Beside the Seaside

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In Which I Hum 'Spanish Bombs In Andalucia'

April 3, 2008 by Mike

Cabo de Gata

I've slowed right down.

As I write this I'm sitting in the bar at the campsite in San Jose, listening to the Mescaleros. Mine host is an old friend of Joe's. Joe Strummer, in case you were wondering - formerly of the Clash and the Mescaleros.. and one of the good guys. Of all the bars in all the world.. turns out that we (the barman and I) are both former neighbours of Joe, or the former Joe, as he now is.

Strummer -- the man who wrote Spanish Bombs In Andalucia -- had a get-away down here, when Ladbroke Grove proved just too much. (My getaway from Ladbroke Grove used to be, err, Notting Hill Gate. I quite liked it down there.)

It's a good place to slow down.

A morning spent filming myself ride up a hill on the coast by the village of Cabo de Gata, round two corners and down again towards the lighthouse. It's an amazing road. I'll get round to YouTubing it by the end of the year -- promise. (Fingers crossed.) For about 30 seconds of useable footage, I spent the best part of two hours. And I learned:

1. When videoing a long-distance bike trip, take a spare battery for yr video camera.
and
2. When you can't find yr spare battery, make sure you have a spare video camera.

No wonder I have such trouble packing the panniers.

Met a cute woman in the bar last night: English, probably a bit too young for me but who can tell these days? We flirted mildly and at a short distance. Quite harmless, really. Then her MUM came over and sat down at my table and started flirting rather more strongly with me.

A gentleman never tells.. but I did get an invitation to join them on the beach this afternoon.

(I should 'fess up, shouldn't I? It was the mother who invited me, not the daughter. And.. this is painful.. I was slightly too far gone to remember which beach they were going to.)

Then I realised that if I want to get a book published about this trip, I need to catalogue a series of unsatisfactory sexual misadventures, to keep the publishers happy. Mother and daughter? Ker-chinnnnng. I could get an excerpt like that into the Sunday Telegraph. They love that kind of thing. Didn't they do the Alan Clark Diaries too?

And so I set off today to track them down on the beach south of town. It was a lovely, fresh walk through scrubby dunes and a small forest. The sun was out, and smiling, and so was I. The beach, Genoveses, set like a half-moon as it curves away from the town, turns out to be a naturist beach. I didn't find mother or daughter there -- though I looked keenly at every face I could find. Their face , mind.

Still, by the time I'd walked on, in the heat, past a small hill with great views back to town, then up, then down, then round, then down to a small west-facing cove, I was hot'n'sweaty. I hadn't seen a soul for over an hour. The cove was secluded; the path down to it winding high up to headlands on either side -- I'd see anyone coming a good ten minutes before they got anywhere near me.

My empty cove

(You can tell what's about to happen, can't you?)

I looked to the north. I looked south. I looked out to sea - invitingly cool. My towel was laid out on the hot sand. I paused.. but not for long. Off came the Speedos*, I ran into the sea.. brrrrrrrrcold.. then back to the towel; shook my hair like the dog in the advert (I'm getting old: I can't remember which dog, or which advert, and I'm trusting you know what I mean) and settled down with a good book.. keeping a beady eye on the paths north and south all the while.

(You can still tell what's about to happen, can't you?)

What woke me was -- I think -- the voices. But it could have been the sound of a dozen cameras clicking. I knew instantly where I was and what must have happened -- and played dead. Eyes closed. The voices were French. They were laughing. Can a voice point and giggle at the same time?

I was trying to work out how old or young they were. Because there's a group of French schoolkids and their teachers in the campsite.

Beside the Seaside

In Which I Hum 'Spanish Bombs In Andalucia'

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