Down time for Downtoes

We woke up in the services to coach loads of Spanish people milling about in the carpark. The services seemed to be well-established and had a big ol’ bar in the middle of the building with all kinds of delights on display for brekkie. I went for a massive pain au chocolat. Tone pigged out on a fried egg and chorizo bruschetta. (He’s loving the chorizo!)

As we let our brekkie go down and finished our coffees, we sat and watched the carpark as several more coaches continued to arrive. They arrived in their tens and more and more Spaniards would pour out by the minute. Most of the people getting off the coaches were dressed in neon orange and, as we made our way towards Barcelona later, there were more and more coaches – each numbered – making their way against our flow. We still don’t know where they were going or what was going on. It was a Sunday and I think I saw “La Rioja” on one of them but hmm… If you have an idea, please leave a comment and enlighten us! (We had a quick Google to no avail.)

What was most disturbing about all of this was how the men would grab at their genitals as they alighted the coach, spark up a cig, casually wander over to the wide open view grass verge, carefully place their feet hip width apart, whap out their filthy urinating instrument and proceed to piss onto the floor. Meanwhile, the women calmly and civilly walked over to the toilets inside the service station available to empty their bladders (toilets were also available to the men). Why? Urgh.

We hit the road and drove for miles and miles along the motorway through mainly rocky terrain. We hadn’t been able to drive through the desert but, if we had, I imagine the landscapes would have been similar. Arid. Vast. Barren. It’d be clear where large rocks had been cut through to make way for the road and I started to question what we’re doing to our precious earth with all this piss and rock-cutting!

I’d say that it was about into the sixth hour of driving when I looked at the speedo to find that Anf was pootling along at a very comfortable 20mph. On the motorway.

“Urm. Why are we going so slow, Anthony?!”, I ask.

Anthony laughs. He tries to make out that he’s pushing Smiles as fast as he could. I wasn’t convinced and we seemed to speed up a little after that… Do I need to take the wheel again?!

Hey. I guess the slow speed enabled me to take in more of the scenery. I noticed there were lots more heron nests atop the pylons and lampposts we passed. I guess it’s mating season or something because, whereas the nests were empty a few weeks ago, now they had coupled up herons/storks in them. That, or maybe the herons in Spain are more settled and coupled up than those in Estonia! Another thing to Google when we get some wifi, me thinks.

We trudged on towards Barcelona for a good few hours on a road that would climb only to fall again (at 20 – 40mph) and we agreed it’d be nice to stay in a cheap hotel or campsite for the night. The rain started falling and we agreed visiting Barcelona like this wouldn’t be too nice. We also realised, at this point, that it had been over a week since we’d stayed in a hotel (Melilla was the last time). We grabbed some wifi at a petrol station on our way to the Catalan capital, and found an affordable hotel in a neighbouring suburb to Barcelona called Collbato.

It was only 4pm but we headed straight there. I caught up with some blogging, checked out the weather for the next day (rain ☹) and we had a few hours downtime. We ordered in a pizza for tea (after much difficulty and a pissy fit on my part), cracked open a beer or two, listened to some classical music and got some well-needed kip. Tomorrow it'd be tourist-time again, Barcelona style.