¿Se permite acampar aqui?
This was one of the first Spanish phrases I learnt, parrot fashion, from a phrase book, before going abroad for the first time, aged 17.
I figured that “Is it permitted to camp here?” would be a useful thing to be able to ask, since we were going to be hiking and camping for ten days in Galicia, north west Spain.
Using the phrase in the villages of Galicia usually provoked a shrug of the shoulders, a “who cares?” communicated by body language, in response to the young foreigners looking for somewhere to pitch their small tent.
I remember walking into the village of San Amaro at the end of our first day of hiking, asking that question, and ending up camping on the village green. Curious children swarmed around, amused by these foreigners, asking questions we could barely understand, but the clumsy conversations were friendly. After a while, an old lady came and gave us a loaf of bread and a bottle of local wine. She said nothing but gestured for us to accept the gift.
Similar things happened throughout our trek, the simple kindness of strangers punctuated our route like invisible milestones.
Since we were clearly outsiders, we were often assumed to be French and the locals were surprised to find that we had come from ‘Angleterre’.
We hiked across Galicia from Vigo to El Ferrol, a total of 196km, averaging around 20km per day, loaded with tents, sleeping bags and cooking equipment.
But this wasn’t just a physical challenge. We were also learning about the local culture, undertaking mini challenges to explore farming, language, family life, foods and traditions.
We were taking part in an Explorer Belt expedition, a prestigious award and adventurous initiative organised by the Scout Association in the UK (and other Scouting organisations worldwide). It was introduced in the 1970s to encourage older Scouts or Explorer Scouts (typically 16–25 years old) to engage in international travel and cultural exploration through a challenging and rewarding expedition.
I had known my friend Stephen Kelly since we went to school together in St Marie’s RC Junior School in Bury, in the north west of England. We were in the Cub Scouts at that age, then we each joined the Scouts, Steve at his school, De La Salle College and I went into the Scouts in Bury. Now we were together again in the 18th Bury (St Marie’s) Venture Scout Unit.
The Scout leaders had put a notice in the local newspaper asking if any haulage company could give a ride to two lads down to London. So we travelled on the first leg of our adventure in the cab of a lorry to the capital. We slept in Victoria Station overnight then checked in at Baden Powell House on Saturday 03 August, 1974.
Yes, this was over 50 years ago!
Times were different then. Spain certainly was.
There must have been 40-50 pairs of Scouts participating in the Explorer Belt that summer and we set off in two coaches, together with our leaders and drivers, towards Southampton and the ferry across the English Channel to Cherbourg.
We travelled to the south east of France and crossed the border into Spain near San Sebastian.
Our first stop was in Normandy, in the village of Ceaucé, where we had 45 minutes to stretch our legs and get something to eat.
This was my first encounter with France. All of a sudden, the France I’d seen in my school textbooks came to life. I had learnt French for five years, but had never experienced France, French people or the French language in real life.
Across the road was a boulangerie and so I just had to go and buy a baguette! The baker’s three daughters served in the shop and soon I was chatting with Michelle, who was about my age and whose English was as hesitant as my French. Nevertheless, we communicated well enough and I explained why their village was being overrun by all these English boys. After a while I was called back to the coach so we exchanged names and addresses and we promised to write to each other.
It’s hard to imagine a world without email, internet, messaging and video calls. But yes, that’s how it was back in the last century. I treasured that scrap of paper with the name and address of my new pen-friend written on it.
We did indeed write to each other in the following months and years. All of a sudden I was transformed into an enthusiastic student of French, penning grammatically correct letters and expanding my vocabulary as I used my pocket sized dictionary to find the right word for everything I wanted to talk about with Michelle. Compared to the boring subject I’d studied reluctantly at school, French was now real, useful and essential!
As we crossed the border from France to Spain, the contrast was stark. Spain was clearly a less wealthy country and the urban landscape was characterised by those classic old terracotta roof tiles.
For the first night in Spain, we slept on the floor of a school hall. But first we ventured out into the small town and soon we were drinking vino tinto in a small bar, paying with peseta coins and attempting to speak a bit of Spanish.
I look back wistfully on those naive, innocent, youthful feelings of excitement and adventure when first exploring a foreign country. That wondrous feeling that there is a whole new world out there; the explosion of possibilities in colourful new places; the teenage realisation that life was just beginning.
I’ve been lucky enough in the years that followed to travel to more than 100 countries all around the world, but rarely have I felt the same wide-eyed amazement as I did in those first days in a foreign land.
The Scouts’ Explorer Belt project was designed to: promote international understanding; encourage self-reliance, teamwork, and personal development; expose young people to new cultures, languages, and ways of life; and foster Scouting values through meaningful travel experiences.
It wasn’t just a physical challenge; it was a cultural and educational one.
The expeditions took place in a foreign country, often within Europe, but sometimes further afield. Typically a 10-day hike or expedition (although the total trip may be longer). Participants were usually expected to travel at least 100 miles (160 km) on foot or using minimal public transport. Participants travelled in teams of two or three, fostering collaboration and mutual support. They had to keep a detailed logbook or diary documenting their journey, observations, and reflections.
While on the expedition, teams were required to: complete a major project related to the culture, history, or society of the host country (e.g., interviewing locals, documenting traditions, exploring local industries). They also had to undertake a number of mini-projects or challenges, often set by the organizing leaders. Those projects were intended to encourage interactions with locals and gain a deeper engagement with the host culture.
This was the Explorer Belt challenge we accepted enthusiastically.
In the weeks before we left England, I looked at maps of Spain and found our starting point: Vigo.
Later, I learnt that the port of Vigo was also the starting point of Laurie Lee’s Spanish adventure, retold poetically in one of my all time favourite travel books: “As I walked out one midsummer morning.” He had taken a ship to Spain in the 1930’s, alone and without being able to speak Spanish. His book recalls his adventures and impressions of the country. Every time I read his book I can connect to his sense of wonder and his experiences reignite some of my own.
The expedition started by dropping us off in teams of two at different locations, equipped with our tents and cooking gear. We also had our cultural projects to complete and log books to report on our route, our discoveries and our spending.
I still have those log books and can trace our exact route. We reported that our first night was spent under canvas in San Amaro and the next day we walked through Carballiño, Campo, Cusanca, Centro via Abeledo (Dozón), Gesta and to Donramiro.
In Villa de Cruzes we stumbled into the start of the local fiesta: four days of festivities from 10-13 August in honour of the town’s patron saint Piedad (Peter). I remember eating churros for the first time, hot and greasy donut sticks from a kiosk. Our log book reminds me we also ate octopus (another first for me). I reported that the octopus was boiled in pots at a street stall and sold for 50 pesetas for a plateful.
We also drank red wine (viño tinto) which had been watered down, according to some boys we talked with. About a quarter of the bottle was water, they said. Nobody likes this fraud but everyone accepts it, they told us. “Nobody tells the Guardia Civil because the man would be heavily punished. The Guardia Civil are not very popular,” I wrote in my British understated style.
We talked with another small group of local lads. Steve used some Spanish he’d learnt at school; I had my schoolboy French which some locals understood. As it happens everywhere in the world, if there is a will there is a way, and even with poor linguistic skills, communication can be effective with gestures and body language.
The fiesta experience wasn’t planned; it was just one of those serendipitous events that spring up from nowhere while travelling. We could never have foreseen or imagined all the random people we met and the experiences we encountered along the way from Vigo to El Ferrol.
Reading our log books so many years later occasionally brings a tear to my eye or a lump to my throat as I listen to a seventeen year old me telling of his youthful experiences. Ah! To be young again!
We had to keep a record of our spending, which provides some insights on our trip.
On Wednesday 13th August, we spent (in Pesetas):
38 on 4 Fantas.
22 on 2 coffees
20 on a sliced loaf
24 on 8 sausages
20 on milk
7 on peaches
14 on melon; and
22 on sardines.
A total of 167 Pesetas for the day and 1,192 Pesetas on the trip so far.
But without referring to our log books, maps and notes, some random memories have stayed with me.
Usually, every morning after packing up our tent, we would head to a local café, to buy two bottles of fizzy orange juice (“dos fantas naranjas, por favour”) but mainly to use the toilet and wash our hands and faces. One morning Steve went to the bathroom first and emerged with a smile on his face as if he’d found a pot of gold: “Hot water!” he exclaimed, beaming with delight.
I also remember trying to boil ‘corn on the cob’ from local maize on our camping stove. After using up far too much of our cooking fuel, we gave up, because the stubborn yellow sticks remained rock hard. I can’t remember what we ate instead. Maybe we just went to bed hungry.
This was also the first time I’d eaten bell peppers. Common nowadays, I know, but I’d never seen one in Bury so this was for me a new ‘exotic’ food.
Our cultural projects encouraged us to learn about the local language, history and way of life.
I described in our log book that Horreos are wooden or brick grain stores, built on stone pillars and a large overhanging stone slab, to prevent mice, rats and other scavengers from raiding the precious grain. Some are decorated with a crucifix on the roof. I also noted that an horreo features in the logo of a local bank: Banco Pastor.
We listened to Aturuxos and learnt how to vocalise this high-pitched yell, used to attract attention or sometimes as an exclamation of joy.
The Monastery at Sobrado was one of our projects and we wrote about its history, architecture and our impressions of it. We bought a postcard with a photo of the Monastery and its two distinctive towers.
We went to Mass in Tuiriz on Sunday 11 August. Catholicism in Spain became our major ‘free choice’ project and we noted many differences between Catholicism in Spain, where everyone is Catholic, compared to home in England, where Catholics are in a minority. .
I remember learning a card game, Brisca, sitting at a rickety table in the corner of a bar with some old men who welcomed us into their lives for an hour or so. Steve wrote the full instructions for how to play the game in our journal.
As well as picking up more Spanish along the way, we also learnt some phrases in the local dialect: Gallego.
There were other cultural projects and there are so many details and maps in those log books. Having discovered them in a filing cabinet, I read them in detail, retracing our route and remembering precious times from my youth, walking through Galicia with Steve.
Here’s our Conclusion of the whole trek, written in Steve’s handwriting:
“During the last ten days exploring Galicia, we have met many people of different ages, and in different situations, most of them from Galicia.
We have been impressed by their friendliness and hospitality and have come to know their customs to a greater extent than we thought.
We have begun to understand their way of life, and have improved our knowledge of their languages.
Also we have had the experience of walking through a foreign country for ten days, walking almost 200 kilometres and eating the same food as them.
Through the expedition, we have come to know ourselves and our companions better, and have had a tremendous experience which we will not soon forget.”
That conclusion is so true and valid till this day.
I’m so grateful to have had the opportunity to go on that expedition to Galicia.
I would never have imagined how powerful that experience turned out to be. It sowed a seed in me, infected me with the travel bug, and set my compass for further travels, throughout Europe and worldwide, over the next 50 years of my life.
POSTSCRIPT
I did keep in touch with Michelle for a few years. Steve and I visited Michelle and her family in Ceaucé in 1976 while we were hitchhiking around Europe. Then Michelle visited my family in Bury. Amongst other things we shared with her, and places she visited with us, Michelle was invited to participate as a special guest in the French class at my sister’s high school.
In 1999 I went to visit my friend Chris Macauley and his wife and family who had moved to France to renovate an old farmhouse near Châteaubriant. I drove through Normandy and stopped in Ceaucé to go once again into the boulangerie. The new owners told me that the Lemesle family had moved down south some years ago and unfortunately they didn’t have any contact details for them.
Then in 2017 I was backpacking in Madeira and at a hostel I teamed up with some French travellers who were hiking in the mountains. After one of our days out, relaxing in a restaurant, I retold my story about meeting Michelle at seventeen. They asked if I was still in touch with her. No, I said, and instantly they offered to help me to find her (since now we did have the internet, Google and Facebook). Despite their classically French excitement of reuniting me with my teenage crush (“But David, this is about Love!!”), I declined. Some things are best left in the perfection of a faded memory.
Copyright © David Parrish 2025.
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