Back in La Marsa for the urban planning workshop on Libya that had been cancelled at short notice in April. Two days of intensive sessions, then a few more days by the Golfe de Tunis.

It was only now that I noticed the coloured steps leading from the beach up to the Corniche of La Marsa. They must have been there during my last visit two months ago, and quite possibly during the Arab Spring in 2011, when I had my office for the EU-CIUDAD programme right on the beach — though I am not sure. The colours have faded enough to leave some doubt.

Those faded, earthy tones make the steps interesting. They sit somewhere between ochre, sage green and a washed-out blue — reminiscent of the traditional pottery from Nabeul, where similar muted palettes of brown, green and yellow have been fired into ceramics for centuries, a craft tradition reaching back to Andalusian and Ottoman influences alike.

These tones stand in sharp contrast to the stronger colours Tunisia is otherwise known for: the bright, clear red of the national flag; the darker, more burgundy red of the fes, the traditional cap still worn by many older men; and the vivid blues, yellows and reds of the doors set into the whitewashed walls of the old medina in Tunis.

A further layer is added by the jasmine sellers already out in the streets, offering small bunches in the soft pink of the blossoms, carried in the white-and-red striped traditional baskets. It is one of those quintessentially Tunisian details that appear without announcement.

These colours — and the particular quality of the light here — have drawn artists for generations, most famously Paul Klee and August Macke, who arrived in 1914 on their journey to Tunis.

Paul Klee: „Die Farbe hat mich” (Color has taken possession of me)

The colours also fascinate me: There is something almost canonical about the Tunisian palette: it recurs with a consistency, a product of the landscape and the light, and of human choice.