The Good, the Bad and the Stunning!

Who can forget one of the greatest cinema showdowns of all-time? Three gunslingers circle a graveyard in a desolate landscape where the music of Ennio Morricone fires an unbearable tension. There’s no dialogue, just a triangle of impossible choice. A trumpet forces the chorus higher as drums and sunshine pound faces into fierce squints, hands edge toward guns, strangers in the Mexican desert drawing pistols over stolen gold. But it was never Mexico; the backdrop to the ultimate western was Cabo de Gata, the south eastern corner of Spain.

Hauntingly beautiful, its mix of volcanoes, lava and sea embraces one of the few remaining paradises the Iberian Peninsula has to offer. UNESCO declared it a Biosphere reserve in 1997, unique in Western Europe with its arid terrain bordering a rich marine zone. Sand dunes, salt marshes and seagrass beds collude to make Parque Natural Cabo de Gata-Nijar, once a movie location, now a star in its own right.

Although close to the city of Almeria you could almost be on the moon. Craters flanked by naked rock greet the Mediterranean in a fanfare of cliffs, several hundred metres high. Rivers run with sand. Forever lost or sunk for cover, their rumours murmur relief upon a coastline of secluded bays where lives have depended on the sea for generations. But tourists are the new catch, their concrete nets already choking the coves and permanently changing these shores.

Mostly of sun-kissed sand, Cabo de Gata’s beaches fill with Spanish tourists during summer months while the rest of the year you have them to yourself. Remote and laid-back they offer opportunity for exposing parts unaccustomed to sunshine when those with bathers can find themselves in the conspicuous minority. Like the octopuses, sponges and fish varieties inhabiting the marine park beyond, it’s best to go with the flow.

Divers too, plumb these depths which reveals a world of wrecks and caves, of reefs and cliffs, where Nature paints her raucous colours on scaly backs and feathered hedges, where names fall short and description shorter still, beneath its steely surface. Across to Africa, and back, views stretch and rebound, frontier or fortress depending on your aspect while by night and day, the coastal path guides travellers of very different kinds.

For sixty kilometres, it skirts this wild shore, from the village of Agua Amarga, more sweet than bitter, to San Jose in the south; imagine if you gave Blackpool a decent beach and plonked it on Mars. However, the trail hugged the park’s least accessible parts and returning to civilisation as the day closes, you realised you were dragging your feet, not through exhaustion, but an unwillingness to leave an alien landscape which draws and menaces in equal measure.

A sierra where the struggle for moisture was almost audible, thyme, rosemary and esparto grass sheltered colonies of lizards and vipers. Native palms lucked birds of prey an advantage as ospreys, kestrels and eagles glared at the desert for take-away. Only those unwrapped, greased-up humans, taking the rays on Cala de Enmedio were not on the menu, roasting on their pristine spit of sand, between bleached cliffs, they appeared oblivious to their surroundings and the wind that drove us southwards.

We climbed again, to be greeted by swallows in their hundreds. Swooping and screaming, they scattered out over the sea and left us to our senses. Thoughts churned as Miguel Hernandez rhymed – “Ausente, ausente, ausente como la golondrina, ave estival que esquiva vivir al pie de hielo” – “Gone, gone, gone like the swallow, summer bird that flees a life touched by frost”. But in summer, heat drove us on as it always does.

Until San Pedro far below nestled in its neat horseshoe. Steep sides guarded forests of agaves, the only meadow green for miles. A castle loomed with authority where I sensed the presence of treasure and a motley crew. The only piece missed, the galleon set for sail under skull and crossbones having stowed its bounty from a lost pirate world.

Unfortunately, reality was as convulsive as the descent. The castle lay ruined, the treasure a natural spring and hippies mooched where once pirates had prowled. They were a poor imitation; more intent on pillaging themselves where branded sun-glasses betrayed any claim to an alternative. It was a different kettle of fish in the sixteenth century. Expelled from their homeland of nine hundred years following the Spanish re-conquest, the moors sacked the coast of Cabo de Gata as the border between the great religions returned to the waves. The Christians responded by building armadas and a chain of watchtowers which are still visible on the cliffs today.

Inland, the remnants of the mining industry are evident too. From the Romans through the ages this volcanic strip has yielded a wealth of precious metals. Discovering gold in 1915 put Rodalquilar on the map. And worse than pirates, it’s whirlwind of expectation continues to pervade dusty streets. Houses left decay in desert heat, communities glued and trapped by the mould of need and desire; such contradictions of rural life which inspired a generation of Spanish literature still stain these white-washed walls.

The poet Federico Garcia Lorca too tapped this rich seam. His famous play Blood Wedding written in 1932 was based on local tragedy in which a community is ripped apart. Lust and passion conflicted with the morals of the day and a celebration meant to unite a village ends in death and despair. More than recollection, Lorca’s work reflects society as something wondrous in the universe but when its rules and obligations demand the destruction of individual members then they must be contested and overthrown.

At the core of the unhappiness was prosperity and status. The bridegroom forsakes love for economic security and in so doing condemns herself and the community. As inevitable as Romeo and Juliet, her final rebellion exposed a socially conservative Spain where women were mere possessions and divorce illegal. Ironically, Lorca’s fate too tied him to a bloody finality when murdered four years later by Franco’s troops for similar criticisms.

Today, the economic future is again consuming communities. In a bar in Rodalquilar, there was talk of a hotel chain taking over the disused mine and the surrounding land. Another suggestion of a golf course triggered fierce debate over water reserves in one of the driest regions of Europe. National park status may mean development has tighter controls but when every ruin carries a telephone number and for sale sign maybe it’s just a matter of time before Cabo de Gata becomes another Torremolinos.

Back on the cliff-top, stunning vistas delayed our fears. A cove of sugar-cubes marked the hamlet of La Isleta del Moro. Straddling a rocky spur pointing toward Morocco it seemed untouched by modern development. Fishing nets hung in the sun while oversized men intent on exercise plucked them like manic harpists angry at the world. Womenfolk beat upon sheets and sails in the communal washhouse as water whooshed over rocks keeping their orchestra in time to the rhythm of the sea.

Fresh sea-bass and snapper landed on the doorstep fuelled the kitchen of the local Hostal which by all accounts deserved its fine reputation. So too, pacharan, a traditional liqueur failed to dissuade us from our morning dip. Averaging three swims a day we developed a beach grading system based on sand, water and quality of surroundings; little did we know we’d saved the best until last.

All boots and backpacks, we surprised the holidaymakers of San Jose. Like foreigners landed from another world, they stared at us and after three days of wilderness their bikinis and shorts didn’t look all that normal either, so we stared right back. Beyond its concrete shadow, we advanced again, skirting the promontory’s track until the beach of the Genoveses unfurled a kilometre of sandy perfection. We overstayed our welcome.

And soon we were scurrying up dormant volcanoes again. Finally we reached the viewing platform over the rocks known as Las Sirenas (the mermaids) for sunset. Waves flashed rainbows of hope in the dying light, the same hope that led tired sailors imagine seals here as women, the same hope that leads immigrants risk their lives to seek a better life upon these shores.

There was no music as we watched those slim boats pass the headland, low in the water. Neither could I look away, nor blame imagination. Packed tight in their fear, I hoped they made it. Strangers, for very different reasons, we both viewed this desolate landscape as paradise and I wondered why they must walk their path in darkness!