The A92 motorway from Granada to Almeria has to be one of the most spectacular in Western Europe. As we drove eastwards the Sierra Nevada massif formed a glistening snowy wall to the right, while opposite, the Sierra de Bazar remained rocky and bare apart from a dusting of snow on the highest peaks.
The road crosses the valley floor. On the map it looks like a featureless plateau; the reality is more interesting. Around Guadix the route snakes through some low, but spectacularly formed hills, their soft clay rocks eroded into natural sculptures. The town is noted for troglodyte dwellings, you pass a few in the cliffs by the side of the motorway.
Beyond here the landscape does flattens out. We have driven this way before in autumn. At that time of year, after a dry, hot summer, the plains look empty and arid. In fact they are quite productive, a little greener in winter and now, in early February, dotted with almond orchards -patches of white blossom abound.
Sunshine is harvested too in extensive solar farms, some must be kilometre or more square. Also it seems every hillock is topped by a big wind turbine and the long low escarpments lined with them - making this emptiness lucrative while contributing to CO² reduction. The fens could be similarly utilised; we'd never do it because it would spoil the view and upset the bats.
After driving for an hour so the road splits, one route continuing eastwards towards Murcia, while the motorway heads south to Almeria. It's a different landscape hereabouts. The twisted and tortured topography of the Sierra Albamilla is a result of volcanic activity that transformed the coastal ranges of eastern Andalucia and Murcia about six million years ago.
What makes the journey great is it tells a fascinating geological story as well as being scenic. The Sierra Nevada is the result of techtonic activity across many tens of millions of years, the same gradual uplift in the earth's surface that created the Alps and Atlas mountains due to the collision of the African and Eurasian plates. The soft clay hills around Guadix were formed more recently by wind and water erosion. The high hills of Sierra Albamilla created by intense vulcanism. If, as Edmund Burke asserted, some land-forms are sublime and have the capacity to scare the living daylights out of us, juxtaposing we puny humans against the vastness of Nature - then the drive from Granada to Almeria is definitely Burkean. It's fair to say most motorways are not overtly Romantic by nature; if you had to express the character of the M25 in terms of a philosophy it would have to be the epitome of Nihilism.
The Cabo da Gata was our eventual destination. This group of extinct volcanoes is an outlier of the same geological event that produced Sierra Albamilla. What makes the area especially dramatic is its coastal location. Dark grey conical peaks drop straight into the sea. Our plan was to stop overnight at a free parking on the southern edge of the geo-park at La Fabriquila. We were hoping for a spectacular sunset over the sea and were not disappointed.
Cabo de Gata has become the end point for most of our Iberian trips. The place forms the lower right corner of the peninsula 's irregular quadrilateral. We tend to think that from here we are heading home, northwards to colder climes. So we are going to eke out our final few days in the south by staying for four nights at Los Escullos campsite. The place is remote, the only Acsi site open all year within the confines of the geo-park. It has a small shop on-site, but as we were parked here for a while we needed a supermarket. The nearest one is in Hornillo - a 30km detour.
The area around Hornillo, San Isidro and Campohermoso is a hub for industrial scale tomato growing. There is a shocking contrast between the lonely hills of the Cabo de Gata national park and the plastic covered scrub land immediately beyond its boundaries. We first visited here about 15 years ago when we rented a villa in Mojácar and took a day trip to the Cabo de Gata. We missed a turning in San Isidro and ended up in a shanty town on the outskirts built by migrant workers and their families.
It looked terrible, temporary huts constructed from pallets and plastic sheeting, bare under-nourished looking toddlers grubbing about in the mud among cats and chickens, scary looking dogs ranging around the rubbish strewn settlement's edges. It was a third world scene in the midst of a first world country. Conditions have definitely improved since then. Today we came across one small shanty settlement, but in the main the migrant workers look better accomodated, clothed and healthier now. There seems to be fewer families too, the incomers are mainly young African men and women; that is not to say they are not still exploited.
I recalled watching a Simon Reeves documentary a year or so ago about extreme poverty in Europe, the subsistence wages and inhumane treatment of Spain's itinerant fruit & veg pickers featured in one episode - a tale of extortion, modern slavery and violence against workers who speak out. All year cheap veg on our supermarket shelves comes at a high human cost.
As we stocked-up in the local Mercadona situated among the plasticulture it impossible not to reflect on the issue. We had parked down a side road beside the store. A beat-up, ancient transit van pulled-up behind us. Two young African guys dressed in dusty blue aprons and green wellies began loading the van with boxes of courgettes picked moments before from an old plastic greenhouse nearby. They were being bossed about by an older Spanish woman in a flowery pinnie. All of them looked poor, I suspect profit margins are minimal for smaller producers at the end of the global food chain.
We headed for Los Escullos. One moment we were driving through a scruffy agro-industrial sprawl, a few minutes later topping a rise we dropped down into the national park. It felt remote and pristine. In truth 'tomatoland' is probably not quite so much of an ecological disaster area as it looks and the Cabo de Gata not so pristine as it seems. Nevertheless it is a lovely spot, possibly the wildest place on Spain's overcrowded Mediterranean coast and somewhere we always look forward to revisiting.
It is our fourth time here. Previous posts mention the grey, melancholy beauty of these extinct volcanoes. There are photos of them silhouetted dramatically against the silver sea. This time the place sprung a surprise. The rain that had greened the arid plain north of the Sierra Nevada had pulled the same trick here. The mountains no longer looked barren and exotic; in fact today from a distance they resembled the Howgills.
The higher peaks are ringed by smaller volcanic cones. These were covered in small vivid green shrubs. It created a slightly comical effect, as if each one had been crowned with a dark green chunky-knit bobble hat.
Los Escullos campsite, like everywhere else we have been, has been much busier than in previous years. We managed to find a pitch for the next four days but it was clear we had been 'squeezed-in'. It was a similar crowd as further south in the Costas del Sol and Tropica - retirees from the North here for the duration. However, away from the resorts Los Escullos attracts a slightly different demographic. Whereas in the more built-up bits of the coast ageing 'snowbirds' sprawl comatose in the sun, snoozing themselves towards oblivion, here the vibe is more outdoorsy. Instead the aim was to out-stride the grim reaper by speed hiking the geo-parks' extensive network of trails. Hi-end designer boots, Nordic poles and a pooch or two in tow seemed de rigeur. We failed on all fronts.
Although the place is popular with the British, Geordies in particular judging from the accents we overheard, most people hale from Germany or Holland. If the stereotypical British hiker is slightly socially awkward with a liking for real ale, cheese sandwiches and Kendal mint cake, then their counterparts from across the North Sea are a much heartier and more extroverted bunch altogether.
By late afternoon it would be an exaggeration to say the site became raucous, but the level of enthusiastic sociability certainty edged towards the frenetic. It could be that this impression was amplified by the German woman opposite us. She was very jolly, shrieking rather than laughing at the slightest thing. The man in her life was quite the opposite, taciturn, unsmiling, long-suffering. He had chosen to assert his quiet, venerable demeanor by smoking a pipe thoughtfully; white bearded silent type with pipe, it's a look designed to be unsettling I think. That he managed to exude such menacing tranquility amongst the social whirl must have taken real determination, especially as the jolly hubbub was accompanied by a background track of yelping pooches. The more excited their owners became the more their furry companions joined in. Once one began barking it spread across the whole site. Where do dog-struck people want to be? Somewhere with lots of 'walkies' opportunities, like here. At times the four-legged campers seemed to outnumber the bipeds.
When it's this busy, there is something slightly claustrophobic about Los Escullos. I think we prefer it in the late autumn when it is quieter and there is a mixed bunch using it, more Spanish, more younger people too. No matter what, the area beyond the site is beautiful, and extensive enough to get lost in the landscape in a matter of minutes no matter how frenetic the site may become.
The rain storm two weeks ago that greened the volcanoes carpeted the valleys below with a spectacular array of spring flowers. Some Gill recognised straightaway:
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| Wild Rocket |
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| Asphodels |
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| Poppies |
Others proved more difficult to identify, even when we compared the photos we took with Marjorie Blamey's detailed drawings in the Mediterranean wild flower book we carry with us. The Cabo de Gata is a unique environment, maybe the flora is rare too.
"I'm sure they are associated with death somehow," I commented. "Maybe it was something I read in a Victorian poem." Back in the van, Google to the rescue. I was right about the first bit, way off track about where I had read it. Apparently in Greek mythology asphodels were thought to cover the fields of Hades and provide food for the dead.
We decided not to sample them. However the next day we did take a resealable foodbag and a small pair of scissors with us and foraged for some thyme and wild rocket. Later the thyme added flavour to the sausages we barbecued and the wild rocket proved delicious, spicing up a green salad.
Doing stuff is definitely the antidote to becoming disconsolate about your lodgings. We unloaded the bikes and went for a ride down the unmetalled track that heads south down the coast towards San José.
It's a magnificent coast. "It reminds me of Southern Greece," one us is bound to say. It appears we are not alone in that thought. La Isleta, the Peloponnesian looking white cuboid fishing village to the north of us is marked on Google maps as follows:
Facebook, ever one to chip in with snippets of useless information, posted up that on this day twelve months ago we happened to be staying in exactly the same spot as we are now. It made me a bit disconsolate, given our avowed aim when we began our long-term travels six years ago,to visit new places; finding yourself in the same place as as you were a year ago has to count as serious 'mission drift'. Then something else occured to me which tipped me from gloom to depression.
In fact in future it's very unlikely for this kind of inadvertent 'travelversary' to happen to us ever again. Habitually we travel for about 12 weeks in the autumn, spend Christmas at home, then set off again for a further couple of months during January and February, mixing these longer trips with shorter visits to nearby places during the spring and summer. Last spring's jaunt to Denmark, Sweden and Finland stretched the definition of 'nearby' somewhat. However, come January Ist. 2021 when we become subject to Schengen visa restrictions this pattern of travel will become impossible for British motorhomers.
In fact in future it's very unlikely for this kind of inadvertent 'travelversary' to happen to us ever again. Habitually we travel for about 12 weeks in the autumn, spend Christmas at home, then set off again for a further couple of months during January and February, mixing these longer trips with shorter visits to nearby places during the spring and summer. Last spring's jaunt to Denmark, Sweden and Finland stretched the definition of 'nearby' somewhat. However, come January Ist. 2021 when we become subject to Schengen visa restrictions this pattern of travel will become impossible for British motorhomers.
Limited to 90 days in the Schengen zone in any 180 day period, a trip of 10-12 weeks starting in September will preclude you from beginning another of a similar length until the following April. Of course you can travel outside of the Schengen area, but that will mean flying. If sunny climes are what you hanker after in February then the obvious nearest non-Schengen options are Egypt, Mexico, the Caribbean, or West Africa. Right now one cyberpal is sunning herself in a Red Sea resort, another planning a trip to Cape Verde Is. I imagine a three week trip to somewhere like that would cost no more than a 12 week one by motorhome in the Mediterranean. I think it's what we will have to do.
It's all a bit infuriating. What it means is that we need to celebrate the here and now - in this flower strewn national park, beneath its green volcanoes and pale beige fossilised dunes, this scrap of wildness beside the deep blue Med... even if we are sharing it with 101 Dalmatians and a dour German bearing a distinct resemblance to Cezanne's portrait of 'A man with a pipe'.
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