn a very tight corner bounded by four or five mature trees is a real treat for us.

What has all this got to do with nature?

The owners have created a lush garden that happens to be a campsite. Where there is a garden, there is life and this place proves that, as do the images throughout this post.