November 2, 2009
We drove the largely empty carretera nacional 340 north up from the beaches on the Costa de la Luz towards Zahara de los Atunes. Wind farms are built alongside the road at regular intervals, and even from within the car we could sense the force generated as the massive white blades rose and fell in synchronised rhythm.
It was hypnotic. Sometimes as we headed up gentle inclines in the road the top of a massive wind turbine would suddenly appear straight in our faces as the road fed us at blade level straight into its arms. A strangely calm and attractive way to depart this world.
We checked into the massive, virtually empty and slightly pretentious Hotel Gran Sol on the beach at Zahara de los Atunes, opposite the ruin of a duke's former palace.
We'd seen this hotel before, and had thought it looked interesting because it had a filme triste, out-of-season, black-and-white apsect. And it still was. But not in an entirely positive way. The architect had not really thought through the human perspective thoroughly enough. Although it was decked out in gold fittings and expensive marble, it still lacked warmth. And to get to our sea-front room almost directly above the check-in on the third floor required that we go up and down stairs, along endless corridors where the blinds were pulled down to protect something from too much direct sunlight, into adjacent buildings, back up, back down - and the lift accessed a different floor of a different building. Just don't bring a lot of luggage and don't expect the chaps at the check-in desk to help. They are too busy being solemn, in keeping with what the owners I assume think should be the appropriate atmosphere. Also, it helps if you don't keep sticking your car keys in the door locks of potential room candidates and then claiming the bloody key doesn't work. Doh.
The Hotel Gran Sol has been constructed as close to the beach as a building could be and still remain standing a week later. Hence the magnificent view from our room over the massive, white wide sand beach. The hotel is a very expansive, ochre-painted structure just three floors in height. I would estimate that at most there were four or five rooms occupied on this day, presumably because it was out of season. But I have the feeling it's like this in high season, too.
The town itself was shuttered up due to the public holiday yesterday, All Saints. But a couple of shops were open, including a baker's and a sweet shop, plus several cafes and restaurants where the coffee machines had annoyingly been turned off for cleaning in the early evening. I made my way to the baker's to buy water and and found that by watching carefully where I trod I could avoid the big piles of dog dirt that were helpfully silhouetted by the bright street lamps. Some of the biggest heaps were outside a closed restaurant called Ramon Y PiPi or similar. Ramon Y KaKa would be more apt.
We walk from restaurant to restaurant down the street that leads to the beach and make our selection based mainly on gut feeling, although the choice wasn't that tough as there are just three still open. We sat down under a transparent awning out front, and within seconds are befriended by a big black cat called Huevillo ("little egg" - go figure) that is owned by the restaurant - and you can tell he's not a stray. He's very healthy with a sheen to his coat, but now he knows he's found a soft touch in me. As soon as the waiter is gone I'm going to give Huevillo a slice of salmon. But responsibly I ask my wife to check with the cat's owner first. She says she doesn't intend to ask him anything of the sort. My wife will happily interrogate the waiter about the history of the palace of the Duke of Sidona Medonia opposite (now a ruin, once used by pirates) but won't simply ask him if it's ok for me to feed the cat. Other people's priorities, eh?
Well, blow me down! We chose our fish - lenguade and pargo - here at the restaurant, Casa Grande in Zahara (freshly caught fish and weighed in kilos) and the waiter brings us an estimate of the cost: 47 euros for the fish alone! Too embarrassed to ask him to take it off the grill now. Lucky our room overlooking the Atlantic Ocean cost relative peanuts.
The waiter is intensely knowledgeable about the food he serves, always a good sign, but has this habit of turning his head away after speaking, as if he doesn't want to talk about ruined palaces. Then he turns back and fires off a ton of information, much of it quite surprising - like, for example, the fact that although the castle is a ruin, he lives in a cave in the wall and has 10 to 12 cats living on his terrace. And that he was born in the ruin! Beat that for a surprising bit of information, eh? This restaurant is therefore highly recommended for entertainment value also, and I shall submit a note to the Cat God that on judgment day this man must be spared death by claw.
However, the upshot is, annoyingly, that I am not allowed to feed the cat (I called him Huevos by mistake) as he will get fed 'til he bursts on fish leftovers after the restaurant closes.
It is now growing darker. At one point the waiter hears a noise across the street coming from near the gate of the ruin, and freezes, his face turned towards the gate, listening intently, eyed squinted, head cocked slightly. Then he hurries over towards the gate and is swallowed by the dark. We imagine some fisticuffs are about to take place but when he next appears he is pushing a trailer on wheels, the kind that attaches to a car.
Later he is suddenly gone from our table, where he has been waiting almost too close to the table, intent on anticipating our every whim (isn't that annoying?), and we next see him pushing the trailer off down the street with a couple of cats following behind. That was the last we saw of him until about midnight when from our balcony on the third floor we noticed a silhouette of a man walking in the moonlight down the boardwalk across the sand towards the ocean. Of course, it is the waiter, and he reappeared just a few minutes later. Perhaps he magically swept his hand into the ocean and pulled out the fish for tomorrow night's customers. I would put nothing past him.
A good restaurant, great staff, great cats, all at a shocking price for cheapskates.
Diverging a little here: I'm not sure it's particularly easy to work out the rules about smoking in restaurants in Spain. The rules, we were told, are based on the square metre size of premises, but the locals seem happy to pretend blissful ignorance of them. And the owners don't seem too bothered. Cough! Cough! Curse!
We just got the bill for our meal: 82 euros. Let me repeat: 82 bloody euros. Surely the most expensive meal I've ever had. Bloody hell! We switch into justification mode to make us feel better ("well, a meal out in the UK cost 30 quid per person, so ..." and "We make our own lunch here, so ..."). However, that said, it was the best meal we had that trip.
We had timed things almost perfectly - after dinner we hurried to the beach down the boardwalk and onto the sand just as the sun set. The colours were rich - purple, reds and orange. It seemed just the right moment to photograph everyone in silhouette, and I naturally overdid it.
As it was late season there were perhaps just two or three other couples on the entire length of the beach as we looked out along a couple of miles of smooth sand in the late evening light. A truly beautiful sight, and a wonderful way to wind down the day.
When it became too dark to stay longer on the beach we went back to the near-deserted hotel. My wife sat on the balcony writing in her diary and I experimented with the camera. I used a mini tripod to stabilise the camera for a long exposure of the night beach scene. I was impressed with the Canon G10's low-light capabilities. The photo shows the stars shining clear against the blue-black night sky, the beach reflecting the light of the moon.
We fell asleep listening to the waves break on the shore. Another great day in paradise over. Except paradise charges a pretty penny for a bit of fish.
Click here for my Flickr photos of Andalusia
Wind turbine, not wind mill. Sorry.
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