Potes meet.

Woke up yesterday in Comillas, took myself off to the loos to make full use of the facilities. Arrived to find them locked. It was ok though because the three workers who had the responsibility for opening the door stood there. Waiting. With the key. It did beg the question, 'How many Spaniards does it take to open...?'

Anyway, I went in all British and polite, 'Please, can I use toilet?' 

'Yes', came the stern reply. 'At nine am'. It was quarter to. I was dancing. But so were the man, wife, their three children, the elderly lady next to me and her hubby, also advanced in years. I tried looking pitiful (not easy whilst dancing). Child 3 started to cry. Elderly lady commenced a tap dance of impressive proportions across car park, but to no avail. Workers were staunch: doors open at nine. 

Elderly gentleman had been Spanish for some time, he got an idea. 'Where is it written? Where is it written that toilets open at nine?' 

Immediately, three workers spring into action. 'It IS written. It is written here..'

How many Spaniards does it take to look for the opening times..?

After some earnest searching the three had to admit defeat, no times written. Doors open, no more dancing.

Then we drove to Potes ('Pot-es'). Consider if you will a road. A road which winds through mountains, narrowly scraping cliff edges and littered with overhangs. A road with rock falls, which follows a beautiful green river. 

'Look' says The Lady R, 'look how beautiful it is.' I could not look. I was hanging, grimly, to the steering wheel, trying to chug a course through the fearsome landscape. It's ok though, she took pictures, so I'm going to have a look at them.

To break up the journey we stopped for a swim and took advantage of the freshly running water to shower, hair and picnic on Pascal's honey (he of donated vegetable fame) and bread. It was blissful. 

Betty was slightly perturbed at the image of two decapitated heads in the water and reacted by trying to fish them out but otherwise, all good. 

Arrival in Potes was gratefully received, post road and we parked up. 

One siesta, one tour of town and one jug of sangria later and two happier campers you could not wish to find.