An Englishwoman and her castle

Yelapa, Jalisco. Fourth of January.

Crescent of yellow. Angle of jungle-furred mountains. A sandy shelf just below the waves that pulls you into the water and keeps you there.

I am alone once again.  Eva grew her own graceful wings just before New Year, and is at this moment flying south with la banda to hoop-busk at road junctions.

I am sitting cross-legged, boiling pasta outside a tent at the top of the beach. A tent like a castle, with a foam mattress and real sheets and acres of space to fill with sand collected by sea-washed feet. It has been lent to me free of charge by Freddy, who I met yesterday on the beach. 

I lie back into its yellow folds, contemplating the night ahead.

I have just completed the three hour round trip by panga (fishing boat) and bus to Puerto Vallarta to get money and food sufficient for a long stay.

I have liquid alcohol, con jugo de naranja gratis, for sunset Screwdrivers; and solid alcohol, in a can, to cook with.

A corner of the fridge at the bar next door is mine, as is the semi-hot shower in Freddy's room when I want it. There is a tienda should I need any more food, and a woman who delivers exquisite wedges of pie right to my door. There is a sandy-bottomed river to laze next to, a car-free warren of a town to explore and the clear turquoise pool of the sea approximately twenty seconds' walk away. Should I wish, I need only sit with my new friends for a little while before I am passed a cigarlike joint or a sip of ice-cold beer.

I struggle to think of anything I could possibly add to the list of things I want.

Best of all, I seem to be riding high on some injection of spirit. I want to shout all the time. It is the new decade and an era of hope. I am believing in what I am doing and it is paying off. Once again I woke up this morning thinking of my man, but it is with acceptance rather than resistance that I dream of that place across the seas.

This is my time now.

The coincidences are coming thick and fast and each one hits me like the waves hit the sand. The most recent seem to be vehicles for handing me information.

Two days ago I was told to read a book called Fingerprints of the Gods. Today I went to an empty house on the hill and found Fingerprints of the Gods lying on the terrace in front of me. I spent an hour reading about the possibilities of continental shift and the clues imprinted by ancient societies, while a wet wind blew papaya leaves out to the ocean and tiny green parakeets chattered mysteries.

I pay attention to events like this. I believe it's the most important thing you can do. Did you know that the main reason I'm in Mexico is because a complete stranger said; "There are answers for you in Mexico"?

The answers are emerging, wrapped in the shiny crumple of further questions.

By the time I left that house I'd decided to stay in Yelapa. I feel like something wants me to stay here, more than just me. There is someone I have to meet; something I have to learn.

I turn back to my pasta. It has taken forty five minutes to cook on the alcohol burner. I tip it out onto a plastic bag and start frying onions for the sauce, all the time listening to the crash of the water ahead.