Costa del Sol, sun fun, crime and concrete

For 20 kilometres or so east of Gibraltar there are still a few patches of green in between the villages, but by the time you reach Estapona 'urbanizacións' sprawl along the coast forming a ribbon of concrete. With a few breaks here and there, mostly covered in plasticulture, Costa Concrete continues unabated for hundreds of kilometres. For the most part it is a dispiriting sight. The AP7 motorway snakes through the coastal hills a few miles inland; viewed from above, with the broad sweep of the blue sea in the foreground, the scenery remains magnificent in scale, even if somewhat tawdry close up.

We stopped for lunch in a service area, the mountains tops beyond Malaga were dusted with the first snow of winter. With the white city curving around the bay, a crystal light and yellowing trees, despite our best efforts, humanity has not quite sullied all the earth's beautiful places, I mused.

We are giving it a good try though. By chance as we pulled into the car park and became embroiled in a major police operation. Most of the area was cordoned-off. A dozen or so heavily armed officers surrounded two cars; the occupants skulked nearby under the watchful eye of a couple of Alsatians. Parked randomly around them were two snazzily liveried squad cars, an armoured van, and a posse of police motorbikes, their helmeted owners in white leathers cosplaying Star Wars stormtroopers. It was all very exciting. We trundled through the tableau and parked near the petrol station well away from the action, set the table and unpacked our bread and cheese. A true Brit 'Keep Calm and Carry On' moment.  A drugs raid perhaps? I suppose the area was dubbed Costa del Crime for a reason.

As we neared the outskirts of Malaga I pondered about the endless the roadside development. It consisted predominantly of  raw concrete constructed over the last half century. Take away the tat and you conclude that in 1960 most of Spain''s Mediterranean coast must have been sparsely populated away from the major cities. 

I asked myself what had been the biggest change I have seen in my lifetime? My initial response was to cite the explosion in communication technology. As a kid my family had an ancient 1930s radiogram, a clutch of '78s', if you wanted to listen to the Home Service you had to switch the radio on a couple of minutes before the programme started so the contraption's valves heated up. We had no car, TV or telephone. It is impossible to deny given the explosion during our generation's lifetime of mass media, car ownership, budget air travel, the Internet and the global reach of social media, that humanity is now interconnected in a way that would be unimaginable back then, other than in Dan Dare style Sci-Fi comic. 

However, as we drove through the concrete sprawl of 'Greater Mediterraneanea' I wondered if the technological revolution actually rested on a more fundamental shift in the human population. Global interconnection and global urbanisation happened simultaneously, but what was the relationship between the two? Could one have happened without the other? 

Later on I tracked down the stats. In the mid-fifties when I was born it is estimated that 30% of the world's population lived in urban areas. Today that figure is around 55%. However the percentage increase belies the magnitude of the change, because over my lifetime the world's population has risen from 2.8 billion to 7.46 billion. Urbanisation has increased even faster. In 1955 there were 864 million city dwellers on the planet, last year it is estimated that it had risen to 4.33 billion, an increase of 474%. Drive northwest from Malaga to Valencia and the sprawling development tells a small part of that story.

 

We were heading for Camping Laguna at Torre del Mar. The place itself is typifies the development boom in Spain which occurred in the latter half of the 20th century - a grid of apartments four blocks deep stretching for miles along the sea front. It was only when we tried to navigate around the place that the extent to which the building boom was wholly haphazard and unplanned becomes obvious. Some plots had been developed, others were still wasteland. The grid of roads had not quite been connected up. Cycling from the campsite to the local supermarket - which you could see in the distance - was like trying to solve one of those mazes you get in a puzzle book. Not that the place is horrible, a lot of effort has been put into landscaping the promenade. There is a great cycleway at the back of the beach. Nevertheless you sense that it is all the result of chaotic development driven by making a fast buck from the boom in package holidays in the 70s and 80s.

Why does this matter? Because what back then was a parochial debate between developers and environmentalists has taken on global significance. This week, ss the G20 economic summit ends in Argentina the latest Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change conference opens in Poland. In the south of Spain lies an 800km strip of 'concrete evidence' stretching from Malaga to Valencia that in the past economic development triumphed over the conservation of resources. With Trump and Xi heading up the worlds biggest polluters I don't see this changing. It's all somewhat demoralising.

In fact where we are is a bit demoralising generally. Camping Laguna is packed with long stay wrinklies. They are volubly friendly towards each other but somewhat frosty towards itinerant newbies. The pitches themselves are small, we are packed together like battery chickens. The only positive aspect are the facilities, which are good. We are planning to move on tomorrow.

It's undoubtedly a truism to assert that travel broadens the mind, equally it can reinforce your prejudices. However wandering about for months on end as we do does confront us with questions constantly. There is a reason why I jumped to the conclusion that the revolution in communication technology was the biggest change in my lifetime. It was because I reside in the UK. It was only when I began to look at global population growth that I realised how little our island has been affected by the global rise in population. Over the past six decades the UK population has risen from 51 million to 64 million, an increase of about a third. During the same period the world population has almost tripled. If the population of Britain had increased at the world's average rate, there would now be 135 million of us squeezed onto our small island 

Our experience of urbanisation has been different too. By the 1950s Britain was already a predominantly urban due to the fact we industrialised during the 19th century. This is atypical, even in Europe; in France and Spain the mass movement from countryside to city happened much later in the middle part of last century. You can learn all this from a book or Wikipedia, but it has far more impact when you read it in the landscape as you travel along.

Monkey business.

Increasingly we seem set on contradicting ourselves. In 2014 when planning our first long trip we vowed that our aim was to explore places we had never visited before. However, almost everywhere we have stayed since September has been a return visit. Our next port of call - Gibraltar - is a case in point; we spent a dull Sunday there in March 2015 agreeing that the place was mildly interesting in a wet Morecambe kind of way - ticked-off, been there, done that. So why are we heading back now? We have no idea.

Getting there involved a change of territory, albeit an informal one unrecognised on any map. Tarifa marks the last town in Costa del Crusty. Though the border is solely cultural, Tarifa has the dishevelled, transient ambiance associated with a frontier town. Self styled as the 'world capital of kite-surfing', beyond the hippified craft shops in the compact white Moorish influenced centre, the town consists mainly of warehouse sized kite-surf shops and backpacker hostels. It brims with new-agers; sadly some of the inhabitants look as if they have 'dropped through' rather than 'dropped out'. 

Kite surf shop hypermarkets

Gill named the seriously alternative owner of the clapped-out caravan 'Space-rocket' - odd, but mysteriously appropriate.

Beyond Gibraltar the Costa del Winter Wrinkles stretches northeastwards for almost 500 miles to Valencia. In-between is an odd limnal zone, a landscape of transition between the Atlantic seaboard and the Mediterranean. It also happens to be one of Europe's great coastal drives.

There is a café at the Mirador El Estrecho. From the car park there is a spectacular view towards the hills of Morocco. We stopped for lunch and along with everyone else took a photograph or two which failed to capture just how magnificent a spot it is.

It may resemble Pembrokeshire - but that's Africa in the distance.

Soon after here you top a rise and the blue bay of Algericiras stretches below you, Gibraltar beyond, a big grey lump. When we travelled this way before we noted a distinct difference in the landscape within a matter of a few kilometres - the Atlantic side greener, towards the Mediterranean more arid, scrubby and dun coloured. Because of the recent rains, today it was all verdant like Pembrokeshire by the Med.

After hundreds of kilometres of quiet roads the urban traffic around Algericiras came as a shock. It's a gritty looking port but that probably indicates a thriving one, which is a good thing. We turned right towards La Linea, Gibraltar looming ever larger in the windscreen. Towering more than 1000 feet above the sea I had forgotten how impressive it looks. 

We agreed we were pleased to have returned, not least because right now the place has hit the world headlines as Spain and Britain engage in a diplomatic squabble regarding the Rock's sovereignty post Brexit.

Today's local paper.

In all we spent two days in Gibraltar. I was wrong to have dismissed it as some kind of post-colonial blip, a parody of Portsmouth by the Med. There is more to the city than that, it has a long, complicated history stretching back thousands of years. It is an intriguing place.

La Linea Marina aire - in Spain but Gibraltar is a little more than a stroll away.

and finally - clear blue skies.

Still, we started out like true Brits and headed, shopping list in hand, to Marks and Spencer and Morrison's. In fact, due to it being mid afternoon by the time we arrived at the La Linea Marina, and a three kilometre walk from there to Gibraltar city centre, a grocery shop was all we managed on our first day.

Morrison's - just like home

Our purchases - Cheshire cheese, chutney, poppadoms, hummus and a pot of miniature roses - very British!

Our shopping trip provoked a flurry of Googling that evening - because Gibraltar does raise questions, not least how it can function economically with a permanent population of only 34,000 yet boast the paraphernalia of a small state - First Minister, a parliament, an international football team, all independent of the UK apart from in foreign policy. I needed to put its size of this into perspective - Gibraltar is considerably smaller than Macclesfield but a bit bigger than Devizes, yet is a global centre for insurance, off-shore banking and the on-line betting industry.

Immediately after passport control is Gibraltar International Airport's runway.

Even the smallest aircraft brings cross-border traffic to a standstill.

How you regard the Rock's economic success depends upon your political stance I suppose, as a triumph of de-regulation and neo-liberalism or an example of the malign effects of globalisation. Either way, the fact that in the mid-eighties Gibraltar's economy was 85% dependent on revenues from the UK Ministry of Defence but today that has shrunk to 15%, does tell a remarkable story of entrepreneurship. In order to service Gibraltar's economy tens of thousands of Spanish workers cross the border everyday. I read a startling statistic - the unemployment rate in Gibraltar is 2%, half a kilometre across the frontier, La Linea's rate is 34%. 

Though architecturally Gibraltar is hardly stunning, La Linea is truly grim.

As I happily wiled away the evening hours exploring the microeconomics of post colonialism, Gill entertained herself exploring the history of Gibraltar Morrison's. It is just as well we found each other. We both have an innate curiosity, random stuff intrigues us to the extent that what we regard as a healthy interest, others I suspect would call hopelessly nerdy.

Anyway, for all fellow nerds out there - here is the link to the fascinating Daily Telegraph article from 2014 all about Gibraltar Morrison's. There is something gloriously eccentric about the fact that at any one time there can be eighteen Morrison's trucks thundering southwards down autoroutes and autopistas to supply some post-colonial pimple with Hartley's jam, Carr's Water biscuits and Marmite.

Next day dawned blue, warm and sunny (about time). We were going to be proper tourists today, venturing beyond the supermarket to explore the top of the rock. Last time we balked at the price of the cable car - €30 for the two of us for the six minute ride. We attempted to walk up but only made it halfway - the view was stupendous, but there was not a Barbary ape to be seen. In all honesty, can you really claim to have visited Gibraltar if you have not communed with the resident primates?

Gill's new friend

In fact Gill embraced the ape experience the moment she alighted from the cable car, or more accurately was embraced by it. A small group of apes hang around the upper cable car station. As Gill walked up the steps one of the more agile members of the gang hopped off the wall, springing onto Gill's shoulders. For someone who has a minor panic at merest glimpse of a wasp she remained impressively stoical, stopping stock still. After about 15 seconds the monkey lost interest and leaped back onto a fence post. It took a few minutes for Gill to regain her poise. From then on we kept our distance.

I am convinced they strike a pose when a camera is pointed at them

The view from the cable car station was stupendous - the bare upper cliffs of the Rock, Gibraltar town and the bay to the north, the Straights and the mountains of Africa to the south. Apart from the shock at the outset we enjoyed every moment. The cable car is over-priced, but it was one of those moments when value for money is not the only consideration. The experience was unique, and I suppose in hyper-capitalist Gibraltar that is going to come at a premium.

West - Gibraltar city and Algerciras

East towards the Costa del Sol

South - the mountains of Morocco

It was early afternoon by the time we returned to earth. We needed to find somewhere for lunch. There is a lot of places to choose from but most seem to specialise in unimaginative pub-grub. Well we are in little Britain. We were equally unimaginative, ending up at same wine bar as last time - The Vines. The baked potatoes were appetising enough, though we probably should have opted for the tapas menu written up on a board. We only spotted it after we had ordered. 

The most memorable thing about the meal was the conversation we had with a young couple at the next table. "We have come to Gibraltar because this is our first birthday," the man explained. He meant 'anniversary' but we got the gist. He was from Malaga, she from St. Petersburg. They were great to talk to, open minded, affable and unprejudiced. As our generation of world leaders gathers for the G20 in Argentina, intent collectively in spreading chaos and destruction around the globe, the only thing that cheers me up and gives me hope is when I talk to younger people. The company of the young is the thing I miss most since leaving work.

It was now mid afternoon, a bit too early to head back to the van. Gill consulted Google maps and found a Botanical garden nearby. Gibraltar is tiny, only six square kilometres in all, consequently it is densely populated, the streets are narrow and the traffic hectic. The Botanical Gardens provide a small oasis of peace and tranquillity, not that people seem to want it, we more or less had them to ourselves. After admiring the tropical plants, remarking on the mix of the familiar and exotic bird life - blackbirds and parakeets, we paused at a small monument to a chap called 'Eliot'.

The botanical gardens

'Eliot'

Somewhere in the back of my mind Eliot and Gibraltar were connected. Then it came to me, not from some distant memory of 'A' level History, but from a more unusual source - a folk song. I went through a phase in my late 20s and 30s of being interested in English folk song. One of the album's I particularly liked was 'Frost and Fire's a collection of ritual songs performed acapella by The Watersons. The Earsdon Sword Dance song was collected in the North East of England and contains an odd mixture of primitive ritual in the form of a mummers play with stories of then contemporary events dating from the Napoleonic period - third verse goes like this:

"And now I will tell of brave Eliot, the first youth that enters the ring,
And so proudly rejoice I to tell it: he fought for his country and king.
When the Spaniards besieged Gibraltar, 'twas Eliot defended the place;
And he soon caused their plans for to alter, some died, others fell in disgrace."

In the Botanical Gardens Eliot was the hero of the great siege of Gibraltar, memorialised in stone, but also in song by miners from Northumberland. For some reason these little quirks of history delight me 

In fact sometimes days just arrange themselves to be delightful. We wondered if there was a bus from the gardens back to the border. We had barely uttered the words when we happened upon a bus stop for the no. 10, and a bus drew up as we approached. It was almost too good to be true. It was slow going, Gibraltar's schools were coming out, the streets filled with kids big and small all in smart uniforms. We passed a mixed middle school, but with the older teenagers, boys and girls had different uniforms, so maybe the secondary schools are segregated; that really would be stepping back in time. The place does feel like that, socially a throwback to the 70s and 80s, but economically very advanced. There is an irony in all of this. In the referendum Gibraltar voted overwhelmingly to remain - 92%, if I recall correctly. Yet the apparent mix of social conservatism combined with a vibrant globalised economy is exactly the Brexiteer vision for the UK pedalled by Johnson and Farage. It is a funny old world.

Not a Square, not a battle..

Trafalgar is a place. A sandy promontory a few miles west of the Straights of Gibraltar. It's quite remote, a little off the beaten track. The tall lighthouse gives the place some gravitas; the low dunes and acres of soft sand in themselves are unspectacular, empty and a tad soulful. However, like many quiet coasts the emptiness showcases magnificent cloudscapes and the mind numbing expanse of the ocean.

Why do crusties gather on promontories?' Gill queried. There is no doubt about it, the far flung headlands of Iberia's Atlantic fringe do seem to attract lanky guys sporting dreadlocks, garbed in washed-out tees and khaki cargo shorts, accompanied, more often than not, by women-folk of equally svelte build wafting about in baggy pants and organic cotton tops of questionable tribal origin. 

Most seem to hale from Germany. Their preferred mode of transport has scaled-up from the VW camper of yore, now big old Mercedes van self builds are preferred; Mud-caked dull blue or sludgy green liveries have replaced jolly graffiti daubed 'hippy vans'. The message seems to be, we are not latter day flower-children, Epicurean and self-absorbed, we are eco-warriors who wander these remote shores with the sole purpose of reversing climate change through kite surfing. I wish them luck.

They are enough of a presence hereabouts to have become a target market. The campsite shop is a Coviran franchise. Situated at the entrance it also serves local villas, hostels and the informal beach car parking at Trafalgar. Most of the more alternative travellers prefer to wild camp, though even out of season you can spot one or two of the aforementioned ancient Mercedes self builds on site. The owners of these are a little older - mid to late thirties perhaps - often with toddlers in tow. 

That they form a ubiquitous presence is reflected in the supermarket's stock. No salted peanuts at the checkout here. Instead the widest and most expensive selection of unsalted nuts, seeds and dried fruits I have ever seen, each in a little cellophane packet with a cute brownish label containing the word 'eco'. The shop also offers an astonishing range of pulses - ordinary lentils, haricot beans and chickpeas on sale at €1.20 per 250g, then on the next shelf down a special 'bio' range costing twice as much with more heartfelt, stylish labels. 

This is not a one-off phenomenon, we have noted lifestyle merchandising at other campsite shops, most notably at Altea, near Benidorm. No organic pulses there, but an entire aisle stocked with such delicacies as Marmite, Hobnobs, HP Sauce, PG Tips and Cathedral City extra strong mature cheddar. Latter-day tribes have may markings as distinctive as our woad-daubed forebears but nothing quite belies our allegiances as the contents of a supermarket trolley, more telling than where hale from, our accent, how much we earn or what we wear.

However, none of this explains Gill's observation - why do crusties gather on promontories? My initial response was unfair, fatuous and entirely fanciful in equal measure - 'because that is where ley-lines converge,' I ventured. We considered more practical explanations, firstly geographical: nearby beaches offer good opportunities for watersports, and judging by the boards, paddles and sundry kite-surfing paraphernalia strapped to their vehicles our resident crusties were all devotees. 

However, I don't think they gather hereabouts for entirely practical reasons. People have regarded headlands as sacred places for millennia. There is something soulful and uplifting about the ragged ends of the earth. It is easy to find the accoutrement's of an alternative lifestyle inadvertently funny, but most adherents are young. Surely their naive idealism is preferably to a grey-haired world-weary cynicism? As a place to find solace and temporary escape from rampant materialism and a space and time to think a bit about the meaning of life, a remote headland is a good place of retreat. Unlike a mountain top it had the distinct advantage that you can drive there and requires little stamina - effortless spirituality!

So even if my days of body boarding are behind me and our vegetarian diet did not last beyond the Sarah Brown cookbook era and the arrival of children, nevertheless I do still empathise with the aspirations of our on-site eco-warriors. I too love these wild headlands, perhaps for similar reasons. I wrote a poem about them, the first part dating the early 1980s, the latter sections completed more than three decades later, partly reflecting back to my adolescent self. It records a lifetime of being a headland aficionado. So in answer to Gill's question -I don't know why crusties are drawn to promontories, but I do know why I am.

Headlands, Alan Wickes

The pig in a small patch of paradise.

The pig is one on the right.

We have really good memories of Camping Pinar from our stay here in March 2015. It's a pretty site on a quiet part of Costa del Luz between Conil de la Frontera and Barbate, a couple of kilometres from Capo de Trafalgar.

Whereas Portugal has miles of empty, undeveloped coastline, outside of Cantabria and Gallicia in the north, much of Spain's seaside is highly populated and somewhat overdeveloped. The Costa del Luz is quieter than many and most developments are low key. The tangle of lanes between the campsite and beach wend their way past single storey white villas hidden behind stuccoed walls draped with bougainvillea. It reminded me of Greece.

The beach itself is beautiful, a strip of yellow sand backed by beach bars beneath the palm trees. It looks sub-tropical, which is not such a surprise, the grey smudge of land on the horizon beyond Trafalgar lighthouse is the coast to the west of Tangier. It really is the end of Europe here.

The campsite itself has big natural pitches in a forest of umbrella pines. The woodland stretches beyond the perimeter fence. The land is used by the stables next door, occasionally white horses wander through; the effect is magical. The late afternoon sun slanted through the trees, horses glided through the dappled light, it was one of those moments when the mundane mysteriously conspires to become profoundly beautiful.

What pushes the place from simply enchanting towards the uncanny is the presence of a very congenial pig. The beast has worked out that the campers on the other side of the fence offer a ready supply of snacks. Miss Piggy trundles by snuffling along, if presented with a morsel of two through the mesh she rewards you by wagging her tail furiously like an over-excited pooch.

I remembered my porcine friend from last time. When she turned up by the van again today I was inexplicably delighted. Though the black Iberian sow did look identical to the beast from three years ago, I am not so sentimental to believe it was. I suspect my former piggy acquaintance has gone on to meet her destiny, rewarding her human admirers by becoming jamon Iberica. As Gill remarked, 'whatever happens she will be cured'.

Having said hello to the pig, admired the beautiful horses, watched big silver waves crash onto the beach, observed distant clouds drift across the coast of Africa, cycled back to the van though an alley of bougainvillea draped walls, photographed badly the yellow evening light glimmering through pines, then watched the full moon slowly ascend above them, I was prompted to remark, 'it's a small patch of paradise here.'

So we had a conversation about paradise, how we imagine it in our own image, a celestial city, the garden of Eden, or in my case, a forest of umbrella pines, home to an affiliative pig. Surely one of humanity's greatest feats of reverse logic is the notion that we are made in God's image, when the opposite is the case, we have created the gods in our own.

As night fell I reflected on my patch of paradise. Though its constituent elements were natural much of it in fact was a product of human invention - the umbrella pines had been planted, the pig and the horses bred for human use, fenced in for our convenience, the bougainvillea adapted to our taste, draped for our delight across constructed walls. Though we are a couple of kilometres from the beach, it's quiet enough to hear the sea, the ocean at least remains wild, even if it is full of our plastic. I wonder if humans do ever a truly experience the wild, that really it goes on behind our back. Simply perceiving the wild tames it, culture domesticates it, and language enmeshes it in meaning.