Where the wind blows
The Sun-Herald: June 10, 2007

Jo Hegerty is powerless against nature’s driving forces.

There’s no denying the beauty of Europe’s biggest wind farm. Sleek and majestically aloof, scores of windmills dotting the hills above Tarifa, Spain’s southernmost point, turn their heads to face Africa. It’s only 9am, but already the mighty structures are beating out a circular rhythm. You’d expect them to make some kind of noise – a hum or a whir – but there’s nothing save the whistling of the Levante.

After the dreary, cheap sameness of the Costa del Sol, it’s a great relief to be in the lesser touristed Costa de la Luz. Even the big, new road that traverses the southern coast, paid for by British pounds that pour in to Andalucia by way of package-tour holidaymakers, has petered out. The now narrow road climbs into the hills leaving the stretch of white stuccoed villas, fish’n’chip shops and crowded beaches behind and giving prime views of Gibraltar’s Rock and the straits that separate Europe from Africa. On a clear day, as we’re repeatedly told, you can make out the white pillbox houses on the Moroccan coast, but with this wind, the view of Tangiers is a murky haze of heat and dust.

Just as man harnesses the wind for electricity up in the hills, down at sea level, groups of extreme sportspeople lounge in trendy cafes sipping herbal tea and sharing stories, itching for the wind to change so they can unpack their kites and boards and take to the water. It was windsurfing that lifted Tarifa from obscurity in the 1980s, these days, kitesurfers rule the roost, and the subculture is well serviced by surfwear shops and funky boutiques along Carrera Batalla del Salado.

Before windsurfing made its mark, Tarifa’s claim to fame was an unusually high suicide rate, attributed to the Levante, a hot gusty wind funnelled by the mountains of the south of Andalucia on one side and the Rif Mountains of northern Morocco on the other. Forced through the straits of Gibraltar, the Levante hits Tarifa like a pressure hose and blows a reported 165 days per year, sending locals loco and tourists back to the Costa del Sol. 

Undeterred by the fact that we’ve seen no signs of life, we head to a spectacular beach with a grand name: Ensenada de Valdevaqueros. It has a gentle cove, dunes and soft white sand that we can see flying horizontally half a metre above where it should be. With determination bordering on stupidity, we try to cross the hundred metres of knee-high sandstorm to reach the sea. The pain of the hot, whipping sand on my bare legs is incredible; I give up. My partner isn’t so easily deterred and changes into thick pants then dashes, squealing, through the maelstrom. There’s a moment of triumph until he realises he has to come back the same way, this time with more swearing than squealing. Later he discovers that the force of the sand has melted the sides of his thongs.

We decide to give up on the beach and seek refuge within the walls of the old Moorish town. In the kasbah of sun-bleached alleys, there are cool, dark shops selling everything from souvenirs and Moroccan homewares to modern, designer clothing and jewellery. Young, tanned Spaniards fill the tables that pour from tiny tapas bars and the occasional ageing hippy floats past. We could be in Byron Bay if it weren’t for the wrought iron balconies and 15th century baroque church.

The Levante continues to blow for a couple of days more and we take day trips to Morocco and Gibraltar to spare us the buffeting, until one morning we wake up to the strangest sound: silence. Like extras from some kind of disaster movie, we join others emerging from their hotels, blinking into the sun and the still sky above. We race down to the port and there’s Africa. After four days, this is the first time we’ve been able to see the continent from Tarifa and there it is, so close I feel I can reach out and touch it.

The excitement in town is tangible. It’s still now, but soon the Poniente will be here. The wicked wind of the east will be replaced by the more genial west wind and the beaches will be packed with wind junkies getting their fix. In the meantime, the whale and dolphin spotting cruises are doing a roaring trade and the sand is back where it belongs: beneath my beach towel.

Hungry for a snack, we wander to the nearest bar and join some rough-looking, cheery locals at plastic tables sheltered by Sol umbrellas. We drink a litre of beer between us and some marinated sea creatures in an earthenware tapas dish. The bill comes to €3.30 – no more than five bucks. At this moment, Tarifa is giving me everything I could possibly want from Spain – and not a fish’n’chip shop in sight. ‘This is how it should be,’ I think as a breeze ruffles my wet hair.
On the hills behind us, the great turbines begin to stir.

Trip notes

• To get to there, fly to Malaga, then either hire a car or catch a bus to Tarifa. Having a car means you can get to some of the fantastic beaches to the north west of the town and can visit Gibraltar.
• The Foundation for Information and Research on Marine Mammals (FIRMM) runs responsible whale-watching excursions, visit www.firmm.org for more information.
• Learn to kitesurf at Art of Kiting, + 34 605 03 18 80; www.artofkiting.com, beginners course from €180.
• FRS runs day trips to Morocco from €52, or overnight stays from €89. Call +34 956 68 18 30 or visit www.frs.es.