The “Ocean House” stands below the village, as close to the sea as a Venetian palazzo. Time and winter storms have left her rusting and streaky and grey. Houses are always female in the Basque country, just like boats are everywhere else.
On quieter nights when I was alone, especially in winter, the old building seemed to be occupied by benign ghosts; it was as if you could still hear the whisper of their soft soled shoes, the ones they used for dancing, echoing down the staircases and down the decades. As though their distant music and laughter still hung in the air between the waves which crashed against the pebbles on the beach outside.
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