EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALMay 10, 1999
Balcón de Espana, near Tarifa
How to Save This Roadtrip
Andalusia’s pueblos blancos are the postcard picture of
Andalusia –a tiny white village affixed like barnacles to the side of an arid
hillside – the image we conjure in our collective imaginations – What Rural
Spain Might Look Like. Instead of settling on Andalusia’s plains where banditos ruled
and there was little protection from them, some Andalusians chose to settle in hilltop
villages – strategically fortified towns. The way of life in the pueblos blancos
– "white villages" so called because of their Moorish traditional whitewash
– hasn’t changed much for centuries, with inhabitants farming the surrounding
hillsides.
Rich and I have decided that his parents’ first trip to Spain
would not be complete without a tour of these little gems, tucked away in the mountains
that jut up from the coast, only a few kilometres inland from the Estrecho de Gibraltar
– less than 20 kilometres of water dividing Spain and Africa.
Vejer de la Frontera is a place with immaculate, hidden gardens hemmed
by narrow cobblestone alleyways. The whitewash is organic, in layers as old as the Middle
Ages, when the Moors fortified the city with outer walls. This is the place my twin James
spent Christmas in 1990. James then brought us here in January and we spent the night in
the Posada, one of Vejer’s two hotels, where we paid $35 for rooms overlooking the
plains surrounding the hilltop. I climb the stairs with Dick, remembering January, and the
delicious meal we had, and the friendly townspeople, and the glasses of anise. The
proprietor, a family man with a barking dog and children in tow, shakes his head at me.
"I’m sorry, we only a have a single tonight. We’re fully booked." He
takes us to the room, which is more of a closet. There’s a child-sized bed in it.
This won’t do for four adults, but we can’t go back to the car with this kind of
news. Gail’s prophecy could be true – a conference here in the pueblos blancos
– what could they be meeting about?
Vejer’s finest hotel brings on the gut-ache. It’s all
handmade tiles and exposed beams, echoing the pampered steps of happy guests. The girl
behind the desk could be your best friend, and she’s breaking it to us gently.
"Did you try the Posada?"
Now we’re driving away from the perfect pueblo blanco. No time to
look around, the accommodation problem must be solved before late afternoon. This weekend
there’s something very special happening in Jerez, just a few kilometres away.
It’s Gail’s conference – it’s the European Motorcycle Races –
Spain’s most popular motorcycle event of the year. The highway between Seville and
Cadiz is a video game. Thousands of motorcycle enthusiasts from all over Spain are
hurtling towards the race circuit. They’re clocking an average of 180 kms per hour.
So here we are taking our mosey drive through the pueblos blancos and
without hearing it, the motorcycle passes in the left-hand lane and disappears beyond the
horizon with a deafening roar. The riders are like fresh fruit encased in protective
packaging – leather suits – perched and holding on while the engine beneath them
invites death.
On top of this, people have gathered on the side of the highway to see
the thousands of motorcycles on their way to the circuit. All along the route, small
children waving flags, packs of girls, whole families and old people stand on the road
with drinks and crank their necks when the motorcycles fly by. It’s frightening to
drive between the slaloming riders and the shoulder of enthusiastic spectators.
There’s just on thing Rich’s father knew he wanted to see
when he came to Spain – Gibraltar. We’re on our way, and plan to visit the
British rock tomorrow. Dick ponders aloud. "Do I need my passport to enter
Gibraltar?" "Yes, Dad, did you leave it in Seville?"
It’s time for Rich to play the last card of the day: How To Save
This Roadtrip. We’ve been crawling for hours, tied up with the motorcycle traffic,
with still no hotel. We’ve reached the coast in fact, coming up on the windsurfing
capitol of Europe, Tarifa. The 8th century Moorish city is also the closest
point of land to Morocco, which is less than 20 kilometres away by ferry. The peaks of
North Africa’s Rif Mountains are lush and green in the distance, sprouting from
whitecaps and choppy Mediterranean.
The highway is coastal, running parallel to a long stretch of beach,
with hotels dotting the route. How far will we drive until we stop? These places are small
driveways with long, modern-looking buildings. Some are just bars and restaurants. Rich
cranks the wheel at the Balcony of Spain. He’s thinking, "Three Stars and
I’m going to save this baby". Dick and Gail are reconciled to the car. Rich and
I step into the lobby with no expectations.
The proprietor, a Dutchman, leads us through a large, formal dining
room with soft chesterfields and racks of wine. He says he’s been here for 30 years.
Some radically sunkissed Brits from Brighton are sipping Canasta Cream at the bar,
perusing ornithological material and discussing a day of successful birdwatching.
We’re standing directly beneath the migration route between Africa and Northern
Europe. This place is a gold mine, with thousands of species dawdling in lazy V’s, or
resting in the fragrant gardens of Southern Andalusia. The proprietor opens a door by the
bar, revealing something we could never have seen from the road: A sprawl of property,
landscaped into a botanical oasis, a swimming pool with an urn mounted at one end, gushing
water into an attached wading pool. There are cabanas and reclining chairs and a tennis
court. Beyond the palm trees and the jasmine and the succulent lion’s paw and
hibiscus, there are small bungalows, with gardens, large windows and patios. He opens the
door to a clean, sparse, tiled bedroom, another large bedroom and a modern, airy bathroom
in between. $120 for the bungalow. "We’ll take it."
