Curlicues

We walked into Collioure, the tramontane at our backs and the sun on our faces. The town felt like a town getting ready for the summer. Washed clean by recent rain, and not yet tired by the strain of visitors.
Ceret's cherries from the market, which the children hung over their ears on the terrace of the Cafe Sola, spitting the stones into the water-washed culvert, an afternoon on the town beach, the castle, cliff-like above us, the sea almost too cold and the sun burning through the wind. We watched hermit crabs moving house in the rock pools below Les Trois Mas, and pushed our way, home sandilly, saltilly along the cliffs, into the wind.