Tarifa: The calm away from the storm

Sipping a café con leche outside the Café Central in the town of Tarifa is one of those simple pleasures that seem so intense in Andalucia. The ancient walls that wrap around the core of the southern Spanish town bestow it with calm. Yet wander out of one of the heavy gates and past the small port, and you find yourself at one of the geographical crossroads of the world.

"You are in Tarifa, the southest town of Europe," explains an almost-correct notice close to the Playa Chica: almost correct in its use of English, and in its claim. Towns on the Canary Islands, for example, would assert their more southerly credentials.

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Walk a short way further south, to the causeway that leads to a military base (off limits), and another pair of signs points out another geographical phenomenon: "Oceano Atlantico", explains the one on the west side of the road. "Mar Mediterraneo", expounds the other. The two meet at this windswept point.

That is not all: the breezes from these vast bodies of water are funnelled between the Sierra Nevada of Spain and the Rif Mountains of North Africa, creating a wind factory. That explains the dazzling choreography sweeping across the skies to the west. Kite surfers take advantage of the reliably strong winds and wide beaches to perform their balletic manouevres on the ocean as it surges in after several thousand unimpeded miles.

Yet you need not have a thoroughbred physique to enjoy beach life in the extreme south of Spain. For a start, kite surfing is a skill that can be acquired by anyone with a reasonable amount of fitness. You usually have to spend a day on the beach doing nothing but flying a kite in order to understand and control the forces of the wind. But by day two, when you time your elementary skills to harness the power of the breeze and are lifted out of the sea, you will understand the addiction that draws thrillseekers here in their hundreds.

That's "hundreds", not millions.

There is a welcome absence on this stretch of coast: of high-rises, and of the cranes dropping new buildings on to the shore from Alicante to Marbella and beyond. The far south of mainland Spain has so far escaped the blight that affects the other costas. Modern construction, though, is in constant view, in the shape of the power-generating windmills that are decked on every crest.

Travelling along the N340, the main coastal highway, every swerve reveals another festoon (if that is the correct collective noun) of these devices, elegantly harvesting the constant winds.

Sustainable energy, indeed - which is also the pleasing effect that the area has on the traveller. Unlike in much of Europe, in the tip of Spain it seems permanently to be summer - or spring, at least - and life acquires a dimension of ease. Starting with getting there.

Just as Tarifa's beach is a wind factory, Malaga airport is a tourist factory, processing tens of thousands of travellers every day. In contrast, the most that Gibraltar airport handles in a day is 750 arriving passengers and a similar number of departures. Aircraft door to immigration and customs is about 20 yards; formalities to kerbside about the same; and, even though you have touched down on British territory, the Spanish frontier is a mere 100 yards away. In about the time it takes from a gate at Malaga airport to the terminal exit, you can be through a couple of international frontiers and on the bus.

And what a bus. I assume services from La Linea are heavily subsidised, since how else can you buy 45 intriguing minutes on the road around the coast to Algeciras for €1.71 (£1.22)?

However the sums work out, you should be glad to arrive at Algeciras. This is simply one of southern Europe's great port cities. Logistically, it is where this continent ends and Africa begins, and this is reflected in the colourful street life. You can sail from here to the Spanish territory of Ceuta, buried in the skin of Morocco, or to the chaotic, mesmerising terraces of Tangier. But better to stay here, and indulge in the best seafood in southern Spain; no, in all Spain; no, in all Europe.

Meson El Copo is hard to find: it is concealed in the suburb of Los Palmones, but the cars filling all the surrounding streets are a sign that you are close. Serious eaters come here, attracted by the fresh fish and seafood for which El Copo is renowned. The owner is Manuel Moreno Rojas, and his family has run the place for 27 years. He employs 10 fishermen to work exclusively for his restaurant. The main courses are either grilled, fried or gently simmered. The opening hours are generous: 1.30pm to 3.30pm at lunchtime, in the evenings from eight "until everyone is served".

The key is location: the point at which the Atlantic meets the Mediterranean, one of the richest fishing areas in the world. And the distance from the dockside to the table - about 50 yards.

By the end of the meal you will move very slowly, but very happily. You could subside happily into an Andalucian-sized slumber - but to make the most of this happy coincidence of gastronomy and geography, hop aboard another absurdly underpriced bus and go south to Tarifa. And stay awake: the views of the Rif Mountains in Morocco are especially good in late afternoon, when the sun muscles in to enhance their rugged good looks. (If you happen to have a car, you can stop off at a particularly attractive mirador and breathe in the joyful sight as you take in extra doses of caffeine).

And there, at the end of the road, stands Tarifa. Some are seduced by the promise of Africa only 35 minutes away by catamaran (the fastest I've managed is just under an hour), or by gorgeous hotels along the coast such as the Hurricane, where you could happily while away a winter. But I'm going to check in once again to the Pension Correo, the former post office: a first-class address at second-class prices. I shall wander along to the starting point of the GR7, yet another cause for international celebrity. This long-distance footpath meanders all the way across southern Europe to Athens. One day. Right now, though, I am going to allow the tangle of alleyways and walls to insulate me from the wind, listen to sun-roasted kite surfers boast about near-death experiences, and sip some more coffee. The sleepy south is well worth staying awake for.

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