Not complaining, mind.
Following on from this morning’s post, arrived home and we’d been invited to the beach for the day. This might sound like a wonderful thing but not:
1. if one’s chest is as white as an old man’s flanks;
2. if one needs to be within range of certain facilities, at this decrepit age;
3. with the temperature rising into the high thirties;
4. if it’s envisaged by our deeply tanned hosts that we’ll lie around like lobsters for a few hours on a rocky outcrop near the end of the beach.
Blowhole at the Marina di Modica
We went down to Marina di Modica and it wasn’t half bad. The sea breeze caressed us, the sailboats were out, the base of a large umbrella was stuck down a rock crevice and provided moderate shade and it didn’t feel as hot as it was.
Actually, it was a shortish time, during which I saw an old brick factory from a century ago with blowholes below it which had been used for pumped water way back when, the area where the turtles lay their eggs in season, heard the story of the landowner – the last of the aristocracy – who sometimes loses so badly at cards that he sells off tracts of land which then become developed into villages and other good things and so on and so on.
We also saw the open air theatre which was originally intended as a swimming pool but because certain measurements went awry, they decided to turn it to its current purpose instead.
The place is where the locals go and there are practically no tourists, for a number of reasons.
Firstly, when the area was finally opened up thirty years ago, Modican families built holiday homes down there and very soon the kilometre or so inland was filled up with them.
This in turn meant that large scale western development was not really possible, foreign capital, in recompense, allowed to develop areas left and right of Marina di Modica.
Another reason was that the authorities have specific foreshore bylaws which preclude such development. For example, any dwelling along the coast is not allowed to be altered in style in any way – in other words, no modern renovations.
A third reason is the lack of reliable public transport to the beach area, making it a cars only affair.
View from the balcony of the holiday house. The split level is the thing here which gives a striking effect - that and the peach and pink coloured concrete.
So anyway, it was back to our hosts’ seaside house for an extended lunch after Welshcakes' leaping around the rocks like a gazelle but the Higham pegged out after that and was soon fast asleep on a recliner on a balcony shaded by a canvas awning and umbrella.
Next thing I knew, we were on the scenic route back to Modica where Welshcakes mercilessly, with cocktail sticks, punctured a chicken she’d rolled and stuffed and another sumptuous repast is sitting in the pan ready to be deep ovened as I write and sip.
How was your Sunday?
I liked the light and shade here - the neighbour's staircase providing shade for us and our balcony providing shade for the people below