Life’s A Beach

The summer monsoons have come to Norway. It is like being in South-East Asia except it is 16 C, there are no street food vendors, and there are few Asians. Aside from that, there’s not much in it. It has been pissing, blowing, cracking and flashing in biblical proportions.

I have evacuated Mrs. BB to the casa in Spain. We are south of Seville on the plains between the mountains and the coast in La Frontera country, pueblo blanco land. This was the last frontier between the Christians and the Moors, the former drove the latter out of Spain in the 15th century.

It is scorchio, scorchio, scorchio. The standing temperature is 40 C. We are in Spain’s oven. I gladly surrender my offerings to the sun god. My soul is warmed.

We lunch in Jerez, or Sherry as the English call it, adopted from its old Moorish name. Jerez is the heart of sherry country, horse breeding and the Flamenco. A rambling ride through the byzantine streets of the old town and there is barely room for our small car to maneuver the casa encroached cobblestones.

As if by magic, we pop out at the bustling market. We feast on the local tapas: fresh fried choko, tortilla de camorones - a local specialty, manzanilla olives and cold cerveza. Some light shopping on the promenade and we are off to the beach.

We are spoiled for choice with the beaches on the west coast from Tarifa to just north of Cadiz. With the exception of Tarifa, most are beaches frequented by Spaniards. No Inglese here and little English is spoken. In fact there are few Northern Europeans to speak of. It is one of the reasons we come here.

The beach in Rota centre is excellent, though the village is not overly charming. We settle on the eco-beach north of Rota, a spot of natural beauty. The ancient sand dunes camouflage the beach from the casual onlooker. The sand bar runs for a few miles and is sparsely populated.

No beach club here, it is DIY. We transport our sun loungers, beach umbrellas and beach bags to an ideal spot between the dunes and the surf. We make beach camp and get horizontal. The cadence of the surf is hypnotic. Soon I am in Never Never Land. A fresh plunge in the Atlantic is electric and awakens me. I am very alive and in the moment.

Mrs BB and I have serious beach DNA. When we find a beach we like, we cannot be moved from dawn until dusk. Our existence is meted out around our small beach camp: reading, napping, swimming, kissing, and long and engaging conversations where we make deliciously big plans. Time is lost. I gaze off into the horizon, meditating, the gentle westerly breeze consoling my absent thoughts. I’ve checked out.

Life’s a beach.

Beaverboosh