The late arrival in Tarifa coincided with a downpour, or rather, an introduction to what the locals have been suffering for quite a while, judging by the flooded fields. And campsite. A bit squelchy underfoot is an understatement. No bother, just need to get some fuel. We're running on empty since there have been no garages at all for the last 60 miles, which we hadn't expected.
The lady at the site office confidently assures us that " there's a petrol station 200 metres further down the road that's open." With vague memories of similar promises to do with food – twice, remember? - we decided to get fuel for the truck before fuel for us. I know you are already ahead of us here, but...... the garage was not only more like 2 kms away but was shut and on the other side of the road with no left turn for another kilometre or so. By the time we returned to the campsite we were on fumes and had almost to get into the pitch on the starter motor. As we stopped, the passenger windscreen wiper flew off into the darkness and landed somewhere with a splash. With the Costa Blancas annual allocation of rain falling, Mike calls from the roof for his Leatherman. The zip on the roof tent cover has jammed, and then breaks completely (or perhaps patience had been exhausted by then?). Supper is pasta and red wine - plenty of it, the wine that is. A looooong day.
Friday 20th March - 8am.Not raining. Hoorah! Particularly as Mike's got to hike 4 kms with a fuel can. Stripped to speed gear he reckons he can be there and back inside 30 minutes if he only puts 5 litres into the jerry. Mike takes on the story here: " As I reached the gas station, the reason for last night's inactivity is clearer. It's shut, and has been for quite a while. The overhead sign is swinging in the breeze like a corpse on a gibbet, and a family in a camper van aren't waiting for the place to open, they're living there. The next fuel is 3 kms away in Tarifa. Could it get worse? Well, it could be raining.....5 minutes later, it is. Oh, well...skin's waterproof".
By 10 o'clock, however, we are in Algeciras, at Carlos' legendary ticket emporium. The fuel problem was resolved quickly thanks to 2 generous Spaniards who didn't mind picking up an unshaven hitchhiker with a smelly gas can, and the wiper was successfully reattached which was a Good Thing, as the earlier shower is now another deluge.
It takes less than 5 minutes to get tickets for the Tanger Med ferry. This leaves at 1400, so plenty of time to lay in stocks of liquid ballast and saunter down to the port.

We arrive there to find the place deserted and the anticipated bun fight for a place in the queue …. well, we are the queue. For awhile, at least. Eventually the place fills up a bit, which is reassuring. After all the glitches and misinformation of the last 24 hours, it wouldn't be surprising if we were in the wrong place.
1445. The ferry has docked and is still disgorging wheels and freight. Best estimate for boarding is "about an hour" - at least, that's what I think he said. Perhaps now is the time to adopt a different concept of time? Manana?
We sit peering through our rain streaked windscreen at giant artics reversing aboard through a hole in the end of the ship barely wider than they are. Reversing horns, throbbing engines, shouts, bells, whistles, bad tempered yelling and arm waving. Mayhem. No surprises that we're running an hour late on departure already.
Aboard at last, we clear immigration at the purser’s office. It “used to be” the pursers office, to be correct. That was when the ship was running the route between Portsmouth and Le Havre with Brittany Ferries, according to the logos everywhere.
The information we have suggests the trip will take 3 hours, so we’re pleasantly surprised- in fact, a lot surprised – to see Africa appear out of the murk nearly 2 hours before we’d expected it to. Sue is suspicious and gives Mike one of those looks that says “we are on the right ferry, aren’t we, Vasco?” but sure enough, we are about to land at Tanger Med.