Camping Bungalow Cabo de Gata... sitting here surveying the shining gables of the nearby stadium sized tomato factory, observing all around us neatly squared-off chequerboard 'parcelos', each containing at least one fat old white person sprawled on a chair in the sunshine, so comatose that it occurs to you that if nobody twitches in the next half hour there may no point summoning an ambulance - instead sending a text to the local undertaker to enquire if he does discounts for a job lot may be the better option; looking about at the half dead spindly trees failing to provide shade, the rows of tall palms planted with such robotic accuracy that any aspiration that the poor things ever had towards grandeur or stateliness is entirely nullified; overwhelmed by the dazzling dreariness of the moribund scene you ask yourself, "Why did we come here?" Then remember we needed a laundry.
In all honesty we should could have anticipated some of this. Though the overall score for Camping and Bungalows Cabo de Gata on Google reviews is a middling 3.8, the reviews themselves veer between extremes.
Steve
★★★★★ 8 months ago Depressing as someone said before. Mr Happy on reception really fired us up when we arrived (I think not) this place is in the middle of a desert bang next to the biggest courgette and tomato plantation you'll ever see. The beach is 2 Km walk (not 1) along a dirt road, and when you get there it is pebbles and grey grit. Site facilities Ok. No motor home service point. To fill up with water had to back onto one of the services pitches to fill with water. But my advice, don't bother. (And my wife who's just reviewed this said, "that's quite polite given what you said st the time"
Dawn★★★★★ a year ago Lots of space. Dog friendly. Excellent walking straight from the site and beyond. Lovely friendly and accommodating restaurant staff. Washing machines and dog washing area. Amazing location.
Boldero★★★★★ 9 months agoI can't quite put my finger on what's wrong with this campsite, it just seemed almost a little bit depressing, (the supermarket was great and the lady in there a real joy to meet) But there is something not quite right about this place and I wish I could pinpoint what it is, but I really can't. One night was enough for me.
The the problem is none of these apparently contradictory statements is actually inaccurate, they all contain a grain of truth. if you want a place with a bit of atmosphere and a friendly welcome then you will give it a low score; if good facilities and an an easy car drive to interesting places is what you are looking for then it will be a thumbs up.
The bit about 'Mr Happy' is spot on. The manager is spectacularly miserable and unhelpful. The place is disorganised too. When Gill booked us in we were allocated pitch 71. There was a Dutch van already settled in it when we arrived there. No problem pitches 80 and 81 opposite were free so we installed ourselves in number 80. After twenty minutes or so we wandered back to reception to tell the manager what we had done and to enquire why the EHU wasn't working. Mr Happy frowned, 'I have just given away number 80 on the telephone you must move right now!'
The pitch next door, number 81, is free,' I explained. 'Can't you give the new people that one, and then tell them you changed their pitch when they arrive?'
Once again Mr Happy frowned, 'I have just given away number 80 on the telephone you must move right now. The computer will find a new pitch,' he intoned. Turning slowly towards the screen, he advised, 'Number 81 is available. It is beside you.'
I don't think Mr. Happy is innately miserable, I just don't think he's a human, but a rare survival of a 1980s Sinclair industries experimental robot. As such we should feel sympathy not annoyance. It must be a miserable existence navigate life's conundrums with a CPU smaller than a pocket calculator and be doomed forever to trundle along the dusty roads of the Almerian desert on an ageing C5.
We were part way through moving pitch when the new tenants of number 80 arrived. I had moved the van but our stuff - ground sheet, tables, chairs, e-bikes - remained on the original pitch. It was another British moho. Gill wandered across and explained the mix-up. 'Oh take your time,' the driver said, waiving his hand airily, then proceeding to sit bolt upright in the cab, fingers thrumming the steering wheel, body language communicating the exact opposite. Oh well, patience is an uncommon virtue in the ageing British male; I do know this.
Gill's notes about the place are spot on. Whereas our minor pitch glitch prompted a blog-rant from me, her summary in her notebook sticks to the facts, is balanced and succinct, qualities I may espouse, but rarely achieve.
"Camping soul-less, pitch mix-up, NL on pitch, ours given to Brit van. Did washing."
Because we don't usually use tumble dryers a laundry stop tends to take two days:
Day one: wander back and forth to the washing machines waiting for one to become available, get load in just before dusk.
Day two: dry clothes, consulting weather forecasts at regular intervals to check for impending showers even in wall to wall blue sky conditions.
So, day two, we hung out the washing, then escaped the Clive Sinclair memorial campsite scooting off on our e-bikes to explore the delights of the surroundings. Camping Cabo de Gata is named after the national park in which it is situated. The park protects two unique landscapes: firstly, a range of bare, mineral rich volcanic mountains that stretch from Nijar to the sea; secondly, a flat area of desert and salt marsh southeast of the mountains with large lagoons famous for bird life, noteably flamingos. The campsite is in the latter area. Controls on development in the salt marsh area seem less stringent, the desert is dotted with plasticulture, though not on the same scale as to the south of Almeria. There is also a bit of light industry too; we passed a Michelin research laboratory on the way to the campsite.
Dusty un-metalled tracks criss-cross the desert. We took the one to the coast running past the big greenhouse next to the site. Eventually after a couple of kilometres we arrived at the outskirts of the nearest village, also called Cabo de Gata.
It's a somewhat strange settlement. At some point in the 1980s Spain changed tack so far as tourism was concerned, constructing fewer big sea front concrete monsters and investing in villa and apartment developments instead. One variant of this approach was the 'holiday village' - low-rise, styled to be more in keeping with the local vernacular architecture and built on a relatively modest scale. Ultimately I suppose the concept is derived from places like Port Grimaud near St Tropez, but shifted down market for mass appeal.
Anyway, Cabo de Gata village had all the hallmarks of such a development. On this particular Monday in February it was almost completely deserted, resembling a disused film set or a town recently struck by a major novochok attack.
Pedalling around the deserted streets felt eerie. We had noted a couple of small supermarkets marked on Google maps. Tracking them down proved tricky, the grid-like streets all looked the same. Finally we happened upon one of them on the edge of town, it looked ramshackle and a bit scruffy. We decided to head back to the campsite taking a different route. Our journey to get here along the rough track passed by a series of run-down smallholdings, each guarded by a loud, slavering pooch. We needed an alternative route back. As we headed towards the turn-off we passed a dozen or so motorhomes parked on a piece of waste ground near the beach. Our campsite may be a bit odd, but deciding to overnight here in Zombieville seemed even stranger - free, but weird.
The new route soon petered out into another dusty track. There were lots of tyre tracks in the sand so it appeared to be used regularly. It also doubled as an informal dump, a pile of builders rubble here, the inevitable old mattress there, a burned out car. We could see some buildings in the distance, the hamlet of Pujaire we presumed. It least we seemed to be on the right track.
We descended into a shallow gully, rounded a bend, and rode towards two local men, each holding a bike, having a chat. 'Hola' they shouted as we passed. I returned the greeting with a nod, noting that the smaller of the two boasted an enormous bandage on his nose. It was a moment of magic realism - the garish desert light, the scrubby bushes, the zombie village, the burned-out car, the man with the bandaged nose - it was one of those moments when reality assumed a cinematic intensity, when you feel like a spectator not a participant. The film though was not much good, some kind of New Wave B movie made on a shoestring budget.
We descended into a shallow gully, rounded a bend, and rode towards two local men, each holding a bike, having a chat. 'Hola' they shouted as we passed. I returned the greeting with a nod, noting that the smaller of the two boasted an enormous bandage on his nose. It was a moment of magic realism - the garish desert light, the scrubby bushes, the zombie village, the burned-out car, the man with the bandaged nose - it was one of those moments when reality assumed a cinematic intensity, when you feel like a spectator not a participant. The film though was not much good, some kind of New Wave B movie made on a shoestring budget.
Time to move on. Tomorrow we are heading into the more spectacular, volcanic area of the park. Maybe normality may return. The last couple of days have been decidedly odd.
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