In 2014 we swapped a working life for a travelling one. Since then we have travelled in Europe by motorhome for around five months each year. This is our story.
The sprawl of mass tourism stretches north from Cartagena for 150 km or more, taking in the long strip of land on the seaward side of the lagoon-like Mar Menor, onwards past Benidorm, Xavia and the coast to the north of Valencia. We just have to accept that between now and next Friday, when we fly back to the UK, we will be camped in regimented sites designed to meet the needs of the long stay retirees.
Instead I bought myself a couple of swimming related items from Decathlon, a pair of swimming shorts which will dry quicker than the cotton 'beach shorts' I have at the moment. There was a good deal on Tri-suits - the lightweight wetsuits used in triathlon which enable you to swim in water down to 16 degrees. Justifying the purchase as an early Xmas present I bought one. Wearing it, I do resemble a giant tadpole, but it will extend where and when I can swim, and at the age of 59 I'm passed caring if I look ridiculous - being 59 is ridiculous in itself.
Next we headed to the big Alcampo hypermarket - the same chain as Auchan in France, As well as food shopping we bought an electric orange juicer and a 3 kg. bag of oranges. We have been coveting one of these ever since we spotted German motorhomes with large string bags of oranges hung from the awning. Freshly squeezed orange juice at breakfast, that seems another 'little pleasure' we can add to our idyllic existence, a foil to 'beer o'clock' at five.
We were going to have lunch at the mall, but by the time we had finished at the hypermarket we both felt tired, I still think we are recovering from the virus we've been suffering from. So we headed straight to the campsite, parked up, stuck in some laundry in, then had lunch in the van.
That was yesterday. Today jt's chilly and pouring with rain. It looks set-in for the day. This is the first really rainy day we've had for weeks. Practice for next Friday I suppose
Puntas de Calegre is as far south as we're going to get on this leg of the trip. By my reckoning we've driven about 2410 miles so far. As we headed north up the A7 autopista I think both of us were feeling a bit down. In terms of our inner compasses, south is always our happy direction. Unlike Python's infamous deceased parrot, you would never find either me or Gill 'pining for the fjords'.
We have decided to use the aire at Cartagena. It's a while since we've visited a city, and since we have a soft spot for Mediterranean ports, then Cartegena would be one more ticked off. The place has a venerable history, an interesting architectural heritage, and quite by chance when we arrived was in the midst of Cathagineses y Romanos, an annual festival involving a series of re-enactments of battles between the Romans and Carthaginians.
As this festival indicates, Cathagena is a Punic city, founded as Novo Cathago in 223 BC. by Hannibal. Subsequently it was ruled by the Romans, Moors and then taken by Christian forces in 1242. More recently, it was the last Spanish city to capitulate to Franco's army and suffered considerable damage during the civil war. No wonder it has been fought over, Cartagena possess one of the finest natural deep water harbours in the Western Mediterranean, and remains to this day an important naval base.
A statue of Hannibal who founded 'New Carthage' in 223BC. stands near the castle
The modern arena with the natural deep water harbour and the naval base in the background
With all of this history and the development of industry in the area, unsurprisingly the city is characterful rather than beautiful. We parked about four miles from its centre, near Dolores, and caught the bus to the centre - €1.40 each - great value. The outskirts are run-down, and you can see that since the demise of manufacturing in the 1980s, like in many industrial cities, times have been hard. Nevertheless it is an interesting place with significant archaeological remains from the roman period, a Baroque city hall and streets in the old centre brimming with modernista buildings, some superbly renovated, but many in a near ruinous state.
The remains of the Roman theatre.
one of many modernista style doorways
As part of the celebrations most of the old quarter had been given over to a medieval market. It was very similar to the one we saw back in February in Palma di Mallorca - lots of pop-up food places, stalls selling specialist cheeses and sausages, art-crafty stalls, wandering minstrels and dancers - you get the picture!
Afterwards we climbed the hill to the castle, chatted to some elderly but feisty American tourists escaped from the big cruise ship that was dominating the harbour. By this time the forecast rain duly arrived. We wandered about until we found a cafe and had toasts and patatas bravas, then moved on for coffee in a nice old place dating from 1905. We were glad to sit down, not only because of the rain, but also we've developed some kind of bug over the past week - upset tummy, mild fluey symptoms and low energy levels. We decided to call it a day, caught the no. 7 back to Dolores, and returned to the van well before evening.
The American tourists' huge cruise ship half filled the harbour.
Patates Bravas - yum...
toasts - but not your average Welsh rarebit....yum!
and afterwards, coffees in a nearby Modernista cafe
The 'camper stop' here is excellent, and much more to our taste than the 'long-stay' sites in the area. The young woman managing the place is wonderfully friendly, happy just to chat. We also had a long conversation with a couple from Yorkshire who have been motoring through Spain and Portugal every winter for the past seven years. They gave us some useful leaflets for sites we might use in February. The other great thing about this aire is the reliable FREE Wifi. I managed to update the blog completely, including embedding a few video clips. It does annoy me when other sites charge up to €3 per day for a Wifi link, which subsequently proves to be intermittent, slow and pathetically weak.
With rain showers forecast fortomorrowwe will move north again. We will have to use the sites on the coast even if their atmosphere is not to our liking. We need the laundry facilities and a place to print out Ryan Air boarding cards. There is quite a bit of sorting out to do to get the van into a state where it can be left for two months. We 've checked the forecast for next Friday, there is no doubt winter is arriving, the temperature in Alicante is set to be 17 degrees during the day, just a week ago that was the average nighttime temperature. What is really a downer, however, is the forecast for Buxton, only 4 degrees maximum, dropping to zero. Now you understand why south for us is not simply a point on the compass, but a constant aspiration, a place of treasured memories - a happy state of mind.
The last three campsites all full of long stay over-wintering retirees had really begun to get both of us down. Really we did not set out on our adventure to end up railing about our fellow travellers. The simple fact is that we set out to spend a few months escaping from the trappings of middle class existence, whereas most of the others appeared equally determined lug them south for the winter. The final straw for Gill came while I went for a swim. She sat reading on the terrace only to be entertained by the campsite tea-time karaoke. I understand the low point was 'O Danny Boy'....
By 10:30 next day we had packed up and were heading one stop down the AP7 to an aire at Puntas de Calnegre, or to be exact two aires. It took us through Spain's arid semi-desert landscape of bare mountains and dusty valleys carpeted with acres of plastic greenhouses. As we neared the coast these were interspersed with green fields of lettuce, an odd sight in a semi-desert!
We pulled into Calnegre Aire 1, described as the more charming of the three in the area. It's true it had ornamental trees and well defined pitches, but the promised electricity was defunct, 'the friendly Spanish owners' nowhere to be seen, and the only other people around were a couple of German bikers with their van and big trailer; they were off-hand to the point of rudeness, but we thought - c'est la vie, it's just for one night.
Calnegre is remote, one of the few undeveloped areas on Spain's Costa Calida
A wild, arid tract of country punctuated by the odd patch of green - lettuces grown on an industrial scale using irrigation piped-in from afar.
A pleasant enough aire - but the electrical hook-ups did not work and the fellow campers seemed distinctly frosty.
So we off-loaded the bikes and headed for the beach. The village of Calnegre was just a few single storey fisherman's houses, a couple of beach bars, a modernist concrete villa streaked with rust and a small three storey apartment block. The beach was stony and somewhat litter strewn, and the view, stunning. We'd brought the beach chairs. Gill scrunched to a halt at a small play park next to the beach.
"Shall we stop here?" she enquired.
I glanced around, "Let's see what's up the road." I had packed my swimming stuff and hoped to find a less weedy beach. We had not even pedalled half a kilometre when we came across the other aire which had been described in the book as 'occupying 'a scrap of land prime for development adjacent to the sea'' but failed to mention the magnificent view of mountains and coast stretching west all the way to Cartagena. We pedalled in for a closer look. Ten or so other vans were spread across the level stony ground. The emptying point was brand new, it looked great.
Gill observed, "Shame we did not find here first." Then circling around passed me again, "Should we move the van?"
Seized by an inexplicable desire to emulate David Brent, I replied, "It's a no brainer."
So we cycled back to the first place, packed-up, and re-parked next to the Med. The guy beside us travelling alone in a big American style RV , his permanent home, came up for a chat, we swapped experiences, agreed how lucky we were. A nice simple, friendly conversation.
As for the place itself, there is very little here, it exudes the beauty of the overlooked, the half forgotten, the dilapidated. - an empty sea of the deepest blue next to an empty road; grey misty mountains beyond a beige stony desert. But colourful too - bougainvillea draped the gables of the village houses, some painted brightly, some gleaming white, others crumbling, their painted facades faded and peeling. I could understand how some people might find it desolate and melancholy, to us though it seemed peaceful and sublime.
In comparison, the social rituals, territorial display, conspicuous consumption and petty games of status we had observed on campsites over the last week all seemed ridiculous. So there you have it, November 26th 2014, the day Pete and Gill drove 22 miles from the ridiculous to the sublime. You don't believe us? Look at the pictures!
It's better here...
parked-up beside the sea
with an empty coastline stretching as far as you can see
big grins all round
the village beach bar
a few small fishing boats
the bar from the front
wrought iron decorations
and tiles around the door
The main street (only street) reminded me of the remoter parts of southern Crete.
late afternoon light
a grazing herd of motorhomes
even an old bit of sunbleached rope conspired to be picturesque
We have swapped campsites within what is effectively the same area. Whereas Bolnuevo is at the western end of the Golfo de Mazarron, Isla Plana is closer to the eastern end near La Azohia. The mountains here are higher. The Sierra de la Muela drops straight into the sea at Cabo Tiñoso, beyond that is a series of cliffs and coves, remote and unpopulated until you reach Cartegna.
We've come here partly on the recommendation of a Dutch couple we met in France who rated the place's situation and the salt water swimming pool heated to 30 degrees. Gill and I have just been in, it is a great pool and wonderful to be able to swim outdoors in late November.
The flower decked...chemical toilet emptying point!
Shower block atrium with fountains
ornamental fishpond at the entrance
with palm trees
and topiary...
Now all of this sounds idyllic, and indeed it is until you put the humans into it. The place was packed, mainly with Scandinavians, Germans and French parked-up for the duration. The Nordics were glamped-out in tour- bus sized Carthagos whose white leather clad interiors gleamed through shop window sized windscreens displaying a range of ghastly table lamps on the shelf above the dashboard. The site itself was divided up into a series of occupied territories, the Swedes gathered on one part, the Germans in another, each sporting small tea towel sized national flags fluttering from their vans. Only Mr. UKIP on tour misunderstood the convention of quietly asserting national identity. Of course he had to plant a fibreglass flagpole secured by four guy-ropes at the back of his twin wheeled Autotrail and raise a St. George's flag the size of a king-size quilt cover which flapped imperiously over his 60 square metres of little England.
All nationalities have their idiosyncrasies: the French appear to speak to each other at double the usual volume, small clusters of them gather from dawn till dusk and yell conversations at one another, everyone talking at the same time, in some kind of competition which involves talking over your neighbour to get your point across. The effect is, on a campsite wide level, a background Germanic hubbub punctuated by a series of animated French rows. Except they only sound like arguments, actually they are just swapping observations about the weather, or the minutiae of mundane existence, like the fact they've just done the laundry....but very loudly
Then there is the intriguing matter of the Northern European male and his psychological attachment to socks. This phenomena is more or less endemic among a certain type from Holland, Germany and the UK. In its mildest form it involves wearing sock with sandals, an innocuous enough habit I suppose, but the beginning of a slippery slope. For soon Herr Sock is striding out in well pressed below the knee shorts, open neck shirt and calf high checked socks and sensible sandals. Given that this is often combined with a natty cap or straw trilby, the only flesh bared to the cancerous rays of the Mediterranean sun are arms below elbow and a three inch strip of leg on show between the hem of the shorts and the top of the sock. I have evidence that the socks stay on even when most of the rest of the clothes come off. I was staring in the mirror above the wash-hand basin the other day while shaving when a figure crossed my line of sight. An elderly man in his early seventies I guess, he was slightly built and a leathery brown colour as if he had spent many years stretched out in the sun. He was headed for the adjacent showers dressed in three-quarter length dark blue paisley dressing gown, white Crocs and knee high black socks. On reaching the cubicle door he hung the dressing gown on a hook, lingered momentarily in his Speedos, socks and Crocs, then carefully folding a towel over his forearm, strode into the shower. Why would anyone wear knee length socks with plastic sandals in a shower? Its behaviour bordering on the fetishistic.
While on the subject of shower block behaviour, why do British men whistle distractedly while peeing at the urinal, shaving, having a shower or indeed seeing to any bathroom related matters. Of course it is to cover up embarrassment at performing in public activities usually enacted in private. I'm sure other men find it all slightly awkward, but they don't whistle. The new site at Isla Plana has many more British people on it than the last one. Even if I had not noted this from the registration plates, It would have been obvious from my visit to the showers this morning. From outside it sounded melodious, like an aviary. as homo-Brit busied himself with his ablutions, each twittering to himself in excruciating embarrassment.
In fact the entire site has the over-ordered buttoned-up feel of a Caravan Club site. It's got a great pool, a lovely view, excellent shop and good facilities. The vibe though is not to our taste. I think we'll move on
Romeria means pilgrimage. Forget the vicissitudes of the Camina, be-sandalled and blistered wiry pilgrims striding purposely over the snow-capped Pyrenees in pursuit of spiritual fulfilment in distant Santiago. A Romeria is a much jollier affair. Our little Collins Spanish dictionary devotes one of its occasional 'factual panels' to these events:
Romeria - originally a pilgrimage to a shrine or church to express devotion to Our Lady or a local saint. The Romeria has also become the rural fiesta which accompanies the pilgrimage. People come from all over to attend bringing their own food and drink and spend the day in celebration.
The dictionary has it, this is exactly what happened over the last few days here. What the dictionary definition can't capture is the noise, colour and intensity of the celebration, I've put together a few video clips which attempt to give a taste of the sheer joy of the Romeria, a boisterous, but good natured mixture of the sacred and profane, an assertion of all that is good about life, vivacious and bountiful. It's not often these days that you find people spontaneously bursting into song or dancing for joy in the streets.... 1. The Pilgrimage
We should have moved on today if we had stayed true to the schedule we'd sketched out a few days ago. However, last night when we did have a whiff of Wifi Gill asked me to Google 'Bolnuevo fiestas'. She was curious as to why ever since we arrived a large fair was being set up on the beach. From there being one somewhat desolate hamburger trailer emblazoned with Bugs Bunny parked next to the fishing boats drawn up on beach - a startling sight - lorry after lorry has arrived carrying bumper cars, waltzers, shooting galleries - the whole fairground shabang.
Gill with impeccable logic put forward the hypothesis that a fair must be associated with some larger community event - that in Spain they do not just happen for no reason, especially in mid November. She was spot on. The local English on-line newspaper - the Calida Chronicle (I jest not) announced in a tone of breathless excitement that one of the highlights of the expat community's year was about to happen in Bolnuevo , the famous and much anticipated 'Sardine Sunday' when food and wine is served on the beach in the afternoon.
Further investigation revealed that this was the culmination of two weeks of local religious and community events commemorating a miracle which saved the towns of Mazarron and Bolnuevo from destruction by Saracen pirates.
The story goes that as the evil pirates approached the shore they were faced by the ghostly figure of the Virgin Mary, at which they took fright and fled.
When the villagers went to give thanks at the local hermitage which contained a statue of the Virgin they found that her robes were wet and she was covered in sand. The lamp that illuminated her sanctuary burned brightly even though it contained no oil. There you have it, a full blown type A off-the- peg miracle including mysterious Marian intercession, terrified heathens and an everlasting lamp.
Some fishermen's cottages next to the beach have painted tile panels depicting the miracle.
Every year the faithful of Mazarron and Bolnuevo get the statue out its niche and walk in procession between the two towns. After taking Mary down to the beach to commemorate the miracle they return to the chapel in Bolnuevo, celebrate mass, then head back to the beach for a big communal lunch. We have decided to stay until Mondayto witness the festivities.
Meanwhile, we have a bit of time on our hands, the weather has become overcast and misty. After two months of constant travel where we have moved on after two or thee days we are planning to stay here for six nights. So I'm going to keep a running diary style blog of our time here until the day of Miracles itself, when I'll probably post a separate account with pictures.
Thursday 20th November
A cloudy morning, but still mild. We decided it was a domestic day - window cleaning and floor de-sanding. Then we cycled about four kilometres to the nearest Lidl and Mercadona supermarkets for groceries.
By the time we'd had a relaxed lunch and washed-up the clouds were starting to break and it was feeling quite warm in the sunny intervals. We headed back to the beach where I had been swimming yesterday, carrying our folding beach chairs on the rear pannier racks. Gill settled down to become further engrossed in Tudor intrigue - she's reading Wolf Hall at the moment. I finished the blog post about the journey here from Altea, and vacillated about going for a swim; it was warm in the sun but the breeze was cool. I'm definitely a fair weather swimmer!
As the afternoon wore on the wind dropped, and though there was a small swell and the sea was not crystal clear like yesterday, I decided that I had so few opportunities to swim in the sea at home, this was too good an opportunity to miss.
Soon I was paddling around, perhaps 40 metres from shore, if anything, despite being less sunny than yesterday, the water felt warmer. From this angle the beach was deserted so far as the eye could see, apart from Gill sitting nearby on a lime-green beach chair lost in her book. I swam across to the low promontory at the end on the sandy cove and sat on the rocks for a while just looking at the motion of the wavelets breaking beside me. I was no more than 50 metres from the beach road, but where I was sitting was not overlooked, all I could see were rough rocks above me, the sea stretching to the pale grey horizon and an empty beach - a moment of solitude. I slipped out of my shorts and swam bare-arsed around the cove for five minutes or so. It felt great!
Soon it would be evening, the promenade would become busier as people headed to the nearby 'sunset bar'. I needed to revert to a state of public decency; after a few moves reminiscent of Mr Bean goes to the seaside, I managed to pull my shorts back on while waist deep in the waves, a trick that required unexpected levels of gymnastic effort, performed, thankfully, on an entirely submarine basis.
Fifties B Movie horror...The Thing That Came From The Deep.....
A few minutes later I was sitting next to Gill; I dried off and got properly dressed. I reached into my bag and found an apple and munched it slowly, watching the sunset. I was thinking of how much younger I felt than say two years ago, - wearing a suit and tie everyday, weighed down by corporate responsibility, caught in the middle of a merger, on the losing side. Here I was, a shade off 60, watching the sun set over the Med, dressed in a pair of ragged shorts, a faded Joe Brown tee shirt and ancient sandals, living for the moment, day by day. I thought to myself, enjoy it, life is rarely this good or this simple - Carpe Diem
We know we can't out-fox Winter forever. So now every clear blue day seems a bonus, a thing we can't take for granted, a series of moments to savour.
We woke, and it did look to be going to turn out as gorgeous as Wunderground had forecast. While Gill was in the shower I lugged the bikes off the back of the van. Really it's a two person job but I wanted to get out exploring as soon as possible. We had a plan. Head off east in the morning towards the harbour at Puerto Marrazon that Gill had spotted on Google maps. I was sure that I'd read in the Lonely Planet guide that there were a series of famous 'desert coves' to the west of Bolnuevo, so we planned to return to the van for lunch, then explore the coves in the afternoon.
Neither scheme quite went to plan, proving Breton's adage that paradise is beset by pitfalls. In our heads we had imagined a cafe lined marina at Puerto Marrazon where we could sip a couple of cortados. As we pedalled along the coast it became clear that Puerto Marrazon had closed up shop for the winter. At times we were entirely alone among the shuttered apartment blocks and empty shopping arcades. Yet it was warm, the sky deep blue, and the coastline itself a series of coves and islets, with a vista to the east of a distant pale grey mountainous promontory. Looking west you could see the whole sweep of the Golfo de Mazarron. The sea was utterly still, and looking down at the red rocks below where we where standing, so clear you could see shoals of small black fish darting about. The scene was so deserted it had a post-apocalyptic, slightly mysterious atmosphere. I was reminded of the mood of Ballard's late 60s Sci Fi stories set in the abandoned resorts ofVermillion Sandsand Terminal Beach. We never did find our cortados, but the experience proved far more memorable than any quayside cafe could have produced..
The Golfo de Mazarron
Beach shacks and palm trees
Looking east towards Capo Tinoso
Eucalyptus fringed bays
bare rocks and palms
white rocks, translucent blue sea
Back at the van Gill conjured up some toasts for lunch. These are a great way of using up the bread left over from breakfast. It involves spreading a thin layer of pesto onto the bread, slicing tomatoes and mozzarella thinly and placing them on the pesto. Then you season it with oregano and pop under the grill. It's very yummy! With all this exercise we are both feeling fitter and healthier. Gill is far too inventive a cook for us ever to be slim!
After lunch we headed to the west to find the desert coves that the Lonely Planet guide mentioned as being 'among the most perfect as you'll find on the Spanish Med coast.' The temperature was now in the mid 20s, the day sunny, the sea clear, I had packed my cossy and was all set to do some serious splashing about. A paved promenade stretches a kilometre or so along the coast, then the road climbs to a point where you get a view of the coastal scenery stretching out to the west beyond the Golfo de Mazarron. There were no coves to be seen, the road petered out into an un-metalled track which dropped precipitously, then snaked across a wild looking area of low cliffs and shingly rocky inlets. A sign advised us that we had arrived at the Playas Nudistas.
End of the road...
just a steep, unmetalled track...
where you get glimpses of shingle coves
and a wild, bare coastline leading, appropriately enough tp the Playas Nudistas
Slightly confused we cycled back to the sandy beach at the end of Bolnuevo's bay. We locked the bikes by a wooden walkway which led to an area of sand just below a small rocky promontory. The water was clear and calm and I swam about in the warm sea for 20 minutes or so, then got out and let the sun dry me while I stared at my iPhone notes app and updated the blog. It was late afternoon, the shadows were lengthening and the light becoming golden; I switched off the phone and jumped straight back-in.....bliss!
Beach life....
On the way back to the campsite we stopped to take a closer look at an area just on the edge of the village where the cliffs have been sculpted into fantastic shapes by wind erosion.
The famous Gredos de Bolnuevo are jyst behind the beach
When we returned to the van I looked again at the Lonely Planet guide to try to get the bottom of the missing 'desert coves'. What an idiot I am! The coves are at Aguilas, 30 kilometres south of here, the place we are headed to next. I had misread the book. Maybe I will get to swim in Las Cuatro Calas, or perhaps in a week's time the sea will have become too chilly for a dip.
Heading back, beach chairs stashed on the pannier rack.
