When you go somewhere new it’s always interesting to listen. The sounds of a different place are thought-provoking. Stimulating. We don’t usually pay attention. They often go in one ear and out the other. The eyes have it (haha).
Dermot said that the sound of the fierce Tramontane evoked ancient fears and he was right. This wind blows over Gruissan from the north from time to time, sweeping down over the Massif and out into the sea, and one day when we were there it gusted to a violent 70 kmph. Continue reading “On Gruissan Plage 3. Sounds like…”
What was I looking forward to most, on my holidays? What was I thinking about most in the weeks beforehand, in the days getting stuff ready, on the drive to the airport, in the plane, on the drive out to Gruissan Plage? On those succulent days before a holiday?
Was it the sunshine, the warmth, the sound of the waves wafting up from the beach? Bare feet and sandals, no socks? The beach, stretching itself out long and lovely, exotic in sunshine? Non, monsieur. Non, madame. Continue reading “On Gruissan Plage. 2: Bonjour, une Baguette S’il Vous Plaît”
It is evening. I am writing on the balcony. The sun is slanting across the chalets. Its light is softening, running to red.
The chalets are mostly white, white legs, white bodies, their gables ends pristine and clear.
Shadows rise. The shadows of electrical wires rise on walls. Continue reading “On Gruissan Plage. 1: The Evening.”