Bolnuevo to Isla Plana.

Bolnuevo to Isla Plana.

24th November

12 miles

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 salt water spa pool heated to 30 degrees

warmer than the Med, but a bit tame!

Bougainvillea hedges separate the pitches

It's remarkable how different campsites have contrasting atmospheres. The last one, Playa de Mazarron, had direct access to the beach and the shops and cafés in the small town. It was a lovely site, the entrance with a landscaped area had a rose garden, fish-pond and even topiary! The main shower block was on two levels built around an atrium with fountains - I think there had been a conscious effort to emulate Roman or Arabic bath-houses. The advantage of having the showers on the upper floor was when you finished ablutions in the morning you were greeted by a vista of the sea seen through a bougainvillea draped balcony.

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