Bravo Costa Brava!
It was an early start this morning, especially by Spanish standards, and we’d all woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Farewelling our gorgeous Barcelona apartment we crammed our bags into the big family truckster and hit the road. Navigating the streets of Barcelona in a car, made us truly appreciate the Metro! Making a quick visit to say goodbye to Toby’s best friend Richi wasn’t as quick as we’d hoped and with a tangle of one way streets and weird road rules we definitely took the scenic route to Richi’s house. It was great to finally meet Richi and sad for Toby to say goodbye.
We hit the highway, motoring up the picturesque Costa Brava; our first stop the pretty town of Girona. Girona is the hotseat for the push for Catalan independence and Catalan flags and say ‘si’ to the referendum flags are absolutely everywhere – flying from flagpoles and draped over balcony railings. The anti-Spain sentiment also means Spanish is omitted from all the street signs and shopfronts, a contrast to Barcelona where every sign was in both tongues.
The old town of Girona is stunning! Wandering up and down the cobblestones through narrow streets, winding staircases, through the ancient part of the walled city, grapevines adorning the stone buildings with cute little balconies, was like being on the set of a movie! The grand cathedral in the centre of town had a vast, wide staircase leading down to the town square and Girona had its own La Rambla lined with outdoor eateries, boutiques and gift shops. The cathedral bell was booming out, scattering the pigeons and adding to the romance of the place. The rough stone wall surrounding the town dates back in some places to Roman times! After Maisy had to pay an exhorbitant €1 for the privilege of relieving herself, I finally bought us a caga tío – translated loosely as “crapping uncle” – for the Christmas tree. It’s Catalan tradition to have this little guy in your nativity scene at Christmas time. He’s actually squatting, pants half-mast with a little pile of his business beneath him. What a crazy tradition!
From Girona it was back to the highway and another pit stop at the spectacular seaside village of Sa Tuna. Ross and Toby had visited here in 2014 and had fallen in love with it. Little Greek-looking sailing boats were bobbing in the rocky little bay and grand Spanish-style houses rose up from from the pebbly beach. We dined at a supercool upmarket seafood restaurant overlooking the glorious blue waters of the calla. Comparing the taste of Spanish prawns to Aussie prawns, Maisy declared the Spanish prawns tasted “more like the ocean”. We’re not sure if that’s a good or a bad thing! The waitress, as with numerous others we’ve encountered in Catalunya, was completely shocked that Toby could speak fluent Catalan. Being a language spoken in only a relatively small part of the world, not many non-Catalan people ever learn it. Toby was suitably chuffed and continued to converse, rightly showing off!
A refreshing dip was in order and though there was a small ripple it wasn’t quite worthy of a body bash. The water was beautiful and clear and a walk around the rocks uncovered another equally cute beach peeping at us from around the corner. The sun was still high in the sky, the beach still pulsing with people, colourful beach umbrellas still littering the cove. A casual glance at our watches revealed it was already 7pm! We’d just had lunch! These Spaniards have really messed with our body clocks.
The 3 hour drive was full of raucous Jones family sing-a-longs as we rocketed along the Auto Bahn past fields of blooming sunflowers (wow!), wind farms and signs promising mountain goats and cows, en route to the land of croissants, crepes and frog’s legs. The signs were still in Catalan but the countryside was looking more and more French. There were HUGE bushfires on the side of the road, in more than one place, and a thick cloud of smoke was hovering over us. No less than 20 fire engines squealed past us, flames visible from the road!
It was a pretty exciting moment for us all when we crossed the border into France! Driving from one country to another is quite a buzz! Surprisingly (& disappointingly) there was no Check Point Charlie to stamp our passports or even say ‘Welcome to France’. We may as well have been driving from Collaroy to Narrabeen! Nevertheless, we celebrated the border crossing in the car. We hadn’t realised it was Bastille Day until we saw fireworks going off in all different directions. Fighter planes were flying in formation, streaking red, white and blue trails across the sky.
The toll plazas were plentiful and our GPS led us up the garden path, or more correctly, onto the Auto Bahn with absolutely NO exits for kms and kms. We thought for a while we’d be seeing the sunrise over Paris! We actually went 40kms out of our way and when the credit card wouldn’t swipe to pay the €18 toll, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Poor Ross did his best to state his name and address to the fast-talking, somewhat impatient Frenchwoman booming out from the speaker box but after he’d painstakingly spelt out: R-O-S-S J-O-N-E-S, she said: so what is your surname now? I guess the bill will be in the mail!
The hotel bed in Montpellier never felt so good!
