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.
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