MANAÑA
Quiet. Calm. Dawn. Mornings in La Manga always emerge from this silence. Sat on my balcony overlooking the lagoon and its five islands. I drink the first espresso of the day and try to write as half the world still sleeps. Waters at the beach do nothing. Waters in the lagoon do even less. Over on the salt flats pelicans and flamingos move slowly in this early morning light. The air smells cool and refreshed. Doves coo from nearby trees. Small birds chirp softly, hidden in the shade and leaves (still entwined in the dusks of dawn). In front of me I count again the five nearby islands protruding out of the Mediterranean blue; chunks of rock, conical shapes, towering cliffs. Palm trees rise up towards the light, columns of silhouettes, grouped in bunches of threes and fours, reaching upwards for the morning. The ocean continues to do very little; just pushing itself ashore with no effort, only seeming to reach the shoreline as an afterthought, waves that never break, water arriving on sand with a quiet sigh before dissolving forever. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Morning has broken.
Found a café for breakfast. Mesón Casablanca. Not far from the lagoon, on the beach at Playa Honda. The morning sunshine reaches in and wraps itself around the building. The day still stretches out wide across the beach, yawning across the flat waters we face out onto. Like others here, I am sitting up at the long sturdy bar running along the length of this room, passing a series of hot grills and plates, coffee pots and white demitasse cups, bottles of beer and rioja, cut legs of jamón hang from the ceiling – partially obscuring the television screen which is broadcasting a daily game show on tve. A barista works inside here, serving coffee, serving food (there is also a large open window – a wooden hatch which swings open for business out onto a patio – people can order from outside and stand near the beach to eat or drink).
Small servings of tapas are offered for €3: pick what you like. For breakfast most people are eating slices of toasted bread covered in a spooning of hot, tomato salsa. The air is perfumed with garlic and saffron. A man in front of me eats this with his coffee. He has a baseball cap pulled down over a forest of tight wired, grey curls and his voice is a series of gruff barks. A friend sits next to him. Side by side they sit together, drink their coffees, eat their breakfast, smoke their cigarettes. Two women approach the hatch-bar to order something to go. The men have instantly noticed the sunlight creating a sheen of gloss along the length of their long black hair (they have possibly noticed more). The women order coffee and food. The men go back to eating. Their cigarettes burn, resting nose down in ashtrays, curling thin whisps of blue smoke up into the air. The morning sunshine continues to shine across the flat waters of Mar Menor and its five islands.
TARDES
The midday sun has climbed as high as it can for today. It peers down from an intense height, causing eyes to squint when looking up. Shadows are now directly beneath your feet. Cicadas and crickets make the heat sound more intense than perhaps it is. Spent the morning over at Cartagena, not far, nearby, about twenty minutes away, still in the region of Murcia. Wandered around its small harboured streets, hot and dusty, sheltered in shade. Had an early lunch, elevenses, ate some seafood croquetas – deep fried and breadcrumbed, filled with musselmeat or crabmeat; I’d found a restaurant near the port, owned by two brothers. It overlooked the harbour, the lighthouse and the fishing boats bobbing about in the slick, still waters spilling in from the Costa Calida. Not long after, I caught a bus back to Mar Menor. There was a big fight in the middle of the journey – two old women shouting at each other. No idea what it was about or what they were saying, but both gave each other as good as they got.
The bus dropped me off near enough to Méson Mesón Casablanca. I could see it from the bus stop. There was no one seated in the outside patio (or standing up against the latch-bar). Inside, things were happening, though. The owner greeted me with an Hola, como estas? I sat up at the bar and ordered a midday espresso (café solo). All was relaxed, all was mellow, Jimi Hendrix’s All Along the Watchtower played in the background from two small speakers tucked away in shelves between bottles of wine. Midday tapas were being served from metallic trays behind the bar, visible from behind counters of flat glass. Near where I sat I could see calamares being cooked in a tomato sauce; there was garlic, parsley and pine nuts in there, too. Next to that, were cuts of sea bass cooked in a broth with garlic, paprika and saffron – possibly with garbanzos (chick peas). I ordered both dishes with my coffee. Some bread was given to me for free. Everything in the bar had an unhurried pace. Nothing sounded louder than the spoken word. The owner seemed to know everyone who came in – either saying hola, or greeting some by their names. Sitting there time no longer mattered. I needed to be nowhere. And I guess this is one of the tricks to getting your money’s worth out of this life: to take time to savour the sunsets and tapas, to find the dolce far niente in each day’s frenetic convulsions and to linger there as long as possible. The bar was warm with the sound of smiles.
NOCHE
Sunday night at Mesón Casablanca. The day is all but over. Just got back from watching the sun set down at Cabo de Palos. Went down to the beach there at late afternoon. Sat there watching the remains of the day sink behind the ocean. The sting of the sunshine had started to evaporate as I arrived, but with the approach of evening, coolness sunk deeper into the sand. I swam in the Mediterranean for as long as I could. Floating in waves, watching the colours of dusk fill and smudge the sky with oranges, reds and violets. Warm winds blew in off the ocean – facing that horizon you knew that you were looking into the beating heart of North Africa, possibly looking directly into the endless beauty of Morocco.
The light was dimming as I walked back to Mar Menor. It wasn’t a long walk (maybe thirty minutes or so). The sun had long disappeared over the mountains dividing Murcia from the white hot heat of Andalucía. Twilight consumed the sky, street lights blinked into life, cars began to drive with headlights on. I passed a small souvenir shop still open: Tabacos y Regalos. Inside all manner of gifts were displayed from postcards to ceramics to clothing. All I wanted was a bottle of water. The owner was an elderly man from A Coruña. We chatted a little. He told me about his region and said that all the greatest seafood came from the North West coast: Galicia, Cantabria, Asturias and the Basque Country. He told me to go there in the season when the months of the year ended with ‘re.’ That was the season that the best seafood could be found. He kept emphasising the ‘re’ sound several times so I understood what he meant before listing the months for me in repetition: Septiembre, Octubre, Noviembre, Diciembre. It was almost dark as I walked along the sand on Playa Honda. Music, salsa music, sounded from within the Deportivo Club on the beach (it was here you could hire a kayak or a kite surf for the day and use it in the lagoon). Rows and rows of palm trees reached up towards the stars.
And so, here at Mesón Casablanca, we are all relaxing. There is beer or wine to drink. The pace is slow. Busy hands move behind the bar – serving drinks, serving food. Busy hands move along the bar – smoking cigarettes, touching, moving. It is almost 8.30pm. There is a football match being shows on the television here. It is Getafe (blue) v Real Madrid (white). I’ve only just sat down, the match has already started (second half), and I can’t see what the score is from this seat. Have just ordered pulpo (octopus); it is delicious, I can taste vinegar, lemons and thyme (I can also see peppercorns, bay leaves and small, sweet onions). And then a goal! I don’t know who for. Looks like Real Madrid, looks like 1-0 to them. Two young men seated next to me wince and curse – they do not want Los Blancos to win tonight. People are entering the bar now. All are greeted by the owner: a couple from Spain, a lad from Africa, a lad from England. All sit here up at the bar (except the couple – they sit at a table facing each other, they look as if they are in love). Suddenly the bar explodes with noise and raised arms: Getafe have just hit the crossbar. On and on they press. All of us sit at this bar and drink our bottles of Mahou cerveza. We will watch this match until the end. An advertisement for a local bullfight over in Ronda flashes up across the screen mid-match.
MEDIANOCHE
Midnight. It is difficult to describe the silence here on my balcony in Mar Menor. Only the distant bark of dogs and songs of seagulls drift on the warm levant winds. The sky is black. So black. Stars shine clear and bright all around. Some brighter than others. Some bigger. Thin whispers of streaked chalkdust drift like stray veils flying across the indigo heavens. A glass bottle rolls about somewhere. The five, small peaked islands are visible by their outlines in the lagoon. You should hear this silence, this stillness. This is quiet.
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siesta del somewhere 