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.