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Thaarthhwela. The golden soup holds us in its rich embrace. Warm tones of saffron delight, ooze and enhance red mullet, cod. Scattered fragments of fishy morsels mingle in its depth. We walk the few metres from our creaky hotel at the end of the lovestruck promenade. Our room has windows on the corner overlooking the sea both ways. The twinkle of the evening beckoned us from our broken bed to dress in soft colours of cotton and linen to wander, stroll, sashay along to the seductive low walled eatery and sit alfresco under the blinking lights and stars as the sun goes down. We recognise the perfect moment of a perfect day as it comes slowly into view. Sand between our sandalled toes a gritty reminder to the heat hot day of sun and breeze and salt licked lapping water. The ice cold rosado wine we gulped greedily on the beach with a thyme roast chicken made us sleepy in the middle of the afternoon and we had ourselves entwined for hours in bedroom bliss. We woke dreamily in still bright sunlight and showered in sparkling water to dry naked on the high balcony in uncaring view of distant fishermen too far to snatch a glimpse. Slowly dressing, saying little, lingering lots we basked in the certain knowledge that this beautiful day will transpire us a memorable ending, a fitting repast. And so it comes. Down the stone cold steps to the airy lobby and out onto the pavement that runs along the base of the stone town wall. A smiling host, not over eager, unhectoring, welcoming with confident allure. We are directed to sit harbourside, the warm breeze bay at our feet stretching across from where we were to where we’re going, encapsulating our journey with us at its centre. The waiter glides through slim hipped spaces. Que me aconseja? I trot out in rusty Spanish. Thaarthhwela! he flourishes emphatically. There is no doubt, no decision to be made. There it is, our perfect ending as lavender twilight creeps over and around us softening your face to heartbreaking, everlasting beauty.

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All this, and Welsh too.

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