Ian and I deliberated over whether to relax on the Spanish coast, or make the effort to travel across the sea to Morocco. Morocco was ahead until it became clear that Tangier is considered an absolute mess, so if we were going to make the effort, we’d want to get down to Fez. This added a lot of extra travel time, so in the end we decided to make the most of the last of the Spanish sun and relax on the beach, rather than spend our days off in transit, with the odd awesome Moroccan experience as punctuation. I was also a bit worried about getting sick and missing the start of my flamenco dancing course the following Monday.
We ended up going all-out lazy tourist, staying in a resort on a beach near La Barrosa, just past Cadiz. We spent days mooching happily around our cardboard-cut-out apartment, travelling to a charming town called Conil de la Frontera when we craved Spanish culture. The resort-ville where we stayed, with a multitude of roundabouts and wide roads designed for cars not horses, made us realise we’re going to miss the closeness of Spanish life when we go back to Australia.
The beach, reputedly one of the best in Spain, also reminded me of Australia. Flanked by sand dunes marked for conservation, the beach stretched to the horizon, white sand nearly as soft as flour. Small, crisp waves rolled in. We bodysurfed contentedly. I could have been at home.
4 Comments so far
Leave a comment