El Portet: Summer Memories in Moraira

They say there are places you never forget, places that remain untouched in your memory no matter how many summers go by. El Portet is one of those corners. A small bay in Moraira where time seems to stand still, where the sea continues to embrace the shore with the same tenderness as always, and the Peñón, unyielding, keeps greeting those who arrive barefoot.

Some reached it through the asphalt, burning like the coals of July, we would run without looking back, dodging the scorching ground with bare feet until the sea appeared as a promise. Others, the braver or perhaps the wilder ones, ventured along a path of thorns and cicadas, with the adrenaline of entering their own secret kingdom.
And then it appeared, El Portet. Our summer hideaway, our refuge with views of the Peñón, greeting us from the distance like a stone sentinel.

The sand would welcome us unhurriedly, soft as an embrace, and after it, the water; that water that didn’t just get you wet: it healed. It healed the heat, impatience, the small wounds of childhood. We dipped our feet in with a sort of sacred ceremony, watching the shells slip between our toes, picking some to add to our collection; they weren’t just stones, they were trophies.

Time didn’t exist there, just the day ahead; swim, laugh, build sandcastles, challenge small waves as if they were dragons, feel the sun toasting our backs without a care in the world...stop to savor some Papas Lolita, their salt clinging to our fingers, the happiest crunch in the universe. And then… just collapse, exhausted and happy like lizards in the sun, a nap with no set time, with our bodies still covered in salt and our eyelids heavy from so much life.

El Portet wasn’t just a beach. It was a ritual. An emotional map. A corner of the soul.
These days, locals still head down to that bar where Ángel or his brother greet you with a cold beer or the ice cream of your choice from that 'cartón de las mil maravillas.' Sometimes it's a hot coffee with toast, right after a good swim. 

Mañet, a bit further up, still watches over the bay like an old sage: the paellas there taste like pure bliss, and time seems to slow down just a little bit more.

Over the years, a Belgian man opened a perfect window to the sunset: his restaurant, Le Dauphin, has become a symbol of summer nights, the kind of place where white wine, the breeze, and the murmur of the sea merge into something that can only be called Summer with a capital S.

Yes, time passes. Memories endure. But the soul remains untouched in this bay that saw us grow, and that welcomes with open arms those who dare to discover it.