Cadaques

by Phillip Million (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Spain

Making a Local Connection The town of Cadaqués lazily sits on the rugged, beaten coastline of Catalonia, on a rocky outcrop that backs away from the sea, so as to appear caught between the blue of the Mediterranean and the pastoral green of the hills on either side. The white stone buildings burn proudly against these, and nestle defiantly in a space of their own, unperturbed by the difficult, aggressive terrain that encloses them. Like the buildings, their occupants too are also proud: they are agricultural, assiduous, and affable. I met one such woman on a humid, oppressive summer’s day in the centre of town, a woman named Maria. She was a recognisable and often-seen member of the community, and could regularly be found wandering the beach, or browsing market stalls in the town centre. I was exploring the winding side-streets alone one afternoon when I met her. She appeared intense against the crisp, near-blinding white of the building, dressed in a simple red throw-over shirt that immediately drew my gaze. Her face, too, was striking: dark black hair tied tight in a knot and sunburnt skin, not unlike the hills so essential to the town’s character – red, orange, yellow. Friendly, she greeted me, and struck up a conversation about who I was, where I was from, what I was planning on doing while in the area. We walked together through the twisting, narrow streets for a while; I had nowhere to be so enjoyed the meandering, easy walk and conversation. She showed me the church, located a short uphill walk from the beach, and told me that she had been baptised there. I was drawn to the simplicity of the structure; this was not a large, spiralled, turreted building, but rather one that appeared humble and unornamented, very reflective of the town itself. The street we were on was quiet, with only one or two people walking by every now and then, and the heat of the pavement was glowing through the soles of my shoes. She suggested that she show me closer to where she lived, which was on the periphery of town. Until this point I’d spent virtually all my time in the town itself, and so was eager to explore around its edges. Again, having nothing in particular to do, I accepted her offer and we continued our walk through the old, sun-worn streets, her appearing like a burning red heat spot in my vision as she walked in front of me. As we walked the buildings became less frequent, and in their place the hills appeared, still and rolling up towards the clear bright sky. We made it to Maria’s house after a short while and her house was markedly similar to those we had just left behind: bleached white, with shutters flanking the windows and signs of age chipped and dented haphazard on the surface. Between myself and the house was the garden, which Maria was obviously proud of, and had invested a lot of time into. The grass was full and lush, but only visible in arbitrary squares and oblongs and triangles, due to the various items left strewn around: a wicker washing basket, potted plants of every colour placed in seemingly random order, a cactus or two grappling with the garden fence. There was a folded wooden table that I assumed Maria must use when selling her own things at the market. She entered her house through the front door and returned a minute or so later with two glasses of orange juice, which we almost raced to finish on account of the heat, which was even more prevalent now that we were exposed in the beating sun with no buildings to shield us. She was right about the view being beautiful though: from the slightly raised perch of her garden I could see the rest of town, sloping down towards the shore, and the busy beach leading on to the sea, which was sparkling and coolly breaking over the golden sand. Maria explained that this was her view every morning, and when she said that I was truly jealous: the rugged, beaten coastline really is something you have to see.