Tuesday, 16 June 2009

la isla de port lligat


the island of port lligat. it was the first place i came to in spain. i had just finished a grape-picking season in roujan, south france and went to try my luck in switzerland. there i met another english traveller, moving around in a converted ford escort van. he told me about the squatted island in spain, free camping and fiestas, free food recycling from the market etc. and so, as no work materialized in switzerland, i headed down to spain for the first time. i hitched into figueres and stood looking at the map and found cadaques to be at the end of a small peninsula, in the middle of nowhere place. i was tempted to give this what appeared to be an off-the-beaten-track of a place a miss and head on down to barcelona when i overcame my fear and walked to a likely hitching spot. the road into cadaques was, and still is, an amazing climb with many curves in the hilly peninsula, and when finally you reach the pass at the top and start to descend, you see the sea and this beautiful white-walled town sitting in front of a bay boasting a large shark-fin shaped rock island. i had asked for the island of port lligat and got directed to the small village of port lligat nearby, where salvador dali grew up and painted, and from there, i walked along a path along the mainland and camped for the night when it got dark. in the morning, i had continued along the path coming up onto a road, and finally stood overlooking the island with its large house, old stone tower and boat house set in front of a small beach. i walked down to the water's edge and shouted across to the island. a head with glasses appeared in the window of the tower. i couldn't understand what he said, but i saw the head disappear and a naked figure scrambling to the beach before swimming across to a small boat adrift in the sea. he started to pull on the rope which moored it to the shore and came across to my side. he asked me something and i assumed it was if i wanted to come across. so i got in with my pack and juan el barquero ferried me onto the island.

that was how it started. the story with ingrida. the drive to salento and teruel before heading to the rainbow gathering in the pyrenees. alternative communites in spain like beneficio and matavenero. the squatting of an abandoned village. the beginning of a long slow depression which culminated in a drugged coma in barcelona. the return to the island with the group of ten in alex's van. meeting lotta and the berlin crew. meeting tim the drum-maker. meeting santi, at the house of the baron. the fiestas and the squat-island life whilst waiting for the return of a passport with the necessary visas, the hitch out from cadaques with magda and denver, the overland trip to india...


all these memories going around my head as i sat on the train from barcelona to figueres. i got lucky with the hitching, not even a minute's wait before i catch a ride with pedro, a butane gas cylinder deliverer. he takes me to the road to cadaques from rosas, and from there, a 5 minutes' wait before tony from menorca takes me into cadaques. straight to the island via el caials, where santi used to live, caretaking the baron's house - no longer. to the isla, and down the path, and yes, there's juan, as always, ferrying the tourists onto the island. the hippies don't come anymore, not since that summer when i was first there. when i had met up with tim again after the india trip, he had told me the story about the provincial goverment of girona buying up the island from the german owners for 110 million pesetas and incorporating it into the national park of cap de creus. so that was the death knell for hippy life. the rich have their nice places in cadaques, and the town hall has succesfully prevented any sort of an alternative scene here so as not to upset the paying tourists and locals who live from them.


juan the ferryman. at least he is still here. the unofficial custodian of the island. with his slim dark-tanned muscly figure and bespectacled sun-creased face, he ferries across all and sundry to his domain. for the tourists, he charges a euro for the 50 metre crossing. for the poorer ones, he takes us across for free. he has placed a bell there now so he knows if you want to come across. i helped him out a bit ferrying some people over whilst he chit-chatted with everyone in his slurry valenciano dialect. i can just about make out 50% of what he says. he told me of the visit from his daughter, who is now 12, and her mother from england. so even for juan, there was a story from that last summer of island occupation. he now lives in a house by the coast, looking after a place nearby the hotel rocamar and tao's place. and when it looked as if i couldn't pass the night on the island because of it pissing down, (and also cos juan makes sure nobody does as he might lose his 'job' cos of it) juan immediately offered a dinner at his place and a room to sleep. so after an afternoon basking in the sun and swimming a few lengths between island and mainland, and a walk around the island (you can see from the rocks where dali got his influence), we got into the juan-mobile, a small diesel pick-up truck. we recycled the vegetables and fruits, as always, from the supermarket. and so, after some delicious melon and mango and pear smoothies, we went to see the live music gig in the main plaza that night.

1 comment:

  1. Hi! This August, when i arrived at the little magic isle one morning juan came to us and said something about, that a friend from him, a great journalist, had written about him and the isle. He was very excited and pulled out a multilaterally letter. It was this post of his blog.

    It makes me happy to read about the same intensive impressions from other people to this location. Lets hope, he and the isle stays in peace and magic shadow. Thanks for your post, greetings from germany! Matteo

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