…We settle down on the riverbank in the shade, to eat, and are mobbed by a herd of goats…
Juan, a Spanish travelling salesman, picks us up from a servo in France, just north of the border. He is shy at first, but after chatting for a while, we win him over. When he drops us off Juan gives me his card;
“when you write your book, I will be your Spanish agent”, he jokes.
(Above: there’s more kinds of ham in Spain than you can shake a trotter at.)
We spend the night on a hilltop, overlooking a placid rural valley. As the sun sets we watch a farmer plowing the field on the hillside.
We are just north of Barcelona, and we aren’t ready for the big smoke yet, so we strike out west with Hathim, a Moroccan ex-pat from Tangier, who lives in Manresa. Hathim recommends a spot by the river where we can camp, and it turns out to be a great tip.
We find a secluded corner next to the river, about a five minute walk from the town. We are surrounded by willows, and ancient looking fig trees, covered in sweet ripe fruit.
After a refreshing swim, we chat with a pair of local kids who are picking figs, and show us how to use a bamboo stick from the riverside, to snag the fruit from the higher branches.
We settle down on the riverbank, in the shade, to eat, and are mobbed by a herd of goats. The goat-herd and his dog call them away before they can eat our figs, but it is a near thing.
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