Fun Loving Espanola Cannibals?

Today was my mother’s 50^th birthday; naturally, she’ll be positively thrilled that I’ve revealed her impending hobblefest into old age via the internet, as well as the inevitably Spartan-esque war with the menopause. How did I celebrate such a momentous milestone with her and my father? Breakfast in bed perhaps? Or why not a pretty bouquet of flowers delivered to our hotel room? (Tomorrow is our last day in sunny Tenerife you see petals.)

None of the above. I thought a more fitting tribute would be to accidentally infiltrate (almost) a secretive Spanish campsite. Never has jogging thrown up such enjoyable surprises! Beats Hornchurch Country Park’s soggy terrain any day if you ask me; perhaps my approaching Spanish pilgrimage will be quite the hoot after all.

Running in 30 degrees Celsius heat is something you never quite get accustomed to, I feel. Especially if you’re like me and can’t help sweating like a guilty rapist on trial; in addition, a map is always helpful/effing essential. Don’t forget sunblock if you’re a closet ginger like me (another item I foolishly swerved)... Bit of a plonker then. Nonetheless, it still made a pleasant change from laying like a corpse for hours on end by the pool, only to turn a nasty shade of lobster red.

After a tough but manageable hour of dodging oblivious tourists and climbing hill after hill of mountain road, I discovered a tricky yet climbable cliff to GODKNOWSWHERE. Although not exactly one of the Great Pyramids of Giza in its dimensions, to an inexperienced climber in fancy running shoes like myself it represented a worthwhile trek. So I put my manicured hands to the test, digging my nails into any ledge within reaching distance. The reddish, almost Martian rock sometimes turned to dust in my hands and, occasionally, some pesky little lizard would scare me sh&%less. On a ski slope my girlish screams may have caused an avalanche, yet here I felt safe and secure in the knowledge that no one could observe my spazzy climbing technique. After conquering this Spanish impersonation of Ayers Rock, I wandered around inquisitively for a bit. Innocently of course, though I still felt like a bit of a desert dogger.

And then a bizarre sight seizes my attention...

Below, far far below in the depths of a beautiful gap in the cliffs, flawless seawater laps at the jagged rocks. Perfectly natural indeed, you may propose. However, there are remnants of a campfire. Wooden shacks jut awkwardly out of gaps in the rock and the unwelcome sound of barking dogs seems to echo against the enclosing space. A homemade sign in Spanish stands wonkily at the edge of a path leading downwards; my grasp of the language remains sketchy but clearly the people housed below don’t want to be disturbed. Have I uncovered a Latino version of the Hills Have Eyes? Is this brief seaside adventure really worth the price of being enslaved by some sort of cannibalistic voodoo society? I ponder and stroke my sweaty beard. I only wanted to go jogging and top up my tan a smidge. Joining a cliff-side cult was definitely NOT on the agenda. Nor was being put on a spit and acting as a hog human roast for these mysterious travelling devils... Best turn back then.

An hour later... Ice cold San Miguel in hand, sea breeze lapping at my reddish chops. Should I have been less of a pussy and investigated the inevitably underwhelming ‘voodoo society’ below?

You bet. But I’d much rather be in a cosy cafe than on Jose the cannibal’s list of appetisers for lunch.

Adios amigos. x