A Bimble around Fuerteventura

 

Inspired by a 'guidebook travelogue and wildlife guide' written by naturalist David Collins I booked a £40 flight from Birmingham to a desert island. Collins walked across Fuerteventura but I was going all inclusive, three square meals a day luxuriating in an icon of the late Franco Spanish tourism boom, built in the 1970's when the bikini saved Spain !  At a similar point in history Collins spent two years observing the behaviours of Houbara Bustards, an elusive avian with 'the most outrageous display of any bird outside the tropics'. His exploits document a romantic labour of love indicating much about the inquisitive and solitary nature of the British male species.  I'm sure he contributed to the evolution of ecological awareness that now sees the Houbara sitting proudly on signs indicating the Corralejo Dunes National Park. 

The Oliva Beach hotel complex was opened in the dunes of Corralejo in 1977 when tourism was about to transform the fortunes of Fuerteventurans as the name prophesied. I was inspired to follow in such esteemed ornithological footsteps but the only bustards I was to see were the greedy ones at the buffet.  

A fellow passenger called the island 'the rock' and on approach the landscape is a shock to the visitor from the frozen North.   Dune could have been conceived here as visions of giant worms emerging from dusty volcanic anthills added to the sense of arid majesty. Every shade of brown as far as the eye can see, sun blasted and desolate. The bus transfer offered no respite as the smooth asphalt cut through a moonscape that looked devoid of life. An abandoned yoga centre offered a splash of colour but suggested dreams came here to wilt in the heat. This was JCB heaven and they were making serious dents in the anthills as quarries pockmarked the interior. If you need building supplies then this was your island. 

It would not be the first place to choose as an eco haven and I thought I might fry on a bike. The idea of touring wild coves in a van bordered on holiday lunacy unless you were a recovering paratrooper.  This option is popular with extreme surfers searching for the source and the perfect wave in wild isolation. My original idea involved hiring a camper for 70 euros a day and litting out for the territories in the spirit of Collins' adventurous ramble. In calorific deficit from the early flight dosed only with Pringles I dozed, dreaming of laden tables of bustards bewitched to a dark gold.  I hoped that the savage beauty that hits the visitor initially was to reveal itself like a desert flower.  

The striking hotel Oliva can be seen for the air, eight storeys resplendent in a national park, with a pristine eight mile beach.  It is now an area of scientific importance due to the spectacular dune system blasted by the Saharan winds. It stands alone, a testament to the transformation of Spanish economy through tourism which Franco encouraged. El Cuadillo launched his revolucion from the Canaries, or so the story goes in these parts.  He was based here at the start of the conflict having been chief of staff, so the rules may have favoured developers enabling the desecration of this site of special scientific interest. Unthinkable now in modern Europe where the environment is protected, it certainly catches the eye. From space! It also provides employment for 400 people and houses half a million visitors a year. Fuerteventuran fortunes have progressed since a diet of Gofio, rolled balls of grains or pulses mixed with goat fat.  Membership of the EU and the draw of winter sun has provided a standard of living way beyond the dreams of those with long memories of Franco's regime. Although the Ministry for Ecological Transition have had their eyes on this monolithic carbuncle, tourist behemoths in modern Spain like the hotel chain RUI have considerable influence. Tourism is a key driver of the Spanish economy since 'the bikini saved Spain' and the country is a global superpower in the industry. A subject which Giles Tremlett outlines in his indispensable investigation into the country's hidden past which accompanied me in my journey. I enjoyed his golden nugget of information such as the fact Paris and London are the only places in Europe with more hotel rooms than Benidorm. 

Miles of windswept, pristine beach awaited anyone able to physically move after food coma induced by three square meals a day. I can understand the temptation to lie supine on a lounger by the pool spending just enough time in recovery to prepare for the next meal marathon. However, the beach was magnificent. Atlantic swells rolled in fortified over 100 kilometres which separates this outpost of Europe from Africa. The sun set spectacularly over Montana Roya and volcanic peaks to the west and dusk was a magical time as the light reflected the timeless topography and the shifting tones of colour.  Released from the tumult of the feeding compound the splendid isolation of this earthly outpost offered its embrace. 

 Fuerteventura is much older than other islands in Macronesia which includes the Canaries, the Azores Cape Verde and Madeira. Formed 20 million years ago, volcanic activity lasted for 8 million years; a real trial by fire. Volcanic cones and lava fields pockmark the landscape and vegetation is sparse. Rainfall is low and the burgeoning population, driven by tourism, relies on elaborate systems to desalinate the water. Despite appearing like Mars it consistently draws tourists looking for winter sun and basking in the barren beauty.  With a sense of awe I fortified myself with ready mixed cocktails, wine and beer from a tap and set forth to explore.  The sunset surfers provided a dramatic backdrop as the colours moved from blues to pinks to grey. As wintering plovers danced on the tideline I hoped I could capture the mesmeric glassy shifts in light in camera then just stopped and stared taking in the majesty of the moment.

 

 

There is no reason to eat that much expect it is free, compulsive and addictive. Feed the beast. Quite a feat to feed thousands at once and through the miasma of food fog there was good fare on offer.The initial tendency was to gorge and ten plates in accept defeat. Island highlights included fresh fried fish, a variety of goat's  cheese and a sticky goat stew in memory of the time when these fascinating animals outnumbered people on the island. In another life I would be a lean shepherd tending my flock and wandering the earth. I would guide goats over geese or less noble beasts. A goat has character and character goes a long way, as does the Billy goat's fragrance. The picturesque windbreaks that dot the beach mimic the design of shelters for the goats that once outnumbered humans on the island. They offer respite from the onshore wind and were usually inhabited when one peeped in and a favourite haunt of the naturist. Some images remain burned into the retina and put me off the German sausage at lunch. 

The Saharan wind is relentless but warm and draws kite surfers to this area. Elaborate kit is required but the thrill and adrenalin rush is worth the palaver. Extreme sports are always pushing the envelope and refining the rush. Windsurfing is the more sedate predecessor to these audacious leaps and flights of fancy that mesmerise spectators and the island has different spots for each variety of watersport. Oddly the centre of this surf culture is the more bohemian influenced town of Lajares up in the mountains. 

I was on my third day of fat camp. Eat, sleep, repeat and retreat to my time capsule. Buddha in my boudoir. I decided I needed to burn some calories and hit the road. 

A Bimble round Ramsgate

Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness led to Kent; the garden of England, gateway to the UK and most splendid in Autumn. Through rose tinted glasses I still believed in the mythology of merry olde England which provides a romantic vision of charmant 'Cinque Ports',  a mighty cathedral city of Canterbury, bucolic harvests of hops and fruit and Chaucer's tales.  My own ageing photographs of russet apples and golden pumpkins raise a glow in the mind's eye. As November draws near and another season passes, I yearn for some of them apples and head to the far east. 

Ramsgate is betwixt and between.  On the cusp? The next big thing?  Faded grandeur or bright future ? It finds itself coping with the vicissitudes of modern life on the extreme frontier of this sceptred isle.  Facing our European comrades/ adversaries it copes with the slings and arrows with unheralded aplomb.

The paradox of a positive reverie and the reality was immediately evident in the Royal Harbour.  Rumours of a renaissance abound as London life in smart boxes loses its allure in times of epidemic. Ozone and sunshine seem a better option particularly if you can take a treasure chest courtesy of a chink of capital real estate. Downsizers were funking up the town and re-evaluating its fading splendour.

The impressive waterfront attraction of a huge Wetherspoon is less a statement of intent than a reminder of the paradox. Gentrification needs a purpose and an audience or it is just a series of white elephants.

The attempt to rebrand extended to my fish and chips and I was suckered as the intriguingly named and engagingly priced 'Saithe' turned out to be Pollack. A fine fish if eaten fresh from the sea but mushy as peas and grey after a few hours in the chippy bucket. In Cod we trust, all others are as dust. 

Ramsgate's fine strip of beach that once hosted Merrieland is now blighted by new waterfront apartments dominating a prime position.

Cheap construction will ensure this get rich quick scheme will fade to match similar discoloured carbuncles that litter this coastline. The seagulls are already making their protests clear.

The new development pales in comparison with the grand crescent of mansions in East Cliff above. An Edwardian lift can take the nouveau riche up to see the Regency splendour they could have bought for half their money. 

 The waterfront reminded me of classic British seaside towns like Scarborough when town planners had vision built to last.

The harbour is magnificent in its prized position on the East coast hosting one of the few marinas available; a haven from the dangers of the Goodwin Sands, graveyard of many a sailor.

These fabled shallows host intrepid cricketers during summer months, pitching up until tides stop play. These are the shores that Joseph Conrad compared to other foreboding estuaries that emanated a heart of darkness and a primal fear. 

'The sea and the sky were welded together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness.'

As Marlow leaves the estuarine Thames and rests at anchor, on the cruising yawl, Nellie, he remarks that differences in geography are purely psychological and the the darkness of colonial rule is the real harbinger of doom. Colonial Europeans plundering Africa are compared to those who colonised the south eastern coast of Britain for centuries. I wonder what Conrad would make of Brexit. 

 'They were conquerors, and for that you want only brute force-- nothing to boast of, when you have it, since your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others. They grabbed what they could get for the sake of what was to be got. It was just robbery with violence, aggravated murder on a great scale, and men going at it blind--as is very proper for those who tackle a darkness.' 

The Goodwin sandbanks remind the unwary of our island's historical and geographical links to the mainland of Europe. The paradoxes of Ramsgate are repeated around seaside towns in the UK as many signs of 'nearly there' kept popping up which hopefully will not remain 'could have beens'.  Activity in the harbour erupted when a siren went off and lifeboat crew launched into action, a reminder of Ramsgate's vantage on the front-line. 

Border Force ships stood guard as still waters encouraged boats and kayaks full of the desperate dreams of the promised land.  Sales of blow up vessels had been banned in Decathlon in Calais but this human tragedy was a political time bomb. Macron could be sunk when they discover French authorities turning a bind eye to the human traffic in the face of British intransigence. The boats are leaving French shores so the onus is on the French and Belgians to stop the crossings before they take the hazardous journey. It will end in tears for the French as they are a disaster away from worldwide scrutiny. The British will say it is their brave lifeboat crews who are saving lives and the narrative will drive the focus on reducing migration and asylum, and increasing isolation from Europe. 

The RNLI were launching as I guiltily sipped a latte observing the human drama. It seemed unfair to expect local working people to drop everything to respond. Expecting charity and volunteers to deal with an international crisis suggests a real lack of ideas or will to confront the brutal reality of this deadly transit. The figure of 999 crossings in a day suggests political promises falling short on all sides of the Channel. 

There seem to be a lot of culprits from French incalcitrance,  ruthless people smugglers, Putin employing human migration as a political tool to cow Europe but it is Ramsgate that bears the daily struggle to save lives at sea.  The harbour is now primed for this activity as saving and processing thousands of undocumented arrivals has become a new industry in the Cinque Ports. 

Local knowledge was to be found in a boutique hotel above the harbour and favoured haunt of a young Queen Victoria. The Albion sits squat against the winds of change and provides a symbol of the possibilities of regeneration. Restored to former glory the drawing rooms wing backed chairs and bay windows provide a vantage point for prospective optimists. 

A delicate balance is the new norm in coastal towns across the UK as the effect of the housing boom follows its inevitable course.  New tribes of aspirational migrants and wealthy city escapees rub up against the legacy of sink estates and the increasing needs of an ageing population.  'There are a lot of us coming down here,' suggested a thriving influx of young Londoners with ideas, energy and skills willing to take the plunge. Resistance is always found, 'they are taking our jobs and nice big houses!' 

Like other seaside towns they forgot to close down, Ramsgate finds itself unnervingly in the '10% most deprived' category.  Socio-economic issues are not immediately apparent amidst the Royal Harbour and 450 listed buildings, parks and shipwrecks.  The town centre symbolises this dilemma as the town could either rot and fade or welcome the entrepreneurial spirit of independent pioneers of a nation of shopkeepers gallantly resurrecting a doomed model against formidable odds and business rates. There is always someone else to blame but Ramsgate has the space and needs this new energy to capitalise on its remarkable advantages.

Ramsgate is a captive of its geography and as the first landfall from Europe it was heavily bombed in both wars.  The legacy of war is evident in the martial air of enduring military tourism. A Spitfire museum is located at Manston airport which was once touted as a solution to the Heathrow conundrum. It has been a  money pit for prospective gold diggers and money launderers as various Ponzi schemes cash in on its fortuitous location,  a long runway and proximity to London. The tunnels are an incredible testament to the practicality and will of a community under siege. They allowed thousands of people to find refuge from the persistent raids. Luftwaffe would often drop their cargo on their return to the continent. 

Three miles of tunnel were originally built in 1863 linking rail routes, through the chalk to the harbour. Victorian engineering feats seem unimaginable and it is a wonder that an underground railway exists at all, once running to Broadstairs in one direction and the main Ramsgate station in the other.  The physical obstacles such as chalk hills and a steep gradient would defy most and necessity cannot be cited as the mother of invention when a perfectly good route found terminus from London in the centre of town. Closed in 1926 it found its true worth as a vital sanctuary from the carnage above as German bombers blitzed the area.

Deep shelter tunnels provided an alternative existence and no doubt saved many lives. The tunnels hosted a tourist railway until 1965, reminding holiday makers of the golden age of Victorian construction. The same  engineers would follow their whims and invest in sheer bloody minded British endeavours around the world. No doubt the patronage of Queen Victoria, who would convalesce in the Albion Hotel overlooking the harbour, and the designation of a Royal Harbour drove this ambitious folly. After decades of neglect a significant section was re-opened in 2014 and revealed this awe inspiring subterranean wonder.   

Ramsgate's size and potential is clear but there remains a sense that this has not been realised or that the sturdy Cinque Port is still slightly forgotten on the extreme eastern shore. It rests until desperately needed in times of crisis, as the community waits to respond in time honoured fashion; captives of the wild frontier. An injection of a post Brexit or post Covid something may provide the necessary catalyst to let the good times roll. Maybe the newly minted London fringe can inject the spark it needs. 

A Bimble round Herne Bay

Pilgrims on the trail to Canterbury can move inland across the Kent marshes but sticking to this stretch of coast offers a fascinating walker's pilgrimage along the Oyster Coast. A noticeably balmy climate lures autumnal bathers eponymously named 'bluetits' as the Thames estuary opens out toward Europe. 

Sat amongst the colourful and ubiquitous beach huts I tracked the marine traffic online as monster container ships navigated the distant wind farms dotting the horizon.  Bulk cargo ships, like Dream Power on its way from Hay Point in the Australian Coral Sea, cruised under the flags of Liberia, Panama and the Marshall Islands.  Ports rang with the promise of adventures beyond the steel gray horizon; Zeebrugge, Dieppe, Hook of Holland, Le Havre. A modern take on Masefield's Cargoes 'Quinquereme of Nineveh from distant Ophia', these vessels offer a passage to explore the wide blue unknown.

Wistful reveries draw the eye to an odd blot on the horizon in the shallows of Herne Bay.  The remnant of the end of the pier lingers unfathomably offshore. The existing pier reaches out as defiantly as the local high street, trying to resist signs of the inevitable march of decline. Community spirit never fails to signal the British spirit of overcoming obstacles to their indomitable entrepreneurship. Optimistic enterprises stubbornly inhabit kiosks on the pier defying the vagaries of the weather and the inconstancy of tourism. 

Bakeries and breweries are always on the bimbler's list as they signify the passion and creativity of local independent industry keeping the home fires burning. The term 'artisan' has become a bit worn and rusty with connotations of hipsterdom and is unfair mockery of underrated skill and serious graft. The proof is in the pudding as only something made with care and attention could taste this good. A cinnamon bun and a focaccia had me dreaming of my own bakery for the rest of the walk, named 'The Daily Loaf'. By Whitstable I had decided on decor and a menu.

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This spirit of defiance finds it symbol in Amy Johnson who flew her Gipsy Moth aircraft called 'Jason' on a solo flight from the UK to Australia in 1930. For a decade Johnson captivated the press with her record breaking exploits to Moscow New York South Africa and beyond.   Defying patriarchal convention and living life in the jet stream she became an inspiration for women, in particular, whose roles were to change forever in the forthcoming war.  On a cold and stormy January day in 1941 Johnson was relocating an RAF aircraft from Glasgow to Oxford when she got blown off course and found herself over the frigid, grey waters of Herne Bay. Whether it was friendly fire or abject conditions that brought her plane down is contentious but the inhospitable English Channel in winter became her final destination.

I decided to salute Amy in time honoured fashion with a pint of Kentish best.

Fortified, I pushed on to the holy grail of Whitstable which had actualised as a destination. I heeded the call of boutique charity shops, delis and oyster shacks and headed along a coast protected from the vagaries of erosion and rising seas by a concrete wall and more aesthetic wooden groynes.

 Hundreds of extremely well appointed beach huts in excellent repair vy with hut envy. The game was to choose which one to inhabit.  Betty Blue would have field day painting these beauties, each with a considered, unique shade or with a seaside postcard chic mural of Kentish graffiti.

Interlopers to the house party in the form of camping pods were less appealing, set on concrete bases in orderly form, like a campsite for military enthusiasts. Small campsites seem to be disappearing in favour of  homogenous erections and the great static caravan takeover.  I'm yet to see celebrities on holiday in one  despite all the walking and barging on TV.  Clarkson in a static in Skeggy maybe.   It would be difficult to wander the coast with a backpack unless you were happy to rough it on the beach or in the dunes for a few nights. Increasingly site owners feel it is not worth catering to the cheaper end of the camping market when folk will fork out £70 quid a night for a shed.

I quite fancy a night in one of these sheds though listening to the shoreline shingle. 

A highlight of the day is always the sunset in the West which means a good half hour finding the elusive perfect shot. One day !