To Retain the Fried Eggs

It’s pleasing to be able to report that the Costa Brava is really rather pleasant at this time of the year.  The sky is a deep, monochromatic blue, barely besmirched by the slight white smear of a couple of passing clouds, and a constant draft of cooling breezes acts like a thermostatic control, reducing the radiating rays of the sun down to just the kind of temperate temperature level that suits my clothes.  The sea hasn’t yet managed to warm up enough to allow for anything more than a very quick paddle, and yet to appear are the racks of sliced white bodies that will soon be lined up along the beach, desperately trying to toast themselves up to the requisite golden brown skin tone patina.  In short, the tourist season hasn’t quite begun so, for now at least, along with the light and warmth, it’s peace and quiet that reign, disturbed only very occasionally by the sound of a Brummie accent asking for an extra portion of patatas bravas and the sight of a screeching headline from a two-day old copy of the Daily Mail, sat alone in the shop amongst the other foreign language newspapers that nobody wants to read.

 

From my base camp at Roses I suppose it must be about 15 miles as the crow flies to get to the small fishing village of Cadaques but, in the absence of a corvid cab service, I decide to journey there via the hour-long boat ride around the coast.  The crystal waters, the craggy coastline and, looming in the background, the snow-tipped Pyrenees all combine to create the kind of charming, picturesque composition that would make any self-respecting tourist immediately reach for his selfie-stick.  But then the boat turns some kind of invisible maritime corner and enters a section of much choppier waters, whereupon the seas suddenly start to swell and oscillate and my sunny commute rapidly starts to lose its appeal.  Clamping my jaws shut, gritting my teeth and concentrating very hard, I successfully manage to exert the necessary control over my stomach muscles in order to retain the fried eggs and bacon from the morning’s hotel buffet breakfast…but it’s a damn close-run thing.

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Finally the ordeal ends as the boat reaches the beach at Cadaques and I’m now within walking distance of my destination, the Casa Museu Salvador Dali.  But before setting off I decide to check out the visiting times at the small tourist information booth that I can see in front of me.  And here I discover that I can’t just wander along to the Museum but must book my ticket in advance…which is all a bit annoying.  Nevertheless, when in Rome, or similar, one must conform to the local customs so I have no alternative but to return to the boat and risk another emetic eruption on the sea ride back to Roses before reaching the comforting calm of my hotel room.  Somewhat to my surprise, it only takes me three attempts before I finally manage to dial the right number to get through to the Museum and successfully book my place for a visit in a couple of days’ time.

 

So, it’s today that I am to make my return visit to Cadaques to pay homage to the great Spanish Surrealist but this time I’m going overland, taking the bus that makes the one single morning journey each day.  The trip is certainly a bit less bumpy than by sea but ever so slightly nerve-wracking all the same, as the journey entails a long, meandering ride full of hair-pin bends up and over a set of alarmingly steep hills.  The fact that there are several sheer drops from the road down into deep rocky ravines below, rather than encouraging the driver to limit his speed and act with appropriate caution, instead seems only to act as an incentive for him to put his foot on the accelerator and beep his horn with increasing gusto as we hurtle along.  Thankfully, after a very long half an hour, I am back once more in Cadaques and this time I complete the journey along the winding trail to get to Port Lligat and the home where Salvador Dali and his wife and muse Gala settled contentedly and Surrealistically together for nearly half a century.

 

A large stuffed bear in the hallway of the house that’s now become a Museum greets the visitor and sets the tone for the kind of contrived eccentricity that Dali employed as his template style, not just for his paintings and sculptures but also for the interior decoration of the rest of his home.  So, elsewhere in the maze of rooms, are more examples of the taxidermist’s art in the form of a trio of swans, an owl, a pair of lambs and a rhinoceros head; crawling across a coffee table is a combined clock and lamp in the form of a large snail; then there’s the sofa in the shape of a pair of lips; assorted mannequins; a disembodied arm stretching out from a wall with a handful of flags; and a varied assortment of other curios and knick-knacks on every table and shelf throughout the house.  Once upon a very long time ago, in Dali’s youth, when the respectable, acceptable form of homely decor consisted of an aspidistra on a stand, a few photographs of the relatives and a decorative plate or two balanced on the mantlepiece, his assemblage of oddities would doubtless have been considered either outrageously subversive or indicative of pathological insanity.  But, over the years, tastes change and while the Dalinean display does look perhaps just a little bit zany, over the top and at the silly end of Baroque bad taste, I’m sure that most people today would find it amusing and entertaining rather than frightening or dangerous.  And perhaps the single most unconventional aspect of the house is the absence of any TV set, although maybe that’s been hidden away in a part of the building that’s off limits to passing visitors.

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It’s also a bit of a surprise to find that there’s so little art on the walls but again maybe the paintings have been removed for security reasons – all the library of books on display are decorative substitutions with the originals having apparently been removed for safe-keeping to the archives in Figueres.  There are, however, copies of Millet’s Angelus and VelazquezLas Meninas on display, which were famously favourites of Dali, and in his studio space are two large uncompleted sketches of an angel and a very skilful copy of Michelangelo’s Dying Slave that shows just how technically proficient the artist could be when he so chose.

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Aside from being his main model and muse, Gala’s contribution to the household decoration seems to be limited to a single room in which she plastered the walls with a sort of mural scrapbook in honour of the international fame of her talented husband.  So, we see Salvador posing on the front cover of Time and various other magazines and also a host of publicity shots of him with a curious cross section of celebrities ranging from Ed Sullivan to Maria Callas, Laurence Olivier to Gregory Peck and Harpo Marx to General Franco.

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But the best thing about the house?  Well, leaving aside the idiosyncratic contents, if forced into the role of estate agent, I’d say it was a very attractive property indeed, with a wonderful range and multiplicity of small, interestingly shaped rooms, a marvelous interior courtyard with trees, water feature and pool and also some fantastic views.  At just about every turn it seems to be possible to look out through a window and see the constantly shifting sea in the foreground contrasted against the utterly unchanging mountains in the distance.  And the garden’s pretty good too, with the terraces of olive trees and the little buildings Dali had constructed topped off with their giant decorative egg motifs.  All in all, I suppose you could say it’s a bit of a des res dream house.

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