Beach

Across the road is a small garden and a rickety wooden stairway down to the ‘beach’.

  From stairs to water is all rock, so don’t get the idea we live above an arc of glowing sand or anything like that.  We look out on a small rocky inlet where a few hardy souls swim all year round.  I’ve never understood the human attraction to water; I seldom even drink the stuff let alone immerse myself in it.  However despite the fact the trip from stairs to water is closely guarded by some very prickly wild acacia, we go there quite regularly.  Bit by bit I have explored its caves and crevices; a lot of cats live here it seems.

 
















We have sat on some of its high bits and in its depressions, studied the seasonally changing wild flowers, 

stared at the sea, watched sunsets, surprised people, collected rubbish (F does a lot of that), written letters the old-fashioned way (F again), stalked lizards (me), and sniffed out the histories of the cats that call this home (can’t understand why F doesn’t join me there).

Being well below street level, at the beach the city noise fades and is replaced by the sound of shooshing water and, in summer, the massed rattling of cicadas.  Sitting there after dark, contemplating the lights twinkling on an island across the water, it is possible to imagine we are not on the edge one of Europe's busiest cities.  It is an exercise in denial, a stretch of the imagination, but it is possible to find our own small nature haven, even here.