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We had been sailing for about two hours when I asked at the information desk if I could go below deck to check on the horses. I had been told beforehand that I would be able to do this as long as I had a steward to accompany me. The steward was a young friendly French lad who spoke a bit of English. He showed an interest in seeing the horses for 5 minutes, then realising that I was going to be a while, he leaned against the horsebox, and taking out a pack of Gauloises cigarettes, lit up and waited patiently for me to feed and water the horses. On the way back up the steps onto the deck, when I explained to him that I would need to come down every two hours to check on the horses, he turned to me and in his beautiful French accent said, “Don't worry, next time, just come down by yourself, take as long as you like.” I took him at his word and spent lots of time with the horses under the sea. I was feeling relaxed and happy, my horses were fine and my stomach was full; but when we landed at Santander it was a different story. Steve had spent time before we set out, studying maps and working out the best route to take; this part of our preparations was of no interest to me. I have no sense of direction, nor can I map read. I had never driven on the right-hand side of the road before, or ever towed anything except for the short trip from Brighton to Plymouth. I coped with this by telling myself that all I had to do was follow right behind Steve. I didn’t need to concern myself with anything else except keeping right on his tail. I was soon to realize what a short-sighted attitude this had been. When we left the ferry, Steve drove off first with the other trucks, and by the time we disembarked he was nowhere to be seen. I panicked... We drove down a ramp, and more or less straight into the flow of a huge roundabout, I could see that there was nowhere that Steve could have pulled such a large rig over, it was so busy and police were keeping the traffic moving. But which way do I go? Which lane should I be in? Only Craig’s cool composure kept us going. “We will keep driving until we see dad, he won't go on without us,” he said calmly. I kept getting into the wrong lane. Weaving from lane to lane with a caravan in tow, and in a state of near hysteria, is no joke! The Spanish drivers were great, I met with no road rage, just tolerance and patience. I suppose living in such a busy port, they are used to crazy foreigners trying to go the wrong way around their traffic system! Finally we saw the horsebox way ahead of us, we raced confidently (by this time I was an expert) around the roundabout. “Follow that horsebox,” we cried joyfully, but the traffic lights were against us, and we lost sight of him. We drove through town, and were approaching the motorway, where I would have to make a decision on which way to go. Why, oh why, had I not studied the maps? I had left it all up to Steve, and now I was paying the price for burying my head in the sand, something that I’m very good at! We desperately hoped that Steve would wait for us as soon as he was able to pull over, when, hey presto, waiting in a lay-by, there he was. Phew. After this I was determined to stay on his tail, but it wasn’t always easy, our old Vauxhall struggled up steep inclines towing its heavy load, whilst the horsebox with its lower gearing and 6 litre engine, pulled very well up hills, and we certainly met some hills! The horsebox engine overheated as we climbed for a solid hour up the Picos Mountains. We had to make a couple of stops to let her cool down. These coastal mountains are pretty spectacular and it’s fascinating how they peter out into the huge plains of Castile and Leon. We felt that we would definitely like to come back to explore this region sometime in the future, and in more clement weather...it was pouring. The camaraderie of truck drivers is amazing. Trucks were flashing their lights and honking as they passed us on route, obviously remembering us from the ferry. We had just pulled into a layby with the rain lashing down, when a Dutch truck pulled in behind us. “Is everything all right, do you need any help,” said this huge blonde handsome Dutchman, filling the doorway of our caravan. “No thanks, we are O.K. The old girl gets a bit hot going up these mountains, but she will be fine in ten minutes.” Steve answered hopefully, as the steam poured out of the engine. “O.K. I hope you’ve got good brakes,” he said as we told him where we were heading. “Be careful going down!” He waved cheerfully and honked his horn as he passed us. The minute he pulled away, the British Navy truck pulled into the layby, it was the two guys whom we had befriended on the ferry. They both jumped down from their truck to see if we were okay, saying they were both mechanics so could help out if needed. Steve was sure it was not a problem. “It's a pin hole in the expansion tank, which only causes problems on big, long hills when the motor gets hot,” he explained. “As long as we keep topping up the water and stop frequently, it should be okay, we are nearly at the top now; but thanks for the offer.” They waved and set off on their mysterious journey. We were now on a plateau that runs from the mountains above Santander right across Spain until near Guarda in Portugal. Scattered across the countryside were hundreds of very pretty little light brown ponies, with flaxen manes and tails. They seemed to be wild, as I could see no fences. At our next stop, an English truck driver pulled up; we were making tea at the time so he stopped to have one with us. He sat there, telling horror stories about trucks with brake failures going down the steep mountain range in Portugal, just after Guarda; he told of a very steep descent with multiple escape routes for vehicles suffering from brake problems. I didn’t need to hear this so I went to tend to the horses, who were grateful for our regular stops. I fed them all some carrots which they munched happily, then, after saying our goodbyes to our new friend, we were on the road again. Craig swapped between us, he loved the truck but it had no cassette player. Even if it had, it would have been impossible to hear anything above the noise of the engine. He had brought some of his own cassettes, so I sometimes had the pleasure of his company. Now he was travelling with Steve in the truck, it was still raining hard, the wipers on our car had never worked so hard, as the ten combined wheels of the truck and caravan constantly threw rainwater at my windscreen. I could just make out the thick bulk of mountains through the ceaseless noise of water. I had to concentrate hard on keeping up with the truck, yet I still felt the aura and stunning beauty of the mountains. I was feeling more confident in my towing abilities and as the little caravan trundled along behind me, the rain finally ceased and the sun poked through clouds. 'The Doors' sang out on my cassette player and as I sang along with them, I began to enjoy my own private adventure. Night fell; we were on the E80 between Salamanca and Ciudad Rodrigo, I was feeling very tired and watching out hopefully for Steve's indicators to flash on; ahead I saw lights, a garage maybe? The indicator on our caravan in front of me, flickered on and the whole rig slowed down, and we pulled into a garage/truck park at about midnight. My limbs had seized up, I almost crawled out of the car, feeling ancient! Toby the dog, leapt out full of energy and begging for a walk. Everything was quiet so I walked with him to nearby wasteland and took off his lead. There was a rather garish pink hotel and restaurant attached to the garage, we had noticed a few of these brightly painted hotels along the E80 route. The lights were on and the smells that escaped into the night air were delicious. I wandered over to see if they were still serving, my tummy rumbling loudly. Yes - I could see truck drivers with huge plates of food and also some scantily dressed girls propped on the bar stools...a bit strange in this out of the way location! The next thing I heard was growling and snarling as a dogfight broke out. Toby, in true British 'lager lout' fashion had picked a fight with the restaurant's guard dog, which was merely doing its job. I called him and luckily he came back, wagging his tail, tongue lolling out as if nothing had happened. I took him back to the car in disgrace, and after feeding and watering the horses, we had a midnight feast at the restaurant, before crashing out exhausted, in the caravan. We had come to the conclusion that these garish hotels that were spaced out along this route were probably brothels! We slept for a couple of hours, but trucks kept pulling in and out all through the night, their drivers chatting, and slamming doors. Needless to say, we were all a bit red eyed in the morning as we set off on the last leg of our journey. At the Portuguese border, there was a detour in the road with a sign saying 'Trucks this way', I drove straight through, but Steve and Craig followed the arrows for trucks. I pulled up on the other side, I was in Portugal, but they were in Spain, I desperately hoped there would not be a problem; we were only 80 miles from our destination. As I sat there, imagining the worst, the horsebox with Steve and Craig both grinning from ear to ear, came rumbling past. “Whoopee, we’re in Portugal,” Craig shouted from the open window. I gave Toby a hug to welcome him to our new home country. Later Steve told me that he had driven around an enormous car park looking for someone to show the paperwork to, but there was not a soul in sight. We had gone to a lot of expense to make sure all the horses’ documents and veterinary papers were up to date before we left Brighton, but had to go through the whole process again in Plymouth, because horses have to be checked for health within 48 hours of boarding the boat. Yet not one person on the whole trip asked to see our papers. Now at 2 p.m. we had arrived. Eighty-five feet of truck, caravans, and car, nearly blocking the narrow cobbled street of Arganil, in Central Portugal. It had been 3 days since we had left Plymouth. Suddenly Toby jumped into the front seat, his lips curled up into a doggy smile, his tail wagging, I looked up and saw Steve, Miguel, and Craig coming towards me. “Sandra, my dear, how nice to see you, we were expecting you hours ago,” said Miguel in his wonderful Latin accent. “You don’t realise how slowly we travel in our little convoy,” I said, as I got out of the car. Miguel was a tall, slim young man with an inexhaustible enthusiasm for his country; especially the Central Region where his family had lived for generations. He greeted me in the Portuguese way of one kiss on each cheek; this is done barely brushing the cheek, and kissing the air, very difficult to master. I have, on more than one occasion, nearly knocked the glasses off the faces of unsuspecting people with my clumsiness! Miguel was an estate agent; we had met him originally in London, at an overseas property exhibition in early 1994. Steve and I had been dreaming of sunnier climes, and had visited the exhibition, with the idea of maybe looking for a house in France, as we had friends living in the Charente area and had enjoyed many holidays there. We were talking to a man
