We left Bolonia feeling like we had slept inside a drum kit. The Levante had rattled the van so hard that Kevin spent half the night checking the handbrake. By morning we were two coffees down and already talking about heading inland for a bit of peace. Vejer sat on the map like a small promise. High ground, white walls, and hopefully a breeze that behaved itself.
The climb up felt steady. No more sand blowing sideways across the road and no more palm trees bending like they were asking for help. When Vejer finally appeared on the ridge it looked unreal. A soft, white cluster pressed against the sky. Kevin slowed the van and said it was exactly the sort of place he could live if he ever stopped wandering. Mary laughed and reminded him he said the same thing when they were browsing houses on A Place in Javea a few weeks earlier. Different coast, different mood, same habit of picturing a future that neither of us intends to settle into yet.
We parked on the edge of town and walked in. Vejer has that quiet confidence you only get in places that have been standing for centuries without trying to impress anyone. Narrow lanes opening into sudden courtyards. Thick white walls that keep the heat out and your thoughts in. A cat asleep on a warm doorstep, nothing bothering it. A man leaning from his window to shake crumbs onto the street. The sky felt closer here, though not in a dramatic way, more like a blanket someone had pulled straight.
From the mirador you can see all the way to the wind farms above Tarifa. The turbines were still turning but slowly, like they were tired from the night before. Down on the coast the Levante would still be punishing the beach at Bolonia, but up here it barely reached us. It felt like standing in the eye of something. Calm, steady, no need to brace your legs.
We found a small bar near Plaza de España where the waiter insisted we try the tuna because it came in that morning from Barbate. He was right. It tasted like someone had finally given our day a reset button. Kevin ordered a glass of manzanilla and pretended he knew what he was doing. Mary wrote a line in her notebook that she refused to show me. Something about the way Vejer made everything look cleaner than it probably was.
Back at the van, the evening settled in quietly. The view dropped away into the valley and the lights of the lower houses blinked on one by one. No shaking. No gusts. No loose cupboard doors clicking open like they had last night. It was the first time in days that the van felt like a home again instead of a tin box in a gale.
Before bed Mary added a note to her phone. She read it out without looking up.
“Bolonia shook us. Vejer steadied us. White walls, calm air, and the first proper sleep in days.”
She wasn’t wrong. The wind stayed away. The night held still. And for once we didn’t have to sleep in our clothes.
