Where have all the Spaniards gone?
Where have all the Spaniards gone? |
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| Chapter
41: Good
Morning Campers |
| To the south of the rice fields
is a massive chunk of rock sticking out
of nowhere with the remains of a large castle on top which dates back
to the thirteenth century and therefore is of Moorish origen. At the
foot of the rock is the small town of Cullera. The place had changed beyond all recognition. The last time I had wandered about the streets the women had all made remarks about my sexuality because I had long sixties-styled hair. Now no-one noticed me at all. It was just another town, and the culture was just a Mediterranean culture. I wandered through the bustle of a normal twentieth century town. Spain had changed enormously in twenty years. It was almost a different culture altogether. I tried to get a feel for the place, but it was just another town. We got back in the car and drove further south. Eventually we came to another larger town, full of traffic, pavements overflowing, buses everywhere. This was Gandia. There even seemed to be several Gandias. There was the dusty centre with the main road running through it, with buses clogging up the traffic that inched its way round twisting streets. Alongside this was another town where people seemed to live. Further east was the tourist area with long sandy beaches, fishing boats, and the usual high rise apartments, and bars. The two towns seemed to be miles apart, both in physical distance and in style. When we were there Gandia beach was largely empty. I took a dislike to both parts of the town, and the dislike was heightened by the long rows of oranges piled a couple of metres high by the side of the road. "What is going on," I asked in one of the bars. The barman shrugged his shoulders. "The price is too low so they do not sell them." "But anyone can go and collect as many as they want without paying." "You cannot eat them. They have been sprayed with kerosene." And then we found Denia. It was a charming little town with a castle on a stump of rock surrounded by trees; a lively fishing port and evening market, where you could go and bid for the fish straight from the sea. There was a tightly knit town centre, a tiny park area right in the middle, and a cheap room in a large house right on the sea front in the northern part of town, where we stayed with Jaime and his wife. *****
I'm sitting in a restaurant by the quay at Calpe. The fishing fleet has just come in, and the restaurant staff have been over to buy the fish, and now some of it is on the table before me: a plate of six cigales, or crayfish, and they taste delicious. Next time I think I'll have the red mullet. Back up in the hills the oranges are still glowing in the trees. Most are finished, but some groves still have a full complement. And the orange blossom is everywhere. It comes at you in great waves. Sometimes by the side of the road is a great yellow bush of mimosa. And when I drive onto the back of my plot of land the herbs are bruised and send up swathes of scent. It seems the whole of Spain smells sweetly. Except on the beach where the dogs go...... Our flat looks out over the bay at Altea. The lights of Calpe harbour shine through in the distance, while on each side of me the lights of Albir and Altea Hills rise up in an orange curl. And there's one solitary fishing boat in the black sea. *****
They send me to the town hall, and there, the smirking bastards take my money before returning my car. In fact I have to walk half across town, and along the river bed to some cruddy fenced-in yard behind the elephant grass and a big pile of earth. There are cars there which have to have been waiting for collection for years. They are literally dropping to pieces. I end the day on the balcony, listening to the waves, and eating an orange I'd picked earlier, together with a glass of fino and some sticky almonds. It's a hard life. *****
I went up in the mountains today to see how much has changed since I was last here. There has been a massive amount of building in the last eight years, and some of the ruined and abandoned properties are now inhabited and looking smart. In some instances a new place has been built alongside the old ruin. We had lunch in a restaurant at the bottom end of the town of Sella. it's run by a quaint guy who speaks rather a lot of languages quite well, and is an opera freak. The sun was shining over the mountains. The monastery at the top of the hill was shuttered and sleepy, there was laughter from a table further down the terrace, and from inside came the sound of Act 3 of La Boheme at full volume. And the food and wine were delicious. *****
The sunlight flickering on the waves is like the Christmas lights
flashing on and off.I sit and watch it from the verandah for a while, then drive down to Villajoyosa. The apartment blocks along the sea front are painted different bright colours. But on this visit I noticed the street lamps are also painted different colours. *****
It was all Julie's fault. She's a gypsy. She wanted to live in a caravan, and travel the road. I'm sure she really wanted one of those fancy specially painted jobs, with shafts at the front, and pulled by a horse. I bought a motorised camper van. It was old and wonky, like most of my motors, but there was just enough room inside for all of Julie's goods, and for a couple of beds and some cooking gear. We had been living in a flat in Altea, so it was natural that we would come back and stay somewhere else for a change, but as we drove down from Altea Hills towards the town we noticed a clutch of camper vans parked in the grounds of a ruined house overlooking the sea. We swung in down the palm-lined drive to the impressive front porch of the building, then turned left and parked a little way down facing the sea. I'm sure those of you who remember this camper park will mourn its passing. It had to be the nicest home for campers in the whole of the Iberian peninsular. Apparently the place was owned by a family who had moved to Mallorca. Back in the nineties the whole estate was bought by the borough and turned into a museum for musical instruments. The area is paved, and everywhere has been sanitised. The day the concrete was poured the magic died. The building was shaped like a very tightly constructed maltese cross with a domed atrium in the middle. There were terraces to each side facing the sea. Down a flight of steps was a sandy beach, and 100 metres offshore was a small island. It was all rather nice. We said hello to our neighbours and settled in. We lived there for the rest of the year. To the north of us was the old guardia headquarters, now an impressive ruin. All around was a profusion of vegetation. We had the main road skirting the block, but far enough away for the place to be quiet. Just across the road was the railway line and the little station of La Olla, and there was a motorway access just up the road towards Altea Hills. We were commuting distance to the fabulous fish restaurants at Calpe port. The weekly market at La Nucia was a similar distance the other way, and when I needed to go into Alicante I caught the amusingly named Lemon Express, which was anything but an express. It took more than an hour to get to Alicante, and stopped at every town and village on the way. But it only cost a few pesetas, and the views were great. Some of the camper vans were quite spectacular. Hank, who worked six months of the year in Holland laying pipes, wore a great beard and smoked his dope from a fancy hand-made pipe. On the side of his truck was a large painting of himself. Burt and Antionette were also Dutch. They had something more akin to a circus truck. It was massive. There was the lorry, the back of which was converted into a very classy home, and then there was the trailer, which had been converted into a painting studio for Burt, where he painted his rather sombre and sometimes bizarre pictures. There was also space for a small car, which could be run down onto the road and used as the daily runabout. *****
Another year, another home, another village, another bar, and a whole new bunch of friends. We are ensconced in a small back room in someone's house down a side street in the village of Relleu. We dump our things, note that we have a window to the outside world, open the shutters and peer out at a white wall a metre away. Oh well, what the heck, we are after all in the middle of the village. Julie changes, and we walk down to the square. There is a bench. Six old men are sitting there grumbling. A black lookie-lookie man comes down the street with his box of goodies and a whole bunch of African belts over one shoulder. The old men make rude remarks about his colour. He pretends not to hear and walks on down the street. He wont find many takers in this village. We walk round the corner, and there are two bars. We try one, but somehow it doesn't seem right. This is going to be home for a few months so we need to find the right local. We try another. It is back on the previous street. We must have walked straight past it. This looks better. The tapas are more interesting and they have quail in a tray under the bar. I order one, and a jug of tinto. If the tinto is drinkable I could spend the evenings here quite comfortably. *****
I walk through the living room and onto the terrace. Julie is chatting with her friend. Before me is the whole of the Jalon valley. The hill falls away from me in a great curve. There are the fields, the dotted buildings, the village of Lliber, and further away, Jalon. Further down the valley I can see Alcalali and Parcent, and the mountains beyond. What a view! In the midground is a strange building with the words Rancho La Paz painted in black up the side of the wall beside a rearing horse. I'm given a glass of vitriolic red wine. It looks as if it could take rust off an old car at fifty paces. She smiles. "It's from the local bodega." It sure as hell looks it. I sniff it nervously. I swear it smells of sulphuric acid. Julie asks about the ranch. "Yes, you can go riding. They take paying guests as well." A couple of days later we are settled into our new home. Behind the house is a bungalow. Beyond that are the stables, and a yard with a straggle of ducks and geese, and two dogs are tied to a wire washing line. It's chilly in the morning. But by nine o'clock the light frost has melted, and the sun is shining out of a cloudless blue sky. I walk the half mile into the village and buy a baguette. We have breakfast in the garden looking across the fields. The ducks and geese are waddling about. The horses whiney occasionally from the stables further down. Later in the day we pop into a small tea-house in the village. There are tables set on the roof where there is a small fountain. We are served delightful cakes and tea by a charming Belgian lady. I call her the Belgian Tart. Further down the valley is a restaurant where we try bacalao. And way up in the mountain, looking back down the valley, is the eerie of Christine and Pierre. We drive down to the coast. In the old harbour at Calpe is a line of fish restaurants. We watch the fishing boats come in. They are trailed by a great cloud of seagulls. Fish that are too small are thrown overboard and the gulls dive-bomb the goodies. The fish are hauled out of the hold, packed into wooden crates, and spattered with ice. Then they are put on a set of runners and slid into the building alongside where they are auctioned. The restaurateurs bid, and lug the fish back across the quai. Soon they will be in the display cabinets lining the parking area. There are spiny lobsters, various sizes of crayfish, prawns, and various fish. They all look fabulous. A waiter in black trousers and white shirt is walking about with a large jug of sangria, and a selection of wine glasses. We sip the sangria while deciding what to eat. We look at the wonderful selection. Then move on to the next restaurant. Eventually we decide, and sit down. The next day we are back again for lunch. We choose a different restaurant. One day we make a big mistake. We have eaten at all four of the restaurants. We usually choose a different one each day, but this time we have inadvertantly sat down at a restaurant where we have already eaten once before that week. A terribly upset lady charges across to us and remonstrates. It is her turn today. Rather sheepishly we get up, apologise to the waiter and move to the next restaurant. Honour is satisfied. |
| .... to be continued |