When the whole is greater than the sum of its parts

2 southern cities, October 2019.

Our Romanian tenants are comfortably ensconced in the Valencia apartment until March 2020. Other than a request to upgrade the broadband to accommodate the demands of their IT work, we haven’t heard a thing from them. According to our letting agent, they’re happy. Which means we’re happy.

And it means that our autumn trip to Spain is a visit to 2 other cities… one an old favourite, and another that we have longed to experience.

Plaza de la Constitucion, Malaga.

After a painless Manchester-Malaga journey, we checked into our modest but perfectly located hotel around late Spanish lunchtime. We hadn’t made any plans for this visit to Malaga. We know the city pretty well. We know what to expect, but as always with Malaga, we expected to be surprised.

None of the cafés at the north side of Plaza de la Merced are the most authentic in Malaga, nor do any of them serve the best food. But many of them are welcoming and accessible at any time. They cater for visitors from all parts of Europe – many of whom may still observe mealtimes particular to their own country.

The nicest surprise as we approached from the direction of the Teatro Romano was to see that the ugly edifice on the eastern side of the square was being demolished. I’m sure this eyesore had once had a name, and a distant memory thinks it might once have been a cinema or theatre, but it was never easy on the eye.

La Alcazaba and Teatro Romano.

Now, with the building part-demolished, you can sit at some of these cafés and see La Alcazaba, the warm afternoon sun defining the fortifications sitting strongly above the Roman Theatre. I have no idea what the plan is for the site, once this monstrosity has been disappeared. Could they just leave it flat, an extension of the plaza, allowing full view of La Alcazaba?

It’s unlikely, isn’t it? I hope whatever plans there are will have sympathy for the area. Plaza de la Merced has descended into a degree of decay before, and needs help to avoid going there again. Any new building on this site must be an opportunity to improve. Optimistically, Malaga is usually good at this, in recent years at least.

With the Spanish summer extending into October, days were starting with crystal clear skies, and reaching beyond 25ºC as the day progressed. Muelle Uno was showing off in the sunshine on the Sunday. A forgettable market at the city end of the quayside gave way to the smart, cosmopolitan, relaxed retail and leisure experience that just gets better and better. The boats moored here get bigger and smarter. Everything seems spotlessly clean and accessible. The restaurants are more professional and welcoming than they perhaps were, and this extends beyond the lighthouse right around to La Malagueta beach, with hundreds enjoying the sun… sunbeds busy enough for August.

Malaga city from the lighthouse end of Muelle Uno.

We enjoyed a great Sunday lunch in beautiful weather. Sunday lunch is an occasion taken very seriously in Spain, and it’s our habit (cuando en Roma…) to take it seriously as well. Despite missing our Paella Valenciana just a little, we enjoyed very good local tapas staples at an unhurried pace among abuelas chasing small grandchildren on bicycles around the restaurant terrace. Aged Spanish couples spotted precious free tables and dived into the seats with practiced precision. The babble of conversation never ceases. A small boy falls of his seat, and at least 2 adjoining tables leapt up immediately to help/comfort/console/start up a conversation about their respective children.

As mentioned in previous posts, to be a child in Spain is to be the star of the show.

As if to remind us it was October, a sea mist drifted quickly in. You could see it coming as you looked down the line of quay, beyond the industrial port and towards the first of the Costa del Sol resorts. It was odd, and slightly eerie, and threatened to swallow up the large passenger ferry across the harbour and flow up Calle Marqués de Larios, perhaps seeping into the marbled lobbies of Massimo Dutti and the Banco Popular.

The sun and the sea mist do battle.

It reminded us both of the sea-frets common to the Yorkshire coast towns and villages of our childhood, but this mist was less resilient than it can be by the cold North Sea. The temperature had never dropped, the sun won the day, and a pin-sharp early evening prevailed.

The title of this blog post was inspired by a lunch. Restaurante El Jardin is a traditional Spanish restaurant, situated on a nice corner where Calle Cañon meets Calle Cister. Calle Cister can be a tide of tourists and taxis at times, but the pretty gardens at the eastern end of the Cathedral give El Jardin’s location a note of tranquillity.

El Jardin won’t win any awards specifically for the quality of its food. The same can be said for the service, which can seem slow and erratic to those unaccustomed to the way it's done around these parts. The décor inside, while charmingly traditional, can only be described as a little dog-eared. They have salsa and flamenco nights, and an old piano sits waiting. The toilets are like, well, you know.

Malaga Cathedral and its gardens
from El Jardin's corner.

But El Jardin has a special place in our holiday folklore. On our first visit to the city, it was the scene of an incident involving the clumsy peeling of a large gambon, and the emergency purchase of an “I ❤️ Malaga” t-shirt from a nearby gift shop.

On this more recent sunny lunchtime visit, El Jardin proved that any place/experience/meal can verify the statement made in the title. We waited only briefly at the bar for a table outside, near to the open doors of the restaurant, and a little away from the tide of guided cruise-ship groups on Calle Cister, heading for the lofty magnificence of the Cathedral.

A competent and enthusiastic pianist was working that old piano hard, his version of Concierto de Aranjuez ringing out. There was a joyous and slightly raucous crowd of Malagueños inside, and it soon became apparent that there was a birthday celebration going on. The diners outside chuckled at the howls of laughter from inside, where the cava appeared to be going down rather well. Our food arrived erratically, and so did the drinks, but they arrived. The small fountains in the Cathedral gardens gurgled pleasantly. We bravely tucked into gambones plancha with fresh lime juice, and a little nod to holiday folklore, and this time got away without any additional clothing purchases.

The pianist reached “O sole mio” in his repertoire. At this point, the combination of excitement and cava meant that the birthday party irresistibly burst into song. The Chinese tourists at the table next to them were utterly bemused. Of course, this was immediately followed by “Cumpleaños feliz”, and a little more cava. The birthday party eventually broke up with thousands of hugs and kisses, and they all drifted off for an extra-long siesta.

El Jardin felt a little bereft after their departure, but we finished our coffee accompanied by the chatter of the fountains, and reflected on a most enjoyable lunch.

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

The following (late) morning, the day before our departure to city #2, we were having breakfast at a café very close to our hotel. The owner brought our coffees, and opened up with the common Spanish complaint about the heat: “que calor!”.

To be fair, she went on to concede that the extended summer had been very good for business, so didn’t want to complain too much. It turned out she was originally Lithuanian, but fluent in Spanish. I’m not fluent, but we managed a decent conversation about the weather, the beaches, the shops (particularly the heladeria opposite, which had benefitted enormously from the weather!) and our respective cities and how they can be a challenge when the weather is very hot in July and August.

So, a Lithuanian and Englishman chatting in Spanish about day-to-day stuff on a pleasant street in Malaga as locals and people of all nations go about their business and enjoy the city around them.

There are people in the UK who think this kind of thing should come to an end.

The great stained glass display
in Malaga's Mercado Atarazanas.

Malaga has genuine, go-to attractions now, but it has retained its character. Perhaps it’s my past experience that makes me feel this way, but it still feels like it has a slight edge… in a good way. The Cathedral and the centro historico around it are clean, characterful and historical. There are great museums, arts, restaurants and shopping. There are spectacular celebrations and processions. La Malagueta beach, and those beyond, are wonderful. Muelle Uno is a triumph. The Ataranzanas market, the Soho district, Castillo GIbralfaro and La Alcazaba are all must-sees. Please don’t just use Malaga as “The Gateway to the Costa del Sol”. It deserves so much more.

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

After breakfast at El Jardin the next morning (the coffee won’t win any awards either, but we still love it) we grabbed a taxi to catch our train to city #2. We had never used Estacion Maria Zambrano before, or indeed seen the part of town where it can be found. We walked into a spotlessly clean station concourse which extended as far as the eye can see into an equally sparkling (and unexpected) centro commercial on 2 levels with all the branded shops you could wish for, as well as cafés, restaurants and so on. This is so Malaga.

After a drink at Lizarran, we went through security, joined the queue for the ticket barrier (there was un-Spanish observation of queuing protocol, even when split into 2 lines) and eventually boarded the slightly-late train.

We were finally on our way to Sevilla.

The train slid gently out of Malaga towards the west, then turned north to the mountains. We went through many tunnels, you had little sensation of climbing, but eventually it was obvious that we were travelling on higher ground. There were goats in dusty fields, and eventually everything opened out into a high plain with millions of acres of olive trees, punctuated only by the white scars of surface mines on the hills behind, and the even whiter sparkle of isolated farm buildings.

The train stopped at Antequera, then shortly after at Puente Genil. There was little movement either on or off, as most passengers headed for Cordoba or Sevilla. The olive trees went on endlessly.

Our fellow travellers were:

A Korean couple who would have eaten Doritos and Haribo for the whole journey, if they hadn’t run out. They giggled a lot.

No-one expects... a street to be named after the Inquisition.

A Spanish lady perhaps in her 30s, clearly travelling on business. 2 mobile phones, lots of paperwork, sandwich wrapped in foil. Soon, she was joined by a male colleague in a suit who sat in the seat in front of her. They chatted a little, then he opened his laptop, and they didn’t converse again until Sevilla.

A big English guy in his 60s, with lots of big bags. He squeezed awkwardly past the Spanish business lady to his seat, having only put one of his bags on the racks above. This uncomfortable operation led to him losing his glasses, but once she had helped him find them, all was well.

When the Spanish business lady wanted to eat her bocadillo de jamon, she politely asked him if that was OK. Her English was excellent, and she also gave him some information about where the train stopped, and some advice on finding his way around Sevilla.

An elderly Spanish lady sitting in front of us. She had all the trappings of the elderly Spanish traveller: Small wheelie suitcase, handbag, sandwich, drink, medication, and the ability to fall asleep almost immediately after eating sandwich and taking medication.

The remainder of the carriage made the odd phone call, chatted, coughed, snored a little. The olive trees went on and on, until we started to see larger villages and towns, dominated by spectacular churches, como siempre.

As we neared Cordoba, the countryside became a little lusher, with small valleys and softer hills. The farms looked a little prettier and there were horses and more goats. The line ran through an outlying part of Cordoba that looked abandoned, to be quite honest, but soon the buildings formed into neighbourhoods and then an area that typified those surrounding all the Spanish railway stations that we knew.

These glimpses, and the seemingly austere platforms of the Cordoba estacion del tren, were our only impressions of the city to date. I’m told it’s a fabulous place, well worth a visit, so it’s been added to the list.

The train backed out of Cordoba station, and peeled away to the south, next stop Sevilla. The countryside was attractive on the way in, but soon another Spanish railway station district welcomed us (it could have been Valencia, Madrid, Alicante, Malaga…) and soon we were jumping into a taxi on the forecourt.

The irresistibly cute Hotel de las Tres Cruces.

So, the driver didn’t know how to find our hotel. With a little clarification and a hastily produced SatNav, we got reasonably close. To be fair to him, Barrio Santa Cruz doesn’t allow too many cars in, the ancient streets being barely 1 horse wide in some places.

When we found our hotel, it was in stark contrast to our modest Malaga lodgings. Hotel Patio de las Cruces (named after the 3 crosses standing in the square outside) is a delightful old Sevillano building with 2 cool patios around which the delightful rooms are arranged.

Straight into Santa Cruz for our first sights and sounds of Sevilla. The open doorways in the charming alleys of the ancient Jewish quarter reveal cool patios, and boutique hotels like our own seem to hide attractive rooms and cozy bars. Initial exploration gave way to thirst, and after a drink or two, we were almost inevitably drawn to the mostly tourist-trap-style restaurants on Calle Mateos Gago. The newly-arrived visitor is sadly prone to this. From a nice table by an open window, however, I was able to get a first chance to observe the comings and goings of this tourist-laden street.

I had a reasonable view of Bodega Santa Cruz Las Columnas. This traditional, authentic Spanish café had been recommended, so I hadn’t expected to find it in the centre of the tourist trap. We visited a couple of times… once the next morning for breakfast, and another time on a very busy Saturday to experience the delightful chaos that can only be enjoyed in a popular Spanish café bar. The staff behind the bar (no table service here) take orders and write them on the bar in chalk where you had grabbed your precious square metre of real estate. Their traditional grumpiness fades a little when you order in Spanish (just try a little if you don't speak much!) and soon enough, you’re part of the chaos and laughter. The floor is littered with paper napkins, the plates clatter amid the shouted orders, and it’s just wonderful.

The sun starts to catch
the pretty Plaza el Cabildo.

On our first full day, we set out to get lost. I’ll occasionally use a phone to navigate if going somewhere specific, but we find getting lost is by far the best way to discover things. We discovered the delightful Plaza el Cabildo. We discovered El Mercado del Arenal. At the end of Calle Pastor y Landero, an old lady offering a quick prayer to one of the many elaborate wall-mounted shrines to Santa Maria and told me she does this every time she passes.

Passing much renovation work and lots of very Spanish noise and traffic, we came across the shopping area of the centro. The usual retail suspects were there, but in very pleasantly maintained streets, shaded by cream-coloured roof-height canvases. Passing the Ayuntamiento, we were soon back in the vicinity of the Cathedral, ready for a late-morning snack. Not once had we buried our heads in a guide-book or map and missed what the city actually has to offer. I can do that at home.

Having pre-booked a visit to the Cathedral (recommended to avoid hideous queues!) we sat in one of the more authentic cafés close by and ordered cañas and tortilla. A cockroach bimbled its way up the front of bar and found its prize, the leg of jamon that every café displays, but some are wise enough to cover up. This is no indictment of the café (which was very nice) as they will all fight to control these unwelcome but unavoidable visitors. I just made a mental note not to have the jamon.

Catedral de Sevilla.

La Catedral de Sevilla is astounding. Following a visit to Malaga Cathedral, I wrote that whatever your beliefs, a little time spent in places such as this is a must, but Seville Cathedral is on another level. The outside is amazing enough, although the Giralda tower was undergoing restoration. Inside, there were thousands of visitors, but the sheer scale of literally everything dwarfed the multitude. If the glorification of whatever deity you might choose to worship is more successful if you build it bigger, this place nailed it.

Countless side chapels with innumerable works of art and ecclesiastical treasures, displays of tapestry and clothing ancient and modern (an Archbishops cape from 1547… that’s a 472-year-old piece of clothing) architectural additions to explore, the immense choir and organ, and the main altar that is almost too much to take in. It’s a place that needs more than one visit.

The scale is astounding.

I was starting to get a familiar feeling about Sevilla. Familiar because I feel the same way (although much more strongly developed) about Valencia. It was the feeling that I wanted it all to myself. I wanted the hordes of visitors to go, I wanted us to be there with just los Sevillanos for company, to share the cafés and bars with them, to idly wander the streets with them on the way to the Sunday art fair, to move excitedly with them to see the flamenco at the Plaza de España.

I don’t think the tourists will ever leave Sevilla, however. And why would they? I already knew it was a special place.

That night, we had booked a tapas tour in Triana, across the river from the city. Triana was the original gitano neighborhood, deliberately separated from Sevilla until relatively recently by a lack of bridges, considering itself a town apart. We had chosen the tour in Triana particularly, so that we might learn where to have the authentic tapas experience, away from the tourist melée.

As instructed, we met our guide Marco that evening at the Sevilla end of Puente de Triana, and the small group began to assemble. A young couple from Zurich were already there. Very soon, an instantly likeable 30-something English couple from Kent arrived, followed by an amiable American who now lived in Israel.

Marco (the nicest of guys) introduced himself, told us where he originally came from (Argentina) and why he loved his job, and Sevilla. That bit wasn’t too difficult to work out. We all introduced ourselves, told our own very brief stories, and the 8 of us wandered over the bridge to begin our Triana experience.

The city from the Triana waterfront.

Having explained what’s involved with an authentic tapeo experience, Marco led us to the first bar, one street back from the Calle Betis waterfront. We enjoyed a crisp Manzanilla with charcuteria. When salmorejo was mentioned, I commented that we had enjoyed some for lunch. A few minutes later, as we enjoyed a new tapa of salmorejo on toasted bread with jamon shavings, the female half of the Zurich couple leaned towards me and hissed: “we all had lunch, you know”. One or two pairs of eyes looked up from the food, but we let the moment pass.

The next bar was one of those where discerning tapas diners wait for it to open (como Casa Montaña de Valencia!) as the tables fill instantly. We occupied our 2 tables just before opening time, and Marco explained that many tapas paired particularly well with certain drinks. In this case, shrimp and ice-cold beer. Shrimp and picos duly landed, and Marco was right. They were a challenge to peel for our unpracticed fingers, but delightfully sweet and the beer was the perfect accompaniment.

But our friend from Zurich didn’t like beer, and had to have white wine. Which she spilled. Her partner’s discomfort visibly increased.

Marco took us down the incredible “ceramics street” in Triana, where the beautiful azulejos decorate every building. He explained why sangria is not always a good choice of drink. Quite difficult to mix successfully, and too often served from factory-mixed product, the better option was a drink favoured by most Spaniards. Tinto verano is a simpler (and surprisingly refreshing) mixture of red wine, lemonade and fresh lemon, although recipes vary, as with so many things. We would enjoy it in the next bar, with amazing tapas of garlic mushrooms and small, tender pork steaks on bread with fried potatoes.

Except that our friend from Zurich didn’t like tinto verano, as she preferred sangria. But she wanted white wine. She had a device that attached a small bottle of water to her handbag. Just saying.

In the last bar, just down the street from the first, we sat down to give Marco a chance to have a drink and chat a little. We enjoyed a heartwarming Rioja, and deep-fried aubergine with a honey glaze. Having told Marco at the outset that she couldn’t eat peppers, our friend from Zurich wasn’t given the final tapa, a generous offering of pork cheek in a wine sauce. Marco had played it safe, as peppers would have been used to make the sauce.

She was given spinach croquetas instead, but didn’t like them. She complained that she wasn’t getting the pork cheek, despite Marco’s explanations. I offered her some of the pork cheek that was nearest me on the table, but after picking at it, she claimed that she needed to eat some vegetables. She wouldn’t eat the aubergine, which was most assuredly a vegetable last time I checked.

She was getting embarrassing, and she and her partner had a conversation in German. He had an imploring tone, she an indignant one. The fact that the tapas tour hadn’t been tailored to her specific personal needs and wants seemed to be the problem.

Marco’s professional approach to the whole thing seemed to be tinged with a little relief when the tour was over. It’s likely that he gets some difficult groups and individuals, but it must be unusual to try to accommodate someone who is determined to not enjoy it.

But it was an enjoyable evening, although perhaps not a coming together of nations in unconditional friendship. But these things are all part of the experience. Because, as we now know:

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

We went for a drink with our new friends from Kent, in a spectacular rooftop terrace bar overlooking the Cathedral. We saw them by chance on a couple of other occasions. Another day, we bumped into Marco at an amazing celebration of Hispanic food and products in the park close to the Plaza de España.

We went back to the first bar of the tour for more of their amazing food and manzanilla. Another Tapas Tour came in, all Americans. The guide appeared to have a group who only wanted to talk about themselves, and not learn about the food and drink. Maybe it’s not such an enviable job.

The Alcazar de Sevilla. The detail is amazing.

The 2^nd big attraction in Sevilla is The Alcazar (again, pre-booking is good). This Mudéjar palace built for Peter of Castile is an eclectic mix of styles, once again notable for its scale and incredible detail. Built on the site of a Muslim residential fortress, the ornamental gardens go on forever, and you can get lost in the maze of rooms (and we did) all decorated with the most incredible craftsmanship and artworks. Most of the first floor remains one of the Spanish Royal Family’s many residences. 

But a lesser-known piece of history was perhaps even more fascinating. I had come across the Palacio de la Condesa de Lebrija while doing a little pre-trip research, so we visited on the morning of Dia de la Hispanidad. If you can see past the astonishing amounts of money spent on this palace over the years, it’s quite a sad story. 

Dating back to the 16^th century, this incredible house was bought by the Condesa de Lebrija in 1901, 3 years after the death of her husband. With a passion for archaeology, she then proceeded to restore and reconstruct the palace using a priceless collection of antiquities imported from all over the world. Entering on the ground floor, you walk on Roman mosaics that pave almost the entire floor. On the first floor, a young guide (in perfect English and Spanish) talked us around the astonishing treasures that the Condesa had collected, only to be enjoyed by her grieving, lonely self. The Spanish visitors listened intently to the Spanish descriptions, then chose to talk over the English ones. Bless ‘em.

Just a tiny part of the Condesa's
incredible collection.

This may be a lesser-known Sevilla attraction, but it’s a must-see. Precious because of the treasures within, but also because it may never have been seen at all if the descendants of the Condesa hadn’t eventually chosen to open the palace as a museum, as late as 1999. 

But it was Dia de la Hispanidad, the national day of Spain, and Los Sevillanos were dressed in their best, ribbons of red and gold pinned to their lapels. We had lunch opposite the university on Calle San Fernando. There had been a celebratory function in the old University, and the guests poured out in their finery, all high heels and perfectly styled hair, kids in smart shirts and chino shorts. Laughing, heading for a long lunch. 

It was hot in Sevilla, quite a lot hotter than Malaga, but a second visit to the Plaza de España was planned after lunch. I have to admit this incredible place was an irresistible attraction. On our first visit a couple of days earlier, we had not only enjoyed the incredible construction, built for the 1929 Ibero-American Exposition, but had been privileged to see a performance of what appeared to be authentic flamenco by a group entertaining the crowds in the shade of the pavilion at the centre of the huge sweep of the building.

The Plaza de España. Amazing.

The male dancer built his intense performance into one of real drama, the singer and guitarist reacting to his movements and emotions, rather than vice-versa. The palmas were provided by the singer and a female dancer waiting for her own performance. 

There were some in the audience who appeared to be aficionados, and each break in the dance was greeted with loud applause and shouts. I know of the word “duende” which refers to a heightened emotional state sometimes reached during a flamenco performance. I don’t know if that’s what we were seeing, but it was certainly intense. 

It was a relatively short, but genuinely fulfilling introduction to flamenco for us. The thought of booking a ticket for a performance where chairs are formally arranged around a stage for a rehearsed show now seemed unattractive to us. We felt we had seen the real thing, and gave generously to the hat that was passed round. 

A little part of Valencia in Sevilla.

The second visit to the Plaza de España didn’t have flamenco, but the place was no less spectacular. Around the great curve of the structure, all the Spanish provinces are individually depicted in azulejos, so we naturally visited a tiny bit of Valencia in a beautiful park in Sevilla. 

As our visit drew towards its end, we took to the streets again on our last full day. While we had a destination in mind, it was the slow and easy wandering that led us to more discoveries. An amateur art fair outside the Museo de las Bellas Artes. Astoundingly wonderful architecture around every corner. The quiet Sunday morning streets, church bells occasionally reminding the faithful to shake off their hangovers. A market on the Alameda de Hercules. The buzz of an awakening barrio Macarena, families beginning to gather again at the bars alongside Mercado de la Feria where we stopped for a cold caña. Passing through the Arco de la Macarena, we turned within sight of the Parlamento de Andalucia and headed back to town. 

There are hundreds of churches in Sevilla, and it felt like we passed most of them. Passing into Santa Catalina, we wandered into the delightful Plaza los Terceros, where families with younger children were starting to gather for lunch at the tables under the trees. After another drink break, we wandered on, and were soon back in centro.  

A tranquil stretch of the Rio Grande.

The rest of our visit passed with a last visit to Triana, and an idyllic couple of hours spent by the Rio Guadalquivir, or the Rio Grande as the locals like to call it, a nod to the enormous part it played in bringing riches from the new world back to Spain. North of the Puente de Triana, the river banks become tree-lined and feel much more rural. There are riverside parks where families cycle, walk their dogs or pass by on the now ubiquitous electric scooters. You lose the sense of being in a city, much like you can in Jardines del Rio Turia in Valencia. The weather was flawless. 

All of the above delights are the achingly attractive parts that make up the whole. We left Sevilla with much remaining to discover, but we already know that we'd been lucky enough to spend time in a very special place. 

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.  

As we left Sevilla, taking a last look at the great sweep of the Guadalquivir, the bridges, the barrios, and the great monuments from high above, I didn’t feel the emotional wrench I still feel when leaving Valencia. 

But with a couple more visits, all that could change.  


Dedicated to a great friend.
A life too short, but undoubtedly well lived.

What are the true colours of Altea?

¿Cuáles son los verdaderos colores de Altea? 

 

So, the first visit to Spain since our 2019 Easter in Valencia¹. We now have tenants in our Valencia apartment until March 2020, so we looked for a new venue, and rented an apartment for a couple of weeks in Altea, a small southern Costa Blanca resort town in Comunidad Valenciana. 

 

Puerto Altea with its backdrop of the Sierra Helada.

We had some expectations of Altea. I had visited with my work some years before, and remembered it as a quiet, pretty place, made up of a traditional old town on a hill and a resort promenade, beaches and harbours. The apartment promised much when booked, overlooking Puerto Altea with a vista of the whole bay. The whole of Altea lies very close by to the east, and then Calpe at the end of the bay. The infamous Benidorm lies 10km in the other direction. 

This is the time of year we take our 2-week holiday and spend it on the beach. Cultural exploration is not a high priority, but relaxation is. Tourists, on a beach, away from the grey UK.

Altea old town stands prettily on the hill.

Altea proved to be a very interesting choice. 

For the sake of this post, we can say that Altea comes in 2 parts. There is a traditional old town, dominated by a church perched on a hill looking over the bay. And there is the coastal area, consisting of several beaches, harbours, a long seaside promenade with many restaurants and bars, and some larger hotels out of town towards the north east.

The old town and the seaside are are (broadly speaking) divided by the N332 road. 

It’s from the beach that you notice the colours the most. In terms of the provision of colour in these parts, the sea leads the way. Looking directly out towards the east, the horizon is a constantly sharp divide between sea and sky. Here, the sea is a vibrant cobalt blue, flecked with high-contrast white on a breezy day. As your eye drifts around the bay, and towards the shore, you take in several shades of blue/green, each as vibrant as the next, and constantly changing.

If I was painting it, I’d probably stick to 5 different blues, but you would need to mix your paint well to give them all due respect. These colours run through an amazing spectrum, but nearest to the shore is the most enchanting colour, a Caribbean-level azure/turquoise that isn’t found in too many European waters. When the sun gets to a certain place in the afternoon, that uniquely Mediterranean sky combines with all of these other blues in an awesome display of colour. 

The iPhone camera cannot do the colours justice!

And so to the beach. Playa de la Roda, where we spent almost all of our days, is a beautiful white pebble beach right in front of Calle San Pedro, the beachfront promenade. A pebble beach will not be for everyone, but there’s a lot to be said for it. 

Sand is not in the conversation. It’s also not in your food, drinks, clothes, eyes or hair. It doesn't blow over you on a windy day, and won’t be removing your skin as it does. Because there is no sand, that azure/turquoise is crystal-clear as it laps the shore on a gentle

Mediterranean day. The pebbles chatter in the small breakers. With closed eyes, you can hear the whoosh-chatter of the gentlest of firework displays.

Hugo (whoever he is)
enjoyed the beach as well.

Don’t get me wrong, if you offered me 2 weeks on the vast, sandy expanses of Valencia’s city beaches, I’d bite your hand clean off, but the white pebbles of Playa de la Roda were more than a pleasant change. 

Sitting on that beach, looking out to sea, I got a pleasant sense that Altea and surroundings came as a neat geographical package. That well-defined cobalt horizon forms the straight line of a half circle, it’s end points being the peak of the Sierra Helada to your right, overlooking Albir and its own bay, and Calpe to your left, dominated by the magnificent Peñon d’Ilfach. The rocky crags that tower above Altea’s old town form the curved side of my imaginary half circle, clouds often smothering their peaks in the mornings, only to succumb to the sun on another pin-sharp day. 

Peñon d’Ilfach towers over Calpe across the bay.

The sunbed operation is managed by the Ayuntamiento, and is efficient but a little expensive. It felt like a stark contrast from the ultra-laid-back operations on some of the Costa del Sol, often operated by the nearest Chiringuito. In Altea, a not very laid-back guy would appear soon after you’ve arrived, and politely (but stiffly) request payment. He often argued with customers over the prices. We understood that he was just doing his job, but to say to people relaxing on a beach “this area is closed at 7pm, and the umbrellas come down at 6.30pm” seemed a little Soviet Russia, if you ask me. 

A little bit Riviera?

Seen from the beach, the Calle San Pedro promenade has a little feel of the Riviera² about it. The apartment buildings above the bars and restaurants bring their own colours. Sunblinds drawn down to keep the apartments cool have their own happy shades of emerald green, orange and coral. The skillfully shaped shade trees along the beachside part of the promenade give natural greens, and the clean walkway and benches a shining white.

A clean, white promenade walkway.

This promenade runs from a very good Mas y Mas³ supermarket, all the way to where the beachside villas start half way along Nueva Playa de Altea. As we walked along on our first night, my heart sank. The comparison with Fuengirola beachfront was very hard to ignore. There was a bar called “Sands” where disgruntled/drunk UK immigrants⁴ griped over their drinks. Ditto “Rascals Bar”, a little further on.

I shouldn't have worried. Fuengirola seafront is smothered with every kind of Brit-themed food and drink outlet possible (and yes, that does include pizza) rendering it simply distasteful⁵. In this part of Altea however, you don’t have to look too hard for traditional Spanish and other more cosmopolitan choices. There were a few very nice places to eat and drink, and towards the end of our visit, we reckoned that we had chosen well, on the whole. 

On our first night we found Ca Jaume, a nice Spanish/Valencian place with a simple menu. The staff try to improve your experience, not just bring food. The tapas staples of ensaladilla rusa, croquetas and albondigas were excellent. The house rosado was delicately pink, but drank a little like a very light Fino. We went back twice during the holiday.

A pretty old town, but muy turistic.

And so to the old town. We took a taxi, and I asked to go to Plaza de la Iglesia, the heart of the old town dominated by La Iglesia De Nuestra Señora Del Consuelo. The driver grumbled his way through an explanation about pedestrian streets, and how he would get us as near as possible. At the end of a grumpy journey, he grumpily accepted my euros. We walked through delightful old town streets towards the church, its startling blue domes sparkling with the same blue as that cobalt horizon. Reaching the pretty church square, we took in the breathtaking view from the mirador, and relaxed with a cold drink with a view of the church and craft market. 

The drawback here was that we did this in the company of 400,000 other tourists.

A large group of Spanish kids, all in bright green camisetas, sang and chanted on the church steps while their “supervisors” drank beer next to us in a bar. Hundreds of pink people with expensive trainers and bad attitudes tramped backwards and forwards across the square, no doubt searching for branded fast food outlets, which were mercifully absent. They bought "crafts" from the "craft stalls" set against the church walls instead.

There is no doubt that old town Altea is beautiful in itself, and I’d love to visit when much, much quieter. It was such a shame that we didn’t really want to stay, and took the cobbled streets and steps on foot, back down to sea level.

Is it any consolation that even before Altea was discovered, the church square would have been full of merchants, stallholders and visitors from the surrounding farmland? Wouldn’t it be heaving with people at certain times throughout history in any case? Is this really any different? 

Sorry, it's no consolation, I’m afraid. It’s tourist trap, and we were complicit.

We came across a few colourful characters. There appeared to be a small group of heavy-drinking immigrants (possibly a mix of Brits and Northern European) who seemed to spend their days abusing/being abused by various locals and visitors. We escaped their attentions, but saw one fall all over the table where a nice Irish couple were enjoying their tapas. He overdid his apology and made it all worse, as is so often the case in such circumstances. He reeled precariously over our table before guiding himself to the next bar, where he appeared to repeat the whole sorry process. 

Another of this group was warned away from the newly-opened Ocean Lounge by the owner, shouting “we are closed to you” across the street to him.

This owner of the Ocean Lounge was an interesting character. It seemed that the place had only opened around the day we arrived in Altea, and the mission was obviously to provide a high-end experience. The building was all sparkling white and aquamarine blue. The staff walked on eggshells, trying to make everything Marbella-coloured and pristine. El Jefe dressed in a dirty polo shirt and ill-fitting shorts in contrast to their smart chino-and-white uniforms. He was all over them like a rash, and was in the process of micro-managing them into oblivion. When we asked for the bill on our first visit, the staff got into a confused huddle, decided they couldn’t manage this, and asked the boss to help them out. I’m sure it never occurred to him that this was his fault, not theirs.

By contrast, the hosts of Hotel Restaurante San Miguel made our experience amazing. This place had been recommended for paella, and it was so popular that our mid-holiday Sunday lunch had to be taken on a Monday. We sat among locals (I didn’t see/hear any other nationalities in the packed-out place) and had our customary paella experience. I’ve had better paella (although it was good) but the hosts made the experience a special one. The host Pepe is a genial, friendly, hand-on-your shoulder man, who welcomes you as if you’ve been eating there for 20 years. 

His wife fussed and bustled around us in the nicest possible way. She was like a Mum who wanted everything to be just so, and I’ve never seen anyone so happy, and with so much energy at the end of a long lunch shift as her. It also rubbed off on their younger staff. 

We went back for dinner later in the visit. With 3 simple dishes of grilled red Denia prawns (possibly the best ever) grilled lamb chops and grilled swordfish, Hotel Restaurante San Miguel became our Altea #1.

The building is an old-school Spanish hotel, founded as the tourist boom arrived in the 60s. The walls are hidden by a thousand paintings by artists attracted to Altea over the years by its incredible light. A trip to los baños takes you up 2 flights of stairs, past a thousand more paintings of all subjects, and a cosy residents lounge with piles of paperbacks and yet more paintings. A clandestine tip-toe along the hall brings you to an achingly attractive residents restaurant overlooking the bay.

Along with the sunbed guys (not a barrel of laughs), the odd busker (one so bad, it wasn’t even funny), the homeless guys with their collection of dogs large and small, and the general local population of Altea, there was the population of visitors, of course. Firstly, there were mercifully few Brits⁶. There were a lot of Spanish tourists, some French, some Scandinavian, some Russian, but the majority were from The Netherlands. There were Dutch-themed cafés, bars and restaurants. There were more Dutch translations that any other nationality.

I like the Dutch. I have had the pleasure of working with some Dutch people in the past, and find them friendly, organized, determined and freakishly good at languages. The legacy of a great seafaring nation perhaps? The holidaymakers and immigrants from The Netherlands in Altea were no exception. We saw families not only check the menu, but do a full recce of a restaurant before they were satisfied that they were going to extract full enjoyment from their meal. On the beach, they were respectful of proximity (not always the case with Los Españoles), were not going to enjoy themselves at the expense of other peoples’ fun (not always the case with the British). On the whole, they were calm and relaxed.

What I fail to understand is why the Dutch are particularly attracted in such great numbers to Altea. Of course, this could apply to any given nationality and any given resort. What was the trigger? What attracted that particular group of people to that particular place? More questions than answers, as ever.

Nice traditional touches outside an
old beach-side villa.

The last word must go to the varadero. From our apartment balcony, we had a perfect view of the activities of the Club Nautico de Altea boatyard. Boats of all shapes and sizes were brought to a slipway and lifted out of the water. They were steered, suspended from what I now know to be called a “travelift” by an immensely skilled remote control operator, with inches to spare, into their designated place. The yard was full when we arrived mid-July, but was emptying as we left, boats now ready for the August holiday. Cruisers up to about 50m, yachts, fishing boats, smaller speedboats, and every other craft imaginable were repaired, serviced, painted, cleaned and then relaunched. One or two seemed to be undergoing the kind of refurbishment that would not see them ready for the month-long August holiday.

What was obvious was the skill and craftsmanship of the workers on this boatyard. We could see that the permanent staff, many working from 8am-8pm as far as we could tell, were supplemented by other specialists as required. It was a fascinating operation, and we found ourselves mesmerized by the goings-on several times.

I think what was special about this was the insight. If we had only had a view of the marina and the Club Nautico de Altea, it would be too easy to assume that boats simply glide to and fro at the whim of their owners, and all is sparkling blue sea and sun-tanned yachting-folk. The varadero was a constant vision of reality, of what lies beneath the gently lapping waves, behind the veneer.

Looking towards Calpe.

As if to reinforce this, a small fishing boat was brought in towards the end of our visit, looking a little worse for wear. Its engine was removed and hauled away. Work to restore it to its working state was underway for many hours a day. This was someone’s livelihood, alongside the pretentiously-named and carelessly-owned Sunseekers and sleek yachts.

This was a good holiday, and it was good to experience a new destination. One can’t compare Altea to Valencia, so I won’t even try. There is no doubt Altea is very easy on the eye. It has other-worldly colours and incredible light to make those colours sing. It has charm and the real commitment of some to keep it genuine.

But I’m not sure how I feel about Altea yet. Is it too close to Benidorm to resist its “charms” for much longer? Will it become yet another Northern European enclave? Will Rascals Bar beat Ca Jaume in the competitive world of “what the visitor wants”. Will the seagulls on the beach become a problem? The answer to that one is yes, but only if people keep feeding them.

What are the true colours of Altea? Time will tell. Buena suerte Altea.

With a much-anticipated Malaga and Sevilla trip coming up in October, we settle back in to the grey UK for the moment. We hope the grey people in their grey suits don’t block all of the light out.
 

¹ Technically untrue. The annual boys’ golf trip to the Costa del Sol had taken place in May. I cannot imagine for one minute that the exploits of 8 middle-aged men in the Mijas/Marbella golf Valley are of any interest at all to you, the discerning reader.

² I’ve never been to the Riviera. I’m just saying that the promenade makes me feel like what a promenade might make me feel like on the Riviera. Anyway, I’ve seen pictures. D'accord?

³ We called in every morning for all the (unfeasibly cheap) ingredients for lunch on the beach. And most evenings for all the (unfeasibly cheap) ingredients for a drink on the balcony.

⁴ I refuse to call these people “expats” any more. I have no doubt that if they were in the UK, and a Spanish family moved in next door, they would call the Spanish family “immigrants”.

⁵ I have to say that the area around Plaza de la Constitucion in Fuengirola is delightful.

⁶ I’m sorry. Where the British holidaymaker is concerned, I’ve often come across as a hater in this blog, despite sometimes being a holidaymaker myself. And I don’t want to tar all Brits with the same brush. But it’s the attitude. It’s the “where’s the Irish bar”. It’s the “where can I get an English Breakfast”. It’s the surprised moan of “this menu’s all in Spanish!”. It’s the disdain for anything that’s different and special about a foreign country and its culture. Rant over, for now.