A Happy Return
The bare facts were pretty much inescapable. El Cotillo had changed dramatically over the course of my three visits to this growing seaside resort. Three visits which had spanned a period of twenty-two years in fact. It was on this quiet island, probably the least well known of the four largest in the archipelago that I first experienced the now familiar sensation of an airplane touching down. Not the first time I’d been in flight, but that was in another lifetime at the moment a parachute instructor yelled the single word “jump” somewhere over Ipswich airfield in 1986 when I was a student. In a surreal vision we saw David Cassidy wander through the airport that day, complete with entourage that mainly consisted of young ladies who were rather taller than he was – I seem to remember he was having a bit of a revival around then. In fact I’m surprised his hair wasn’t classified as a fire hazard at the time. Remember hair in the mid-eighties? When there were enough CFCs in the styling products to bring the moon crashing to earth, never mind a group of undergraduates who’d spent half their autumn term grant on a parachuting course? I’ve digressed. Back to El Cotillo.
I first visited El Cotillo on that early adventure at the turn of the century. I’d finally broken from years of financial drudgery and landed the job that pretty much transformed the life of my young family at the time. Now at last we could afford to get on a plane and see what the world beyond our borders looked like. Swimming in the sea in February during half term had until then seemed an unimaginable thing. Seeing signs on buildings written in words that were often only vaguely intelligible brought a childlike wonder to the world that I’d thought had been lost. This was Spain. Loads of people went to Spain – but I’d never even been close until now. The excitement at being here, if only for the briefest half term week was palpable.
And for a few days, just to make things even more interesting, we’d hired a car. When I walked to the rental office near our resort, I was asked if I didn’t mind having a bigger vehicle than the Renault Clio (or similar) we’d booked. When they handed over the keys to an enormous breeze block shaped white Nissan Patrol with four wheel drive, a mysterious looking second gear stick shaped object, and the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car, my collection of new experiences grew. But Fuerteventura offered easy driving and I loved the opportunity it would give us to explore. And explore we did with a drive across the island to the then small cluster of white buildings at the end of a long dusty road that consisted of El Cotillo. In fact it was my birthday – I was somewhere in my mid-thirties at the time. As we rolled slowly towards the beach along a wide empty road past silent buildings, nothing stirred other than a few bearded strays who looked as if they’d arrived here and had absolutely no intention of ever going anywhere else again. At the beach we discovered the horseshoe shaped shelters, thrown together from lumps of volcanic rock the colour of pitch. We swam in the sea and smiled at what a lovely time we were having in warm sunshine while Britain struggled to the end of another long winter. It was the place I’d remember long after the holiday was over. As the birthday boy I was photographed sitting on the rocks of a family sized stone circle, looking very pleased with myself. Overly smug? Probably.
It was a place that transcended major life events too. Ten years later I was here again at Christmas, this time with Ali. By now the novelty of boarding airplanes had long since departed, but the feeling of arriving on a warm island and escaping our seemingly endless winters at home remained just as joyful as it ever did. It still does. El Cotillo now had a couple more streets than before, but it retained the aura of a town at the border of the sea that almost everyone had overlooked in favour of the two main resorts in the northern half of the island. The day was unfortunately marred by a call from our neighbour at home to say the house had been flooded after a pipe had frozen and cracked in the freezing temperatures at home. We had to move into temporary lodgings while the insurers sorted out the aftermath, and we were well into summer by the time we could return. After that we vowed never to go away in the worst of the winter again.
As if history wanted to come back and bite us on our backsides, and despite waiting until early March, the morning we arrived at the airport Bristol was under several inches of snow and bathing in sub-zero temperatures. Fortunately, it didn’t appear to have spread as far as our home in the far southwest, so it seemed the water pipes in the house might remain intact, but our outbound flight was delayed by more than six hours as the airport chiefs attempted to catch up with an entire morning of delays and cancellations. The departure lounge was filled with people who littered every single corridor and seating area. Even at the gate we had to sit on a window ledge for an hour. By 10am, many of those delayed passengers were worse for wear as they staved off their boredom with regular visits to the Brunel Bar. I watched the young man sitting with his middle aged parents opposite us becoming ever more lairy as he drank what I’d counted to be at least his sixth pint of lager before lunchtime. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to be going to Fuerteventura. Finally having boarded, we had to wait on the plane for a further two hours while the de-icer rigs were refilled with what remained of David Cassidy’s hairspray from 1986. But eventually we set off and felt that happy moment of arrival in warmer latitudes once more.
More than twelve years after that fateful Christmas visit, El Cotillo had mushroomed in size. Those bearded strays of yesteryear might by now be property tycoons. Tall buildings abounded, with an initially bewildering one way system and a myriad of cafes, bars, and restaurants. A noisy construction site filled the air with the sound of people in hi-visibility tabards at work. It seemed the austerity years that had brought development in so many parts of Spain, including here in Fuerteventura, had been ignored as El Cotillo grew and grew. Nothing stays the same forever. We had lunch in one of those new cafes and headed for the beach. The beach wasn’t deserted in quite the same way as I’d seen it on those earlier visits, but at least it was still far more peaceful than many of the local ones in Cornwall in high summer. There was still a sense of space and we still managed to bag ourselves a stone circle to lie in and feel the heat of the afternoon sun. It probably wasn’t the same one I’d sat on to be photographed in 2001.
Later, in fact at the end of every one of the seven or eight visits we made here during our stay, I headed out on the dark fissured rocks with the camera bag, looking for compositions. The sea at least hadn’t changed, and nor had the light. Here in coppery evening tones, mixed with pinks from the sky I could find tiny rockpools in the form of perfect circles bored into the lava by the endlessness of the ocean. I could lose myself in happy meanderings with the simple pleasures that a camera mounted on a very small tripod can bring. El Cotillo may have grown beyond all recognition from the silent dustbowl town I’d fallen in love with all those years ago – but it was still recognisable when you strolled across that picture perfect beach onto the rocks at sunset.
I’m not waiting for another decade to pass this time. We’re going back next year. I booked it straightaway after we came home. A done deal, despite it all. One of those places that feels a little bit like home, no matter how far away it is.
Finally, for those of you who've read this far - aplogoes for the recent absence. Ali and I have been on another adventure, this time off grid in the van and I haven't been able to access Flickr most of the time. I promise to catch up soon!
A Happy Return
The bare facts were pretty much inescapable. El Cotillo had changed dramatically over the course of my three visits to this growing seaside resort. Three visits which had spanned a period of twenty-two years in fact. It was on this quiet island, probably the least well known of the four largest in the archipelago that I first experienced the now familiar sensation of an airplane touching down. Not the first time I’d been in flight, but that was in another lifetime at the moment a parachute instructor yelled the single word “jump” somewhere over Ipswich airfield in 1986 when I was a student. In a surreal vision we saw David Cassidy wander through the airport that day, complete with entourage that mainly consisted of young ladies who were rather taller than he was – I seem to remember he was having a bit of a revival around then. In fact I’m surprised his hair wasn’t classified as a fire hazard at the time. Remember hair in the mid-eighties? When there were enough CFCs in the styling products to bring the moon crashing to earth, never mind a group of undergraduates who’d spent half their autumn term grant on a parachuting course? I’ve digressed. Back to El Cotillo.
I first visited El Cotillo on that early adventure at the turn of the century. I’d finally broken from years of financial drudgery and landed the job that pretty much transformed the life of my young family at the time. Now at last we could afford to get on a plane and see what the world beyond our borders looked like. Swimming in the sea in February during half term had until then seemed an unimaginable thing. Seeing signs on buildings written in words that were often only vaguely intelligible brought a childlike wonder to the world that I’d thought had been lost. This was Spain. Loads of people went to Spain – but I’d never even been close until now. The excitement at being here, if only for the briefest half term week was palpable.
And for a few days, just to make things even more interesting, we’d hired a car. When I walked to the rental office near our resort, I was asked if I didn’t mind having a bigger vehicle than the Renault Clio (or similar) we’d booked. When they handed over the keys to an enormous breeze block shaped white Nissan Patrol with four wheel drive, a mysterious looking second gear stick shaped object, and the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car, my collection of new experiences grew. But Fuerteventura offered easy driving and I loved the opportunity it would give us to explore. And explore we did with a drive across the island to the then small cluster of white buildings at the end of a long dusty road that consisted of El Cotillo. In fact it was my birthday – I was somewhere in my mid-thirties at the time. As we rolled slowly towards the beach along a wide empty road past silent buildings, nothing stirred other than a few bearded strays who looked as if they’d arrived here and had absolutely no intention of ever going anywhere else again. At the beach we discovered the horseshoe shaped shelters, thrown together from lumps of volcanic rock the colour of pitch. We swam in the sea and smiled at what a lovely time we were having in warm sunshine while Britain struggled to the end of another long winter. It was the place I’d remember long after the holiday was over. As the birthday boy I was photographed sitting on the rocks of a family sized stone circle, looking very pleased with myself. Overly smug? Probably.
It was a place that transcended major life events too. Ten years later I was here again at Christmas, this time with Ali. By now the novelty of boarding airplanes had long since departed, but the feeling of arriving on a warm island and escaping our seemingly endless winters at home remained just as joyful as it ever did. It still does. El Cotillo now had a couple more streets than before, but it retained the aura of a town at the border of the sea that almost everyone had overlooked in favour of the two main resorts in the northern half of the island. The day was unfortunately marred by a call from our neighbour at home to say the house had been flooded after a pipe had frozen and cracked in the freezing temperatures at home. We had to move into temporary lodgings while the insurers sorted out the aftermath, and we were well into summer by the time we could return. After that we vowed never to go away in the worst of the winter again.
As if history wanted to come back and bite us on our backsides, and despite waiting until early March, the morning we arrived at the airport Bristol was under several inches of snow and bathing in sub-zero temperatures. Fortunately, it didn’t appear to have spread as far as our home in the far southwest, so it seemed the water pipes in the house might remain intact, but our outbound flight was delayed by more than six hours as the airport chiefs attempted to catch up with an entire morning of delays and cancellations. The departure lounge was filled with people who littered every single corridor and seating area. Even at the gate we had to sit on a window ledge for an hour. By 10am, many of those delayed passengers were worse for wear as they staved off their boredom with regular visits to the Brunel Bar. I watched the young man sitting with his middle aged parents opposite us becoming ever more lairy as he drank what I’d counted to be at least his sixth pint of lager before lunchtime. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to be going to Fuerteventura. Finally having boarded, we had to wait on the plane for a further two hours while the de-icer rigs were refilled with what remained of David Cassidy’s hairspray from 1986. But eventually we set off and felt that happy moment of arrival in warmer latitudes once more.
More than twelve years after that fateful Christmas visit, El Cotillo had mushroomed in size. Those bearded strays of yesteryear might by now be property tycoons. Tall buildings abounded, with an initially bewildering one way system and a myriad of cafes, bars, and restaurants. A noisy construction site filled the air with the sound of people in hi-visibility tabards at work. It seemed the austerity years that had brought development in so many parts of Spain, including here in Fuerteventura, had been ignored as El Cotillo grew and grew. Nothing stays the same forever. We had lunch in one of those new cafes and headed for the beach. The beach wasn’t deserted in quite the same way as I’d seen it on those earlier visits, but at least it was still far more peaceful than many of the local ones in Cornwall in high summer. There was still a sense of space and we still managed to bag ourselves a stone circle to lie in and feel the heat of the afternoon sun. It probably wasn’t the same one I’d sat on to be photographed in 2001.
Later, in fact at the end of every one of the seven or eight visits we made here during our stay, I headed out on the dark fissured rocks with the camera bag, looking for compositions. The sea at least hadn’t changed, and nor had the light. Here in coppery evening tones, mixed with pinks from the sky I could find tiny rockpools in the form of perfect circles bored into the lava by the endlessness of the ocean. I could lose myself in happy meanderings with the simple pleasures that a camera mounted on a very small tripod can bring. El Cotillo may have grown beyond all recognition from the silent dustbowl town I’d fallen in love with all those years ago – but it was still recognisable when you strolled across that picture perfect beach onto the rocks at sunset.
I’m not waiting for another decade to pass this time. We’re going back next year. I booked it straightaway after we came home. A done deal, despite it all. One of those places that feels a little bit like home, no matter how far away it is.
Finally, for those of you who've read this far - aplogoes for the recent absence. Ali and I have been on another adventure, this time off grid in the van and I haven't been able to access Flickr most of the time. I promise to catch up soon!