Searching for a small haven

Four months in Gibraltar, and, having turned the flat over three times to visiting relatives, I am now looking forward to creating some kind of routine, carving out a small place where I can do all those things I need to do each day, and hiding away in some inconspicuous corner, where the rest of the family can't find me, so that I can get back to writing my book. Today I think I might have found the place - if not for writing up copious research notes, at least for organising my thoughts and perhaps rediscovering some vestiges of my eloquence.

Tucked away on the eastern side of the Rock, with nothing facing it except the blue vastness of the Mediterranean, Catalan Bay is a simple delight. Today the sea is a sparkling sapphire with shimmering pinpricks of sunlight. It moves with only a gentle lapping of the seashore, green waves licking over the gold of the sand, like the breathing of a beast deep in sleep. The Mamela, that rock that thrusts out of the sea, firm and rounded like a young woman's breast for which it takes its name, is more exposed than usual today, the water just caressing its base and the heat of the sun warming its tip.

The Caleta Hotel stands perched on the edge of the cliff as it curves away from the Bay towards the south. It is like a large, white seabird poised as if for flight, just waiting for the right time to take off.

Small, wooden boats lie idle on the sand, or propped up against the walls on the side of the road, a memory of the distant days when the village thrived on the fish caught in the Bay. The Virgin, perched atop the small church still peers down onto the sands to give her blind blessing to all seafarers, although nowadays she stands back, inbetween two apartment blocks.

Some of the apartment blocks are being refurbised and are encased in ugly scaffolding. Nevertheless, the hammer and clank and grind of construction is dull here, as is the noise of passing cars, more of a hum here, unlike the incessant roar of the traffic that afflicts the western side of the Rock.

The sounds of daily life here: the chink of glasses at the bars, the call of the corner-shop seller, the raised voices of English tourists trying to make themselves understood, forgetting that here most people speak English and are not deaf, all are dulled into insignificance by the murmer of the sea and the cry of the gulls clinging to life on the sheer mountainside that towers over this huddle of homes at its feet.

I think that, for a while, a little tired as I am from the bustle and aimless noise of Main Street, the choking of the fumes on Queensway, Westside and Market Square, the arid abandonment of Europa Point and the offensive opulence of Ocean Village, I will make this my retreat, my haven.