From Cabo de Gata to civilisation
Friday, June 30
Camping Los Escullos, Cabo de Gata On the Friday, the site was invaded by hordes of students celebrating the end of their exams. They began arriving in mid-afternoon and by early evening the place was full of bronzed Spanish surfing hunks and their voluptuous girlfriends, all in their skimpy bathing attire and hogging the beds around the pool formerly occupied by coffin dodgers like us. Honestly, we didn't know where to look! As darkness fell, so did their inhibitions and the woods around the site played host to all manner of fun and frolics, all punctuated by a series of loud bangs from dodgy fireworks. If we didn't know it already, if they refused to let us join in with their antics then it was time to pack our stuff up and get off in the morning. We know where we're not wanted. Saturday, July 1 Wild camping, Calnegre We headed for a quiet spot up the coast where there was not one but three reasonably priced aires quite close to a beach and a town with more than its fair share of bars, cafes and restaurants. However, try as we might - and we did at least two circuits of the little village - we could only find one of the sites and that was closed. The other two had, it appeared, recently been abandoned, possibly because all the motorhomers who come to this little place choose to wild camp on the beach. We decided to join them. We found a spot about half a mile out of town, between the edge of Calnegre and a beach bar to the north called Los Parazuelas. Tucked away off the road, we nestled in between a Spanish motorhome and a smaller camper, with two little dogs. The sea was probably no more than 10 yards from the door of our van but with a rocky shoreline it didn't look too inviting. Nevertheless, the town had its attractions and on the Saturday afternoon we availed ourselves of a couple of the bars, preferring Cafe Mercedes on account of its nicer staff and strong bottles of beer at €1.50 a pop. After a tapas-fuelled Sunday lunch at Mercedes, we felt that this was a place we could haunt for a little longer but we were stymied by a recurring problem: essential supplies. While we had plenty of petrol and gas, plus the solar panels keeping us topped up with battery power, we were running out of water and the chemical toilet was getting dangerously full. With all the aires in the village abandoned or shut, we were faced with driving miles in search of a motorhome service point, then driving miles back to Calnegre. We decided to push on and fill up with water and empty the loo as soon as we could to give us a chance of wild camping somewhere on the road ahead. Monday, July 3 Wild camping, Santa Pola/Los Araneles del Sol Encouraged by a Google search of like-minded souls, we tried first to fill up with water at petrol stations along the way. We tried two without any luck. However, at Torrevieja we did stumble upon the Holy Grail of continental travellers - an Aldi that sold fuel! We'd heard stories of such places but never seen them, then, out of the mist, one appeared with diesel on sale for the astonishing price of €0.89 or litre, about nine cents cheaper than we'd seen anywhere else in Spain or Portugal. We filled our boots then headed north to Guardamar and La Marina where we knew there were a couple of little aires and a possible wild camping spot. We found the aires and filled up with water and emptied the loo at the Raclet service point (€2) to chalk up one success but didn't dare risk wild camping at La Marina, where all the beachside car parks featured strongly worded warning signs against wild camping. Undeterred, we pushed on through the salt flats of the Murcia region, featuring hundreds of feeding flamingoes, and found ourselves at Santa Pola, a huge, overdeveloped tourist town with little to offer us. On a whim, we followed a sign to beaches to the east of the town and followed a narrow road which eventually opened up to follow the line of the coast as it wound its way north to Alicante. About three miles along, we came across a perfect wild camping spot. The only trouble was we were the only van in the area, so we ventured further along and came across a clutch of vans parked up in a beachside car park next to a chiringuito. A British van was among the gathered throng and we asked the owner, a grizzled old soul, if we were okay to stay the night. Like the ancient mariner, he told us he'd been on the road for 10 years and hadn't had any issues at this particular spot. “The police come around every now and again,” he said. “Sometimes they move you on and sometimes they don't but if they do we just go across the local authority border,” - he pointed in the direction of where we'd just come - “and pitch up there instead.” Sure enough, later in the evening, a squad car did come and drive around our new home but after moving on a young guy in a VW camper and chatting to some of the Spanish campers, they disappeared and we had a quiet night. Our second day was spent on the beach and contemplating the usual problem - dwindling water supplies and a groaning chemical loo. While one solution might be to take less showers and pee more in the bushes, we decided the only sensible thing was to move on in search of more supplies and more experiences. Wednesday, July 5 Paraiso Camping, Calpe Having resolved to be more careful with water and wee (my old colleagues at Thames Water must despair sometimes) we drove more than 55 miles in search of somewhere to dump our waste and take on more valuable water. We found it at this very swish little commercial aire just on the edge of Calpe, an equally smart holiday resort just north of Benidorm. The celebrated butt of a thousand gags may only be about five or six miles away but it could be another country when compared to Calpe. This tidy town boasts a delightful salt lake between us and the main beaches on which hundreds of flamingoes gorge themselves through the day on the little shellfish which give them their pink hue. We toured the lake on our bikes while exploring the area. We found a rocky cove to the north, a vast city beach at the centre and a slightly more chic beach next door. All were fronted by the kind of places which must keep Watney's Red Barrel in business. The old town, however, was a real delight. It's a tight cluster of old terraces from Calpe's days as a busy fishing village, a status reflected in a number of art installations along a well-marked tourist trail on the map (see picture gallery, below). After this overdose of culture, we reverted to type and visited the neighbouring campervan aire to find it cheaper, more pleasant and with an alfresco bar at its centre serving very reasonable beer on a 3-for-2 basis during happy hour. The rather louche German guy running the place tried to sell us on the idea of staying there for a few nights but we weren't sure whether Calpe had enough to keep us there for one, never mind two. We might enjoy the company of our neighbours where we are - Bill and May from Plymouth - and, once we've plugged them for their wisdom and experience, move on tomorrow. |
Pictured, from top: the van parked at one of the mirador (viewing places) which punctuate the windy roads up into the hills above Cabo de Gata; the campsite pool at Los Escullos; fighting a moorland blaze near the campsite; some views around the Los Escullos area
Our home for two nights at Calnegre, until lack of supplies forced us to move; below, the first spot we chose near Santa Pola and, bottom, our final resting place, close to the 'turtle' rock.
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