Ca N’ Alluny is a planet away from the chaos of the costa.
Graves liked to write in silence, and the quiet of Deia is booming.
The house is now a Museum. We were shown round by a bearded guide who was watering the tangerine trees as we walked up the path.
Just Flo and me.
Wandering around a garden stuffed with olives and lemons and rosemary and garlic plants. We stood on the top step and squinted at the lapis sea, and Flo asked why we didn’t live in a house like this…
Inside, the Marie Celesteness was alarming. As if the family had just trotted off down to the beach, I felt like Goldilocks looking at the set table and the turned down beds. Fortunately the Aga was switched off, although the air maintained that baking heat scorchity.
We picked some lavender and I tucked it in to ‘Wild Olives’ the book by William Graves about his idyllic childhood in Majorca. Flo surreptitiously robbed a windfall lemon which still languishes in our fridge with a liquefying cucumber and some mouldy tomatoes. Salad isn’t the same in Manchester as it is sitting on a terrace with a glass of icy rosada.
More later, the analepsis of Graves needs to be investigated…