Windswept dunes

November 4, 2009

After breakfast we drove out of Tarifa, back north along the N 340 up the Costa de la Luz. I wanted to photograph some more of the dramatic kite-surfing and walk up and down the massive dunes that frame the coast here. We took a side road, the 222, and after a couple of kilometers parked the car alongside the road. Walking up onto the ridge of one dune we looked out west across to the sea and the coast of Africa.



Towards the north we could see the mountains of the Sierra de Salaviciosa highlighted by shafts of sun in the low lands and dark clouds beginning to settle over the peaks.



If you continue down along the 222 heading towards Paloma Baja and make just one false turn you'll probably have the highly unpleasant experience of nearly being shot by a trigger-happy, overly-anxious military guard. On Google Earth you can see that this section is now completely blanked out. We have horrible memories of our encounter, and even after trying to explain our error the guard was still screaming and shouting.



Several small trees had managed to put roots down in the sand. It looked a lonely life. On either side of the road pine trees had been planted, probably no more than about ten years before, I assume to hold erosion in check. And yes, I did feel guilty as I walked along the dunes. And no, there were no signs indicating that this was a crime against nature. And yes, I should have known better. But other people were doing it, so.... my weak excuse tapers off here.



We drove back onto the main road and back down south like demons possessed, going swiftly from beach to beach. First Valdevaqueros beach, where I panicked that we wouldn't have time to photograph the real kitesurfing action further down south, and then Punta de la Pena, running down onto the sand to photograph the surfers, and snatching bites to eat from the sandwiches we made. The wind can quickly freeze your hands down on Costa de le Luz - but the views of sun, sand, subtle light shades on the sea and a backdrop of Africa make the whole thing worth every shiver.



Further down the coast we could see the biggest conglomeration of kitesurfers at Playa de la Plata beach, but access from the highway was only possible on foot, and I suppose I am glad for that. We parked up opposite gas station on the motorway, and hurried down the long boardwalk path to the beach, through a Parque Natural, and onto the beach as the evening was closing in. We could see maybe 50 kite surfers In the twilight, flying across the crest of the waves in what must be dangerous proximity to each other, and wondered that people didn't get hurt. Once a large and heavy kite fell with sudden force from about 60 metres up above the beach and crashed loudly onto the sand, missing me by just a few feet. I hear that just the kite alone costs over 1,000 euros.



By coincidence we then met a young girl, maybe 14, who asked us in an urgent voice to help her carry a lot of surfing gear back to the car park - her younger brother had just broken his wrist doing a kite surf trick out on the water and had just been taken off by ambulance.



Apparently people get careless and forget just how hard the surface of the sea can be when you hit it at speed. Like smacking down onto concrete at high speed. Ouch.

Click here for my Flickr photos of Andalusia

Running away from the hippy bar

November 4, 2009

We chose an Italian restaurant for our last meal, El Fuente, located in the back streets near the Ayuntamiento. It was a non-smoking restaurant - thank you, thank you! And thank you most of all to a super-friendly waiter as he allowed me to use the restaurant's private wireless internet connection.

It went some way towards offsetting the bitter truth, again: the food was mediocre. Pizza generally disappoints anyway, in my experience - all full of sizzle and sinful promise, but as soon as it cools it's just a fatty gunk. We ordered tuna fish. Interestingly, the waiter serves the fish, asks you to look at how well it is cooked and expects you to send it back until it's cooked to your satisfaction. So you get raw, then dry. Salt and pepper and olive oil as table condiments are a rarity, especially black pepper. But again, the people here are so chatty, so naturally friendly, I'll forgive them crap food. Well, not entirely. And why do they switch the coffee machines off so early everywhere? I thought the locals would be supping coffee until late o'clock.

The waiter gives us a recommendation for a cafe with a bit of a Moroccan atmosphere. Interesting decor, lots of added Arab feel, old photos of cities across the water, cushions with tassels and a bit shabby to boot. God knows how it looks when the lights are turned on. Oh, and, what else do you expect in a Moroccan-style cafe - it has a dart board!



A hippy/rasta chap (who turns out to be German going native in the wrong country) showed us a selection of herbal teas in an old wooden box. What we saw was just teabags - the same basic supermarket-type ones, so why the pretentious palaver? Any anyway, we thought we could at least expect a pot of tea served in an ancient Moroccan pot.



Then came the delay - no tea appeared, and twenty minutes later we walked out. Just enough time for us to be choked by the cigarette smoke. I caused a fuss, sat outside on a wet seat and did some exaggerated coughing. This smoking thing is primitive now - Spain, it's time to put the things of your childhood behind you. We slunk sheepishly back through the narrow streets, fearing the waiter would be searching high and low for the customers who did a runner before he had a chance to make his ceremony out of serving us a tea-bag in a cup. Stopping off at the trusty cafe a few doors down from the hotel I was quietly enraged when an Englishman started to smoke a strong roll-up. He was seated in a corner with two young kids at his side who were stuck amidst his poisonous funk. Shouldn't that be a crime - forcing cigarette smoke down kids' lungs?

Click here for my Flickr photos of Andalusia

"Unfortunately we are running short of bacon baguettes..."

November 5, 2009

Our last day. Another award-winning breakfast (except there wasn't enough jam) at the Cafe Central opposite our apartment. We were among the first customers, and it was kind of chilly but refreshing to sit at an outside table as a morning light rain evaporated off from the now sunny street. The birds welcomed the moisture, as did the thirsty stray cats. My wife finished writing up her diary.




I took a few moody snaps of the cafe and the town winding down slowly for the winter, plus a couple of the tile work on our hotel facade and that of the adjacent building.






Breakfast over, we dragged our luggage round the bend behind the church and up the short hill to where we had parked our car last night to avoid an early-morning fine. I suppose we were feeling rather sorry that today's weather was looking even better than the day before, since we were leaving Spain. The drive was fast, and we had tons of time, but I managed to introduce a note of tension by insisting on stopping every ten minutes to take yet another photograph of the stunning views from up high looking down to Gibraltar and the Straits towards Morocco.



I'm glad I did, because the one I took of the donkey chomping away by the side of the motorway (at the beginning of a hiking trail named "El Huerte" that leads into the Alcornocales Regional Park) with Gibraltar and the sea as a backdrop (up top of this page) is, I think, not bad at all.



Except for a closure of the motorway for about 20 kms at one point, which meant a detour along the scenic but slower coastal road, the journey was uneventful. When we reached the streets of the small town near the airport we navigated to the car hire place by piecing together our snapshot memories of buildings and perspectives from last time. Aren't the workings of human memory baffling? You can remember a particular but not otherwise special tree by the side of a busy road, but could not pull that memory out of your head in advance of seeing it.

Malagacarhire.com have things working like clockwork with the handover, and a courtesy bus was there almost too quickly. I mean, I didn't even have time to fuss and fret around before we were loaded into the bus and o our way to the airport.

The check-in at Malaga Airport was overly long, with just two measly counters open to process about 200 tourists and their luggage, but it all went smoothly. Well, smoothly until we had been processed through security, and gone upstairs for coffee, to buy water, to try to find a free wifi internet connection (tip: forget it) - and happened to glance at the departures screen. Typical - only after we'd gone through into the captivity of the area beyond the security check did the airline choose to display the rather annoying news that our flight was delayed by just short of 3 hours. And as such we would be obliged to spend a ton of money in the shops. So we fell into obedient line, my wife went to get water, juices, coffee and I was about to buy, grrrr, an internet access card.

But just as our survival plan had entered the implementation stage imagine our surprise, and that of 200 other passengers, when we suddenly heard a curt announcement over the tannoy: "Last call for passengers flying Scum Airlines to Birmingham" with the emphasis rudely on the word "last" - as if they were fed-up having to tell us all to get our skates on. Cheek.

Pandemonium broke out, with people breaking into a run to make it to the gate before the plane doors slammed in their faces, forcing them to spend another day in paradise. We rushed to the shop to buy the water supply for the flight, but were held up by a British couple pretending that the euro was a very difficult currency to understand, counting out each coin and looking for praise as they laboriously did so from the lady at the till. So instead of the dignified fast walk I had planned as a protest at being mucked around by the airline we had to run like the clappers to the boarding gate. I mean, had the airline suddenly found a plane laying around? Actually, it turned out that it wasn't the airline's fault - the airport staff had posted the departure time up wrongly. I think some passengers will have missed the flight as they had probably gone straight into fall-asleep mode in a seat somewhere.

On board the stewardess tells us she is selling "hot food and hot drinks for 5 pounds". I laughed when she listed in minute detail all the fatty, greasy crap food that they unfortunately didn't have, or only limited supplies of, such as bacon baguettes and BLT (bacon, lettuce and tomato) chilled sandwiches. Are they trying to generate a sense of "must have before they run out" panic buying among those on board? "Fortunately", her voice grated on, "we do have large stocks of alcohol on board." Maybe the captain too was enjoying a sundowner up in the cockpit. Anything is possible.

My intention was to wait until the food trolley stops at our row and the chap asks if we would like a supposedly scarce bacon baguette. At which point I would hold up my own home-made pan integral cheese roll as if to say "I brought my own. I don't want to give you my money. You are nice but your colleague on the flight here scolded me publicly, and this is the cost you and your children and grandchildren, and your airline, must bear", followed by a cackling evil laugh.

But instead I have to admit my shame: the flight attendant was so unfailingly and naturally pleasant and helpful that I too bought coffee from him. I was just hoping, however remotely the chance, that it would turn out to be good quality coffee - like you get on most other airlines. I looked up pathetically at the attendant as he poured hot water into the paper cup, and asked "Is it instant coffee?" "Oh yes", he replied proudly. "Shite", I thought, and handed over the ransom money. I'm looking at the cup design from Kenco - all soft golds and reds and coffee plantations and the words "Rich Roast" emblazoned in gold letters on the side above a setting sun, and smaller print stating "including high quality Arabica beans". Fooled again.



Walking up the garden path to our front door I was highly pleased to find my slightly offish cat Yoshka looking with mild interest at us through the front room window. Every little show of affection on her part keeps me hooked.



My verdict on our trip: yes, it was one of our best to date, and if Spain ever gets its water supplies sorted out and learns to cook food that is not fried and greasy I wouldn't mind trying to live there. Won't that be nice for them?


Click here for my Flickr photos of Andalusia

Still living the dream

January 19, 2010

Several months later I was lounging around my house in the espadrilles I wore on the beach. I put my feet up on the couch. And I am glad I did, because although the weather outside was grey and drizzling, on my floor I later found a small heap of sand. It had made the journey from the beaches of Bolonia and the Costa de la Luz, and had now fallen out onto the wood of the floorboards. Of course, no clouds lifted, no rain stopped. But I thought I heard the sounds of the sea.