Magic mountain
60 or 70 km later we arrive in Organya the next morning, after dinner and a roadside kip in a small mountain village to be greeted by, bright sunshine blue sky and a wind howling over the back of a totally unflyable magic mountain, so named because of the lift all over it? W.T.F. For this we left a flyable Casteon? Locals in the landing field tell us this is the fifth unflyable day and we take heart with this news reasoning that it cant last more than another day or two. We get set up in a local campsite with pool, internet, elec and water for a measly 5e a day again. I am later informed that pilots can stay for 100e a month. This is so much cheaper than being at home. As its not flyable we decide to take the jeep to explore, and an old Catalan woman on a roadside olive and honey vending cart directs us to a beautiful spot with a large natural pool by a small waterfall and we go river swimming. Joe likes it so much he decides he wants to stay there swearing he only needs his trusty pocket knife to be able to live off the land and to prove his point sets about attempting to catching fish the old school poachers way by hand. I have to agree with him about everything but a not so sure the supermarket wont be a little more use than his 3 inch blade. Somewhat predictably for a city boy the great white hunter needs to watch a few more episodes of Ray Mears cos he hasn’t got a clue what hes doing and we will all starve to death with him as our leader. At around 4pm I start crying my eyes out complaining of advanced malnutrition so we leave the giggling sarcastic fish in The Garden of Eden and drive back to the Skylark for food and beer to last the night. We also decide fishing would be a good idea, but like most normal people, you know, with a rod and tackle. I refuse to leave without my lucky fishing hat as I’ve never caught a fish without it...come to think of it I’ve never caught a fish with it...come to think of it I’ve never caught a fish but its still a cool hat. We arrive back and set up a camp which really for me just means getting my sleeping bag out of the jeep. Joe and I make a fire and Nat cooks. I sulk a little as the tranquilo twins won’t let me use any petrol. With hindsight this is probably quite sensible as I am already half cut, grinning uncontrollably with a 20 litre jerry can and a box of matches and it hasn’t rained round here n weeks. We have a tasty variation of camping food. Fresh corn we poached earlier that day and potatoes roasted on the fire, pasta and sauce, tinned fish, loads of beer. I construct a small basher as a windbreak and spend my first intentional night under the stars rarther than in a tent or just being drunk (ok I was a little drunk but this is still different) and passing out somewhere. Its lovely sleeping in the open next to a fire and we have found a huge stock of wood washed up by the river close to our campsite so keeping the fire going all night is no problem. With no lights or clocks drinking, chatting and laughing seems to go on well into the night but it was probably only 11 or 12 when we crash feeling quite the drunken woodsmen(or is that woodspersons for the fuckin p.c. nazis). The sky is clear, the stars are bright, the wind is whistling through the treetops but behind my little basher it dosent touch me. I lie in the moonlight on my back with my hands behind my head and my eyes open. The milkyway is clearly visible, I just need to hear a wolf howl and a quick chorus of” Dont Fence Me In” to send me off to sleep.