Campervan Therapy

Our first glimpse of L’Ametlla is not a postcard pretty one, the AP7 motorway and railway run against the back of the town and concrete apartments. But the minute we see Camping Nàutic we’re won over. The terraced campsite is shaded by Mediterranean pines and olives, and it looks out on a sea that deserves painting. Turquoise waters turn to indigo where protected fields of Poseidon grasses grow.

We walk to the port on a patchwork promenade which borders the sea. Murals cover white walls in this fishing town.

Our favourite has us flummoxed for a while, a giant silver headed man, complete with flowing beard. In his hands are golden keys, below him a fisherman’s silhouette.

Seán insists it’s an image of his brother-in-law, Greg, in twenty years’ time. At last it hits me, St. Peter, the erstwhile fisherman, then keeper of the keys of the church.

The promenade then takes us out on the harbour wall. We study the men working on the fishing trawlers, winding ropes round red ballasts and levering huge square nets up against the walls. In the port, sub-tropical palms and birds of paradise flowers are planted in the cliff’s under-hangs. Over a coffee on the Nàutic bar’s terrace, we watch the life of the port.

When we follow the Natural Park’s walking trail along the cliffs, I’ve forgotten one thing – I have a fear of sheer drops. Even worse, huge chunks of sandstone cliffs lie in the sea, and ahead on the winding track, there’s hollow caves underneath it.

I can cope if there’s pine trees or shrubs in between me and death drops, but when they disappear, I freeze.

Of course, Seán is a mountain goat. Insouciant as ever, he strolls along as if he’s on The Mall. I resort to my crab side-on walking, back to the drop, which sounds counter intuitive. But once the pines have reappeared, I can appreciate the craggy coastline’s golden coves, the pine green mountains beyond and sun on the sea.

As always wildflowers and trees taking root in such thin soil and on rock faces are a wonder to me. Seán’s App identifies the orange trumpets of soap aloe.

I love some of the common names for plants, Seán being one for technical accuracy, likes the Latin ones. How could you not love Golden Fleece, the name of the yellow daisy-like flowers, or rock rose, instead of cistus? We agree to differ. But both of us love the sunshine gazanias that suddenly line the path.

When we stumble back to town to eat, we have one of those funny moments. The matriarch in Tapes del Mar opens a bottle of wine for a couple who are dining. When we ask to eat, her face is positively pained.

She’s distracted by a screeching toddler grandson that has just been bestowed upon her by a smiling son who disappears faster than a moggie stealing fish. The only way she can think is to plug screeching toddler into her phone. And just like magic, all is calm. We end the evening with platefuls of small fish fried to perfection. We know one thing L’Ametlla goes on our returner list.