We were waiting for our niece at La Ramblas at the exit of the Liceu Metro station in Barcelona. Waiting is perhaps not the correct word. The Ramblas is so amazing that every second and minute is a revelation.
The broad boulevard which divides the Ramblas is a wanderer's delight. In front of us was the Theatre Liceu with a striking poster of Percival—a young man with a hint of nudity and a knife twisted in his heart. Facing this was the Café De' Lopera—a reliable 18th-century tavern serving coffee and liquor with equal aplomb. The boulevard itself was alive with terrace cafes laid with bright checked tablecloths and wine glasses and shops selling everything—from birds in cages to exotic fruits, from quirky feather ornaments to cacti captured in fridge magnets. Street vendors weaved in and out, deftly dangling their ware.
Plane trees with brilliant green foliage filtered the bright May sunshine and dappled the boulevard with delicious shadows. Tourists walked past us in a daze, taking all this in.
Suddenly, I spotted Kriti. She wore a fuchsia pink frock and carried all her belongings in an orange bag. "You do travel light," I remarked. She had travelled from Helsingborg to Copenhagen by car that morning and then flown across a few countries to reach Spain at noon! "It is so sunny. I am soaking it all in after the cold and dull Sweden. Plus, I accidentally booked my ticket without any carry-on luggage. Hence, necessity is the mother of style here," she confessed.
After a little bit of traipsing around the Bari Gothic and La Boqueria (the famous farmers market favoured by tourists), it was time to leave. We were travelling to Cadaques that evening.
From the first time I saw Cadaques in a travel program—described by the anchor as Pablo Picasso's favourite seaside town and Dali's home—I instantly liked the Mediterranean town. At the cost of annoying many, I must confess that I was not a great fan of Picasso, and my only earlier brush with Dali was a photograph of his famous "Persistence of Memory" on a book cover. But the town, with its rows of benches by the waterfront, looked delightful and laidback—the presenter, like us, was intelligent enough to have avoided the peak season between June and September. It remained in my memory as one of those places you want to visit but don't know how to visit. Hence this trip.
We decided to drive down to the Costa Brava, literally the "Wild Coast" from Barcelona. The train was the safe option, but a road trip sounded adventurous and carefree. Both my husband and I had never driven in Europe, not wanting to take chances with the lefthand drive and foreign prisons.
So, our niece, Kriti, came to our rescue. As soon as we submitted our licenses, the lady at Hertz Travel announced, "We have upgraded your car." Already tense with the prospect of driving an unknown vehicle in foreign terrain, my niece digested this additional information staidly.
However, as soon as we saw the vehicle, our combined bravado deserted us. BD, my husband, who had been against this adventurous idea from the start, looked very worried.
This was a huge Nissan seven-seater, quite a challenge for seasoned drivers—let alone one like my niece, who had driven an automatic car only once. Feeling this would be one of those close encounters destiny had in store, she reached for the controls and slowly started the car. She kept driving around the basement parking lot to get a feel for the car.
Fortunately, the parking attendant, who was an expert driver, helped and guided. Soon, gently and gallantly, we were on our way.
The broad avenues of Barcelona were quiet on a Saturday afternoon. The skies were azure, and the air felt fresh. Altogether, it was too beautiful to worry.
I kept my eyes on the GPS like a true navigator. We passed the fork where the road branched off to Montserrat—the monastery on the serrated mountains, where you rub the wooden orb held by Madonna for luck. Single-minded on our destination, we rode on roads as smooth as silk, passing small villages, fields and pastures bordered by tall poplars until slowly, almost imperceptibly, the road started ascending.
Cadaques has to be reached by a "narrow gauge highway twisted like a corkscrew on the edge of an abyss", my favourite author, Gabriel Garcia Marquez has written, many years ago.
"It is good that you did not tell me that we have to ride over mountains!" my niece confided. "That is only because I did not know about this, darling," I responded, equally tense but keeping my wits about me.
The matter was made more complicated as we had to keep to the right—below us were scrub bushes and the sheer drop-off cliffs with no visible bottom. Truly—rim of an abyss! As it was early evening, a few cars came from the other side, which was a saving grace. "I really don't believe I am doing this!" Kriti said. "There are more hairpin bends ahead," my husband offered helpfully. Somehow, we crested one mountain, only to be confronted by the next one. But by this time, we were more confident.
Suddenly, in the distance, we sighted the blue of the Mediterranean between two mountains. It disappeared behind the mountains but continued to play hide-and-seek with us. Faraway, glorious, and reassuringly blue, it signalled our journey's end and promised the elusive Cadaques.
The immaculate town sailed into our line of vision as our car crossed the final crest of the mountain. The bell tower of Santa Maria stood guard over the low white houses with brown roofs cascading down to the azure Mediterranean. It was love at first sight.
Little remained in our minds of the excitement and uncertainty that marked our journey to this beautiful Spanish town, and we were not aware of the final bit of drama that was about to unfold, favoured as it was by the theatrical and larger-than-life Salvador Dali.
It was just as I had imagined, only better because it was real. The deep blue water was dotted with boats bobbing at their moorings. At regular intervals, there were benches for those who wanted to gaze at the sun and sea. As it was dinner time, the restaurant terraces were filled with contented tourists and lucky locals, wine sparkled in glasses, and snatches of conversation and laughter filled the air.
"But where is our hotel?" Kriti mused aloud. We had transferred from the car GPS system, which has guided us all the way to my phone, and this one directed us to go left. The road to the left led steeply uphill; unable to turn back, we followed it as it twisted and turned like an impossible maze and took us higher and higher. The only consolation was that there were villas of varying beauty instead of wilderness and mountains all along the path. After squeezing past an enormous car coming from the opposite direction, we decided to stop and consider our options.
The driver of the aforesaid vehicle had given us a stern glare, which made us wonder if we are on a one-way road? Completely at a loss, having arrived at our destination but still unsettled, we left BD to guard our belongings and the car while we went scouting for help.
A little asking around and a short walk downhill led us to our hotel, the Octavia. We had passed this on our way to the waterfront without realising it. But the beautiful lady at the reception, dark-eyed and full of sympathy for us, absolutely refused to help—"Your bookings are there. But I don't know anyone who can go with you and drive the car down." So, we set off again, retracing our steps by the seafront.
This time, I spotted the suited Dali sculpture, leaning on his cane, keeping an insouciant eye on the tourists and cafes.
We finally reached the car and found that while he was waiting, someone had come up to BD and offered to drive it to our hotel, Octavia. But he was unable to contact us, so he had to let this Good Samaritan go! There was nothing to it. So, Kriti took to the wheels again. Slowly following BD's directions, we came to a broader road, but this also was a cul-de-sac. Suddenly, a man came out of a house. "Hola! Hola!" Kriti called out to him.
He was Ahmed, a chef from Morocco who settled in Cadaques and, for us, a godsend. He got into the car with us and guided the car down the tortuous streets till we came to the fork where we had gone wrong. To our left stood Hotel Octavia, white and inviting! Thanking Ahmed profusely and taking his number so that we could convey our gratitude more appropriately, we entered the hotel.
As requested, our rooms on the top floor had lovely balconies that looked out at the city. The lifts were working, but the air conditioners were not. The enigmatic beauty was still at the front desk when I went to report. As before, she opened her Catalan eyes wide and did not help. "But Madame, it is spring. Printemps! We do not put on the ACs till summer." Thankfully, the rooms were spacious, with French windows opening to the wide balcony. We slept comfortably with the windows ajar.
As I opened the French window that led to the balcony, I noticed that the bell tower of Esglesia de Santa Maria, framed by the brilliant blue sky, greeted me. The seagulls wheeled in the sky, delighting in yet another day of sublime spring. On my left, the Mediterranean stirred – the sunlight dancing off the gentle waves. Breathing in the salty, cool morning air, I rejoiced. I was in Cadaques.
It was lovely to go down to the seafront. No one was in a hurry. Tourists lounged about on the beachside benches. Some lingered over coffee. Here and there, a few artists were setting up the easels. The whole effect was that people had reached their destination and thoroughly enjoyed this feeling.
On our right, azure waters shimmered and sighed. Some of the boats we had seen the evening before were still there. Content to rock to the rhythm of the sea till it was time to venture out.
Though mercifully free of any must-see museums or elaborate churches, Cadaques owed its je ne sais quoi allure to Salvador Dali. The artist spent many years of his childhood holidays here at his parents' home in the west of the town. Later, when he was about 25, he bought a small fisherman's hut in nearby Port Lligat, captivated by the beauty of the place. It is here that his life changed forever. It was here in 1929 that he met Gala, Russian by birth and wife of fellow surrealist poet Paul Eduard. He fell passionately and inexorably in love as only true romantics can. This was no ordinary affair as he ran off to Paris with her, and Gala remained his lifelong muse. Together, they lived on and off in Port Lligat for fifty-two years. The artist's home can be visited, of course, with prior booking.
And this is where we were headed. On the north of the town, a road led uphill. Brilliant splashes of purple bougainvillaea clambered on whitewashed walls.
Clean, cool, low white houses—quiet streets, and now and then, the tremendous blue of the Mediterranean peeped between the buildings.
Soon, the road climbed a ridge and opened out to a vast, rambling olive orchard that meandered down to the sea. As we crested the hill, another vision greeted us.
Two larger-than-life silver heads nestled amid a vast olive orchard that rambled down to the sea. The style was unmistakable—this was Casa Dali. We had reached Port Lligat.
Port Lligat lies northeast of Cadaques. When Dali first bought his one-room hut in 1929, it was no more than a small fishing village. Fortunately, Port Lligat, like its more famous neighbouring town, is also completely devoid of tackiness. Some say the wealth of the residents has insulated it against anything trite and touristy!
We walked down the slate-embedded streets. This was so lest anyone trip in the rainy season while revelling in the surroundings. At the bottom of the road, a few stone steps led us to Dali's home. Whitewashed and rambling, it stood gazing at the Mediterranean, simple yet unlike anything I had ever seen. The cottage was designed like steps climbing the cliffside, and the whiteness of the walls was accentuated by a few dark cypresses that bend with the wind.
A single café was catering to the tourists who had come on this pilgrimage. We delighted in fragrant coffee and fresh brownies while waiting our turn to enter the Museu Casa Dali. The tickets were checked by the Gala Dali Foundation, who took care of the property. Access, led by a guide, would be for eight persons at a time, as the cottage was fragile.
While we waited our turn, we gazed at the sight the artist had been seeing for all those years. The small islets of Cape De Creus dot the almost placid Mediterranean, with a few fishing boats resting on the shore, upside down. Simple and serene.
Soon, it was time. We followed our guide in.
The first room we saw was the studio. The artist loved and hated but never ignored it; he was a flamboyant persona. No wonder he had had his studio right at the entrance instead of seeking seclusion and quiet. There was a half-finished wooden easel on the frame. This could be cranked up and down as Dali painted sitting down or standing by the canvas. Brushes and palettes scattered about in careful precision made it alive. A black and white photo of the Gala, the basis for "Galaria", graced one wall. It was an unusual cottage, for Dali had bought more huts when his finances permitted and added them through labyrinthine corridors and staircases, never tearing anything down
"Gala and Dali loved to entertain. Indeed, they seldom dined alone. But the home was designed for the two of them. While there is a small dining area, a large open terrace and alfresco dining, studies for each of them, bedroom and library—no guest rooms." The guide told us.
There were quirks in every room – like the lamp made from shells, the conch-shaped room designed for the Gala, horseshoe-shaped small dining table presided by the head of a winged rhinoceros. Perhaps the most beautiful feature was how Dali blended the beauty of the rugged coast into his home through interesting windows. Sometimes framed with creamy white curtains, at others just a slit on the wall, they drew the magical landscape into the room like paintings which were alive. Dali believed his love of everything flamboyant and excessive was based on his Arab Moorish lineage. I am no expert to comment on this, but the glitz of his bedroom was superb and dramatic.
Framed by battleship grey curtains crowned by a golden falcon, the twin crimson beds looked to the west. At the other end of the huge chamber, a mirror reflected the rising sun on the beds. As Port Lligat stands on the northeastern edge of Spain, Dali prided himself on saying he would be the first man in Spain to see the sun daily.
It is the most beautiful artist’s home I have ever seen. We emerged from the cottage into the olive grove, and the guide left us alone to wander around.
Outside were various structures——among them the famous shed with tines projecting from its walls and a neat white egg sitting on its sunroof. The swimming pool was quaintly shaped with elephants and swans, and Diana, the Greek Goddess of hunting, presiding over a brilliant pink cement sofa inspired Mae West’s lips, for whom the artist was very fascinated.
As sensual as the paintings, Hawaiian tulips were growing here and there. A stiff wind was blowing. Hammocks and chairs were scattered about to sit and admire the view. It was a place where time stopped. All of it was captured one way or another in Dali’s paintings—the deserted sandy beaches, the unreal rocks and pebbles, the windswept trees. I could visualize the seascape of the Persistence of Memory or the Madonna of Port Lligat.
The sunlight, the sweet salt smell of the sea, and the breeze stirring the tiny silver-green olive leaves created a sensory experience—exactly what the artist desired us to feel. We wandered about the rambling olive orchard, admired the quaintly shaped aquamarine pool, and finally sat gazing at the Mediterranean for some time. It was the end of a pilgrimage.
