The pool is even colder in the mornings, and that’s when we decided to have our next dip. The house-martins flit about, occasionally diving towards the pool for a quick drink. Catching this on camera is surprisingly tough - usually resulting in a blur and a splash. I gained a new respect for nature photographers.
In town again, we ate tapas at Nord Est, a smart looking blue bar in the east of the town.
Passing the placards of Dali’s paintings, pointing out the landmarks (often amongst melting clocks), we walked across the town to the west side of the bay, with yet more beaches and secret hideaways.
At the far-end there is a small island with an old concrete bridge, the gate was marked as private but that was largely ignored. The cow-paths took us to the rocky summit, where we carved out a place to sleep, snack and read, sharing chapter five of “One day”, whilst tour boats chugged past below. The king of the mountain bliss, with all its calming soundscapes, could only be interrupted by the occasional sharp stone digging into our backs, as we shuffled to get more comfortable.
The Spanish eat late, and our 8:30pm reservation at Can Tito gave us the best choice of tables. I sat facing the night sky, and Sam sat with a view of the kitchen, eagerly watching the chef prepare food.
With each dish that passed us, Sam’s face lit up with an “Oooh” expression. Failing to translate the specials, we asked the chirpiest-busiest Spanish waitress for help. These were our choices:
The food was divine, and as we jointly filleted the Pelaia, Sam struck up some banter with our French neighbours on the table next to ours. Soon we were trying mouthfuls of their very tasty Arroz Negro, “c’est particular”. Delicious.
As many of you know, Sam and I are somewhat fanatical about cheesecake. Tonight’s freshly made raspberry one was unlike any other and one of the tastiest we’ve ever had.
Making a great evening only better, we enjoyed the coincidence of discovering the head waitress plans to study English in Brighton.