Marbella, Easter 1962
I’m walking with my dad along the edge of a dusty road. I am eight years old. Recalling it now, the road wouldn’t be out of place in a small town in Africa, a strip of tarmac worn smooth and crumbling into dust at the edges.
My black bakelite “Brownie 127” is slung over my shoulder, my father has his German 35mm viewfinder camera, in its brown leather case – a camera he’d acquired in Hamburg when he was stationed there after the war – slung in front of him. We’re discussing how to carry a camera, professionals in front of them, to be always at the ready, while “tourists” have them slung to the side like mine. I move my camera to mimic my dad and on we go.
Ahead of us there’s a roadside grill, a strong aroma of smoke and seafood wafting towards us. We draw closer to find a wizened old fisherman with a face full of grey bristles, a tatty vest tight over his belly and a ragged pair of khaki shorts, tending fat tentacles of octopus that are sizzling over charcoal.
“Hola signor, Que es?” asks dad. “Es pulpo signor, muy bien.” “Valle, quiero dos por favor”.
The old man picks two browned and glistening pieces of tentacle from a small pile at the side of the brazier, wraps each in newspaper and hands them to us. Dad pays him a few pesetas, and with a muchas gracias and adios we walk on, chewing away at the salty, smoky meat as though it’s a stick of rock – I can taste it now, smell it even, more than sixty years on.
Turning off the main road along a narrow, shady side street flanked by whitewashed houses, with blue shuttered windows, we emerge into the town square, bright with spring sunshine, and scented with orange blossom from the dozens of orange trees which shade the benches and café tables around the square. There’s a small bar in the corner. Stepping in as my eyes adjust to the gloom I see three or four men smoking and sipping their café solos, or beers standing at the bar in desultory conversation. My father greets them and orders a beer for himself and a coke for me and seems to chat effortlessly away in a language I can’t understand. We step back outside and sit under an orange tree while the patron brings our drinks and a small round tapa plate of peeled prawns. “Gracias, Signor.” My father explains that the prawns are “on the house” a tapa given with the drinks as the Spanish don’t believe in drinking without food. I love prawns so it seems to make perfect sense. But I’m puzzled by my father’s seeming fluency in Spanish.
“Dad, how come you just start talking to people like that? Do you speak Spanish?”
“No son, I don’t, not really, but I speak French and German as you know, and I like to learn languages so I just try and talk and listen – that’s the way to learn.”
“But Dad you don’t know those men do you?” “No, but it’s polite to greet people and besides, if you’re afraid or shy at speaking to strangers you’ll always be alone, but if you make an effort who knows what new friends you might make or what company you might keep.”
Indeed, who knows what company you might keep and what company I have kept since then? That was the start, the beginning of the road, as clear and sharp to me today as all those years ago.
(Still on the Road © Simon Lawson 2006 – revision 2025)
I’m posting this by way of introduction my travel writing, which is posted on the following pages – it’s work in progress but bear with me and by all means feedback. Thank you for reading – Si
Nomad Si 