We were at the family finca in La Aldea de San Nicolás. Plan A was to catch a bus from the town centre to Cruz de Tasartico and walk on down to the hamlet of Tasartico and beach of Playa de Tasartico below. Except I hadn’t bargained on being hailed by my wife who wanted to hand over some pan de papas (potato bread) as extra fuel for my journey just before the 38 pulled in and out of the stop I would otherwise have been waiting at.
A saviour came in the form of a man who would later introduce himself as Teo. Balancing a breakfast doughnut with the steering wheel, he somehow braked and asked if I wanted a lift. As I was now running behind schedule, I took him up on his offer.
And so I heard all about the life and times of this construction company boss still mourning Spain’s property crash, as we zig-zagged the 14km to the heights of Tasartico Cross. Along with the life story of my mother in law, who, but of course, Teo knew. As well as my wife’s uncle which explained the subsequent in-depth biography.
I’ve walked to Tasartico before from Cruz de Tasartico but instead of heading right to Güigüi where Teo’s blonde 22-year-old Polish lodger Magdalena was reportedly frolicking about, I continued straight. To the minor delight of Playa de Tasartico. A beach that’s a smaller, yet just as perfectly-formed, version of neighbour Tasarte.
After cooling down a while by lolling about in the Atlantic fantastic, I reluctantly bid adios to the beach and started to return from whence I’d come. Until I was stopped by a bloke from Ingenio holidaying with his wife and two daughters. “You do know it’s 48 degrees?”, he queried as he opened his side door. I hadn’t realized it was quite that hot, but nonetheless went local by hopping in next to the sisters and continuing my journey by car.