Fog in Tarragona is a rare event, so rare in fact that it’s worth getting up at 4.30 in the morning to take a closer look.
I live in the old city, which is, by normal standards, an exceptional place. Add night and fog to a landscape of alleys, old buildings and empty squares, and you get your very own twilight zone. Fog is a spell that moves from house to house, takes entire streets away, sinks in to your bone as you wonder around.
The old city sleeps but, lastly there are no ghosts to be encountered, perhaps they too have been shrouded away. Nothing moves, the dreaded traffic of cars and vans that ship people and goods back and forward till late afternoon will only start again in four hours. You see a place that was, even the exaggerated lighting that illuminates the streets filter ethereal and, afar, echoes of the shallow waves hitting she shore.
This is winter, the tourists have migrated to warmer places, we have the city for ourselves.