Mediterraneus

The contrast of familiarity and the unknown, and the bridge between.

Despite being persistently drawn to the mountains, I've never been able to stay far away from the ocean. 

The Atlantic was always a sort of familiar friend to me, tracing back to childhood memories of summertime beach days in the New Forest, up to the few years of seaside living in Cornwall during university – the ocean was always a place to lose and find myself, to disappear into, reset and replenish, ponder and reflect upon. Even during those harsh winter storms that sent tidal waves of rain crashing onto the exposed shores of southwest England, there was a strange comfort in it. I suppose there is often a sense of comfort in what we are familiar with, even if on a sensory level it feels displeasing at the time. The weather systems that dominate our known-landscapes become a sort of psychological landmark — take the change of seasons for example, those times when our internal landscapes shift in synchronicity with the conditions of the outer world. The end of summer: when the air becomes more crisp, the trees begin to the metamorphic process of changing colour and form as the leaves fall from the sky. The beginning of spring: when bluebells emerge in the beech forests and fill the air with an indescribably sweet, floral scent. These are the conditions of which I am familiar, and more than any country or land boundary, it is also marks the physical sense of where home is. The vastness of the Atlantic was always the driving force behind these known-conditions, the thread that weaves it all together, the container which holds the British Isles within its grasp — sometimes gently and sometimes firm and unforgiving.

To end up in the Mediterranean was an unexpected outcome of a continual process to find a place which feels right. Perhaps there is no such thing, only the right place at the right time. For the moment at least, this feels to be true. Yet what I find to be the most interesting quality since moving here is the perception of place. Undoubtedly, anywhere in southern Europe is perceived by most people from the North to be considered only as a holiday destination to escape the unpleasant wet and cold of which they are used to. In the minds of many, the Mediterranean is a sort of prop, a commodity, a resource to be exploited for selfish gain. I saw it in Portugal and it is very much the same here. The thought process of visiting is more an attitude of “what can I take from a place?” than anything else — and who could blame them? It is the conditioning which we are exposed to which creates this mentality in the first place.

I make these observations from a strange position myself: a foreigner who only arrived in the Iles Baleares a matter of months ago, sometimes mistaken for a tourist (once I open my mouth to express my poor Spanish linguistic skills, at least) who is also trying to integrate to the extent which it is possible, to navigate a broken system in a fragile and vulnerable landscape — someone who is also simply trying to get by, yet simultaneously work towards a larger vision, to create a better life for myself and for those around me.

Most days, I make the effort to go to the ocean and swim in the clear waters that the Iles Baleares are famously known for. It is quite a stark contrast compared the conditions that we used to swim in when I was living in Cornwall, where after a matter of minutes your skin would be burning from the sensation of the cold. Here, in the bay of Pollença, the shallow waters retain the warmth from the perpetually baking sun. It reminds me of being a child in swimming pool where after a staying in in the water for so long, your hands would become shrivelled and prune-like from the water exposure.

The buoyancy and support gives space for philosophical thoughts to emerge in a way that I can imagine would happen in floatation tank — except this a much more visual version. The jagged ridges of the Cap de Formentor peninsula stand boldly in the distance, rising and falling like the sharp edges of a saw. Clouds form and disperse over the rocky pinnacles, perpetually shapeshifting, a state of transmutation. This is the place where ideas emerge and dissipate, where the burdens of gravity are alleviated. I begin to notice that slowly and gradually, a connection is being formed to this mesmerising ocean and all which it encapsulates — the blazing sun and crashing thunderstorms, the holm oak forests and echoing buzz of cicadas, the sharp edges of mountain limestone and the vultures that circle the high altitude skies: observing, drifting, being.