The only other two people who were there are gone now, and you've got the cliffs to yourself. You have a late dinner at El Baluard and find that your broken Spanish brings more smiles than confusion. The waitress brings you the rape a la plancha and it might be the best fish you've ever eaten. Walking back to your room, you duck into the Cafe de la Habana, a dark, candlelit bar, and drink a glass of sherry. You are the only patron here tonight.
People arrive from Barcelona or Madrid, and down from France.
The cafes are full and couples walk hand in hand along the beach. It's a great day for sleeping in or wandering, and you do both. Walking down a new path, you come across two children speaking in soft voices. One of them is crying, having scraped his hand. His easel is perched at the end of a long alley that curves up and to the right.