A bit special.

You know it's a bit special when around about midday you stroll along a beach and the only footprints behind you are yours, it's even more special when after about a km or so you turn around to walk back and still the only footprints are yours.

Linguistic misunderstanding

A rather grey day but with surf. I'm unsure whether it was the surf that woke me or the instruction to take a photo of the sunrise, it was too dark, or the request that I make the coffee as it was my turn today. I did and it wasn't.

There was surf though, and prior to departing for milk, bacon y pan I did comment that I expected that the surfer dudes would be along soon although I had yet to see any.  Arriving back lightly laden there were a couple of surfers paddling their boards out for all they were worth, then a few moments in recovery mode to look cool ensued during which time a few ranges of pretty decent waves reared, broke, crashed and washed back.

Over the hour or so that my observations were made not once did I notice either of them actually catch a wave and surf. They got caught frequently and washed ashore but it must be said that with no tidal range to flatten beaches their passage to the shore was rather short.

To their credit they carried on paddling, loitering and getting washed ashore until the time came to stay ashore. I guess that surf in the Mediterranean isn't quite like the Atlantic variety although the surfers seem remarkably similar.

The end of the day was marked by a very brief shower which brought lots out to take photos of it, so rare has any rain been. Of course, it may have been the very intense rainbows that caught their attention as they had mine but even I took a photo of the rain on the prom and the reflections that it generated. Sadly the photos were mostly rubbish.

Now, the reason for venturing forth accepting the risk of rain was that the facial hair could no longer wait for a trip to Jimmy Barber's and as a consequence the skills of a local barber had to be employed. This they were. Now, last time I sat in Jimmy's chair he remarked that my hair was easy, three over the top, two to put a taper at the back, half all over the chin.

I know tres, dos y media but it would appear that I may have got it upside down.
What's more he shaved my neck with a cut throat razor and sprayed scent all over me which was well received in one quarter. At least by the time we get back nature should have taken care of things but I've never come out of a barbers smelling quite so, well, sweet .....

The end of the line.

Yesterday was bright, warm and very windy so an early start found us at the station before the first coffee had begun to wreak its effect, the second coffee found us up north at the end of the line sat on a corner looking across at a strangely familiar ferry terminal. This port is nearest the smallest of the Baleares, only 67miles in fact, from where we spent a decade of whit weeks gradually expending more and more of the hard earned in order to get there and stay a week at that time of year.

The fact that this overseas sojourn is costing considerably less than our last week there cost, it was a seriously tempted me who asked how much to get to that little island. 110.00€, that’s 440€ to get us both there and back and that’s lots more than the flights. Oh well, nice thought and instigated because as we were taking coffee the terminal struck us as being rather more familiar than we had reason to expect in our first visit to a place. 

We watched the new ferry terminal hosting the same company rise from the dust of the old one in La Savina. The old brick and cement wash walls, painted so often that the white paint was probably thicker than the cement if not the bricks had small windows down the sides and doors at each end the interior being cool even when outside wasn’t. The toilets waiting for the passengers were hardly squats but not far removed ideologically. About eight or nine years ago it wasn’t there when we visited.

The following year its space had been occupied by a steel structure hugely out of proportion with its piers but a reflection of both how busy it had become and a warning about how busy it would become. 

The next year it had risen by another generous storey and was covered in slightly arched steel with a fake funnel, the upper storey taking on the appearance of a promenade deck behind a bridge. In profile it looked unexpected and effective. It became a viewpoint, meeting point, coffee stop and stopping point for the multiple examples of modern toiletry. 

Each year it became ever more in tune with its surroundings as the exposed and untreated steel weathered, the gravel road around it became tarmac and where once cars, scooters and an occasional medical evacuation helicopter had loitered it was now a huge array of chevrons to park coaches and taxis which came and went with increasing regularity.

On this pier today was a structure echoing its smaller cousin 70 miles away and whilst the details differed, steel had given way to concrete the tell tale signs of proportion, interior decor, space, elegance in a way and multiple examples of modern toiletry were satisfyingly similar.

The place it is situated in isn’t a bad place to visit either but I think that the costs may have brought home to me that this was not just at the end of a railway line.

Don’t believe all The English tell you.

Hot, sunny and calm the lady said and so began Sabaddo. Shirt, jeans and sandals for the trip to town for Telegraph, pastellerina and back. Alas, the pastry couldn’t get past the cafe con leche panna cotta. 21 at 1026 the Farmacia sign flashed. 22 at 1038. Back, shorts, coffee and beach. In than order.

Well, two out of three ain’t bad, or so said Meatloaf. Taking coffee on the balcony was a delight until the first finger of cloud preceded by the merest zephyr questioning the shorts. 1130 and the finger became the arm and  shortly thereafter the whole body. Dark high cloud to the north, south and west, the merest sliver of brightness was fast disappearing to the west to be replaced by a glimmer of hope to the west and south.

Jeans and stout shoes by 1300 and a walk south to meet the merest rays of hope as revealed in that direction. A mile or three south and a Torre stands on the clifftop, just past the ruined farm house surrounded by cactus and falling away to the sea in front of it a whole series of stone walled terraces, now advanced in dilapidation, part fenced off where we think an underground reservoir is holey opened in a few places. A few metres and there’s another ruin. Made the more terrible by the vandalism of graffiti, it seems unable to completely hide the grandeur of a previous life. Ceramic tiles rendered to shrapnel in the scree about the doorways, window apertures arched in an Arabian style with striped arrays of brick in the reveals indicate Moorish influence  abundant in these parts, but how much is history and is it another unfinished project of the very recent past?

Through it’s brokenness the Torre stands proudly aloof, just far enough away to deter all but the most fit of the spray can brigade, one had managed to get that far and they left the date 20/12/13 to add to their portfolio.  The Torre stands on a headland, as they all seem to for obvious reasons and I was glad to get there. Below lies the settlement of Paradis, dominated by a couple of unsympathetic hotels and a motorhome park. If I’d never had regrets about not having been able to give motorhoming a go I’ll never have them now. Set on the shore in a gravel wasteland, each cordoned off by link fencing, high density parking, washing lines, dogs and a, frankly, wholly unpleasant ambience. You’d park there if you had to and you’d have to as everywhere the opportunity arises to park a motorhome there are signs prohibiting their presence. 

Sitting at the cultivated base of the Torre the views are quite pleasant, especially to the west where sun glances over the tops of the sierras and the edge of the dark cloud becomes a definite entity. Moving east as well. Up and down the coast these Torres abound, always in sight of each other. It was the same when we walked to Torres in Le Baleares. Sitting on this balcony, pen in hand, I can see two to the north and there’s at least three visible to the south of the Torre we sat under. Which made me think about all this need for protection.

I was always told that the Armada was despatched to conquer England but just maybe, like the lady who lives next door and talks to me when I’m having breakfast, they felt sorry for us. Words like gris, lliuva, vente and frio are recognisable as is pais inglaterra. No, I thought, as the English lady on the radio this morning reported that Somerset was under water and there were umpteen flood warnings for the south of Her Majesties currently United Kingdom, maybe the Armada was despatched to bring us hither to winter sun, blue sea, gentle breezes and so little rain. Or maybe the Spanish invoked the iniquitous Treaty of Rome slightly prematurely rather than wait till 1986 to freely migrate to our shores because looking around on the net yesterday it seems that all these Torres were built not as tourist miradors but to keep a look out for Berbers, a not wholly beneficent tribe from North Africa nor were they renowned for random acts of kindness. 

As I sit here watching a three masted schooner sail along the azure horizon over a spangly sea I am left thinking that The Berbers are only a couple of days steaming away. Indeed, since we’ve been here two trawlers from those parts have availed themselves of the expertise of the yard down the wharf. They’re either from Morocco or Libya, whoever has a green and white flag. Maybe history isn’t as straightforward as we think. 

And maybe it is irrelevant, we can travel here conveniently as EC subjects and live comfortably, the Berbers can come here to have their boats refitted, to sell sunglasses and leather goods in markets and along seafronts and the Spanish can have as much as they like from EC coffers which explains why they have such lovely roads, railways, stainless wire by the winch full on boats with a lot of the highest tech and mountains of gear, desalination plants, modern hotels, police visible everywhere, manicured seafronts with car parks underneath the promenade not to mention escalators in the park and rows of flagpoles carrying EC flags to draw attention to big blue signs thanking everyone else in the EC for paying for it.

Doesn’t explain the weather, though, and seeing as the weather now is as it was meant to have been yesterday no one wants to go anywhere today and no work is being undertaken that doesn’t involve cooking, eating or drinking.

The things John Humphrys never tells you.

Sadly, further inspiration eludes me. After the sunset walk last evening along the beach during which time we walked the whole length of it, paddling frequently and for the duration we were the only ones on it. A simply stunning walk. The colour gradients were more subtle that I think I've ever seen, sadly, as soon as the dark blue became indigo it was time to go in too.

Last evening was cool, so cool in fact that it was the first evening that I've stayed indoors for the glass of red since we got here. I expect tonight will be similar.

Again this morning we were woken by the blaze of sunrise soon followed by the first coffee of another glorious day.

I am getting a bit too hot now, having carried out the pack mule duties with customary efficiency, again, and I think I shall have to get out again very soon and take something cold once I have finished this coffee.

I will finish with a report of the weather lady at 0810 this morning on the English language station, whilst the jogger was out jogging I was conscientiously lying awake waiting to hear it so I could report its content.

Today she said "it is going to be calm with clear skies and the temperature will get into the high teens on the coast. The weekend will be the same but expect the temperatures to rise each day seeing the mid twenties by midweek. The next five days will see the Costa Blanca being the warmest place in mainland Europe."

I rather enjoyed that, far better than John Humphrys on "Today". He's never told me that, even in summer.

Unreasonable generosity

The cafe two floors below us has just opened and his wifi is on. He has given us permission to use it and refused our offer of recompense.
From here on I'll probably only post when he's here.
We are exceedingly grateful to him and will dine there before we leave.
I would just like to say that this is a real blessing as we've done nothing today to inspire a blog post.
We were woken by a world bathed in gold.
We breakfasted on the balcony.
We went to town.
We came back
We had BLTs on the balcony.
We're currently on the balcony with laptop and iPad and once the sun passes over I expect a sojourn on the beach.
I've even got the rest of the tea I made on Tuesday for tea tonight.
So, you see, a totally uninspiring day.
Maybe something exciting will happen tomorrow.

The Indiscipline of will.

After the blog writing, whilst a solo jogger was jogging along the seafront, it was decided that a trip to the chocolate museo and factory was the order of the day. It is free and I was in no way inclined to disagree. With the cool here by the beach one becomes convinced that two shirts and a coat would be wise. By the time you’ve crossed the road above the escalators you’re not sure. Once you’ve crossed to the other side of the tracks you are totally convinced that you are overdressed.

Oh, well, plod on, it’s not far and there’s chocolate at the end. In the queue there’s another English couple from York and the ladies immediately converse, the blokes wander about aimlessly pointing cameras at anything rather than strike up a conversation. Exactly on the hour, as published, the gates open, and a lady invites us in asking us our nationality and proceeding to give bilingual talks. Mostly history about the factory being run by the fourth and fifth generation of the originators family but she was noticeably more reticent about what was going on in this state of the art factory. I’ll spare you the detail but I think I managed to impress the man from York, it was probably my James May shirt but I recognised the colours of the pipework from a previous life and was able to work out how the chocolate was kept hot as it was piped along, the motors were fresh water cooled and the whole lot was controlled by hydraulics from a computer driven valve chest. It was an example of exquisite fluid control systems, alas all anyone was really interested in was testing chocolate.

Now, a few nights ago we suffered after a bout of over indulgence and I for one was determined not to overindulge this time. I was not alone in this. However, being presented with a selection of the most wonderful confectionary was a temptation too far, especially when some of the nationals were going at it like it was their last meal and the tour lady was ever so insistent that we join in. This we did. I can report that every piece was excellent but the 70% Puro which we got to last of all is deceptive.

At first you can’t believe your taste buds but the flavour softly melts into your very being and you find it essential to see if the sensation is repeatable and measureable, to be scientific about it. It is. It also takes quite a few minutes to realise that more than enough was quite a few pieces ago. These Spanish must have an exceedingly sweet tooth to cope with so much sugary confectionary let alone all the pastries and sweet things displayed in the pastellerinas.

Not much jogging this afternoon.

Not much of anything for a while.

A cup of tea, maybe.

Later.

Photo 21: One Lorry load or two? Sugar being pressure fed into the fluid control system ....