El Orgullo

Pride: The state or feeling of being proud.

Pride: A becoming or dignified sense of what is due to oneself or one's position or character; self-respect; self-esteem.

Pride: Pleasure or satisfaction taken in something done by or belonging to oneself or believed to reflect credit upon oneself: civic pride, national pride.

Pride: Something that causes a person or persons to be proud: His art collection was the pride of the family.

Pride: To indulge or plume (oneself) in a feeling of pride (usually followed by on or upon): They pride themselves on their beliefs.

Pride (idiom): pride and joy, someone or something cherished, valued, or enjoyed above all others: Their daughter is their pride and joy.

Pride (movement): Is the positive stance against discrimination and violence toward lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) people to promote their self-affirmation, dignity, equality rights, increase their visibility as a social group, build community, and celebrate sexual diversity and gender variance.

For the purposes of this blog post, I have selected the most appropriate definitions of pride from the countless definitions that exist. If your particular favourite (e.g. Lions) is not in my little list, I apologise. 

The Valencian flag hangs above the
Torres Serranos - one of the gateways to the old city.

October 9^th is the national day of the autonomous region of Valencia, Communidad Valenciana. The celebration as a whole is known as “Nou d’Octubre”, and is celebrated with events over several days leading up to its climax on the 9^th.

It is a major event for Valencians across the entire region, and we wanted to experience it.

Arriving late on the 6^th, it was drop bags and find food. In a very busy old town, we were lucky to find a table in a tapas place. The place was packed and typically deafening. We now fall easily into the way Valencia works. Service is slow, but who cares? Some dishes have sold out, so we’ll choose something else. The waiter seems rude, but engage him a little, and you’ll realize that he’s busy, not rude.

Marina Real Juan Carlos I.

The 7^th is a Sunday, and we like to spend these Sundays around the Marina Real Juan Carlos I where there are sunny, comfortable bars overlooking the marina. We’ll wander down to Paseo Maritimo for lunch. Here, you choose your eating venue with care. There are informal café bars and formal restaurants, but many visitors have been fooled by a linen tablecloth. Having booked what we think is the best, we enjoyed the usual quality experience. Good service, great food.

At this iconic old restaurant, their pride in their work is obvious. As is often the case, there is a young man experiencing his first busy Sunday as a camarero. Nervous as a kitten, he’s only permitted to clear tables. His only mission is to not drop any crockery. Mission not accomplished. We’ll see him again next year as a confident, professional, waiter taking pride in doing a good job, highly valued by colleagues and customers.

Salon Dorado in the Palau de la Generalitat.

There is also the aged Jefe. He must be in his 80s, and he clearly cannot tear himself away from making sure the huge dining room runs as he believes it should. Every time we visit, we silently implore him to swallow his pride, and go home and get his feet up, or at least sit down with his family and enjoy lunch!

Monday 8^th is where Nou d’Octubre really starts for us. We start to immerse ourselves in this celebration of Valencian culture.

To mark the celebrations, many of the civic and parliamentary buildings are open to the public. The Palau de la Generalitat is a magnificent 15^th century palace, now the headquarters of the Valencia government. It towers over the Plaza de la Virgen so it’s never far from view, but you don’t get to see inside it every day. It’s a privilege to stand in the immense entrance hall and see the golden ceiling and the incredible tiled floor of the Salon Dorado.

The Real Senyera de Valencia in the Salon de Crystal.

We visited the Ayuntamiento (city hall), which is an eclectic mix of 18^th and 20^th century construction overlooking Plaza Ayuntamiento, the civic heart of Valencia. From its balcony, the mayor and other dignitaries preside over events and celebrations. It’s where the Falleras gather to view the Mascletas during Las Fallas… the best seat in the house. For Nou d’Octubre, the breathtaking Salon de Crystal displays the Real Senyera de Valencia. This flag (here we go with flags again) is symbolic of Valencia itself for many, and is carried at the head of the main parade on the 9^th. It was fascinating to see other rooms in the Ayuntamiento also, displaying maps and artifacts from a proud and dramatic history.

Plaza Ayuntamiento is a fitting centerpiece to the city. Entering from the Estacion del Norte at the southern end, you pass the Hard Rock Café and the Valencia Club de Futbol shop. The main Post Office is an incredible building that faces off against the Ayuntamiento across the square. Countless buses and taxis mix in a coordinated chaos of traffic lights and noise as you pass the imposing Ateneo Mercantil building and approach the northern end towards Mercado Central. Chain shops and restaurants crowd the apex of the triangular square, but a glance upwards and around you confirms that here is where the “soaring architecture” of Valencia has its home. Hotels, banks and apartment buildings rise like the sides of a steep ravine above the mass of commercial clamor, as if to hold it firmly in its place.

Plaza Ayuntamiento - the pointy end.

We knew that the next day, a large part of the square would be dedicated to a keenly anticipated Mascleta, the traditional daytime firework display.

That evening was wet. We enjoyed a fantastic meal just around the corner from the Correos building, and made sure we were in time for the highlight of the day, and the event that heralded the arrival of Nou d’Octubre itself.

We know that the Valencians love fireworks, you hear them randomly around the city all the time. We know about Las Fallas, and we know that pyrotechnics are a major player throughout. But nothing can really prepare you for unbridled Valencian fireworks when you have a front row position.

The skies had cleared out of respect for what was to come. At 11.50 pm a single explosion above us gave a 10-minute warning. Another at 11.55. Then we enjoyed the first colours and noise of the display from our position close to the riverbed park between two bridges, Puente del Exposicion and Puente de las Flores. We watched alongside thousands of Valencians and visitors standing in the closed roads that run alongside the riverbed park. We see excellent firework displays on November 5^th and on New Year’s Eve in the UK, and across the world on TV.

Nothing compared to seeing this up close.

There was an overwhelming sense that this had been designed and executed with great skill. The very knowledgeable Valencian crowd showed their appreciation as the display built in colour, noise and intensity. As inexperienced firework spectators, we sensed the climax of the display was close, but it continued to reach new peaks. Again and again we assumed a big finish was imminent, only to see it surpassed. When the display did finally reach its big finish, it was awesome enough to be emotional.

I get it now. I get why they love this so much. I’ve never really been that impressed by fireworks, but this was incredible. I got the impression from the Valencians around us that this display had been marked at around 8 out of 10 by their exacting standards. For us, it was an amazing experience.

Midnight had passed, it was Nou d’Octubre. A drink for luck at Café de las Horas, and home.

The weather was moody on the morning of the 9^th. It was humid, cloudy, and very warm. On our walk into town from La Saidia, we walked through the Medieval Market specially set up on Puente Serranos and all the way up to and through Torres Serranos into Plaza dels Furs. At times, it was almost impossible to get through the crowds on the bridge, so you had no choice but to be assaulted by the sounds and smells of this market. Mostly smells. The cheese stalls had a distinctive odour before the big day, but by the following Friday we were using another bridge.

In 2017, there had been violence around the main Nou d’Octubre parade. Political groups know the eyes of Spain will be on the city today, and they will use this day to make their voices heard. We were unable to walk through Plaza de la Virgen that morning, as the policia had isolated one protesting group in there, waiting for the appropriate time to release them to exercise their right to demonstrate.

La Senyera proudly worn.

Flags. As we got closer to Plaza Ayuntamiento, flags were what you could see. Mostly the Valencian flag, but mixed with the Spanish flag "La Rojigualda” and those of various political movements. No Bob Esponja balloons here… this wasn’t a joyful Easter Sunday in the Cabañal, the atmosphere was very different.

A tide of humanity had moved into Plaza Ayuntamiento. Unsure of the best vantage point, and acutely aware of the violent exchanges of 2017, we moved through the crowds towards the Ayuntamiento.

Choosing a position where we could see the balcony of the Ayuntamiento, but also most of the square as well, I kept an eye on the throng. All Valencian life was here, plus many visitors. Most had flags. The Valencian Senyera was carried in its thousands of course, but many others also. The group had been released forom the Plaza de la Virgen, and carried blue flags, but I wasn’t sure of their allegiances. There were many versions of the Spanish flag with various black symbols added, signifying beliefs and movements. There was the LGBT Rainbow flag and the flag of the Republic. The police had permitted some small marches, and one passed by us… a young moderate right-wing group it seemed, peacefully demonstrating alongside those who championed Valencia as part of a unified Spain, untainted by the extremism of the Catalan struggle for independence.

Nou d'Octubre in Plaza Ayuntamiento.

There was a sense of excitement and anticipation, perhaps even tension, but trouble did not flare. The neo-nazi ultraderechas who had been at the centre of the violence in 2017 appeared to be absent. There was chanting and posturing from many parts of the square, but everyone appeared to be coexisting in relative harmony.

Later, we learnt that most of the ultraderechas had been held by the riot police in a square close to Plaza Ayuntamiento for the duration of the day. Only a few stragglers had tried (and failed) to cause trouble on the edge of the square, which barely anyone noticed. I got the impression that the police and security forces had handled a very difficult situation extremely well. There was certainly no leave granted that day, they were a big, visible, proactive presence.

The parade makes its way along
Calle San Vicente Martir.

Several loud firework explosions heralded the start of the main parade. The Real Senyera de Valencia was slowly marched onto the balcony and lowered to the Valencian politician who had been granted the privilege of leading the parade, and so it set off at a stately pace towards Calle San Vicente Martir.

We used the alleys around the square to move to a place on the very same street. The atmosphere was intense by now, and you felt much more up close and personal with this parade than you might feel at Easter in the Cabañal. San Vicente is quite an enclosed street as you get towards Plaza de la Reina. It was packed, and many people had an opinion that needed to be loudly directed at some of the parading dignitaries. Very suddenly, a large group of forest firefighters appeared across the street from us, chanting loudly in a protest about their rights and conditions, closely followed by police in riot gear who allowed their protest but hemmed it in.

Beautiful traditional Valencian dress.

The parade filed past, led by the traditional uniformed riders. Politicians and their parties, the leaders of the military and security forces 6 or 7 abreast, the Falleras and their entourage and the many cultural organisations were all represented, and most were applauded with real pride and appreciation. Our firefighter friends of course, saved their very loudest jeers for the Government leaders, and for the Mayor and his team. Husbands made their views loudly known, and wives tried to silence them. Old ladies rudely pushed to the front and cared not how they brandished their flags.

Along with many others, we broke away once the main parade was past, and made our way down the Plaza Alfonso el Magnanimo. This is where the head of the parade lays a floral tribute at the base of the magnificent statue of King Jaume 1. This King of Aragon liberated Valencia from the Moors. It couldn’t have happened without him. A few flowers are the least he can expect.

We couldn’t see any of this… too many proud Valencians!

So in our thousands, we made our way back to Plaza Ayuntamiento. As soon as the parade returned there, and the great and the good filled the balcony once more, it would be time for the Mascleta. This was a watershed moment in our Valencian experiences. We had heard so many things about the Mascleta. Pregnant women shouldn’t attend, hearing can be damaged, etc, etc, but we had decided that we needed to experience this.

We found a place in front of the Correos, facing the middle of the square, only 3 back from the barrier. For Mascleta first-timers, this just might be too close. The anticipation was palpable. These people absolutely love this stuff.

No photograph will ever do justice to a Mascleta.

The sun came out, and it was hot. Cans of beer were sold from dustbins full of ice. People peered from the parapets of the huge buildings, countless floors up. Someone fainted at the front, and was rescued by an ambulance crew. People of all ages waited until that balcony was full again, and the Mascleta could start. The emergency services took their positions.

Eventually, a series of single airborne explosions heralded the start of the display. Every pigeon fled simultaneously from every building in the square. The police helicopter stayed at a respectful distance. The explosions and smoke built and built until the sound physically pushed at you. To rapturous cheers, a series of fireworks exploded upward with smoke that painted the colours of the Valencian flag into the blue sky. The display approached its climax with an intensity of noise that moved the air around you. I think the crowd gave this one a 9.

This was amazing. I really do get it now. You can consider us converted. So much so that over lunch, we readily agreed that we would go to Las Fallas 2019, for (much) more of the same!!

Here come the Christians.

Later that day, the traditional Moors and Christians parade celebrated the expulsion of the Moors from the city. A heavy shower turned to steady drizzle, but the enthusiasm and colour of the parade remained. As with the Easter parades, it leaves one wondering how all of this is prepared and executed. The thousands of costumes. The training of people, horses and even camels. It is an amazing undertaking.

As the last group of Holy Knights and their accompanying musical entourage passed by, Nou d’Octubre was over for 2018.

Amazing details at La Lonja.

We spent the remaining days of this visit just being part of a slightly quieter Valencia. Coffee and empanadas standing at the counter in Mercado Central. Buy some saffron, some bargain pictures for the single room, a cushion cover, and a bigger sugar pot. Get lost in La Xerea and discover the amazing San Juan del Hospital purely by chance. Marvel at La Lonja once again. Stare up at a building for sale just off Plaza Ayuntamiento, and discuss unrealistic plans to buy and refurbish it. Make running repairs to the apartment. Explore the fascinating “Bazar Chino” shops that appear on every street. Pick up a bit more Spanish. Take our time at Café Sant Jaume, the world’s premier people-watching venue.

A peaceful part of the old city.

Once or twice, I caught myself feeling something new. Then I realized it was the feeling of being completely at home. It took me by surprise… but it was oddly comforting at the same time. And of course it made me feel proud. The apartment was no longer a project or a novelty. It was now much more than a comfortable base from which to explore the city and area like a tourist. It had become a home that we were lucky enough to have. A home that means we can live in Valencia, only not on a full-time basis.

In conversation, I heard myself telling people that we had a home in Valencia (to make sure they knew I wasn’t a tourist!), where I had never described it as a home before. There had been a shift in how we perceived the apartment and the city, and what it meant to us. I think maybe I was a bit proud.

On our last day, we went to Meat Carnival 2018. Billed as “the greatest meat and live coal festival in Spain”. It was all set up in part of the Marina. We ran the gauntlet of Vegans holding up signs about murder (but who were oddly inactive in any other way, so it wasn’t much of a gauntlet), and walked into a large collection of outdoor stalls cooking up barbecued meat dishes in various forms, plus 2 huge outdoor bars (qué sorpresa) and numerous other drinks outlets. Carnivore heaven.

We took it all in, and surveyed the meaty options over a beer. There were 4 whole lambs spread over coals in one corner. There was a cooking demo where the enthusiastic host talked us through how the lady next to him was making a chicken sandwich. Cutting this sandwich at attractive angles appeared to be the highlight of the whole operation. The next demo involved whisky tasting, and attracted a larger crowd for some reason.

We opted for Argentinian choripan and steak. People were walking around with oysters on ice for tasting. The sun blazed down, and most Valencians found shade at the bar. There was a Fallas-style ninot of a 3-foot steak over a grill surrounded by bags of charcoal. A guitarist belted out the tunes close to a double-decker bus selling chicken wings. A whole row of other stalls grilled up beef, meatballs, various sausage varieties, and pulled pork (obvs).

We had another beer and tried to imagine what all of this might be like by 10pm. I think they’d have got through an insane amount of Amstel Oro and wagyu burgers by then. The diet of champions.

The upstairs chamber at La Lonja.
Those Valencians and their tiles.

We packed a lot into this visit. So many new experiences. A Nou d’Octubre parade. The inside of the Palau del la Generalitat and the Ayuntamiento. A Valencian firework display. A Mascleta. Seeing a camel walking up Calle la Paz. A Meat Carnival. A forest firefighters demo. New enchanting parts of the Barrio del Carmen. The sights and smells (but mostly smells) of a “Medieval” market, that wasn’t very Medieval.

And the feeling of being completely at home.

Perhaps a visit at Christmas, and then what will be an amazing Las Fallas 2019. This will all happen well before the dreaded Brexit date of 29^th March, so we will be able experience the flames and the fireworks and the joy.

It remains to be seen how the shambles of Brexit will affect our visits to Valencia, and the degree of permanence we can enjoy as time passes.

We’ll see. At the moment, I don’t know if I’m going or leaving home.

La verdad sobre la Costa del Sol

I found a nice quotation, which I hope is (or will prove to be) accurate:

A stunning southern sunset.

“The truth about the Costa del Sol is that what endures, what is worthwhile, is what is Spanish.”

David Hewson

The reason for my renewed interest in the sunny south of Spain is that (not for the first time) we found ourselves taking a holiday away from the holy ground of Valencia due to very welcome tenants in our Valencia apartment.

Once again, La Cala de Mijas was the resort of choice, but this post tries to cast a wider net across more of the Costa del Sol, and some of its characters. The contrasts with Valencia may be obvious, and the things the two places have in common equally so.

La Cala de Mijas, looking west
towards Torrenueva, from
the best chiringuito in town.

Looking back on his travels in “As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning”, Laurie Lee wrote of this coast:

“The road to Malaga followed a beautiful but exhausted shore, seemingly forgotten by the world. I remember the names, San Pedro, Estepona, Marbella and Fuengirola. They were saltfish villages, thin ribbed, sea hating, cursing their place in the sun. At that time one could have bought the whole coast for a shilling. Not Emperors could buy it now”. 

Lonely Planet colourfully describes the Cost del Sol as “that chameleonic agglomeration of end-to-end resort towns”. Indeed, there are so many opinions and descriptions of this long strip of coast that it is impossible to mention even a fraction of them here.

Before the crowds,
and the medusas arrive.

I have been lucky enough to experience much of the southern coast of Spain from Nerja to the east of Malaga, all the way west to where the Rio Guadiana forms the border with Portugal. I can say that there is truth in all these opinions, because all human life is here, on this particular part of that coast where Malaga province meets the sea.

Estepona still retains a certain elegance. Marbella (and its port playground Puerto Banus) is indescribably weird and wonderful, glamorous and hideous all at the very same time. But it is the resorts that string along the coast between Marbella and Malaga that Lonely Planet so eloquently describes.

Cabopino, Calahonda, La Cala de Mijas, Fuengirola, Benalmadena, Torremolinos. In varying degrees, these are names to strike fear and loathing into the hearts of some. Equally, they inspire excited anticipation in others. Different strokes and all that.

Stunning hibiscus.

There is real beauty here. The startling and fragrant primaries and pinks of hibiscus and bougainvillea. The two amazing blues of sea and sky forming a lazily-defined interface, which creates that dreamy “boats in the sky” illusion on the stillest of days. 

When the beaches are quiet and the air is sweet early in the morning, you may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of dolphins, as we have in the past. 

Despite the popular myth about Andalucians being lazy, we saw very hard-working people who impressively retain a great sense of humour, and they can be endearingly friendly and welcoming. The owner of the apartment we rented was the most gracious landlady, sharing her friend’s house while she was able to make a living from renting out her own.

Behind you, the mountains tower over it all, spectacularly beautiful in the evening sunshine. I feel like they glower down disapprovingly over the Costa del Sol, but they are also protectors. They protect the “real” Spain inland from pringles, orange fanta and "evening entertainment". On the other hand, they also grudgingly protect the Costa del Sol from actual reality. The reality of earning a living in the “unvisited” Spain that you get the tiniest impression of from up there on your budget airline. The reality that you ignore in favour of the in-flight menu. More pringles anyone? Pringles annoy me much more than they should.

Another potentially lethal fire flares up behind the holiday villas.

There is real ugly here as well. The cockroach and mosquito populations thrive. When the jellyfish swarm on calm days, the sweltering beaches also swarm with tearful children asking “ay medusas?” as they are told they can’t go in the water. Forest fires flare up in the foothills of the sierras, often started deliberately so that abandoned houses can be looted. In the shops, there are inflatables shaped like slices of pizza, and key fobs shaped like penises. There are hordes and hordes of pink northern European tourists heading for the Irish pub and American fast food. 

You know that “fear and loathing” I mentioned?

Blatant, unashamed commercialism is here. There are cafés where you're disallowed from sitting to enjoy a drink and a chat (that most Spanish of pastimes) as they only make good margins on food. Picturesque, quiet streets where the residents have taken great care to keep window boxes and plant pots bright and fresh are being slowly eroded by gift shops, noodle bars and real estate agents selling overpriced boxes with bright blue puddles outside. If a restaurant can get away with more tables on the pavement, you’ll have to take your chances with the traffic, folks.

The ubiquitous, and very tasy Sardinas.

I don’t want to sound too scathing about it all. A chringuito in an area we know well is our go-to for both beach days and lunch. It’s family-run, and for a beach restaurant is an amazing operation. The fresh fish is so good that you have to book in advance for a table on the sand. The staff sprint around in the heat, picking up fresh fish from the barbecue when they hear the shout from the chef. He endlessly barbecues espetos de sardinas, and whole dorada and lubina. You drink in the atmosphere as well as the rosado, and it’s one of those restaurants where you feel that if you keep your side of the bargain (speak a little Spanish if you can, treat the staff with respect, don’t expect to be served in an instant) then you start to realise that they will make sure you have a great experience and great food. It’s right that there are 2 sides to the deal.

We were horizontal on sunbeds at this very spot late one morning when it happened. Without warning, and with startling velocity, the noise started and reached a crescendo. The raucous, unholy cries of a species common to all of Spain, not at all confined to the Costa del Sol. They sweep all before them in a relentless stampede, a race to establish supremacy.

Spanish ladies “of a certain age”. Hordes of them. Bursting onto the beach as one, as if collectively ejected from the nearest El Corte Inglés. To those of a weak disposition, please look away now.

Good old Laurie Lee wrote “I could hear the talk, the cries, the Spanish-Arabic voices pitched to carry from Sierra to Sierra”. These voices remained pitched to carry from sierra to sierra for some time, but you’ll appreciate that they were only carrying from sunbed to sunbed.

It was clear that they had all been the same shop for their swimsuits, pareos, sandals and beach bags (undoubtedly El Corte Inglés) and to the same hairdresser. And they were all same shape and size.

The roles quickly became clear. The loudest (some achievement in this group) established how many sunbeds were required, and who would be granted access to them. The bossiest then barked orders to a very likeable late-teen by the name of Raul, who managed the sunbed operation (and waited tables at the same time) addressing him repeatedly as “niño” as if he were some sort of child slave.

Once territories were established, the noise subsided to some degree. This respite was short-lived, as it was soon deemed to be beer o’clock, and poor Raul was bullied into service once again with a sharp cry of “niño!”. The excitement and pre-lunch beer-buzz raised the volume once again, and most of the 16-or-so hired sunbeds were abandoned as the assembled coven (there, I’ve said it) managed to squeeze onto 2, and all talk at the same time, still pitching from sierra to sierra.

These ladies had brought others along to join the fun, and they were:

a) Husbands (2), roles as follows: Do nothing. Say nothing unless spoken to. If you’re lucky enough to be assigned a sunbed, lie on it in the shade and don’t move. These gentlemen had clearly realised some years ago that it was wise to obey these instructions to the letter.

b) Grandson (1), role as follows: Do the same thing as in a) above, except that the chances of getting a sunbed are zero. If in doubt about anything, ask Grandad and do not disturb any female member of the group.

c) Granddaughter (1), role as follows: Sit with your abuela, and all the other ladies, and learn things that 12-year-old girls shouldn’t learn yet. Laugh in an uncomfortable way until you’re released to go and get an ice-cream.

The 2 husbands had a quick chat with each other when the ladies went down to the sea, but I’m not telling.

Lunchtime brought more delights for Raul. Whoever decided that he should look after their table must have a wicked sense of humour, or perhaps they’re genuinely evil. The bossy one ordered for everyone, repeatedly addressing Raul loudly as “niño!”. 

There may be a clause in Spanish culture that says it’s acceptable for a young man who is earning a living to be addressed as such, but it came across as rude at best.

Once mountains of fried fish, calamari and paella had been devoured, and many jugs of tinto verano supped, another character emerged. This one was smaller, and perhaps a little older than the rest. She hovered from one little group to the other at the table during the typically long-drawn-out sobremesa. She gossiped and gestured, nodded and tutted, then moved onto another group for more. I couldn’t catch all the dialogue (only a few were intended to) but it was clear that she had a very large cuchara de madera with which to stir up la mierda. 

The others loved her, and lapped it all up. It's all part of the game!

All of this is classic pack behavior, of course. We’ve seen the same ladies, along with their husbands, spend gentle, loving, fun days with their grandchildren on the beach and in city parks and gardens. La Abuela is loved and respected, is the core of many families and many couldn’t do without her.

But beware, that’s all I’m saying.

The blues of sea and sky beyond the pantiles.

I suppose what all of this this means, is that the Costa del Sol may have multiple personalities, but it still has its Spanish soul. Authentic Spain may still be found in abundance in Valencia, and we count ourselves lucky. But even along this livid strip, with its relentless battle for your Euro, genuine Spain still has more than a foothold.

I know that David Hewson is right. What is worthwhile, is what is Spanish.

Now back in the unfeasibly good English Summer, we cast our minds forward to the Nou d'Octubre celebrations in Valencia (tenants permitting) as it will be our first experience of this.

One for the future: I want to be able to write a little piece on Andalucia, not just the Costa del Sol. Sevilla, Cordoba and Granada are on the list, complete with empty boxes, ready for ticking. I hope we'll be lucky enough to see them.

Pronto volveremos a Valencia.

The Wind of Change

All visits to Valencia are keenly anticipated, but few more than this.

We’d had a great visit to Malaga in November 2017, but we hadn’t seen Valencia or the apartment since the day the city started to come back to life after our somnoliento Agosto in 2017. The winter had been cold, wet, grey and very long in North Yorkshire. Only a couple of weeks before leaving, we’d had snow that quadrupled journey times, and brought the UK to a standstill for the 10,000^th winter running.

The sun had made only rare appearances for the last 6 months, and we were a little desperate for less grey and more blue.

A glimpse of blue. Springtime in Avenida Portugal, La Saidia.

We’d had a 6-month tenant in Valencia from October 2017 to the very day we were arriving on 31^st March, Sabado Santo 2018, and we were keen to see the apartment and make sure everything was OK.

There was change in our lives. The day before we left for Valencia, we had helped to move our younger son and his young family to a new city away from our home town, and into another chapter of their lives. He follows his older brother who had done the same a few years before. There is much change in Harrogate, which may have had an influence on them both leaving. Perhaps more of this another time.

Almost from the moment we arrived in Valencia, it was clear there was change here also. A favourite restaurant had changed, having been taken over by a larger restaurant opposite. We had enjoyed the previous host’s genuinely helpful and accommodating nature. We had enjoyed his quirky tapas menu which had given many Spanish staples a twist… all achieved by one cook in an unfeasibly small kitchen. In its new guise, the restaurant looked the same, but the menu had reverted to “traditional tapas”. You can enjoy this in many other (much better) places close by, and it was nothing special. Please don’t bring me sobrasada on toast with melted cheese, this is a TV snack. 

This backward step went against the grain in a city that is fascinating for its brave determination to do things just a little differently, to move forward.

 
“Never look for birds of this year in the nests of the last”.
MIGUEL DE CERVANTES, Don Quixote 

(Honesty doesn’t permit me to leave the above quotation unexplained. I don’t want to give anyone the impression that I’ve read all of Don Quixote. In the pursuit of an increased understanding of Spanish culture, I have tried to enjoy the crazed ramblings of the noble madman and his portly sidekick Sancho Panza. After the windmill bit, I’ll admit that my enthusiasm faded, and the great Cervantes was consigned to the Ikea bookcase, probably forever). 

In keeping with most of our previous experience of Valencia, all the other change we experienced on this visit was much more welcome!

The weather was in a state of change, feeling like it didn’t want to commit itself to a season.

Domingo de Resurreccion in Cabañal. Colour and joy.

The colour and joy of the Domingo de Resurreccion procession was enjoyed in beautiful sunshine, but the wind off the sea was cool, and the now traditional Paella Valenciana that followed was enjoyed indoors. Later in the week, a day at Playa Cabañal was a must after a North Yorkshire winter, but when the wind turned to the south west and strengthened, we realised that we were being gently sandblasted. A walk through the western end of the Jardin de Turia was enjoyed on the most beautiful warm morning, but the cool wind returns, and not a single evening meal was eaten outdoors.

Our sun-trap balcony was sun-basking warm in the afternoons, but quickly became chilly with the disappearance of the sun behind the apartment buildings next to Parque Marchalenes.

With a brisk and cold wind along Paseo Maritimo one evening, the beachfront bars were closing their folding glass doors to protect their drinkers and diners. We wrapped up and took a brisk walk to Bodega Casa Montaña in the Cabañal to enjoy its delights in relative warmth. 

You're never far away
from the Valencia Blue.

Despite all this, Valencia has one of the most agreeable climates in Europe, and you know that it will make its inevitable commitment to summer. The winter has been long and cold by Valencian standards (my utility bills bear testament to this) and this will make the sweet early summer weather that is around the corner all the more welcome.

Following a 6-month tenancy, we found our apartment subject to change also. Our tenants (quite understandably) had adapted things to suit their own needs. The sofa that had been banished to a bedroom for overcrowding the living room had been overcrowded back in. Various cupboards had found themselves displaced. Seating arrangements around the dining table had been rearranged. 2 (broken) bedside lamps had been stashed in the cleaning cupboard (a fine excuse to go to Corte Inglés lamp department once again). Small units from the bedroom had migrated into the bathroom. Kitchen cupboards rearranged, some items gone, some new ones had appeared. The kettle had been put away in a cupboard (tenants not British).

Sandblasting anyone?

And I’m more than happy for tenants to enjoy my books during their stay, but they put Laurie Lee’s novels back on the shelf NOT in the order in which they were written.

How the hell do these people sleep at night?

Our mission to return everything back to the way it was before was soon accomplished. There’s probably a “syndrome” for this. We felt better anyway, when it was done.

I should mention that none of this is written by way of complaint. We are grateful to our tenants (and agents) for the occupying our place when we can’t. It’s better than leaving it empty to gather dust. A couple of broken things are acceptable collateral damage. We quite like the rent as well, truth be told. 

Distrito La Saidia is also in a state of change. Valencian celebrity chef Ricard Camarena has moved his flagship restaurant to the masterfully restored Bombas Gens Arts Centre on Avenida Burjassot. New cafés have opened, and others have changed their name, presumably under new ownership. I’ll miss “Café Maria Tropical” now that it has changed its name to something dull like “Sabores de Valencia”. They’ve stopped doing karaoke though. Every cloud.

The new Saidia?

The property market is showing signs of buoyancy. We heard the unmistakable dialogue of real estate agents showing people around apartments in our own building. A new apartment building that’s going up close to Parque Marchalenes is clearly aimed at the young professional. It’s “close to transport links to the city centre”, and it will have a pool and a gym. We’re told that a college will be built on another large plot next to our apartment. The area feels resurgent. Is this the start of a “gentrification” of the area… the new Saidia? Or is it just natural progress? Time will tell, but there is no doubt that constant change is here to stay.

The city in general feels like it’s in the same state of change. Plaza de la Reina is going to be redeveloped and fully pedestrianised. With any luck, they’ll accidentally catch the front of McDonald’s with several large bulldozers. It remains to be seen what the Ayuntamiento plan to do with all the traffic that pours in from Calle la Paz. And what becomes of the underground car park?

The site of the iconic Casa de los Dulces opposite the Pont de Fusta is undergoing redevelopment, and it’s exciting to anticipate what it might become. The enormity of Fallas having passed by for another year, the Plaza de Toros is hosting a major tennis tournament. New shops have replaced old ones, districts and barrios jostle for popularity as tastes and budgets change. Many are now “up and coming”, both in real-estate-agent-speak, and in actual reality.

Our beloved Café Sant Jaume. Please don't let it be true.

I desperately need reassurance from a Valencian reader on one thing, one piece of change which I hope will turn out positive. Our most favourite café is Café Sant Jaume at the end of Calle Caballeros. We have enjoyed and experienced so much here, it’s almost sacred to us. We headed for it early in this visit as usual, but found it closed and boarded up. In what felt like some sacrilegious annexing of holy ground, Taberna de Marisa had even put some of their outside tables on Sant Jaume’s terrace. I can’t bear to think it has closed for good. Could someone please comment, and tell me that it is just closed for refurbishment?

Thank you!

As much as we welcome positive and progressive change, some things remain reassuringly the same as they have ever been.

Café de Las Horas. Finally discovered!

New to us, but iconic to the old town, is the Café de las Horas. We’d walked past a thousand times, and never stopped. Not even long enough to see that the interior is a baroque fantasy world of cocktails and cake, like the elaborate tea-room of an eccentric Contesa. We visited several times, and it has now become a new favourite. It attracts its fair share of ignorant tourists as its clients, as it’s close to the Plaza de la Virgen, but find a table out of their way and it’s a delightful place.

The artist who sells his paintings from a small gallery next to the driving school in Plaza del Mercado will be familiar to anyone who knows the old town. He usually paints beaches and the sea, although I recall seeing one or two pictures of the Albufera. His formula is to depict the beach and the sea on letterbox-format canvases in an attractive, skillful style. He then adds traditional figures and/or rustic buildings onto the sand to make his variations. We’ve never been sure about his figures on the sand, preferring the simpler seascapes. We like his pictures, and have often thought about asking him to paint us a large canvas for the apartment.

On browsing his tiny gallery on this visit, one particular painting caught our eye. A simple beach and seascape, with the neat addition of a few traditional sails for context. As soon as he had said adios to a customer he clearly didn’t have much time for, we showed an interest, and he sprung into action. Press cuttings appeared, reviews of exhibitions and successes gone by. Catalogues for galleries and sales also appeared, and he proudly showed us his name associated with some of the greats and almost-greats.

Plaza Negrito. Nicely done.

His artistic pedigree now relatively firmly established, his enthusiasm turned to his paintings. He spoke Spanish in a way I could understand, for the most part. He showed us other work completed, and work in progress. Describing one large canvas, he suggested wearily that he had probably bitten off more than he could chew! He gave us prices for everything. Knowing that we would regret an impulse purchase, we retired to Plaza Negrito to discuss the relative merits of our potential purchase over a beer, having left him with a promise to return.

As we all know, spending money is considerably easier after a couple of beers, so we went back to our new artist friend. Understandably, he was pleased to see us. So pleased in fact, that he broke off a conversation with a friend to engage with us. This doesn’t always happen in Spain, even for a customer.

We wanted the painting. We know where it would look good. We agreed what would be paid, and I asked him to sign it. This made him proud, and he asked us if we were going far, no doubt envisaging his work making its way into Northern Europe and sending more visitors flocking to his shop from cooler climes.

We told him we were taking it to an apartment in La Saidia, which probably wasn’t what he expected. It turned out that he lived in the same area, and further chat revealed that he had a view of the Jardin de Turia, which we don’t. His chest puffed out just a little, as it had when I asked him to sign his painting.

I love these encounters with genuine Valencians, you leave with a little of their warmth.

The painting is not the large canvas we had originally planned on buying, but it’s a picture with a warm heart, and it hangs sweetly above our sofa. It has a little story attached, we can put a name and a face to the artist, and the chances are we’ll be going back to him for more. We like it very much.

This was a good visit. We’d picked up a few things for the apartment. We’d replaced a couple of broken bedside lamps (El Corte Inglés, obviously). We’d returned the apartment back to the way we like it.

We’d returned to some of our favourite eating and drinking haunts. We’d found one or two new ones. We may be mourning the loss of an old favourite, but we do hope not.

We left behind an empty apartment, with a couple of jobs needed before another tenant can take up residence. Painting the bathroom ceiling was not my activity of choice during that visit. We hope that our amiable letting agent and friends will ensure the apartment is in good shape for the next tenant.

That wind of change was chilly under leaden grey skies as we left Valencia for the UK after a week. It was as if it was preparing us for arrival in the grey UK once again, and we got off the ground just before heavy rain arrived.

The Valencian summer has an irresistible pull, and we will be back. For longer.

Valencia - Estaba pensando en ti todo el tiempo...

Valencia, I let you get under my skin. I fell for you like a blind roofer. I made a commitment to you, and then I just went and spent a week with Malaga.  

I promise I was thinking of you the whole time.

The truth is, we have a tenant in our Valencia apartment. We’d like to be in Valencia for as much of the time as possible, but it’s an oddly frustrating (and unnecessarily expensive) experience when we are there, but unable to stay in our own home.

And before I start, a small disclaimer. I was going to try to write a blog post about Malaga without comparing it to Valencia. I abandoned this notion for 2 reasons:

1. The blog in its entirety is about Valencia, so comparisons to another city are therefore valid

2. I can’t help comparing almost everywhere I go to Valencia

Malaga City and the Sierra de Mijas beyond.
A beautiful November day.

So we chose Malaga for our autumn visit to Spain. It’s a little smaller than Valencia, (population around 600,000 to Valencia’s 800,000) and in common with Valencia, it’s very easy to get around. We know Malaga reasonably well from past visits, and we’ve stayed in the city itself, as well as sometimes fleeing west to the Costa del Sol resorts with everyone else.

I first visited Malaga city (for my job) in around 2005, and it had a slightly tatty, grubby feel to it… edgy and slightly unsafe perhaps, but with that raw Anadalusian chispa that’s so attractive.

What has happened in the intervening years is miraculous. The streets are clean, the restaurants (tourist-trap and otherwise) are mostly excellent. The museums and culture are vibrant and well-presented. The relatively new Muelle Uno and port and beach areas are smart and engagingly cosmopolitan. The weather is unfeasibly good in November. There are people on the beach.

Having hopefully set the scene, I feel the need to continue this post under sub-headings as follows: 

Las Banderas 

Flags are important and symbolic in Spain… always have been. In Malaga, 99.9% of flags you see (and there are a lot fluttering from balconies and restaurant terraces) are the familiar Spanish national flag, "La Rojigualda". This flag has represented many things in the past (not all of them good) but its current symbolism amounts to a demonstration of Spanish unity, and it’s clear where the huge majority of Los Malagueños stand on this. They want to be part of a unified Spain. They like being Andalusian, and you’ll see the green and white of Andalusia occasionally, but there is no real Andalusian separatist movement.

Compare this to Valencia, where you’ll see the “Real Senyera de Valencia” probably more than the Spanish flag. This is largely a matter of regional and cultural pride and belonging. While separatist factions exist, there is pride in being Valencian and Spanish, and the situation further north is not replicated in Communidad Valenciana.

I don’t want to get into the situation in Catalonia. There will be no political content in this blog, and in any case, it makes me sad. What made me happy in Malaga is that there was a unanimous demonstration of what Los Malagueños believed in, and that was that. 

Los Malagueños 

If a Valenciano wants to say something/tell you something/criticize something/praise something, they will do so in no uncertain terms, and you will be left in no doubt as regards the full and detailed content of their feelings on the matter. They are incredibly and engagingly forward in all things, and they don’t need any encouragement in this. I felt that Los Malagueños tended to prefer some eye-rolling, tutting perhaps, showing their feelings and frustrations without the outlet of explanation or demonstration. Perhaps this is the source of the fiery Andalusian spirit that we occasionally hear about… no doubt the venting has to happen eventually! 

The taxi driver who didn’t know the street I wanted was obviously enraged by this affront to her professional pride (I suspect she was actually grinding her teeth as we waited in traffic near El Corte Inglés) but it just came out as anger and frustration, rather than a more open and honest attempt to confront the problem.

None of this is criticism. I like Los Malagueños… they seem to like and care about what they do, from the restaurant owner lovingly explaining his food and philosophy at length, right down to the deliberately brusque waitress banging down plates as part of her “fiery Andalusian" act. In common with Valencians, they know how to accommodate visitors (however ignorant) and they are particularly good at having fun. There's a twinkle in the eye alright... la chispa is here, alive and well.

The iconic view from the Parador de Gibralfaro.

La Cuidad de Malaga

Muelle Uno seen from the Castillo Gibralfaro path.

This blog isn’t a guide or any kind of promotion, but you must visit Malaga. It has genuine, through-the-ages history. It’s been cleaned up but not sanitized. The old town is beautiful and can be peaceful, and blends with the commercial city centre relatively tastefully. Muelle Uno and La Malagueta beach are sparkling and welcoming and cosmopolitan and stylish. 

Go up to the Parador and the Castillo de Gibralfaro. It’s worth it just for the view. It’s a view that you’ll see on every website and in every guide book, but there’s no substitute for actually being up there. Castillo Gibralfaro and the Alcazaba fortress must be explored, and they reek of Malaga’s long history. Red squirrels dart among the ancient buildings, still inexplicably startled by visitors who have been coming there for centuries. 

In the Picasso Museum, try to tune out the endless squeak of comfortable shoes and consider the incredible talent of a virtuoso artist whose equal we will probably never see again.

We stayed a little out of the centre, in a small but neat apartment just west of the river. A solid, regular area of the city that very few tourists would venture into, but that felt very safe, in common with our little part of Valencia. There is no fiery Andalusian act here… people are busy living, eating, shopping and getting around. You feel that it’s common for people in areas such as this to live largely within their barrio. They have all the shops, pharmacies, amenities, schools and cafés that they need. A trip to the city centre may be rare, perhaps only for a special occasion.

I’m going to use the hideous phrase: “you a get real feeling of community here”. I’m really sorry, but I don’t have any other way of describing it.

And another thing, a little note to Los Valencianos. Can you pick up after your dogs as well as Los Malagueños do?

Mercado Municipal de Salamanca.
You little gem.

Just over the river towards the centre was an amazing little building with the sign: “Mercado Muncipal de Salamanca”. I say little, as there was an irresistible comparison to the imposing Mercado Colon in Valencia, but this one is much smaller. We passed several times when the building was clearly closed and silent, but we prayed that it was still used as a market and wasn’t about to be converted into a row of shops selling dream-catchers and ceramic “toros”. 

We weren’t disappointed. We went in on a busy Thursday morning, and were delighted to see stalls of still-moving crabs, butchers making chistorras and neat piles of the incredible produce that never cease to amaze across Spain. Un anciano outside had pulled the short straw, and was gutting and cleaning little anchovies from a pile of thousands. It was an absolute delight that this was still a local market, doing the job that it was intended to do.

It could do with a facelift, but if anyone comes near the place with a sign saying "Regalos Artesanales" there’ll have to be a grown-up conversation about why they need to make themselves scarce. 

It’s not all good 

I first visited Plaza de la Merced, just north of the old town, for my job in around 2005. It was good for a photo shoot location, but it was dirty, smelly and required us to hire security to avoid us being relieved of expensive items of photography equipment. Not pretty.

Plaza de la Merced.
A little of whatever elegance remains.

On a subsequent visit, it had been transformed. The square was clean and bright, the seated statue of Picasso was a constant magnet for amusing holiday snaps. The stylish bars and restaurants lining one side were frequented by the more discerning tourist, and the suited office workers enjoying their “afterwork” Larios y tonicas in the evening sunshine.

But the cycle continues. There is a Starbucks here now, and an Irish Bar. The tables at the front of this strip of restaurants are frequented by the kind of tourists who are attracted by "happy hours". The lesser-spotted pan-European dickhead also hovers here (you know the one I mean) treating visitors to fictional stories of their amazing "when I ran a bar in Oslo" achievements in exchange for another free beer. Avoid these people at all costs for the sake of your own sanity.

But like I say, it’s cyclical. The drug users will be back soon, and the square will be dark and dangerous and it will stink once again until the city gives it the big clean-up.

Just a side note, but an important one. A message to the likes of Starbucks, Costa, Kentucky Fried Chicken, McDonald’s and Burger King… Hueles a mierda. You’re in the process of degrading these beautiful cities. You probably won't see this, but I hope someone stops you.

Sea Cloud II in the Puerto de Malaga, with a backdrop of the city.

On our last day, a beautiful square-rigger called Sea Cloud II slid into the port as we were about to set off on a catamaran trip around the bay. She’s apparently a relatively modern vessel, but they’ve done a great job of making her seem authentic. My post-lunch whimsy imagined Hemingway aboard (Ernest, not Wayne) returning from an African hunting trip in time for bullfighting season at the Plaza de Toros, just a stone’s throw away. 

In reality, it’s not bullfighting season, and Sea Cloud II caters for the wealthier end of the luxury cruise market. It was just a little sequence of events in my head induced by 2 cold bottles of San Miguel.

But if you must cruise, it seems

Sorry Mr. Hemingway, the stalls are empty today.

far preferable to the seemingly soulless floating hotels that rock up at the other end of the harbor and bus their punters into the city so that they can run around after guides holding up umbrellas.

That evening, a great meal at Meson de Cervantes (please go there!) ended a great week in Malaga. The waitress high-fived us as we left because we'd liked it so much. 

I feel like I got to know her a bit better (that's Malaga, not the waitress). 

Lo siento Valencia. Volvere pronto.