Sorry, boss, but I’m scared. Well, why use euphemisms: I screwed up alive. It has been to see the road to go up to Las Alpujarras (sinuous, twisted in a thousand curves and hanging over a ravine) and my little lerenda has said that no, that neither crazy, that she does not pass there in ‘La Temblorosa’, that my Santo is still getting the hang of it and that we are not willing to risk our lives for ‘verité’ journalism. That’s what happens when, instead of sending a race reporter, you send a mindundi.
I haven’t always been this coward, for the record. At 14 I bathed in the Amazon among piranhas and alligators, at 16 I went paragliding and at 17 I went out with a guy so ugly that he would make a goat vomit. One was brave until she stopped being brave and became an old lady with vertigo. So, with all the pain in my heart, we have had to change plans and forget about the Alpujarra dish, the Trevélez ham and the Buddhist Retreat Center. The latter worries me especially: I wonder if I have not missed the possibility that my son was the reincarnation of some lama. Since he is not going to marry Princess Eleanor, something will have to be done with the boy.
We head towards the interior of Granada, to the Los Bermejales reservoir, located in the upper reaches of the Cacín river. In its waters the profile of the surrounding mountains is reflected. After settling in the campsite, and fascinated by the azure blue that we have seen from the road, we cycle around the perimeter of the swamp, protected from the suffocating heat by the surrounding pine trees and accompanied by a silence that is only interrupted by the sound of the cicadas. and the cooing of the doves.
The Dutch motorhome, and a bath in the swamp. /
Today there is no one on this freshwater beach visited by all those who do not want to go down to the coast. Since there is no coverage, there is no coverage, but there are surprises. First we came across a dolmen, a megalithic necropolis that was found on the banks of the swamp and that was moved stone by stone to its current location to avoid being engulfed by the waters. Then, a few meters away, we find a motorhome parked under the shade of the trees. In it lives a Dutch couple who, in an English translated by the heir (God bless the private classes that he has received from the age of 3), tell us that they are artisans, that they have been touring the south of Spain for six months and that they are not on vacation, but that is the way of life they have chosen. “The worst thing,” she tells me, red-haired and freckled, “is having to empty the sewage tank every two days.” My daughter, what are you going to tell me? Gut self-knowledge is a universal evil.
Turn up the heat and we end up bathing in the swamp. As we leave we see a small kiosk staffed by a blonde girl with light eyes nailed to Marisol. He speaks Spanish with an Andalusian accent and it is not known where. “You’re not from here, are you?” I ask him. Oh no, I’m from Helsinki. But I have been in Andalusia since 97, when I came to spend a year and look at it. They sold this caravan and the plot, he gave me a ‘revolá’ and I bought it. And I have not returned. That the Finns are ‘bums’! ”. La Marisol del Báltico, talkative, very nice and capable of selling ice to her compatriots in Helsinki, continues to tell us about her life while sprinkling the conversation with expressions such as ‘ojú’, or ‘what a laugh’. It has definitely found its place in the world.
The children roam freely, the parents are calm. People seem happy and acclimated
Others have found it too. In this campsite, in particular: they sold it on the web as a place with a family character and it is, so much so that one of the customers asks for a drink at the bar and, without asking, the waitress serves him a Ponche Caballero. There are even people who have their motorhomes parked here all year round or their own bungalows and come to spend the weekends. The children roam freely, the parents are calm. People seem happy and acclimatized.
But, unfortunately, and despite the very kind treatment of the camping staff, this is not my place: if inside the caravan it is infernally hot, eternal fire falls outside. The plot does not have an awning and ‘La Temblorosa’ does not either. My saint and the heir look for a tree under which to shelter; I find another, take out the folding table and set up the office on the grass. Raúl del Pozo wrote that his job consists of bleeding from his right hand throughout his life; If I had been here, I would say that our job is to dehydrate ourselves with the right hand, the left, the forehead and the back, that I am sweating like a madwoman. To top it off, flies eat me. I miss my chair, my table, my capsule coffee, my air conditioner. I miss my world; small, yes, but heated.
A bath in the swamp. /
Soaked, I pray it’s not hot at night. And, against all odds, my prayers are answered. Too well cared for: when the sun goes down it makes a tremendous scratch. We end up throwing bath towels on the sheets because we have not been careful to bring ourselves some blankets. The only good thing about all this is that I have reason to complain again. You should never lose your good habits.