The good travelling friends have long since returned home. Gratitude opens your eyes. Magic cannot be planned. It happens. After five hours, I arrive in Almeria. Check-in in a pitch-black, air-conditioned high-rise flat behind three closed doors per metre of corridor. It smells of incense sticks, and even on the second contact, the dense landlord can barely find his trousers behind the door.
Off to the first beach, Costacabana, a cruel urbanisation in the middle of nowhere before the airport. The wind is right. The only family on the beach helps with the take-off. Three young daughters comment on every jump, no matter how small, with euphoric cheers. It intensifies as I pull each kite through the water individually. Even the dad with a huge gap in his teeth wants to join in. All the daughters want an autograph, with Herzerl, “my best friend”, on a stone, and the warmth of remote Philippine islands drifts by on the coast.
The next morning, a mining engineer travelling with us talks about history. The living ghost town of La Union lies 20,000 miles behind the structural change. Mining left behind hundreds of abandoned mines in the glowing sierra. They decay quietly, rusting in the bright Andalusian sun. I sneak in, up, down, smelling the mould, the lime, the old coal and the iron. I climb mountains, slide down shafts and fall into ruined huts.
In the loveless centre, a plastic bag blows through empty streets. An old mutt looks up briefly – and defines the highlight of the day. On the bench next to it, three half-asleep grandpas lean against each other. Below them, a few empty cans of cheap Spanish beer. The only open kebab shop is selling its belongings for nothing, completely unaware that it is not a shack but a hall. Everything is empty and the owners are long gone.
No one tells you what to discover. No book writes about attractions to visit. No one talks about beauty, and Bukowski limps around every corner with a heavy heart. There is absolutely no reason to love this place. Which is exactly why I do. It smells of candy floss, smoke and spilt beer.
Even before sunrise, a good wind is blowing on Spain’s largest lagoon. I cycle through deserted settlements full of closed shops with the name “Esperanza”. A strolling pensioner looks after my car with irritation. The wind nibbles modestly at my minimal needs from below. The urbanisation shines quietly in the light of the rising sun. It has already fulfilled its annual target by mid-September. Winter is coming. I fail to buy a winter jacket at the nearest Decathlon.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.