The North Coast 500 Scenic Route, or NC500 to its friends, is the United Kingdom’s answer to Route 66 - just without the neon signs, giant plastic blue whales, or copious concealed firearms (one supposes). It leaves irresistible Inverness and proceeds north, looping its way around the ruggedest and remotest of Scottish highlands, completing a five-hundred-mile circuit that makes the North York Moors look like Disneyland.
Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race! Let’s head north! With Brexit rules forcing us to remain outside of the EU for the next ninety days, an opportunity to explore our oft-overlooked British Isles gloriously presented itself.
After ten weeks of testing our new home to its limits, we arrive at our last few days exploring the opulent and prosperous principality of Monaco. Having feasted and gambled the previous night away, the dazzlingly bright morning light afforded us an excellent opportunity to discover what the microstate was all about before the glitzy casinos and extravagant cocktail bars open their well-bouncered doors.
Just a four hundred and eighteen-mile saunter from our last European microstate and we were in another: Monaco. Although calling her a microstate is being extremely generous given that she’s more than two hundred times smaller than Andorra and only four times larger than the world’s smallest nation: Vatican City.
Following a few days wandering the salubrious streets of several Andorran towns and villages, we dusted off our salopettes and went in search of some snow-capped peaks. Fortunately, in this diminutive nation, one doesn’t need to look too far to find a whole range of them.
When our van heating system decided to give up the ghost a week into our trip, we foresaw that certain future destinations would provide us with a special challenge in keeping warm - and this was one: Andorra. Sandwiched deep in the Pyrenees mountain range between Spain and France, this oft-overlooked sovereign state affords a smorgasbord of surprises, that we were very much looking forward to sampling.
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.
