2 September 2025.
Just after six. The ridge smells like warm stone and rosemary even before the sun shows. I’m here to see how the hill feeds the bay after a crowd-heavy summer, log raptors on the early lift, check the rabbit edge where Bonellis work, and take a quick read of the Posidonia skin for new scars. Two students arrive next week. I need a loop that teaches more than it tires.
Cap de Sant Antoni is half-awake. Shag drops off the ledge in a clean line. Kestrel holds the face like it owns the wind. A Bonelli takes height slow, pale underwing in thin light. The sea below is a sheet with one crease running north. I count the boats on moorings and make a note to come back at high noon to see what the propellers have done.
By eight I’m on Las Planas.
Stonechat on the wire. Sardinian rattling in low broom, always louder than its size. Fox prints tight in dust. A runner passes and nods. We both pretend the heat hasn’t arrived just yet.
Late morning I drop to the port wall. Water flat enough to read without a mask. Posidonia starts a short swim off. Salema drift over the blades. A small dusky grouper sits at the lip of a rock and edits the scene by not moving. No fresh anchor cuts on this patch. I still feel my jaw unclench.
I cool off by cutting through the centre and into Javea Old Town. Narrow lanes, thick stone, blinds ticking. One agency window is taped with the usual cards, a one bed over a bakery, a corner place with a terrace, a restored townhouse that holds the morning shade. If you were actually looking you’d think in plain terms, not slogans. A small apartment near the historic centre for easy coffee and the market. A period townhouse with stairs you’ll feel in winter but a roof that gets honest sun. Homes, not headlines. Same map I’m walking, different reason.
Back up to the shoulder after two. Heat shimmer makes the ridge wobble. Another Bonelli slides the rabbit line and never flaps. White splash under a ledge. Pellets with fur. Mark it for dusk.
Pine edge late afternoon. Jay doing volume. Then the long quiet that makes you notice your boots. I walk twenty minutes and write nothing. That usually fixes my attention better than thinking does.
Evening on the shore.
Wind turns north and writes on the surface. A cormorant repeats the same dive track three times and comes up with nothing I can see. In the meadow a cropped strip shows short blades, old anchor damage or heavy grazing. I sketch the mooring layout in the margin so the students have something to test.
Back on the ridge at last light.
One deep owl note finds the valley floor. Five minutes. Another, left of the first. I don’t switch on a torch. Some confirmations are better without light.
Nightjars cut the car park like someone’s flipping pages. Bats bend the lamp cone. I knock dust off my boots and give the day a line that feels true enough to carry: ridge to scrub to meadow to water. All one piece if you let it be.
Field notes — 22 Sep 2025
Start 06:04. NE breeze light. Air 22–24°C by 10:00. No thermometer.
Cap de Sant Antoni: shag, kestrel, Bonellis at 06:48. One shearwater line offshore, low and quiet.
Las Planas: stonechat, sardinian. Fox prints fresh on powder dust.
Port wall: Posidonia clear. Salema sheets over blades. One dusky grouper holding. No fresh scars noted.
Centre pass for shade. Agency window confirms the town is still selling mornings and walkability more than rooms.
Montgó shoulder: owl splash and old pellets present. Marked rock ledge for student exercise at dusk.
Evening shore: wind north. Cropped meadow strip likely old anchor hit. Sketch of buoy positions logged.
Dusk ridge: eagle-owl calling from low valley. Second call offset left. No light used.
Route sketch for the students
Dawn headland for lift and the shearwater seam.
Mid slope via Las Planas for prints, pellets, and a plant check.
Short shore read of the meadow from the rocks.
Back up for dusk voices.
Notes at each stop are shape first, then habit, then name. The order matters.