It's a bit of an unusual start to this trip in as much as I'm currently solo; and that's because Emma's already in Portugal on a run-training camp.
I bear, then, some slight notion that I've been out-manouevered, and find myself on Uber Uber duties: driving all the way to the very southern coast of Portugal to collect her. From there, the idea is that we'll then resume our 'normal' routine and bumble back up through Portugal, Spain and France, bickering and seeing what we can see. At least - post training camp - she should be thoroughly fatigued: so (hopefully) shouldn't be quite as caged-spaniel-like as usual.
And so, I'm currently in a holding pattern at the ferry terminal at Portsmouth, awaiting loading onto the Bilbao ferry that's due to sail just before midnight tonight. Because it's still effectively the winter service that's operating, the crossing is timetabled to be tediously tardy; it's not due into Bilbao until 08:00 on Tuesday. My guess is that the operator figures pottering along at 10 knots will result in massive savings in fuel, and much more of an opportunity to benefit from the ship's prisoners spending on-board cash. I've packed my binoculars, smartphone, a USB lead, lots of Pot Noodles and my travel kettle. Curse their exploitative capitalism: I'm good for days.
Naturally, during the ferry-check-in routine I once again got the full works by port security and was subjected to the usual raft of questions, plus an intrusive interior examination (only of the truck, thankfully). At least (and for the first time ever) the junior operative assigned the ungainly task of clambering aboard took her boots off and so - for once - didn't slur the ubiquitous rubbery / greasy border-control marks all over the truck's floor. She also (and again for the first time ever) worked out how to open and close the shower room's security latch. That girl is clearly in the wrong job.
In other port-related news of vague interest, alongside me in the holding lanes awaiting embarkation are at least two dozen very impressive supercars / hypercars of varying exotic marques. The drivers of all of them seem to be mutually acquainted and are flitting between each others cars, gobbing on about things like traction control and sports modes. Oddly enough, all of the protagonists (that I saw, at least), were distinctly unremarkable, overweight, middle-aged white men with stubbly facial hair. I venture no conclusion to this observation, but their homogeneity was difficult to overlook: they were certainly dissimilar in appearance to their steeds. I suppose it's a bit like how dog owners very often look like their dogs: but the other way around.
Today's 235 mile (or so) trip to the port was grey, rainy and altogether pretty uneventful but at least the truck dropped uncomplainingly back into travelling duties having been parked up since our return from the Southern Hebrides at Christmas. Highlight of the trip was spotting a soaked-through muntjac grazing right at the side of the A34 near Didcot.
This post was composed at 22:45 on Sunday 23rd March from N 50.81151°, W 01.08951° / http://maps.google.com/maps?q=loc:50.81151%2C-01.08951