All my posts this season are “inspired by” a letter of the alphabet!

I’m from an island. And we used to refer to being “on the rock” or wanting a trip to “get off the rock” from time to time. Island life can be wonderful. Being that close to the sea all year round? What’s not to love? But it can also become somewhat oppressive, as you are cut off, isolated. You can’t just jump in a car and drive to distant places. Well, you could try, but you’d end up driving into the sea. You have to get a boat or a plane to go anywhere different, which can provoke a feeling of being trapped.

And yet these glorified rocks can be magical.

There are places in Jersey, where I grew up, (the original one, not the new one, for any readers from the USA), where you can escape from everything. No crowds, not even one other person, and gaze at the sea, there, with the pebbles of the shore beneath you. It’s overwhelming, listening to the wash of the waves crossing the shoal, smelling the seaweed rushing in with every wave, some staying, washed up, some pulled back with the retreating tide, hearing the swish and the hush of the water kissing the pebbles, watching the blue of the sea change to green or grey, depending on the moods of the sky. And those sensations will stay with me forever; they are inextricably linked with who I am.

But there are plenty of other rocks.

Mallorca, for example, despite its resorts, sea front touting, menus in German or English and not even in Spanish or Mallorquín, in certain tourist areas, is a truly beautiful island. I remember my first journey to Mallorca, when I went to work there. We’d travelled over on something akin to the Love Boat, as I remember. It was an overnight ferry from Valencia, and although I had no chance to enjoy it, or indeed marvel at the insanity, the ship was equipped with bars, lounges, dancefloor and glitterball. I imagine my and my fellow actor’s overnight cabin with bunk beds was of the lower orders. We did have an experience of finding a tiny bar with a small Spanish flag outside, in a basement as I recall. It felt very clandestine, an outpost, surrounded by the plethora of German and English establishments. But they were so happy to see that although we were English, we wanted to speak in Spanish and be in a Spanish bar and lo and behold, we got invited to two rounds of drinks. Score! A reward, it seemed, for not wanting to be identified as English…

Anyway, years later, I got a real taste of the island. Walled towns, such as Alcudia, the Castillo Belver and the Cathedral in Palma are sights to behold. A stroll around the narrow streets of Palma reveals its famous patios; beautiful entranceways to residences. But similar sights to these can be found in other places too, can’t they? Of course, but the magic of Mallorca is its nature of being a rock. The caves at Artá are a marvel, an underground cathedral. The ports where you can enjoy a breakfast basking in the early light over the bay, the air calm, still and mild, are unforgettable.

But the most stunning experience of being on a rock has been Lanzarote.  There, you really know you’re on a rock. Literally. As you come in to land, if you have travelled by plane, you almost feel you’re going to land in the sea, if that were possible. Landing by definition involves land. An aside, when they say  in the safety demonstration on a plane “in the event of a landing on water…”, it always jars with me! But I digress. The airport is right on the coast, and I mean right there. It’s a little scary. The landscape is rock, volcanic rock. The blue of the sea, the black of the rock, and the miraculous green that seeks and achieves life from apparently nothing are stunning to witness. César Manrique, to all intents and purposes, was the architect of the island you can see today. The Jameos del Agua, which I spoke of a little in my J is For podcast, with its cathedral of rock, home to blind white crabs, is indescribable, in the poetic sense of the word. His own house, a labyrinth built into the landscape, is fascinating. The signs and winks all over the island as his homage to the wind are uplifting. Everything is integrated into the wild, constantly surprising landscape. Los Hervideros, an area of volcanic rock formations on the coast, creates the impression of boiling water, (as the name denotes), as the waves lash against the rocks and into the caves beneath. La Cueva de los Verdes, volcanic caves and tunnels, the park of Timanfaya, the volcanic heart of the island… Oh, I could say so much more about Lanzarote. But this is an article about rocks, so I need to focus.

*Just a quick note on a place called LagOmar. It is known as Omar Sharif’s residence, though apparently short-lived as he supposedly lost it in a game of cards. But that’s another story. It is built into the rock, a system of tunnels, open areas, water features, a labyrinth, completely off the beaten track, also designed in part by Cesar Manrique. We had a surreal experience when we went. It is now a restaurant and cocktail bar, so we went for a drink after dinner. The entrance was tiny, there was no-one around, and suddenly a security guard appeared at the door. A little nonplussed, we asked if there was a table available, and he got on his walkie talkie to ask. A few minutes passed with everyone staring at each other in silence. When he got a reply he ushered us onwards. We walked through a system of tunnels until we came to the bar area, and there was only one other table occupied. We weren’t quite sure why all the security, but I must say the cocktails were spectacular. When we left, the doorman appeared out of what was essentially a broom cupboard next to the door. We think maybe he lived there.

All that said, this is not a travel guide and I am not a travel writer, much as Lanzarote has a very special place in my heart and soul.

I suppose my point is that a rock, an island, is somehow distinct from what we might call the mainland. There is something special in the natural microcosm you encounter. Green and blue and black. Exposed to the elements, the wind, the rain, the storms, the sun, the sudden changes in the weather. The coastlines, some rugged, some sandy beaches, the clifftops, the air. The sky. Magical, unique, visceral, vulnerable to and defying the elements at the same time, alive, wondrous. Surviving, regenerating, against all odds. And if you are born there, it accompanies you forever. Take it from me.

To finish, I will leave you with “Lanzarote” a poem by Rafael Alberti, (1902-1999), dedicated to César Manrique, which blew me away when I read it while I was there. An English translation follows, which is not perfect; I ran it through an online translator, but it gives you an idea!

Lanzarote, de Rafael Alberti (1902-1999)

A César Manrique,
pastor de vientos y volcanes.

Vuelvo a encontrar mi azul,
mi azul y el viento,
mi resplandor,
la luz indestructible
que yo siempre soñé para mi vida.
Aquí están mis rumores,
mis músicas dejadas,
mis palabras primeras mecidas de la espuma,
mi corazón naciente antes de sus historias,
tranquilo mar, mar pura sin abismos.
Yo quisiera tal vez morir, morirme,
que es vivir más, en andas de este viento,
fortificar su azul, errante, con el hálito
de mi canción no dicha todavía.
Yo fui, yo fui el cantor de tanta transparencia,
y puedo serlo aún, aunque sangrando,
profundamente, vivamente herido,
lleno de tantos muertos que quisieran
revivir en mi voz, acompañándome.
Mas no quiero morir, morir aunque lo diga,
porque no muere el mar, aunque se muera.
Mi voz, mi canto, debe acompañaros
más allá, más allá de las edades.
He venido a vosotros para hablaros y veros,
arenales y costas sin fin que no conozco,
dunas de lavas negras,
palmares combatidos, hombres solos,
abrazados de mar y de volcanes.

Subterráneo temblor, irrumpiré hacia el cielo.
Siento que va a habitarme el fuego que os habita.

Lanzarote, by Rafael Alberti

To César Manrique, shepherd of winds and volcanoes.

the indestructible light

that I always dreamed of for my life.

Here are my rumors.

my leftover music,

my first words rocked by the foam,

my heart nascent before its stories,

calm sea, pure sea without abysses.

I would perhaps like to die, to die,

which is to live longer, on the shoulders of this wind,

to strengthen its blue, wandering, with the breath

of my song not yet told.

I was, I was the singer of such transparency,

and I can still be, although bleeding,

deeply, deeply wounded,

full of so many dead who would like

to come back to life in my voice, accompanying me.

But I do not want to die, to die even if I say so,

because the sea does not die, even if it dies.

My voice, my song, must accompany you

beyond, beyond the ages.

I have come to you to speak to you and see you,

endless sands and coasts that I do not know,

dunes of black lava,

battered palm groves, lonely men,

embraced by sea and volcanoes.

Subterranean tremor, I will burst towards the sky.

I feel that the fire that inhabits you is going to inhabit me.

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