Basque Country

In Biriatou, from the shaded terrace of the restaurant, I looked at Spain, on the opposite bank of the Bidassoa. The sun was setting on the ocean, invisible, in the distance. The horizon of light, cotoneous clouds, sailing in a pale sky, was still blushed by its imminent absence. Spain very close, forbidden, condemned to be only a dream for memory. Throughout the day, the light of August which evaporated in the evening mist had been stirred, crossed by reflections of autumn: shimmering, mordored, somewhat breaking the density, the aplomb of the summer sun. September was already creeping into the landscape, into the renewed languor, the obsolescence of the colors, the pink and blue nostalgia of the hydrangeas massifs. Facing south, the terrace of the restaurant of Biriatou overlooked the course of the Bidassoa. The shadows of this late afternoon seemed to rise from this wet gorge on the slopes of the Spanish hills of Elizondo, just opposite, to the south; from Fontarrabie, to the west.

Jorge Semprún - extract "Adieu, vive clarté"