Chapter 188
There’s been a slight increase in group size… my brother and wife arrived from Ireland, so now we are five. Meandering the shore beneath occasionally cloudy sky, enjoying the warmth of the sun for most of the day. We leave the parents behind to head off on a longer walk, then meet up again on the rebound. Interesting to be walking with my brother, he’s such a large human, I feel shrunken beside him. His build is so different from mine, he’s made of much sterner stuff. Calves like my thighs… bones of steel, and about a foot taller.
We explore the coastline, driving through supposedly protected areas where the skeleton of a half-built abortive hotel mars the beauty of the wild coastal hills. The road winds back and forth, improbably appearing above and below us, a conundrum of twists and turns that seem to defy logic as one tries to wrap one’s head around the where and how all the pieces fit together yet form one continuous looping trail that brings us down towards the sea.
Again leaving parents behind on gentle paths, we hike off over a hill following a dry rocky trail that glitters with scintillating shards at every step. Intense wild flowers remind me of the brilliance of blooms in the foothills. Deep red tiny wild gladioli, vivid blue pimpernels and purple irises sprout forth from barren rocky ground. They seem emboldened by the lack of nutrition. There are blue ‘everlasting’ flowers, golden daisy- like flowers (yellow sea asters), dozens of clusters of colour amid wild herbs, fantastic scents.
We follow the trail over the hill and down to the rocky shore. Here, a “Hippie Temple” has emerged from and within the rocks, built up over many years by folks unknown. Legend has it that this was started by one woman – well, everything has to start with one woman. There are cairns of rocks across the shore, sandy trails demarcated by smoothed boulders and pebbles, a trail walled by white quartz rocks that morph to igneous black. Many travellers from Spain and afar, have painted rocks and flat stones and brought them here to leave. There are stories in many languages, names of people who love, have loved, remember, hope, and wish for the future. The local icon, the Indalo Man, is picked out in one wall by white stones against black, rocks have been carved as owls or faces, stacks of white rocks amid black borders form a giant star. There are improbable oval balancing acts – stones standing vertically upon tiny feet. Trails wind back and forth, into dead ends and new ones and back to the sea. There are rocks with holes, a rainbow-painted frame through which to view the mercurial Mediterranean Sea, and everywhere the wind curls about these mementos, drawing the scent of wild things growing through the air.
Beyond this conglomeration, a large boulder about 20 feet high stands isolated on the beach. Indentations of this erratic rock are marked by pebbles stacked in pillars, small cairns attesting to the many hands and hearts that have passed through this place. Not far away I build an Inukshuk, a piece of Canada.
A small cave, a shallow relief against the cliff-face, a meeting place where green rock meets orange. The cliff above is pitted and water-smoothed, swirled tunnels excavated by rain sink toward the sea. To the left the cliff is a different colour, gritty, hard, unyielding. Below are agglomerates of green, black, red, orange, white and yellow. Igneous particles dropped into swathes of sedimentary, I imagine a great volcanic explosion raining down fragments of obsidian black into green silt that over time hardens to become the extraordinary surface we now traverse.
And then to lunch. A delectable series of delicious delights. Sensory explorations for the tongue after physical explorations for the body. This is a fortunate day indeed.
Kat Dancer
bodymudra@gmail.com,
+1 415 525 2630 (ph/whatsapp)
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