03/21/2024
JoeTraudl
3 Reviews
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JoeTraudl
1
Percebes and port wine
I'm lying by the sea in the morning. The sun is already high in the sky. The bay in the depths of the Algarve is deserted. A rare sight in this beautiful part of the world. The bay is surrounded by man-high cliffs, which only offer a small view of the vastness of the seemingly endless Atlantic. The rocks are repeatedly conquered by the water. It is already shimmering green in these places.
A few trees behind me. A forest would probably be overstating it. However, they cover and enclose the view.
Behind it is a small village. A fishing village. The first boats return to the deserted bay and the fishermen bring ashore what they were able to win for themselves during their trip on the Atlantic.
Gradually, more and more boats find their way into the bay. Some time passes, the Atlantic becomes rougher. The sun dances to an incomparable beat with the turquoise waves of the sea.
All kinds of inhabitants of the ocean cavort on the cliffs and the tide reveals what the fishermen will be looking out for today. Percebes! They sway in the mighty arms of the Atlantic.
One of the villagers sits down with me. He has an old-looking bottle of dark liquid with him. He places it in the sand. He says nothing. Instead, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. I do the same.
At first, I just feel the sun on my skin. It burns. Now I hear the waves. How they crash against the sharp-edged cliffs. What remains is a short-lasting head of sea salt before the next wave breaks and makes me forget the remnants of its predecessor. Tactful. Powerful. An orchestra. A perfect interplay of nature. I remember the percebes. Dancing in the middle of the spectacle. Swaying in time to the music of the Atlantic. Individual and at the same time in rhythm.
Now I can smell it. That unmistakable scent. It smells of seaweed and other sea plants. I notice the salty air. This must be Sale Marino, I think to myself. With one last breath, I catch a whiff of the trees behind me. This is where I want to stay.
The ringing sound the man next to me makes as he reaches for the bottle with his ring startles me. He holds it out to me. It's port wine.
Why not, actually.
A few trees behind me. A forest would probably be overstating it. However, they cover and enclose the view.
Behind it is a small village. A fishing village. The first boats return to the deserted bay and the fishermen bring ashore what they were able to win for themselves during their trip on the Atlantic.
Gradually, more and more boats find their way into the bay. Some time passes, the Atlantic becomes rougher. The sun dances to an incomparable beat with the turquoise waves of the sea.
All kinds of inhabitants of the ocean cavort on the cliffs and the tide reveals what the fishermen will be looking out for today. Percebes! They sway in the mighty arms of the Atlantic.
One of the villagers sits down with me. He has an old-looking bottle of dark liquid with him. He places it in the sand. He says nothing. Instead, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. I do the same.
At first, I just feel the sun on my skin. It burns. Now I hear the waves. How they crash against the sharp-edged cliffs. What remains is a short-lasting head of sea salt before the next wave breaks and makes me forget the remnants of its predecessor. Tactful. Powerful. An orchestra. A perfect interplay of nature. I remember the percebes. Dancing in the middle of the spectacle. Swaying in time to the music of the Atlantic. Individual and at the same time in rhythm.
Now I can smell it. That unmistakable scent. It smells of seaweed and other sea plants. I notice the salty air. This must be Sale Marino, I think to myself. With one last breath, I catch a whiff of the trees behind me. This is where I want to stay.
The ringing sound the man next to me makes as he reaches for the bottle with his ring startles me. He holds it out to me. It's port wine.
Why not, actually.
