A 15-minute drive east takes you to Algajola where the sand is like crushed
A 15-minute drive east takes you to Algajola, where the sand is like crushed gravel and the beach shelves quite steeply. Smaller children have less room to splash about in, but the rollicking waves more than make up for it.It was odd, at the end of a week, to realise that I, a self-confessed pool addict, could happily spend seven days in a hot country without a swimming pool at my feet for instant, refreshing dips. I could have joined the hordes in their holiday residences (with pool) or villas (with pool) on the outskirts of town, the sort of place that could be transplanted anywhere along the Mediterranean. Instead I was steeped in history, culture and tradition - all seen from my lofty perch on the citadel.TRAVELLER'S GUIDEGETTING THEREThe writer travelled with Corsican Places (0845 330 2113; www.corsica.co.uk), which offers seven nights at Apartment Mamie from £738 per person based on two sharing, and from £477 based on four, including flights and transfers.Corsica Ferries (00 33 4 95 32 95 95; www.corsicaferries ) operates a three-hour service from Nice to Calvi. There was the obligatory castle (still inhabited, with cannons on the terrace and a dry moat).At 7.30pm on a weekday evening, the small population (elderly men in clean white short-sleeved shirts and women in smart blouses with young children - no teenagers or 30-somethings) made its way along the silent streets to mass.Ampudia is on the way to absolutely nowhere and it reminded me straightaway why I love rural Spain.
A former monastery was now a museum of sacred art, next to an imposing church. The houses had imposing wooden doors, which remained open in the late afternoon heat as clusters of old ladies in flowery overalls sat sewing, passing the time of day. I fully expected Clint Eastwood or Lee Van Cleef to turn the corner and confront us, guns at the ready. I tried to imagine how many people would constitute a congregation - surely not more than 50.Ampudia was in the same mould - with a main street formed of wooden and stone columns supporting overhanging first-floor living rooms, and a shady wide stone pavement to sit out on. We passed through small settlements of a dozen or so houses surrounded by fertile pastureland and wheat fields, each dominated by a vast church.
Occasionally we'd spot a ruined castle on top of a hill, and we stopped to admire the particularly beautiful Church of St Martin in Fromista, built in 1066 and a favourite stopping point for pilgrims on their journey to Santiago de Compostela. On empty roads we skirted Palencia and turned on to a narrow road heading south-west, through an austere landscape that seemed like a backdrop for a spaghetti western. I could get to like this cruising lark.We berthed at Santander around 11.30am and headed out towards the edge of the majestic Picos de Europa mountain range, gradually climbing to a pass. Leaving the coastal development far behind, a series of tunnels took us to a high plateau.
The dry soil became an empty, gold, undulating ocean of corn fields, in which churches could be seen from miles away, each surrounded by clusters of terracotta-coloured houses with tiled roofs. It was fraught with problems, she was moody, and often hard to track down. But when I joined her to walk through the edge of the vast, bleak, underpopulated area known as the Extremadura which dominates south-west Spain, I forgot about Ffyona and fell in love with the empty space, the cork and oak trees dotted along the plateau, the black pigs, and birds of prey circling above. I was determined to go back and explore properly, and decided to base my route around the Rusticae group of independent hotels: I'd heard they were small, chic, and in interesting locations - all of which turned out to be true. As it happened, I was extremely pleased I'd chosen this August for the trip - I had a hassle-free holiday with no queues and no airport dramas.