I first headed down to the seafront to see what the town had to offer, having not explored yesterday, and found another glorious beach of soft sand and blue waters. Then it was time to set off to Tarifa. My navigation app encouragingly suggested that I would arrive there by one in the afternoon yet I still found myself entering the city centre at about five. Even taking into account the hour I spent on an exposed hillside disentangling my chain from my gears after things went a bit wrong it was still a longer day than I had hoped. It's not so much that I am tired should I arrive late afternoon (although the heat of the afternoon sun is proving wearing) but more that I find myself with no relaxation time and rushing straight into the post-cycling necessities of the day.
As I cycled towards Tarifa I was struck again by how this area has not sold its soul to tourism. I cycled from small town to small town, none of them built up or too modern, but in between it was a land of sand dunes and agriculture and forests of stone pine. There were a few headlands to cross, steep climbs that offered views along the coast, azure seas with many sandy coves but few people. It is a different coastline to the one I imagine I will see in only a few days time.
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There were other things that stick in my mind from today: the rotting hulks on the river banks at Barbate, evidence of a now forgotten living based on catching tuna; the long stretches of smooth cycle way that covered large parts of the journey and especially the undulating section around the headland to Zahara, blocked with regular barriers and signs prohibiting use but still occupied by a stream of Spanish cyclists who simply moved them aside; tiny Zahara itself, all bars and restaurants and all heaving with the weekend lunch crowd forcing me to look elsewhere for a break; and the less comfortable tracks, dotted with smooth craters that were hard to see, uncomfortable to ride over and which slowed me down as I slowly manoeuvred my way around them.
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| Barbate |
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| Barbate |
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| Barbate |
From a distance Tarifa looked like a small and unassuming town settled onto a headland jutting into the sea. The water around seemed alive with coloured dots, like the silent swarming of bright flies. It took a moment for me to realise I was watching kite surfers weaving around at speed and in such numbers I’m surprised they did not hit. Kite surfing is a big thing in Tarifa, the sea and the constant wind that had accompanied me all day - a wind that made that of previous days seem relatively insignificant - providing the key ingredients to make the place a Mecca for the sport.
I found Tarifa as unassuming as it appeared from a distance: a small place of mostly small, quiet streets. I fell in with Erik, a young American photographer, and we ate in the busy old Tarifa centre, streets full of cafes, restaurants and foreign voices. It was a little more upmarket than the laid back, bohemian feel of the area nearer the beach but still very relaxed nonetheless. After tapas and good wine I headed back to the accommodation leaving Erik to explore and with promises to meet when he is in Britain next month. Tomorrow I have to cross the large headland between here and Algeciras and as yet I am undecided as to whether to use the road or the longer and no doubt more demanding EuroVelo 8 route. It is a decision I plan to sleep on.
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| Road to Traifa |
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| Tarifa |
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