September 30 - La Manga, Mar Menor
Back to normal, then - the desert songs of singing crickets chime as the dog barks of darkness slide through the midnight whispers of chalkwhite cloud, clinging like veils around the dusting, hush of a wise and watching saffron moon. A seven pointed star shines bright and the dreams of yesterday's needs fade into the indigo skies somewhere beyond the mountain range of Andalucia and the moody hills of Murcia. Phoenician moonlight punches through the gaps of in-between all around, sliding down to the deep, half-asleep, silent waters of a salt lagoon where flamingoes go to feed easy in the peace of La Manga. A semi-circled horizon of small, peaked conical mounts rise out of the depths like sunken stones, arranged in perfect geomancy, fabled by Plato long ago, once loved as Atlantis with Ley lines drawn tight - always out there, buried somewhere by forever in our souls.
Mornings here are silent. So silent. Always. Quiet, calm. The air smells cool and refreshed. Doves coo from trees, small birds keep themselves hidden in the shade of green leaves - chirping, chirping so softly. Yes, the mornings here at La Manga are gentle. Everything is flat. The land, the water, the tempo. The healing waves of the salt lagoon come ashore with little effort, shifting in as if visiting an afterthought, never breaking, just arriving as departing on the same little ripple with a quiet sigh. The bay of La Manga faces north-west. Palm trees grow here, rising up in straight columns, grouped in great bunches of threes and fours. The sunken volcanic peaks look so beautiful so far out at sea in this precious light.
What to do here? Lots of nothing. One can walk across an ocean of ceramic tiles. Meditate. Give thanks to the gods. Move very slowly. Spend time admiring the bounty of bouncing bikinis. Give thanks again. Even watching the cumulus cloud furr up and curl over the mountain peaks is enough to make one fatigue. But no need to break sweat, no need to plead for release, for the songs of the sea soon call you by your name... and by then morning has broken and you know that nothing is missing and no instinct is ever biased. Precious peaceful mornings with white sails and the sapphires of that Mediterannean blue, lulling down to a blissful siesta.
Evenings are breezy. Sundays seem better. Bunched up in a hunched tapas bar near the sea, eating, wheezing, watching Real Madrid beat Getafe 1-0 with a very lucky goal, locals up in arms, wincing and exploding with groans as the underdog goes down fighting. Voices as old as the love of Sumeria huff and puff through the clouds of smoked paprika, drinking jerez or bottle of rioja, cutting through to gaze at the long black hair of two girls who come in to pronounce their generosity of curves, and the ripe mango pulp of their delicious plump lips. Eating octopus never seemed so much fun. Outside, the warm Tariffa blows in with the colours of dusk, and all along the horizon, the coast of North Africa breathes into view.
Back to normal, then - the desert songs of singing crickets chime as the dog barks of darkness slide through the midnight whispers of chalkwhite cloud, clinging like veils around the dusting, hush of a wise and watching saffron moon. A seven pointed star shines bright and the dreams of yesterday's needs fade into the indigo skies somewhere beyond the mountain range of Andalucia and the moody hills of Murcia. Phoenician moonlight punches through the gaps of in-between all around, sliding down to the deep, half-asleep, silent waters of a salt lagoon where flamingoes go to feed easy in the peace of La Manga. A semi-circled horizon of small, peaked conical mounts rise out of the depths like sunken stones, arranged in perfect geomancy, fabled by Plato long ago, once loved as Atlantis with Ley lines drawn tight - always out there, buried somewhere by forever in our souls.
Mornings here are silent. So silent. Always. Quiet, calm. The air smells cool and refreshed. Doves coo from trees, small birds keep themselves hidden in the shade of green leaves - chirping, chirping so softly. Yes, the mornings here at La Manga are gentle. Everything is flat. The land, the water, the tempo. The healing waves of the salt lagoon come ashore with little effort, shifting in as if visiting an afterthought, never breaking, just arriving as departing on the same little ripple with a quiet sigh. The bay of La Manga faces north-west. Palm trees grow here, rising up in straight columns, grouped in great bunches of threes and fours. The sunken volcanic peaks look so beautiful so far out at sea in this precious light.
What to do here? Lots of nothing. One can walk across an ocean of ceramic tiles. Meditate. Give thanks to the gods. Move very slowly. Spend time admiring the bounty of bouncing bikinis. Give thanks again. Even watching the cumulus cloud furr up and curl over the mountain peaks is enough to make one fatigue. But no need to break sweat, no need to plead for release, for the songs of the sea soon call you by your name... and by then morning has broken and you know that nothing is missing and no instinct is ever biased. Precious peaceful mornings with white sails and the sapphires of that Mediterannean blue, lulling down to a blissful siesta.
Evenings are breezy. Sundays seem better. Bunched up in a hunched tapas bar near the sea, eating, wheezing, watching Real Madrid beat Getafe 1-0 with a very lucky goal, locals up in arms, wincing and exploding with groans as the underdog goes down fighting. Voices as old as the love of Sumeria huff and puff through the clouds of smoked paprika, drinking jerez or bottle of rioja, cutting through to gaze at the long black hair of two girls who come in to pronounce their generosity of curves, and the ripe mango pulp of their delicious plump lips. Eating octopus never seemed so much fun. Outside, the warm Tariffa blows in with the colours of dusk, and all along the horizon, the coast of North Africa breathes into view.
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