From the ridiculous to the sublime.

26th November

Isla Plana to Puntas de Calnegre

22 miles

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

shadows lengthening towards evening

a sea view from the van

but still warm enough to sit outdoors 

Sublime...see I told you so!