Herman Melville caprured so much about the nature of travel when he wrote, "It is not down on any map; true places never are."

One of the reasons we decided to do an extended road trip through nine countries was because we were in search of something other than a destination or a place. Of course we picked countries as destinations but we had no clear idea of what we might find. 

What we found was experiece.

The experiene of standing beside high pasture land looking out at snow capped mountains listening to the tinkling of cow bells echoing across valleys. The experience of waking up and looking out over a mirror flat lake as cuckoos rhythmically interrupted the profound silence. The experience of listening to our corny  retro 'road trip mix' in the car as we passed through vinyards stretching across wide plains. The disquiet as we drove through Sarajevo looking at the buildings pockmarked with bullet damage and seeing the overfilled cemeteries containg so many young bodies.  The deep emotion of seeing the massive snow covered peaks of mountains towering above us. The contentment of sitting in a log cabin in front of a roaring log stove reading quietly or sipping wine in spring sunshine in a leafy town square surrounded by people speaking a language we could not understand.

We travelled back in time to meet our younger selves who would set off down a road not really caring where it led but excited at the adventure of being free to go where we wanted. Free to turn up narrow side roads to explore little villages perched on hill tops.

We could be alone together in a magic bubble of companionship and love. Gabbling away to each other all day and evening, happy to be together sharing a big adventure.  We could relax over a meal and relive our day's events and compare impressions. 

Most of all we met a cast of wildly different characters but all of whom showed us kindness. From a host in Bosnia who stooped us as we left to give us a jar of his mother's honey to hosts in France who welcomed us as friends into their home. We met an adolescent boy who plucked up the courage to speak to us in English and ignore the gentle mocking of his friends. We met eccentric and sometimes angry hosts and we met Barbara who sent us the receipe for her wonderful scones. We were invited to share a village party and offered the best of food and wine.

Our journey was not so much about place as about what Melville called 'true places'. It was a fitting end to our long journey that our final stop was in a small village of fewer than 100 inhabitants.  What we experienced there was emblematic of everything we had found on our trip.

We arrived in Guzman late in the afternoon. There was not a single person to be seen and our hotel was locked. Suddenly out of nowhere two children appeared and hung a notice outside the hotel saying that the bar would open between 4 and 9 pm and they then disappeared laughing and chattering.  We waited twenty minutes or so and then the manager of the hotel appeared and invited us into the bar. She offered us two gigantic glasses of Vermouth which never appeared on our bill. We took, them outside to enjoy in the afternoon sunshine in a beautiful garden overlooked by a 17th century church tower..

As we talked an old man approached us. We found out later that his name was Benancio. We could not understand much of what he said in Spanish but we gleaned that he was 82 years old and that his father started growing vines over 120 years ago. He spoke in the utter confidence that we could understand everything he said. After a while he went in his way and we went to our room to have a rest.

Helena, the manager of the hotel was the mother of the two girls we had seen earlier. When we went down to the bar to have a drink before dinner she was administering an insulin shot to one of the 10 year old twins who had diabetes. The girl was a little shy at first but then agreed to tell us her name and age in English. Helena poured us two large glasses of wine which, again, never appeared on our bill.

We talked to Helena who spoke excellent English about the village. We had worked out that this was the only bar in the village and also that the only customers were old single men who sat alone drinking. The man beside us was watching a quiz show and Helena told us he had been a teacher.  Helena explained that our meal might be delayed as she had to look after the bar as well as cook our meals. She disappeared upstairs to start cooking and we were left in the bar.

To our surprise, Benancio reappeared. He slowly realised that we had a very limited grasp of Spanish and he tried to speak slowly using mime to explain what he was saying. We understood that he was off to Madrid on a bus the next day for an excursion. He told us about being a pupil in school in a class of 35 students and he seemed to want us to know that he still worked. He pulled out an ancient set of pruning shears from his pocket and mimed cutting branches. He also told us that his health prevented him drinking and wistfully showed us the 0% alcohol label on his beer.

We only understood about a quarter of what he said to us but he seemed pleased to have someone to talk to.  Helena came back to tell us our meal was ready and we went upstairs to an empty dining room to eat. We were the only guests in the hotel. She served a delicious meal and then sorted out food for her daughters who had come to sit at a table near us.

She stayed to talk to us and told us that Benancio had been a batchelor all his life. He had been a very bright child at school but his father had taken him out of school at 14 to work in the vineyards. The school teacher had gone to his house to plead with the father to let Benancio stay but the father had insisted he leave because he had to work on the land to ensure that his siblings could stay in school.

We realised that Helena was a pivotal figure in this small community. She had an aura of kindness and wisdom and we could understand why Benancio would come and have his bottle of alcohol free beer at her bar. She told us that she had been distraught that Benancio's house had been robbed while she was in Madrid visiting relatives. She had wanted to support him but wasn't there for him.  The same thing had happened when Benancio had a minor stroke. She was away.
It was obvious she felt a deep sense of responsibility to the vulnerable people in her community for whom the bar was a refuge and a safe place. She told us that when Benancio noticed a new car parked outside the hotel he would amble up the street to make the acquaintance of the visitors to his small town.

Helena was a mother to two young girls. She was the manager of a hotel and the operator of a bar. She was the cook in the hotel kitchen. She was a confidant and supporter of her clients in the bar.

Guzman is on a map but it is also a 'true place'. I don't think it will ever appear on any list of the most interesting or beautiful or instagrammable villages of Spain yet we we will remember our visit there for a very, very long time. 

This is my last blog of this trip and I want to thank everyone who came along with us in spirit and read the blogs. I have written the journal for numerous reasons. Writing is, for me, a complement to the photographs I take. Images only capture the two dimensional. Words capture the texture,  detail and the emotion of experience.

There is, however, another more important reason for writing about our travels. My grand-daughter Piper is one day going to pack her bags and take off into the big wide world and have adventures of her own. I would like her to think about travel as a way of meeting people like Helana and Benancio. Of course she will want to see the pyramids and the Colliseum but these are not the end point of a journey.  I want her to read this journal of her grand parents road trip when she is older and realise that journeys are always about people. As E.M. Forster wrote,

"Only Connect".

GUZMAN