Swimming Inspirations and Coastal Creativity

Wherever I travel, preferably somewhere with the song of cicadas to keep me company, I need to swim for hours every day. The moody Mediterranean with its weeds and winds, or the serene Aegean, which hides its fierce sea urchins from the soles of my feet, are my salty, beloved inspiration. Perhaps even my muses.

The glittering Adriatic in Trieste feels like a heavy-hearted sea, while the Atlantic is exhilarating, yet too cold for a good stretch, though I have surfed the waves alongside bright-eyed penguins. I have swum with jellyfish on all the beaches of Cabo de Gata-Níjar, a nature reserve in the province of Almería in southern Spain. In April, I marvel at how this lunar landscape transforms into something gentler when the spring flowers burst through the sun-parched earth.

How Swimming Fuels Creativity

Swimming flows into my writing, opens my mind, and makes everything seem possible. A slice of watermelon, a handful of almonds, and a small cup of aromatic coffee make for the perfect dawn breakfast before diving into any ocean.

Solo Travels and Inspirations

I have traveled solo for many years now. In my 20s, I always carried my portable typewriter, an Olivetti Lettera 82. For some reason, butterflies and dragonflies were drawn to its turquoise case. There were many summers spent lugging it up steep mountain paths to stay at various pensiones in the hills above Palma, Mallorca. Afternoons were typically spent sleeping under graceful, fragrant pine trees, and when the sun became less fierce, I would collect apricots and lemons from the orchards. The American writer Gertrude Stein once invited the poet Robert Graves to consider making Mallorca his home, telling him, ‘It’s paradise – if you can stand it.’

Nowadays, I travel with a MacBook Air, which seems to attract bees rather than butterflies. It was on this less romantic machine that I wrote my latest novel while staying on the Côte d’Azur. One morning, as I moved towards the horizon in the strange chalky-blue water of the Bay of Angels, I turned around to glimpse, in the distance, the pink dome of the Hotel Negresco. It seemed to be covered in snow, even with the sun beating down on my shoulders. It was such a strange moment, but I then realized that the carpet of snow on all the roofs in the city was, in fact, a multitude of plump, white seagulls, resting on the terracotta tiles.