Indeed we do know the way to San José, at least the one in Andalucia; right now we were headed there for the third time. Sadly, every time I see the place on the map or a road sign I am immediately assailed by a Dionne Warwick earworm, not just snippets of the eponymous Burt Bacharach cover from 1968, but clips of the inane film that accompanied it on Top of the Pops. It featured a donkey I seem to recall. Life is not fair, why am I so afflicted?
There were no donkeys to be seen whatsoever when we arrived in San José, but many French expats. In fact we heard more French spoken than Spanish. We had returned to visit one the restaurants by the small harbour which we had noted last time as a promising lunch spot
It did not work out. Some of the places were closed, one that was open had terrible reviews on-line, Spanish customers particularly asserting that they had been served frozen fish - a cardinal culinary sin. Another restaurant, based in the yacht club - 3 Nudos - had great reviews and it was open. It was a bit swanky looking though and I was attired in my beach bum best. Also it did not seem to do tapas, we would have to go for a full lunch, and that was not what we wanted.
In the end we found a place in the town itself called 'The Octopus'. It was ok, we went for the veggie option rather than fish. Expensive for what it was, the service somewhat off-hand. Not great, style over substance.
In fact we were not quite so enamoured with San Jose as we were the last time we visited. It is a pretty whitewashed town with a great beach. Out of season, during the week it was more or less closed up. It felt soul-less.
From here it was only a matter of a few kilometres to our final destination of Los Escullos, but we were running low on supplies and needed a supermarket. Within the national park itself there are a few local stores but nothing suitable to restock in preparation for being a few days in the 'boonies' as my American friends say. So there was no alternative but to make the 50km round trip to Campohermoso's Mercadona.
Finally we approached Los Escullos's wide saucer shaped valley. It looked very exotic, dotted with white fincas in palm groves, the deep blue sea to the south, high volcanic peaks in every other direction.
It is one of our favourite spots in Spain - perhaps in the whole of Europe. A remote, but well equipped campsite close to a famous 'geopark' coast, beautiful walks through ancient caldera, bike rides along the coast to white villages clinging to the cliffs - Greece in Spain. That's what we planned and it's exactly what we did
It is one of our favourite spots in Spain - perhaps in the whole of Europe. A remote, but well equipped campsite close to a famous 'geopark' coast, beautiful walks through ancient caldera, bike rides along the coast to white villages clinging to the cliffs - Greece in Spain. That's what we planned and it's exactly what we did
Camping Los Escullos
There is a lot to like about camping Los Escullos. The location is very beautiful and though it feels remote the facilities are good, the staff helpful and the site itself a green oasis in desert surroundings.
Of course nowhere is perfect. Manoeuvring onto pitches requires skill as many are parallel to the roads and have metal support posts for the netted green sunshades. My parallel parking skills with the moho are a tad approximate but my attempt gave Gill an unexpected upper body aerobic workout and provided free entertainment for nearby bored looking long-stay campers.
One more word on the green mesh sunshades - they produce a certain submarine greenish glow through the roof lights. It prompted me to take a photo of when I tried to dip my toe in the sky, which is not something you get the opportunity to do very often.
Odd stuff happens in campsites in a way that does not happen if you stay in hotels. This time Los Escullos provided us with unusual moments of impromptu musical entertainment. The couple two pitches down in the caravan draped with a large Welsh dragon decided to run through their repertoire of popular hits of the 1960s, accompanying themselves on a ukulele and what I presume was an acoustic bass guitar. It went on for what seemed hours, I can't remember the whole set-list but recall 'Sunny Afternoon' and 'Eight Days a Week' as particular low points. In terms of style, they had taken Mark Knopflers's phrase in 'Sultan's of Swing' - 'strictly rhythm' and 'knowing all the chords'- to an extreme. It was a remarkable performance proving that being note perfect, knowing all the words, being in time and tune does not guarantee any sense of musicality whatsoever.
Weekends bring a broader group of people here - younger couples in campers heading off into hills to go hiking, families bringing their kids for a weekend in the outdoors, groups of millienials here to party a bit. The place perks up from its weekday over sixties torpor.
Cue musical interlude number two. I headed off to the sanitary block and to my surprise found it pulsing with loud rock music - seemingly a Spanish take on REM heartfelt stadium style rock. It was while I was enthroned in 'lone splendour' in my cubicle that I realised what was happening. Two Spanish guys had purloined the larger disabled cubicle next to me and installed themselves in it with a powerful Karaoke machine, presumably to benefit from the toilet block's superior acoustics. They were very good, especially at close harmony singing. Perhaps I should have introduced Mr. and Mrs. Ukulele to them.
Two random musical moments you can put down to co-incidence, three and there has to be some kind of conspiracy. Next day, same toilet block at the urinals - I am joined by a stocky fellow with a grey ponytail. Standing there he bursts into song, a vaguely Celtic sounding soulful melody, complete with twiddly bits and slow descending cadences. I did not recognise the language, it sounded slightly Portuguese, Galego maybe? To complete the folksy image the singer should have had one hand clasped over his lefty ear adopting a 'Ewan McColl pose'. Of course under these particular circumstances that was not really an option.
Even the building itself had musical aspirations. Gill and I had presumed that the long evocative notes forming a somewhat random melody in a minor key that drifted occasionally across the site emanated from one of the many German vans.. If a couple from Cardiff had brought their ukulele, then it was perfectly possible that Herren from Fussen had brought an alpenhorm. This possibility seemed even more likely since on our first morning we had been awoken by the sound of a jolly accordion tune and much lusty singing from a nearby pitch on the next row. We presumed that this was some sort of birthday celebration aimed at the Gerrman occupants, a surprise from their compatriots. It definitely sounded like a lederhosen at dawn gathering; we did not get up to check, but pulled the quilt over our heads and groaned quietly. Sadly my final visit to the sanitary block put the kibosh our alpenhorn theory, mid shower the plumbing began to sing to me, a haunting bassoon-like solo. The pipes had an air-lock. If you like music why go to Glastonbury, visit Los Escullos the line-up is considerably more eclectic and the weather much better. - and the national park is stunning if you can bear to tear yourself away from the on-site entertainment.
There is a lot to like about camping Los Escullos. The location is very beautiful and though it feels remote the facilities are good, the staff helpful and the site itself a green oasis in desert surroundings.
Of course nowhere is perfect. Manoeuvring onto pitches requires skill as many are parallel to the roads and have metal support posts for the netted green sunshades. My parallel parking skills with the moho are a tad approximate but my attempt gave Gill an unexpected upper body aerobic workout and provided free entertainment for nearby bored looking long-stay campers.
One more word on the green mesh sunshades - they produce a certain submarine greenish glow through the roof lights. It prompted me to take a photo of when I tried to dip my toe in the sky, which is not something you get the opportunity to do very often.
Odd stuff happens in campsites in a way that does not happen if you stay in hotels. This time Los Escullos provided us with unusual moments of impromptu musical entertainment. The couple two pitches down in the caravan draped with a large Welsh dragon decided to run through their repertoire of popular hits of the 1960s, accompanying themselves on a ukulele and what I presume was an acoustic bass guitar. It went on for what seemed hours, I can't remember the whole set-list but recall 'Sunny Afternoon' and 'Eight Days a Week' as particular low points. In terms of style, they had taken Mark Knopflers's phrase in 'Sultan's of Swing' - 'strictly rhythm' and 'knowing all the chords'- to an extreme. It was a remarkable performance proving that being note perfect, knowing all the words, being in time and tune does not guarantee any sense of musicality whatsoever.
Weekends bring a broader group of people here - younger couples in campers heading off into hills to go hiking, families bringing their kids for a weekend in the outdoors, groups of millienials here to party a bit. The place perks up from its weekday over sixties torpor.
Cue musical interlude number two. I headed off to the sanitary block and to my surprise found it pulsing with loud rock music - seemingly a Spanish take on REM heartfelt stadium style rock. It was while I was enthroned in 'lone splendour' in my cubicle that I realised what was happening. Two Spanish guys had purloined the larger disabled cubicle next to me and installed themselves in it with a powerful Karaoke machine, presumably to benefit from the toilet block's superior acoustics. They were very good, especially at close harmony singing. Perhaps I should have introduced Mr. and Mrs. Ukulele to them.
Two random musical moments you can put down to co-incidence, three and there has to be some kind of conspiracy. Next day, same toilet block at the urinals - I am joined by a stocky fellow with a grey ponytail. Standing there he bursts into song, a vaguely Celtic sounding soulful melody, complete with twiddly bits and slow descending cadences. I did not recognise the language, it sounded slightly Portuguese, Galego maybe? To complete the folksy image the singer should have had one hand clasped over his lefty ear adopting a 'Ewan McColl pose'. Of course under these particular circumstances that was not really an option.
Even the building itself had musical aspirations. Gill and I had presumed that the long evocative notes forming a somewhat random melody in a minor key that drifted occasionally across the site emanated from one of the many German vans.. If a couple from Cardiff had brought their ukulele, then it was perfectly possible that Herren from Fussen had brought an alpenhorm. This possibility seemed even more likely since on our first morning we had been awoken by the sound of a jolly accordion tune and much lusty singing from a nearby pitch on the next row. We presumed that this was some sort of birthday celebration aimed at the Gerrman occupants, a surprise from their compatriots. It definitely sounded like a lederhosen at dawn gathering; we did not get up to check, but pulled the quilt over our heads and groaned quietly. Sadly my final visit to the sanitary block put the kibosh our alpenhorn theory, mid shower the plumbing began to sing to me, a haunting bassoon-like solo. The pipes had an air-lock. If you like music why go to Glastonbury, visit Los Escullos the line-up is considerably more eclectic and the weather much better. - and the national park is stunning if you can bear to tear yourself away from the on-site entertainment.
Duna Fósil de Los Escullos
The campsite is about two kilometres from the seaside. The beach is a shingle and decidedly grey due the volcanic nature of the area. However its the rocks that the place is famous for, part volcanic part oolitic fossilised dunes sculpted by the wind. The place is designated as a 'geopark', which I guess must be the Spanish equivalent to a site of special scientific interest in the UK.
The light was stunning today, the contrast between the cream coloured oolitic dunes and the inky blue sea was scarcely believable. The photos here are unadjusted, no fidlding with the contrast or whacking-up the saturation, this is how it looked.
I wondered which came first, the volcanic rocks or the oolitic dunes. After a bit of Googling I learned that oolitic rocks form in shallow warm seas, perhaps when the Mediterranean had its 'salinity crisis' I surmised, in which case the rocks themselves are about half the age of the volcanic parts of the landscape. Their sculpted forms are more recent again, perhaps 100,000 years old, mere infants in terms of geological time.
It's a thought provoking place to wander around. I loved the way the prevailing current in the cove had gathered the pebbles into a neat bank in the middle of the bay. Beautiful too the mixture of pale oolitic 'eggs' and liverish red volcanic pebbles, how the smallest elements on the shore reflected the story of the big events that had shaped the entire landscape. Gill down there pebble hunting, figuring the place out from first principles. Great landscapes give you strength I think and provide solace, because they are bigger than us, they were here before we were and will prevail long after we have gone.
The campsite is about two kilometres from the seaside. The beach is a shingle and decidedly grey due the volcanic nature of the area. However its the rocks that the place is famous for, part volcanic part oolitic fossilised dunes sculpted by the wind. The place is designated as a 'geopark', which I guess must be the Spanish equivalent to a site of special scientific interest in the UK.
The light was stunning today, the contrast between the cream coloured oolitic dunes and the inky blue sea was scarcely believable. The photos here are unadjusted, no fidlding with the contrast or whacking-up the saturation, this is how it looked.
I wondered which came first, the volcanic rocks or the oolitic dunes. After a bit of Googling I learned that oolitic rocks form in shallow warm seas, perhaps when the Mediterranean had its 'salinity crisis' I surmised, in which case the rocks themselves are about half the age of the volcanic parts of the landscape. Their sculpted forms are more recent again, perhaps 100,000 years old, mere infants in terms of geological time.
I wrote a poem about pebbles a while back, nicking the title from an Ian Fleming short story for some reason. It's about a stony beach near Portoferraio on Elba. However, the way the red volcanic rocks at Los Escullos turn the clear sea 'wine-dark' as Homer puts it, make the piece even more applicable here.
Quantum of Solace
Remember - small is beautiful:
take these tiny, pearl-white pebbles,
chance encounters, quarks and gluons,
think on how they came to be here.
Take these tiny, pearl-white pebbles
borne within the wine dark sea,
think on how they came to be. Here,
lost amongst a billion others
borne within the wine dark sea,
spewed from some Triassic cauldron,
scrunched against a billion others
tossed through time’s relentless torrent.
Spewed from some Triassic cauldron,
chance encounters, quarks and gluons
tossed through time’s relentless torrent
remember small is beautiful.
La Isleta del Moro
La Isleta del Moro is a small fishing village about three kilometres from Los Escullos. It should be an easy bike ride, but for some reason whenever we have visited there has been a blustery head wind whipping in from the east inhibiting our progress. The place is a few hundred metres off the road, tucked behind a low promontory, a bit of a sun trap sheltered from the breeze.
It really does look as if someone has towed a chunk of the Peloponnese from the other end of the Med and plonked it in Andalucia. Amazingly, it remains a fishing village primarily though I am sure a fair few of the cute white cottages must feature on AirB&B. As if to prove the point, while we were there a small truck with a big fridge on the back parked on the stubby jetty waiting the arrival of today's catch.
I am not at all sure what the nearby wooden shed contained - whatever it was I commend the sentiments, we do need to clean the oceans, show Mare Nostrum some respect and remember it is not really our sea at all.
Caldera volcánica Majada redonda
It really does look as if someone has towed a chunk of the Peloponnese from the other end of the Med and plonked it in Andalucia. Amazingly, it remains a fishing village primarily though I am sure a fair few of the cute white cottages must feature on AirB&B. As if to prove the point, while we were there a small truck with a big fridge on the back parked on the stubby jetty waiting the arrival of today's catch.
I am not at all sure what the nearby wooden shed contained - whatever it was I commend the sentiments, we do need to clean the oceans, show Mare Nostrum some respect and remember it is not really our sea at all.
Caldera volcánica Majada redonda
Again, a few minutes from Los Escullos campsite up the minor road that leads to the pretty hamlet of Presillas Bajas there is a waymarked track that takes you through an ancient caldera
You might think the place would be barren and devoid of life. Quite the opposite, the high cliffs of the old crater rim protect the floor of the old volcano creating a micro-climate. The rich volcanic soils make it a haven for all kinds of succulents and cacti. It looks like a garden. Old terracing show that in times past it was inhabited. We wondered how this could be in such an arid climate. Then we came across a fenced-off well shaft. There must be springs, which may explain the abundant plant life. The previous inhabitants planted almond trees, right now they were all bursting into blossom and full of buzzing bees.
Like the geopark at the beach there were plenty of interesting looking rocks to delight Gill. The mix of igneous with sulphurous intrusions were the thing she informed me - that would be the white ones among the reddish ones I gathered. I liked the bright orange lichen, though I do realise this is not very geological - but I am sure lichen have their enthusiasts. I bet as a life form they are far older than these ten million year old rocks.
One thing is for certain, we will come back here one day. I am sure I said this two years ago, but it bears repeating, as a prop to sanity in these days of political tragicomedy. From Buxton, if you set off on a Monday you could be here by Friday, if you took the Portsmouth to Bilbao ferry and drove like the clappers. Yes, it would cost bomb, but what price sanity?
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