11. The land of plastic sheeting

As we drive towards Malaga in the Costa Del Sol, I am charmed by the unexpectedness of the mountains that frame the eastern horizon, topped with snow in the sparkling sunlight. There are certainly a lot of high-rises near the coast, but no more than I expected in this part of Spain. And the sea looks so blue and cloud-dusted that I’d probably want to build something tall, to take in the view, too.

The hills near the road are dotted with trees in patterns as regular as Craig David’s hair, little nubs of green on the rich, stony earth. There are small sections of field tucked between roads and houses that are planted with ….. things. I can’t tell what they are, because each is shrouded in a white covering, tied at the bottom. They resemble, most accurately, fields of mummified Moomins.

We drive through until we reach a gap near Velez-Malaga. There, we find a site that stores caravans and motorhomes for those who come here every year. It’s not allowed to list itself as a campsite anymore, but you can stay there overnight, empty your tanks, get fresh water, and use the electricity. We stay a few ‘overnights’ and find Francesca’s cafe on the other side of the road. She’s young, and tattooed, and does cocktails. Bliss.

One night we have a bit of a storm – horizontal rain and gale force winds, that sort of thing. Although Georgie has no leaks, she does find this rather a lot to handle. We pull in the slide-out, so that the awning above it can’t get torn, but she still rocks from side to side. We turn on the telly and the heating, and hunker down.

When we go to bed, we find a huge wet patch in the middle of the duvet. The rain has been blown sideways into the air-conditioning unit on the roof, and has seeped down onto the bed. Steve does a natty fix-it by sticking our fold-up bucket to the ceiling with drawing pins.

We move on to Almerimar, where the location is idyllic. The Aire is located on the road up to a lighthouse, with the beach on one side, the marina on the other, and all the cafes and shops bringing up the rear.

The view out of our windscreen

On a sunny day, I can wander up to the charity shop, or the supermarket, or the Chinese shop, and I pass dogs being promenaded, and families chattering, and small boys fishing for….. something, the way that small boys do. I watch Razorbills dive for fish, and Cormorants perch on anchor ropes, and it’s all blissful and lovely.

But that’s on a sunny day: because, even though we’re in Spain, it’s still February, and it’s mostly bloody windy.

We try flying a kite on the beach, but just end up dragging gravel from one side of it to the other. The force of one gale is so strong that when Steve opens the door it slams into the side of the van, knocking a ceramic tile halfway across the floor, breaking the hold-the-door-open-thingy, and wedging the rubber ‘stop’ into the side.

Steve has told me that this part of the world is called the ‘fruit-bowl of the Europe’ and, as we drive further along the coast, we begin to understand why. Great swathes of the earth are terraced and enclosed, not in greenhouses or poly-tunnels, but in structures covered in plastic sheeting. Hundreds of them, for miles and miles.

The further east we travel, the more concentrated they become, until they stretch far out from the mountains to the coast, reflecting the sun so that you can’t tell where they end and the ocean begins (if you zoom out on Google maps, you’ll see what I mean).

I hadn’t expected the colour of southern Spain to be grey

They provide a continuous environment, and protection from insects, enabling the growth of tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, courgettes and many types of fruit. But they also create a surreal and distinctive landscape, a little dreary by day, almost moon pod-like at dusk, and creepy by night.

Orgiva

If you travel to this part of Spain, then Hippie-watching is a thing. They all live in Orgiva, in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, in a settlement that was set up some twenty-odd years ago. They live in tents, and yurts, and huts, and vans, and anything really. Until recently, the kids were all home educated, but now they have to attend the local school. But some things die hard, and whilst we are there, a chap in a rainbow tie-dye T-shirt calls all the little ones out for ‘parachute games’. Oh yes.

It feels a bit odd going there just to look – like that scene in Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World, where they all go out to the reservation to watch the ‘savages’. But no one is available to talk to us, so we get embarrassed just gawping, and head further into the mountains, instead.

The Alpajurras

Climbing higher and higher, we pass though two pretty little whitewashed villages, Pampaneira and Bubion, and up to a third, Capileira. We stop here, intending to walk around, then get a coffee and some lunch. Well, the walk around is quite short, as it is bloomin’ steep and Steve’s angina starts playing up.

So we find a great little café, with views over the entire valley. The sun is beating down, but the snow on the mountaintops is close and clear. We drink wine and eat weird mushroom tapas. I close my eyes and find my bliss.

A single lady on the next table strikes up a conversation. She is from New York, but is currently working as a photography teacher in Qatar. She’s come to Capileira for a Flamenco course and a few days’ break. She is nice. We have a lovely chat. Then she pootles off to the loo and never comes back. After a while, Steve goes to pay the bill, and he never comes back either.

Now, a nice thing I’ve noticed about the Spanish is that they won’t halt a good conversation just because a queue is forming that reaches halfway to India. So when I’ve waited a reasonable amount of time, I go looking for Steve. He’s in the bar, and so is the New Yorker, and another couple (she from Britain, and he from Australia), all chatting away to the cafe owner.

The couple have come for the same Flamenco course (which is pretty famous, apparently) and they’ve all got talking. They’re asking about a chap they know who recommended this place.

The bar owner – who was clearly something of a sex-goddess in her day – says, ‘Oh yes, I know him – he was once my lover.’

Wait, what?

‘Did you know his last girlfriend,’ says the British lady, ‘only she’s my best friend?’

Cafe-Goddess – ‘Oh yes, I know her too. But he and I – it could not work – always flying from here to Bali and back again.’

Seriously?

And now the Australian joins in. He’s from Fremantle. My niece lives in Fremantle. He thinks he’s heard of her (she’s fighting some fairly pivotal ecological issues, and is regularly arrested whilst protesting up trees).

Steve’s mum comes from Geraldton, north of Perth, and his sister lived there for a while. British lady thinks she knows her too. ‘Roxy, right?’ ‘Er, yes.’ At this point I’m wondering if there’s anybody that the British lady doesn’t know.

Cafe-Goddess is going into details about the affair to New Yorker. We are still waiting to pay the bill: I don’t care how long it takes.

Meeting people

Back at Almerimar, we discover that there are certain rituals attached to the life of your average motorhome dweller. Our current location has the waste dump point right in the middle of the tarmac, and each morning a steady stream of chaps bring grey plastic containers to empty into it. It’s like watching wildebeest gathering at a watering hole. Same look of concentration. Same measured gait.

Then, before the mass sitting-on-chairs begins, there is cleaning to do. I see a lady sweeping her roof! I honestly had no idea that this might be expected of me.

There is a nice Dutch couple in the van next to us, and he busily cleans the outside of his van until it sparkles. I joke that he is putting me to shame and he says, ‘no, it is man’s work’. Which is good. So I tell Steve.

Two days later, Steve gets his new (and unused) hose-broom out, and starts clearing all the sand off Georgie’s windscreen. When he has finished the Dutch guy, and all his sitting-in-chairs mates, break into spontaneous applause. Ha.

We meet a nice couple, called Peter and Joy, in one of the local cafes. She’s recently had an accident and sliced her wrist, and they were full of praise for the local hospital (where they’d basically saved her life).

‘The best thing about it’, they tell us, ‘is that the Chapel of Rest has a Tapas Bar in it – so you can go and have a pint and some prawns whilst paying your respects.’

Then we meet the wonderful Peter and Beryl. They’ve been full-timing for years and currently occupy an American RV that is even bigger than ours, and has two slide-outs. They are also a mine of valuable information. And they have a parrot (need I say more).

Peter is also a damn fine cook, counts topping up your drinks as an Olympic speed sport, and is an avuncular host. Beryl is an absolute charmer, and I can see why Peter fell for her – legs up to my chin, kind and thoughtful, and with a very slight – and sweet – speech impediment. She’s been teaching the parrot to count, but has been unable to get him to say the number three.

‘He goes 1,2…. 4, 5‘, she says, ‘but he can’t seem to say the number free.’

Aw, bless, Beryl, neither can you: and it is enchanting, there’s no other word.


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