The road fleeing Benidorm was anything but straightforward. From spending several hours trying, and failing, to find a parking spot in Valencia and being forced to move on to driving through one of the worst storms I have ever witnessed, Spain would not let us circumnavigate her coastline easily.
Following our travails around the Portuguese coast, we returned to Spain and headed inland, this time tanned and with fully charged leisure batteries after a pristine week of southern sun. Seville was to be our first stop: a city famed for Flamenco, fine food, and forlorn foals - upon which eager tourists are carted around the city.
Our first night in the Portuguese capital was anything but a peaceful one. As we gently lay our weary heads on our ultra-soft, side-sleeper Slumberdown pillows for what we believed would be a full night’s kip, the unmistakable tones of Mike Posner began emanating for a run-down building just a few metres from the van.
Our fourth week on the road began with a bang as my intrepid partner became slightly older, if not at all wiser. Having been spoiled on my own name day not three weeks prior, I needed to pull out all of the stops and provide Lowri with a truly thrilling gift, a gift that money simply could not buy, a gift she could cherish for years on end. I settled on tepid running water.
Our third week on the road began with a surprisingly low-key border crossing into Spain - no sign of police, PCR tests, or any sign of a global pandemic at all - and a short dash across the rugged and charming Basque country towards its largest city: Bilbao.
Following last week’s visits to Paris’ teeming tourist attractions, Lowri and I decided we’d had our fill of bustling conurbations and so instigated a five-hundred-kilometre drive westwards across the French farmlands to the Atlantic coast. It was our longest - and most monotonous - leg thus far but, thankfully, made all the more enjoyable by five hours of continual Chanson Française (French folk music) - Lowri did not agree.
October 9th, 2021. The day I moved from four walls to four wheels and embarked on an expedition that, for the first time, has no scheduled end. My new fixed address being a white converted panel van called Vishnu, a vehicle that will, hopefully, transport us to many places far-flung for the foreseeable future.
It’s been over a year since I last saddled my backpack and commenced a new voyage, two years discounting a whistle-stop fortnight in Greece, and so there’s been a copious amount of time to mull over my long-term travel plans (as well as my receding hairline and rapidly sprouting ear hair).
Thessaloniki, as well as scoring very highly in Scrabble, also scores very highly in my ranking of Greek cities – coming top (out of two). Whilst Athens is geared entirely towards wealth, tourism, and sophistication, Thessaloniki is more focussed on graffiti, pollution, and drifters selling meat from unmarked carrier bags. It has an edginess that could easily be mistaken for Barcelona’s Eixample district, Haut-Marais in Paris, or the industrial estate at Slough. I quite liked it.
Cloud-piercing mountains, bottomless gorges, and ancient monasteries are not usually three things that spring to mind when thinking of Greek sightseeing. However, I was reliably informed that the northern reaches of this once great land are awash with exactly these kinds of sights; sights that the average inebriated Mediterranean island-hopper would struggle to believe belonged to the same country as Faliraki’s Bar Street.
