Il est vieux, mais il est beau. He may be old, but he is beautiful.

Signs of Portugal
 

It's hard for me to believe that yesterday we were in a lush landscape with beautiful chiming church bells providing the only interruption to the lazy silence.  In contrast, today has been a tough day of driving for me.  Six or seven hours from Mios (the banana house which couldn't gain Harry's trust) to the Hotel La Rad just off a Spanish motorway a few kilometres beyond Salamanca (not to be confused with salamander).

Last night, after I settled in to bed without Harry, Ichiro drank a lot of water and wanted to go out.  I called Harry using my phone asking if he'd take him for some light relief.  We would take him was the suggestion that came back.  But I've not got any clothes on, I protested, as though somehow that would be enough to persuade Harry.  Moments later I slipped the only clothes I have back on and wandered outside with Ichiro, phone torch in hand to light the way.  A group of bandit night flies saw us coming and hurled themselves at us including managing to get in my mouth.  I've never come across flies like that before and I hope we never ever meet again.

This morning Harry was surprisingly sprightly for having slept in the van (though he did get puffy ankles).  He was raring to go but I insisted on finding somewhere to stay tonight before setting off.  I also took the opportunity to take in the morning's news and saw that Spain is holding a general election tomorrow.  I now realise why I couldn't find any Airbnb places to stay around Salamanca.  Much of the country around here is devoid of habitation outside the blocky towns.  There aren't even farm animals in the fields.  I used a hotel search website instead and found somewhere that would take dogs just south of Salamanca.  Perfect.

After leaving Mios, I wondered how far the border with Spain was.  At no point did the French display a sign indicating which way Spain was or that Spain even existed.  Instead, Spanish towns and cities were written in French with how many kilometres away they were!  I'm not sure what's going on there.  All of a sudden we were in Spain.  There were perceptible differences in the road layout, driving habits and signage but the terrible tolls continued.  We quickly got into the Pyrenees which from afar offered stunning views, but once amongst them with their multiple dark tunnels to drive through, made for tiring, sleep-evoking driving.  Eventually the mountains gave way and we were in a totally different country again.  Suddenly green was replaced with brown, barren rolling hills.  The air got warmer and warmer, as though the engine of the van was overheating and spewing it's hot air all over us.  We made a few stops but, for the most part, today has just been a day of foot on pedal, cantering forwards, to get to our destination tomorrow.

The hotel has neither ground floor rooms, nor a lift, which would make it harder to get Ichiro into the room.  To help us though, they shine their terracotta floor with a lubricant making it super slippy.  Poor creature could barely walk on the flat, let alone get up and down the stairs.  Harry had the ingenious idea to wet his feet so there would be more traction, and it worked!

The hotel has a restaurant and we had our first meal 'out' since we left Oxford with a handsome bill to match.

When we were in France, people would often tell us Ichiro was 'beau' which I thought had such a lovely sound to it.  Before leaving the garish house this morning, the lady in the veranda-caravan complex on the other side of the open area got talking to us.  It turns out she doesn't live there at all.  Rather, she has been spending the last week holidaying there and looking very serene with it.  The smaller dog is hers (Picasso, or Pica for short) and the larger one belongs to the house––Ron.  Ron was nowhere to be seen but Pica was tearing around happy to get Harry's attention.  Almost as a parting gift the lady took us round the corner to meet a skinny mare.

There are two routes we can take tomorrow to get to Moinhos de Vento, the hamlet where we have been offered temporary accommodation by the lady who sold us the quinta (farm).  I'll probably go for the quicker route as the shorter route (which takes longer) will likely include windy, slower or less well maintained roads.