Mountains down to the Sea

The Mediterranean is only about 40 minutes away from Lanjarón, it appears, if you go directly. So, before moving more deeply into the mountains, if I wanted to take another last look at the sea, it seemed prudent to go today.

So I hopped on the 8:00 am bus, before breakfast. Ah, but the bus does not go directly; it first meanders over to another mountain town, Órgiva, before going South to the sea. Instead of taking the superhighway, we took little mountain roads, and the journey lasted an hour and 15 minutes. Here are a couple of views through the window of the bus:

This is the Rio Guadalfeo, big as a lake because it's dammed just below this point. 

We make "S" curves through the mountains, through pine trees.

One moment we're up in the piney mountains, and the next we're down in palm trees, as suddenly as that. 

The city of Motril is NOT on the tourist agenda. Across from the bus station, I see this remarkable travel shop — the only photo I took in town:

Naturally, I went inside to inquire. It costs 80 Euro to get from Bucharest to Motril by bus. I failed to ask how many days that would take. Nor did I ask about the price of a trip to Warsaw.

A quick trip in a local city bus and I was at the seashore. The first thing I notice is the bike path, running parallel to the shore, between the beach and the road. Very nice. Two bicyclists passed, and then no one at all. I wished I knew where to rent a bike!

And then.... the beach. It was gray. Gray sand. Sun hiding behind clouds. One couple walking two dogs.

And then they left and there was nobody. 

Nobody to the west.

Nobody to the east.

My plan had been to eat some good fish, fresh from the sea. I remembered the Huachinango a la Veracruzana I had in Tampico in 1977, one of the most memorable meals of my lifetime, there on the beach in a little shack of a restaurant, on the edge of an ugly city, oil slick on the sand. Alas, it was too early in the morning today. There were restaurants on this beach, but they would not open for another two hours. I picked up a few pebbles, said goodbye to the sea, promised Morocco I'd get there some day, and headed back to the mountains.

Back at the bus station, an elderly woman at least my age fretted around our bus, worrying if it was the right bus. You can see her here. She had auburn hair.

I mention her hair. On the bus coming down, there were seven passengers, every one of us at least age 70. Five of the seven had auburn hair. They were all women. I looked for gray roots. Nope. Plenty wrinkles, no gray hair. Is this a local genetic trait? Or do they all visit their hairdresser regularly?

The bus ride back up was as glorious as the ride down.

I like Lanjarón. There's a sweetness here. Maybe it's the water. Most of the tourists — and there are not many — appear to be elderly and Spanish. People come here for the baths, for the cure. This lovely sculpture in the center of town seems to capture it:

Tomorrow I'll be moving on to Pampaneira, higher up into the mountains. Lonely Planet suggests I may have to hike to the next town to check my e-mail, so there may be a break of a few days before the next blog post. Happy Halloween!