Part III: The Beautiful South

Even though it probably seems like all we did was eat on this trip, we really had another objective in going south for our vacation. After the chilly palaces and educational museums of France, we wanted a few days on the beach. Hey, most people spend two weeks lying in the sun for their honeymoon. Everything doesn’t have to be an adventure.

Our first morning in Almería, we asked directions to the beach at the hotel’s front desk, and got instructions to drive to a place called Cabo de Gata. This area, which is a nature preserve, was also featured in the guidebook, and numerous people had told us to go there. Sounded like a safe bet. “Oh, one thing,” said Leah to the clerk, as we were on our way out. “Is there a parade tonight?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “Every night during Semana Santa. Come back by five or you’ll have to wait until eleven or so.” The idea that we had almost sentenced ourselves to another few hours in the car behind the Grand Wizards and hooded Knights made us shiver. We picked our way out of town, spending nearly half an hour to go two blocks on the main drag, which had been reduced to one lane with rows of parade-watching seats, then got on the highway. Signs to Cabo de Gata led through fields of plastic-covered tomatoes, boarded-up towns awaiting the summer tourists, and beaches that looked to windy to even walk on. We were a little nervous, especially when the signs that read, “Welcome to Cabo de Gata” we framed by a backdrop of broken farm equipment, discarded plastic sheeting, and migrant farm worker housing.

Passing the picturesque desalinization plant (where there had been rumored to be flamingos) and a garbage-strewn beach, we were beginning to think that maybe something was going on in Barcelona that the Fodor’s people and travel agent hadn’t wanted us to see. Why would anyone recommend that we come to this place. About the only thing from the guide that seemed accurate was that the landscape was “lunar,” though we hadn’t expected the moon to be so, well, ugly. We decided to just keep driving.

After heading off the highway to a smaller road, we wound up on some kind of mountain pass with beautiful views. We relaxed a little. Until, that is, we saw a sign with two arrows, one red and one black, pointing in opposite directions. This is the “you have (or maybe you don’t) the right of way,” sign, only necessary when a very small and dangerous two-way road is going down to one lane. While I was taking pictures of the views of the Mediterranean, Leah was craning her neck to try and see around blind curves, hundreds off feet up in the air.

Every now and then, we would come around a turn to encounter another nervous-looking Opel going the other direction. Someone would pull off the road into a small patch of dirt, either against the cliff or perched over the water, and the other would pass. When we emerged on the other side of the mountain, the landscape had changed. Rocks jutted in every direction, and the plastic sheets were gone. There was no beach to be seen, only coves surrounded by jagged cliffs. Cars seemed to be parked in every small area off the road. We chose one and walked towards the edge of the cliff, through a field of yucca.

Approaching the edge, we could see a small strip of sand with about five people on it. This was our beach. We watched people try different routes to find their way down. Some gave up, as arriving at the beach involved climbing down some steep hills. Eventually, we made it to the sand, and though the water was too cold for swimming, the hills protected the beach enough to make it broiling hot. And parking and beach access were free, free, and free. Almería was looking like the most romantic place in the entire world.