So we browse the possibilities; the Esteponas and San Roques, the Sotograndes and La Lineas. We dismiss them out of hand as too “English”, or “touristy”, or “developed”. That’s my fault.
Just when we think there isn’t anywhere that can live up to our expectations, we chance upon a small town tucked away from all of the above, at the furthest tip of Spain. Next stop Africa; it’s a place renowned for having the highest suicide rate in the country and year round winds so strong, so unrelenting in their incessant cruelty that many, apparently, have been driven quite literally to despair.
Tarifa it is then.
The wind has made the town a magnet for kite surfers and extreme water sport enthusiasts, so there will be much for me to studiously avoid. This will be our stab.
The site may occasionally feature information that is useful (no guarantees) as well as stories and photography from the town of Tarifa. It may also, from time to time, be funny. No guarantees there either.
About me: I’m a writer and a photographer, as well as a teacher of English. I wasn’t any of these things till about a year ago when it finally dawned on me that I was, above all else, a malcontent, and that I’d better do something about it.
Dawned on us, I should say. You’ll be hearing a lot about K.
Her real name? None of your business.
A year on and I no longer classify myself as disillusioned, despite the poverty. So that’s progress, I suppose.
We take our next steps in Spain. A country with which I have a tenuous connection, having been taken there as a child for an extended stay. It was my parents’ stab at a new life that didn’t work out. We left before a year had passed, but good memories stick and I have found myself back there in recent years with K, falling for it again and she with me. Her too, I mean. I mean, she as well fell for it, also.
Practicalities. The adventure must unfold within the confines of commutability to Gibraltar. That’s K’s fault.
El Hammam The feathery touch of the late sun against worn sandstone blocks, almost physical, like a warm breath. In a plazuela to the side of the Iglesia San Dionisio, overlooked by a virgen in ceramics, K?s glass of water casting a long shadow and splitting the light into a colour spectrum on the arm of her ... Thu, 10 Apr 2014 08:58:07
Las Rutas Until the Arabs came, this was the end of the world. Everything to the west was monsters and mystery; everything to the south was sultry, secretive and uncivilised. To the Syrians and their Berber hordes it became a new frontier, and a potential route to the domination of Europe, but until that mome... Fri, 04 Apr 2014 09:30:52
La Intervención Very few of you, I imagine, will have enjoyed the depth of understanding, clarity of judgement or richness of insight that K and I have been enjoying recently with regard to the questions and quandaries of global geopolitics. Perhaps as few as none of you will have been able to appreciate, as we ha... Fri, 14 Mar 2014 08:47:31
La Magia I have written about Benarrabá before and about the spell it holds over us. Even by pueblo blanco standards, it is tiny, hidden from view at the end of a series of hairpin turns, a kilometre or so from the road that threads along the eastern side of the Genal Valley and ends up in […]... Tue, 04 Mar 2014 10:06:41
El Soborno ?If you annoy me in Ikea today,? says K ? we are on Calle Luna, a long pedestrian shopping street in El Puerto de Santa Maria that begins near the water where the tapas bars cluster along Calle Misericordia and ends in the Plaza de Juan Gavala, a little square of flower sellers ? ?I […]... Wed, 19 Feb 2014 10:27:33