Unless you really
know the place, and even if you do, setting off in search of a few meters of
unspoiled seashore on the southern part Costa Brave, is like trying to find a
needle in a haystack. Over 50 years of wanton mass destruction (referred to here
as construction) have left little more than Jerry built apartment blocks and
vast car parks, adjoining otherwise beautiful beaches. Soviet ugliness at it's
bleakest. And there seems to be no stopping it's vile, cancerous spread.
What can one expect from a tourist industry based on cheap
booze and fags? Thankfully my part is in the
north.
The abrupt rocky nature of parts of the southern coastline means certain coves are all but inaccessible, though not from the sea. Some of them are miniature fjords of crystal-clear water, which on reaching land, sensually lick the hem of sandy beaches no bigger than a bullfighter's cape. It takes Mr XY a good 40 minutes' walk to make his way down to such an idyllic spot, whose name and whereabouts he prefers to keep to himself. He goes in for his 1st dip at about 9.30 in the morning. The water is still chilly but incredibly invigorating, and nothing beats drying off in the sun before it gets too hot. For years his summer routine. On this particular day, he was lying on the sand, when a mechanical din suddenly drown out the sibilant silence of tiny waves over shingle. Manned by a young couple posing for Dolce & Gabbana advert, a motor boat was chugging it's way toward him. Without switching off the confounded engine, they shouted and pranced about for quite some time and then threw out the anchor. The stern came to rest not a meter from the shore. A nasty looking motor launch appeared. The mannequins aboard both vessels used their mobile phones to engage in an exchange of shrill greetings. They ignored Mr XY completely. So when XY went in again for a swim, he dived down and tied the 2 anchors together in a devilishly complicated knot. It's anybody's guess what happened later. |
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