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.
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