And The Wind Cries ...

The wind. It is the constant and constant change. The wind is capricious and borne on different flight paths. I am but 200 metres from the sea. The wind can be blowing the dropped and dead bougainvillaea bracts straight into the living-room through the door opened to the south so that they scrape across the bare tiles; it can be clacking the weights that hold the terrace tablecloth in place against the table legs; it can be rattling the persiennes and demand that their metal bolts are pulled tighter into the sockets. And then 200 metres away, as the seagull flies, it is calm; there is barely a breeze (a "brisa" of the local language). The sea is flat and it feels stinking hot. You must escape the beach where often you can hope for the relief of the freshness of the wind. And as you prepare to go, the sea starts to roll, the sand whips up and suddenly the wind is coming in from the north or maybe the east, whereas only moments before it had raced in from the south. Back on the terrace the bracts have piled up into a corner and now lie still, and it is stinking hot.

This is the wind. And it brings with it the sulphurous smells of the wetlands, the sounds of the cabaret at the hotels or the throb of the power station. It all depends; the wind never settles, it only shifts. The wind is part of everyone, it is to be found in everyone's lives. Because there is more than one wind. The names of the winds are names of streets, of bars, of restaurants - tramuntana, gregal, llevant, xaloc, migjorn, llebeig (or garbi), ponent and mestral: the Catalan winds of the Mediterranean from the compass point of due north (tramuntana) to due south (migjorn) and then back to north-west (mestral). Puerto Pollensa has streets of the eight winds; Alcúdia as well, where the winds have collided and been blown together by the force of town planning. The mountain range of the Tramuntana forms the mountains of the north wind.

The wind can be seen and heard all around. The trees angled, pointing towards the south, bent by the tramuntana or perhaps the gregal or mestral; the windsurfers but especially the kitesurfers of La Marina beach in Pollensa bay; the lashing of palm fronds and the shush of sand as it is buffeted into scurrying across concrete and tarmac. The wind, as much as the sea, courses through us, but we barely recognise it as exceptional, so constant and constantly changing as it is.


QUIZ
Yesterday's title - Kid Rock (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uwIGZLjugKA). Today's title - it cries a girl's name; who?

(PLEASE REPLY TO andrew@thealcudiaguide.com AND NOT VIA THE COMMENTS THINGY HERE.)