The 07:45 Friday flight from Manchester to Alicante will from henceforth be known as the “Stag & Hen Express”. In an unusual episode of thrift, I had used a discount with a “budget” airline (the orange one) that had to be used, so this flight was a little forced on us.
It won’t happen again.
As we queued and boarded at Northern England’s Flagship Airport1, it became clear that we would be joined on board by a couple of stag parties, at least one hen party and a group off to celebrate some poor girl’s 18th birthday. All headed for Benidorm2 of course.
Half of a stag group were in front of us. Along with a few families and some other relatively well-adjusted people, we silently hoped for an incident-free flight. One of the amazing, charismatic lads from Halifax stood up in the aisle as soon as it was permitted, and began to “hold court” with anyone who cared to listen, apparently thinking that anyone within earshot was even mildly interested. He and the rest drank as much as they were allowed to do, and started shouting to the other half of the group 10 rows behind us. The groom wore a bridal veil and little else. They had insightful and intelligent discourse with one of the hen groups, and they all thought everyone was having as much fun as them.
It was irritating at best. Perhaps a little uncomfortable… possibly intimidating. A young girl in front of me was very anxious about flying, and it was no help to her.
Newsflash: It’s not all about you, stag/hen boys and girls.
The cabin crew dealt with them admirably, and stopped things getting out of hand. Those guys earn their money.
“Turn a deaf ear to those who shout the loudest, for an honest man need not raise his voice.”
Richard Salsberry
Moving on to better things. We escaped the plane at Alicante and made for Alacant Terminal for the Barcelona train, next stop Valencia. The dusty land north of Alicante slid past. The towns of Sax & Villena pass by with their fairytale castles perched up on crags.
We pass briefly into Castile La Mancha before returning to Communidad Valenciana. The valley grows greener, and becomes more recognizable as the approach to La Huerta de Valencia. Xativa (another amazing castle) and Alzira pass by. We get a glimpse of L’Albufera de Valencia before our eventual arrival at Estacion Joaquin Sorollla.
Just over 11€ each for that 1hr 45min trip Alicante to Valencia, On a comfortable, quiet, on-time train. State-owned railways. Just saying.
I'm not going to put any pictures of cockroaches
on here. I hate it when they do that with spiders
and stuff on social media. Here's the view
from the balcony on a nice morning.
on here. I hate it when they do that with spiders
and stuff on social media. Here's the view
from the balcony on a nice morning.
We had special welcome to the apartment on this visit. Whoever had left the apartment last had firmly closed the bathroom door, thereby creating a very dark, very warm, very humid environment. Attracted by this, a cockroach had come up from the world below to welcome us back. It was the size of a small cat3.
They do say (although apparently it isn’t true) that these critters could survive a nuclear war, but it couldn’t survive a middle-aged man armed with a hastily unpacked single flip-flop4. It was returned from whence it came.
Despite the hot and humid weather in Valencia sometimes creating an environment that these pests like, we still encounter relatively few of them.
But I have dwelled upon
distractions. We were back in Valencia for the first time since early January
2022. A 2-week summer holiday with sun, light, warmth, joy, relaxation, smiles,
beaches, tastes, walks, journeys, encounters and surprises… all based around our
beloved apartment in La Saïdia.
With visits from family, and several tenants, the apartment had been almost fully occupied since February. It was looking a little “lived-in” but everything was OK. We settled back in remarkably quickly.
Perhaps a lick of paint after Christmas.
The humidity was high for
the first evening and the next day. A meander down the road to a favourite café
was far enough, but a delight as ever. With cold bottles of beer, we looked
around the tables, looked at the people. Regular, normal, working (and now
relaxing) local Spanish people.
As local cafés go, this place is a bit special. There must be a café every 50 metres or so whichever way you turn in La Saïdia. You look up every street and see the sombrillas that give the punters a little shade, and they tend to have half a dozen street tables or so. But Cosas Ricas5 got lucky. Its corner spot on a busy crossroads affords it additional space, and they enjoy 20+ tables under shady trees outside, in addition to a relatively large inside space. They add tables when there is demand, rather than turning anyone away.
The family who run this local gem, descended from a family who left China for a new life several generations ago, work extremely hard and charge low prices for everything. This combination means that Cosas Ricas is always full.
So, back to the people around us that evening, for they add the soul to every place we go:
2 x 40-something ladies. Close friends, cousins perhaps. A long heart-to-heart. Some tears. Lots of listening. Reassurance, hugs. Another vino blanco. Smiles before farewells.
2 x 20-something guys. Too many beers. Bottle spilt onto phone. A costly blunder. An awkward departure, and an unsteady walk home.
Large group of slightly older 20-somethings. Pintas, bravas, chipirones. Stories of their week, laughs and friendship.
Large family group of at least 3 generations. Bickering toddlers who tucked in silently as soon as food arrived. Adults enjoying each other’s company and more chipirones. Aunties, cousins brothers, mums and dads, little ones that were more than a handful. Littler ones asleep on Mama’s shoulder. Seemed a happy table, despite the 2 brothers having a customary mini-argument as one hoisted his toddler onto his shoulders and said his goodbyes. Family stuff.
Group of 40-somethings. Only adults, perhaps family. A little more expensively dressed than most. Bocadillos and Estrella Damm. Gentle, calm conversation… relaxing into the holidays.
The Ancianos. 2 couples in the 70s or 80s. Tortilla and cañitas. Café con hielo. Muted chat. “Tavern murmur” as Laurie Lee might have described it. Talk of weather and health, but gentle good humour also.
It’s a special place, much loved by us and obviously most of the area. There are often birthday celebrations here. It’s becoming so popular that a busker appeared one evening. I’d suggest that this is unheard of outside the old town.
All of this leads me on to the places we go to on a summer holiday visit, and of course, the people who make these places what they are:
La Saïdia:
As well as Cosas Ricas and its characters described above, we have the rest of La Saïdia. Our distrito (and Barrio Tormos within that) is a place we try to leave far too often! We go to the old town, we go to Barrio del Carmen, we go to the beach, we get a bit touristy sometimes. On this visit, we made a bigger effort to “live” in La Saïdia a little more.
Our nearest supermarket has had a facelift and an upgrade. It was good, now it’s better. They’ve added a counter where you can buy freshly made Spanish delights… paella, empanadas, tortilla, arroz al horno… even burgers if you must. The fresh meat and fish are superb. The fresh vegetables amazing as always. We took tomatoes in chunks for our beach picnic, olive oil and salt added. Tasty, simple stuff. The essence of Spanish food.
After buying a decent rosado a couple of times at around 3.50€, we spotted one for 1.85€ or so, and gave it a go. It was better.
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| Waiting at the Sagunt tram stop. |
There’s a Lidl as well, on the way to the Sagunt tram stop. Ridiculously cheap, with excellent bread and pastries, loose frozen seafood and excellent charcuteria. There are countless fresh fruit shops with produce to die for, and a bazaar chino on almost every street… shops that you rely on more than you’d care to admit.There’s an excellent pizza place 2 minutes from our apartment, run by an eastern European couple who have excellent Spanish, and bend over backwards to make sure their customers are happy. The pizzas are excellent. She apologized to me for the menu being in Spanish… she brought us beers while we waited for our pizzas. I’m so happy to see it busy after Covid and all those challenges for such places.
Our neighbours always say a friendly “hola, buenas” outside the lift, or around the building, as they select the part of the block with the coolest breeze, all accompanied by their ubiquitous dogs. Trilby hat guy still lives next door, looking a little unwell perhaps. He dotes on his little dog, supported by his elegant, friendly wife. The street cleaners continue their epic struggle… the guys refurbishing an apartment across the road strictly observe the 8.45am start time before they start cutting tiles again. The “whole August” holiday is a thing of the past for some.
The taxis, the buses, the trams, the patinetes, the backward and forward, the ebb and flow. The Valencian-style double-parking puzzle, the shouting up to balconies, the poor guys with their heads in the basura, looking for anything they can use. The flags of South American nations proudly displayed on balconies. The raised voices from the card school that can get a little heated at the café we can see from our balcony. There is dark and light, but this is the soul of the community.
These things don’t happen in a Brit enclave near a Brit resort. They don’t happen on stag nights in Benidorm. I read something about a British woman who complained that there were too many Spanish staff in her Benidorm hotel. La Saïdia and Tormos deliver us from that. It may be an “up and coming” area, but I think it will always deliver us from that.
The Tranvia:
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| Flowering tress on Calle Almassora from the morning tranvia. |
Metrovalencia is wondrous. We didn’t use any of the underground part on this visit, but we used the overground trams almost every day, to make the 20-minute journey to the beach. For less than 1€, we pick up the tranvia at Sagunt and arrive at the beach after a (normally) effortless and relatively comfortable tram ride. From Sagunt to Platja Les Arenes is a direct route, although the service does detour down Calle Almassora to deliver its passengers to Pont de Fusta, as close to the old town as it can go.
It then proceeds through the bustling6 residential area of Benimaclet (change here for the underground folks) and right through the huge Universitat Politècnica campus until it reaches the Cabañal and the beachside stops.
As with public transport across the world, you meet some interesting characters.
Students. There are many summer schools at the Universitat Politècnica. At any of the stops between Benimaclet and Beteró, you’ll see a mass influx or exodus (depending on the time of day) of students and tutors. Heads in phones, giggling, flirting, jostling for position, planning, preparing… the future of Europa.
Tourists. We’re not really tourists any more, but we still feel their pain at times. Staring up at the metro route above the door. Jumping off to endorse a ticket, then back on as the doors threaten to close. Line 4 or 6? Which stop for the beach? Why can’t I buy a ticket on Sundays? Are we there yet?
Valencianos. On this tram, they will mostly be going to the beach. All ages, shapes and sizes. They’ll often have a cool box and beach chairs. A sombrilla. Laughing over unfeasibly large inflatable unicorns. Backpacks and towels. Kids and pushchairs. I listened to one kid of about 5 (I can understand them better that adults, they speak more clearly) explaining to his mother that in Valenciano you say mascara, but in Español, you say mascarilla7. You can consider me impressed.
The interesting characters. A guy staggered on at Beteró one day with a bicycle. Heavily inked, his eyes hooded with intoxication. He looked on the verge of collapse. He stood over us, and it was certain that he would fall onto us, his eyes closing all the time. We were all spared disaster when he found a bit more space and moved away. A lady in what had once been neat and stylish denim sat close to us and obsessively brushed invisible dirt from herself and her clothes for 15 minutes. One guy got on, inexplicably scraped away at a large bolt with some scissors next to a group of very wholesome American students, then got out some silver foil and a lighter, squeezing himself into a corner to do his thing.
As a good friend of mine might say: “Lads, it’s not all sunshine and roses, you know”.
The aircon is fine in the mornings on this beach-bound tram, but can’t always cope through to the early evenings, and the carriages can become crazy hot. Top tip: The carriage nearest the driver has the best aircon8.
The beach.
It’s difficult to know where Playa de Las Arenas (the beach nearest the port) meets Playa del Cabañal… and where that meets Playa de la Malvarrosa. They all add up to a thousand-acre beach that effortlessly accommodates thousands of beach-goers.
Along this stunning stretch, evenly-spaced all the way to Patacona, are 16 fetching blue-and-white striped beach quioscos. They sell all manner of cold drinks, coffee, granizados, toasted bocadillos, fruit, snacks, sun cream, ice cream. They are staffed by friendly guys and girls who serve at the quiosco and manage the sunbeds… all overseen by a business called Mar y Sombra, contracted by the Ayuntamiento. Cheery folks in buggies bring them stock and change during the day, and it seems a happy operation.
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The beach is so large that all of this only takes up the first 30 metres or so, from the sea up the beach. Behind the quioscos, it’s a long, hot walk back to Paseo Maritimo9, this Sahara-space only inhabited by the most ardent of sun-worshippers.
We love this beach. It’s not the prettiest beach we’ve ever been to (Cala en Porter Menorca, maybe) and it doesn’t have the best facilities (Platja d’Illetes, Mallorca maybe) or the best chiringuitos (La Cala de Mijas, without a doubt) but it’s our city beach. It has everything you need, and it’s home to the most eclectic crowd you could imagine in the summer months. All ages, countless nationalities, shapes, sizes and languages. It’s a bit like an expertly-prescribed antidote to Brexit.
The beach-going couple are common citizens of la playa, some with the aqua & white striped towels of the large Hotel Balneario Las Arenas that looms large and quite ugly directly behind the beach, but there are some on more budget-friendly visits…. many local people also.
The beach-going groups are fascinating. The most common are groups of 20-something lads. Whatever their nationality, they talk and laugh loudly enough to make sure everyone knows that they’re having a great time with their amazing mates. Their music is generously shared with everyone around them, as is the smell of their weed at times. Some of them even take their litter away with them.
Mostly this is OK… often it’s endearing. A group of young Italian teens (singing along word-perfect to every tune) were sweet enough to send a spokesperson over to us to make sure we didn’t have a problem with their music. We didn’t, and it was nice that they asked.
For a few moments, I couldn’t escape the feeling that they asked us because we looked old enough to object, but I soon shook that off and got a cold beer.
As we started down the boardwalk from Paseo Maritimo to our usual spot one morning, a US college basketball team were going through training drills on the top part of the beach. As we got comfortable, they moved down towards the sea. In the meantime, a group of support staff (and families perhaps) had come to the beach also. As the players played an elaborate and noisy game of football in the sea, bellowing and whooping for everyone’s enjoyment, the support staff and families planned their day.
An older lady (Stetson-style
hat, mirror sunglasses) had been given (or perhaps assumed) a matriarchal role
over a group of the younger women. This Patroniser-in-Chief floated here and
there, trying to engage everybody, and criticise everything. She started trying
to organize sunbeds for the group, but negotiations hadn’t gone well, perhaps
due to her attitude. She finished a conversation with one of the local
Valencian sunbed guys with the words:
“I know you’re speaking English, but I’m not catching any of it”.
Had I been in a position to influence the situation, she would have been wearing a sunbed after that comment, but the sunbed guy took this in his stride in typical style.
Our sporting heroes eventually left to go on jet skis, or to the “aquarium”, or just to “hang out”. Their volume made it easy to know their plans for the rest of the day.
Newsflash: It’s not all about you, basketball boys and girls.
Some of the support staff had quite understandably found their own sunbeds slightly further afield, and hunkered down out of sight for the day.
The team shall remain nameless on here, but I don’t think they did themselves proud on the beach that day. They didn’t read the room, as you might say. It turns out they were playing a few games around Europe on a pre-season trip, then back home. Good luck to them.
After our first couple of cloudy, very humid days, the weather was stunning for the rest of our visit. It was hot, but with the right amount of breeze to make it comfortable on the beach. Playa del Cabañal shimmered and basked day after day under a cloudless Valencian blue sky. Clouds would bubble up on far horizons to the North West, as if to remind us that clouds were still a thing. The sea temperature was over 20º, and amazing for swimming. That beach has it all, and we left on our last full day with heavy hearts.
But we celebrate this incredible weather with caution. Spain’s forest fire season had started months earlier than usual. Trees in July were as dry as they might be in October due to the driest conditions for years. Fires raged in many areas across Spain, threatening lives, livelihoods, nature and the environment. They stretched resources, and pushed the forest firefighters (actual heroes, who may also play basketball) to their limit.
Water reserves were very low also. Commercial ice production was drastically reduced during our stay to save water and energy. Supermarkets had no stocks after the first hour of opening on a day-to-day basis10. El Gobierno ordered that public indoor spaces limit air conditioning to save energy. It never felt like an emergency situation to us, but we’re the lucky ones. Low water and energy levels will affect others much more than us, alongside their other day-to-day challenges.
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| Street art on Calle Alta. |
The old city and Barrio del Carmen.
When we ventured out of our
barrio on this visit, it was almost always to the old town, particularly to the
Barrio del Carmen. Many of our favourite bars and restaurants are here, or
close by. It’s an easy walk from the apartment to Café Sant Jaume… a steady
stroll down Avenida Constitucion, across Puente San Jose, and into the barrio.
We often follow that route… we have 3 favourite places around Doctor Collado alone to enjoy. Further on, we pass our very, very most special favourite on Calle Correjeria11, then Plaza Negrito has its own kind of charm, and Calle Caballeros completes the circle.
It will be no surprise to anyone that the people in the barrio are a colourful mix. A street guy walks past, delicately cupping a parakeet chick in his hands. A blind guy makes his way across the busy road from his favourite bar to enjoy another cigarette… his companion inside (an older Hemingway look-alike who I sadly failed to get a photo of) falling asleep in his chair in the warm evening, under baroque-style mirrors and Joaquín Sorolla prints.
An opera-singing busker is impressive… another gets right into everybody’s space with shouted pop tunes and poor chat. Waiters and ayuntamiento workers and guys selling lighters and captains hats and bangles and shell necklaces. Dogs and bicycles, the glory of San Nicolas de Bari, the beauty of the Convento del Carmen, the rose sellers, the beggars, the ever-amazing market, the never-ending cycle of it all.
Incredible place. We sat gazing at Café Sant Jaume from across the road on our last day. We’d be descending the dark stairway to budget airline-world later, but for now, we have sun through the trees in Plaza Sant Jaume, cold pre-lunch beers, and the knowledge that we would be back soon.
The apartment.
And finally, our beloved apartment. If we had one of the much sought-after lofts in Ruzafa, I don’t think we’d love it more. If we had a penthouse in Canovas, I don’t think we’d love it more. If we had a villa with a pool in a Brit enclave, I’d hate myself every time I unlocked the door.
(But I do have half an eye on the Cabañal, it has to be said).
Our apartment is in normal, everyday, working, existing Spain. I wouldn’t have it any other way. It sits in an ever-fascinating community of diverse, genuine and very resilient people. I reckon they’d survive a nuclear holocaust. Then they’d turn around and ask if we still had enough conejo for the Sunday paella. Priorities.
A tiny gecko joined us in the living room on the last couple of nights, dodging behind pictures and looking for mosquitos to eat. It won’t pay the bills, but it’s a welcome tenant all the same.
Back in October maybe… tenants permitting. And I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again… definitely Fallas this time.
Buena suerte.
1Manchester. Nothing “Flagship” about it. On the way back, one of the cabin crew announced that the airport had a serious staff shortage, and if you didn’t get your luggage from the carousel, it might as well have gone to Narnia. You’ll never see it again.
2Apparently, after making their way through all nine circles of Hell, Dante and Virgil reach Benidorm. Here they meet a number of stag and hen groups, eat English breakfasts and complain that the bacon isn’t the same as Tesco’s. More Carling anyone?
3The reality is that it was the size of a large cockroach.
4For some reason, I feel the need to apologise to anyone offended by its demise. In my defence, it’s estimated that the world population of cockroaches is somewhere between 1 and 2.8 trillion. No extinction warnings have been issued.
5If you’re engaged enough with this blog to look for Cosas Ricas on google maps, you’ll find that it’s called Coses Bones on there. By order of someone (in the Valencian Regional Government?) every single tiny thing in Valencia on google maps has been changed into the Valencian language. I get that you want to change street names. I get regional identity. But Cosas Ricas is the name above the door. The place is called Cosas Ricas.
6The word “bustling” is brought to you by everybody’s favourite show… A Place in the Sun. They’ve had our area on once or twice, you know.
7Masks are mandatory on all public transport, including taxis. Almost everybody wears one without complaint, even when it’s 37º outside. One tranvia driver refused to open the doors at a couple of stops, when there were people on the platform without mascarillas.
8Every day’s a school day, kids.
9Boardwalks. There are boardwalks, it’s all good.
10The very definition of a First World Problem. Apologies.
11I’m not here to promote any business, nor am I sponsored to do so in any way. But go to Tinto Fino Ultramarino on Calle Correjeria. You’ll thank me for it one day.
