For our next trip we decided to go on a European tour. Initially we thought we might drive, but then decided we liked the idea of travelling by train in Europe, so we opted to fly to Budapest, train it to Vienna and then on to Prague, from where we flew home. Three for the price of one! It was actually a great way to do it, allowing us enough time to explore each city, and we didn’t miss the stress of driving around narrow mediaeval streets at all…

We started off in Budapest, as we have long wanted to go there, and were fascinated by it’s roots in the Austria-Hungarian Empire, as well as its more recent communist history. We stayed in a rather weird apartment, with shared kitchen facilities, and our own room and shower. The apartment itself was very modern, but housed in a really old building, and entry was via a scary ancient lift that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a horror film. However, it was pretty easy to access everywhere from where we staying, though the city turned out to be somewhat larger than we were expecting.

One of the reasons we wanted to visit Budapest was because so many people had raved about it and we’d heard it was like Prague, only bigger. This turned out to be a true representation. It is very like Prague, but distances are somewhat further than anticipated, so on our first day we toddled down to the Danube, walked up to the Parliament Building and realised we were going to be doing a lot of walking.

I love a European city, me. And I have a rule of thumb that every time I visit a new one, it immediately becomes my favourite city. In my experience any city break also usually involves four things: walking miles, visiting at least one incredibly high tower, usually sans lift, a boat trip and mistakenly ordering beer in the most expensive spot in the city. I think we managed all four in Budapest.

Budapest is set on the Danube, with the western side being the old city of Buda and the eastern that of Pest. They were united in 1873 under the Austro-Hungarian Empire, the influence of which is seen all over the city.

On our first full day we decided to walk across the river to the Buda side of town, and go to the Gellért Hill on which sits the incredibly impressive Citadella, built by the Hapsburgs in the nineteenth century. Alas for us, the Citadella was undergoing renovations when we visited. However, the incredibly steep climb to the top of the hill (in quite considerable heat - the 2022 European heatwave having it’s last hurrah), was well worth it, as the views from the top were spectacular. Having thoroughly knackered ourselves, we then trotted along the riverside up to the Castle district. The Castle area is incredible, featuring not only Buda Castle, but the fabulous Matthias Church, the National Gallery and the Fisherman’s Bastion. It too involves a very steep climb, so we wimped out and took one of the many taxis as the funicular seemed to be a tad busy. Again, there were amazing views from the top, looking at the Pest side of the river, and the splendid Parliament buildings. And of course, discovering the Mary Magdalene Tower meant we were compelled to climb it - we were on a city break, it’s the law. We then went back down to the riverside, crossed the river, and found to our delight that there was a tram that would take us back to our apartment, and a very welcome beer. Which was a relief…

The next day found us doing more trotting, and some tramming. We started off at the Heroes’ Square which is pretty impressive, and then walked to the Vajdahunyad Castle which was pretty fairytale, before taking a tram to House of Terror Museum in Andrassy Avenue. This was the building used to detain and torture prisoners, first in the Second World War under the Nazis, and then in the Cold War under the communists. It’s incredibly moving and well worth a visit.

It still being very hot, and one of the draws of coming to Budapest was visiting the hot springs, we took another tram to the other side of town to visit the Lukács Spa, which was hidden away in a little park, felt fairly basic, but was a nice way to end the day. It was also quite a hike back to our hotel, but by this time we had worked out where the appropriate tram stopped to get us there, so we were able to take the weight of our feet!

The following day the weather had turned, but we had set on visiting the famous Széchenyi Spa, which is the largest spa in Budapest. For this we braved the underground - well I say underground - as it happens the metro lines close enough to the surface that you can hear the rumbles! Széchenyi Spa is well worth a visit - though I’d suggest mid-week so they can cleaned up after the wild-sounding Spartys held at the weekend that our offspring have been too… It is absolutely huge and having not thought to pay for a changing room to share, Spouse and I managed to lose each other for the first twenty minutes. Once we’d located one another, we wandered through the myriad rooms featuring hot and cold rooms, saunas and the like, before eventually finding ourselves outside in the bigger pools. The first of two large is quite warm, and was very busy, so we went to the second, which was really hot. So much so that the advice is not to stay in for more than twenty minutes. Not that that seemed to bother the two Hungarian chaps sitting on the steps nonchalantly playing backgammon - as you do.

On our last day, we visited Parliament, first going to a small museum in Kossus Lathoj Square dedicated to telling the story of the 1956 uprising when hundreds of people protesting in the square were murdered by the Soviets. It was another sobering reminder of Hungary’s relatively recent dark history.

The Parliament building itself is quite incredible. It’s modelled on our own Parliament buildings, but somewhat more impressive. The interior is incredibly opulent, with gold decor, and red carpeting throughout. It also houses a replica of the Crown of St Wenceslas, although you can’t take a photo of it. Like our own Parliament, there are two chamber buildings, which you are allowed to look around - I particularly enjoyed the detail that in days gone by the MPs would pop out to take a puff of a cigar, and leaving them in ashtrays provided, before going back into the chamber to carry on with business.

After that, it was off to try a boat tour - no city break is complete without one - before getting caught in an horrendous rainstorm and realising we hadn’t brought quite the right clothing. Lured by the hot and dry summer, we hadn’t a rain jacket between us, though we did have fleeces. As we made our way to the station the next day we deeply regretted our mistake as it was freezing.

Oh well, we were in Europe, it was the end of summer - next stop Vienna!

We stayed in Global Suites Budapest.

Our final destinations were in France. So we drove out from Pamplona on a blazing hot morning, through the Pyrenees to the city of Bergerac. I am not quite sure how/why we ended up there, but I think it was a convenient stop off en route to Montbazon which has a splendid castle which we had come across some years earlier, and wanted to revisit.

Our journey into France took us through the Pyrenees, on yet another blazing hot day (we seemed to have time our trip with a massive heatwave in Europe, which was great, but y’know husband, I’d have LOVED a few swimming pools on the way…).

As we travelled through the Pyrenees, we became aware that we were once again straying into Compostella Pilgrimage territory. We stopped off at Ronscevalles, mainly because that’s where Roland of Charlemagne fame met his end at the hands of the Basques in a famous battle in 778. Dave wanted to check it out, natch. As it happened, the Church of Santa María de Orreaga/Roncesvalles where we paused is one of the auberges that pilgrims use taking the French Way to Santiago. So once again, we came across several pilgrims, had a wander round the church, learned more about the pilgrimage, had a bite to eat, and looked in horror at the sign that said Santiago 790km. My appetite for doing the whole thing had waned somewhat dramatically. Especially as we set off down the Ronscevalles Pass (site of aforementioned battle), which was very steep and windy. We saw several doughty pilgrims ploughing their way to the top. Rather them than me…

Arriving at Bergerac, we took ourselves out for a walk on the river. It was still blistering even as the sun was dropping. To my disappointment, although Bergerac has at least one lake suitable for swimming, it wasn’t going to be open till the end of the month. So my hopes of having a cooldown were dashed. Instead we sat by the Dordogne (where alas you also couldn’t swim), drinking warm beer, feeling like we were going to melt. Bergerac itself is quite industrial, so it isn’t the most interesting of places to stay, and I doubt we’d return. However, the small remaining heart of the mediaeval city, is well worth a visit, as are the statues to Cyrano de Bergerac. Overall though, not our favourite place…

The following day, we set off for Montbazon, on yet another scorching day, and this time, to my delight, our destination had a swimming pool. Here we stayed in a family-owned property with an annex with your own room/bathroom. It was very quirky and the couple who ran it were delightful. Monsieur spoke not a word of English, but his greeting of “Madame, avez besoin de nager?” Was met with an enthusiastic, “Madame a beaucoup besoin de nager!” Madame was DESPERATE to nager, if truth be told. As was Monsieur. So we dumped our bags, and hopped in the rather lovely saltwater pool and splashed around happily enjoying the welcome cooling effect, while making friends with the lady of the house who was an English teacher so we could chat happily.

We explained to them our reasons for coming to Montbazon (which is pretty off the beaten track), namely that we had camped there many years before. On that trip we had noticed a huge tower in the distance from our campsite and one day on our way back to the campsite we detoured to it. The kids had all crashed out in the car, and we went to the entrance where we greeted by an elderly Englishman. He explained that he had bought what was in effect an old keep known as the Donjon of Montbazon, which he was living in and in the process of restoring. We rushed back to the car, woke up our rather recalcritant children and said, “You must see this!”. I’m not sure the children were as enthusiastic as we were, but we bought tickets and the chap in charge kindly showed us round, explaining the history. In the tenth century a dastardly villain called Fulke the Nerra (The Black Falcon on account of his nasty deeds) was fighting the ducs de Blois. At that period, people built wooden stockades, so the convention was everyone rampaged about in the spring/summer, then went back to harvest in the autumn and retreated because it was too bleak to fight through the winter months. Fulke changed all that by building a stone keep - Montbazon (I think) being the first. This changed the game completely and allowed him to overcome his enemies, until everyone else caught on.

We had a great day looking round the site, and marvelled at the work the guy in charge was doing (he had spent a fortune on supporting the deep foundations of the tower), and always vowed to get back one day. Our hosts were delighted to hear our story, but informed us that the original owner had sold, and it was now owned by a historical society, whom they seemed somewhat less than enamoured with.

The next day we went out to take a look. And were sadly disappointed. Instead of being open every day, it appeared that the Donjon was only open at the weekends or when special activities were held, and this was a weekday. We walked around the outside to get a feel of it, but had to depart without seeing the transformations wrought in the time since we’d last been there.

At a loss as to what to do, that having been our plan for the day, we searched for local sites to visit and came across the Chateau de Candé. Which we discovered on arrival was where the Duke and Duchess of Windsor had married and where they spent some time. Not quite as much as fun as Fulke the Nerra, but nonetheless we enjoyed it. The building is beautiful and is set in stunning grounds, and as the sun was still shining we were able to wander about happily for the afternoon, before trotting off back to our guest house where were able to fulfil our besoin de nager once again.

The next morning, we set off (after a stunning breakfast from our wonderfully generous hosts) for Dieppe. I had hoped we might be able to take a dive off to the coast for a swim on the sea, before getting our boat, but hélas, was thwarted once more as everywhere we tried to go was rammed, and so reluctantly we headed for Dieppe, where we waited for over an hour in the burning heat, before finally boarding, and saying a fond farewell to a trip that had been fun, informative and long overdue.

This was the first time we’d travelled like this, and we did learn a thing or two along the way. Firstly, that Dave’s desire to be near to the heat of the action by booking us into centre of mediaeval cities was more than a tad stressful at times, and caused far too many marital spats. Secondly, only allowing one or two nights per city was a pain in the arse frankly. Every time we had got settled we had to up sticks again, and we vowed next time to do things differently, and find one place to stay for a few days where we could go and visit a variety of things, without having the pain of driving through mediaeval streets. And of course, last but not least, we needed to stay in at least one or more places where the possibility of swimming was on the menu. That at least, was my chief takeaway…

The hotel we stayed in in Bergerac seems to have gone bust, but in Montbazon we stayed here and I’d thoroughly recommend it. One day we might go back and revisit that damned castle!

We reluctantly left Segovia (navigating our exit rather better than we had navigated our entrance!) and headed for Escorial. This was my choice. When Spouse said, let’s do Spanish castles, I insisted that El Escorial should be part of the trip. Mainly because back in the dark ages when I was studying A level History my very brilliant History teacher had raved about it. I am also a big fan of Philip II of Spain (who in my book gets a bit of a raw deal from English historians), and I was eager to see the palace he built. Despite his reputation as a fanatical Catholic intent on reconverting the UK (Elizabeth: The Golden Age, I’m looking at you), Philip was a true Renaissance man. The Escorial was built both as a palace and a monastery, and also serves as a tomb for the royal family of Spain dating back to Charles V (another historical hero). I had long wanted to visit it, and reader, it didn’t disappoint.

We arrived too late in the afternoon to visit the palace itself, so wandered around the outside, marvelling at its sheer size as well as the many beautiful knot gardens in the grounds. It was sweltering hot by now, and we found ourselves repairing gratefully to a bar or two. We weren’t at that point hungry, but when we found ourselves at a bar that served chips, we suddenly got peckish. We had however failed to factor in that while the French eat early, the Spanish eat… late. So food was off the menu for the next two hours. Not wanting to keel over when said food arrived, we drank our beer as slowly as we could till the welcome moment when the kitchen reopened!

The next day we visited the Escorial properly. And it more than exceeded expectations. The royal library alone is well worth a visit, especially the main hall which features frescos on the walls representing the liberal arts, as well as stories (mythological or biblical) attached to said art. The crowning glory for me was the fact that foredges of the book are decorated with gold leaf and face outwards, giving a golden glow across the whole room. Sadly you’re not allowed to take photographs, but I’ve swiped one from wikipedia!

The other highlight of the Escorial for me was the mausoleum, which holds the bodies of all the kings and queens of Spain from Charles V, which is quite astonishing. I was uber excited to find Philip II’s tomb, but even more excited to find Charles V. Unfortunately you can’t take pictures of it. But I did sneak in a shot as we entered the room. It felt profoundly meaningful to visit the tomb of two men who had lived so very long ago, but whose influence still lingers.

From the Escorial, we then took a walk down through the gardens reaching the Casita del Principe at the bottom (an eighteenth century royal hangout), which was great, but we hadn’t quite factored in how far downhill we’d walked, or how far uphill, we had to walk (once again in the burning heat.). This time we were prepared for the lateness of dinner, so we had ourselves a welcome ice cream at the top before hoofing back to our strange little hotel to change. It was very cheap and cheerful, but the bedroom was tiny, and the balcony even tinier, which is we found ourselves crouched on it later that evening sharing a beer and a fag before bedtime…

The next day we took ourselves off to Zaragoza which was a bit of a schlep, being a five hour drive, and while there were things of interest to see there (namely an old roman amphitheatre, and a fabulous basilica, overall it wasn’t our favourite place. Apart from anything else, it stank of drains - no doubt the heatwave hadn’t helped there! - and we were quite glad our sojourn there was swift.

Our next destination on the other hand… was just incredible. We’d opted for Pamplona because it was on the way. We hadn’t really factored in that it would be that interesting, given that all we knew about it was the bull run. But it’s a beautiful city, and we really loved it there. Everywhere you go there are references to what makes the place so famous, with pictures of famous bull runners in nearly every bar, tacky bull runner souvenirs, and in places the wooden barricades that are set up when the bull race is on. The bull run itself seems like an absolutely insane thing to do, and it is incredible that a) it’s still going and b) people aren’t hurt more often. But it is also weirdly fascinating, so we ended up walking the route just to give us an idea of what it entails (absolute insanity I’d say) and were quite staggered to realise our hotel actually overlooked the start of it. That year’s race was happening a few weeks after we were there, and when we checked out the prices for bull race week, we realised that this is something we are unlikely to see in our lifetime!

Apart from the bull racing vibe, Pamplona is full of gorgeous mediaeval buildings, narrow cobbled street, has a lively feel and the people are friendly and welcoming. It’s well worth a visit if you’re ever that neck of the woods, and if I were to go back, I think I’d happily spend a few days there. And who knows, if we win the lottery, maybe one day we will managed to see that famous bull run… we sure as hell aren’t going to take part!

We stayed at:

Hotel Tres Arcos

Hotel Ria Arga

Habitus Hotel Europa

Llanes, Palencia and Segovia

We left Arcachon on 4 June, on a grey rainy morning, and drove through the Pyrenees to the small town of Llanes on the coast of northern Spain. Our choice being dictated by husband’s desire to see the Picos mountains. The route we took forms part of the Northern route of the Camino de Santiago, the ancient pilgrim way to Santiago de Compostella (I was, little did I know it at the time, to walk part of the Spiritual Way from Vigo a few years later, but this trip was what first put the idea in my head). It was a five hour drive, and we were glad to finally get to Llanes. Not, quite so glad, when we realised we had to navigate yet another mediaeval town with one way streets and pedestrians spilling out on them. Not a lot of fun in the rain.

We had opted for a self catering apartment here as we were planning to stay four days. The location of which was great, though the place itself had seen better days. It was probably state of the art sometime in the 80s… Luckily we’re not too fussy, but as the weather was quite inclement when we arrived we would have preferred somewhere with a little heat and the possibility of drying out wet clothes…

Eager to see the Picos mountains we drove up to the Picos de Europa National Park the next day. We started off in relative sunshine, and discovered that in order to get to the top, we needed to leave the car and get a bus, as unless you go very early you can’t access the top by car. Husband was a bit sniffy about this. Till we got on the bus… and rattled our way up and round some extremely harrowing mountain roads. Made more exciting by the occasional wandering of cows into the road. Though it had been sunny when we left the car, I’d had the foresight to grab a fleece before we got on the bus. Husband… hadn’t. Apparently I am my husband’s keeper and was meant to suggest it to him. When we arrived at the top of the mountain we discovered it shrouded in mists, with nary a view to be seen. It was also freezing. And Dave was wearing shorts and a t-shirt. We still managed to wander up and around the tracks, and enjoyed discovering the old mineworks en route. It was quite eerie in the fog. The map told us there were two lakes, but we couldn’t see either of them. And sound was muffled apart from the clanging of cow horns, which usually presaged one or two cows wandering rather alarmingly out of the fog towards you. As we approached the summit and looked out over what was apparently a lake, we met a Scandinavian couple who looked as cold as we were, and laughingly joked that we might all as well be in Ireland. Or Wales.

Luckily after that, the weather picked up, so the next day we were able to take a trot along the coastline which was rather splendid. And then to my delight we had a day where it was actually hot enough to swim. It was on the beach that we met our first pilgrim. A lady who had walked some of the Camino and thoroughly recommended it. I hadn’t actually twigged that it was something you could dip in and out of. I’d rather thought it was part of the deal that you had to walk over the Pyrenees, which was putting me off the whole endeavour. The notion that you could walk sections of it seemed somewhat more appealing…

With the uplift in the weather, we decided we had to revisit the mountains, to see what we’d missed the first time. And we were glad we did, as they are absolutely stunning. And to our amusement we suddenly realised the rather lonely tree we had photographed in the fog was actually in front of the lake we’d managed to completely miss on our previous trip.

Our brief sojourn in Llanes done with, our next port of call was Palencia, which meant driving through the Picos mountains, before descending into the central plains of Spain. I kid you not when I say that it was probably the most stunning drive of my life. Round ever corner was a new peak rising from the clouds, or a glimpse of a river below. I’ve got photographic evidence, but it really doesn’t do it justice. If you ever get the chance, I’d thoroughly recommend it.

Before hitting Palencia we headed for the castle of Penafiel, which is fabulous in its own right, but also worth visiting for the wine museum attached to it. As we drove up the hill, we noticed a woman a few years older than us, determinedly striding up it. It turned out she was on the tour we were taking, and she was also another pilgrim. She had it transpired being walking through Spain for weeks and had completed the Camino (though I’m not sure which route she took). We offered her a lift down the hill, but she politely declined, preferring to walk. Rather her than us, as by now it was baking hot.

I’d like to tell you something about the castle, but alas the tour was in Spanish, so we didn’t understand a word. Instead we bonded with a Dutch couple who like us, were taking our first foreign post-covid trip, and we swapped castle stories. The exuberant joy we all shared about being able to do was a wonderful bonus to that particular day. And one we experienced over and over again, as there seemed to be so many couples doing the same thing. It made us even more appreciative of what we’d been missing.

We then headed off to Palencia, where we had fun driving the car into a lift before navigating the extremely tight car park, but at least didn’t get stuck in a one way system. We had a lovely afternoon exploring the town, which is very pretty, with a cathedral, archaeological museum, Roman bridge and lovely parks. We enjoyed rambling around it, not least because the sun had definitely come out by now, and after days of feeling freezing, it was great to sit down in the sunshine with a well-earned beer.

In Spouse’s enthusiasm to see as many castles as we possibly could in one trip, he had only booked us one night in Palencia, so I suspect we missed a lot of the things we could have seen there, but no matter, because our next destination of Segovia, turned out to be one of the best places we visited.

Segovia is another beautiful mediaeval town with a roman aqueduct (honestly it’s worth visiting for that alone), a splendid cathedral and it’s piece de resistance, the Alcazar of Segovia which is the fairy tale castle to end fairy tale castles. In his wisdom, Spouse had decided that if were we to make the most of such a beautiful place, we should stay within the city centre. Which was all well and good, but he hadn’t factored in the fun of driving through increasingly narrow streets while trying to find our hotel. We must have driven round the walls of the town at least three times, and at one point as we drove down a street, realised to our horror that a restauranteur was busy laying out tables and chairs ensuring there was no longer any access to it. Dave then had the fun task of reversing extremely slowly back up the road we had just driven down, trying not to take out any tourists on the way. Mission accomplished we managed to find our hotel, before discovering that we couldn’t even park outside it to unload our baggage., so we drove further down the road, and I nipped back up the very steep hill to find out where on earth we could park. Further down the hill, under the cliff, as it turned out. We were able to drive into a very narrow underground car park, with zero room for manoeuvre, but the fun of it was, that we could actually access the hotel from there. And we discovered the car park was part of an extensive cave network which was pretty cool and made it worth the previous half hour’s stress.

What was even cooler, though was that the hotel looked out over the Alcazar. It counts as one of the best locations we’ve ever stayed in, as we could sit in the garden watching the sunset, and the martins wheeling over the city walls. The only downside was being within the city walls, there was no pool, and by now the temperature had really ramped up. That aside, we had a fantastic day wandering through the streets of the old town, visiting the cathedral, and following the line of the aqueduct through the streets. We were able to check out reasonably late, which meant we had time to do the Alcazar in the morning before we left. Which is well worth a visit, and proved to be the highlight of the trip so far…

We stayed in:

Apartamentos San Pedro en Llanes

Eurostars Diana Palace

Hotel Don Felipe

Part One

Northern France: Andelys, La Rochelle, Arcachon

One day in March 2022, I was sitting at my desk when I became aware that I was getting a lot of notifications from Booking.com. It transpired that whilst I worked my retired husband was sitting downstairs on his laptop finally sorting out our castle tour of Spain. When I finally looked up from own laptop to see what he’d arranged, I can’t say I was displeased, although there might have been a comment or two about lack of swimming pools, given that for the most part we weren’t going to be by the sea…

So on a sunny day in May we took the ferry from Dieppe (never done it before and probably won’t again, it took yonks to disembark and embark in France), as it took us further west then if we’d departed from Calais.

We are veterans of driving in Europe, having done many trips to Germany when my mother-in-law was alive, and several marathon journeys down to southern Spain with the kids. However, it had been three years since we’d last driven in Europe, and while I am usually a fan of combining the sat nav with an actual map, I was so out of practice I forgot to grab our European atlas from its stealthily concealed position behind the back of my seat. That combined with a traffic jam round Rouen meant that the sat nav in all its wisdom sent us down a variety of tiny roads in northern France. When I did finally manage to extricate the map from the back seat the scale was such that the tiny roads we were travelling on weren’t actually on the map. Cue a little bit (!) of marital discord as the beloved husband couldn’t work out why I didn’t have a clue where we were (a point of honour to me, as despite all suggestions to the contrary I am VERY good at map reading).

Luckily about an hour into the trip we managed to find a mainish road, and eventually even a motorway. Where having not done it for a while, I also remembered how shit I am at extricating the tickets from the peage machine. Given we are driving on the wrong side, and I have little arms, I have to contort myself into ridiculous positions trying to get them in the first place and then pay when we’re leaving the motorway. This may or may not result in ridicule from my husband. I leave it to you to draw your own conclusions.

Eventually, a couple of hours after we’d planned to, we arrived at the town of les Andelys, a Normandy town near Chateau Gaillard, the prime reason for visiting the region. (Reader, this whole trip was predicated on staying in places near the castles husband wanted to visit.) We were staying in a lovely little hotel, which had probably seen better days. Like many places we visited that summer, they were recovering from the effects of covid, so though there was a bar, it wasn’t open, and the garden where we repaired to drink wine in the evenings hadn’t been mowed all spring. There was no one actually on site overnight, but they did provide breakfast in the morning. Still the room was comfy enough, and we were close enough to the local square to go for a drink and explore the rest of the town.

Les Andelys consists of two towns really: Grand Andely where we were staying, and Petit Andely down by the Seine, near the castle. As we had time and it was a fine evening we strolled down to Petit Andely, which to be honest, I preferred. As its name suggests, its smaller than the main town, but it is also prettier, with quainter buildings, and of course a view of the Seine.

By now we were getting hungry, but stopping off for a beer on the square we were somewhat disconcerted to discover the bar was shutting at 8pm. This being pre tourist season, nothing was open very long. The restaurants (still also in post-covid recovery) were taking it in turns to open and looking on google we discovered most of them were shutting by 9.30 pm. There was a little Italian that looked promising, but we were too late to book, so that was a no go. Which is how we found ourselves in a French Chinese, where we presented with a salad starter, consisting solely of lettuce, which was somewhat bizarre. Luckily the actual Chinese food on offer was lovely and we had an enjoyable chat with the proprietress about Shanghai, from whence she originated as one of our daughters had spent some time there. All the bars then being shut we took ourselves back to the hotel garden where Dave was reduced to opening a bottle of wine with his pen knife.

The next day we took ourselves off to Petit Andely and had a wander round the pretty little church and town before heading off to Chateau Gaillard. Now in ruins, the castle is built on a promontory overlooking the Seine and Petit Andely which was constructed at the same time. It was something of a folie de grandeur of Richard the Lionheart, who had it built in a record two years (1196-98) at a cost of £12000, and it must have been truly splendid when it was finished. Even now you get a sense of how fabulous it was. Alas for poor Richard, despite saying, “Behold, how fair is this year-old daughter of mine!” before its completion and counting it as his favourite residence, he only lived a year after it was finished. Hey ho, such is the delusion of kings…

After two nights in les Andelys, we headed to our next destination of La Rochelle. If Dave’s approach to European travel is to ask is there a castle nearby?, mine tends to be, I studied it in History so it must be worth a visit. All I could remember about La Rochelle from History A level was that it was at one point it was besieged by Cardinal Richelieu, but that was a good enough reason to visit I felt. And I’m really glad we did, because the Vieux Port at La Rochelle is truly stunning. It features three mediaeval towers, has a lovely harbour you can walk around, and even a nice beach. The only downside was Dave had picked a hotel in the city centre, which would have been fine if we’d been coming by public transport, but given that we were driving, resulted in the first of many harrowing drives round the town centre trying (and failing) to find our hotel, while navigating tiny one way streets, and at one point being sent the wrong way out of town. In the end we managed to get near enough to the hotel to discover that we could park in the main town square a twenty-minute walk away. You live and learn. Our hotel, though on the harbour front was more of a hostel then anything else, and discovering there was no dining room, but we could order croissants to the room, we opted to go to a local café instead. It might have been a bit pricier, but it was infinitely nicer!

We spent a night in La Rochelle before heading for our next stop of Archachon, roughly four hours away. Here we were by a beach, which was a plus (though we did get caught in a downpour), and stayed in the most bizarre place yet. I had been sent very precise instructions by the owner as to where to park the car. The instructions as to how to access the property were somewhat less comprehensive, however. Having dragged our suitcases for another twenty minute stroll, we arrived at a property with an iron gate, which appeared to be open, but when we went in there was no one around. I had been under the impression that the owner would greet us on arrival, so when another car arrived, we assumed we were going to be let in. The new arrivals it transpired were also guests, who helpfully told us we should have been sent a key code (we hadn’t) and when I was struggling to understand the owner, translated for us what the code should be. So luckily we didn’t have to spend the night on the pavement as we’d begun to fear we might.

Our room, though a tad musty, looked onto a very sweet courtyard which housed a tortoise and hundreds of birds, who flocked down at the hint of any food appearing. We had been told that breakfast was included and had imagined that someone on the property would leave breakfast out on the tables. Instead, we were greeted by the bizarre sight of a lady carrying a sack of goodies, who left us croissants in a bag dangling outside the door.

The main purpose of staying in Arcachon was to visit a local landmark known as le Pilat. The largest sand dune in Europe, le Pilat is 500m wide and 2.7km long. I have to say it is the most bizarre place I’ve ever visited. We approached it via a campsite in a wooded forest (which is getting less wooded by the year as the sand dune encroaches on it), and after a pretty exhausting scramble up to the top you walk into the middle and well, you could be in Sahara. Once up there you literally cannot see anything but sand. It is very very strange. Also, a little oppressive, particularly once you are back down in the woods again. I have to say I don’t fancy my chances of living in a chalet close to the edge of it!

We celebrated surviving the dune by a trip to the beach, an ice cream, and a dip in the sea. I love swimming in the sea, and one of the things I missed most about the covid years was how little I got the chance to do it. So even though it was the Atlantic and pretty nippy, I was delighted to actually get in the water, even if it wasn’t for terribly long…

Arcachon as it turns out is a pretty expensive place to go out to eat, but at least the restaurants didn’t shut at 8pm. Deciding to forgo the pricy seafront places we found ourselves a tapas bar, complete with beer barrels to sit on (our kind of place), where we could shelter from the rain that started the minute we sat down, while we fortified ourselves for the next stage of the journey—a six hour drive to Llanes in Northern Spain…

To be continued…

We stayed at the following places:

Andelys: HÔTEL LES IRIS, Les Andelys (updated prices 2025)

La Rochelle: Hotel La Marine, Vieux Port, La Rochelle (updated prices 2025)

Arcachon: Villa des T, Arcachon (updated prices 2025)

This time, though we went prepared. As well as the ancient three-man tent we had taken on the previous occasion, we also have an eight-person tent which we had used when the sprogs were small. It has ample seating inside for when the weather is shit, plus so long as we got an electric hook up we could bring along some home comforts, like a microwave, kettle and mini fridge. And as it was just the two of us it didn’t matter that the car was packed to the gunnels.

We couldn’t face another epic trip northwards, so we turned our attention to the Welsh border, and decided to stay in the Forest of Dean. I found a campsite closeish to the river Severn, and we set off in glorious sunshine with the intention of visiting a lot of castles.

The weather couldn’t have been more different. We arrived in blazing sunshine and set up our capacious space, feeling eminently satisfied that if the weather did turn we could at least make tea and feed ourselves without getting pneumonia.

As it happened, we needn’t have worried. The sun shone every day (apart from the days we strayed into Wales – but well, it’s Wales – I don’t think I’ve ever had a holiday in Wales without it raining once), and the campsite was lovely, clean and with gorgeous sunsets. However, what we hadn’t realised till we got there was that the campsite was in a very tiny village called Awre, which though picturesque was a little lacking in facilities. When we’d booked it looked as though there was at least a pub. But alas, we arrived to discover said pub was no more. The nearest one was a three mile walk down country roads in the dark, so we eschewed that and contented ourselves with staying out for as long as possible in the day and settling down to some tinnies to watch the sunset when we got back.

The sun shining and having the extra space made all the difference to our experience. It was glorious waking up in the early morning and feeling at one with nature and made me remember the good bits of camping. And the Forest of Dean is truly beautiful, so we enjoyed exploring it. Mind you… on our first night we grabbed one of the helpful walking guides the campsite provided and set off on a walk by the river. It was a lovely evening, and we were having a great time, until the instructions became a little vague. We followed what we thought was the right path, went through a gate into a field and found it was full of cows. No worries we thought, we’ll just walk calmly by the side of the field. We won’t bother them; they won’t bother us. Which was a great strategy until we accidentally got between a calf and its mother. Cue a very scary bunch of protective mothers heading towards us at increasingly alarming speed. Luckily for us there was a path on a slope to the side of the field, so we hopped up on and it and walked very slowly and carefully to the gate, the cows pursuing us all the way. We had to practically leap over said gate to escape and the cows watched us balefully as we contemplated whether we should run the gauntlet again (having established by this time we had gone astray). Discretion being the much better part of valour we decided we’d rather walk miles than do that again ending up back at the campsite just before sunset, where we encountered the campsite owner. “Get lost did you?” he grinned. You could say that…

The scary cows didn’t put us off further exploration of the forest, starting with a trip to Symond’s Yat. When Dave was very young he went on a lad’s trip to Symond’s Yat, canoeing and has always talked of it fondly. So we took a drive up some interestingly windy roads to revisit his old haunts. Symond’s is a gorgeous spot, but also very crowded, and the parking is insane. Even during covid times it was busting at the seams. And with the weather being so good it meant the whole world and his dog was out and about. Still, we enjoyed watching the canoeists navigating the rapids, and the trepidatious souls attempting a walk through the swirling river which involved many attempts to throw each other ropes, but luckily ended up with no one drowning.

As a child I spent many holidays in Wales, so I also wanted to take a trip down memory lane, and insisted we visit Barry Island, which now of course is famous for Gavin and Stacey. I remember having a fabulous day there on the beach, when amazingly it was gloriously sunny. One of my chief memories was of walking over to the island when the tide was out, but as we wandered round Barry, I couldn’t for the life of me work out where we had been. None of it looked familiar at all. Until I worked out that on the other side of the main beach is a smaller less touristy spot. And that was where we’d holed up. My crafty parents having spotted all the temptations of the arcade (which would have cost them a fortune considering there were eight of us), had spirited us away to the less commercial side, and we were none the wiser! We did at least get ice creams.

Being me, I insisted on swimming in the sea. Welsh holidays having inured me to the idea that if you want to swim in the UK you go in however cold it is. Alas, on this occasion, the sun decided stubbornly not to shine, so while I did venture in, it was a pretty brief dip. Every other sodding day it had been so sunny I was desperate to cool off. Such is the buggery of going on holiday in the UK. By now, though I was enjoying our sojourn, I was really really missing the med and lovely long warm swims.

On the upside, being on the Welsh border meant we got to do our favourite activity of castle bashing. We started at Goodrich Castle on the River Wye, on a gorgeous sunny day. Dating from Norman times, Goodrich was in pretty good nick until it got damaged in the Civil War. It later fell into disrepair, but in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries took on a new lease of life as a tourist destination – before the advent of the railways, locations along the Wye were a popular with artists in particular. And seeing the picturesque ruins here you can quite see why – indeed we even came across several people sketching it – it’s well worth a visit if you’re ever in the area.

Raglan Castle in Wales was also a superb destination (as a Thomas descendant on my mother’s side I am a hundred per cent convinced that William ap Thomas who built the Great Tower just has to be an ancestor), with enough of the original standing that you really got a sense of how magnificent it must have been. Though the Roundheads tried to destroy it during the Civil War it is a testament to the builders that they only partly succeeded. Raglan has fine views and would have had magnificent gardens for the time. You can still see the bowling green where Charles I is alleged to have played on a visit in 1646. Again, another strong recommend, if you’re the castle bashing type!

Despite my joshing about the weather in Wales, it was actually sunny the day we visited Raglan, but sadly that wasn’t the case at Caerphilly Castle, which was probably my favourite of all. As we drove to Caerphilly it felt like the mist was wrapping us up – I’m sure there’s a great view there, but we sure as hell didn’t get to see it. It did however make for an atmospheric trip, as the castle rises out of a moat and has quite the Camelot vibe. But bloody hell, I was so cold that day we had to resort to an old favourite of cold UK holidays with the kids and retreat to a café for a hot chocolate…

We did have fun on that trip and were grateful that the sun shone most of the time. We fell in love with the Forest of Dean and we loved everything we saw, but two camping trips on the trot were quite enough to be going on with.  And boy oh boy, we couldn’t wait to get a crack at that Spanish trip my other half had been planning…

The wind is howling around us in the aptly named Crow’s Nest campsite and the rain battering down on the car, as my husband vainly tries to attach a tarpaulin to our tent in an insane attempt to cook the burgers we’ve just purchased from Tesco’s. In the event after a fruitless half an hour, involving both of us getting soaked to the skin, we repair back to the car, where we sink a bottle of wine and devour all the snacks we’d also bought from Tesco’s. This wasn’t quite the way we’d planned our first holiday without the children…

When our children were growing up we went on many lovely family holidays – although as one of them once announced grumpily, “The trouble with family holidays is too much family.” Well, quite — especially when you’re the one organising, cooking, cleaning and chivvying reluctant offspring to take part in intellectual-improving activities. Thanks to incredibly kind family and friends we were lucky enough to have a few weekend breaks from time to time, but my husband and I did miss our solo trips. So while there was a certain amount of nostalgic sadness from realising family holidays were now a thing of the past, in early 2020 we were excitedly planning our first holiday sans enfants…

We had intended to do a road trip round France and Spain visiting castles (this maybe a bit of a theme). Hélas, we all know how that turned out… Instead of which, our first much-longed for holiday together turned out to be a camping trip in Northumberland and Yorkshire. Never mind, we thought, it’s a part of the country we’ve never visited before, and it’s the end of summer. The weather couldn’t be too bad – could it? We are both quite outdoorsy and given the prevalence of covid at the time we figured that being in the open air would be a Good Thing. And somewhat over-optimistically, we hoped that following the brilliant summer we’d had the weather might just hold out for us…

So we set out in good heart one day towards the end of August, car packed to the gunnels and safe in the knowledge that whatever happened next, we would at least only have ourselves to worry about.

We had booked a campsite in Berwick on Tweed, which is a long way from home, so we dropped in on my sister for one night and also booked a premier inn in Durham. The weather turned the moment we got there. Rather than the Indian summer we’d hoped for, Durham was both grey and cold. So cold in fact I had to buy an emergency fleece. God knows what I was thinking, but I had somehow forgotten that temperature drop you get once you’re north of Birmingham.

Cold aside, we loved Durham, though being covid times our trip round the cathedral was somewhat surreal as despite there being very few visitors we still had to follow a strict one way route round about, and weren’t able to visit the castle. We did have a lovely walk around the river and a jolly evening in a pub, but of course, we had to sit outside in the cold because of well, you know… that wretched covid bug.

Then it was on to Berwick which is the furthest north we’d ever been. And boy were we glad we chose it as a destination. Not only did we get to drive past the Angel of the North, the scenery was spectacular, and the beaches to die for. I’m sure they’d have been even better if the sun had been properly out. I am normally quite a hardy swimmer, but even I balked at the cold and rather ferocious waves. Still, one thing I love about camping is being out in the fresh air, and sitting on Northumberland beaches certainly blew the cobwebs away.

We arrived at the campsite, put our tent up, suddenly realising how very tiny our three-man tent was, and wishing we’d got an electric hook up. On the plus side we had a lovely view and were near enough to Berwick to be able to walk there and explore the town. The sun was shining, and though it wasn’t exactly warm we hoped for good things. We found a castle (result) and walked around the town walls before finding another jolly pub where we sat basking in the evening sunshine, until we realised the shade was coming in fast. By which time we were freezing again. So a brisk walk back to the campsite was in order, and before turning in for an early night wearing as many clothes as possible - the campsite we’d chosen being somewhat basic and not offering anything by way of entertainment. It was also thanks to Covid insanely draconian about how many people could be in the loos at one time (three I think was the max) plus you absolutely HAD to wear a mask even if no one else was in there. Reader, I took a great subversive pleasure in disobeying the rules…

One of the things I do like about camping, is the way you wake up early and as I mentioned above your day starts with fresh air (the fact that it continues with fresh air and there’s no way to escape when it rains is somewhat a downside, granted). Because you are up early, you get to fit in a lot more into your day. Which is a real bonus, if you, like me, are a natural slugabed.

Over the next few days, the sun did mainly shine, and we were able to visit Alnwick, Bambrough Dunstanburgh and  Lindisfarne Castles and go on a trip to the Farne Islands. Thanks to the C word we weren’t allowed to land, but it was great to see pregnant sealions, gannets and a myriad of other wildlife. Alas, no puffins as it was the wrong time of year. We also took a fantastic trip to the site of the Battle of Flodden in which James IV of Scotland died in battle (the last British king to do so). Although you could look at it and say: oh it’s just fields, so what? what really brings it to life is that you can walk round the whole site and find information about the position of the troops and what happened as the battle progressed. It’s a really imaginative way of telling the history and gives you an amazing sense of perspective. As an obsessive history nut it’s right up there as one of the favourite places I’ve ever visited.

After four days in Northumberland we headed down to Filey to the afore-mentioned Crow’s Nest Campsite. Thought it had been cold in Northumberland, we had been lucky to have avoided the rain. Alas, that was all about to change. The sun was still vaguely shining when we got to Whitby (well worth a visit for Dracula fans), but after that it was all downhill. We spent a day in Scarborough, scrambling around the castle there, wishing the sun would bloody well come out (it didn’t), and had a rather miserable trip to Bridport where my husband had an inexplicable longing for a pasty, which was sadly unforthcoming. On the plus side our campsite did have a fish and chip shop – except it wasn’t open every night. Which is how we found ourselves trying to barbecue in the rain (to be fair it had actually been vaguely sunny that evening so we were lulled into a false sense of security). Filey itself was three miles away, so we were had to walk along the coastline to get there, which was beautiful and bleak, but also grey and miserable – the haunting keening of the sealions adding to the gaiety of the nations. We very nearly threw in the towel when we thought Dave had got hypothermia, but luckily the sun came out on our last days so we stuck it out to the bitter end. It had been a different kind of holiday we decided, not without it’s positives, but having spent ten days cramped into a tiny tent, we both decided if we did it again, we’d take our huge family tent, perhaps not go so quite so far north and bring many more creature comforts…