Sand versus Barbate

Barbate, Spain, sits on a lovely beach of talcum-fine sand. The wind comes into the small bay, blowing directly off of the Atlantic Ocean. A long promenade separates the vacation apartments from the sandy beach. Here is where the locals do battle. It is a battle of Sand versus Barbate. A small army of local volunteers, armed with the tools of battle, attempt to fend off the invasion of the wind-blown sand.

Wherever there is a depression, a curb, a window sill, or a balcony three stories above the street, there is sand. The wind swirls the stuff into every imaginable crevice and cranny. Left untended, the metal window shutters will be coated in sand. Walking the promenade, I imagined the entire town buried five feet deep were it not for the valiant volunteers. The heavy lifting is done with specialized Sand-Scooper-Uppers. The SSUs are modified street sweepers, fitted with a scoop, a carrying bin, and a scraper arm. The bigger sand drifts are attacked with Bobcat mini-loaders. The rest of the work, the curbs, gutters, and the like, are cleaned with shovels, brooms, and big dustpans.

There are some things you simply are not allowed to do on the Barbate beach. No camping I understand. I see why fires would be a bad idea, and littering is always déclassé. I can tell you from direct experience that the local Spanish folk completely ignore the ban on dogs. I never saw a horse, so suppose that ban is respected. Why there would be a prohibition of showering ones canteen is beyond me. The same is true for throwing your racket. Why would that be a problem? It is a mystery to me.

A river runs through the town and out into the bay. There is band of silty water that is carried across the bay, out past the breakwater, and into the Atlantic. Deep blue water on the far side of the bay, green-blue water along the shore, and a lighter brown band through the center.

Along the river banks are the skeletons of tuna boats. In past times, tuna were fished with a combination of nets and hoisting. The tuna were corralled in a seine-type net. The fishermen worked from small wooden boats fitted with short masts. The masts were not for sails, but rather for hoisting blocks. The huge tuna were gaffed, and the gaff hook attached to a line. The gaff line was then swung through a block on the hoisting mast and the big tuna were winched into the boat.

Tuna boats from a bygone era.

Ii is still the off-season here, too cold for swimming, but not so cold that the locals aren't ready for the tourists. Our vacation apartment building was almost empty, but that will change. Atop the building, the pool is filled and ready. There is the blue of the pool, and the green-brown-blue of the bay.

Lunch is big meal here in southern Spain. There are a few places open, enough to feed the locals and a few stray tourists. The Menu Del Dia is the way to go a lunch. A first plate, a second plate, a dessert and a drink. Depending on the locale, this large lunch will set a traveler back 7-9 Euro. Today I went with the paella as a first plate. As always, there are olives and bread.

The second plate was pieces of pork loin, papas, and a big of veg. Dessert was flan, lovely eggy flan.

What does one do in an off-season beach town? Relax, enjoy a fantastic balcony, a lovely coffee, or a good cigar. Choose your poison, slow down, embrace the passing of time. There are walkabouts, real hikes, or hanging with the locals on the beach. If you simply must do something, I suppose one could help the volunteers battle the sand. 

I find that I am not the only one who enjoys a half-deserted beach town. I have gotten a good bit of feedback from folks since my last post. It seems that the charms of being one where there are normally many is not an uncommon joy. We will continue to enjoy our quiet hideaway. Tomorrow is a travel day. We have to flee the hordes of travelers that Semana Santos brings. It is the week of Easter holidays here in Spain. Schools are out and folks are on the move. Despite this being one of the coldest springs the locals can remember, hotel prices with double, and quiet little towns will become busy little towns. 

We are heading across the straits to Morocco, there to hide out with our Muslim brothers and sisters. But that is in the future and we are in the quiet present, the gloaming of the day on the Atlantic shore. From Barbate, Spain, remember to travel well, travel often, and Ciao for Now!