Motorway life.

Well here we are. Only managed 20k today. Spent the latter half in a surreally steep wooded narrow gorge, abundantly beautiful. This was despite the random hunting shot gun explosions and the huge motorway that joined us. The motorway was like the background of a computer game. It was real, giant and stupendous but had nothing to do with us. It had no contact with us, we saw no vehicles as it was above our heads and only heard echoes as cars hit bumps above our heads. Finally our paths crossed. A junction and slip road led to the local village and service station. Where we are now. Yes we are staying in a service station!

The reason. Ellen's feet are not to be beaten. Despite a valiant bacterial effort to render her ill and lame, they admitted defeat in the face of pharmaceutical attack. Reinforcements were called in and the other foot decided that it was going to finish the job. She now has peroneal tendinitis which has done the trick. Can hardly walk. The service station is a place of refuge. She is bit down about it, but I have to say I am not. We are in Spain and this is clearly where mainstream spaniards congregate.

3 random differences between a Spanish service station and it's UK counterpart.

Guarding entrance to service station.

Guard Dog

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fountain of nectar

Self explanatory

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just the job in a service station.

The knife cabintet. Sorry my photo does not do this male fantasy of space justice. It is big, glitzy and attracts just the sort of admiring looks from just the sort of people you would expect.

So here we are with a perfectly adequate room, sitting at our standard service station table drinking beer. Ellen is studying the menu. Only 7.00 so a bit early yet. The menu contents and many other menus LIKE it will be the subject of another post. Needless to say, few surprises. Starters: Galician soup, soup stew, seaman's soup, soup of the day or omelette with eggs. Mmmmmmm.

I like leaving in the dark, like we did this morning. In the old narrow streets just as the sky was starting to lighten we passed a battered old white 4×4 with a trailer. Shaded men were present as were camouflage jackets, rifles and dogs penned in a caged trailer. I know this is my soft mentality coming out here, but we were both disturbed. Especially as a few minutes later a small convoy of such vehicles passed us on the main road out of town, dogs fully pepped up howling and braying. Sorry it's just distasteful. It's not as if Spain has an over abundance of living wildlife. Most of it has already been blasted out of existence or starved of any sort of reasonable habitat. What is wrong with rugby or dressing up in colourful Lycra and setting off on two wheels, most men seem to find this does the job.

 

Author: paul

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