We drove in a big anti-clockwise semicircle down to a run-down town called Orgiva, and set up camp in a campsite where almost nothing worked. Someone needs to tell the owners that it’s not a swimming pool if you can stand in the deep end without getting your elbows wet, and “aviary” is a more appropriate label for a toilet block where you can’t wash your face but can watch birds nesting in the showers.
A trip into the town for supplies opened our eyes to the scruffy side of Spain. The town is full of tramps and beggars. We met a local shoeless inhabitant staggering up the road, taking one step back for every two forward in a bizarre drunk version of a salsa dance. After his eyes slowly managed to focus on Christine they lit up (or, more accurately, glazed over slightly less) in the hopes of a handout. When he noticed me glaring behind her he whimpered, clutched a railing and squeezed his eyes shut until we had passed. I must not look like the generous type.
Whilst in the shop we overheard a scruffy couple arguing over a packet of spaghetti. Apparently it’s best to buy big packets so that the long journey on foot to the supermarket doesn’t have to be made too often. On the way out of town we almost ran over another tramp dragging a plastic crate behind him on a string, like an arctic explorer on a very tight budget. I wonder if he buries a can of beans half way home so that he has food for the return journey?
Next to the campsite was an abandoned farm which we walked through, sampling figs and almonds from the trees. It seems a shame that such an abundance of fruit is left to waste.
After a noisy night at the campsite, with flip-flops firmly locked inside the van, we headed East along the southern side of the mountains, glad to have left Orgiva far behind us.