I visited HuiDong, Guangdong (China) one January during the CoViD-19 pandemic, and it was quiet. On the August 2023 trip, it was the opposite of quiet. I no longer recommend the area. Too much litter, noise and far too many people. I just visited once at a much quieter time.
At 5.30am, on August 9th, a young kid was throwing sand at her pet duckling, and the duckling tried to escape. She put it in a carrier bag. One of her parents then stamped on it. To further this heinous crime against life, her parent tossed it into the sea. Plastic bag, dead duckling, and the shittest sea burial ever. That was a morning sunrise with Indigo spoilt by the grimness of an unwanted morning observation. I’d like to say that was all I witnessed during my time in Guangdong over the last decade. Similar crap happens on the U.K. I’m not naive enough to believe it doesn’t. The scale of bleakness and disposable life is grim: like painted turtles, flea-ridden kittens full of worms in small block cages and hamsters.
Beyond the disappointment, tree frogs, egrets, snails, and geckos made a change from legs being wrapped in sea plastic and watching bottles float out to sea. The sea could be seen as a glorious slumber of nature battling humanity’s demise. Our global oxygen provider and carbon dioxide sink act in a complex structure of processes so dependent on balance that any changes lead to stressed environmental twists. The tree frogs and egrets will know the difference. As will man. And woman. And LGBTQ+.
Henry VIII had his own purpose-made football boots, from Italian leather. That rough and ready game led to football and shirts being made and these days from recycled polyester materials. Not that the cost of recycled material ever shows in the cost of football shirts. Stood in a rock pool, looking at tiny crabs, anemones, and sea snails, I could feel the belting heat on my City shirt. The manufacturer Puma hadn’t accounted for Guangdong’s blistering humidity and heat, even in the shade of towering rocks. I pondered how the piles of plastic at the top of the beach could be used to produce future City kits. Or for team China. All it could take is a few lawmakers, employment of people to tidy and educate. Leave only footprints. Take only memories. Or not?
Alicante (or Alicant in Valencian) struck me as a surprisingly historic and quiet place for an April wander. Good food, great sights, and a spot of relaxation.
Arriving by train into Alicante port, I crossed the road and followed a few memorised simple directions. Ole Hostel wasn’t too far. Checking in was swift. Within a few minutes, I was back out and heading up to San Fernando Castle and wandering around the great structure. A good view of Alicante and North towards Benidorm gave me an idea of what to do the next day. The rustic sandy coloured castle wasn’t too impressive, but a free entrance wander into a former fortress filled time and provided a place to read a chapter or two of Kill Shot, my latest chapter in Vince Flynn’s Mitch Rapp series.
Following the first castle, I strolled down the town to the marina and followed the promenade northwards for an hour or so. A quick and simple dinner and a sit down by the marina helped power a good night’s sleep. The following morning, after a good breakfast of salmon and avocado omelette, I headed to Castell de Santa Barbara. The walk upwards wasn’t too exciting. Basilica de Santa Maria d’Alicant was a pleasant Gothic church built in the 1500s, but Parc de l’Etreta was closer to an ill-planned concrete monstrosity. It was the kind of park lacking character and constructed in the kind of speedy way that lacks an understanding of erosion and weather conditions.
Once the park made way for the Castell de Santa Barbara lower walls, a road and gated entrance became visible. Soon after that, the grandeur and dramatic fortress opened up. Hereon, the castle allowed for ample exploration, great galleries, fantastic sweeping views, and reading opportunities. The free entrance and the provision of water sales helped keep my attention in the Valencian stronghold. Standing atop Mount Benacantil (169m/554′), the castle has Muslim origins, from when they controlled the Iberian Peninsula, around 711AD to 1296AD. Roman, Iberian, and bronze age artefacts had also been found. Many inhabitants followed, and reinforcements were built.
Much like the Ole Hostel, the scene was warm, friendly, and international. Brazilian and Cuban tourists mixed with local people, and the historic battles of olden times were distant memories. Cosy places to rest your feet and community has long been the norm.
Beneath the castle, the golden sands, and clear waters of Postiguet Beach shone under bright sunlight. To the north, Sierra Grossa stood like a carved hill, edged by roads and tramlines. A ruined petroleum plant stood out amongst the dried lands of the tufted grass top of the hills. From the beach to the castle, the top can be done via an underground lift. I didn’t know that, and to be honest, the walk up and down was part of a casual exploration. On the way down, I strolled by Hércules Football Club’s concrete José Rico Pérez stadium and the historically cruel bullring. The twin of Brighton and Hove, England, U.K. and Wenzhou (China) is a relaxed place, but I couldn’t spend too long there. Two nights was enough. The flight back to England from the nearby Aeropuerto de Alicante-Elche Miguel Hernández arrived. Before long, I’d swapped 22°C sunshine for 12°C and cloud.
Sitting in shorts, on Friday, watching City Elite Development Squad beat West Bromwich Albion 2-0 as the temperature dropped wasn’t my wisest decision. Micah Hamilton‘s great strike following Kane Taylor’s opener concluded a good 2-0 win and a great week with 5 nights in Spain.
“The wind is a gentle breeze Ooh, él me habló de ti, aah The bells are ringing…” – Freddie Mercury & Montserrat Caballé’s songBarcelona.
Ever since the Barcelona 1992 Olympic Games, Barcelona has gripped my soul with the words and haunting operatic sounds of Montserrat Caballé. The autumn before saw the death of its legendary singer and writer Freddie Mercury, which accentuated the voices of a stunning musical piece. The city is also famous for a football team and is synonymous with art and gastronomy. Whether it’s Gaudi or Messi, chances are most people on Earth have a Barcelona connection.
“In Barcelona, I learnt things I thought I knew when I actually knew nothing at all.” – Roberto Bolaño, writer
A snapshot of Barcelona.
Landed late at night, even the grimness of a late night subway and train journey didn’t gloss over the vibe of the city. Walking down from Plaça de Catalunya to the Sun and Moon hostel, the splendour and the darkness could easily be seen. Hand in hand. All the drugs in the world on offer, ladies of the night and classical theatre. La Rambla cuts a direct tree-lined route to the sea, Christopher Columbus on a column and Barcelona’s equivalent of the Liver Building. Before reaching there, I darted left to the fringe of the Gothic quarter. The mixture of Irish bars, tapas dealerships, and dated facades were mostly quiet. It was 1am. Checked in. Bed.
“The great book, always open and which we should make an effort to read, is that of Nature.” – Antonio Gaudi
Waking up, I wandered out. Turning left from Carrer de Ferran, I headed to the harbour and seaside. The smell of freshly warmed pastries, coffee, and dogshit came in wafts. Having got to the beach, the crap of the streets dissipated to a fresher sea air. A long wander to see El Petó de la Mort (“The Kiss of Death“) at Poblenou Cemetery also allowed sights such as a water tower, a converted gas-holder, and various beaches. Following this, the construction site of the new Nou Camp and various spires followed. The unfinished design of Basílica i Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Família stands out across the city. It was rude not to visit Catalan architect Antoni Gaudí’s masterpiece. He died in 1926. It is due for completion in 2034. An incredible long-term commitment by the Catholic Church.
“There is no nightlife in Spain. They stay up late, but they get up late. That is not nightlife. That is delaying the day.” – Ernest Hemingway, Novelist
Throughout the city, the Catholic Church’s influence and presence are visible to the extent that it makes me feel England is a Godless nation. Not that I’m religious. I just feel the further a nation moves from a central belief, the deeper a lack of respect and manners shatter from society. Multiculturalism has the power to embed basic values, but let’s be fair, the U.K. is not fully integrated or interested in such a way. As can also be seen in parts of Barcelona, through homelessness, wandering refugees canvassing dodgy goods, and slum-like neighbourhoods far removed from equality. It could be a much prettier world.
“If we get up early and have a think, believe me, we are an unstoppable country. Thank you and Long Live Catalonia.” – Pep Guardiola’s speech at the Parliament of Catalonia after receiving its Medal of Honour in 2011.
The world comes to Barcelona, but not for long. Cruise ships stop. Ferries and shipping dock. Many come to see the sights and head elsewhere. The city is overcrowded. Like many cities. Visiting Castell de Montjuïc, I was presented with the opportunity to learn the word castle in Catalan. I can’t recall how to say it. Castell deMontjuïc castle has been central to the history of Barcelona since the 1600s. This infamous site was the last breathing place of Lluís Companys i Jover. Here, like thousands of others, executions awaited. The democratically-elected 123rd President of the Government of Catalonia was the first and only European leader to be executed. Nazi Germany’s Gestapo packed him off from exile in France to General Francisco Franco.
“We crossed spacious streets, with buildings resembling palaces, in La Rambla promenade; the shops were well illuminated, and there was movement and life…” – Hans Christian Andersen, author.
The former Francisco Franco and his legacy remain controversial and unpopular in Generalitat de Catalunya, an area of self-governance and autonomy. Barcelona, its capital city, sprawls across valleys and Serra de Collserola mountains. The Mediterranean coast and all the city could be seen from the fortified Castell de Montjuïc. A man fired an arrow from a bow along the moat of the in an area known for its executions. Leisure and pleasure have long replaced torture and death. Descending the 177.72m (583ft) Montjuïc hill, the winding roads swept over the Estadi Olímpic Lluís Companys, which is the home of F.C. Barcelona during their 2023/24 campaign. The La Liga ground is where İlkay Gündoğan plays football now. The former City player wasn’t available to be smuggled back to Manchester. João Cancelo wouldn’t be invited back.
“Tomorrow we will do beautiful things.” – Antonio Gaudi, artist, architect, and dreamer.
Wandering the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona, some quiet and relaxing spots made me think about why many people love Barcelona and why quite a few people dislike the city. It’s almost like Marmite. You either love it or hate it? I didn’t dislike it, but I wouldn’t call again. A day is enough. I found myself more swayed by the places within two hours. Girona looks gorgeous. That is a trip for another day. For now, next stop: Madrid.
The voice came from the ground. It was a single loud clunk. Clunk! It sounded like localised thunder. It’s waves shot upwards towards my ears. A metre away in any direction it would be inaudible. Almost imperceptible that a large rock could move and create such a loud static sound. The eagle spotted a kilometre overhead may have spotted it. The black kite perched nearby definitely did.
Gallery of the wander
Distracted by a pretty and handsome young couple saying, “Hello tall man”, I slipped on the loose near-horizontal dusted ground and hit my armpit on a pointy-up blunt branch. After all the near-vertical declines and sharp jagged spines of rocks, it made sense to slip on an easy area of walking. The now vanished chains of support weren’t there. Drops of suicidal angles had scattered behind me. Plain and simple became my hazard. Complacency in action. Or inaction in complacency. Anyway they looked a happy and cute couple. They witnessed a size-fifty shoe slide and a tall man wearing a Dal Bhat power 24 hour T-shirt ram a tree branch by armpit. The girl spoke, “Xiaoxin”. That means careful. So, I stumbled past them, 小心 indeed.
Today, marked a walk starting at 07:30 from Dongchong to XiChong and back, on the DongXiChong trail. I started with Dong (east 东) and ended west at Xi (西) but liked it so much I returned for a second helping of Dong. Like you do. This classic coastal pathway was at times stunning, at other times saddening. The mountains meeting the sea formed a terrific seascape. Clear blue seas and grey skies that eventually turned blue made trekking easier than being under baking sun rays all day.
The nearby Pingshan mountain and a view of Sanmen island did little harm to my vivid impressions of DaPeng peninsula. Cliffs and rock scrambling have long been my thing since experiencing it with Grylls Head outdoor adventure centre and Chapel Street Primary School in year 5. Rocks, holes, tiny islands, bridges, stacks, columns and landforms made by sea erosion towering over sea reefs and the omnipresent imposing tides of an angry sea can’t be a bad day out. It certainly perks your ears up for the cry of seabirds and the crash of countless waves. I wondered, as I wandered, how many stories can each shell tell?
Between the coastal villages of Dongchong and XiChong it is mostly undeveloped, save for the XiChong observatory and three small beach shacks. A few steps and chains have been fitted but nature mostly rules the route. There’s litter, at shameless quantities and annoying spray painted signs pointing out numbers for boats, lodges and so on. I’ve heard it compared and listed as one of the top ten routes in China. Perhaps that needs confirming. Also, that’s a worrying statement about the state of coastal routes. Yes, there are beautiful near golden sands at either village and some great pebble beaches between, but surely there’s more?!
The potential for ecotourism is high provided the litter mountain can be contained. If you can’t carry it back, why carry it there? Discarded wrappers, bags, drinks bottles, beach mats, hats, parasols, gazebos, barbecues and more were seen. Almost all was made in China, so no blame can be sent across the South China Sea. The blowing sea breezes and tides can only be responsible for so much. Humans as a disgrace for the rest. The National Geographic Magazine may need to review their write-ups. Although this walking route is not far from Shenzhen bustling centre, it feels remote and relaxing. Just about two hours from Futian via Yantian port!
16km of up, down, sideways, forwards and back ruined my Altra walking trainers. They’ll need replacing. They’re good for rough wear but not for smartness. This highly scenic route is dusty and tough at times. I enjoyed the 8km walk there and around XiChong so much that coming back made sense. Meeting nobody for three hours on my outbound journey was rewarded with meeting many friendly faces on the return journey, even if I was turned away Mary and Joseph-style by two coffee places in XiChong. On returning to Dongchong a kind shopkeeper pointed me to a shop selling Nespresso coffee. Not a bad end to a walk.
Finishing the day following a video call could only be done one way. Seafood. The local barbecue restaurant was perfect. There’s a few places to choose from. Most feature the animal kingdom, well the aquatic part, anyway. Reflecting on a day well spent, I thanked the trekking gods that I didn’t encounter whatever or whoever left behind all the crap that local village volunteers were bagging up.
There’s probably a name for it. It’s got to be called something. It’s like a swirling swishing sound. The sound of wind under the sea. Billions and billions of grains of sands colliding and pushing and being pulled by unexplainable quantities of sea water. The rolling continuous sound that goes up and then down, over and over again.
The fragrance from the shore has a name too. I’m sure of that. I can’t place my name on it. I breath the fresh salted air in. A gentle gust rides off the waves up the freshly – dampened sand and over the lighter drier plains of the beach. It makes the hairs on my body move ever so slightly. I feel it without seeing it. I’ve always loved the smells and feel of the seaside.
My mouth is moist from water. I needed to swig bottled fresh water. The gritty sand accidentally blown to my lips grinded away in a glassy sound. I sipped to quench my newfound thirst following the blast of salty unwelcome taste.
The clouds surrounding this bay are grey and slated. Like the dark blue grey of a mine. There’s a haze in the air. It’s not bright enough for sunglasses but equally not comfortable on the naked eye. The sea reflects green and blue in multiple shades but mostly those of dull. Each wave like a white horse folding in on itself, breaking the dull monotone.
Sandwiched between my toes is a thick kind of sand. Chunky yet fine. It covers the hundred metre beach sea to land. It spreads a good kilometre of this bay. I watch as piles dry and gently roll into a pit. The pits dug by children have washed away. Trenches by men have also gone. Peace has returned job this beach. Only the sound of waves and passing sandpipers.
Dongchong beach cost 20 yuan to enter. Today, in Guangdong Eastern flanks of Shenzhen city, I’m relaxed. It’s been worth the walk.
AGAINST THE FLOW OF TRAFFIC - ACTON28.BLOG 