The Waters of Catalonia

Back when I was a little girl, every year my family would visit this beautiful place by the sea. A small bay with a beach made of little, colourful pebbles that made you feel like a firewalker on hot summer days.

When we were not in the water, diving in the shallows in search of shells lined with mother of pearl, I used to climb the surrounding rocks, sometimes all the way up to the lighthouse where the sea spray that had settled on my face dried up and left it salty and I would feel like a figurehead on the bow of a ship, welcomed warmly by the wind as the sea stretched out in front of me, blue, glittering, and infinite.

Behind us were the mountains. Giants shielding us from the rest of the world. Soft and beautiful in the light of the setting sun, but scary and even more magnificent when a summer rainstorm would hit, the dark clouds would gather, and the thunder would roll over the valley like mighty waves about to swallow us whole.

High up the mountain is a monastery. It used to be a hidden treasure, but it attracts a lot more visitors these days, or so I am told. When I was little, there was a spring coming from the mountain. I still maintain it has the best water I ever drank, although I am sure it helped that we always arrived there by walking and climbing in the morning sun. 

The spring came out of a drinking fountain that had a Latin inscription. I do not remember exactly what it said, but I was told that it said that those who would drink the water of the spring would someday return to this place. And we did, every year.

The last time I visited, the drinking fountain was closed off. I do not remember why. And I have not returned since. Who knows, perhaps there really is some magic left in the water.