Puerto Real

 Rebecca W Morris and Matteo Delred

A writer and a photographer capture thoughts and images at each stop of the Cádiz Cercanias Renfe trainline

I think I knew this place existed 

I could have imagined it, but at the same time I couldn’t have. 

You know the kind of places I mean? 

I knew I would see the Virgin María at the fishmonger’s stall 

 inked onto old tiles in an antiquated market. 

The silver fish sleek and curled in shiny rows –  

truly biblical. 

The beach isn’t really a beach. 

There is mud and wooden fishing boats nestled. 

In seaside towns surfaces must be weathered 

and paint must be chipped. 

There is not the pressure to paint over and over the cracks 

as there is in the city. 

A man in small neon shorts and tall wellies rummages 

in the mud picking crabs. 

He is balletic, bent over awkwardly. 

The tide comes in and toes dabble at the frothing shore. 

A woman, stooped over too, washes her plump calves - 

engaged in a healing ritual.  

Friends call each other ‘guapa!’ across the wind - 

and one woman, striding along the beach,  

shouts to her friends that the tide is coming in. 

Yet no one has a sense of urgency.