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For the second day we wake up surrounded by fog, although as we drive out of Salamanca and join the motorway visibility is much better than yesterday around 180m.
Halfway to Ciudad Rodrigo the fog goes although it is still grey and cold when we arrive just before midday. We check into the small campsite in sight of the city walls and find we are the only ones here.
It's a short, uphill walk to one of the ancient gates, which has the portcullis slots clearly visible above its arched barbican. As we enter, the streets are silent but for a rattling like castanets coming from above, where eight storks are nesting high in spruce trees.
The whole town appears deserted apart from a Heineken lorry making its way throgh the narrow streets refreshing the pubs other beer [lorries] cannot reach.
Ciudad Rodrigo was the overture in the Anglo Portuguese invasion of Spain when captured by Wellington in 1812. Today, thanks to a ramp, we are able to explore the ramparts trodden by those famous boots. Gaps in the battlements or slited windows in the tiny cylindrical sentry posts give views over the surrounding landscape across to Portugal. At one end is the Parador, or hotel, is in what was once the main castle tower.
We return to ground level and wander the deserted streets listening to storks and marvelling at the carved stonework and dainty iron balconies.
Searching for coffee we enter Casino Brigense. In contrast to the silent streets the atmosphere is lively and welcoming. Locals sit at tables chatting over wine and tapas. Music in the backgound sounds like familiar artists such as Dire Straits, The Jam, and Duran Duran, but they are original Spanish music not translations and covers. Anyway, when in Rome [or Rodrigo] and all that; so we follow the locals and choose tapas and wine instead of coffee.
Back outside things start moving as siesta comes to an end but still most shops are closed, as is the cathedral and the town's blockbuster museum opposite, which houses a large collection of champer pots. [Can I have a P please Rodrigo].
The main square is called, no surprises, Plaza Mayor. At the top end is a grand building with carved windows and an arched logia but the lower half, like all the bars and shops around the plaza, are hidden behind a mass of roughly made timber seating. In front of the seating solid, maroon bulwarks with narrow refuges signal it as a temporary bull ring for next week's 'Carnival del Torro', apparently one of Spain's oldest carnivals. One street leading away from Plaza Mayor is lined with wooden rails, as is the carpark in one of the other barbicans, so this is where the bulls are penned and run into the square, while wannabee matadors run with them into the ring. A souvenir shopkeeper tells us that in modern carnival the bulls are no longer wounded or killed, but many of the would be matadors [in his words] 'get a good thump'.
By now the town is busy, but the cars haring through its narrow, ancient streets are the only thing that date it, such is the lack of modernity in its centre, although there are some newer building just inside the walls.
Having seen enough of the town we wend our way back over the bridge to the campsite. At about 19:30 two more motorhomes arrive to keep us company.
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