Tarifa Baby
Sun, surf and a kitesurfer called Mario
Don’t get me wrong, I love our life in Spain, but Andalucia in August can be hellishly hot. Time to head somewhere cooler. Where the humidity doesn’t transform me into a not-so-cute, frizzy-haired, alpaca and I don’t get mistaken for a pop-up food tent in my ugly-but-oh-so-comfortably-huge dresses.
So, this summer we headed to Tarifa. At Europe’s most southernmost point, where the waters of the Mediterranean meet the cooler waters of the Atlantic, Tarifa is simply stunning - steeped in history but with a chilled, bohemian vibe. Every time we approach, driving up that last hill before dropping down into the stunning bay, I gasp as I look down at the 10km long golden sandy beach – a view that never ceases to amaze me. A special place. A place where you can relax, hang out, do water sports - or wander around its gorgeous, white-washed walled old town, discovering little tapas bars, hitting the hip boutiques for a spot of retail therapy - before heading to the beach to grab a cerveza and watch the sun go down.
And this year it came with a bonus: Mario.
Allow me to explain. You see, the apartment we had booked was apparently tricky to find so the owner said he would meet us at the uber-cool Waves Bar. Great, we thought. How helpful. So, at 2 pm there we were in the car park as instructed, when out of the corner of my eye, I spied THE most gorgeous-looking guy walking towards us. Think a Chris-Hemsworth-surfer-style-Thor. Wearing nothing but surf shorts and carrying a sign with my name on it. Smiling, I waved. Not smiling, Lord Muck, snarled.
“Hola. I am Mario. The Kitesurfer. I am here to take you to my bed” the gorgeous, tanned, ripped guy said.
Oh my, I thought. I do so love it when Spanish folk mix up their nouns.
“Hola, I am Cathy. Not The Kitesurfer. But, please, do take me to your bed” I responded with a giggle, much to his Lordship’s annoyance.
And off we went. Me, looking ridiculous, twirling my hair and trying to keep pace with this 6’4” block of male magnificence, swaying my cougar hips so violently I almost dislocated a hip. Poor Lord Muck, trailing behind us, carrying the bags, harumphing. Things did not improve once we arrived at the apartment when Mario started waxing lyrical about Kitesurfing and offered to give us a day’s instruction. Checking his lesson schedule, the only day he was free was in two days, when Lord Muck was already booked to head over to Tangier with friends. Such a shame. But in the interests of Anglo-Spanish relations, I dutifully signed up there and then.
And so it was that his Lordship spent a morning riding a smelly camel and an afternoon being mobbed in a Moroccan souk, whilst I spent a day wearing a tight-fitting wetsuit and being clamped in and out of a harness by Mario as he talked endlessly about the importance of lift, thrust and drag. What can I say? Tarifa rocks.
Right, must dash. My new book is out next month and I somehow need to convince my agent that Mario The Kitesurfer should be on the launch party guest list…
