Bird’s eye view
Today we travelled to Gopalpur-on-sea, a mere 70 km from Barkul that we covered in 1.5 hours flat.
Now you might be wondering why we did not travel to Gopalpur yesterday itself. Because we did not want a ten-hour drive from Dublagadi, and a break would give us a breather. Maybe, but then why did we stay at Barkul, so close to Gopalpur? The answer is in the sea itself, or more specifically, the tide.
At this part of the coast, high tide is currently at 10.00 am and 10.00 pm. If we stayed at Bhubaneswar, for example, by the time we arrived here, it would probably be 1.00 pm, and the sea would have started on its low-tide march and sullenly retreated a couple of kilometres. Next morning, we would want to leave before 8.00 am, and we would miss high tide again. Nothing like a sea bath during high tide, right? As it was, we reached Gopalpur beach at 10.50 am, bang on, with the tide in full flow. Perfect!
Here are some details of the journey.
Leaving Barkul (9.00 am)
The sun greeted us at 6.00 am (at least Panna was awake, I was still not taking visitors). The red reflection shimmered on the lake water while we sat there and sipped our black tea, ignoring the milk tea lovingly served by the management here at 7.00 am on the dot, a liquid that promised to leave a coating on our tongue an inch thick, like malai on toast.
We got ready and repaired to the restaurant, where the waiter said puri, idli and upma were on the cards. Seeing us struggling to decide, he proudly announced that he will “bring us all”, much to our consternation. He was a very sweet chap, plying us with black tea like a hopeful bachelor plying the solo lady at a bar with liquor. (By the way, Panna says I have to stop this tendency of mine of talking to all and sundry in Bengali, expecting them to jolly well understand, just because our states share the same hurricane path.)
We pushed off by 9.30 am, and after a bit of national highway, a mild hillock, the railhead of Brahmapur and some tree-lined roads, we found ourselves trundling into the sleepy town of Gopalpur-on-sea.
Gone with the wind
I must confess, we had not selected Gopalpur out of thin air. The year was 1990, the month probably September, and Panna was expecting Shonu, our daughter, when we had celebrated the end of her bed-rest prescription by catching a train to Behrampore (the earlier name) and then an auto to Gopalpur. Needless to say, at the time, it was relatively unknown, a one-horse (or should I say, one sea-horse) town, with just a few hotels on the beach.
This time, as we checked into an oldish Hotel Sea Pearl on the beach, and gazed down from the balcony at a sea crashing at our feet, the narrow beach dotted with shanties that rented out chairs for people to sit on. And there was quite a sprinkling, if not a splashing of tourists, which, by the evening, might become a torrent. It was like a small Puri beach, but much cleaner. People were quite relaxed, not holidaying ‘competitively’, if I might use the term.
We dropped our bags and hit the water. Or rather, the water hit us - fairly big waves, with a strong undertow, that kept us on our toes. The water was very clear, with no flotsam and jetsam. I am sure, when the tide is coming in, the waves are even bigger. I remember that when we visited here 35 years ago, with no people around, the sea had been as aggressive, and Panna had almost been pulled away, had I not tackled her like a football!
After a clean up bath, we embarked on a nostalgia tour. Since I still had the 35-year-old pictures, we decided to visit the spots, including the Motel Mermaid where we had stayed that time, and do a series of “then and now” collages, just for fun. By the way, what is the average age of human beings nowadays? Whoever, we talked to about our last visit would say: “Aah sir, I had not been born then, sorry.” Makes one feel rather long in the tooth, that.
The seaside lunch (2.00 pm)
The promenade road (which did not exist earlier) had a line of eating joints, around half of which were open at lunchtime. It was pretty warm here, so we dived into such a joint without experimenting too much. Panna ordered crab (which was a success, she says) while I tried out fish, and was promptly given a ten-inch long fellow, mouth agape (both fish and I). Something was not right with it, so I switched to an innocuous rohu, thank God. One doesn’t like staring down a fish with small teeth on an empty stomach!
Fun fact: Last time when we passed through Orissa on one of our mahayatras, we had been told that there is a lot of migration from this state to Andhra, in search of employment. Interestingly, most of the shop owners and beach-kiosk owners here are from Andhra, and I suspect that the food we ate had strong Andhra influence.
The evening breeze
An afternoon siesta later, we sat in our balcony, looking at the people enjoying themselves below. The sun was setting behind us, and the whole scene was lit up by the divine floodlight, etching out each small figure with precision. Darkness will fall soon, but the halogen floodlights will go up, more is the pity. Luckily the sea has not receded as much as it did at Dublagadi, because the beach slope is steeper here, I suppose, and we will be regaled by its roars throughout the night. And the breeze...aaah. It had a sweetness that automatically brought a smile to our lips. We don’t have any major night plans, except to wander down and have some hot dinner.
Tomorrow morning, we will leave the sea for the mountains, climbing up to Mahendragiri.
Photo credits: Panna Rashmi Ray
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