Beside the Seaside

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In Which I Find Myself Beside BesideTheSeaside

March 29, 2008 by Mike

Orgiva

Route: Nerja - Maro - La Herradura - Motril (oops) - Lanjaron - Orgiva

I am camped in a mountainous area called the Alpujarra, a dozen miles from the sea and half a mile above it: pitched on a Moorish terrace -- a thin, flat strip carved out of the hillside a thousand years ago, held in place by boulders, tension and sheer bloodymindedness.

It should be dry here. Indeed, other hills around about are parched. This terrace, though, is watered by a network of trenches, just as old, that brings water from the distant but visible Sierra Nevada, haughtily snow-capped despite the heat.

Underfoot there are tulips and wild mint; yellow flowers and purple and pink amongst the long grass. It's an orange grove, but there are lemon trees, avocado trees, almond trees and olive bushes too. Blossom has spruung everywhere. The smell is intoxicating, bewildering, ever changing on the whim of the breeze.

Vicki, my sister's best friend, lives on this terrace in a little caravan she's painted purple and green -- it goes with the flowers and the grass. The terrace lies hidden above the house built by Vicki's friend Sue and her three beautiful daughters. There's a large, loved garden with shady trees, a paddling pool, a laughing infant granddaughter, a dog and a cat and a neighbour with a hewn and ruddy face, an old hat and a mule: he just wandered through the far reaches of the garden with his flock of sheep and goats. The sun has burned bright all day.

Everyone has been so welcoming and generous. I'm in a happy valley -- a Hippy Valley.

The road east from Nerja, bypassing Maro, La Herradura and Salobrena, is one of the most beautiful I've seen. Combined with the trip up into the mountains, this is a Top Ten Roads Of The Entire Trip day -- no question. Down by the coast the N-340 -- still shadowed by the much busier motorway -- is empty, curvy and fun. A delight. The mountains come close to the sea here, sometimes reaching the coast itself, leaving me to ride round, over or through dramatic cliffs. Occasionally, the coastal strip broadens out and I race across the flatlands in search of the next hill. There are new buildings, new urbanisacions, clumps of costa-style development that seem out of place in an altogether more primeaval landscape.

It's dry. Practically desert. It doesn't feel like... I've been trying to name the feeling.. it doesn't feel like Europe. Yes, and no.. it doesn't feel like *Earth*.

[Colin and Nikki: I know I promised to stop in Salobrena and check out the house you're renting. You know by now that I didn't: in a rush to reach Vicki.. and sucked into the rush of these great roads. For what it's worth, this is one of the areas I'll be coming back to to look for the little white-walled house by the sea, with space to hang the hammock, somewhere to park the bike, and broadband. In other words: I could live here. Hopefully you'll like it for the week.]

A good moment. Way ahead, I've spotted a bike. As the road twists inland following the contours of a valley, I can see him (it's probably a 'him') on the other side, heading back out to the sea. It's something red.. looks like a Harley.. or a Japanese rip-off.. but.. hmmm.. that sounds throaty.. and even though I know less about motorbikes than you do about nuclear fission, I reckon it's the genuine article. I speed up, enough to start gaining ground, without losing the thrill of the road. It takes a good ten minutes to pull up behind, and then alongside, my fellow Warrior Of The Road. (*joke*)

He's got UK number plates.

"Mornin'," I call across. "Nice day for it."

A huge grin. "I was made for days like these," he shouts back.

(This is all very Easy Rider, I know.)

We ride on together in silence, or as silent as two large motorbikes can be.

"You live here?" He has no panniers, no luggage. He answers with another grin.

"Ten years. My first day out this year. I bloody love it. Miss it."

More silence.

"Been here long?"

"Just passing through."

We ride on. No need for words.

(Under my breath, I'm cursing his good fortune. But the thing is.. I know that, under his breath, he's cursing my good fortune. And what we *both* understand, unspoken, is that the drivers of the cars ahead and behind are all cursing *both of us*.. not for being smelly bikers or hooligans or evil British tourists.. but because we're free and easy and riding these beautiful beasts on a gorgeous day because we *want to* and we don't have to pick up the kids or do the big grocery shop or go to work or explain anything.. to anyone.

I miss my turning up to Orgiva because I'm just happy to ride on in good company.

Twenty minutes later the bike and I are remembering why nobody rides a bike around the coast. Hills and mountains are fanbloodytastic.

The road towards Orgiva is also the main road from the coast to Granada. That's a proper city, so the road is busy and busy being built up. There's a huge dam. More roadworks. More trucks. I miss another turning in the confusion and end up approaching Orgiva via Lanjaron. It's my lucky day. This road is much, much smaller, twisty and turny, carved out of hillsides between small farms, terraces, scrub land, olive trees. There are some ridiculously tight turns.. shades of Trollstigen.. and there is sunshine. I'm smiling.

Orgiva sits high in its valley but there are white-walled villages stranded higher up the mountainside behind it. I feel high.. which turns out to be an Orgiva state of mind. Man, are there a lot of hippies around. Crusties, old-timers, dogs on string, nose-rings, a busker playing a Mongolian nose flute, rainbow trousers; hair everywhere -- plaited, dreads, beards of every hue and description, techno-hippy-mohicans, short-but-you-just-know-it-used-to-be-verrrrrry-long, haystacks -- hair, hair, hair.

A piece of paper is stuck to a traffic light, advertising yoga sessions (in English). The address: Brenda's Yurt, in the riverbed.

There are a lot of yurts around here. I don't think they are indigenous Andalusian yurts.

Vicki meets me in town. Lucky, because I'd never have found the terrace, the caravan or even Sue's house without a mountain guide.

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Find Myself Beside BesideTheSeaside

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