It was a bit like Groundhog Day: I was back in the parrot cage: it’s Sunday, it’s lunchtime and all around me people are shouting cheerfully at each other like animated parrots: admonishing children, ‘don’t hit Antonio’ ‘ be careful in the water,’ ‘eat up your paella’ as they extract food from a seemingly bottomless coolbag; splashing in the terrific surf, standing ankle deep in the shallow water as they chat or shout at each other. It’s all very good natured, there’s a lot of laughter and a total disregard of the ban on swimming. Yes I’m back in Spain, in Catalonia this time, at the curiously named Cunit beach (don’t blink!)
After a bit of a break, I’m back on the road and back to the paranoia of the communal washing up area, ‘not such a good idea to water the basil there Ginny’ I tell myself as horrible little bits of soil and gravel sully the surfaces; back to the quest for the perfect shower; back to the barking dogs of Spain for as night follows day, there will be a barking dog, even in the quietest of surroundings….onwards ever onwards, round never ending hairpin bends in search of the elusive stop for the night. How can I forget the review of one site which referred to the unpleasantness of visiting young cyclists ‘urinating and spitting at the site’?  Was it, I wondered to myself the site of ‘spitty pissers or pissy spitters’? I never did find out as they failed to turn up, so we shall never know…..

Usually, we prefer to wild camp wherever possible, though my nerves were rather jangled at 4.30 am  one night in Spain when we were parked down an abandoned road and woke to the sound of a car stopping up the road behind us, headlights, voices……’I’m in the middle of a drugs deal’ I thought, ‘or worse’ and kept very, very quiet. Where’s that barking dog when you need it?! Time passed and we all went to sleep, people in car included I guess…..
We had travelled down from Bilbao to Barcelona, driving through heat which at times, felt like a hair drier, past reservoirs which shimmered in amazing shades of blue
and on to a villa where we spent a happy week with our family, dressed mainly in swimsuits, cavorting in and around the pool, with the occasional expedition out. And very happy we were too. Then that particular party ended and we went our separate ways.
We caught the ferry from Barcelona to Civitavecchia, struggling our way through the ports and sitting in open mouthed astonishment at the chaos of embarking and disembarking from the boat. Horrible.
And then on to participate in the great Italian Barge.  Not any sort of water vessel but how you have to behave to get anywhere. Whether you are a pedestrian, a car pulling out, waiting in a shop, you just have to Barge. The only exception to the Barge are the scooters which weave in and out of the Barging traffic, risking life, limb and also damage to your vehicle, she said through gritted teeth.
We ran away from the dust, heat and if I’m honest, grottiness of the Italian coast and headed up to the hills, in true Raj style. Up into the wild and densely wooded mountains of the Abruzzo region, a spectacular area which is truly remote. It reminded me of Wales with its impassable mountains and secluded communities but all on a massively larger scale……and they play rugby!

Another ferry port, more chaos and here I am sitting in a campsite in Croatia, where we are all jolly good friends. I’m surrounded by Poles, Hungarians, Germans, Dutch and Israelis. It’s all very pleasant and relaxed and the sea is splashing at the end of the garden, oops I mean campsite. Our industrious camp owner has converted her back garden into a small (8 pitches) campsite and that seems to be the way of things here in Croatia: they are remarkably enterprising. There are seaside apartments to let by the score…….so the kids are probably doubled up for the season and last night we ate in a small grill restaurant, which was a bit like eating in someone’s car port…..go up the drive and take a seat at a table in front of the house. So far, so impressive.
An afternoon of people watching in Split tells me that the ‘look’ in Croatia this season is lace and shorts. Lacy coveralls (if that’s not a contradiction ) and very short shorts.  I am talking female fashion here by the way, though my Polish male neighbour seems to think short shorts are fun too….
On which happy note I’ll leave you but please don’t get too excited, we are talking 1960s  style…..