I’ve found myself saying on a few occasions so far: “We’re not on holiday”. That’s right – there’s a difference between being on holiday and travelling.   For us this isn’t an extended holiday – the proof being that so far it’s not been all comfort and luxury. It’s a ‘journey of discovery’. Travelling has its rewards of course but all holiday-style comfort it is not, and this is compounded by the pace we’re trying to move at. We’re constantly trying to strike a balance between ‘visiting’ places and experiencing something of the local culture and making progress with our journey. In short, it’s slightly knackering.

From Valencia, we therefore consciously circumvent the well-known holiday resorts of the Costa Blanca and head for Cartagena on the Costa Calida, just south of Murcia. Acres and acres of olive and citrus groves line the road. It seems the rain has not had its last word yet and again, we see the dark clouds looming and we get a fair amount of rain and high winds around Xativa, Vallada and La Font de la Figuera (some great names of places) but we manage to evade the worst of it and by the time we get to Monforte del Cid and Candesol the landscape has changed and become quite a bit more arid. At Candesol, we see a sign in Arabic showing the direction of the ferry to the Spanish enclaves of Ceuta and Melilla in North Africa.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We arrive in Cartagena by 7pm and it looks like Arizona. The road rises steeply and suddenly we find ourselves overlooking a stunning coastline just over the hills.   As we come steeply down on the other side, our campsite, the Camping Los Madriles, is nestled on slightly elevated ground overlooking a magnificent azure bay and the little town of Isla Plana.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s a real 5-star campsite, very well designed, with good-sized and shaded pitches laid out on escarpments at different levels, as well as its own permanent caravans and ‘casitas’ that people rent for the whole year even if they only come for a few months. Bougainvillea and hibiscus bushes all around. This was a relatively quiet time for them (apparently they’re full in winter) but the people we saw and spoke to there were more like permanent or semi-permanent residents. A Danish retired couple who after spending years travelling around France and Spain only ever come here now for 4 months every year. Ditto a Dutch retired school teacher and his wife. And Barry, the 80-year old former bookmaker from Cork in Ireland, who’s bought his own ‘casita’ right at the very top of the site and returns to Ireland for just 3 months a year. He was in the bar in the afternoon methodically drinking his bottles of Heineken lagers. “How many of these have you had?” “This is my fifth” “And will you have more tonight?” “Oh I might have a little vino”. He invited us to go up and see his ‘casita’ and managed the steep hill with amazing dexterity given both the beers and his age. It’s probably what keeps him fit, seeing as he’s never had to see a doctor in Spain. The view from the garden of his casita was breathtaking but inside it was an absolute tip. “Can you get cleaners here?” “Oh yes it is a bit messy, I should maybe tidy up” he grinned with probably little intention of doing anything of the sort.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But the ‘piece de resistance’ at the site is its pool facilities. Two pools, one for bathing in and another, shaded from the relentless sun, rectangular in shape and good-sized for proper swimming. Both are filled daily with spring water coming down from the hills, then emptied every night ready to be re-filled again in the morning with fresh spring water. The water comes down warm and slightly salty but is supposed to be very good for you. A kind of spa. We stayed two nights but I only discovered the rectangular pool on the second day so only managed one swim but it was a good one.

On Tuesday morning, we make a fairly early start and take our bikes down to the little town of Isla Plana 2 kms down the coast for a coffee at the town’s social club café but seemingly popular with Brits who are either living or holidaying there. It overlooks a lovely bay and beach with a picturesque old church on the edge of it.

It provides a very pleasant view as we sit drinking our café Americanos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Having decided we liked the little town and that it had two or three places to eat, we agreed we would come back in the evening for dinner. In the meantime, we cycled another 5 kms in the opposite direction back past the campsite again, where we were told there were nice beaches. The summer season has clearly not yet properly begun as there aren’t many people around. The beaches are pebbly but sandy a little further in and we find somewhere for an invigorating swim. We then manage to cycle back, stopping at a little supermercado for a few provisions where the three people in there are all bellowing at each other – which is a slightly Middle Eastern trait we’ve noticed in Spain – all in time for a light lunch made up of all our left overs to empty the tiny fridge.

After the encounter with Barry in the afternoon, we get ready to walk down to Isla Plana for a proper meal for a change. Though we’d both forgotten, it was our 33^rd wedding anniversary but for some reason we both had a strong sense that we should do something outside our normal routine tonight so perhaps subconsciously we knew. We rarely both remember. We seem to take it in turns and this year, Judith remembered first, her memory jogged by something I’d said earlier that afternoon. But we managed to mark the occasion and the restaurant gave us a glass of Spanish bubbly on the house. The food was good – Dover sole and loin of pork – and excellent value for money, at under 35 Euros.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On our way we pass the small chapel on the bay again and while I try to decipher a historical notice in Spanish in front of a strange dome-like structure near the chapel that turns out to be some sort of ancient ‘bagno’ fed from warm spring water coming down from the hills, Judith is engaged in conversation by a jolly avuncular man who’s in the process of locking the chapel door. They seem to be talking and laughing which is strange considering he speaks no English at all and Judith admits she hasn’t a clue what he’s saying but his manner and laughter are infectious. As I walk up he questions me in that searching, over-familiar Mediterranean style which can be intimidating but I recognize and sort of welcome. I’ve been managing reasonably well so far using basically Italian and adding ‘os’ at the end of words and turning ‘c’ into ‘th’, ‘g’ into ‘kh’ and ‘ll’ into ‘y’. I sort of understand their gist most of the time and they mine.

Enrique is intrigued by Judith being English and me Italian and asks quizzically how that works. “Mui bien” I say but he peers into my eyes for some reason not convinced! He tells me he worked for Ford motor company as an electrical engineer for 30 years in Valencia. He wants to show us where the other restaurant is and it’s beginning to look like he’s attaching himself to us for the evening. We start to move off in the opposite direction saying we’re going to have an aperitif at the social club. “Adios, encatado” I say. He grabs my arm, peers into my eyes again and asks almost accusingly: “Tu crees in Dio?” So it was me there was clearly something about he didn’t quite trust.