I was seven years old the first time I visited the charming beach inlet known as the “Cala Retor.”
My mother thought it to be small enough to keep a close watch on my sisters and me.
I thought it to be the most magical place on earth.
The water was crystal clear and the surrounding rocks always proved to be a wondrous place to look for crabs, mussels, and clams.
My sisters and I spent many a summer day searching for unopened shells which might hold a beautiful pearl.
However, nothing held as much fascination as the house that stood atop the very rocks we climbed on.
My aunt told us that a once famous French movie director lived in it.
He had purchased the home from a wealthy family who no longer had the time or the inclination to care for it.
According to my aunt, the movie director’s wife had perished in a fire.
Consumed with grief, the devastated man had turned into a recluse.
The spacious home, with the heavenly ocean front, had been the perfect refuge for him to come to terms with his wife’s passing.
At the time, I was too young to question how and from whom my aunt had obtained this information.
I was too fascinated with the notion that night after night, the lucky man was able to step out onto his terrace and watch the sea slam against the rocks that lay below.
As the years passed, I embellished and added to my aunt’s story.
The widower was a billionaire who, consumed with the pain of having lost the love of his life, stood on the hilltop nightly and contemplated whether he should jump to his death.
The man wasn’t really French, but instead, he was a British secret agent who worked for MI6.
The mansion wasn’t really his home, but a covert center of operations for the British Intelligence Agency.
The Frenchman was really a super hero very much like Batman, who accessed a cave located underneath his property, and which was outfitted with state of the art gadgets needed to save the world.
The director was really a woman disguised as a man and who spent her days plotting her revenge against an unfaithful lover.
The older I got, the more detailed and imaginative my stories became.
This morning, as I lay on the sand gazing up at the hill, I pondered who truly lived in the beautiful house.
I sighed as my gaze fell upon the exotic mural displayed on the home’s facade.
I noticed how the bright colors intermingled with the blue and green hues of the sea.
I wondered who sat on the terrace sipping a “cafe con leche” in the early morning, or who gazed at the ocean while drinking a nightcap.
Before I knew it, my imagination had taken a life of its own and it was I who stood on the terrace, inhaling the aroma of my first cup of coffee.
Roxy curled next to me, soaking up the early morning Spanish sun.
It felt like we were finally home.
What stories did you make up when you were a child?