Palm tree Med, Umbrella Pine Med

Over the years we have travelled almost the entire length of Europe's Mediterranean coastline. The only places which remain unvisited are some bits of the Adriatic and the northernmost stretch of the Aegean sea. It has gifted us rich and varied experiences, we have discovered there are many 'Mediterraneans' though we still tend to refer to the place as if it were one thing - we need to "head for the Med' is our mantra on grey cold days at home, as if the south was never grey or cold. So for me the place, or at least the idea of it, is a kind of safe haven, a hideaway from life's difficulties; a 'blue Med day' is my achievable personal utopia, and yesterday was just one of those perfect days we dream about back home.

Though there are many Mediterraneans it does have two distinct looks, which I suppose must reflect different climatic conditions. In patches, south of the 38° parallel, the place takes on a distinctly North African look, an arid, dusty landscape with clumps of palm trees and boxy whitewashed pueblos.

Elsewhere it is greener; umbrella pines predominate, a classic blue Med scene of azure seas, red rocks and dramatic cypresses and pines. The Riviera is like this, the Cinque Terra, the Amalfi Coast, Corfu, the Costa Brava and Cezanne. Citrus fruits and exotica like mangoes come from the first landscape, vines and olives predominate in the second.

In Spain, Alicante is a kind of fulcrum. Thirty kilometres to the south of the city the country is still quite desert like. Elche has the biggest collection of palms in Europe, a forest of them. Things change dramatically to the north. A couple of days ago we took a winding road along the coast from Calpe to Moraira. Dominated by the unforgettable outline of Penyal d'Ifac, Calpe is unquestionably a very rocky place. Ten kilometres north as you approach Moraira the narrow road snakes through a forest of Mediterranean pines; you glimpse small rocky coves and the sparkling sea below you; there are swanky looking, minimalist white villas in the forest, hidden behind security gates. You could be driving the corniche between Monaco and Menton. It is an alluring transition, a delight if you are hooked on travel, as we are - hopelessly addicted really.

I posted something the other day titled 'Just because it seems the same doesn't mean it can't be different.' Today proved that the opposite can be true: just because something looks totally different doesn't mean it cannot be the same. On the face of it Calpe and Moraira look utterly different. Calpe is a seriously unattractive place in a stunning location. Penyal d'Ifac is like Gibraltar, a spectacularly shaped rock jutting into the sea. Calpe town at its foot does a good job of ruining the view, a random collection of ugly high-rise hotels interspersed with garish retail sprawl. It's Benidorm's ugly twin that nobody mentions.

Moraira by comparison is quite posh, but in an accessible way, up-market rather than exclusive. It is a small low-rise resort set in pine tree covered hills at the back of a series of coves. It feels relaxed and welcoming. Somewhere around the marina is probably the vestiges of an old fishing village, but in the main the town developed in the latter part of the last century and judging by the amount of estate agents and builders trucks it continues to expand. So although it looks entirely different to Calpe and Benidorm, sociologically and economically it simply another mass tourism venture. It looks understated because unlike its tabloid neighbours which grew upwards, Moraira spread outwards. 

The fact that we like the place, and have returned three times in as many years, may well have as much to do with us occupying an appropriate cultural niche and conforming to demographic expectations, rather than it having anything to do with the place's unique charms. Nevertheless, on this lovely winter's day, under a blue sky, the sea sparkling and the grey silhouette of Penyal d'Ifac across the bay, none of this really matters, it's just nice to be here.

A pleasant 20 minute walk along the foreshore takes you from rom Camping Moraira to the town centre. The place does not really have outstanding monuments, but the rock formations are interesting and the modern sculpture scattered around the promenade manages to avoid being an embarrassment.

Maybe the most unexpected thing about Moraira is it provides a minor footnote in the history of twentieth century American literature as the obscure resting place of Chester Himes.

Himes is a significant figure, a rare example of an African American writer who broke through poverty, imprisonment and racial prejudice to establish himself as a major cultural figure. He spent his later years in Moraira, and died here in 1984, aged 75.

We decided to unload the bikes and ride across to the next bay at El Portet. It really is a picture perfect Mediterranean cove, complete with turquoise water, a stunning view and beachside cafes able to supply the requisite late afternoon drink.

As for the campsite itself, we cannot understand why it is not more popular. Maybe the pine-trees  makes it too shady for winter travellers, or the walk into town puts people off. The place is somewhat quirky, it's woodland setting and Buddha statuettes giving it a bit of a left field 'wellness' ambiance. That's ok. I've written about its remarkable toilet block previously...

Two weeks and we will be back home. Later this morning we are heading for Valencia, one of our favourite cities. I like Moraira too, not all holiday resorts are horrible, I can imagine us returning, but not sometime soon. We need to get back on track with our mission, to boldly go where we have not been before.

Spine

Boris keeps wittering on about dear old Blighty becoming a vassal state of the EU post Brexit. Aside from the thought that this might be preferable to any vision of our futures dreamed up by mop head and Mr. Mogg, really it is quite normal for neighbouring countries to be interdependent, and in some cases for an aspect of one country to become a dominant presence within another. Which brings me to the covert country within Espagna - the land of Spine.

Spine is a series of small vassal states within Spain with sworn allegiance to Essex, not geographically, but culturally, seemingly having been entirely colonised by Towie's fan base.

Surefire signs include:

1. Menu di Dia replaced by all day English Breakfast or beef stew and dumplings with creamy mash.

2. Marmite, Mcvities Chocolate Digestives and Cathedral City cheddar available at the local Coviran.

3. Parked in Calpe Lidl - a white Merc convertible with plates from 'Roneo Prestige Motors, Romford'. 

 4. Area Camper El Campello Beach - completo - rammed with Autotrails/Swifts/Baileys outnumbering Hymers/Cathargos 2:1. 

5. Noonday raucous laughter emanating from a seafront Irish Bar selling two litres of Sangria for a euro,"Oh-my-gaaawd!" screeches the gaggle of 'on it' 'emosh' wepskinis clustered under a parasol.

6. Calpe has a branch of Specsavers....

There is no doubt about it we are ensconced in Spine's heartland, a sliver of territory shadowing Tram Metropolitano De Alicante's lines 1 and 4 running along the coast from the city centre north to Benidorm, Calpe and Denia.

It's not horrible where we are, halfway between Alicante city and El Campello. The beach is stunning. It's no surprise that the tram stop just to the west of us is called Costa Blanca, this is our first truly white sand beach for more than a hundred kilometres, most south of here are distinctly greyish, reflecting eastern Andalucia's volcanic landscape.

It is easy to see why mass tourism flourishes here. The places themselves have been more carefully developed than the sprawl between Malaga and Almeria. The villa complexes and shopping malls inland have the over-designed, manicured look of a new town, a tad soul-less, but pleasant enough.

As for Alicante itself, unlike Spaintree to the north, it is a more cosmopolitan place, an international resort city which still manages to retain some authenticity. The barrio Santa Cruz beneath the walls of Castillo Santa Barbara has not entirely succumbed to AirB&B domination. The upper streets in particular appear to be inhabited by locals, with kids playing football among the pretty flower decked houses 

Further down the hill it is more overtly a tourist trap. Described in our Lonely Planet guide as 'colourful' the sight of people actually queueing to take selfies beside a particularly azure tinted house is inadvertently funny. I presume the spot gets a mention on TripAdvisor.

Still old Spain prevails among the new. As we approached the Plaza Major we could hear drumming. Within the square itself it was deafening. Fifty or so drummers, dressed in different liveries beating out a regular, military sounding rhythm. We presumed the uniforms belonged to the city's various confraternities; perhaps the event presaged the forthcoming carnival week. Whatever the reason the effect was visceral, the air itself pulsated to the beat.

We were on the lookout for a place to have lunch. So many on offer it was difficult to choose. We finally settled on a place that had good reviews, was tucked away on a backstreet, inexpensive and had seats in the sun. We prevaricated a moment too long and lost the last free table. There was nothing for it, we were going to have to pay the tourist rate in the cafes near the central square. 

We studied the menu. Gill fancied prawns in garlic and chilli. The food was ok, our waiter from Istanbul very friendly and the flamenco guitarist across the street really good. It transpired he hailed from Jerez, so the real deal. Alicante is a nice place to be in on a sunny Sunday in February. It feels European, rather than particularly Spanish, and given the circumstances back home that in itself seemed something to cherish.

We wandered towards the harbour. The esplanade is more overtly touristy. The grand architecture and super yachts in the marina reminded me of the Cote d'Azur. It's a bit more tabloid, a string of burger places and Irish Bars line the seafront.

Tourism has other downsides. Within a couple of minutes of sitting down at a bar or café you will be assailed by young guys from West Africa hawking handicrafts. They are not pushy, but a constant annoyance. More upsetting are the local beggars. The able-bodied prostrate themselves in theatrical poses of spiritual devotion hoping to be rewarded with a euro. Sprawled across the kerb of a pedestrian crossing a disabled man begged for change overtly displaying his deformed limbs. It felt uncomfortable and shocking. It only occurs in Spain's tourist hot-spots, it would be unusual to encounter this in an ordinary Spanish town. Somehow it harks back to a vision of Spain as impoverished and socially backward. It is difficult to reconcile it with the news today that the country had overtaken Japan as the world's healthiest country in relation to diet, effective treatment of major diseases and life expectancy.

I am pleased we took the time to visit Alicante rather than simply flying into the airport then heading elsewhere. Nevertheless, it is not among our favourite cities in Spain; I am uncertain we would make the effort to return, there are other more alluring cities, such as Valencia. We are heading there in a couple of days.

Hips don't lie

It was nineish before we rolled out of bed, no real reason, warm under the quilt, chilly in the van, enough to trigger a tardy start. A few bits of cleaning and tidying, a spot of blogging then lunch was calling. Time is a slippery customer. So it was early afternoon by the time we caught the bus back to the city centre. We squeezed on; it was packed with college students, I think they must finish early on a Friday. We alighted at Plaza Espagna. The area where the carnival parade was scheduled to start later was nearby. We spied out Calle Carmen so we knew where to go at 5.30, but that was three hours hence - what to do in-between? 

When we visited the Roman ruins yesterday we could see another unexcavated site, old grassy terracing running up the steep hill beyond the perimeter fence. Today we happened upon the entrance to it tucked away in a backstreet.

The Parque Arqueológico Cerro del Molinete is arguably the most intriguing place in the city. The steep conical hill is the site of the old Punic citadel, a small stretch of original wall can be found at the top, as well as remnants of the Roman fort which replaced it. The hill is topped by a stubby stone tower, the remains of one of the windmills that covered the hill in the nineteenth century and gives the area its name. Next to this is the outline of a Roman temple and the steep steps that connected it to the forum below.

The terracing at on the west side of the hill originally consisted of two storey Roman dwellings which remained inhabited up until the 1970s. By then the area consisted of tumbled-down hovels built on ancient foundations. The district was notorious for petty crime and prostitution. The authorities demolished the slum, excavated the ruins and established a prettily landscaped archaeological park which looks decidedly Italianate with dark cypresses silhouetted against the blue sky.

Cerro del Molinete is a great place to get a feel for the whole city which spreads out before you. It is fair to say that Cartagena is characterful rather than handsome. 

When Auden writes in 'Plains':

I can imagine quite easily ending up
In a decaying port on a desolate coast
Cadging drinks from the unwary, a quarrelsome,
Disreputable old man...

in my mind I think of a place like Cartagena, or at least how it might have been a few decades ago. From above it still looks a tad decrepit and some of the inner suburbs you pass by on the bus look poverty stricken - long streets of boxy single storey houses with peeling stucco half covered in graffiti.

The city centre has been spruced up. There are some major Modernista monuments, the city hall, a clutch of former banks and venerable hotels. Not every gem has been preserved, a few beautiful old buildings are half collapsed

This is equally the case so far as the city's Art Deco legacy goes, some buildings have been restored, others, such as an old cinema are boarded up and derelict.

Recent years have seen iconic post modern buildings spring up by the port - the Museum of Underwater Archaeology and the performance space next to it.

The Spanish are not shy about mixing old with new. I don't think they have the same sensitivities concerning the 'concrete carbuncle'. It leads to some startling juxtapositions, at least to an English eye.

We had been wandering about the city now for over two hours.The streets were becoming chilly in the late afternoon shade and we were footsore. We searched around for a café with a sunny spot and found one eventually in Plaza Alcolea, not far from the Carnival muster point. 

We lingered over our drinks, as the hour grew nearer gaggles of exotically costumed participants wandered past. Groups of them gathered at the top of Calle Carmen. Those robed more in body stockings than Lycra had been given long capes to protect them from hypothermia, huge feathery headgear  scattered around them like collapsed birds of paradise. Excitement was building.

We installed ourselves in another café and awaited the parade. A series of ground shaking explosions signalled the start, then high decibel Samba rhythms filled the streets blasted from the clutch of horn shaped loudspeakers strapped to the top of vans at the head, middle and rear of the dancing troupes. At the head, garbed in silver, the carnival king and queen led the way.

Forget the slim dancing girls of Rio. This was an event for everyone regardless of size, gender, age or inclination. I suspect as carnival week proceeds things get a little more abandoned, but the opening parade was joyous rather than wild, an 'hors d'oeuvre' to the forthcoming feast.

Next time we are in Spain in the spring we will arrange it so we can see more of its carnivals, we agreed. Cartagena's small opening parade had given us a taste for them and provided a memorable ending to our visit. We liked Cartagena, it is a unique place, with character, energy and a long eventful history.