Tossa de Mar, 27th July 1968
We decided to move to Tossa after several days in Calella. The road weaved its way up the mountainous coast, one minute overlooking the sea from cliffs hundreds of feet high the next descending to beautiful bays. Proud, sweet smelling, pines and gnarled, half naked, cork oaks vibrated with the call of cicadas. But Eden was compromised by development – hamlets and villages, once home to a few families, ccommunities, were transformed into tourist playgrounds.
After failing to find rooms we could afford, we resorted to the Tossa tourist office, staffed by an English woman. Tired and hungry, we almost hugged and kissed her when she found us a room at 240 pesetas a night (including breakfast) with Senora Engratia. The house was on the edge of the town by the football pitch and reached by a rough track. It looked unprepossessing. We entered through a door from the courtyard into a cool blue tiled hall. A coffee table and chairs were lit by sunlight filtering through the shutters on a spacious landing. After three weeks in an increasingly grubby tent everything looked so bright and fresh.
Our airy, white walled room had two single beds with crisp sheets, and simple rustic furniture in natural wood – lace curtains waved gently at the window. And the ultimate luxury, a clean sparkling shower. Senora Engratia gave us the key and left. We flung ourselves on the beds laughing.