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The Empordà of Colisa Camps

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More by chance than by design, I am one of those people that never move from their home. I was born in L’Escala, in the house of my grandmother. I learnt about life on the rocks by the seashore and on the beach by the boats, drenched in Sardanas, sun, saltpetre, and the smell of sardines.
L’Escala of my childhood was as beautiful as any Greek village. There was no harbour, and the boats covered the beach opposite my house. It was calm during the day, but towards sunset, the fishermen would arrive and, all pushing together, would set out to sea. There would be a moment when the cove was full of boats getting ready for fishing: they would switch on their lights, turn on their engines, and prepare nets and crates. Each boat would set out to sea as soon as it was ready; they would leave one by one, as if awaiting their turn. After they had left, only silence remained; women, old men and children would go home, and the village seemed dead. At daybreak the return procession would commence; you would hear an engine, then another, each with its distinct noise. They all sounded so different, that you could distinguish each one from your bed. After unloading the crates on the beach, the fishermen would auction their catch right there. I loved the din that I could hear from home: voices, engines being turned off, the screeching of ropes and the shouts of the men as they pulled their craft ashore. I marvelled at the crates of live fish fresh from the boat that they came to sell to my grandfather. I remember the women dressed in black with a bandanna on their head as they spread out the nets on the beach of Riells to mend them. When the weather was bad, they would go to La Punta, covered in their kerchiefs, to wait for the boats. I was small, but I realized how hard their lives were. It’s possible that I even channelled their hardship.
My brothers and I would fish at any time of day. We jumped over the rocks, pulled up stones to get worms for bait, caught crabs and looked for coral on the beach. This beach full of tar from the boats, mangy cats, hungry dogs and dirty children was a world of poverty in which I was happiest.
As long as my grandmother was alive, the sea was my mother and the mountains my father. This village and the house on the point were everything for me. When she died, I not only lost her, but also my boat, my backyard, the attic where I grew up, the Sardanas and the rays of the sun that shone through the lattice blinds on all the siestas of my childhood. I wanted to flee, far away, but I found nothing. I returned once I understood that I did no need to own a house to be lord of the gulf.
The lives of all my people, those of the past, the present, and of the future, are mingled with the dunes, the ruins, the Tramuntana, the sky in which blue and lead are eternally struggling, and the layers of mountains as a backdrop that seems made for the stage. And let’s not forget the sunsets, each day unique, but always spectacular. Sometimes they are strong, red, yellow, fuchsia, and brave. Others seem rather kitsch, like those on pictures of the Virgin Mary with pastel-coloured skies. Because of all of this I never completely left my home, even if the death of my grandmother made me turn my back for a while.//

 

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