Isla Negra Beach

El Tabo sits on a promontory of rocky outcrops splashed by foamy Pacific rollers. At the turn of the century about 7,000 people lived in this middle class beach town but since then they apparently haven’t taken a census.

There’s one reason to come here and it’s Pablo Neruda’s house. For some reason they don’t allow photography inside the house so that’s not for us, but his home brought us here to see what he saw in this area. We took a drive by and parked so while I walked Rusty Layne took a nap. 

Because Layne took a nap I was saved from watching another souvenir come into my life from the stands set up to offload dust catchers on the passing tourists. 

And there were lots.

I got a whiff of Carmel by the Sea from perhaps 75 years ago, when the poets and writers gathered on the foggy coast of Big Sur and the Monterey Peninsula. 

It’s low season and these summer escapes were all unoccupied. The restaurant owner told us the home owners don’t want to pave the streets to keep the quaint flavor of Isla Negra, “black island” so named by Neruda for the black rocks off the beach. 

Check out the cypress trees and these homes which look to me like they were plucked out of California. 

I doubt you could park here in summer but we found plenty of room for our 21 foot Promaster. So we did. 

The weather is coastal Pacific, gray clouds in the morning with some sun in the afternoon with a cool onshore breeze. It’s quite lovely. 

We took a camp spot in El Bosque (“the forest”) but there was no one in the office and no other visible campers. The gate was open so we took a spot and waited for someone to come by. 

Meanwhile Rusty and I strolled across the highway and took to the sand. We left an empty campground. Pretty weird huh?

A nice Starlink signal and we have our own toilet which was good as the campground toilets are awful. A good place to dump our porta potty but you wouldn’t want to sit in them. 

With a little love and dollars this place could be first rate but there we  are. 

So there we were Rusty and I on this lovely strand with two couples at the other end and none around here. Amazing. 

The time came Rusty said it’s time to go home and off he trotted. He waited for me by the sidewalk so I leashed him for safety and went home to my Kindle dinner and bed. 

The office: 

A crazy campground. 

And the owner came by, a tall white surfer dude whom I’ve seen on every California beach I’ve visited. We paid $16, a ridiculous amount for a campground without services essentially especially as he warned us to take in our Starlink before we went to bed. “People walk by on the sidewalk,” he said. So not much security either! 

Oh but that California vibe that reminds me of home.  Not Key West, our previous home…

Pomaire

The good part of traveling out of season is no crowds; the bad part is everything tends to be shuttered and the tourist town’s marginalized tend to be hanging out by the shops. 

They were nice enough through the alcohol haze but I didn’t feel good about leaving the van and I felt even worse about letting Layne wander around the back streets of Pomaire by herself. Her mission? To find the world’s largest clay pig. I kid you not. 

Clay pigs. Whatever floats someone’s boat. We never did find the world’s  biggest so these will have to do 

All I can say is thank heavens she resisted the urge to load a pig aboard GANNET2. But she went shopping while I walked Rusty. First he checked the lay of the land as there were quite a few dogs about. 

He would only walk on a leash.  I think he feels safe tethered to me, as odd as that may sound. 

She bought her pottery, one for the van, a little fish painted with flowers and a hammock and one to take home when we get a home to remember our travels: 

Out of season Pomaire seemed rather dusty and run down. 

These small villages with all modern buildings and no churches or central plazas put me in mind of dry arid coastal California. 

Time to get on the road and leave pottery behind. 

Our plan was to drive an hour to the coast. 

To the Poet’s Coast because this was where Pablo Neruda had his beach home.

I don’t know if Rusty picked up the California beach vibe but he liked the shells and the cool sunny day.

Neruda’s house here in Isla Negra was just around the corner. We kind of ignored the no entry signs and as it’s out of season we found a place to park. 

But there isn’t any organized  parking. We parked on the street in an area that says you should pay to park but there was no ticket machine, no one to ask and no meter maids. Again I suspect this place is a zoo during family summer vacations which start around Christmas but right now the whole place seems deserted and relaxed. 

Some people went for ice cream in the afternoon sun. 

We went for fish. A clam and Parmesan starter  bubbling on the dish.

It boded well. 

We came in around 2pm and it was empty. An hour later it was packed. 

Layne had grilled eel, thick fillets delicious and fatty. I had reineta which I had no idea what it might be. The waiter said it was good and that was good enough for me. Google to the rescue.

It turns out it’s an ugly deep water carnivorous fish that migrates through the southern ocean between New Zealand and Chile at depths of up to 350 feet eating krill. Apparently the Brama Australis is a member of the bream or pomfret family and now I discover is in the verge of being over fished. All of ahich helps me not one jot but I hope you can make sense of that. Grilled, let me assure you it is soft white and delicious. Bring me more except not if it’s going to be overfished. Sigh. 

It was a memorable though not cheap lunch with entree two alcoholic drinks; Layne’s Pisco sour put her to bed and ended the day’s touring in a nearby campground. We had a main each and coffee to end. Total, a very California $75. 

Overlanders complain Chile is not cheap but to me it represents a pleasant place to tour. I call it value for money but this is not a peasant economy.

We appear to be alone in El Bosque campground in Isla Negra and when I say alone I mean no other campers and no staff and nobody around except for three fat happy dogs that Rusty frightened off so he could nap in peace.

I am assuming someone will show up to take our money but the car next door doesn’t look like it has been operational since the last Bush administration. It’s just rusting to death. 

All to ourselves, front gate wide open and a place to dived the night which is all we need.