|
|
 |
|
|
 |
|
|
(Okay, some of you may recognise this location as Mas Palomas, Grand Canaria, but let’s not split hairs - I just had to show off my suntan!)
|
|
|
|
|
“You Can’t See Anything From The Road. . .”
Published in “H&E Lifestyle No 8” (Pages 4 - 7)
(Under pen names Richard & Melissa)
|
|
|
Our plane was due to depart 6am destined for Benalmadena in Southern Spain, a few miles west of Malaga. I would have been happier at the prospect but I am hardly a joyous morning person. Indeed, singing the praises of the package holiday comes much more easily prior to the departure, or after the event, and at a civilised hour. I rarely feel so vocal at the time.
Well, the flight was one hour late
|
|
|
|
|
and I didn’t grumble. My wife was impressed. What did disgruntle me however, was the infernal coach ride to our hotel, which took an eternity. Nonetheless, it was a voyage of discovery.
Tito, the driver, had the charm and looks that made older women young again, rebellious teenage girls blush coyly, and other men deeply envious. His English was excellent, as was his repartee with ‘the audience’. The holiday rep, after seeing everyone onto the bus, entrusted us to his care and went about her other pressing duties at the airport. A promising start, I thought, under a cloudless sky.
Of course, I hadn’t reckoned with the myriad road works and disembarkations that lay between us and our destination. And I had yet to discover the improbable truth about our hunky driver. The latter revelation, when it came, would not normally have troubled me in the least, it was just that we sailed through two red lights while he smiled and pouted at me in the rearview mirror!
Leaving the congested towns behind and finding the main coast road was a relief. And being largely empty of traffic or obstacles to collide with my optimism of a safe arrival increased. One by one the remaining passengers woke from their comatose states, smiled sweetly at the driver (or brazenly flirted) and disembarked. Ours, I knew, would be the last stop and my eyes were just beginning to glaze over when I spied a sign at the roadside. Two words that we had come to recognise in many languages: Playa Nudista (nudist beach).
|
|
|
|
Neither planned or expected, this discovery brightened my outlook immeasurably. Yes, I had a hand drawn map in the back pocket of my jeans describing a distant naturist facility, and I knew too that the famous Vera Playa was a mere two to three hours drive away. But I was in no fit state for continued rigours of the road.
We arrived at the Hotel Costa Azul only two minutes later. We bid adios to Tito who looked defeated, but I suspected wouldn’t look that way for too long. Then, three stars, eleven floors, and 312 rooms, all facing seawards, assailed our senses. Two well-travelled suitcases were hurriedly deposited, nay, thrown, into a room on the top floor and, within
|
|
|
|
|
|
half an hour, Melissa and I hit the trail towards ‘Playa Nudista’.
From the hotel it proved a fifteen-minute stroll along road and cliff-top in the easterly direction of Malaga. At its entrance were signs forbidding photography and video, and a car park was overseen by a security guard. Past this mildly intimidating, but assuring, presence lay a gentle walk and steps down to a haven of tranquil, sun-worshipping excellence: Benalnatura Beach.
The first sight to greet our eyes was the bar, a well-stocked oasis of beers and barbecued snacks. And above each serving hatch another sign: Solo Nudista or Nudists Only. It wasn’t a house rule we had any difficulty complying with. I sat with our clothes at a small table while my wife procured the refreshments. (Which is my house rule)..
|
|
|
|
|
|
Now, all too often, visiting a place like this can be overshadowed by the feeling that you’ve gatecrashed a private party. You find rows of regimented sun beds, hiked bar prices and, let’s be honest, a predominant language that tends to be German.
Well, not so at Benalnatura. Instead it buzzed with an easygoing, cosmopolitan atmosphere: French, Flemish, Dutch, German, American, Spanish - not forgetting that all-important English contingent.
For us the beach was large enough to stake a claim yet still small enough to make friends. At peak season I could only guess that this charming location must be hugely popular, leaving only the latter option.
|
|
|
|
|
We met a young couple from Belgium who had been regular visitors for years and had already booked to return that August. Who could blame them? The beach was pristine and kept that way by the bar’s proprietors. Plants - vaguely indigenous to the country, if not the locale - were looked after and ashtrays provided for smokers. Woe betide those with the loathsome habit of burying their cigarette stubs in this sand, or in the leaves of a perfectly formed aloe vera!
Toilets, of course, were available to all, but certain other facilities, such as the showers, were for club members. Bona fide members enjoyed the additional benefits of a social life: fiestas, beach parties and live bands. We, sadly, were not going to be there nearly long enough to warrant enrollment.
Yet without doubt the essence of this idyllic retreat was the bar and the people who ran it. Not just sincere naturists, or capable caterers, these were real characters. They comprised a multinational team of four: Spanish, Dutch, Cuban and French - only one of them male! The French girl was attractive and vivacious in the extreme, flitting from one table to another, breaking hearts as she went. But I must warn you Romeos before you set off in hot pursuit: these girls are all spoken for indeed, you’d probably have more luck with Tito!
Anyway, our grand plans of exploring the lesser-known regions of Andalucia were shelved for another time. When the sun shone we were down on Benalnatura beach. On the rare occasions it didn’t, we took advantage of the cheap and reliable train service.
There’s certainly no shortage of things to do. Not least the biggest and best car boot sale (probably) in the world. On a Saturday morning catch the train to Los Boliches (the east side of Fuengirola), cross over the main road (north), follow that road west and it’s on your right after a five to ten minute walk. Just don’t confuse this with the type of affair you’ve seen at home. It’s mammoth and there are plenty of genuine antiques so take it easy and remember your baggage allowance!
The Hotel Costa Azul proved worthy of its three stars, despite the little time we actually spent there. On half-board, though, the food was adequate to dull. Off-season, expect the clientele to be chiefly pensioners sensibly seeking a kinder climate. Do not expect to share your table with a like-minded member of the naturist fraternity - the narrow-minded are more likely. If there’s a more appropriate residence even nearer Benalnatura, the interestingly named Flat Hotel could be worth an inquiry. It looked quite accommodating to us and, I can assure you, is entirely three-dimensional.
|
|
|
|
In the dinner queue of the Costa Azul, however, we were joined by Ron and Mary from Yorkshire. A little older and having arrived the week before, it was no surprise to hear a cautionary tale full of parental overtones.
“Nudists,” Mary finally pronounced, quietly and with difficulty. “And only just down the road from here.”
“Really?” we replied in chorus. Her husband grunted affirmatively. “Mind...” he added thoughtfully, “you can’t actually see anything from the road. They’ve got this heavy patrolling the entrance”.
The dear lady, her pink cardigan buttoned right up to her chin, nearly expired from embarrassment - the very idea that they might have been
|
|
|
|
|
|
actually looking. She was nearly pink all over.
“We were just out walking,” she interjected defensively. “The point is you wouldn’t want to take a wrong turn and actually, you know, end up there.”
“Oh no, you wouldn’t want to end up there,” reiterated her husband, all the time addressing Melissa’s cleavage.
We nodded dutifully.
Our new friends meant well but we parted company at the sweet table. Having judged what was naughty in this world they now, no doubt, needed to contemplate what was nice (and fattening).
We all have our vices.
Occasionally it is wiser to suffer the opinions of others than to mount the soapbox of one’s own, especially when so heavily outnumbered. Yet Costa Azul to Benalnatura is a journey not everyone is physically, or mentally, capable of making. I trust it was only my imagination then that made such a prison of ‘eleven floors. . . facing seawards’.
|
|
|
|
|
|
For those who do make the journey Benalnatura can become a sanctuary. Although not for all. There is a strict nudist-only policy. If you prefer to disrobe in easy stages, or reserve judgment until you’ve seen everyone else’s dangly bits, this may not be a sanctuary for you. Sightseers are discouraged. And naturally so because the clothed voyeur is far too familiar a figure on our beaches. Whether or not this is an infringement of personal freedom I cannot say, but the system works here. Furthermore, if you consider the agonies of indecision sometimes facing the novice naturist, isn’t it better having a beach with clearly defined policies? ‘Jumping in at the deep end’ has much to commend it to the newcomer and Benalnatura could be a very good place to start.
|
|
|
|
|
For us, we found sunshine, exercise, good company, and - with the money saved on car hire and expensive excursions - a fine Spanish guitar it has always been my ambition to own. However, Benalmadena is hardly a Mecca of Spanish culture or nightlife. Young families and the elderly are well catered for but the adventurous are rather less so. Still, if you’re looking for good weather, leisure and a few like-minded souls, there can be few better retreats two hours out of Gatwick (ignoring the coach trip).
Visit Benalnatura’s web site
|
|
