‘Don’t even try,’ said the man on the car deck as Brittany Ferries’ Finistère tied up on the dock in Santander, late because of the winter storm. ‘You’d be lucky tonight to get through the snow to Valladolid. Find a hotel here and try tomorrow morning.’
He was one of those confident Englishmen you meet who seem to know. Working across northern Spain, his business took him always on the road. Passengers had been warned that roads were closed by the snow, and winter tyres and snow chains were a must. ‘The Guardia Civil will stop you and those guys don’t mess about. They’ll check you have neumaticos de invierno.’ Which I didn’t. Or snow chains. And my 20-year-old Vauxhall pickup truck, heavily loaded with furniture and radiators for our cave house in Andalucia, was anything but equipped for the mountain passes by which the motorway from Santander reaches the plains of central Spain.
Plainly my advice came from an expert. But there’s something irritating about expertise, don’t you think? So I thought I would give it a go. It was only 8 p.m. and I had a nice parador hotel booked beyond Valladolid. Off I roared (a hole was developing in the Vauxhall’s exhaust) across the docks; and we hit the road. ‘We’ means the truck and me. My co-drivers had had to pull out of this trip. But I love lonely adventures.
Adventure? Really? There was no snow as we climbed out of Santander towards the mountains; just wind and light rain. In my mind I began a column about not trusting experts. Other British cars were on the motorway, travelling, like me, in hope.
As we climbed, rain turn to sleet, to light snow, but it wasn’t settling. Then it was, but both lanes of the motorway were clear.
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