COAST of LIGHT

A year after the pandemic, Spain was still slowly shifting. Life returning, but carefully.

The Hours was written by Clarence Greenway in that period, between 2021 and 2022, in the bay area of Cádiz and briefly in England. It’s a book of observations, one hour at a time, from the garden, the beach, the woods, the towns nearby. Nature, light, the ordinary made strange by paying attention.

Here is one hour, from August, at Playa de Valdelagrana:
(You can buy the book here.)

VIPALGE 500
Playa de Valdelagrana | 08:52 to 09:52 | Aug 3rd (2021)

In the shade of VIPALGE 500, I sit slunk at sea level on my beach chair. I sit eye to eye with the fairly distant, tiny little waves. The sand, well-combed by a giant rake, is a little chilly underfoot.

Cádiz across the bay is covered in breakfast light. The day is opening up and the shoreline is a string of well-spaced, bright pink, turquoise, electric blue and yellow beachwear.

The sea is a blue sheet elegantly tucked in to all curves of the bay. Sheets praise sheets, say the waves. A fisherman flings his hopes beyond them. The breeze tickles my elbows.

The shoreline is a long glance, a stroll, a ramble, a promenade and a tramp; a child runs to keep up with his dad; a runner checks his watch; a baby is comforted in their buggy; a man speed walks.

Over and over, over and over says the sea. The breeze tickles my left knee.

On the horizon there are five or six white acrylic paint splodges or what look like tiny feathers from pillows in between the headlands of Cádiz and El Puerto. The towns are like crab pincers guarding the bay. I am sitting in the middle, as if I could control them, ready to bite anything that dare enter. I am backed by a number of cheering palm trees.

To my right, pine-tree green comforts sandstone and to my left there is a ceremony of paddle boards floating out to sea like clouds. The sun is creeping towards me as it rises over VIPALGE 500 behind me. The world is as flat as a coin with little ridges of life and development. There are oblivious seagulls out near the horizon enjoying the blue snake-skin sea. There is more coloured beach-ware now. Rituals and routines say the waves.

I see the shadow of my head first and then my knees as the cool blanket is pulled from under me like a tablecloth, leaving me on a hot shiny table. The sun arrives on my neck and I immediately warm up like thawing toast out of the freezer. Above me, the temperature drops a degree every 100 metres.

My world comes alive with Andalusian light, a high contrast of seaside hues. I am sat on golden brown sugar, the sea is blue icing, the sunlight is butter mixed with olive oil and my mind a mixing bowl. Repeat, repeat say the waves.

I stand up, the wind thick with the smell of churros. It is 82 steps to the shore where an old man floats on his back in the shallows. Summer sizzle summer say the waves, welcoming my ankles. My tummy rumbles. I think of tomato and pate on toast. Here, food, says the sea.

A trail of smoke rises from Cádiz across the blue icing, a last extinguishing of night and the first suggestion of life, as the grindstone of the city gently starts turning. Second breakfast? Shouts a seagull.

I walk back over two patches of tiny shells and small stones, from hard wet sand to soft to slunk again. The shoreline is vanilla and bronze. It is body shapes of intent and contentment wearing hats. It is shirtless, long flowing, tight-fitting, hanging, untucked or rolled up and is that someone famous?

An overweight human wanders in and washes and bathes. A sail boat appears from behind Cádiz to hold the balance. The heat rises and three beach cleaners zig-zag past me like robots.

Nell arrives on her bike from down the beach, undresses and slips straight into the endless loosening blue knots of the sea. The day is really waking up. It is primary colours and now a partly blocked view by custom and habit. Cream treacle wash explore and figure out challenge sweat says the world. My neck is burning and a ferry is churning between Cádiz and El Puerto.

I walk down to the sea (now 65 steps) for a swim. The sun behind me starting to sting like a jellyfish.

You can read more and buy the book here.

By Clarence Greenway for Heronbam Books.