Last night, walking the dogs at dusk, I passed a van with two dogs outside and naturally we exchanged. They were English from near Colchester he said, then qualified Brightlingsea.
‘I went there once’, I said ‘to play music for an evening with an extraordinary man, Bill Kitchen. His son had died paragliding in India, but they never found the body and Bill went out there to search himself.’
‘I know Bill Kitchen. He was a local teacher. And yes, I knew about his son. He never really recovered from that. I bet you played in the Railway/Swan’.
An easy walk up to the tower, the XII century tower that I can see in the Polanski 1969 photograph of this area, with little but scrub and an odd spot of a white washed dwelling between Mojacar and it. What a contrast to today, concreted over all except the last remaining scrub where Paul and we camp. Will it last? Beyond the tower road bends down to the next bay a beautiful secluded beach, and above the wedding cake gated house of the reclusive American author (ex Roger Moors home evidently)
Checking internet before leaving Flora has posted a message. She’d seen my post to Tom Corbert, saying Here’s your son, Paul Corberts gaff, this beach.
‘Tom Corbert was my mothers first husband’ said Flora.
I think P