I’m alone in my house in Spain for a couple of weeks as my husband has business to attend to in Switzerland in early May, so he’ll join me here afterwards. As I wrote in a poem a couple of days ago, I don’t mind being on my own once in a while. I don’t do anything fancy; basically I just write, and meet with some of my girlfriends once in a while.

Today I woke up to gorgeous blue skies and bright sunshine. The coast is half an hour’s drive away. So I put a towel and a book in a bag in case I wanted to read on the beach instead of walk, and off I went.

There was a bit of a breeze on the coast, so I opted for the walk and not the read. I know this walk well, it’s flat and easy, which is good because I have hip problems. If the terrain is too rough, or uneven, or rocky, or there are too many steps, or it’s too steep, or too far, it gets complicated. I’m a bit like Golidlocks when it comes to walking!

But even if I’ve done this walk loads of times, I never get bored because the scenery is stunning. I always take far too many photos, but who cares! It’s soooo pretty!

Today I veered off the coastal path and up some steep steps (my hips started moaning but I told them to shush) and strolled along one of the narrow roads of the gated residential area on the headland, which is lined with old elegant Spanish villas overlooking the sea. The gardens are all fabulously established, some are quite delightfully higgledy piggledy, with palm trees, and jasmine and bougainvillea and agapanthus, and plumbago, and well, all those lovely Mediterranean plants. And the views!!!!!  

Many of the houses have little towers, and huge terraces and balconies with wrought iron railings, and those lovely Mediterranean tiled roofs in shades of terracotta. They’re just so charming. They’re also closed up. Clearly, they’re only occupied in the summer months, and maybe for a week or two at Christmas or Easter. They probably cost a fortune to heat, and would also be very high maintenance because of their location.

But they truly are dreamy, and probably owned by glamorous ladies who sip Cava, and nibble perfect tapas and canapés, and wear Capri pants and American sleeved crisp white shirts, with ballerinas. I imagine their husbands would be really tanned, with slicked back hair, and wear navy blue and white, although in reality they’re probably bald and paunchy, and wear, well, navy blue and white. But they’re never there so I’ll never know, which is probably for the best.

Anyway, as dreamy as they are, I don’t think I’d like to own one, because as it is I’ve turned into quite the recluse because I can’t ride anymore. So now I sit in my office and write all the time.

Our house in Spain is on a golf resort (my husband plays; I can’t because I had a neck injury) so there are always people here. As much as those coastal houses appeal, I’d probably go completely potty if my office was in one of those towers with sweeping views of the sea. Yes, there’s bougainvillea there, and I’m completely obsessed with bougainvillea, which sadly doesn’t grow 30 minutes inland where we are, which could be an argument to move closer to the coast. But as my husband rightly said when I once had the bright idea of moving from Geneva to the Italian part of Switzerland because bougainvillea grows there, “you can’t talk to bougainvillea”. And seeing as I talk to myself in all sorts of different voices all day long and make funny faces at my screen (I caught myself doing it just now), I’d probably end up locked up in my tower.

 Maybe you can talk to bougainvillea? After a while, I’d probably talk to this one…

 PS: There’s a nightingale singing outside tonight. And the Hoopoe birds are having their usual boring night long conversation! I love them!