Toda la vida humana está aquí

All human life is here:

A family from Serbia wanted to spend 3 months June-August in the Valencia apartment, to enjoy a full summer in Southern Europe and the experiences that go with it.

It always feels a little sad to not enjoy our summer holiday in Valencia, but we booked a small apartment in delightful Estepona again for our July/August holiday, and counted our blessings.

Then our Serbian family change their plans, and so did we: Cancel Estepona, book Valencia flights… Another Valencian summer holiday.

During the course of our travels and the holiday itself, I enjoyed 2 books:

 

Slow Trains Around Spain
A 3,000-Mile Adventure on 52 Rides
By Tom Chesshyre

 

A People Betrayed
A history of corruption, political incompetence and social division in modern Spain
By Paul Preston

 

Yes, this is the point where you judge me on my choice of reading (should you wish to do so) but I will elaborate on both choices out of some unnecessary need to justify:

 

Tom Chesshyre’s travelogue got my attention because of his deliberate choice of slow trains, and his meandering route through the maximum amount of Spanish towns and cities that could realistically be visited on his journey. The journey is less about the trains, and more about the individual journeys. And yet (for me at least) it’s more about the stops, the towns and the cities, and the people he meets, than it is about the journeys.

 

Paul Preston’s hefty Spanish history (specifically the period of the Borbón monarchy from King Alfonso XII in 1874 to the current King Felipe VI) theorises that the Spanish people have been comprehensively betrayed over time by their politicians, military and church. Preston demonstrates such impressive knowledge in supporting his theory through 700+ pages that it is hard to disagree.

 

So… on the surface, one book is about train travel, and the other is about history and politics. But they are both really about people.

 

We arrive in Valencia close to the end of July, and this means the final acts of the Gran Feria de Valencia.

Correfoc is a night-time parade through the streets in the city centre, and nobody who knows Valencia at all will be surprised to learn that fireworks are heavily involved. The participants are dressed as devils, and they shoot huge streams of sparks into and around the crowd. Firecrackers are thrown in the street, and there are fire-eaters and marching bands. As this is an “open” parade with no barriers, some of the onlookers will try to participate and get involved with the devils and their streaming sparks, whereas others will rush backwards with a scream.

It’s a contrast to the relative formality of a Mascleta, and the open nature of this street event, the participation and the perceived jeopardy* made it great fun for the first night of a visit.

The final act of the Gran Feria is La Batalla de Flores. I’d read about this event before, and seen many photos, so it was good to get a chance to experience it.

Along a stretch of the Paseo de la Alameda, a wide tree-lined avenue alongside the beautiful Jardin del Turia, a circuit had been laid out. The tarmac that normally hummed with traffic had been laid with sawdust, barriers had been erected, and the 2 elegant horses with uniformed riders that accompany many Valencian parades trotted furtively up and down. 

As the heat waned a little around 8pm, we found a place behind the sections of the crowd reserved for the family and friends of the participants… crates and crates of orange carnation heads stacked before them.

I felt a sharp elbow in my side, insistent enough to be more that what you might expect when standing in a crowd. A diminutive lady who had not been there when we arrived had delivered this elbow. It seems that she had chosen to stand behind and to the left of me, and then complain that she couldn’t see that parade that hadn’t started yet.

Without getting into a conversation about her choice of vantage point behind a 1.9 metre tall Ingles, I dutifully moved back to allow her to see. My little sacrifice (also known as an avoidance of conflict) did mean that I could allow 2 other people to move forward, so there were other winners here.

 

Women of a certain age in Spain can be challenging. There’s always an obvious solution however, because they’re always right. It’s everyone else that’s wrong.

Batalla de Flores began with huge, elaborate floats parading the circuit, pulled by sometimes straining horses covered in elaborate harnesses, decorative blankets and headgear in 30º heat. What was obvious (in a familiar kind of way) was the effort that had gone into creating these floats. They had themes such as ancient Egypt, Rome or the undersea world. This effort that is consistently put into these traditional events demonstrates the unshakeable pride in Valencian culture that’s shared by all.

On many floats, a dozen or so Falleras rode, and were all waves and smiles as if it were Fallas itself… taken by surprise every time the horses suddenly pulled up… then taken by surprise again, with a giggle every time the horses jerked forward once more. Other floats had the queens of other festivals in the region, groups of women enacting a beach scene, and groups of men in white outfits with panama hats. What all the float riders had in common was that they carried a tennis racket.

There was a sudden countdown, the paying guests in front of us dived into the crates of carnations, and threw them in thousands at the people on the floats. Everyone with a tennis racket tried to bat them back at the throwers, and it was delightful chaos for several crazy minutes.

The Benny Hill theme** seemed hugely appropriate during this joyful exchange. I’m not even sure if it was just in my head or actually played over the PA that had been announcing each float.

 

As the flower battle subsided, we walked away from the flower-strewn alameda, the beautiful traditional dress, the sweating horses, the pointy elbows, the joy and the laughter. We did as we often do after another unique experience… we shake our heads a little with smiles on our faces, filled with the joy of the whole thing.

 

July and August holidays mean beach. We catch the tranvia from the Sagunt parada which, despite its detour down Carrer d’Almassora to get passengers as close as possible to the old town, takes only 20 minutes to arrive at the 2 beach-side stops.

Stepping off the tranvia on Carrer d'Eugènia Viñes into the heat, you cross the street, head down the short Carrer dels Columbretes and step into the sudden feeling of space at the other side of Carrer de Pavia. You get your first sight of the beach and sea as you move into the huge space at the side of the Las Arenas Balneario Resort. When the ugly hotel is mercifully behind you and out of sight, your day on the beach has begun.

If you forgo the obvious comforts of sunbeds and their parasols, and if you can resist the many delights of any of the 16 quioscos that sit in a row from the start of Las Arenas all the way to Patacona… then the beach and the sun, and the breeze and the sea are free. And for this reason, toda la vida humana está aquí.

A big group of Spanish teens might carry only towels and a football for a great day out, whereas a 3-generation family might appear to be carrying the majority of the contents of their house on the tranvia, stacked on to a wheeled trolley for a day at Playa de la Malvarrosa. Families will tend to make camp (and they really do make camp) close to the sea, to avoid the hottest of the sand closer to the quioscos, whereas your average guest from the Las Arenas Balneario Resort may have cash to spend, and so will be tempted by the costly sunbeds and sombrillas, and make their way to the quioscos for lunch, ice-creams and mojitos.

The beach sellers move along the beach with cold beers, empanadas, pareos and football shirts. They’ll offer hair-braiding and henna tattoos. Their shouts and calls become familiar and they’re part of the fabric of beach life… until the police quad-bikes appear and they blend into the beach population with varying degrees of success.

 

We particularly noticed a strong presence of young European visitors this time… Scandinavia, UK, Germany, Italy, France, Ireland, Portugal and Eastern Europe. At the start of one beach day, couple of young German lads had decided that they needed to shout very loudly to each other across the full 2 metres that separated them… until an older German lady intervened, and left them in no doubt that this wasn’t going to continue. But this was an exception. The way these young groups behaved and considered other visitors to the beach and right across the city was hugely impressive.

On the Wednesday of our 2^nd week, we had learned of a mascleta that had been planned in Aldaia, a town just west of the city. Not unusual, and “typical of Valencia” (as the beach quiosco team explained to many people afterwards) but this mascleta was going to be the “most powerful mascleta in history” as claimed by the city council of Aldaia… all part of the celebrations of Clavaris del Crist 2025.

We heard the familiar rumblings of the mascleta begin, develop, grow more intense. Some of the sunbed team had hands in the air to celebrate the glorious noise like we’ve all done during Fallas, and the mascleta’s power got people’s attention on the beach.

Then we noticed our 2 young beach-goer neighbours. These 2 young women had reacted to this distant noise with genuine horror, and we realized that if you didn’t know what this was, it sounded like something very bad was happening. They had their hands to their faces and were genuinely scared, almost in tears.

I told them it was OK. It was fireworks, it was a mascleta, it was what they do around here, and they must see one next time they can come back to Valencia, especially if they can come back for Fallas. But I don’t think they will.

 

That mascleta was 12km away from where we were sitting, and it provoked reactions like that.

 

Despite its charms, the beach isn’t Valencia… there is so much more. To meet and interact with people right across the city, from our street, through our barrio and into the streets that lead to the delightful Jardin del Turia. Across the bridges and into the Barrio del Carmen, Paseo de la Alameda, Porta de la Mar, Carrer de Colón, Carrer de la Pau (although the castellano name Calle la Paz suits this elegant avenue much better) there are too many fascinating streets and districts to mention, and definitely too many to visit in a 2-week holiday.

 

Our neighbours in the next apartment have a new dog. We shared the lift, but I didn’t want to get into a conversation about new dog replacing old dog… these things are sensitive. New dog is very cute, the elegant elderly lady neighbour is always very pleasant, and her elderly husband is still grumpy and smokes his cigar in the lift. But you know they are good people.

 

We pass the local cafés filled with those with whom we share the barrio. The barrio is changing, and it’s clear that immigration and population change are creating a genuinely positive diversity*** in La Saïdia and across the city. New apartments on Carrer de Salvador Giner have nudged the local bars into refurbishment and expansion, and there are new shops and businesses there, in a part of town that had seemed to suffer from being little more than a route into the Barrio del Carmen.

 

In the Barrio del Carmen, it’s hot and it’s busy. Café Sant Jaume remains the undisputed people-watching epicenter of the world, as the visitors and locals head into the barrio from the northern part of town as we did, or pour down Carrer dels Cavallers, or move up from the area of the Llotja de la Seda and the Mercat Central.

As ever, toda la vida humana está aquí. Affluent visitors from all over the world down Agua de Valencia and Aperol Spritz by the gallon… at the same time, down at Café Lisboa, a street guy tries to steal food from the tables****. An ugly confrontation with the staff is narrowly avoided as he reacts aggressively to them, but dashes away down an alley. Our polarized world is reflected in the melting pot of the Barrio del Carmen.

If you want to find everyday city life (and that’s what we originally signed up for after all) and you want to find the life that regular Valencians live from day to day, you can do no better than a) the supermarket and b) the metro.

 

Visiting the supermarkets on a regular basis, you would encounter some characters. On most mornings, we would see a pair of middle-aged Spanish women, each with the ubiquitous wheeled shopper bag. These women are not unique to that supermarket… they will be replicated in every supermarket in Spain and beyond.

 

You might say that they are robust specimens. Their constant expression is one of disapproval. Nothing appears to be to their liking, and everything is wrong because they say it’s wrong. On the very rare occasion that they struggle to find anything that’s wrong within the confines of the supermarket, they will describe at some length to the staff (and anyone else who is misguided enough to engage with them) about some things that are wrong immediately outside the supermarket. I’m going to call them Las Hermanas de la Desaprobación (but not to their faces). If a quiet life is your thing… give them a wide berth.

The elderly in Spanish supermarkets are an endearing bunch. As couples or singles, they plot their way round the aisles, they look for bargains, they look for quality, they look for staples, they look for treats, they take their time. If you get a little impatient, just remind yourself (especially if you’re me) that you’re not too far behind them when it comes to the relentless passage of time.

 

They’re an open book, in an unashamed kind of a way. They’ll place all the ingredients for their evening meal onto the checkout belt, and you know precisely what they’re going to have to eat. You know that the key ingredients have been selected with care. They’ll produce vouchers at the till, and they’ll fiddle about with cash like older people do, but it’s fine. They’ve earned the right to take their time… and no tenemos prisa.

 

The metro can be a rich source of encounters with some local characters. One Sunday morning, an elderly guy shuffled towards me at the Sagunt parada. He brandished a can of beer in one hand, and a travel card in the other. I didn’t understand his first request, although it was apparent that he needed some sort of help with the travel card, but was more than capable of dealing with the beer himself. It was hard to decide if he’d started drinking early, or just continued through from sabado.

 

Some travel on the Valencia Metro is free on Sundays, so my first attempt to help was: “es gratis los domingos”. Somewhere between my poor pronunciation and his poor hearing/inebriation, this opening effort failed poorly.

 

He came back at me with: “tengo dos viajes” (I think) and tried to cram his travel card into the wrong slot in the wrong ticket machine. I asked if he wanted to recharge his travel card, but this conversation was going nowhere. My poor Spanish and his Amstel consumption were an ineffective combination, and I was forced to leave him with a default opt-out that I try to avoid: “Lo siento, pero no entiendo”... although it was true. I hope he got to where he needed to be.

 

One hot afternoon on the way back from the beach, 3 people struggled onto the tranvia carrying some sort of kitchen appliance (perhaps a small oven) and dropped it indelicately onto the floor of the carriage, retreating to the seats immediately behind the driver’s glass-partitioned capsule.

 

When most of the passengers seated in that area then immediately got up and moved towards us, I began to suspect (already knew) that the effort of dragging that appliance to the parade had defeated the best efforts of the groups’ most recent application of deodorant. Which may not have been today.

 

I’ll be honest, I could smell them when they got on, and I could still smell them then, from 10 metres away. It was comical to see passengers get on to the carriage, go towards the seats close to the group, and do an abrupt about-turn when their noses did their work.

 

The group must have been nearing their stop, so moved closer to us and stood around their precious appliance, ready to lift. I was amused to notice one of them, in the middle of an irritable exchange with her 2 friends, check her armpits with that (not very subtle) tilt of the head towards the offending area, and a slight lift of the elbow.

 

At that moment, I am 100% sure that 20 or more other passengers desperately wanted to shout (in the language of their choice): “for fuck’s sake love, I can smell you from here!”, but that would not have helped.

 

A dreadlocked guy, travelling alone, furtively opening the tranvia doors and peering down every platform at every stop. We couldn’t help but notice this, and assumed that he was checking for ticket inspectors, until another guy joined him. The second guy had the demeanor of a big brother, advisor, a mentor perhaps. Their heavily accented English revealed that our furtive guy was acutely afraid of arrest due to immigration issues, and the “mentor” tried to reassure… “maybe, but that will be weeks, months, maybe years away… this is not Senegal.”

 

I can’t imagine what these poor people have to endure, just to find a life worth living.

 

We connected with the places and people that have become familiar… part of what is a true second home. Our favourite paella waiter remembered us again, and yet again enhanced our experience with his warmth and humour. Our Italian restaurateur friend plied us with the usual great food, and with mistela (visit #1) and limoncello (visit #2) and it was good to see his restaurant busy on our last evening... and as ever, we were welcomed at our local cafés.

Of course, there is change in the barrio and the city, and the vast majority of that change is for the better. We have new and refreshed cafés and bars, we have cleaner streets and refurbished buildings, we have an ever-diversifying population.

 

With 30-35º most days (although often humid in the evenings) we got lucky with the weather, where other parts of Spain suffered unbearable heat and serious wildfires. That extreme heat was to arrive in Valencia after we left… as I write this back in the UK, it’s pushing 40º in Valencia.

 

The apartment has a busy future. Family will be there to stay for a few weeks in September, then new tenants from Italy in the months before navidad. The community are proposing improvements to the ground floor to improve access to the lift, which will be costly for us all if approved. Whether in Valencia or the UK however, I’m constantly reassured by the Junta de la Communidad***** who make decisions on the building on behalf of all residents. All will be well.

As I said to our Italian friend as we left, “volveremos para Año Nuevo… o Fallas… o Semana Santa… no sé.

We don’t know when we’ll be back, but we know that all the humans are there, making it better and better.

 

 

*There is no doubt that this whole chaotic event is much safer than it looks and feels! 

**If you are not of my vintage, you may need Google's help here. Other search engines are available.

*** This is worth emphasising in a world where immigration is an ugly word for too many people.

**** This is rare, but makes my point all the same. 

***** The committee of apartment owners who meet regularly to agree on all matters that affect life in the building.

Dedicated to Greg, who was the original inspiration behind the well-worn phrase "they don't make them like that any more". RIP.

 

 

 

 

Mas fuego, mas ruido, mas Valencia

More fire, more noise, more Valencia.  

Fitting in a stay between tenants, we made a mid-March visit to Valencia that can mean only one thing: more Fallas.

I wrote about our first experience of this incredible cultural festival exactly one year ago. Purely by chance and the ever-changing plans of our tenants, we were able get a second bite after so many years of waiting.

 

But first, the journey.

A journey is a person in itself; no two are alike.
And all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless.
We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us.
John Steinbeck

This outward journey was (I fervently hope) the last of its kind for us. Out of 220 people on this flight to Alicante, 218 were going to Benidorm. On the infernal bus from terminal to plane, the first strident cries of “I’m on holiday me, I don’t give a fuck!”* could be heard. After a chaotic boarding, the cabin crew tried to make sense of this crowd with a mixture of fear and steadfast determination on their faces.

Our travelling companions (having amply availed themselves of the bar facilities of our local airport) indulged in 2.5 hours of over-laughing, over-sharing, shouted, bigoted belligerence, mixed with an astonishing lack of self-awareness. To get an idea, perhaps you might imagine the very worst iteration of “Brits abroad” and multiply by 218.

They are of all ages, but exclusively white. Cheap lip fills and even cheaper false eyelashes. Vest tops to show off all that ink. Pink leisure suits and travelling in curlers. Continuous shouting and ugly attempts at singing, accompanied by a shocking disregard for cabin crew, fellow passengers and even their own families in many cases. “I’ll do what I fuckin’ want love, I’m on holiday”.

And I keep hearing that immigrants are the problem.

Dear reader, if you’re compelled to aim accusations of snobbery in my direction right now, then please do (and please comment if you wish). But these are not my people. I don’t get them. I generally try to resist hate, but in the context of that flight and their behavior, I have no time for them. None at all.

Nothing in all the world is more dangerous
than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.
Martin Luther King Jr.

Finally we’re in a taxi and headed for Alicante centro, and our small hotel for one night before the train to Valencia. Average tapas on a busy but chilly Alicante Saturday night, followed by a couple of glasses of a decent red in Plaza Nueva before bed. I’m not sure if we’ll ever spend significant time in Alicante, but it was a more than reasonable stopover, having arrived too late for the last train to Valencia.

After an easy walk the next morning to Alacant Terminal, we discovered our train to Valencia was around 1hr late. As this 1hr grew and grew on the information screens, we were grateful for the pretty good Gabrinus station café. Eventually we were through security and ready for our now 2hr late train. We waited on a breezy platform. A tall English guy engaged us in conversation, asking if we knew Valencia. His plan was to was visit for the day from his touring base in Alicante. I cautiously asked if he was aware of the Fallas festival, and he replied that he’d heard a little about it from some Americans. He was hoping to avoid it in favour of visiting the tourist attractions.

I did mention that there would be a Mascletà at around the time we arrived at Estació del Nord (“what, fireworks in the daytime, that can’t be much good”) but I had no time to explain the effect Las Fallas has on the city, particularly on a Sunday so close to the March 19^th climax.

An old Spanish guy uttered a sarcastic “choo-choo” as our train finally rocked up, and I wished our new English acquaintance good luck as we went to different carriages. He would need it.

Leaving Alicante, we passed industrial areas, dusty cuttings, sandy land and hills. A stop at San Vicente del Raspeig, then fields of vines begin to appear. The Spanish chap opposite us mentioned to his partner that these would be the vines of Moscatel grapes. He sounded like he know what he was talking about, so I’m going with Moscatel.

 

The land begins to get greener and is cut by quarries. There is pine forest and olives and a little more light industry and farming. We stop at Elda-Petrer, the twin towns a jumble of sand-coloured apartment buildings under a flat-topped mountain.

 

Jagged hills sit above a flat valley-bottom, spring green with occasional almond blossoms. After the Villena stop, small towns nestle at the foot of greener hills and the plain broadens as you make your way towards Xativa. The earth is redder now, and I can’t resist thinking back to the horrific events of the DANA, the red/brown inundation of October 2024, which ended and changed so many lives to the south and west of the city of Valencia.

“Only the people save the people”
Quote appearing on social media following the DANA disaster

 

The pretty approach to Xativa with wooded hills and almond blossom, jacaranda, terraces of olive trees and red, red earth, then giving way to Valencia’s ubiquitous fruit trees. Thousands of fruit trees.

The (must visit one day) castle of Xativa grows out of its rocky crag, and we steal away to Valencia. Through Alzira, Algemesi, Catarroja, Silla, evidence of the devastation of the DANA still remains. Debris-strewn fields in which orange trees are only just now making their inevitable comeback. Still-closed roads where underpasses were blocked with mud and cannot yet be cleared. We see our first sights of Fallas in the quiet streets of these towns as we pass.

 

Outside Estació del Nord in Valencia, there are predictably no taxis. We walk against the flow of humanity heading for the Mascletà and dive underground at the Bailen metro. Via underground and overground, the last part of a journey shared with the best and worst of humanity was finally over. Our beloved apartment is in good order, our last tenant from Brazil had left it as he found it.

The great festival of Fallas is ours to enjoy once again. Out to town dodging rain showers and fire crackers. A great people-watching slot for lunch at the top of Calle Caballeros. We visited a few of the incredible Fallas monuments, had a chance meeting with our restaurant owner friend on Calle Corretgeria (table booked for later in the week!) and enjoyed our old favourite Café Sant Jaume.

 

The towering Falla at Na Jordana (the closest major one to home) is incredible in size, execution and complexity. We learned later that serial winner Falla Convento de Jerusalén was adjudged to the best of the best for 2025 once again. We didn’t visit that one this year before it was swallowed by the flames, but if it was a greater achievement than Na Jordana it must have been very special.

We ate at a local favourite that evening, alongside chilly diners and drinkers determined to live the outdoor life despite the un-spring-like weather. Big day tomorrow. Mascletà.

 

That Monday morning was chilly and wet. We skirted around Plaza Ayuntamiento via Calle Poeta Querol, Calle Pasqual y Genis and Calle Roger de Lauria, eventually finding a good place in the growing crowd close to Unicaja at the southern end of the great city square. The incomparable Correos building was to our right. Employees, Falleras and members of local Casals Fallers filled the balconied upper windows. The rain continued. Umbrellas blocked everybody’s view of the high-fenced Mascletà area for the moment, as the clock ticked around towards 2pm.

 

As if by order of the Fallera Mayor herself, the rain stopped a little before the 10-minute warning. The umbrellas were down. The 5-minute warning exploded in the air above us. The anticipation was palpable among thousands of Valencians and visitors who surged forward as barriers were removed. We had a great position now.

As I tried to explain to our traveller friend on the platform at Alicante, you can’t explain the Mascletà**. You have to experience it. It’s a breathtaking, extraordinary assault on the senses. Senyor Pirotècnic had the crowd instantly in his pocket with great plumes of smoke in the colours of the Valencian flag that spread around the whole Mascletà arena and surged skywards. 

As the noise and power of the Mascletà built in intensity, the emotion of it took me by surprise. People around us were in tears. This was uniquely Valencian. This Mascletà is their thing, they own this. It’s so much more than fire and smoke and incredible noise, it’s their regional pride on show in the most raw and dramatic way possible. And this was the first Fallas since the horrific events of the DANA, of course. It’s still raw.

As on previous occasions, you believe the intensity of the noise and smoke and flame has reached its peak, only for the skill of the Pirotècnic to take you further. At its most intense the noise had you wondering if your ears would ever recover, and it shuddered upwards through your feet and out of the top of your head. In the last seconds, the entire area of the Mascletà arena was the orange and yellow fire of intense explosion, then it ended with loud, sharp aerial blasts… the whole huge plaza was full of smoke.

Nobody knows what to do immediately after it ends. The most intense over-stimulation has been so abruptly taken away. But we start to move through the thousands of people, towards the Ayuntamiento and its balcony full of Falleras and the Alcaldesa, still enjoying that buzz. 4 people pushed to the front of the crowd on the balcony and waved to the crowd to rapturous applause, but I have to confess that I still don’t know who they were.

 

Let's wake up, Valencians! Let our voice greet the light of a new sun.

To offer new glories to Spain, our Region, it knew to fight.

They mumble, both in workshops and in the fields songs of love and hymns of peace!

Translated from the Himne de València – the anthem of Valencia

 

Having freed ourselves from the crowds, we enjoyed lunch at Café Lisboa in Plaza Doctor Collado, a much-visited favourite that never grows old for us. In one corner of the square, one of several bands of drummers gamely added to the noise of a cacophonous city by beating their Mascletà-like rhythms to the delight of the crowds of Fallas celebrants. Many people wore the checked Fallas panuelos around their necks, and Fallas was never more alive.

We took a vaguely homeward route to see more Fallas, then to take a break and watch the first part of Ofrenda de Flores at home on TV. In amongst all the fire and noise of Fallas, the emotion and spiritual dedication of the Ofrenda is an inspiration. Hundreds of Falleras and their entourages parade in their beautiful traditional dress though the streets of the city bearing floral gifts for Valencia’s Virgin, the Virgen de los Desamparados (our Lady of the Forsaken). The emotion of one of the biggest days of their lives is evident as the Falleras arrive in the Plaza de la Virgen and make the floral offerings that go to make up the mantilla of the hugely imposing idol of the Virgin, to be completed by the end of the second day of this Ofrenda.

We walked back into town across the Puente San José, and it was a little bizarre to see the same Falleras and their families that we’d just seen on TV, making their way home in the opposite direction. We could see the never-ending flow of these Falleras continuing down Calle Caballeros from our spot in Plaça de Sant Jaume.

The penultimate day of Fallas dawned very wet. The heavy rain on this Tuesday morning threatens everything***. On the news, it was reported that regional towns were cancelling their own Ofrendas & Mascletàs. Valencia capital was holding out. The rain would not win.

 

There are several local channels dedicated to Fallas, and they showed stoic but very wet Mascletà preparation, and a million umbrellas across the city. In Plaza de la Virgen, dripping but magnificent floral offerings stood proudly against the weather. The second wave of the Ofrenda was still to come from that afternoon and through to midnight.

 

We had an appointment with great food in the Cabañal district. The local bars and cafés were closing for a Fallas event, but we caught one open for a quick caña before a rainy walk to Casa Montaña. I normally hesitate to name specific bars/restaurants in this blog, but Casa Montaña is a glorious refuge of old-school Spanish comfort and joy. This cosy, traditional Valencian hideaway with great food and wine was precisely the order of the day. And it delivered, como siempre.

 

"Comer es un placer que no se puede dejar."
“Eating is a pleasure that cannot be left behind”. Old Spanish saying.

 

Back home after a sleepy tram ride, the second part of the Ofrenda on TV is inspiring. Heavy rain throughout the evening will never be a barrier to the spiritual commitment and the regional pride of the celebrants. They will make their special day special, and of course the emotion of the disasters of 2024 will add to their stoic determination. The towering idol of the Virgin is completed in the pouring rain, and I suppose we feel a little guilty for not braving even a little of the weather. We would enjoy that spectacle on the last day of this extraordinary festival.

I like the religion that teaches
liberty, equality and fraternity.
B. R. Ambedkar

 

Wednesday March 19^th. The final day of Las Fallas. Dia de San José and El Dia del Padre. The climax of 3 weeks of madness, and many more weeks of preparation. It is mercifully drier. We walk to Plaza de la Virgen and breathe in the elaborate floral tributes left by the many Casals Fallers and other organisations. We walk in blessed sunshine to see more Fallas in centro and the pleasant streets around San Juan del Hospital. Boys alternately kick a football and let off loud firecrackers in Plaza de Nápoles y Sicilia, like you do when you’re a Valencian kid in Fallas.

After lunch, we made our way home for a little downtime before the big night of “Nit de Foc” that ends Las Fallas for another year. But we’re still a little naïve. Our local Mascletà blasts its way though the apartment building windows and shakes the furniture with spectacular noise.

 

Tonight it’s La Crema. Everything burns. Along with those across the city, our local Falla Infantil is due for its burning at 8pm. We sit at the adjoining café with beers and observe. Everyone from this local Casal Faller**** including the Fallera and Fallera Infantil march with their marching band around the Falla, around the block and back
into their cosy marquee on Calle Sarrion. 

After a little while, they march to the Falla again, but this time they stop and collect for photographs, and the men in their Casal Faller jackets push the small crowd a little further back. La Crema is underway. Fireworks scream into the night sky above the orange trees lining Avenida de la Constitución, then the string of firecrackers leading to the Falla Infantil are lit, and the Nit de Foc has begun with the local community celebrating this ritual burning.

The larger Fallas were due to burn at 10pm. We had planned to see the towering Falla Na Jordana go up, but getting through the crowds from there to the climax of the festival in Plaza Ayuntamiento in time may be a big ask. Plan B was down to our favourite Plaza Doctor Collado to see that Falla. We joined in with the growing crowd and takeaway beers from Café Lisboa.

 

Again, the Casal Faller members pushed the barriers and the spectators back to the limits requested by the fire crews. The bomberos then made sure the ashes of the Falla Infantil were well and truly extinguished as a string of fire crackers were attached to the first floor balcony of the Home Hostal on one side of the square, ready to ignite the Falla. Spectators climbed the great old olive tree that shaded most of the tables outside Café Lisboa for a better view.

The firecrackers blasted their way down that string, igniting great surges of sparks and flame, and the Falla burned. Los Bomberos hosed down the encroaching buildings for safety in this compact old-town square, and some spectators got their own cold shower. Those who had climbed that old olive tree regretted it, as it was soaked to prevent it from burning along with the Falla.

 

We ducked away through the alleys towards Avenida de Maria Cristina to find our place in the crowds in Plaza Ayuntamiento. The winning Falla gets its own Crema slot at 10.30, and we arrived just in time to see the sky light up spectacularly beyond the Ayuntamiento as the already mentioned Falla Convento de Jerusalén had its own celebratory burning. It’s an intoxicating feeling to be in a city that feels like it’s burning all at once, yet knowing that it’s just a great celebration.

The crowd jostled for position in Plaza Ayuntamiento, climbed onto various perches, and the balconies of the towering buildings around the square were over-capacity. The climax of Fallas 2025 was upon us once again.

 

The aerial explosions that sound the 10 and then 5-minute warnings. The whistles of a huge and restless crowd as the clock ticks towards 11pm. Fireworks start and quickly become spectacular, everyone lost in a skyward gaze, no matter how cramped or precarious your own piece of real estate might be. 

And then the huge Ayuntamiento Falla starts to go up in a shower of sparks and flame. It burns in the final act of Fallas, and an enormous, curling plume of black smoke sits above the flame and drifts out above the towering buildings to the south-west of Plaza Ayuntamiento.

Fallas was over for 2025.

 

A city is not gauged by its length and width,
but by the broadness of its vision
and the height of its dreams.
Herb Caen

 

It’s normal, I think, to feel a little bereft after so much energy, noise, emotion and sheer “won’t let you go” immersion. For our last couple of days, we fell into an comforting default to our old favourites: paella after a cold, windy walk at Las Arenas… our friend with his great Italian/Spanish fusion food and several (much too quick) limoncello shots as we said hasta la proxima once again… un cremaet at Café Sant Jaume on the way home... and another visit to Valencia was almost done.

 

Leaving the apartment ready for returning tenants on that last Saturday morning, we took a very busy metro to Estació del Nord and gazed at Valencia’s soaring architecture from the café under the magnificent station facade.

Beyond the wood-panelled ticket hall, inside the station was a world of scaffolding, but we found the Cartagena train that would take us back to Alicante and our flight home.

 

Exiting Valencia, under the curve of the Paso Elevado de Giorgeta, through the railway works in the southern half of the city, new apartment blocks, Hospital La Fe, and across the diverted Rio Turia. The Pobles del Sud passed once again, Fallas long since burned. All the time leaving beloved Valencia behind for another Alicante airport and budget airline experience.

 

If you’re brave enough to say goodbye, life will reward you with a new hello.
Paulo Coelho

 

The Albufera slid by, and the Huerta, small olive trees and needle pines bending to the strong breeze, leafless vine trees stoically upright.

Xativa, dusty peaks rising on either side. a pause near Vallada then Villena and eventually and inevitably we pulled into Alacant Terminal. A large part of me hoped this might be for the last time. The novelty of “fly and train” had worn off. Particularly with the prospect of a flight from Alicante in the company of the Benidorm gang ahead.

 

The flight home to rainy Yorkshire was moderately OK as it turned out (different crowd really) but direct flights to Valencia from now on, please. They are hard to come by at times, but this is probably a good thing.

 

On reflection, Fallas was its incredible, unique self once again. Nothing in my experience compares to it. I started last year’s Fallas blog post with: “Fallas is everything that València is, and Valencia is everything that Fallas is” and it remains steadfastly true.

 

We had a different but equally great Fallas experience this time. All is well with the apartment, and we have another rental starting mid-April. We hope to be back for a long summer holiday, rentals permitting.

I wanted to add a quote here (I like quotes) about going back to a place that you love, but this seems appropriate instead:

The hate of men will pass, and dictators die, and the power they took from the people will return to the people. And so long as men die, liberty will never perish.
Charlie Chaplin

* If I had £1 for every time I heard “I’ll do what I fuckin’ want love, I’m on holiday” during that hideous flight, I'd be a moderately rich man.

** And iphone photos don't even get close to doing it justice either.

*** There is a habit in Spain of cancelling everything when it rains... events indoors or out. It's a little odd to those of us in the UK who would do nothing at all if this were our habit. Fallas is different though. The rain will not stop Fallas, not in the city itself.

**** Essentially, we have 2 roughly equidistant local Fallas communities. In 2024, we were there to see the Falla Infantil of Falla Camino Barcelona go skywards, so this year (in the spirit of balace, as if anyone else noticed) we saw the crema of the Falla Infantil of Falla Actor Mora.

And once again, I apologise for the confusing mixture of Castillian Spanish and Valenciano in this blog post. Sometimes one is more appropriate than the other.