We ended up spending two and a half weeks in the campground in Mojacar, on the Spanish Mediterranean coast. We had planned on a quick tour of Morocco but gave that up as we were exhausted after nearly three months of European and Asian travel. Just staying put sounded real nice. Dropping our daily expenses to around $10/day sounded good too. The routine was certainly pleasant. Rise to the low sun, make coffee and take it to the beach to greet the day. Return and straighten up the camp. Maybe do a daytrip or go exploring locally. I had found the local dump and returned with several plastic beer crates (camp seats and table), a small rug and a metal olive oil can and a grill from a stove that I made into a hibachi. Toward the end of the morning, we would walk the 1/2 mile to town, looking for English newspapers, like the Manchester Weekly Guardian (STILL get that fine paper) or the International Herald-Tribune. They would be a few days old but were still a nice reconnection with the outside world; which seemed to be doing just fine without our participation. Papers in hand, we would retire to a cafe for coffee and Spanish brandy. Other people from the campground would walk by and join us. Papers would be read, passed around and given away. Conversation was slow and steady. Before long, the sun was noticeably in a different part of the sky. Time to head back and put dinner together. The day would end around the fire in the hibachi, with candles lighting the area. Yep, two plus weeks of real R&R. Christmas was a big potluck party, involving all of the British ex-pats and us. Two days of planning and shopping, the day itself was a leisurely event of cooking and feasting

A couple of days later, I had my second bit of breakdown. Hopped on Strider to buzz into town for some cold beer and as I rode out of camp, pulled in the clutch and felt it give out. Lugged back to our tent, dug out the saddlebag with the spares, found the clutch cable and put it on. Total down time, maybe five minutes. That, the broken side stand, and the broken front brake cable in Turkey, were the only breakdowns Strider suffered on the entire trip. Not bad, considering he had 300K on the clock when we started out from London in October.

During this time, I also got acquainted with a Dutch couple who were setting up sort of a small new age resort over the hills from the coast. I kept seeing a ratty R80/7 in the markets and on the streets. Finally, I hung out until the owners showed up. Nice people, they had decided that winter in Holland was NOT the way to live and were relocating to sunnier climes. He also had a R71 that he was getting ready to bring down on the next run to Holland. I still correspond with these two, sending them books and articles on solar do-it-yourself stuff for their projects. Someday, I'll get back there.

We had decided to spend New Year's in Granada, so we continued along the coast. Quickly drove by the horror show of the over developed Costa de Sol, giving thanks for our choice of location to spend Christmas. Arrived in Granada and quickly located what had been described to us as "the best low budget accommodations in all of Europe". A funky old pension, about a block and half from the Alhambra; we had to agree as we left four days later. Just the right combination of low price, friendly staff, good company in fellow travelers, a huge free breakfast, comfort (so what, if you had to wait 'til afternoon for hot water) and great location.

Spent New Year's Eve in a plaza, after a fine dinner, bringing in 1994 in the company of about a dozen backpackers from the pension and a lot of drunk, happy Spaniards. Every corner had someone at a little table, selling fireworks and/or cold champagne. Called it a night and fell asleep, listening to the all night party in the disco next door.

Got up early the next morning as I wanted to call my friends back home. 7:30 am in Spain would have me calling the party in Colorado Springs at 11:30 PB New Year's Eve. Kind of fun, sitting in the lobby of the pension with my morning coffee, ringing up my old friends at a party the night before. I started gabbing and asking after various folks and one of my friends said, "You don't know about Tom and Kate, do you?"; two old hotline friends. I had known them both for 20 years, as they met and later married while working at the Terros Hotline in the '70s. I am godfather of their oldest daughter. Shocking news. I knew they were having divorce troubles when I had come home the previous Christmas but had not heard anything more, other than the usual complaints about spousal unreasonableness and f***ing lawyers. I'd been out of touch with everyone, since late September, as I had missed my mail drop in Brindisi, Italy (it eventually caught up with me in London). My friends went on to describe how in mid-September, Tom had bought a cheap handgun and, an hour later showed up at her place. No shots were actually fired, but the evidence indicated he had tried to fire the gun several times. Apparently, he didn't know how to take the safety off, as he pulled the trigger and cleared the .22 automatic several times. Now, three months later, she's in hiding and he's in jail, awaiting trial. The impact to our tight little group of friends was staggering. Alas, there was division of support and some taking of sides, more or less along "boy-girl" lines. Four years later; he's doing 18 years in the State Pen, she's moved away to an undisclosed city and we are all still recovering from "the 20 minutes of madness." Bad, bad craziness.

We rolled out of Granada on January second. Kind of overcast and drizzly, matched my mood perfectly. We had planned on dropping into Madrid to see the Prado but the moody, surrealistic paintings of Goya and Hieronymus Bosch no longer appealed to me. We just cruised north on a super highway, enjoying the hills and windmills that inspired the writing of Don Quixote. An easy detour around the city, an overnight at what could have been an American motel and the next afternoon, we dropped out of the mountains into the port city of Santander. We had four days to wait for the once-a-week ferry to England so we relaxed in a pension, enjoying reduced rates because we were looking after the elderly woman who ran it. She had a real bad case of flu, so we would run errands and bring her food. In Spain, the big deal is not Christmas; it is the 12th Night. So, it was sort of a second Christmas for us. We daytripped to cave paintings, ruins and old cities as we waited. Ate well too, we were heading back to England, land of so-so food.

On the forth evening, we loaded up Strider with all the groceries we could fit on and boarded the boat for the 32 hour trip to Southhampton, England.

To be continued.... Matt Parkhouse