Over the Mountains and Into Spain: Kevin’s Perspective

You know when you build something up in your head for so long, and then when it finally happens, it’s absolutely nothing like you expected? 

That was us, the Pyrenees, and a campervan. 

We’d been talking about this part of the trip for months—the grand moment where we finally crossed into Spain, the road stretching ahead, sun beaming down, everything cinematic and beautiful. 

In reality? I was gripping the steering wheel like my life depended on it while Mary shouted “LOOK AT THAT VIEW!” every five minutes, completely ignoring the fact that I was trying to keep our entire house-on-wheels from veering off a mountain. 

Honestly, whoever designed these roads had a sense of humour. 

The bends? Ridiculous. 

The drop? Ridiculous. 

The fact that massive lorries were absolutely flying past us like it was the M1? Terrifying. 

I had one job—get us over this mountain in one piece. Meanwhile, Mary had one mission—to take as many blurry photos as possible while also insisting I “just stop for a second” on a road where stopping was absolutely not an option. 

But, in between the sweating and the swearing, I’ll admit—it was unreal. 

Like, proper postcard stuff. Towering peaks, tiny villages clinging onto cliffs, roads winding through scenery so beautiful it almost didn’t feel real. If I hadn’t been so busy keeping us alive, I might’ve actually enjoyed it. 

Andorra: Worth a Stop? Maybe. 

Now, Andorra. We had zero expectations. It was just kind of… there. You go through it because it’s in the way. 

And honestly? It was fine. 

Small. Clean. A weird mix of duty-free shopping, ski resorts, and old mountain charm. The food was great—we had trinxat (basically fancy bubble & squeak) and escudella (a stew full of mystery meats). Both hit the spot after the trauma of the drive. 

But then, after about two hours of wandering? We were done. 

Maybe it was the shops. Maybe it was the busloads of tourists buying perfume in bulk. Maybe it was just the fact that, after the wild, rugged beauty of the Pyrenees, Andorra felt a bit… meh. 

Would we go back? Probably not. But hey, at least we can say we’ve been. 

Spain, Finally. 

Then, just like that—we were in Spain. 

And you could feel it instantly. The air, the heat, the colours of the landscape. The mountains gave way to rolling hills and olive groves, the sky stretched out massive and blue, and suddenly, it all just felt… different. Like we’d finally arrived. 

The van relaxed. I relaxed. Even Mary, who had been bouncing around like a kid on Christmas morning, finally stopped taking photos and just looked out the window, grinning. 

This was it. The whole point of the trip. 

And where was our first stop? Zaragoza. 

Zaragoza: The City That Surprised Us 

Now, if you asked me to list Spanish cities before this trip, Zaragoza wouldn’t have been on it. Madrid? Sure. Barcelona? Obviously. Seville? Yep. 

Zaragoza? Didn’t have a clue. 

But I’ll tell you what—it was brilliant. 

First stop—the Basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar. 

Now, I’m not religious. Like, at all. But you can’t walk into that place and not feel something. It’s just… huge. The ceilings, the domes, the sheer scale of it all—it kind of humbles you, even if you don’t believe in any of it. 

Then there was the Aljafería Palace. Proper Game of Thrones-looking stuff—massive stone walls, beautiful Moorish designs, history dripping from every single brick. 

By the time we were done, I was exhausted. I just wanted to sit down, have a beer, and give my brain a break. 

Mary, however, had other ideas. 

The Tapas That Nearly Killed Me 

“There’s a little bar down here that looks amazing,” she said, dragging me down a side street that, to be honest, looked a bit dodgy. 

But she was right. Tiny place, packed with locals, plates flying out of the kitchen, proper old-school Spanish atmosphere. 

We ordered a bit of everything. I lost track after about the sixth plate. 

Then came the chorizo in cider. 

I love chorizo. I love cider. But I was not ready for how spicy this thing was. 

One bite. Immediate regret. My mouth was on fire. 

Mary, obviously, found this hilarious. 

Then—the real problem. 

The next morning, let’s just say the campervan’s cassette toilet had its first real test. 

(Side note: Spain has campervan service points everywhere. The UK could learn a thing or two.) 

What’s Next? 

After Zaragoza, we packed up the van and hit the road again. Next stop: Pamplona. 

The bulls. The Hemingway vibes. More tapas. 

But that’s a story for another post. 

For now, let me just say this: 

If you ever get the chance to drive through the Pyrenees, into Andorra, and down into Spain—DO IT. 

It’s a bit mad, a bit terrifying, and absolutely unforgettable. 

And now? The real Spanish adventure begins. 

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