George’s passport did not arrive in time for the ferry. That is the long and short of it. So rather than lose the booking and push the whole trip back by the best part of a week, we made the call: I would take the van down to Plymouth and get the Santander ferry on my own, and as soon as that passport landed on the doormat, Lyndsay and George would jump on a plane and meet me in Porto. Not the plan. Not ideal. But sometimes you simply have to crack on.
Solo Sailing, New Friends, and Spain v Argentina
I will not pretend I was buzzing in the queue at Plymouth. A 4.5-hour drive to sit on a ferry for 21 hours by yourself is a different proposition to doing it as a family. We had booked a four-berth cabin originally, so I had the full thing to myself, which sounds luxurious until you realise it is an internal cabin with no window and approximately the surface temperature of a sauna. Air con on, YouTube Premium downloaded, and that was my evening sorted.
That said, there is something to travelling solo that I forget about until I am doing it. A Canadian friend said it to us years ago: you simply meet more people when you are on your own. And he is right. I ended up chatting to Dave and his wife, a couple of Brummies who follow the channel and blamed me for the state of their bank account (always a good sign), a Welsh lad called Hugh, and a Moroccan family who were genuinely thrilled to see me, wanted photos, and went away with a fistful of stickers. Spain beat Argentina in the final, which felt like a good omen given where we were headed. All in all, not a bad 21 hours.
Santander has a new border system now, with biometrics and all that. Passport on the scanner, fingerprints, photo, done. Very similar to entering the United States. They did pull me round the side of the height barrier rather than through it, which is always the drill with the motorhome, but it was easy enough. One hour twelve to Bilbao, then find the park-up and wait for Harry and Millie to fly in.
And that Bilbao park-up: what a find. Free overnight, bins, recycling, toilet waste disposal, water, a tyre pump, and an actual bike servicing station with tools on cables. The only catch is the planes, which start coming over at about 6am and are not quiet. Factor that in if you are a light sleeper. But as a free motorhome stop near an international airport, it is a gem. Link in the description as always.
Cathedral Beach and the Great Passport Watch
Harry and Millie landed, found me via Uber, and the next morning we were properly on the road. First stop: Cathedral Beach in northwest Spain, recommended by someone on the Facebook page (thank you, whoever that was). The Atlantic on that coastline is something else entirely. The waves carry energy all the way across from the Americas, and you can see it in everything: the size of the swell, the battered erosion on the rocks, the sheer noise of it. I had the drone with me and absolutely zero chance of getting it up. Too windy, too risky, too much Atlantic Sea in the vicinity. But it is beautiful. I would go back just to sit and watch the waves.
Meanwhile, back in Milton Keynes, Lyndsay was glued to her front door waiting for Royal Mail. The passport slot was 10:35 to 2:35, and she had a workout to abandon and flights to book the moment it arrived. Ryanair from Stansted, early Thursday morning, with Eddie conscripted as taxi driver whether he liked it or not. When that confirmation came through on the van’s screen, I will not lie, it was a relief.
The toll roads through northern Spain were a different kind of drama. I had turned avoid tolls off because it was supposedly saving me half an hour. What it actually did was cost me twenty minutes in queues paying €4 here, €7 there, €5 somewhere else. The money is neither here nor there really; it is the stopping and climbing across to the window every time. If you are doing that route, avoid tolls. Trust me. We have written up more of what we have learned driving Spain, tolls and all, in our Spain motorhoming guide.
Porto Reunion
The park-up at Porto Airport, right next to the Park Hotel, is a barrier car park that costs €7.50 a night. It is safe, central for the terminal, and you can walk to arrivals easily. For one night before picking someone up, it is perfect.
Three mains, four beers, two Sprites, 41 euros at a restaurant Harry found around the corner. Breaded pork, francesinha, steak and egg. Lovely stuff.
And then, on the Thursday morning, Lyndsay and George came through the arrivals doors after over two hours in passport control. An absolute farce, that queue. But there they were. George got the full-on welcome he deserved, and just like that, the gang was back together.
The full video is up now if you want to follow every bit of this, from the Plymouth queue to the Porto arrivals hall. Watch it, give it a thumbs up if you enjoyed it, and we will see you on the next one.
Watch the full video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TdUFY1zIMgI