Waking, there was something not quite right. Something different, Something not as it ought to be. As soon as I hear the key in the door, I realise it was the sound of silence. Waking to silence, very different. However, the key signified something special.
Fresh croissants and pan. How impressive of me to recognise that, eh? A delicious way to begin the day. For some an early morning walk up the hill to the shops is the best way to start the day and I'm grateful that we're not all the same. Mars is good for me even if Venus is wholly unknown and may offer much that I'd like. I certainly like deliveries of croissants y pan before I'm properly awake. Coffee was good too.....
Something else was different and she (not abbr.proper name for the pedantic one) hadn't had a haircut. Eventually it became obvious that there was a purpose to this day. There was shopping to be done. Not casual shopping but earnest shopping that required a list and a beast of burden capable of carrying at least two laden backpacks and a full bag.
Whilst the list was en preparacion I put the telly on, never done that in the day before but there it was and the buttons were handy. Glad I did, a report on the events expected on the final stage of Dakar later today and then a whole half hour of WRC Round 1 Monte Carlo. It was brilliant coverage, like it was when I wouldn't miss it. Having not seen it since Marcus Grunholm retired and Richard Burns died it was a revelation. Cars that sounded like cars, looked on the edge, except for Robert Kubica who hit a bridge parapet and went over it. I thought he'd have learned. The Polos look so like a 6R4 from the back, who is this Bryan Buffier, and why is Gwyndaf Evans' son setting the stage alight? Kris Meeke driving a flying Citroen in atrocious weather? It was brilliant but best of all every few minutes the screen said en directo and a helicopter followed a competitor for a few minutes and then reverted to recorded bits. Was it directo? I've no idea but it may well have been as the final part is on tomorrow.
Right, shopping for essentials on a list and a Telegraph, I was reminded. That meant a trip to the south side and fortunately the hydraulic pressure had relented, order was restored, drying had taken place leaving only small traces of yesterdays overwhelming events.
No casual wandering today, no looking for photo opportunities today, no browsing today. Today was all about list fulfillment.
Telegraph collected we went to the Superdado, as it's called. Huge once you get in. The trolley was rapidly filled, English bacon, bought some, sliced bread, didn't and even proper beans, nor them. Chorizo, jamon, tomato, queso and tempted by some lovely looking steaks but their colour was a bit deep and I thought was either horse or dog. Either way it got put back. It was cheap, though. No
olives, not in manageable quantities at least.
Getting back and the paper was taken which left me on the balcony to recuperate on and watch from. It wasn't something that made me suddenly notice but a gradual impression that this was different to the weekdays. This place isn't exactly a hive of activity during the week but you get used to a certain level of ambient, a quite well defined density of strollers, an expected and consistent demographic
but today is different.
The roadside cafe owners are putting out their chairs and tables with a little more gusto.
The strollers are joined by quite a few more but they're moving with purposeful intent, the non usual dog walkers are striding along, their dogs are bigger and don't stop at every post.
The joggers usually weave around the casual strollers with the dog leads fully extended but today the joggers are in tight dark jogging gear with extremely white trainers and phones clamped to their arms, some with bands over their chests and around their ankles with gadgets prominent in black against luminous bands and the dog strollers have their leads short and move out of the way for the joggers,
who are probably more worthily decsribed as runners. Whatever, they exude purpose which is palpable and palpably missing during the week.
There are families out and about, one couple with a solitary young man, a toddler, are posing him on the wall outside here, he has to stretch his arms, lean casually on one leg, pretend to catch an imaginary ball thrown by a stick insect imaculately dressed, and this goes on .... and on. I'm feeling so sorry for the kid. He's worn three or four different shirts, stood on half a dozen walls, sat and stood on seats and a table, leaned against palms and the corner of the mustard house. Every time he's photographed by the chap with a very expensive camera round his neck as well as by his phone and the lady's got her phone permanently pointed at him, waving it like a directors baton and the poor kid does as instructed. Eventually, he's plonked on a seat on the back of a folding bike and wheeled away.
There are other families behaving normally. Not normal for here but normal for wherever they are usually. Mum's immaculately dressed shouting at kids running too close to edge, kids laughing and running away even faster, kids screaming and then crying as they fall because it takes time to realise that their leg hasn't been torn off just scratched enough to need reassurance and assistance to regain
a vertical aspect.
As many as a car every five minutes passes usually and they're almost all well used, bent, old Toyotas, Renaults,notably a Renault 4, Citroens, Peugeots, rusty Fiats and Seats in colors that were all the rage when proper Minis were still in production. Today there's a much more frequent dribble of vehicles, noteably black BMWs, Audis in black too but white ones and red ones too, Range Rovers and posh new cheaper derivatives slowly pass by and even a Prius silently wafts by saving the planet. Some chance when everything new that's passed burns petrol or diesel at a fair old rate and everthing that usually passes burns oil like it's given away.
The cyclistos meet in the cafes, drink espressos and orange before getting up as one and riding off in their groups, Caja Rural rode by at about 1030 but today they were on bikes with noticeable aero and solid rear wheels with extensions on the handlebars for their forearms to rest in. I guess they must be tired by now and need something to lean on. Luis Leon Sanchez it said on one new frame.
The cycles out at weekends oooze money compared to the usual bikes that potter along, The mountain bikes are invariably very expensive looking and their riders attired in protection but it's the road bikes that really suggest that money arrives here at the weekend. I guess that very keen amateurs would have a very decent day job to afford bikes like these. There are droves of them.
There was the usual row of Piaggios in town but at the front was a Ducati Paginale, which, but for the burden I had to bear would have been photographed from every angle. It ought to be in gallery of modern art, not parked up by a load of scooters. We are passed by a gang of sports bikes, Repsol colours being most common on their Hondas but more Rizla Suzukis that I'd have thought.
The harbour is full of fishing boats but from first light the day boats looking like hedgehogs as they bristle with rods pass to the south, kayaks litter the shore. Today there's a yacht under sail, the first I've noticed, and a fleet of dinghys but the wind's offshore, SW and the shoreline is calm.
I notice that the lady with the cafe down there is filling the gaps in her drop down plastic sheeting with inserts and tying extra ties in the bases. I mention this audibly in the hope that the Telegraph may be finished with but, no, it's still being read to the exclusion of life passing by.
A while later the Repsol kite surfers arrive. The palm fronds start to move. An hour later the wind's SE, the palms are swaying, the kite surfers are flying, the day boats are wallowing northwards, tne kayaks are all gone, the sails are smaller and the boats faster.
The strollers are flapping about and there's almost proper surf coming ashore.
A glass of Mahou later and the sea's full of white caps, the balcony door has to be partially closed but at least I can now have the Telegraph even though I can't read it on the balcony. The surf is getting
itself organised and there's a couple of kite surfers packing up, only a very expert few are still out.
A wander along the foreshore and the wind has gone pretty much ESE, 4-5 maybe 6. There's surf ripping away chunks of the beach, the cafes have had their shutters wound up and their tables and chairs chained and padlocked. The sea is boiling and a pair of kite surfers make the most of it displaying their abundant skills. The prom is empty, the beach has a couple of walkers wandering up wind to get back to their appartment and when we get there we'll look at an empty beach and sparsely used prom.
The money arrives at the weekend but a fresh breeze drives it all away or indoors.
It's not warm, either!
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