Hooray! Another sunny Sunday. Which given the amount of rain we've had the last few weeks is nothing short of miraculous. So, the best things about living in the Costa Brava in the winter is the beautiful shiny winters days. The second best things is that we pretty much get the whole place to ourselves. Bar the odd local and occasional tourist, we sit on beaches that are packed in the summer and pretend that we own them. It's strange, but they always feel much smaller when they're empty.
So today, after a quick shoe discussion with Dante, age 3 (which he won) we headed off to the beautiful Sa Tuna. The discussion, by the way went along these lines. Me "Come on Dante, let's get dressed so that we can go out" (I felt he was too young for the 'it's 12 o'clock you slovenly teenager' argument as it was probably my fault he wasn't already dressed. I'd been half heartedly chasing him around with a pair of socks all morning.) Dante "My want to wear my pyjamas and my sandals" (which he'd manage to dig out of some draw somewhere and was proceeding to put on his feet.) Me, as I take off his PJs and put on a t-shirt "It's far too cold for sandals, you'll get cold feet and you can't go out in your pyjamas". I must have been momentarily distracted by something as I turned around to find him whipping off said t-shirt. It's amazing how quickly he can get undressed when he actually puts his mind to it. Dante " But I'm putting on my sandals. It's summer now". No, it's definitely still winter I explained. "No, it's sunny and my wearing my sandals so it must be summer". Sigh. We met half way, I won the PJs argument, he won the shoe argument.
Finally we managed to get everyone in the car and headed off to Sa Tuna which is a beautiful little hamlet that we only discovered last summer. The road out of Begur winds down a steep coastal road. The brilliant blue of the sky, the vivid green of the pine trees and iridescent glimpses of the sea. The beach is small, stony and perfect. The road to the left leads up through the tiny villages, pristine white houses perched on the sheer drop. You can meander through the narrow footpaths, pretending you're an extra in Mama Mia. The other side of the beach is a woody path that we intended to explore today. There's a monument somewhere further up the hill.
Normally when we come in the summer, it's bustling with life. Restaurants are busily serving up platters of seafood, garlic butter fills the air as you walk past. People chatting and enjoying an alfresco chilled beer, or glass of cava. The sea is as static as a pond and crystal clear. Its salty, sparkling depths are chill and inviting. People frolic amongst the fishing boats, walking gingerly if they're not used to the stones. It's a picture of a summer idil.
Today, there are a few people going for costal walks. You can walk past the village around the headland. It's lovely, rugged, primitive. The boulders plunge into the depths far below. But I know we can't do it with the buggy today. A few fisherman head out to secret spots, long poles and buckets of something I'm glad I don't know what. The sea isn't exactly choppy but there's a definite sway, rocking to and fro. It's a stunning colour, a deep rich blue.
We have our pick of the beach. No one else is sitting on it. Lunch passes uneventfully. Dante manages to sit on a tomato that Celeste has half eaten "arg, I've got tomato on my bot-ton" he squeals. And he has. It's quite unfortunate. The boys and daddy play 'tennis' and I bundle the babies in the buggy and start to climb the hill. They're beginning to get a bit restless.
We head up behind the now abandoned restaurants. I find a glass with a candle in it, now full of rain water and dirt. It must have been the centre point of a late night summer chat, or taken out to light a cigarette. Now it's forlorn and bedraggled. Magpie-like I put in the buggy (I've been attempting a wax craft project all morning that isn't going to plan. Perhaps some extra wax will help.) My husband will sigh, exasperated, when he sees it.
The path climbs steeply but we push on. On the next headland I can see an amazing hotel. It's a giant white building that I imagine was built in the sixties. It would be a great place to film a Poirot movie. I imagine myself in a long 30's dress with cigarette holder (it's just a prop, I don't smoke), bobbed hair and hair band. I'd fit the part quite well.
By this time the others have caught us up. Dante is busy pulling leaves off some poor tree. Galen grumps that Dante only gave him the smaller of the branches. Dante relents and kindly gives him the larger one. Kids! It's not as if sticks and leaves are particularly scarce in this neck of the woods (sorry, bad pun.) Sadly we are defeated by the path's wooden steps that have been put up to make it easier to climb. I don't fancy carrying the double buggy up half a hill. We should have used the slings that are in the car. We head back towards the carpark.
At which point, Galen comes running towards us clutching his bottom. Seriously? Not a single restaurant open and no public toilets at this time of year. Daddy heads off into the woods armed with a bottle of water. I sit down and share out a packet of chocolate cookies. I definitely got the better job in that division of labour.
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