Motril to Algeciras, Spain, Monday December 26th

Bérenice was feeling a little better so we all headed off early, us to the bus stop and Michel and Bérenice to catch up with the group of walkers. We had had a wonderful time with Bérenice and Michel, who are incredibly sweet and generous people and who had made us feel very welcome. It was interesting to have some insight into what it is like to migrate to a town where there are almost no compatriots. Certainly language is the key, and it is harder to acquire for older people. My advice to everyone would be to learn a second, then a third, then a fourth language, and to continue on all your life. I wish that I had done that. Of course the best way to do it is to be in a country where the language is spoken, so lots of long term travel would be good too. We have both picked up a bit of Spanish just from the road signs and advertisements. I am going to miss all this, I know.

We had quite a wait for the bus so I did more typing.

We wanted to visit Gibraltarr and its famous rock, but the only way seemed to be to go past it to Algeciras and then to take a local bus back to the border town of Linea de la Concepcion, and then to walk across the border into Gibraltarr. The British own Gibraltar, so we would be going into another country and would need our passports. We passed through all the towns that had only been names to us three weeks ago, noting that in the square at Almúñeca the same men were in exactly the same positions as they had been the day before. There was a bit of excitement when the Guardia Civil, in their green uniforms, boarded the bus and asked a couple and another man to show their papers. It was not a general check, and the officers went right to the people, ignoring the rest of us. Apparently nothing was amiss so we continued on. The poor driver had had the horrible job of mopping up vomit during the break. Bérenice had told us that in Costa Rica someone had vomited on the bus and the driver had just stopped, alighted and gone into a house. He came out with some ground coffee which he sprinkled over the vomit and it completely eliminated the smell. Also in Costa Rica, Michel had noticed that at a bus stop, a man had taken the distinctive bag belonging to his brother-in-law from the luggage compartment of the bus. He made off with it while the two of them got off the bus. Luckily locals pointed to the cafe where the robber had gone but the bag was nowhere to be seen. Michel spotted it behind the door and got it back. This could have been awkward if the robber had claimed that they were robbing him, or if the wives hadn't got the bus driver to wait. All in all, it seemed that if in doubt, it would be best to get off at every stop just to guard your bag, or to keep it on the bus with you.

There was no prospect of us taking precautions on this trip, since we slept through most of this journey. We were in Spain and we just hoped for the best.

At last we arrived in the port city of Algeciras, where the bus station is very close to the tourist information bureau. An English speaking pirate type was incredibly efficient, put dots on the map he gave us to represent bookshops, gave us a list of hotels with prices and whisked us out the door. We walked up the street that he had waved towards and chose a cheap hotel where the room turned out to be much cheaper than on the list. Its stairway was lined with tiles reminiscent of the ones at the Alcázar in Seville, and when I said that I liked them a lot, our host glanced at them and said that the building was very old.

We spent the afternoon discovering that the dots on our map had nothing to do with bookshops and that there was nowhere here that would sell English language guide books to Morocco. Perhaps the poor mapping skills had led to the pirate type taking a shore job, since clearly he would be no good at looking for buried treasure. We did use the map ourselves to check out the town, and enjoyed just wandering around.

The market place was awash with smells and rubbish which was being cleaned up as we walked through. On our return much later, it had been washed and was pristine and fresh. Little streets lined with shops led up to the High Square, which was ringed with stalls selling scarves and leather goods. Keith thought that this town was attempting to be a second Seville; there were so many decorative tiles around. Every seat had the story of Don Quixote, the Man of La Mancha on it, in words and cartoon pictures, all in tiles.

The town hall was very grand, and festooned with fake icicles. We strolled up to see the enormous excavations of the walls of the Merinids, where many catapult balls had been captured and placed in cages. Some had not and perhaps the workmen considered that a heavy catapult ball just wasn't at risk of being stolen.

We crossed the road to the Park Maria Cristina. An intriguing working model showed how water would have been scooped up in pots tied to a wheel to give a continuous supply of water to the baths. We could hear the noise of a children's games day from just further down the park. It was a little surreal to be examining Roman ruins in Spain to the tune of 'The Court of King Caractacas’, sung by the very distinctive voice of Rolf Harris.

After the park we went on a fruitless search for the Roman Ovens, finding a large shopping centre with a children's wild west theme park where we expected them to be. In fact we had missed the fine print which included an arrow, but we didn't know that and decided to give up. There were some steps leading to an unseen area, so we went up them. As we did so, the two men on the terrace to one side began to whistle in a strange high pitched way. Over the top I could see that the area we would come to was a wild, lonely and neglected site, a cleaned up alley where the seats and paving had degraded into an unsavoury area again, probably in no time. I had noticed the younger of the men lurking near a tree when we had passed by before, and the older man who had joined him had a rough and tough look. Drug dealing, we thought. We asked them if they knew where we could find the ruins of the Roman ovens, and it was clear that this was not a request that they had ever had before. They tried to use the map to work things out for us, but had no more success than we had had. Finally they recommended the police station, which they were able to direct us to easily, to ask our question. We thanked them and headed off, but then we stopped when we realised that there were two streets to the right and we weren't sure which one they had meant us to take. We heard the whistling, looked up and saw the men frantically waving to us to say to take the one we were at. We waved back our thanks and were on our way again.

Algeciras is a town of many monuments, with Goya, Federico Garcia Lorca, a very sad looking General Castanos, all those who struggled for the autonomy of Andalusia, motherhood, royalty, D.Cristobal Delgado Gomez, Ibn Abi Amir who was the first minister of Córdoba in the late 1000s, and more, all recognised in sculptures.

A little chapel for Our Lady of Europe stood at the end of the High Square. Between1931 and 1943 it was used as a carpentry shop. No mention is made of why, perhaps since that would involve mentioning the political turmoil surrounding the Civil War years. Once the chapel opened for Mass, a beggar took up residence on the step beside the door. A lady entering for mass gave her some money.

We had heard recently that some beggars from Romania had enormous houses and cars there, and made lots of money begging in Spain, where apparently religious people are very generous. We had heard of rich beggars so many times this year, and had seen so many apparently able bodied beggars, as well as people who were clearly unable to work. Everywhere there had been beggars - beggars with children in tow, or with notes saying that they had children or needed medication, beggars with eyes down and hands out, beggars with two or more dogs, beggars who called on God to encourage you to give. Keith suggested that it would be fascinating to do a study of begging, if only you could rely on being told the truth. It is certainly not in a beggar's interests to tell anyone of their large home in Romania.

We bought some food at the supermarket and installed ourselves in our room for the night. It is small and has unusual windows that are too high for any human to open and close. Keith managed them on a chair and has since mastered a coat hanger method. I typed until late.