The next time you hear anyone in Britain moaning about the immigrant population taking over: the Poles, blacks, Asians, whatever, tell them to take a trip to the Costa del Concrete on the Spanish Mediterranean coast. There are more Brits, Germans and Scandinavians here than you can shake a Full English Breakfast at. Everywhere you go it's English Pub this, English Tea-rooms that, Sunday roast, Sausage and mash. Gibraltar was more Spanish than this. Everything's written in English. It's horrifying – like being in a Saga holiday timewarp. I'm beginning to appreciate the other bits of Spain we saw before we got past Gibaltar.
We're just heading eastwards as and when the wind and weather permit towards the south of France. Only another 700 miles to go, then about 850 miles of canals through France, providing we can get the paperwork we need, which involves somehow doing a test to prove we understand all the rules and regs on the Inland Waterways, which we should have done in England. Apart from that, will our engine be able to cope with the constant current coming out of the Rhone, with no tide from the Med to help us up it, against the flow?
We've now come over 2,000 miles from Poole. It's a long way home again.
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We had bangers & mash for dinner tonight!
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