Surfing and Chilling in Cadiz
The train from Seville to Cadiz takes almost two hours. Outside the window, dusty villages and barely-farmable scrubland fly by, although we somehow get too interested in the train’s chairs (which can be switched depending on whether you want to sit forward or backward) to really appreciate it.
Widely considered the oldest city in Europe - it dates back to Phoenician Times - Cadiz’s staying power is probably testament to its singular geography. The whole city perches atop an island on the very south of the Spanish coast, which has made it both easy to defend, and easy to supply via trade, throughout its 3000 year history.
The train winds in across one of two busy bridges, and as it does so, we get a view of the imposing city that must have deterred so many would-be invaders in years gone by. We’re not here to invade, however, only to enjoy…
Day Five. Having negotiated the short trip from the train station, we arrive at our Cadiz hostel, Casa Caracol. A real surfers’ hangout, the hostel is probably not for everyone, but we’d been tipped off before leaving that it’d be right up our street, and so it proves to be. Friendly and fairly seriously chilled, there’s a familiar smell in the air here, and we like it…
We spend the rest of the day walking round Cadiz’s largely empty streets (it’s a Sunday), watching the sunset from the Playa de la Caleta on the southern tip of the city, and then dining in the beautiful setting of a quiet plaza, where tables have been haphazardly set between houses and hanging baskets.
We’ve frankly no idea as to the name and location of the restaurant - we were lost when we found it, and then we were lost again once we left. Suffice to say there are loads of such joints in Cadiz, and they’re all pretty affordable too. (Quick tip: Stick to the seafood - it’s excellent, and try washing it down with a glass of fino, or dry white sherry).
Day Six. We wake smelling bad again, although this time since we’re outside, in one of Casa Caracol’s rooftop hammocks, it doesn’t seem to matter too much. And besides, we’ve only one intention for the day - to go surfing.
We head south from Caracol to Cadiz’s imposing Catedral Nueva, and then east along the shoreline, to the Playa Santa Maria del Mar. This short stretch of sand is empty save for the odd figure fighting into a wetsuit. Out on the ocean, tens of small black dots bob around before one suddenly bursts from the sea and surfs serenely along for thirty, forty meters, before falling back into the water below.
Finding a small shop (Hopupu) just a block away from the shore, we rent board and suit for €20, and head out to join the black dots in the sea. We’re clearly rank surfing amateurs, and as we leave the shop the likable fellow who runs it can be heard having a quiet chuckle as we manage to drop the boards three times before we’ve even reached the end of the road.
The surf here is good - fairly calm yet strong enough to ride, it’s perfect for the beginner. Or so we’re told. Following four hours of attempted surfing, HostelBloggers’ opinions are split. For one of our number, surfing is a joyous expression of riding with nature in tow. For another, it’s equivalent to some dastardly form of Chinese water torture.
We squelch out of our suits, and head back to the hostel for food, chat and drink (though not necessarily in that order). Later that evening, having cooled off and dried up, we decide Cadiz is just about the most relaxed and relaxing city (especially for a port!) we’ve ever encountered.
As for tomorrow? The wilderness calls…
