10/25/2025
The church bells in Santa Eulària woke me at seven but I didn't mind because the light coming through the shutters was that particular shade of amber that only happens here in November. The beach clubs have shuttered their infinity pools and slowly the island returns to stasis.
All but a few friends are gone now; moved back to the mainland or the UK or Alemania for the fall so I took my coffee standing at the bar. A simple cortado. The fishermen were selling their catch right off the boats and I bought langostinos that still smelled like the sea, their shells the color of sunset. The woman at the herb stall pressed wild rosemary into my hands along with the sage, whispered something about the moon being right for harvesting.
Lunch was nowhere. Bread torn with my hands, tomatoes so ripe they burst at the touch, salt from Ses Salines that tastes like that beach day we had earlier in the summer. A cat appeared, orange like the church tiles, and we shared the anchovies in comfortable silence. I was comfortable. She was aggressive about it.
By four the whole island turns golden and I walked the old Roman road where wild fennel grows through stones. You can hear the island thinking in the off season, all those centuries of mystics and poets settling into the limestone. Es Vedrà was visible today, that magnetic rock that pulls at something ancient in your chest.
Dinner at nine because this is still Spain, after all. My neighbor taught me to make sofrito the real way, the secret being patience and just a little more love. We ate outside despite the suddenly cooling air, passing something herbal and golden between us, something that tastes like the wild parts of the island distilled into liquid sunshine. She told stories about the hippies who never left (she would know), just became part of the landscape like the olive trees.
Tomorrow I'll wake to bells again. Or maybe I won't. That's the beauty of slow season...even the plans are suggestions.
🌿✨