It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon. A hot, lazy, Spanish afternoon. The sun hangs high in a sea of turquoise and my hand shoots up to cover my eyes as I step through the door and into the bright, white light.
There’s a house for sale at the end of my road, easily missable if not for the faded red sign that juts out from beside the gate. A forest of green foliage has overtaken the entrance, twisting its way around the surrounding fence. I peer through a gap in the trees. A small courtyard scattered with broken plant pots and fallen, yellowing leaves frames the front of the house, and a chequered mosaic of deep olive and orange tiles has been crafted onto the walls. A beautifully, mysterious place to live.
I carry on up through the streets. Sunlight is bouncing off the white buildings that line the roadside, bathing the town in a blanket of thick heat. There’s a constant murmur of conversation as Catalan families gather around tables set out on balconies whose railings are lined with tiny cacti in ceramic pots, or draped with beach towels and damp clothing. They’ve just finished a late lunch, and now the locals chatter away in the afternoon warmth until it’s time for a siesta.
I climb higher and higher away from the sea front and up into the hills. Each building I pass is different from the one before; a wonderfully eclectic collection of homes. Green shutters contrasted against stark white paint, abandoned flats with glassless windows, terracotta roofs and terracotta walls and grandiose homes boasting trickling water features and iron gates. No one house is the same as another.
I reach the top of the town, and I stand gazing down the long stretch of tarmac that runs all the way back to the oceanfront. The water is a deep, glittering shade of royal blue. A single white sailboat floats along the surface before passing out of view behind a row of slanted rooftops. Two women sit talking softly to one another in whicker chairs perched outside their front door. If not for them, I would be completely alone. The town is sleeping.
I make my way slowly back down to my beachside flat, eyes hooded from the lethargy the hot afternoon sun has invoked in me. My camera hangs heavily from my shoulder. It’s filled with images of characterful houses and shadows of treetops cast on white walls and thin, winding Catalan roads.
A warm, summer’s day adventure.