"Una pollo para llevar, por favor,"  Jake mouthed the words as he walked along the hot beach, the sand squeezing deliciously through his toes. "Una pollo para llevar". He whispered it to himself, over an over, practicing the words his father told him as he passed over a thousand peseta note.
 
"It's just over there, can you see it, by the marina." His dad pointed along the small beach, shaped like a cut off finger nail, to a row of two storey buildings, gleaming white in the powerful sun. One of them was a small restaurant that sold the take-away chicken that had become the staple of their beachdays. To the right was a small but very full marina, where fishing boats bobbed, jostling with yachts and sailing boats.
 
He climbed up the stone steps, hopping quickly over the tiles of the promenade to the shade of a palm tree. "Una pollo. Para llevar. Por favor!"
 
"Grassy ass!!" he said out loud, almost bursting with laughter. "Grassy ass, grassy ass!" A couple of fishermen sat on the side of the harbour looked up from their work on the blue nylon ropes of their nets, and eyed Jake closely. He grimaced a bit, then realised they would think he was just saying thank you. So he said it again, more crudely than before, "Grassy arse!"  The fishermen shook their heads gently as they took up the nets again; one spoke and they both laughed. 
 
Jake watched them from the shade. To him their thick, brown fingers looked like they were covered in the cork that lined the trees all around the village. They appeared too clumsy for the work, but he was enthralled as they seemed to strum the nets, delicately shifting the twine around and around, passing one length carefully over another and under again, tying knots. It looked like a thousand pieces of rope, but magically there was only one.  

"Hola! Amigo!" the voice from behind Jake made him start. "Hello young Jake. Que pasa, hombre?" It was Josep, the owner of a bar overlooking the beach, at the other end of the seafront from the bustle of the marina, which Jakes's parents had made their home from home. He was a small, stocky man, whose old face wore lines like the corked fingers of the fishermen. His shoulders looked as though they could haul the fishing nets as well as a much younger man.  

"De nada." replied Jake. 
 
When they arrived in Llafranc, Josep had been one of the first locals that had spoken to, shortly after his father swinging the antiquated Fiat 600 into the one way streets that lay behind the seafront, they were late and the janitor of their apartment had left.
 
"Bloody hell, what do we do now, John?" Jake's mum had said, as they sat there looking at the locked door of 11a Cl San Sebastian, its green paint flaking away. Jake had seen droplets of sweat dinking her forehead, glistening on her reddened skin.
 
"First thing, get out of the car. Then, find someone who can help us," Jake's father said cheerfully. "Right kids?" From the back there was a resounding yes from the three cramped children, and they all unfolded out of the car, tugging at clothes to unstick shorts and shirts from themselves after the clammy hour long drive from the Aeropuerta di Girona. Along with Jake were his brother, a younger reflection of Jake, but with pale reddish hair; and Angela, Jake's older cousin, who had been initially thrilled to go abroad with her aunt and uncle, but now looked like she would rather be anywhere else.
 
Jake stood there, rapt as the pervading warmth of the night envelop him. His dad wandered off to see if there was anyone around. As he did, Jake watched him, thinking that his pale legs would attract insects like the streetlights above them. He got to the end of the street, paused and started back towards them.
 
"There's a bar just on the corner there," he said to his wife. "And you see those trees? They're just on the edge of the beach. That's how close we are to it."
 
So they had trooped down to the bar, one of four small tavernas lined up along the start of the crescent shaped promenade. Josep had made sure the sticky band of weary travellers felt immediately welcome. He dispatched one of the waiters to get the keys to the apartment. 
 
"The janitor, it is my cousin Pablo," he said, pronouncing the 'j' as he would say Juan. "I have sent Manolo to get him, but Pablo, he could be any place right now. In the meantime, I will get you some beers. How many, five? Four?"
 
Jake's father looked at the three bedraggled children.
 
"You know, Angela, I would get in real bother for this, so don't tell your mum," he said, knowing his sister would find out, and he would not be in too much trouble. Angela was thirteen and a little bit of beer would not hurt. "Sorry you two, too young I'm afraid."
 
Jake could not keep the disappointment from his face, and it made his father shrug.
 
"Hey, come on, this little caballero, he can have drink? In Catalunya San Miguel is part of being a man and this is an hombre now is he not? He has cojones like me." Josep had clapped him hard on the shoulder, his wide palm causing an second's sting, but Jake did not care. He just nodded enthusiastically at his dad, who shook his head but, laughing, said yes.
 
When the beers came, in great goblet shaped glasses, the yellow liquid looked to Jake like the most refreshing drink that there had ever been. When he took his first drink though, the cold liquid caught his teeth like ice-cream and he thought he may have been better with his brother's sweet Coca Cola.
 
Whilst they waited for Pablo to come with the keys they sat in aluminium chairs overlooking the beach, listening to the sounds in the air, the cascading music of exotic insects and the stirring sea. Every thirty seconds or so a vast tract of light swept around the sky, illuminating the wispy clouds over the water. Josep told them that was the Faro de San Sebastian, a lighthouse that had been there since "before Cervantes". He said they should all walk up to it where the view of the Costa was unbeaten, all the way up to Tamariu and over the headland south to Calella de Palafruguell, and see the "museo for Antonio Machin", the Cuban bolero singer, who had "sang songs of black gardenias under the wink of love in the light of San Sebastian while Cadiz burned".
 
Jake understood very little of what Josep said that night,  but he had been mesmerised by every word. He simply sat with his unwanted beer, listening to the Spanish bar owner tell them tales of the area, who was here and would be coming later in summer, and where they should visit, the places tourists may not normally go. At some points his father had looked a little dubious, but Jake thought there could be nothing more exotic or exciting than this. That was almost two weeks earlier.

"So, hombre, what are you doing over here on your own? You going fishing, eh, usted va pesca?" Josep asked him as they stood watching the fishermen.

"No, no, just getting some chicken for our dinner." He pointed over to the chickens roasting in the window. "Pollo para llevar," he went on proudly.
 
"Very good amigo. Muy beuno." Jake beamed as Josep praised him. "You learn Spanish quick. So tell me, did you get to el Faro?" Jake had to tell him they had not had chance to yet, which was something of a lie - the real reason was the two mile walk uphill in the blazing heat had appealed to no-one. He told Josep that they had been to Girona, Platja di Aro and Figueras. Jake told him he loved the Museo Di Dali, especially the statue on top of the Cadillac. It had knocked him quite still. As soon as they walked in from the hot town to the almost damp, coldness of the museum it was there, a black fifties American car with a twelve foot statue on the bonnet.
 
"The naked lady eh? You know, is not a statue from Dali, but is very nice, eh? The car, that is Dali. Dali drove his lady Gala to Paris in this car," Josep expanded his arms stretched wide as if he was greeting an old friend. "Senor Dali, he came to my bar one day. I gave him a beer for free, just like you caballero, and said that he brings great honour to my village. He is a great man. He could live anywhere in the world, but he chooses la Costa." Jake could feel the pride in Josep's words. 
 
"Everyone wants to visit la Costa, and Llafranc," Josep paused after he said this. Then, his voice becoming less expansive, he said, "Come, I show you something you will not believe."

Josep turned and started to walk away, looking back briefly and beckoning Jake, he said, "Vamanos!" Jake padded along to catch him up.
 
"I am going to take you into the marina, to show you a great thing. Finer than the Faro. May be better than even el Museo di Dali."
 
They walked without speaking, past the small fleet of fading fishing boats, the small white cruisers and the masted sailing boats, with their sleek, brown wood hulls. Close to the very end of the quay they came to a chain which barred their way. A man in blue shorts and shirt, wearing espadrills sat on a folding chair next to the harbour wall. Josep raised his chin slightly to him, and he waved them on. They stepped over the chain and carried on. 
 
"Now, you see the largest boat, el barco más grande, this is what I show you." He had stopped a few yards from what was by far the biggest yacht in the marina. It was sleek, but seemed to  have a power than none of the other boats had. Jake had seen the boats from the beach, but could not remember this one, and they had not been able come round the marina this far. From close it dwarfed the other boats.
 
Jake saw that the windows were darkened so the inside of the yacht could not be seen. As he looked, a man stepped from double doors at the back of the boat, closing them behind him. Jake was puzzled by the man's clothing, which was completely wrong for the scene as far as he was concerned.
 
"But, Josep, why is that man wearing a suit?"
 
"Ah, this is what I want to show you. This is the boat of Juan Carlos, Rey de España. The King of Spain. This man is guardia de corps, which is why he is wearing a suit. I will bet he has a gun under it." He waved to the man, who nodded back.
 
"No way, you mean he's a bodyguard?" Jakes eyes were as wide as they could go. A real live agent, and a King. "Fantastic. And that boat belongs to King Juan Carlos? Is he there, will we see him?"
 
"Alas no, amigo," Josep shook his head and put a hand on Jake's shoulder. "He comes one time each year for one week alone, summer time, August, and sails his boat out to sea. All the rest of time his boat is here, with only secreto servicio.
 
"That week, Llafranc is full. No beds for anyone, rich people come. They pay their money to be seen with King Juan Carlos. They line up to be in the bars and restaurants, and eat our fish just because they think it makes them something, I don't know what. It makes me sad, because, you see the fishing boats. They were all in the marina one day, full of nothing but fishing boats. Now," he shrugged, "you can see they are only five or six. Soon maybe they will be one or two. Then, who knows. It makes me sad, our village is perhaps dying, another village is here now." He breathed deeply, his chest filling out the white linen of his shirt.
 
"I think we should go now," Josep smiled. "Your family will be hungry."
 
They walked slowly back down the quayside. Jake did not care that Juan Carlos was only here for one week of the year, the best thing in his holiday was that he had seen the King's boat, and there was a secret agent - with a gun - on board.

At the side of the window of the restaurant was a small hatch, with the words "Pollo. Para Llevar. 600 pts" written underneath on a chalkboard. Through a window next to the hatch, Jake could see the chickens rotating in the cooker. The smell was intoxicating. A small lady with a face the same colour as the fishermen's hands, and a blue headscarf covering her grey hair appeared at the hatch. She raised her chin the same as Josep had done to the man on the quay.
 
"Una pollo para llevar," answered Jake, looking round to Josep, who nodded, but raised his two hands palms up, ushering Jake on. "Oh, yes, of course," Jake said. "Por favor."
 
The lady smiled. She opened the oven and took one of the chickens from the rotisserie with a long fork with two tines. She then slid it off the fork onto a large sheet of foil, wrapping it quickly before the moisture could escape.

"Seisciento pesetas, por favor." Jake handed over the note his father had given him, and held the four coins change in his hand. He then picked up the parcel in his other hand, holding it under his arm like a ball, but the hot chicken burned through the foil, making him wince. Josep saw this, and, laughing, took it from him in his sunburned fingers.  
 
"Gracias" said Jake, and then to the lady. "De nada," they both replied.
 
"Do you want some chicken with us?" Jake liked talking to the old man, and wanted to ask more about the boat and what the rich people did when they got to town. Josep said no, and told Jake that he had to leave him to walk back to his family as he was meeting a business associate in one of the newer bars that were sprinkled around the marina. He gave the chicken back to Jake, showing him how to hold it by the crumpled part of the foil on top so it did not burn him.
 
"Adios, Josep!" Jake waved to him and started back to deliver the food. As he passed the fishermen, he lifted his chin slightly, and they said "Eh, que pasa?" to him.  
 
When he got back to the others on the beach, they did not seem to annoyed that he had taken so long to get the food. His mother laid out a rug and put out plates with crusty bread, some of the greasy chorizo that Jake loved to gnaw on and giant tomatoes of the deepest red. She put the chicken on a separate plate, opening up the foil parcel, steam rising from it making the air taste savoury. His father was in charge of dishing out this part of the picnic. As he did, he asked what had taken him so long, so Jake told him about his walk with Josep, and the boat which had secret agents on.
 
"I think, perhaps, that Josep may have been telling you a story there Jake," his dad said, laughing slightly, as he tore away the flesh of the chicken. "I don't think there were bodyguards on it, do you?" 
 
"I saw one, honest, I did," Jake could feel frustration welling in his eyes. "He was in a suit, and he had a gun in a holster."
 
"No Jake, he wasn't a bodyguard," his mum reached over to Jake and put her hand gently on his leg. "He had a suit on because he was probably a marine agent. He must have been waiting for someone who wants to buy the boat."
 
"But it was the King of Spain's boat," Jake could not keep the crack from his voice as he said it. "He comes once a year and then all the rich people come while he goes sailing. There is a secret agent on the boat to keep it safe. Josep told me."

His mother and father did not argue any more, and that was the end of talking about the boat. Jake could not forget it though. As he ate his food, he found himself continually looking for the agent on the boat, but he did not see him again.

At the end of the holiday, they all said they wanted to stay longer. The children were allowed to stay up late, and they and each hugged Josep before they left. 

"Adios, hombre!" Jake said when it was his turn, trying to be a man and not cry.  
 
*
 
A couple of years later, they all returned Llafranc, except Angela, who was by then a far too grown up fifteen year old. They stayed in a small villa further up the Calle San Sebastian, where the road was entwined with old cypress and cork trees. From the verandah they could see right down onto the harbour, where boats still swayed gently on the waves.
 
Jake could think of nothing other than rushing down the street to see his old friend Josep. Before he had finished taking his clothes out of his suitcase, he ran out of the villa, letting the door slam behind him, and set off down the steep slope to ‘Bar Josep'. 
 
As he got to the end of the street, where it joined the promenade, he saw a smart green Rolls Royce move out from the shade of the palm trees and pass along the promenade, heading out of the village. ‘No way,' the thought flashed through his mind, ‘that cannot have been...', but he forgot his idea as he turned the corner to see that the bar had gone.
 
Where they had sat on that first night, the terrace where bats had skimmed their heads and Jake had drank San Miguel, was a tidy front garden, a trim hedge keeping it private. The bar was now a villa, smoked glass doors in place of the welcoming open entry that they had first seen. It looked empty. Jake saw that the whole row of buildings were not now the small tavernas he remembered, but had been converted into smart villas. There was no sign of anyone in the villas. Where was Josep? His friend Josep.
 
He stood in the middle of the road, momentum exhausted, until the strained blast of a three wheel delivery moped's horn shifted him out of the way. He leaned against the side wall of the house, directly underneath the sign that said "Cl de San Sebastian", the white stucco searing his shoulders. Across the street, a little way up was a cake shop that he had been in many times, and Jake headed across to it. The sign in the window, Pasteleria, was one of the first words he had learnt in Spanish. Pushing his way through the chain link fly guard hanging in the doorway, Jake saw a face familiar to him from their last holiday behind the counter.
 
"Buenos dias!" he said, before asking about Josep, and where had the bar gone. The man looked a little sad as he told Jake that Josep had closed his bar a couple of years ago. He had owned the whole building, he went on, and all the other bars in it. He and a rich developer from Barcelona had converted them all into villas for the summer visitors. Josep made himself a rich man, and moved to Barcelona himself.
 
"Maybe you see him though still," he finished. "He owns many houses in Llafranc and comes to visit often."

Jake could not even thank the shop keeper as he walked unsteadily back into the blaze of the street. There he stood leaning with one hand on a wall, his eyes closed slightly in the glare, thinking that his holiday was ruined without Josep and his bar, and his tales of Kings and agents.