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(This curious erection of stones on Vera Playa’s famous naturist beach was achieved by a German engineer on holiday. A prodigious balancing act, no nails, glue, or supports were used in the entire construction)
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“A New Angle On Almeria”
Published in “H&E Lifestyle No 10” (P. 72 - 75)
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The show’s not over ‘til the fat man sings. Or so I have often heard. But far from the show ending, as we hoped it might when our heads hit the pillow, it seemed hardly to have begun. In the bar immediately below our balcony, the rotund cabaret singer persisted with his rendition of
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timeless 50s and 60s classics. And when he finally called it a night, the crickets began (no, not Buddy Holly’s backing group but the insect kind, and I have to admit I like their music better).
So I lay there, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, counting sheep I knew too well. The hours passed and when this melodious backdrop was eventually supplanted by the dawn chorus of birdsong, my heart froze. It was morning already and I had had no sleep at all!
Even at this end of the season, in the most laid-back Spanish hamlet, quiet is not a commodity that can be relied upon. But Mojacar (pronounced Mo-hah-car), on the Costa de Almeria, is a better bet than most. It offers life without too much of the attendant clamour, and scenery with service. So I forgave Mojacar our first night and, from then on, found no grounds for further complaint. The sun shone every day, keeping temperatures in the very pleasant mid-twenties. Further up the coast, heading north, we discovered a host of beautiful locations and a landscape unspoiled by tourism. Almeria is the agricultural centre of Europe, and many of its crops are grown not
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under glass but under a cheaper alternative, plastic. This dramatic, earthquake-sculptured land has many surprises. Seemingly arid areas are fed with natural underground water, tapped and plumbed in by the resourceful Almerenses. Somehow we still found the most dishevelled-looking farmland preferable to the high-rise hotels that dominate so much of coastal Spain.
However, let’s make no pretence, the chief reason for being here was the famous Vera Playa: a beach well documented by H&E, and a mere 15 minute drive from Mojacar. Once there we planted ourselves down with conviction, until our paler bits began once more to match the rest. And it was only after this was achieved that we strayed much from the path of naturism.
Yet who would have believed, after our appalling English summer, how few British had made the same pilgrimage? We were astonished, naked and nearly alone amongst our continental cousins!
I say ‘nearly’ because, as we sat at its furthest end, near the hotel, reunited with a German friend we had made in the mild Spanish winter of ‘96, an English couple did happen by.
Not exactly dyed-in-the-wool naturists; he wore shorts, stout walking shoes, socks, a prodigious white beard and a rucksack. And she was similarly attired (excepting the beard, of course) but as a concession to her surroundings was, at least, topless. Although grudgingly was probably the word for it.
“I’m … going … to … sit … down .. now,” she declared firmly to her partner. Then, looking briefly our way, she must have taken us all for uncomprehending, shamelessly naked Germans, because she chose to expand upon her discontent. And quite audibly too. “I am frankly fed up of walking up and down, up and down, the length and breadth of this damnable beach!” she hissed between clenched teeth.
Her husband, nonplussed by this, snapped out of that happy delirium and self-absorption that so often afflicts the delighted male newcomer. With an expression that was suddenly a portrait of bitter disappointment, his roving eye and wanderlust came to an end. He dutifully set up camp a few yards from us, and from his rucksack produced what appeared to be the groundsheet of a large tent. Equipped as they were I didn’t doubt that this poor woman would have been far more at ease (and far less argumentative) on a trek across the Himalayas than here. Still, for almost a full five minutes, they sat on this impressive tarpaulin, clothed, staring straight out to sea, and uttering not a word.
Clearly the plan of visiting a naturist beach had been a very poor one. Most importantly, it had not been hers. The one with the beard sat in disgrace, pondering the enormity of his crime and where its punishment would end. Finally, they packed it all away and two stout pairs of walking shoes marched quietly back the way they had come.
Fortunately, if one finds this beach a little too daunting, or to organised (or too. . . German?), there are alternatives.
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Between Vera Playa and a half hour drive northwards, towards the town of Aguilas, lie perhaps a dozen or more inviting coves and beaches. Many are stunningly beautiful. Some are more accessible than others, some are family-orientated, but in the middle of a fine October, many were .
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completely deserted. Here opportunities abound for discreet naturism. And we took them.
Don’t be surprised, however, if your ideal retreat, miles from anywhere or anyone, is suddenly invaded by a four-wheel-drive jeep bearing the chilling words: Guardia Civil. These characters get everywhere materialising from clouds of dust, and exiting tracks you’d judge only fit for very fit mountain goats.
Now to remind that this department of the Spanish police force has shown a certain expertise at relocating amorous couples, cooling their ardour in Spanish gaols (and often losing the keys), would be unduly alarmist. Times have changed. A smile and a polite Buenos dias (or good day) is usually all that is required. More often than not their routine patrol has nothing to do with your antics, they’re simply enjoying the scenery like everyone else albeit with guns, truncheons and an assortment of big boys’ toys.
Another caution for the enterprising traveller, however, would be: Don’t always believe the signs. The Spanish have curious priorities. When it comes to new developments, the sign, almost invariably, goes up first. Sure, they can unroll a whole vista of tarmac and white-painted breezeblocks in an afternoon (usually just outside your bedroom window) but things don’t always progress that smoothly. Now and then there’s a hitch, a change of heart. . .a clerical error? Whatever, the sign remains and it may look as if it’s been there an eternity. To the adventurous this can translate into an hour’s walk down an intriguing road to find it terminates abruptly in the middle of nowhere (save for the obligatory discarded fridge or washing machine, placed there just to bewilder local geckos).
Sadly, there’s really no remedy when this happens. I try to be philosophical, even sympathetic. To me it’s a bit like an author appending a grand title to his first page and then being unable to come up with the story: a classic case of writer’s block (of course, in this instance it might better be called building block). In any event, I continue to like the Spanish, I feel a certain kinship. They remind me that with a thousand unfinished jobs left to do around the house one can still find time for a siesta.
Anyway, at the end of each day’s exertions, we would return to Vera Playa like homing pigeons. To the novice and the devotee it is an excellent base. You don’t have to keep a watchful eye over your shoulder to see who’s coming and you don’t have to be a monument of physical perfection (far from it!) But, like any naturist venue, it is what people themselves make of it. The shy, the exhibitionist, the moral crusader and the libertine all managed to find a space on Vera’s expansive beach. But the British? That most complex species of all? I’m sorry to say we never found them in any significant number.
Still, I couldn’t help thinking, as I surveyed rows of tenanted balconies, alternating salmon pink and white with blue shutters, of caged birds I had once seen in a village market place. ‘Birds’ devoid of song or plumage in this case, and all beginning to look much the same. Perhaps I was actually missing the occasional knotted handkerchief, the stirring rugby song, the string vest, the Union Jack boxer shorts. . .?
Nah, it must have been the heat.
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Alhambra Palace - when you’re finally done with the beach.
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