moving sands

It must be blowing some 70 mph, son’t you think? I say this as we finally turn away from the beach. I wouldn’t open my mouth before that. I’d get the grit of sand if I did.
More like 28 or 30, Ed responds.

Ed and I are prone to exaggerations. In opposite directions.

I remember encountering strong winds before, ones that caused me to cling to a tree, thinking that I’d otherwise fly off the mountain. This isn’t like that, but it’s poweful nonetheless.

The woman at the tourist office tells us that the birds are waiting for the wind to die down before they resume to their great migrations. Well okay, go ahead and wait. To me, it seems that the wind has no intention of stopping. Or even taking a pause.

Chicago should relinquish its claim to being the windy one. Tarifa, you win.


In the morning, we go to the market. Actually, we first stop at this little gem of a store just around the corner.






Ed buys five oranges – assorted types – and I speculate why, back home, we tend to favor only one variety (navel) in our stores. When I do spot something different, it most often will be imported. From Spain.





As Ed tells me about the advantages of marketing just one type, he peels the oranges, one by one. We finish every last piece. He loves oranges possibly as much as I love...hmmm, a good cup of espresso? A summer breakfast on the farmhouse porch?


The market proper in Tarifa is especially busy around the fish vendors.






This guy weighs his fish by the fistful. Elsewhere, street vendors are selling snails and urchins. People pause in the marketplace entrance to talk. Always talking. Animated.






Okay, noses filled with fish aromas, we proceed to a café – a con leche for me and a toast with goat cheese off the tapas menu to share (we’re eating breakfast so late that they’re brining out the lunch menu).






And now comes the complicated part of the day. We want a hike that would include some time near the ocean. The tourist agent assures us that we can walk the distance from Tarifa to Bolonia along the shore.

How far?

Oh, maybe twenty kilometers.

And is there a bus back?

No buses from there. Maybe you should take the bus halfway, then walk the beach to Bolonia. It’s a pretty little place with Roman ruins.

And will there be dry sand all the way there?

Yes, yes, of course, but if the tide is too high, just scramble up a bit – it’s not hard. And you can return by bus from the same place where you’re dropped off.

One statement, three mistakes in it. Ed later says – it’s not their fault... They live here. They don’t do these walks. That’s for visitors like you and me. When I lived in New York, I never went up the Empire State Building.

We’re okay on taking the bus to the drop off point. The driver obligingly pulls over and drops us off just before turning inland.

On the return, can we pick up the bus on the other side of the road?

The driver shrugs. Maybe. Sometimes they stop, sometimes they don’t.
Well now. I look at Ed: what if today they feel like a “don’t”? There are only two late return buses and one of them is very very late.
Then we thumb our way back.

Really?

Really.

I like confidence, even if, in this case, I don’t share it.


We meander over to the beach. Ah, my, but it’s windy. In our backs. So that’s a good thing. It’s like biking downhill. Even if part of you remembers that what goes down must, on the return, go up.

It’s a pretty stretch of beach and to the right, at the curve of the land, there are large dunes, accumulating more and more sand by the second.






We’re supposed to go around the cliffs at the tip there and there will be other cliffs too, but the agent was reassuring. There’ll be sand at the base! We continue. Behind us, Tarifa is a speck of white, nothing more.






And the wind blows and blows, even as the sun is quite warm. Very quickly I shed my jacket. It’s in the low sixties, but walking makes it feel significantly more toasty.

Initially we’re able to find sandy spots that separate the cliffs from the ocean waters. But soon the water is hitting the rocks in a way that makes it impossible to pass. We scramble up the sandy hills, then down again...






...but eventually the strips of sand disappear. Waves crash against the now rocky coast. No more beach.


 



On the bluffs, we look for a dirt road that we know from the map will eventually turn into a hiking trail. We have no choice but to stay on it now.

It’s pretty up here. Warmer, too. Flowers appear now and again...











And when the road ends, there's a sandy trail, through Spanish pine and coastal shrubs that are hard for me to identify. The going is a bit tougher. Soft sand slows us down.











We see monarch butterflies and it all feels so spring-like – as if we were allowed to skip winter this one time.

In this idyllic walk, I look at my watch and notice that we’ve been at it for nearly two hours.

We need to turn around and head back soon or we’ll be missing the (next to the last) bus.

We haven’t reached Bolonia! We could take the last bus!

It’ll be dark then! No.

It’s nice to have veto power.

Just as the path leaves the forest and shows us the coast ahead, I say to Ed – that’s it for us. .







We turn around and start the walk back. Because of the wind, we stay off the beach almost the whole way. Sand in your face for several hours seems a tad unpleasant.

We have a very lovely path, then road, and it’s all rather delightful (forgive me for another shot of these -- the light is different now!)...







 



...until we come to the back of the dunes. The piling of sand has clearly taken its toll – on the road, on the trees on both sides.






Many of the firs are already buried. It seems nothing can arrest the moving sands here.





So what becomes of the small community just up the road? How long before this road is completely smothered in sand?

After a while, we’re forced to resume the beach walk (the road veers in the wrong direction). It’s brutal out there and I hate to take out my camera. One photo. Just one.






And now we finally emerge at the bus drop off point where, conveniently, we find a café and bake shop. I indulge myself.





Ed asks the woman behind the counter if the bus will stop if we flag it down. It’s scheduled to pass in five or ten minutes.
Same answer: Maybe. Or maybe not. It depends.

We should try to get a ride then. Ed’s out with his thumb up. I hover to the side, lending credibility, I suppose.
We’re lucky. The second car pulls up with a double honk. Two boisterous local men. Get in, get in and give us some coins for a coffee!

The driver is chatty and looks back at us when he has something especially funny to recount (I’m guessing here – we don’t understand most of what he says). It takes a lot to get Ed thinking about road safety, but he’s thinking of it now as he motions to our guy to keep the car on the road!






Grabbing a ride is always a good adventure – Ed tells me as we get out of the car in Tarifa. Now that we’re safely in Tarifa I’ll agree.


Late in the evening, very late in the evening, we go out in search of dinner. We’re in for a night of tapas at the bar. It just sort of happens this way. One place (recommended by our landlords) serves us a plate of fantastic wild cactus and eggs and because I know they specialize in pork dishes (they go to some trouble describing where and how their pigs live), I order their jamon as well...











Finally, in the bar next to our little apartment, this one -- we can see it out our little balcony:


 



...we share a dish of shrimp pel pel. It could not be better.










We watch the TV screen as we mop up the garlicy oil with slices of bread. It’s about sports and weather though for us, the content hardly matters. We guess at various possible interpretations of what it all could mean. It’s what you’re away from home. You guess as to what’s going on and what it could all mean. You may be off, but if you’re generous, probably you can come pretty close.

who has seen the wind...

Do you want to experience wind? Stand facing it, run against it, let your scarf blow, watch sprays of water dance on the crest of waves for hours on end? Tarifa. Go to Tarifa. The wind from the African Sahara never stops blowing in this southernmost town in Spain (in all of continental Europe, actually --Tarifa: 36° 00′ 15″ N).






It’s easy to understand why. If you walk out to sea on the stone causeway (and now you really are as south as it gets), and turn around and face land, on your left you’ll have the Atlantic, on the right you’ll have the Mediterranean. This is where it all meets.





They say it is the only spot on earth where you can stand and look out at two separate continents and two wide-open seas, all at once.

The Mediterranean here is not yet the calm sea we know and love. Here, it is just at the edge of becoming a sea. These are the Straits of Gibraltar and yes, just a dozen miles from Tarifa, there is that rock, British, jutting out, but more on that later.

And across these Straits there is Africa.






(At dusk, the twinkly lights across the water make it seem so close... And it is close: just a short twenty miles across the waters.)






You would think that Tarifa, with its incredible stretch of fine white sands and pristine azure waters of the sea (on the Atlantic side) would be a mega tourist destination. You would be wrong. The coastline here is dotted with very plain, lowrise apartment houses. The hotel scene is low key, to put it kindly.

So why is Tarifa so... lonely?

Well, it’s hard to get to. Take our trip from Ronda. We leave early, before the sun breaks the horizon over the hills, over the gorge.






We catch the train (on the Granada line) heading at a slant to the coast (and there are lovely misty valleys to admire along the way)...






...and in about two hours we arrive at its final stop – Algeciras. So now we’re in Algeciras. That’s no tourist hub either. It’s one of the leading ports of the world – the hub for traffic from Morocco and ports beyond. We spent a scant hour there, poking around the near to the station market -- an interesting market, or at least the artsy statues are interesting. This, right in the midst of butcher stalls:






The market feels like a daily market in a small industrial town would feel – busy and no nonsense.






So now we have to take a bus to Tarifa. There are several that make the connection and they climb the rocky hills that separate Tarifa from the rest of the world, offering us some mighty nice views across the straights, toward the mist shrouded coast of Africa.






...then briskly down again, into this old town of Tarifa. And it is old. (I read that the word tariff comes from this once important trade center.)





There are Roman ruins nearby, and it has, too, a Moorish past, and a brief (hostile) encounter with France, many spotty (and violent) encounters with African invaders – poor Tarifa may be scorned by tourists, but it surely was a desirable point for invaders from the north, east and south.

Ah, there's Africa again. So close.






So why hasn’t Tarifa blossomed now, especially for the sun worshiping northerners? It remains a tiny little town. Half the size of Ronda (so – population around 17,000), somewhat cut off from the mainland and here’s the real truth: it is just so windy here!

When I first mentioned to someone I was heading for Tarifa, she asked – oh, are you and Ed going for the wind surfing? Tarifa is the choice European destination for wind surfers. What a surprise.

Insofar as there is tourism here, it is there to serve the needs of these people.






We are, of course, in the off off season, so there are only a handful now, riding the winds of the Atlantic, but it is clear that Tarifa is their dream.

Ed and I are not windsurfers. We’re here because it’s quiet and the beaches are vast and the hills invite hiking and there are migratory birds that pass through Tarifa (they hover and wait here for the winds to settle just a little, allowing them to complete the crossing south) and so you can admire them as well – oh, there’s plenty to do for people who love nature and open spaces and views onto the ocean.





We’re staying at a place that is sort of a small hotel, though not exactly that. It’s a cluster of tiny apartments, or at least they offer kitchenettes with the rooms, and lovely balconies too (for us to hang our laundry!). At this time of the year, the going rate is 60 Euros per night. Escanaba, step aside! Ed says we’re getting cheaper and better by the hour!

The apartment is in some ways quiet – the winds don’t penetrate the old town in the same hostile manner – they prefer to frolic along the coast. No street noises either. But the tile floors and metal circular stairs in the units send off echoes of noises inside so that if anyone dares walk in spiky heels across the floors the whole place trembles. Still, it is a large and tremendously lovely unit, looking out onto a whitewashed square and we happily settle in for a three night stay.

Our first afternoon in Tarifa is devoted to taking it all in: the town, the beaches, the great bodies of water to the south, to the west, the fishing boats that bring in an incredible array of seafoods.










As usual, we hadn’t eaten much for breakfast or lunch and so by late afternoon we are ready for tapas. Well now, that may work in Seville, Granada or even Ronda, but in little Tarifa, most eateries shut down for the afternoon. We settled for some creamy mushrooms and seafood slaw at a café. The people watching at lest is terrific. And the cookies from a bakery across the street -- sublime.











We take a walk to the grocery store outside the old town and then along the beach, for the (windy) sunset...






The rays peak through the clouds in tiny slivers, giving just a glimmer of light, but enough to make it a memorable event.





And late in the evening we go for dinner. We dine well. Very well. The best seafood place in town (and there are many places preparing seafood here) has a special going: a set dinner of a green salad and a seafood paella for 9 Euros, tip and taxes included. I can't think when I last had a sit down dinner for that price, on any side of the ocean.

And, oh, is the paella superb! Served in a huge pot..





...with chunks of fish, tiny shrimp, mussels and squid, it is a huge meal, leaving, unfortunately, no room for dessert.

So we’re in Tarifa for a few days. The moon is there, above us, grand as ever (just three days shy of being full, but you wouldn’t know it)...






We’re here to walk, rest, work a little too.

And the sun keeps shining (though from behind a few clouds now) and the wind keeps blowing and gusting and blowing...

where Ed saves the life of a goat and other fence related matters

Well now, another brilliant and sunny day. We leave the little Hotel Ronda with the smiling sisters and head for the hills again.

I should say a word about these sisters – there were four who once lived in this house with their mom and dad. And now two have taken on the project of converting it into a tiny hotel. Here’s one of them, showing me the gallery of family photos from years gone by.





It’s exciting for me to see these later in life projects take shape and develop into something quite excellent. Investing in an old home and turning it into a guest house has to be an enormous headache, at least at the inception of the project. You can see how proud these families are when things finally take shape and guests walk away with smiles and praise.

Alright. We’re out of the hotel. Like yesterday, we don’t bother with breakfast or lunch. The sisters serve coffee, cookies and fruit, so it’s not really true that we’ve had nothing to eat, but we’ve been rather lax at attending to meals in the first half of the day.

Today as well, we pick up a trail – this time one that starts from the very lovely part of the old town – the San Francisco area.





The official well described circuit for this hike isn’t long – maybe three hours at most. But we want to extend it. We’ve read that the tiny village of Cartajima is just beyond a summit to the southwest and that there are trails to it. So why not keep on going west, scale the mountain and extend our hike?

So long as we’re on the official circuit, we’re fine. It’s a different kind of walk – the vast spaces of yesterday are replaced by, at first, the many many olive groves, followed by craggy hills, covered with wild bush and Spanish pine.

















The silver sage makes an appearance again and there are added clumps of wild iris.





It’s all very pretty, but eventually the path narrows and it’s hard to stray from it as the olive groves and forested lands are enclosed. Wire fencing is common here and there’s lots of it.

And then the path we felt sure would lead us to the summit dead ends at a remote farmstead, where one older man is working the fields and a younger one is setting out on a hunt. With a Yorkie.











Ed asks for directions and we get some suggestions from the farmer and even a very helpful set of directions from the young hunter: go back down to the fountain, turn right over the little stream and you’re on your way!

Ed thinks we should turn right ahead of the fountain. I’m doubtful, but I follow along. We go through thickets, past olive groves, up rocky inclines and we are about to give up – surely this isn’t a path at all, just someone’s land... But as I look up the hill, I see a goat thrashing every which way, looking as if she’s butting her head against a fence. As we get closer we see what has happened.





She managed to not once, but twice put her head through the fence and now she is terribly entangled in it. It’s not clear how long she’s been there, head woven through the links, wire choking her at her throat.

Ed says – okay, time to get her out. To calm her is a challenge, but he does it and then, with the utmost patience, pushes her head, horns and all, out one link then the other, being oh so careful, because when she gives the final thrash to free herself, his hand stands to get slashed, right there along with her throat.





One last gentle push of her nose and she’s out! She doesn’t wait to say good bye but saunters madly back into the forest, free, so very free and it just warms your heart to see her unharmed.

And yes, it was a wrong turn. But the goat is off and running thanks to this wrong turn and if that isn’t enough of a reward, we look up and around us and Ed points to this across the hill:





A beautiful ancient aqueduct, almost hidden in the thicket. A breathtaking sight.

But the climb is otherwise a failed effort and so we continue down to the fountain and follow a road to the right from it. And we come to a dead end once more. And we back track again and this time we run into a young woman who appears to live in a house on these hills. Just keep going up, you’re on the right road!

Are we? We go back up. Dead end. There’s a fence, we can go no further.

Ed’s puzzled. She lives here. She must know. He pokes around some and finds a very secondary path. Up we climb, on slippery terrain with rocks jutting out on both sides of what may or may not be a path.






And then another fence stops us short. Ed tries to find a way around it but the thicket is dense. We're stopped short again.






We go down once more to rejoin the main path. Two men and a dog are walking up towards us and they look like they know the land. But we’ve made four attempts to find a way to scale the mountain and by now the afternoon light is getting quite low. Still, we have to ask. Do you know how to cross the mountain to Cartajima?






They do. One tells us – you could do it once. You could find paths up the mountain, but so much of it has been fenced off now that you’re not going to be able to get across. There are trails, but not from anywhere near here.

It’s nearly 4 pm and am happy to give up. Ed refills his water bottle at an ancient artesian spring and encourages me to do the same before the hike back.
How do you know it's safe? I hesitate.
People have been drinking from here a thousand years back.
Yes and they're all dead. Still, I drink it and it is cold and deliciously refreshing


We retrace our steps back to Ronda. There is a Tapas bar in the San Francisco area of town that the sisters highly recommend and I suggest we stop there for a breakfast-lunch meal. The sun is warm and the tables are packed with a lively crowd.I'm in love with the warm sun on my neck.







We order scrambled eggs with asparagus (and shrimp seem always to be added to this), shrimp on a stick and cheese and smoked salmon. A superb meal for a few coins.


 



Since the light is still with us, I suggest we explore the bridges of Ronda. There are three: the oldest -- sometimes called the Roman Bridge, sometimes the Arab Bridge -- is at the lowest end of the ravine.






Next and somewhat higher up is the so called “old bridge.”






Climbing to the old bridge, you can see the ravine up close and in your face. And, too, as you cross to the other side, you have before you the highest, mightiest, most impossibly steep “new bridge” (from the 18th century).






Hemingway referred to this bridge it in For Whom the Bell Tolls. People lost their lives in building it and in being thrown from it. And truthfully, it is sort of frightening to be on it, looking down toward the ravine. (Ed would not agree with this at all. Oh and by the way, here, by the bridge, he finally finds a cat that does not run away from him.)






And now we’ve paid our respects to the gorge and the bridges. We’re satiated with the wonderful Ronda foods, we’ve hiked the hills to the west and to the east. The sisters took good care of us at their little hotel in the old town. Down to the treats left in our room at the end of the day. A fine set of days indeed.

So, just one more meal – a small pizza to share, nothing more complicated than that. A wonderful pizza from a brick oven, with a local Vino Blanco.






The moon shines over Ronda, beautifully, dreamily.





Early Monday morning we leave, on a train, continuing on the same line that started in Granada, following it to its end on the coast. And from there, we’ll take the bus to Tarifa.