Isla Plana is a peaceful little resort town tucked away in a quiet little corner of the Golf of Mazarron just south of Cabo Tinosa and the ancient port town of Cartagena.
The coastal plain and the bay is backed by rugged mountains of many hued mineral deposits and scrub and stunted trees that clinging tenuously to every eroded terrace and crevice. The plain is covered with white meshed greenhouses, which are a stark contrast to the kaleidoscope of colours of the nearby hills. The mountains and the surrounding landscape has been warped and twisted over eons to such and extent that much of the sedimentary mountainside strata is almost vertical. Red, brown, orange and yellow bands streak the hillsides and here and there slivery seams of shale glisten in the noonday sunshine. The twisted landscape overlooks a shallow bay that is of outstanding beauty. White washed houses cluster in the lee of the hillside with the lower level spreading around the curve of the bay. The water is warm and crystal clear, the sky is bright and cloudless and the sea is azure blue. Palm trees line the beachfront boulevard and at random intervals along the shore beach bars, restaurants and cafes provide shade and refreshments from the heat of the sun.
This part of the Spanish coast has avoided the over-commercialisation of the Costa del Sol and to a large extent has kept its charm. It has not however avoided the economic woes of the rest of the country. Half finished property developments abound and most of the rental and investment accommodation is dormant. There is even a recently completed Hotel Resort lying empty – cyclone wire surrounds it like a wall of thorns with the sleeping princess within waiting for the wakening kiss of the economic recovery. A kiss that will be a long time coming. This is the peril one faces when an entire socio-economic-political system lives in a fairytale.
We took the buss across the coastal range to the “big smoke” - Car-ta-hay-na. Margie wanted to see it because she remembered the name from the movie Romancing the Stone, only the Cartagena in the movie is the Colombian namesake. It was another Madrid moment. Whatever glory, prestige and beauty it had in the past has been worn away over time like the crumbling ruins that overlook the harbour. Its ancient past has withered to dust, its moorish past has been reused and its colonial architectures is nought but cracked and broken brickwork and faded and peeling paint. Some of the building are empty shells propped up by scaffolding like movie facades - echoes of what was once a great city but now in decay.
We left it to its future fate and headed north and inland where we skirted Mercia and spurned the coast of the Costa Blanca with it high-rise apartments and British enclaves like Benidorm full of wannabe reality TV stars. We stayed just south of the Valencia near the small seaside town of El Saler. The flats behind the coast here have been turned into what looks like something from the Mekong Delta. Rice paddies stretch as far as the eye can see on both sides of the road. The only thing missing was the tanned Asian farmer ankle deep in mud with a conical straw hat shading him from the sun. Well this is the home of Paella. We are constantly amazed at what the Spanish have done agriculturally in such a barren landscape. Unfortunately Australian isn't learning any of it.
Valencia is a jewel. It's like Seville on the Mediterranean. There are wide shaded streets with palms and orange trees lining the pavement. The architecture is outstanding both classic and modern. The city centre is a maze of pedestrian streets and alleys lined with typical classical buildings with their shuttered windows and wrought iron balconies. Below at pavement level the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Familiar storefronts line either side of the street with the centre given over to pavement cafes and bars. The plazas are broad and lined with palms and fountains, and here and there along the route an ancient tower protrudes above the buildings, a medieval church shares the street with classic buildings and then just around the corner the central market, a masterpiece of wrought iron, glass and stone. This city is breathtaking.
The dried up river that once surrounded most of the city has been drained, levelled and turned into parkland. One can walk or bicycle around the city along pathways lined with, and beneath canopies of, botanical variety and shaded splendour. The focal point of this river of greenery is the modern architectural marvel that is the Museum of Arts and Science, the Oceanarium and Hemisphere – an audio-visual experience. It glistens white and modern in the sunshine and is a perfect contrast to the riband of natural beauty it overlooks. The city we could never remember is now one we will never forget.
We are now in the seaside town of Benicassim on the Costa Del Azahar. The nights are getting cooler as we move further north. The days are still sunny and mostly cloudless. It is hard to get used to the sun setting so late here. It is still light at 9:30 – and we're in Spain.
Today we rode our bikes along the Via Verde. When the Spanish modernised their rail infrastructure in the heydays of the EU's spending spree much of the old rail lines were torn up and new lines created and placed in more advantageous locations. The old line that wound its way along the coast and through the centre of the seaside villages has been turned into a Green Road. The old shingle ballast has been paved over and turned into a bike and walking track. The road isn't green at all. The name stems from the fact that virtually every dedicated bike path created in the last ten years everywhere in the world is painted green. Worldwide it's local and state government's arse kissing to the enviro-mentally challenged.
This one winds along the coast passing through fifty foot cuttings, across bridges over defiles and dry riverbeds and through the old railway tunnels. The ride offers outstanding views of the coast and rugged hills that overlook it. The Mediterranean laps against the sheer rocky shore between coastal fishing villages that are almost hidden. Tiny sandy crescents where buildings crowd around a palm lined shore or cluster around a small protected harbours. These were once just whistle stop on the coastal rail journey to somewhere bigger and more populated. Now they are served by a modern rail network that has bought a new prosperity. The only fishing done now is for new ways to relieve gullible tourist of their spending money.
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