Campervan Therapy

Begur is a typical Medieval Catalan Village, with castle ruins topping the mountain, a lookout tower just below.

Alleyways of stone houses radiate down from it. A sign on a street stepping up to the castle tells of the past inhabitants being required to offer the feudal lords a cup of water on their upward trail home.

But I need to get out of Begur today as it’s Easter Saturday and it’s packed with tourists like me, and shoppers buying high-end pottery and clothing.

It’s the sort of place where you buy those wonky plates because they’re the colour of the Med, only to find you can’t dishwash them and they gather dust on a random kitchen shelf.

Camping Begur nestles among pine covered hills. After a burnished sunset we fall asleep to the sound of the hoopoe’s whoop and the scops owl.

The next morning we wander off through the pine forest trails to Tamariu’s coves. A sign declares that they train hunting dogs in the forest. Seán spends the next half hour ushering me through the woods, as I’m convinced the hound of the Baskervilles is going to pounce from behind the next tree.

I’m distracted from the panic though by the sight of so many white and pink cistus shrubs (or rock roses) and the vanilla scent of Mediterranean shrubby vetch. Tamariu, once a fishing village, is now a white cubed houses sort of tourist town.

Mother Nature is at her most artistic here as jagged limestone coves are coupled with the green pine clad mountains and the white frill of surf on the sand.

We follow trails to Fornells, a lonely hamlet with an eerily empty old harbour. Following the GR92 we next clamber down the ironwork steps to Platja Fonda, past deep pink succulents clinging to the cliff.

It’s a day of white horses and the sea is navy rather than turquoise today. When we continue to follow the GR92’s trail which is almost disguised by rocks and eye-high vegetation, we should realise that we’re about to embark on a mountain climbing expedition.

Soon the track transforms into fissures and boulders deep in the garrigue covered wilderness. Another clue we should have picked up on is that the peak of Puig Son Ric mountain has disappeared into clouds.

The track winds ever upwards over rocks, through scrub, rosemary and juniper, resilient pines clinging to the sheer cliff face. When the track opens up it is to a limestone face. Locating crevices just wide enough for a few fingers or half a foot, I resort to crab crawling up it.

              A cheerful voice calls out from above. “Another pair of mountaineers.”

              We come face to face with a British couple who are equally shocked at the GR92’s wild side.

              “We were only out to have a stroll and a drink at the posh Aiguablava Hotel,” says the woman.

              If the day has been surprising up to this point, it becomes even more surreal as we chat about their house in Begur, the town’s October film festival and DIY, my legs shaking every time I look down the rock face at the coves too far below.