Across the harbour, beyond the bustle of boats and bathers, stands the Citadel of Qait Bey. They say it was built on the very spot where the ancient lighthouse once stood. Walking along the corniche towards it, I catch a whiff of salt air and stale fish.
It is late afternoon, and unbearably hot.
The thin strip of sand by the water's edge is crowded with families, the womenfolk wrapped in headscarves and jilbab fussing over little ones beneath a jumble of blue and white beach umbrellas. Somewhere in the crowd, a man strikes a body-builder's pose, flexing his biceps for a small child, while his young wife looks on and laughs, a twinkle in her eye.
Further along is a fish market, quiet now, save for a few scattered souls huddled in the shade. An old man lumbers in the distance with a large fish, curved like a scimitar.
It is hard to tell where the old heptastadion begins. Perhaps the little mosque marks the start of it, or the doleful yacht club, the beached craft rusting silently around it giving it an air of a shipbreaker's yard.
Around the corner, the Citadel rises in front of me above the throng, as perhaps the mighty Pharos once did - resplendent; a beacon of hope and civilisation.
On the wide esplanade that leads to it - I am surely on the old heptastadion now - are vendors hawking their wares: little trinkets and oddments such as beads and shells, a dried shark pup, and a spiky pufferfish glaring glassy-eyed out of its wizened, bloated body. A man bobs and weaves through the crowd, bearing bags of white and pink cotton candy aloft on a stick, while all around mill anglers, and youths, and lovers, and families.
Beyond the crowded causeway seethes the Mediterranean, its green, churning, foam-flecked waters crashing endlessly on the sea wall. Its spray carries on the breeze, and on it I catch a fleeting scent of the essence of timelessness.
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