The detour is the best destination. I have learnt this. The surprises, the wrong turns, the impulse decisions, the left fork off the main road, the place others who might know what they’re talking about point you towards. These are the places to go. It happened in South Island when we somehow heard of Curio Bay. It was off itinerary. It was off road. Seventeen miles of dirt and gravel track – surfaces our camper van was definitely not cut out for – through columns of sprawling pine trees and under big blue sky until, there it was: the southern most tip of the southern most island, next stop, Antartica. This was tsunami coastland.
Curio Bay, with its dolphins surfing the beach breaks, exotic collection of fellow travellers (most on six month adventures, not just six week ones like ours) and the high winds in the reed beds to cocoon us through the night, gave us the taste. Now, here we were, driving between Tarifa and Granada via the utterly charmless Gibraltar and a sangria call on Tanya’s friend, Irina. Irina lives in La Linea, the border town with Gib. It’s definitely the side of the divide I’d plumb for. It was scalding and late afternoon. Irina suggested we break the drive to Granada by staying overnight in Rhonda. Shamefacedly, I admit we had never heard of this town. Nor of the white villages of Andalucia. We set off.
The route took us in land, up and up, through the wooded hills and along 90 kilometres of twisting mountainside roads. The sun bathed everything in deep ochre and for an hour and a half, we were entranced with the beauty of the quiet hills and valleys and the unspoilt road. Very little traffic allowed us to savour the journey and most crested hills revealed another spectacular vista on the climb down. Who knows the tales that lie in the streets of each of the mountain villages, every building gleaming white? Franco-esque betrayals, petty politiking