Rain, black bulls and white villages in Espagne

After the loss of Howard and Hilda we headed for the coast for some R & R, sitting in the sun in a little camp ground. Grass of sorts was on the ground which is a luxury in campgrounds in Europe – there are a lot of dusty campsites that become yukky when wet and trail muck into the truck if I am not vigilant re fellow truck-dweller.

The second day it started to rain, the next day thunder was roiling in the distance, jagged flashes of lighting striking out across the bright turquoise sea. The sky joining the sea on the horizon was a matt ashy-charcoal, very dramatic. Two ships offshore, one listing severely to starboard. Every day we looked, the ships remained the same – a mystery we shall never solve.

The rain kept coming, the pools of water in the camp got larger and we sat tight watching TV shows and movie files that we could agree on. Books. Eating. Internet. Peering out at the neighbours. We studied the forecasts and decided everywhere in southern Spain was getting a lashing, the news reported 10 people died in the flooding so we were looking pretty good really.

When the weather cleared, the race was on to get to the washing machine first. I bagged first wash but had to fall back in the queue for the next load. Alfonso (campman) had a large enclosed marquee that trapped the heat, I strung our laundry out to dry in it – done in next to no time.

The nearby village was far from picturesque, the houses and gardens neat and trim but rubbish collected in the pot-holed main street – often next to the huge bins provided by the council. The horticultural activities interspersed between the houses had their own refuse accumulating around them. The beach was a long horseshoe of golden sand but each tide bought in a fresh collection of plastic bottles, nets, and other depressing matter, to add to that flushed out by the village stormwater.

We visited a coffee shop close to the camp many times, the proprietors were no more friendly on day one than the day we left. Stuart used the Google ap on his phone to translate the menu with a view to lunch, he aimed the phone at the menu and Google translated it. Nothing took our fancy that day – the word ‘lizard’ popped up a few times. I didn’t believe it until I Googled it, and yes – this area does eat lizards.

View from truck at Puerto de Santa Maria

Puerto de Santa Maria and Cadiz beckoned. A short drive south and my faith was restored, all was clean and tidy. We parked next to a river in a secure carpark, no rubbish along the river or the perimeter fence. The view across the river is whitewashed houses with palm trees in front and the streets have extravagent Christmas lighting. Does this town see a lot more government, EU or tourist Euro? No lizard on the menus, and the barman not only gave me the manzanilla I requested (a dry sherry served chilled) but he bought out 2 other types for me to taste.  

We rushed our lunch to catch the catamaran ferry to Cadiz (pronounced with a lisp). All was good until the skipper attempted to crank up the revs to ‘plane – “un problemo” he said and made a looping gesture with his hand. We turned back and spent the rest of the day exploring the lovely P. d Santa Maria. The historical centre has sherry bodgas (wine houses), the biggest of which was Osborne. Osborne had supplied large black bull cut outs emblazoned with their name on hoardings around Spain, the black bull is their logo. These large cut outs that loom on the horizon no longer bear the Osborne name but are all made in the same style.

Photo credit Stuart

Talking of bulls, I have an abhorrence for bull fights, rodeos and suchlike but there was a very well preserved bull ring in P.d Santa Maria and for the sum of $NZ5 each Stuart and I stepped into the ring and I twirled the matador cape. I know, I felt bad even being there but ...... We were the only people there (others had more sensibilities). The cape is incredibly heavy, it reminded me of PVC fabric, not easy to twirl.

Houses in the historical centre have large studded doors that when propped open revealed elegant tiled atriums. The atriums often lead through iron gates to leafy courtyard gardens. I slowed my pace to get glimpses of what looked like very desirable residences.

Photo credit Stuart

Cadiz

The new shoes went on their maiden voyage to Cadiz, the ferry was no longer broken but it was too windy! A coach was arranged for the passengers. Does the coach depart at the same time as the ferry?  What do you think?

Cadiz dates back to 800BC when it was settled by Phoenician traders (origins from around the coastal Syria/Lebanon/Israel area). There wasn’t much left from that era but there were layers of architecture from different eras in the old part of the city. Cadiz was the departure point for explorers going to the Americas and the receiving point of riches that were shipped back to the mother country.

Arcos de la Fronterra*
*(means frontier between Christian and Muslim settlements)

We had heard about the ‘white villages’ of Andalucia and set off on a three day tour. The villages were all either on the top of a hill or spreading up the hillside. Every building was white and box-like in construction. Streets were narrow, immaculate and no place for a truck like Chausson to attempt. The drive between the villages was lovely, we could see where the cork oaks had been de-barked for their cork. Gnarled olives dotted the hills and goats, sheep and lambs grazed the fields. We tried some of the prize-winning local cheese but remained unmoved.

We stopped for the night at the base of Grazalema village and dined in on asparagus, chicken fillets with lemon and rosemary (plucked from the aforementioned village) together roasted potato cubes and salad. The following day we set off over a high narrow pass with spectacular views. The road looked like a single lane but two vehicles could squeeze past very carefully and slowly. The view from the top was stupendous. Griffon vultures wheeled overhead, their wide wingspans catching the thermals. We went past a few more white villages and then before we knew it, we were in the midst of one – a big white box on wheels surrounded by white plaster box houses.

Fortunately it was Saturday siesta time and there was not much activity, Stuart stopped in the only place possible and I asked a Westie-looking guy hanging outside a bar for the road to Ronda. I only said ‘Ronda’ and gave an expansive Gallic shrug. Too much for him, he directed me into the bar where I did the same. I was accompanied out and we were pointed down a narrow street. It would not have been too bad if a car wasn’t parked taking half the available road, but to add difficulty the whole street had rainbow-painted terracotta pots attached outside the houses. Stuart squeezed Chausson’s big bum through with just millimetres to spare, keeping one eye on the parked car on and the other on the terracotta pots hanging just above head height.

We set our sights on Ronda after an uneasy night parked in the national park with rain thundering down on the roof, I had visions of us getting stuck but the ground held reasonably firm. People had told us we must visit Ronda so that is where we are going next. Then afterwards the coast beckons, I hope it has dried out.