Jamon y queso

In which Valencia (Spain) goes through constant change, and offers up the things you can rely on to make it all worthwhile.

 

It has always been the plan to extend the amount of time we spend in Valencia on an ongoing basis, so this would be a 3-week summer holiday with a little apartment/agent/tenant housekeeping thrown in.

 

Once again, we emerged victorious from our initial skirmishes with a few unwanted pests on first arrival in the apartment. It had been deserted and dark for a few weeks, and the cockroaches love that in combination with the heat and humidity. Keeping them away is an ongoing project in the warmer months (for everyone in the city) but successful deployment of an electronic repellent and plenty of insecticida did the job.

 

We also had an odd situation with our upstairs neighbour, who was most definitely a human person, and had never featured in Men in Black. He tried to explain to me in Spanish that we had something that belonged to him, but I didn’t understand him. The breakneck speed of his explanation defeated me initially. After a few days and some good-natured but confusing conversations, I returned a kitchen rug to the family upstairs. It had apparently fallen from their washing line above onto our balcony, and our tenants had kept it!

 

The situation was amicably resolved, but there had been some grumbles from our neighbours about our most recent tenants, and I was starting to see why.

 

Distrito La Saïdia is changing. The streets are cleaner, some fachadas have been repainted, some shops and cafés have been renovated and revived. New ones have appeared, yet to prove themselves to a naturally conservative (small ‘c’) population. One that was a chain bakery/café is now a bistro-style restaurant, an independent bakery has added a smart café area, and an old butcher is now a mini-market. None of this is gentrification, and I feel that there would be local resistance to that in any case. The observations of Jason Webster aptly describe the locals’ reaction to change… and possibly also to our most recent tenants:

 

“There had always been an earth-wisdom about the people and the place, a sense of what was truly right or wrong in any situation beyond superficial judgements. It was a country where to be ‘well-educated’ referred to polite and correct behavior towards other human beings, not whether you’d read more books that the person standing next to you. And I loved all this about it. Yet now it felt under threat.”

Jason Webster: Sacred Sierra

 

I will lean a little on this author in this post, both in ‘illustrative’ use of direct quotes like the one above, but also in using Jason Webster’s perceptive and informative commentary on Spain’s history and culture to help me understand where we are now, and what we experience day-to-day.

 

Webster is a prolific writer of both fiction and non-fiction. He has spent many years in Valencia and has a Valencian family. Much of his fiction is Valencia-based, but his non-fiction in particular has always appealed to me. It is cleverly observed, often very relevant to my own experience, and is backed up by an understanding of Spain’s history and culture that informs day-to-day events on an ongoing basis. You will read one of Webster’s observations and realise that you already knew that, had experienced it time and time again, but needed someone of Webster’s skill to clarify it for you.

 One such observation (and it isn’t a criticism) is that Spain is (and perhaps always has been) a nation of ‘them’ and ‘us’.

 

“By drawing a veil over aspects of her history, pretending that they never happended or placing them in some sanitizing parenthesis, she (Spain) tries to create a positive out of a negative aimed at uniting a notoriously disunited people. If we are not that, then we must be this.”

Jason Webster: Violencia

 

So attitudes and outlooks can be very black and white. Here’s a small number of examples from a vast array:

 

Christians v Moors¹

Muslims v Jews

Catholics v Jews

Inquisitors v Heretics

Republicans v Monarchists

Nationalists v Republicans²

Tortilla with potato only v Tortilla with onion added

Unified Spain v Catalan separatists

Spaniards v Extranjeros³

Authentic Valencian Paella v Paellas with Other Things

Cyclists v Motorists

Left v Right

 

It’s clear that the last example is not unique to Spain, but it is particularly relevant. Following a recent general election, neither of the major parties: Partido Popular (broadly UK Tory equivalent) or PSOE (broadly UK Labour equivalent) have secured a majority, even with their current coalition partners. Pretty much a 50/50 split. Them and us.

 

The news channels during our visit reported on the scramble by each party for new coalition partners, but none of the options were comfortable. PP being forced to consider support from far-right Vox, but the moderate part of the PP would hate this, as would many voters.

 

Incumbent PM Pedro Sanchez and the PSOE were being forced into a relationship with far-left parties and potentially the Catalan independence movement. Carles Puigdemont, the exiled leading light of this movement was visibly energised by being back in front of the news cameras. Memories of ugly scenes during the 2017 Catalan independence referendum, and the spectre of a fractured Spain made this just as uncomfortable as PP’s options.

 

So constant change is here to stay, but Valencia and Spain consistently offer the reassuring, reliable constants hinted at in the title of this little post. There are precious few cafés and restaurants across Spain, big or small, cheap or costly, that don’t offer jamon y queso as an option. Bocadillo de jamon y queso, empanada de jamon y queso, napolitana de jamon y queso, tabla de jamon y queso, tortilla de jamon y queso (controversial) and of course the sandwich mixto.

 From the finest Jamon Iberico Bellota and DOP Queso Manchego to your squares of processed ham and cheese in your toastie, it’s there to offer comfort and familiarity in a world of change. Along with ensaladilla rusa⁴, albondigas and patatas bravas, it makes up that group of old friends that you can rely on time and time again.

 

To this list of “reliables” you can add daily sunshine, welcoming cafés, friendly neighbours, the old guy in an apartment opposite who tends to his caged birds in his pants, the morning dog chorus, cheap and efficient public transport, lots of public holidays, a pharmacy every 200 metres and paella to die for.

 

Which brings me neatly to a good news story. Our favourite paella restaurant La Pepica⁵ enjoys a long-established prime position on the Paseo Neptuno, overlooking the beach at Las Arenas with a broad terrace and large traditional dining room next to the smart Hotel Neptuno. While in the UK, we had heard a horror story that McDonald’s had identified this site for one of their “restaurants” and with La Pepica struggling as a business, it was vulnerable. I would have wept.

 There is already a Burger King on the same beachfront paseo⁶, and McDonalds clearly needed to establish their own presence. But a knight in shining armour rode into town in the shape of the owner of the Marina Beach Club nearby, and he bought La Pepica to keep the business going and end any interest from McDonald’s, for the moment at least.

 

With rescues such as this comes change once again, and we noticed a tighter ship, a more commercial La Pepica. There was a little less indulgence in the amounts of linen and crockery, waiters' outfits sported all the logos of the restaurants now owned by our savior... the team was looking for efficiency, a more formalised system of being welcomed and confirming your booking, and a 90-minute maximum time at your table. Understandable measures from a new owner looking to make this work as a business as well as an institution.

 

Our waiter was from the old school, however. We struck up a good rapport with him, and in return the service was relaxed and friendly. His command of the much under-rated skill of Spanglish was impressive. My choice of wine met with his approval, and was described as “muy nice”. Following a good paella valenciana, I asked him what time he would need the table back as we contemplated desserts, but he assured me that I shouldn’t worry about this, it was tranquilo.

 

Our tip was relatively generous as a result, and this was greeted by him with a “muy very good”. Spanglish at its best. I’m so happy La Pepica has survived. The changes are a small price to pay.

 

With the weather very hot, and humid at times, we spent many days at the beach. If there is a more eclectic and diverse place than Playa Cabañal in the summer, then I’ve yet to find it.  All nationalities, ages, shapes and sizes are here, from the well-heeled guests of the Hotel Las Arenas behind the beach (their aqua and white towels give them away) to the local family adorning their patch of beach with shade, cool boxes, towels, toys, footballs and excited chatter.

It occurred to me that the beach is a leveller. You may be paying top dollar for the privilege of enjoying the delicately fragranced Hotel Las Arenas, or keeping your head above water in a one-bedroomed flat on Avenida del Puerto, but the sea, sand, wind and weather affect you both just the same. Neither the inviting mediterranean, the cooling easterly breeze coming in from the Balearics, or the constant warm sunshine know or care what sits in your bank account. And neither prince or pauper can walk on that lava-hot sand in bare feet, although it’s astonishing how many people try, time and time again.

 

There is almost always a pleasant buzz to beach life. The sunbed guys are friendly, and the lady in the beach quiosco dispenses your cold drinks and bocadillos (jamon y queso obvs) with a smile and a chat. People come and go, and the police keep up their presence, often rumbling past on their quad bikes.

 

Along with the unlicensed beach sellers that the police seek to control, you do see the occasional wrong ‘un who is clearly not there to enjoy the weather. Your average wrong ‘un doesn’t appear to know how obvious they are though!

 

With to a vow to visit some new parts of the area outside the city, we decided that a day out in Port Saplaya might be nice. Sitting on the coast around 8km north of the city, Port Saplaya is accessible using the yellow buses that take you to towns and villages outside the city, so we caught this around the corner from our usual tram stop… 1.43€ each way. As the bus passed through the northern part of La Saïda and into Benimaclet, it filled and filled until with one last passenger climbing on just after the Torre Miramar roundabout, it was crammed as we left the city.

It’s always surprising how quickly you are in the huerta when you leave the city in some directions. There is no city-edge centro commercial, or box-house suburban hinterland that you might find in the UK. You’re straight out of apartment blocks, and straight into the growing regions that define the Alboraya area and provide some of the incredible produce that Valencia is famous for. We pass expertly laid out fields and orchards, looking fertile and relying on centuries-old irrigation methods that are still successful despite the scant rainfall.

 

The driver employed a less than delicate approach to his work, and we soon left the V21, screeched around a couple of roundabouts and scrambled off the bus (along with almost all the passengers) into Port Saplaya’s heat and busy beach-side cafés. We wandered along the road lining the southern half of the beach, breezy but attractive in the bright sunshine, passing many cafés and restaurants as we made our way towards the harbor and a real change of scenery for us.

 

Passing some attractive apartments with a pool just over the road from the beach, we turned into the harbor and were rewarded with exactly the refreshing new environment that we’d come to find. With a walkway all the way around the harbour, attractive apartment buildings and the gardens and terraces of pretty town houses pushed right up to the water where smaller boats and yachts were moored. It was relatively early for a small resort town, and the day was starting. Coffee and brunch was being taken on some of the terraces, and we walked past the multi-coloured houses towards the halfway point of the circuit, and our own cortados and tostadas.

 

Then the circuit continued. Port Saplaya is known as “the little Venice”, but it put me in mind of other places… Sotogrande Marina, Es Castell and some of the smaller Menorcan harbours, even the harbor part of Ciutadella. The smart but deliberately assorted colours of the bulidings with an extra splash of colour from hibiscus and bouganvilea.

 

After taking a look at the slightly more commercial part of the resort on the other side of the buildings surrounding the harbor, we enjoyed a nice lunch in a restaurant in a shady corner. The owner’s cooking was rather better that his anger management, and his aggressive approach towards one of his staff in particular was a reminder that the ugly things in life can exist behind the thin veneer of the customer experience.

 

After a short visit to the bright and breezy northern section of the beach (back here for a beach day next time) we made our way back around to the bus stop, outside the busy cafés and over the road from a large centro commercial.

 

We joined the random group of hopefuls waiting for the yellow bus once more. In the UK, this might ordinarily be called a queue, but not in these parts. After a time, a bus arrived, many people tried to cram through the doors at the same time while asking “esto va a Valencia?” to anyone who might be prepared to answer. We failed to get on this bus by being much too British and polite, but had better success with another that randomly arrived a few minutes later.

 

The bus was as full as one can imagine a bus can get, and either we had the same driver, or that particular driving style was the norm for the yellow buses. There were 2 speeds employed here: very fast and stop. For those of us standing, this was manageable as we screeched round the 2 roundabouts and back on to the V21, headed south through the huerta once again.

 

But when we came to the series of bus stops between the Torre Miramar roundabout and our stop close to the apartment, it was necessary to hold onto anything you could, often including the passenger closest to you… stranger or not. Teens introduced you to their backpacks as they lurched backwards and forwards, people needing to get off pushed through the throng, but often failed to reach the doors in time for the driver to close them and stamp on the gas once again.

 

Somehow, by the time we reached our stop on Avenida de la Constitución, we were able eject ourselves from the yellow missile and make our way safely home.

 

As we have for our more recent visits, we tried to live locally a little more, and use local cafés and bars for evening food and drinks. An old favourite is still very friendly, very good and very cheap, but they need to stop wiping their tables directly onto the large pavement area that they are lucky enough to have. The cockroaches demonstrate how much they appreciate this each evening, and customers will periodically jump up and squeal as the critters dart around under the tables.

 

We used another, closer to the apartment. It’s smaller, but a similar setup. Run by a family of chinese origin as so many of them are, it’s so local that you’ll see the same faces each evening, and they all know each other. The elderly lady who had held everyone up in Mercadona earlier, was giggling at videos on her phone along with her even more elderly husband. They set off home, but she returns soon after with her little dog as she walks it around the block. The 4 mates playing cards, the workmates enjoying enormous bocadillos⁷, friends discuss their dogs and their daily lives, carers bring elderly relatives out for a drink and a change of scenery.

 

Our neighbours remain friendly despite the issues with our tenants. Mercifully, I had the chance to apologise for any disturbances to our closest neighbour as we all waited for the lift one day late in our visit, and she graciously waved away my apology. The 2 ladies who seem inseparable are always around, always say a breezy “hola” as we meet them around the building or at the bench in the street where they’ll hold their daily conference, accompanied by a dog with a face that only a mother could love.

 

Another couple appear to care for a very elderly and disabled lady in an apartment on our floor. More than once, we saw one of the couple sitting on the steps in the lobby, taking a break from their task, and enjoying the flow of cooler air through the front door.

 

When we did venture into town we did see some changes, but these appeared modest, and our old favourite places remain the same. Despite a year having passed, the owner of our favourite Italian/Spanish restaurant greeted us like old friends, and was over-generous with the limoncello once again.

One of the routes back from town to the apartment has a particular appeal in the hours of darkness. If you leave the old town via the imposing archway through the Torres de Serranos and continue onto the bridge of the same name, you may be lucky ehough to witness one of the more unique “musical” spectacles on offer across the city.

 

Precisely half way across the bridge, a “performer” treats passers-by to a “performance” that is unlike any other I have heard, or probably will ever hear. This young man has only one song in his repertoire, so his backing track of Michael Jackson’s “The Way You Make Me Feel” is on a loop. His interpretation of the track is what singles this guy out from any other performer in the known world. I’m aware that he is delivering his astonishing “performance” in his second (or possibly third) language, but it’s evident that he has never read or learnt the lyrics or taken any advice or instruction on how to sing each word or how they should sound. Either he has no concept of how the song should be sung, or he doesn't care, or he is incapable of getting anywhere near delivering it. And his “singing” is indescribably bad.

 

His position may be significant. As mentioned, he is operates at a spot precisely half way across the Puente de Serranos. By my calcualtions, the distance between the Torres de Serranos and Plaza de Santa Monica on the other side is 400 metres. This means that our Valencia’s Got Talent hero is positioned 200 metres from any dwelling or place of worship, except for the unfortunate souls that may want to use the Jardín del Turia riverbed park directly below him.

 Is this deliberate? Has he been disallowed from delivering his spectacular performance within earshot of anyone who might need to sleep, listen to more earthly sounds, or simply remain sane? Is this the spot that moves him as far away from anyone that it’s possible to get in this neighbourhood? There are so many questions.

 

If he was in any major University town in the UK, he would have achieved a cult following by now via the magic of social media. Heaven forbid, he may even appear on a “talent” show to demonstrate that our Michael did not explore all the available interpretations of one of his more popular tunes.

 

If he’s not there when we go back, I’ll miss him.

 

Our final days came and went. I watched the bats⁸ flit between the apartment buildings on our last evening and contemplated this visit, Fallas 2024 (we have blocked out the apartment for our own stay!) and crossed my fingers that the new tenants due for 5 months from September would behave themselves.

Our last day shopping plans were scuppered by Santa Maria herself. It turns out that this was the Assumption of the Virgin Mary⁹, and a public holiday in Spain. This being the case, all the shops were closed. I really must get to know the public holidays better. This will come hand in handy with longer stays in Valencia.

 

I’ll leave you with a little more of Jason Webster and his experience of Spain, very much aligned to my own:

 

“Along the way it seemed that each new facet I discovered was entirely different to what I already knew, and so ‘Spain’ itself, its essence, appeared elusive: there was always something else to learn, something which would almost certainly contradict what I thought I already understood.

Jason Webster: Violencia

 

 

 

 

 

1 There is so much much more to this than a simplistic presentation of a complex and hugely significant part of Spain’s history.

 

2 This refers to the la guerra civil of the 1930s that most people will be aware of. It’s worth noting, however (as Jason Webster points out): “… every century in the country’s history has witnessed at least one major civil war, often several.”

 

3 We will always be extranjeros… foreigners. If we were to live in Valencia for the next 20 years, we would still be los ingleses. This isn’t a bad thing, it doesn't exclude trust and friendship, and we are rarely discriminated against.

 

4 During Franco’s dictatorship, he ordered that ensaladilla rusa should be known as ensaladilla nacional to avoid the reference to communism.

 

5 It’s not likely that any paella afficionados read this blog. If they did, they may scoff at our choice of La Pepica as our favourite. La Pepica is as special to us in holiday folklore as El Jardin in Malaga is. If the aficionados want to scoff, perhaps let us have recommendations instead?

 

6 It’s not too hard to imagine Burger King offering our hero a little incentive to make his purchase and thwart the golden arches of doom.

 

7 The cult of almuerzo (esmorzaret in valenciano) is alive and well. Normally taken in late morning, this is the habit of eating a huge bocadillo sandwich with a beer or perhaps tinto de verano, and maybe other snacks. It derives from the days when the workers in the huerta would have a very early start with little or no breakfast, then need a big boost of energy in the late morning to help them work. When my diet in Valencia consists mainly of carbs, this is one of the excuses that I come up with. Culture, innit?

 

8 The bat is the symbol of Valencia. Known as Lo Rat Penat in valenciano, the legend says that a bat helped Jaime I of Aragon regain Valencia from the Moors in 1238. But see 1.

9 Santa Maria is possibly the most significant religious figure in Spain, and I have no wish to diminish her importance by presenting her as a mild inconvenience. The Assumption of Mary is observed throughout Spain. It includes spiritual and secular customs like church services, parades, feasts, and more because it’s believed that Mother Mary’s body was transported into Heaven rather than going through the usual post-death process. I feel like she deserved that after all she’d been through.

 

And thanks to Jason.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Shadows of the White Isle

Eivissa, Semana Santa 2023. 

 

I suppose it could be argued that a visit to Ibiza was a bit of a “tick in a box” exercise for us. We had it surrounded, after all. Between us, we had enjoyed the east coast of Spain from Barcelona in the North, through Costa Brava resorts, our beloved Valencia of course, and South to the Costa Blanca.

 

To the north and east, beyond Ibiza, we have cherished memories of honey-hued Mallorca, and fantastic family holidays in the pretty sandy coves of Menorca¹.

 

So, I guess there was some need to put that pin in the map, but let’s not reduce Ibiza to that. On this trip, we stayed in Ibiza town only (more properly known as Eivissa I suppose) and there was much to take in… ancient and modern, sweet and sour, delight and distaste. A genuinely thought-provoking and enriching experience.

 

All human life is here.

 

Following an uneventful flight, our taxi moved us easily through the newer part of Ibiza town, to our “no frills” accommodation².

 

Rightly or wrongly, I had divided Eivissa into half a dozen parts in my head before, during and after after our visit. Apologies if this doesn’t sit well with those who know the place better than I, but here they are:

 

The newer part of town:
I quote this first, as it’s where our taxi first landed us. Lots of roadworks getting ready for a busy season. Both commercial and residential. The area of the town that sits broadly to the north and west of the older areas.

 

The Port:
On the southern side of the port, quite smart shops, bars and restaurants line the quayside along Carrer Andanes. A few expensive yachts have arrived, and sit gently in the corner of the port overlooked by the Pacha shop and Mango. The western side is an unedifying strip of the usual suspects in the art of fast food regurgitation, and ticket offices for the countless ferries that move endlessly back and forth to Formentera. On the north side there is a casino and smart apartments and hotels that back onto Playa Talamanca. There are superyachts and Louis Vuitton. The open-air club Lio was being rigged for the season.

 

The Old Town at sea level:

A mostly attractive³ network of streets among old apartment buildings, sitting at the foot of the enormous bastion walls of Dalt Vila. Many shops, bars and restaurants good and bad. Clean, pretty streets good for idle wandering, that link nicely to the Carrer Andanes area mentioned above.

 

Dalt Vila (the lower bit):
Accessible by a number of steep routes, we first climbed up via the steps at the end of Carrer del Comte de Rosselló, emerging out of the dark of the fortification into bright sunlight, around the corner into Carrer de la Santa Creu, past the attractive but turistic restaurants and upwards to Plaça del Sol for a first view of the town from above.

 

Dalt Vila (the higher bit):

Another climb up ancient streets, and home to the cathedral and the delightful, ancient streets around it. Home to magnificent views of the town and beyond, in almost all directions.

 

Playa Figuretes:

At the time of our visit (less so when the season gets into full swing, I suspect) a relatively peaceful beach and seafront area. Attractive hotels, apartments and cafés surround the bay, and we had breakfast and walked back to town via Passeig ses Pitiüses and Carrer de Ramon Muntaner along the cliff top, emerging eventually via a tunnel onto the road above Plaça de la Reina Sofia.

 

Our first evening was spent in a nice Italian restaurant in Plaça del Parc. It was here that a particular cultural feature of Eivissa began to emerge. For any town or city to have almost endless Italian restaurants is not unusual, of course. But here, where the owner greeted many diners as old friends in Italian, it was clear there there were many native Italian speakers. We found that this cultural influence spread across the town. Many generic menus featured Italian choices where this might not be the case in other parts of Spain. There was mortadella on your pinchos. There were piadina choices alongside tacos. Italian was widely spoken, and there were many Italian visitors who made the vital distinction between macchiato and cortado.

Without making a conscious choice, we regularly found ourselves in a friendly daytime tasca in Plaça de la Constitució. I was reminded of Plaça de l’Espart in Valencia, and the unchallenged people-watching hub of the known universe that is Café Sant Jaume.

Here, it was the same. A few stalls in the slightly odd market sold fresh produce, jewellery and the ubiquitous Ibiza salt. High trees gave dappled shade. A middle aged guy regularly cycled in, dressed in mini skirt, fishnets and high boots. A broad hat that might have been chosen from a 1970s boutique by Farrah Fawcett-Majors⁴ protected his delicate complexion. A small dog called Banana that belonged to the tattoo place in the corner bimbled around the square with the small dog that belonged to the dress shop owner next door, “seeing off” larger dogs that passed, in the way small dogs do. The dress shop owner steamed her stock garments ceaselessly, and we speculated on how creased they might have got since she last hung them up, 8 minutes ago. Deliveries and tourists and scooters, barking and laughing, the chink of cups and cutlery. “Hola, buenas!” on repeat.

 But it was here (although by no means confined to here) that it became obvious that Eivissa has a problem with homelessness, extreme poverty and begging. I’ll concede that the relatively small population of the town at this pre-season time of year might make the problem appear more acute, but that doesn’t make it less of a concern. Sadly, you soon get to recognise the people you will encounter repeatedly, as most will ask you directly for money.

 

There is a group of men in early middle age who simply move from person to person asking for money. Among the apparently genuine cases, one guy always appears cleanly and neatly dressed, often in sports gear or denim. He asks for money while carrying a can of coke, and often smoking a cigarette or even a cigar. This apparent contradiction is not lost on the café owners and servers around the area, who almost universally reject him from their terraces.

 

One guy (again cleanly and neatly dressed) who stations himself outside Pull & Bear on the main shopping street, approaches passers-by and asks for money "to get a coffee", muttering barely coherent abuse when this is not forthcoming. 

 

There are several fairly young women who were apparently homeless and penniless. They often appear frustrated with their situation, and I suppose this could be interpreted by some as being aggressive. What they really are is extremely vulnerable.

 

One such woman, dressed every day in a filthy woolen sweater and tracksuit trousers, obsessively and repeatedly pressed the button on the water fountain outside the vintage shop in Plaça de la Constitució one day. As she alternately filled a small water bottle and washed her hands, her trousers were suddenly around her ankles. There was a tragic moment when it was clear that her personal dignity had long since departed, and her life was no more than a feral process of survival. She didn’t care about her trousers or her exposure. Survival didn’t depend on that, right at that moment.

 

If I gave 1€ to every one of these people, every time I was asked, I would perhaps be 70€ light at the end of a week’s visit. I could do it, and it wouldn’t trigger a personal financial crisis for me. But it wouldn’t solve the problem either.

 

It’s clear that I don’t know the back-story of any of these people, and I’m ashamed to say that I don’t know enough about the Spanish welfare system to offer any further thoughts about the situation, other than what I have observed.

 

"Seeking out the poorer quarters, where the ragged people go

Looking for the places only they would know".

 Paul Simon, The Boxer.

 

I suppose it’s relevant to describe some of our wanderings in Dalt Vila, for reasons that will become clear. From our first modest climb up to Dalt Vila (the lower bit) we had identified what looked like some attractive bars and restaurants high up on the other side of the great stone ramp that leads up to the Portal de ses Taules.

 

Our exploration led us through unkempt streets to the area above these bars and restaurants, at the end of Carrer de sa Pedrera. We walked down another ramp towards the sea, past a more modern structure with clear signs of rough sleeping and uphill again to reach the cliff top, and to look down on a small rocky beach strewn with fly-tipped debris.

 

Turning back towards town, I think down Carrer Alt, there were half-hearted signs of attempted renovation, but generally the area was in a poor state. No doubt the difficulties in transporting building materials up here is an issue, and this may render the area unattractive to anyone with money to invest. What was clear by the state of the filthy streets and the crumbling properties, was that neglect had set in around these parts. Paul Simon's words came to mind.

 

Small dogs roamed, but there were few signs of life otherwise. It was easy to imagine that this might be where the homeless population might find shelter after another desperate day. As we had lunch on another day at the end of Carrer de Manuel Sorià⁵, we had some confirmation of this. From a snicket close to the fire-damaged Peixeteria, they would emerge one by one from the long-forsaken area above.

Reflectively, we descended through ever-cleaner, more inhabited streets, and eventually found ourselves back in the Plaça del Sol. Having returned to the north side of Dalt Vila, this is when we first saw that there was a large fire that appeared to be very close to the town west of the port.

 

2 helicopters buzzed around, dropping water collected from a nearby reservoir. The smoke billowed, subsided, billowed again, looking very close to an industrial area… until eventally it subsided and the panic appeared to be over.

 

It later emerged that this was a fire in a cane field perilously close to the E-10 main road and an industrial area. Now, forgive me for what I’m about to point out, as it won’t be helpful or clever, but... are cane fields next to industrial and residential areas, and main roads, in a hot dry climate a town planning triumph? Just asking.

 

For a little seaside time, we took the easy walk down to Playa Figuretes one bright morning⁶. Down the steps in the sunshine to the beach-front walkway, and a nice café table for breakfast. 2 servers scurried around without achieving very much, on a terrace that was by no means full. Service was beach-side slow, but we were in no hurry.

Then El Jefe appeared, and all became clear. This was the kind of proprietario who clearly believed very strongly that it was all about him, which would explain why he hadn’t taken the time to train his staff. But this was all OK, because he was here now.

 

Having burst through the café doors onto the terrace with a flourish, he clapped loudly and observed cleverly (by looking at the tables) that “you have your coffee, good. You have your croissant, you have your tea, everything is fine now”. ALL AT VOLUME 11. Missing the point entirely, of course, that if he’d trained his staff, he could have stayed in bed. Then we wouldn’t have needed to put up with the attention-seeking twat.

 

We paid the man and moved on, along the attractive Passeig ses Pitiüses, past nice-looking restaurants and hotels, and up the steps to Carrer de Ramon Muntaner. From here, we took a cliff top path with stunning views looking south, carried on to a path through trees, and eventually found our way back to Plaça de la Reina Sofia, dwarfed by the ramparts once again.

 

We considered (and dismissed) the idea of a short ferry trip to Formentera (maybe next time) and instead explored how the other half live in Marina Ibiza. The glitz was getting a polish in the pre-season sunshine, the designer shops and costly boats awaiting their fragrant clientelle for another party season. We had coffee and gazed across the water at Dalt Vila, and the catherdral perched on top.

 

We enjoyed the excellent food that Eivissa has to offer (with perhaps a little nod to the Italians) and we shopped a little, explored a little more. We heard and glimpsed the Semana Santa parades in the steets nearby. We let them pass, having immersed ourselves so deeply in these celebrations in Malaga a year earlier.

There was one climb still to make. On our last full day, we took the short climb to the Plaça del Sol from the access close to the Plaça de la Reina Sofia, and pressed on from there past the iconic S’Escalinata bar on the steps.

 

The cathedral at the top of the world was our goal. The steep streets leading up to the cathedral are quaint and quiet. Lived-in and traditional, but neat and clean. Steps and slopes lead up past a convent, a small bar, beautiful old townhouses and cottages, lush gardens behind walls, a glimpse through a gate here and there. By other routes, there is road access that can get a vehicle fairly close the the top, serving the needs of the church and the residents.

The last street took us up the last gradient to Plaça de la Catedral. It’s a shady, ancient street, along which you can picture the trudge of pilgrims and imagine the sound of hooves echoing from the honey-coloured walls. An elderly couple left a house and came down the street towards us. Both in traditional dress (although the lady had amusingly succumbed to the ubiquitous cowboy boots as her footwear of choice) they made their way down the street in a small medieval re-enactment of their own.

The cathedral appears hewn out of solid rock, and built by honest labour rather than an artisan hand. But the views from up there… these were views to rival those from Castell de Bellver in Palma. The whole town spread before us, the wooded hills beyond, sparkling white villas dotting the slopes. Your eyes can follow the ferries out of the port and over to Formentera. As ever, iPhone photos can never do it justice.

Climbing to the highest point, past the walls of the cathedral, you can take a view to the east and south, and turn a little to the west, beyond the airport, towards Valencia.

 

It’s so worth the climb. On the way down, we realized that the elderly couple we had seen were the owners of the singular shop on that shady medieval street. Photos of them from years gone by were endearingly displayed outside, and the shop had mercifully retained an authentic feel, despite its apparent monopoly on this lofty perch.

We sauntered back down and enjoyed the warm streets once again. There was washing hung to dry, small dogs milling around (obvs) and families going about their day. Normal living in the ancient town… no museum this.

Enjoying a final lunch the next day in Plaça de la Constitució, we mused over the enjoyable and enlightening experience that we’d had. Eivissa has more dimensions than I had expected. It’s impressively diverse in its people, cultures, food and in all that it has to offer. We’d readily go back for more.

 

And so to the Valencia apartment. We’ve had tenants in since January 2023, meaning that (and I never want to type this again) we missed Fallas. AGAIN. I keep hearing how amazing it was, with record crowds and great weather. This isn’t helping.

 

Fallas 2024 will be the best ever. Before that, we’ll reconnect with the place after the tenants leave in mid-June, enjoy a long summer holiday there, perhaps give it a lick of paint when the weather cools, and see what’s around the corner.

 

Our taxi to the airport took us past a blackened cane field, and delivered us into the care of our budget airline. Back home to North Yorkshire for a while.

 

Thanks Ibiza, for now.

 

 

¹In typing this couple of short paragraphs, I realise how lucky we are.

 

²A large apartment nicely converted into a “guest house” with zero frills, but clean and comfortable, within walking distance of everything. Accommodation (and many other things) are not cheap in Ibiza, but this did the trick.

 

³If there’s a disappointing part of the Old Town at sea level, it might be the Vara de Rey, and the adjoining Plaça del Parc. I’ll give the Vara de Rey the benefit of the doubt and say it wasn’t yet ready for the season. There are smart apartment buildings and restaurants along this wide avenue, but little life in early April.

 

Plaça del Parc, however, needs some TLC. There are a few nice restaurants on one side, along with the ubiquitous Natura. There is a strip of bars facing those, bringing to mind a similar strip in Plaza de la Merced, Malaga. Some OK, some not OK. But at each end, ugly derelict buildings will not be renovated in time for the season. Or possibly the season after.

 

⁴If you don’t remember Farrah Fawcett-Majors, please Google. You’ll get what I mean.

 

⁵The tiny Argentinian waitress at this bar would put down your cañas and sing the word “Salud!” to you at the same time. Best one-word song ever.

 

⁶In actual fact, all the mornings were bright. The temperature went up a degree or two every day. Summer around the corner. It's a delightful time of year.