The Elephant Mountain

Polly swept in at first light, skimming a sea so calm it might have been poured from glass. Ahead of her, a long mountain rose sheer out of the water; seen from this side, it had the unmistakable profile of a sleeping elephant, its great head bowed towards the waves. The people of the coast know it as Montgó. Polly made straight for it.

At the mountain's feet sprawled a modest white town, all narrow streets, terracotta roofs and a drowsy fishing port. This is Xàbia, tucked onto the strip of plain that the mountain shelters between its slopes and the sea.

She settled high on the ridge, where the bare rock still held the warmth of the previous day. The stone glowed the colour of honey, and beneath her the entire coastline unrolled itself like a map drawn in light.

Then the sun lifted clear of the horizon and gilded mountain and town alike. Polly drew in the salt-laden air and reached a decision worthy of the view. She would give this place seven days.