Why we decided to abandon private education

It was just a year and a half ago that we were compelled to leave Germany and Luxembourg because of Livia’s education. The idea was that we needed to make sure she received a solid education in English, as she refused to speak French or German. With the UK off-limits, it came as a no-brainer to us when we discovered the province of Valencia in Spain had three times as many international schools with English as the working language compared to Luxembourg and our region of Germany combined.

We always saw our time in Valencia as an experiment where we would take stock of the situation on a regular basis. The first year passed quite quickly, but Livia was once again rejected from the private school she had been welcomed into only nine months earlier. Fortunately, they had the decency to tell us in early January of their decision not to renew our contract with them, which gave us time to look around for a better match.

Livia had been accompanied in class by a professional from a psychology centre most mornings for several months, paid for on top of the fees for three children. Despite this, the complaints about her behaviour started rolling in a couple of months later. We knew about her inability to stay focused and her propensity to misunderstand people’s intentions, but the idea was that the professional assistant in the class would help her settle and focus. It was working. So it came as a shock when the head of the school and her teacher called us into the office for what one might call The Little Chat.

The initial line was “it isn’t working”, then it dialled up to “she needs to be in a school with a far smaller group”, and finally it reached “we will help you relocate her as soon as possible” (but they won’t). You know how these “escalation” conversations go – a similar trick is applied to employees being told they’re about to be made redundant, or to unsuspecting partners in one-sided relationships. If you want to get rid of unwanted baggage without upsetting them, you need to start small and gradually build up to the main point. They were insistent that she needed to go to another school with smaller groups as soon as we could find another place for her.

And so the manager promised to make some calls, but in fact the burden really fell on us. We looked around for other schools as after this, we were pretty upset that they hadn’t really given Livia the choice to stay until the end of the school year. There was the Waldorf School in El Puig near our apartment, but they didn’t get back to us after our visit. So we thought about putting all three children in the semi-private (concertado) school near our office in the Cabanyal area of the city. I called for an appointment and a very kind lady invited us for a visit. We just hoped all three children would like the place. The day came quite quickly and we went all five to see the school.

Livia in all honesty hated it. But we felt this was nerves about having to make yet another change rather than an actual dislike. Dainoris walked round with us and found it a pleasant experience. As for Milda, we lost her on the way round, but we later found her sitting in another classroom taking questions from an audience gathered round her. She had only recently turned four at the time, and here she was, holding court amongst about ten other children and their teacher. She was going to fit in fine.

So in the first few weeks of 2024 I made the appropriate moves to try to enrol them all in that school and withdraw them from the private school at the behest of the latter school’s manager and Livia’s teacher. This is when the hilarity began… I first had to request the papers from Valencia city council. Arriving there, the employee at reception said my journey was unnecessary. All I needed to do was to download the city’s app and go to the education section. Oh, that sounded much easier, didn’t it? Nope. It took longer than it would have done to just queue up at the council and speak to a human being. It required you to set up a digital signature with a disproportionate set of hurdles to clear, and then upload a list of documents longer than those required to get a mortgage. And this was just to establish your profile.

To actually effectuate the enrolment, I had to undertake such a daunting and prohibitive procedure that I can honestly say was the most futile waste of my time I have ever been forced to experience. And I have taken a speeding awareness course. In German. Which took place on four consecutive Saturday mornings. And it cost me hundreds of euro.

In Luxembourg, for example, you sign in once and you gain access to everything from social security to housing, from health to education facilities, from unemployment benefit to reporting defective street lighting, noise pollution or stray cats. In Germany, we showed up to the council buildings, took a ticket and someone did everything necessary to be able to live and work there in about ten minutes. Here, though, I was confronted with a barrage of dubious and intrusive questions, many of which had nothing to do with education, all just to prove we were who we said we were and that we wanted what we said we wanted.

Meet the low-trust society head-on.

It was the most Kafkaesque, Byzantine, tortuous, and flawed procedure ever dreamed up by the depraved mind of a civil servant this side of the grave of George Orwell. Even the French couldn’t muster up such a pile of utter blethering gobbledegook if they forced all their hundreds of thousands of employees to eat a tinful of shrooms and tasked them with inventing a new procedure for the registering and licensing of electric scooters for dung beetles.

And at the end of the online application process, having spent a good hour answering the plethora of questions and uploading everything necessary to satisfy the city education ministry’s great and good, which I had to do three times for each child, I pressed “SEND”. And the longest error message ever written appeared on the screen, which in the type of stuffy, haughty and circuitous language that had been banned in most northern countries in the eighties, explained I had missed one pathetic little piece of information a few pages earlier, and I had to do the whole thing again. No recourse to correct the mistake, no red highlight of the erroneous data, just the obligation to go through the entire demoralising process once more, making sure I didn’t forget how I did it last time. Instead, though, I went for an angry walk on the beach where I kicked a lot of sand and shouted incoherent profanities at the sea. My mental health had already started to come apart at the seams due to the previous traumas, but this set off a load of alarm bells that screamed to everyone around me “he’s clearly potty, keep your distance!”

So Bonny Bee took it off my hands and did it all a few days later, having learned from my mistakes. It went through. Apparently. Not that we’d know, apart from the little message on the screen saying the process was complete.

Several days later, we received a very short, terse message from the city council, all in capital letters, that essentially said that nobody was going to allow Livia to change schools in the middle of the academic year. All that effort for nothing. I was getting really tired of doing the bidding of people who clearly had no sense of proportion when it came to handling citizens’ needs. But then I realised that actually, they had a point. Why should Livia have to change schools half way through the school year? It made no sense.

So I told the head of Livia’s school what the city council had said – it would mean they would have to keep her there for the remainder of the year, which would be the most ethical outcome. For despite all the moaning and carping from her educators, Livia had made a lot of progress.

The head and Livia’s teacher were disappointed, but they had never done this before, so they had learned something – that it took a furious faceless bureaucrat sitting in an office to act as a moral compass in all this. Imagine that.

The thing which had disappointed me most was that I was under the illusion Livia’s teacher had been showing a lot of eagerness in her efforts to help her, as she had initially said it would be her special mission. But the reality in the end was, like the staff at her last school in Luxembourg, she just wanted the quiet life. She didn’t want the hassle of an eccentric and confused little girl disturbing the class.

This was confirmed when, a week or two later, she complained about Livia’s behaviour again as Livia had been giving one boy a particularly hard time. To give her and the others in the class I suggested they swap Dainoris and Livia around, as they were in the same year but in different classes. The teacher did her very best to look shocked before making the most self-condemning statement of the year: “we could never do that to a child – if we moved her to another place, she would think she was being punished!”

Well, Ms Poppins, if this is how you felt about moving classes, then I wonder what you thought forcing her to change schools was going to do to her… if you read this, I would love an answer. I’ll print your reply anonymously, of course – I wouldn’t want you to start getting quality control inspectors, or worse, hate mail.

Despite all the condescending, Teachers-Know-Best sermons and the We-Only-Have-Her-Best-Interests-At-Heart homilies, we don’t hold any grudges. We just want to know whether the founder and owner was worried about her beloved school’s position on the education league tables, rather than being the outstanding pillar of education that all the advertising material alluded to. That included a whole spiel on their website about a special needs department, which was obviously another fallacy, as the only allusion to special needs was a visit once a week from an external child psychologist who would do the rounds and have a few chats with sad-looking munchkins.

I mean, I don’t mind the fact that a huge private school with exorbitant fees doesn’t have the facilities to cope with one solitary difficult child, and I’m glad in the end the head teacher admitted it, but I truly felt that everyone in there gave up far too early. Along with Livia’s classroom assistant we were paying extra for, we felt we were making progress. Livia came home happy four days out of five and had been making a huge amount of progress. But her teachers didn’t even wait for a diagnosis before pulling out.

This was the second year in a row that a private school had given up on Livia, riding a coach and horses through their own shiny charters that proudly show off their Duty of Care To Every Child. What’s the point in promising to do your best if in the end you hide behind your school’s deficient infrastructure (despite those huge fees) in order to justify running up the white flag of capitulation? I can only imagine how badly they must have felt in having realised they had failed a child. Again.

All this has led me to conclude one major thing: the private schools in every place we have been to all have one thing in common – they really aren’t as competent or as qualified as the public sector to take care of your child. If they can’t cope with one child with a restless spirit, causing havoc with their mythical multitasking skills, then you may as well save your money.

Now you may get the idea that I’m bitter about this. No, not really.

However, I feel it’s my duty to warn everyone thinking that sending their child to a private school is going to give them a massive head start in life.

But for some, nothing could be further from the truth. Their facilities may be cleaner, their gadgets more modern, their playing fields bigger, but that’s just cosmetic. What matters is the people running it: from the head of the facility to the caretaker, a school is there to give every child the means to cope with the essentials of life, and to send them home feeling happy and fulfilled.

I was sent to a private school, and I really don’t recommend it. There are several reasons why you should not send your child to a private school, in my opinion. And this is only based on my opinion, not a broad assumption. I am sure there are many fine institutions out there. I myself went to one outstanding preparatory school which sadly closed down in the 1990s. The other private school I went to had the same toothless leadership as those at Livia’s schools. This is because ultimate accountability is not to parents, but to the board of governors, aka the shareholders, many of whom have absolutely no interest in the wellbeing of the pupils or the desire to invest in better facilities if it means losing out in the short term.

But this is not the only reason I would warn parents off private schools. Let me take you through them one by one:

The first reason is what it does to the child’s psyche. Because of all the money being spent on me, I felt under the greatest pressure to perform. But every test that came up, I flopped, because I could not handle the pressure. I would have much preferred to have been a slightly higher than average pupil in a state school than a less-than-mediocre performer in a paying school.

The second reason is that private schools are under no obligation to hire teachers competent in their field. In fact, in a few of the private schools whose interiors I have seen, the teachers have been completely out of their depth. Qualifications are becoming an issue now, especially when it comes to education authority inspections, but a lot of them are failed state school educators.

And the third reason is that no matter how much money you plough into the school, it still doesn’t have the same amount of access to important resources as state schools do.

In the end, we managed to fill in the application for the three to go to the semi-private school near our office this year, and so far they seem to be coping well, but they need some assistance. In fact, although Livia is still visiting therapists and is still quite a handful, she is far more settled than her previous two schools. Furthermore, she comes home and surprises us with the number of Spanish words she can speak. Considering the principal reason for our move was her refusal to speak anything except English, the dial has most definitely moved on this front.

But this is not all we have decided to abandon. I will elaborate in another article coming very shortly.

Living In A Disaster Zone - A Week In Valencia

Volunteers en masse heading from the city centre to Paiporta on foot
(courtesy of Sandra Mayoral)

The past week has been one of the most programmatic periods of our lives. It started last Tuesday, when we saw on the weather apps and in social media news postings that our region was bracing itself for a pummelling. We were just unaware of the extent of the thrashing we were all going to get. At a quarter of an hour before 5pm on Tuesday 29 October, we left our office in El Cabanyal, a suburb on the western side of the city bordering the sea, and walked the 350 metres to the school which the children attend.

We picked them up as usual, but instead of heading to the café to decompress and catch up on news, we hurried to the car, parked a way away beyond our office. The children usually complain and protest if we miss out on this, but even they had understood that there was something amiss in the ether. It was airless, despite the strong wind, obviously because of the rise in humidity. I was sweating, although it was comparatively cool. They were all very compliant and sat in the car without so much as a sigh. We took the usual route northwards out of the city and along the coast to La Pobla de Farnals, the settlement next to ours, so that I could buy some provisions for a day or two.

That was a good decision, as will shortly become evident.

As we drove, outside the car it was ferocious – blasts of wind virtually lifted the car off the road. There was debris already floating about and being thrust into the air by the gusts. Waves on the sea had been building for a few days. I had noticed the choppy waters, but on the way home they were viciously battering the rocks, sending chutes of water ten or fifteen metres into the air. All of us were taken aback by the situation outside the car. So when we arrived in the relative calm of the supermarket car park, I temporarily forgot about the impending nastiness. Driving back, I would usually leave the car in the gated open-air car park below our building, but I decided to put it in the underground facility. It seemed like a lot of others had the same idea.

Our apartment in El Puig de Santa María lies right on the seafront, and we were about to have a front-row seat for the evening’s weather show. This would be the day that the climate emergency announced its presence in our here-and-now, and its intention to stick around until we as a human race do something about it. The sickening propaganda and misinformation surrounding meteorological extremification has made it easier for fossil fuel multinationals to feed conspiracy theorists and their acolytes with false data. It is amazing how easy it has been to find gullible souls keen to denounce cleaner fuels. Well it is becoming harder and harder for these useful idiots to keep on disseminating their deceptive and damaging nonsense.

The view from a window further back from the front in our apartment

Our fifth-floor apartment facing the sea was being severely battered by the wind. Sand was swirling, smearing the windows along with the intermittently heavy rain. Huge puddles were appearing on the camper van zone next to our building, and the palm trees were forming semi-parabolas virtually leaning into each other. The glass in the frame of our sliding terrace door was flapping inwards with the eruptions of wind, so I put the shutters down on all the windows to mitigate any damage from a really powerful gust, and hoped for the best. The shutters were also under severe strain, but better they take the initial hit rather than the glass.

The whistling through the cracks in the antiquated windows here was compounded by the ear-piercing bagpipe noises being generated by the thin gaps above the terrace door in Milda’s bedroom, where a roller blind usually sits. I patched it up with sticky tape and hoped it remained intact at least until the morning. With the children in bed, we started asking the school for instructions. I had already decided they wouldn’t be going in on Wednesday, but I was banking on the school making that official. Late in the evening, we received confirmation of this. As Friday was a national holiday anyway, we would be told a day later that all schools, colleges and universities in the area would be closed for the entire week.

We stayed up until late hoping that the turmoil outside would die down, but it took a long time to abate. The sea was a fulminating expanse of volatility, higher than I had ever seen it. There is usually very little tide in the Mediterranean, but that night, the sea even came up to the First Aid hut just below the promenade. In the morning, several of the palettes that make up the floor outside the hut would be displaced. I wasn’t worried about putting the car in the underground parking area, but it did play on my mind a couple of times.

We managed to get to sleep and hoped the situation would be calmer in the morning. It was, but there was evidence of the night’s wrathful proceedings everywhere. Tree branches strewn far and wide, plastic bags dancing in the road, silt amassed in places, huge muddy puddles in the ubiquitous dips, mopeds and bikes overturned, awnings ripped, fences splintered and torn from their moorings, discoloured water in the sea, pieces of furniture in random places, cars covered in leaves, sand and bark, or dented from raining debris. Our own windows were covered in sand and wet dirt, thrust from below.

I took a walk around the block and down to the beach. The sea was still in a state of agitation, but a great deal less than the day before. I resolved to stay at home for as long as necessary – subsequent government warnings tended to agree with this. However, as it looked like we would be there for the long haul, I decided to do a bigger shop. Returning to the supermarket, it was clear a lot of other people had the same idea. In the end, I left with a full trolley and an unrelenting desire to rest. Luckily for us, the children weren’t in the mood to get active either.

Wednesday passed fairly uneventfully. We took the children to the playground in El Puig main town just to have a run about and lose some of the pent-up energy from being sequestered at home. It also gave Bonny Bee and me some time to talk about our future. A few recent setbacks had persuaded us that maybe we weren’t in the right place, and the activities of the last 48 hours had kind of confirmed that.

Over the coming couple of days, the news filtered through about the extent of the storm. It was worse than anything that even the most depraved mind could imagine. And the area it had affected had been completely devastated. But worse than that, many of the authorities had not reached a lot of the places most seriously affected. It was becoming clearer and clearer that there was a serious dereliction of responsibility. The French emergency squads had reached some suburbs before even a local uniform had passed.

And what is even more of an indictment on the Spanish and Valencian authorities is the fact that the French squads had at first been told they weren’t needed. The army was deployed a full three days later. The vast majority of the help has come from the initiative of the citizens. Spanish TV talk shows are full of angry and distressed citizens eviscerating the national and regional governments for dragging their heels for so long, and for not taking precautionary measures beforehand.

Courtesy of Rosa Hoynck van Papendrecht

In all of this, there is a personal factor. Everyone who lives in Valencia knows someone from the affected areas. We all have friends or colleagues living in the western suburbs. One of mine hadn’t responded to my calls and messages for two days, but he resurfaced on Sunday morning, telling us he was exhausted and overwhelmed.

Although we were told by the authorities to remain where we were to keep the roads clear, there was a certain feeling of restlessness building in me. When the invasion of Ukraine happened, I kicked into action the same night, and I didn’t stop for months. But this time, being here, having the energy drained from me, I had retreated into my own shell and was finding it hard to leave it. The setbacks that we had experienced had made me a pastiche of my usual self. I had withdrawn from society because I felt society wanted that. But I didn’t want to pass this one with the regret of not taking any action.

So on Friday evening, I put out a message on the WhatsApp group for our coworking organisation to ask if anyone wanted to chip in with me and I would go out and fill up my car with practical items. Within a couple of hours I had nearly 300 euro in my account. In the morning, I emptied the car of any junk (and there was a LOT), and decided to head to a hypermarket in Sagunto, the next town north, relatively far from the disaster zone. The shop, however, was heaving. Parking spaces were at a premium, trolleys were virtually all gone, and every square metre of the shop was filled with shoppers and their acquisitions.

I had to firstly get a coin to stick in a trolley, and that meant I needed to go to the customer service helpdesk. It was swamped with people, but I took a number in case I got lucky. I went off somewhere else to find a coin. No luck. So when I got back to the helpdesk my number was called. But some other guy with a lower ticket number piped up. After hearing him inquiring about getting money back for some rather trivial gadget, I got a bit fed up with the self-absorbed people around me. So I said “all I need is a token or a coin to get a trolley.” She kindly gave me 50 cents and I said “thank you, that is all.” The old geezer looked fairly sheepishly at me and I gave him my best death stare. Sometimes my passive aggressive personality does come in handy.

The Ukraine tragedy had given me insight into what things are needed and what things people donate too much or too little of. Going round the shop, I pinpointed things that people always ignore in favour of the more obvious stuff: babies’ nappies, moisture tissues, large and medium rubbish bags, but also a few more obvious ones, such as disinfectant, cleaning products, cooking oil, broth, UHT milk and water. I chose to spread the number of products so as not to cause the shop to run out. This had happened everywhere during Covid and in parts after the Ukraine invasion.

Carrefour in Sagunto, halfway round

I went to join the queue to pay, and was confronted with a line of people that went around the entire exterior of the hypermarket, almost back to the checkout desk on the other side. It was immense. I thought it would be a little calmer in Sagunto, but this whole experience was proving that it was affecting the wider region as a whole. A couple of charlatans tried to push in front of the people behind me, claiming it was the end of the line, but a few pointers made them realise nobody was open to suffering fools gladly and they scuttled off elsewhere. Nearer the front, actually, but I’m sure they got the same message there too…

After a fairly quick wait, I reached the checkout. The lady behind me was patient enough to let me pack everything up properly. She was obviously aware I didn’t need a whole box of wet wipes, and enough cooking oil to drown in a bath with, just for myself. I packed up the car, returned the 50 cents to the kind woman at the helpdesk, and drove to Valencia.

There are various locations around the city taking in donations, and the first one I went to, the neighbourhood association of Benimaclet, was totally overwhelmed to the point that the volunteer outside told me to come back the day after. Outside, there were bottles of water stacked high. Inside, the place looked like a packing centre for a supermarket rather than a neighbourhood drop-in centre. They were very busy and doing their utmost to keep control of the situation.

I resolved to drive to the neighbourhood association in Algirós, close to our coworking centre. As soon as I opened the boot of the car, four volunteers came over and emptied it. They were really efficient and resourceful. They also appreciated the items I had got, and I felt justified in my purchases. One wanted to take the reflective vests that belonged in the car – I had to tell her they were ours and a legal requirement, which brought out a little smile. I drove off feeling contented that I had played my part and given other members of our coworking community the chance to play theirs.

My travels on Saturday 2 November

I called Bonny Bee, as it was half past one and lunch was pressing. We resolved to go to La Pobla de Farnals to the Italian restaurant there for pizza. The children could also go on the dodgems, the trampoline and the carrousel and give us a break. It was a good afternoon to decompress and take stock of the situation. As an aside, the music played at the rides was classical, not the usual pop-disco trash.

However, all was not well elsewhere.

Two weeks ago, we had gone to the neighbourhood of Aldaia near Alaquàs to look at a house to buy, and the week before that, we had been near Chiva looking at another one. Both neighbourhoods had been catastrophically affected by the floods. We might have ended up buying the latter, as it was a lovely house – a hundred trees in the grounds, including an olive grove, oranges, lemons and jacarandas. The other place was much nearer the city centre, but it was in an area that I didn’t like. I felt something was amiss there. Maybe I had a premonitory feeling about what was coming, I don’t know.

I have been wondering what state the places are in now though. If it were not for the geologically slow process of selling our house back in Germany, we may have ended up in western Valencia. We had even been to Torrent, Catarroja, La Torre and Calicanto to check on places to live: these four areas have all been severely cut off from the rest of the region. Roads are blocked, bridges gone, streets covered in debris that has accumulated in bottlenecks.

There have been other signs:

At about the same time as our visit to Aldaia, I spoke to a police officer about a piece of broken matchstick in our lock that had prevented us from opening our apartment door, and he had said it wasn’t a break-in but someone in our building who doesn’t like us. We have faced a few nasty run-ins with people who have made our time here less than ideal.

The blue dot top right is where we live, and the school and office are just below La Malvarrosa

Also, we had gone to buy a car, as the lease for our present one was due to expire on 6 November. But the agent responsible for the sale had made some rather basic errors in our request, and it had become difficult, no impossible, to buy one. Fortunately, the present car hire organisation had allowed us to carry on with the car we have.

All of these things had in a way been telling us, or even screaming at us, that we should reconsider our choice of place to settle. 

Late on Saturday, I went out to buy more provisions in a variety of shops. There was very little left, but I managed to scoop up what was necessary.

Nearly no fruit left in Mercadona, El Puig

Same story with the milk and dairy products

Salads and vegetables also all out of stock

Water - just some sparkling left, no still

On Sunday 3 November, the king and head of government came from Madrid to visit some of the ravaged areas. They were immediately set upon by angry mobs. There is a lot of resentment out there, and it’s mainly aimed at those at the top. People telling the heads of state and government they were four days too late, calling them murderers, and pelting them with some of the mud and silt that was still lying around in abundance.

We have to see how it’s reached this point. And it’s simple, really: the national government is led by Pedro Sánchez of the PSOE, a socialist party, and the regional government is led by Carlos Mazón of the Partido Popular, a right-of-centre party. One does not want the other to take the glory for any successes or decisive gestures of salvation. Instead, there was a huge political staring match with the loser being the one who blinked first. The toxic masculinity that has become a staple of Spanish politics really flowed over. Sánchez played the waiting game in the hope his rival would collapse, and Mazón confirmed the situation by believing that asking for outside help was a sign of political weakness from the Valencian government.

Courtesy of Memorias de Pez, YouTube. Full video HERE (in Spanish with subtitles)

We also have to look at who has responsibility for what. The Valencian government has control over law and order and keeping the peace as the Guardia Civil and the National Police come under its command. The Protección Civil is also under its control and coordinates the response, plans evacuations, and takes over places to use as refuges. The fire service is under the responsibility of both the Valencian government and local councils. Then there is the Policía Local, that controls the traffic and coordinates the evacuations. They are under the local council control only. Then there is the UME, or the Military Emergencies Unit, as well as the armed forces which are controlled solely by the government in Madrid. The Valencian government has to put out a request for their involvement. That obviously hadn’t happened because of the loss of face. A frightening realisation.

All of these points, all of these setbacks, all of these astonishing pieces of news, seemed to be conspiring to tell us something much more important: if this were to happen again we would be in the hands of politicians with very fragile egos.

A still from the Memorias de Pez video

I have known about the Land Of Nasty Surprises for most of my life. I warned Bonny Bee when she chose this place to come and live. It is not as shiny as it looks, as I had found out way back in the 1980s and 1990s. Things have hardly changed. The sun may shine most of the year; the food may be good even if it is full of pretty repetitive ingredients; the social life may go on round the clock and the bars and restaurants may be appealing. But under that superficial veneer there is not much substance.

I remember the response to Ukrainians fleeing the country into Poland in 2022. Before the night was over, there were preparations in place and a huge relief effort. Poland became the world's largest refugee camp without even erecting a single tent. I also remember the flooding in Germany and Luxembourg a few summers ago. The rescue operation was almost immediate and the governments had called for international help by the end of the first day. But here in Spain, political one-upmanship, point scoring and demonstrations of strength are more important than actually taking practical measures. 

It was this point that made us both resolved to leave Valencia for good, at some point in early 2025, all being well. We have a strong belief that there are never coincidences. And with that in mind, we will choose wisely.

The Great Iberian Road Trip: Review and Recognition

After such an epic two months, I think it’s only right to make a review of our experiences and the places we visited. We have been through famous cities, visited picturesque villages, driven over mountains, found breathtaking beaches, walked through historical buildings, had some excellent food, and stayed in nine very different places. This is our summing up of our time on the road.

Best City

1. Seville

By far the most exciting and impressive city on our route, it had everything needed for both visitor and resident. The 24-hour lifestyle is what makes this place such an exciting city to be in. The mix of excellent gastronomy, popular culture, old and new architecture, good public transport and mobility, as well as an exciting atmosphere, make this the ideal city trip destination.

2. Cartagena

A city embossed with its ancient history. Everywhere you look there is something two millennia old. And yet it has a surprisingly modern feel. I enjoyed walking along some of the quiet backstreets where there were lots of hidden taverns, restaurants and shops. They organise some street theatre every autumn – I think we might be back soon…

3. Coimbra

A splendid city with a lively inner core, bursting with culture and great architecture. The city’s atmosphere and pleasantly designed layout are lovely, but there isn’t enough to keep you here for more than a weekend, but its proximity to a great deal of other locations makes this a splendid place to use as a base. Obidos, Porto, Braga, the beaches at Figueira da Foz, the hills and river valleys in the interior, and even Lisbon, are all within a reasonable drive.

4. Mérida

Hidden in the middle of Extremadura, packed full of Roman remains and delightful streets and squares, Mérida is the capital of its region, and once was an important city in the Roman Empire. This has not been forgotten.

 

Best Town

1. San Vicente de la Barquera

The loveliest place in the most beautiful setting, San Vicente had restaurants, beaches with calm waters and a tranquil atmosphere. But it was the outstanding beach that brought this to the top of the list.

2. Burela/San Cibrao/Viveiro

These three towns all next to each other provide excellent facilities for everyone. The beaches, the bars and restaurants, the child-friendly centres and the lively atmosphere make these places ideal to stay in for a decent period.

3. Braga

A picturesque town with a lot of history, this place provides a positive experience for the day visitor.

 

Bottom of the pile:

Torrevieja

Behind the tacky tourist tat shops on the seafront, many owned by the same company, this place is full of dismal grid streets, followed by soulless expat ghettos. The council has done its best to make the most of its murky beaches by adding a few features, like round breakers, diving boards, benches and extra leisure areas, but it just seems like somewhere the authorities had made the most out of a bad situation. This doesn’t mean I wouldn’t come back though: the bars and restaurants are good, and there is a buzz even at 2 in the morning.

 Best Smaller Settlement

1. Fisterra

The end of the Old World, there are many reasons to appreciate this place – boat trips, coves, great gastronomy, lovely people.

2. Obidos

A colourful, pretty little town in the Portuguese countryside, well worth a day trip.

3. Antequera

A colourful little town in the foothills of the Andalucian mountains, it is an ideal place to stop for food and a good walk.

 

Best Food Experience In A Restaurant

1. Os Árbores, O Vicedo, Galicia

The setting under the trees, the family ambience, the simplicity of the dishes, the friendliness of the owner and staff; everything was right about this place.

2. Mesón Juan Manuel, Antequera

The best greeting, a typically Andalucian menu, and food that has been made with love and passion.

3. El Canton, Cartagena

Having a kind owner is key. The food is made with passion and pride, and brought to the table by hard-working staff.

4. Restaurante Guichot 7, Seville

The menu looked fairly bland but once it had reached our table, it was anything but. A total surprise.

5. Taberna O Lidador, Obidos

Well-presented wholesome food, lovely location, provided good vibes.

 

Best Café/Bar

1. Batidor Pasteleria, Fisterra

Run by a Hungarian family that moved here only last year, this place has already gained a local reputation for its grand café-style pâtisserie. But the informal atmosphere and the kindness of the staff make this a much cosier place. I could have eaten everything.

2. Sunset Gastronomia, San Vicente de la Barquera

It was like having a drink inside a painting. The view onto the inlet, the incredible homemade cakes, and the fun atmosphere was only surpassed by the loveliness of the bartender.

3. Salero Bar, Carnota, Galicia

Almost perfect preparation for a visit to Carnota Beach, this bar sits under some lovely shady trees. The drinks on offer and the snacks provided were just what we required at the right moment.

4. Alviento Terraza Club, Cartagena

The great views over the harbour and the city, the lack of exterior walls, the tables and water features give you the impression you are part of the surroundings, not separated from them.

5. AquaBeach, Praia da Fonte da Telha, Portugal

The view of the amazing sunsets, the greatest juices, excellent finger food and very well thought-out décor was a very special experience. It would have been higher on this list, but the total disorganisation of the staff showed there were a few underlying issues in their place.

Best Accommodation

1. Retiro do Viajante, Penacova, Portugal

The owner has thought of nearly everything – soft beds, a very efficient kitchen with dishwasher and induction cooker, simple but elegant décor, games for kids, and a lovely terrace with views over the river valley. We could have happily stayed here for longer. In fact, three days after we returned, I asked the children what place they liked the most, and they remembered this one. Unanimous decision of the jury!

2. El Faro 5, San Vicente de la Barquera

The upstairs bedroom with its views over the inlet from a huge bay window was a marvellous place for inspiration to write. I gladly sat there for hours typing on my laptop, and every now and again glancing out of the window.

3. Rio Covo, San Cibrao

We can forgive the dodgy cooker and the non-operational lift. The rest was fine – and when there was a problem, it was dealt with at the earliest moment. Everyone had their own bedroom and there was nobody else around, so the kids could make a fair amount of noise. Designated parking right outside.

Best Beach

1. Praia de Xilloi, O Vicedo, Galicia

Forget Ko Samui, this is just a spectacular location. Right opposite the best restaurant, this was no ordinary beach: it was a high temple of nature. Crescent in shape with rock formations at both ends, low waves and fine, powdery sand, there is no finer place to go for a swim. With showers and a toilet in a proper building near the ample car park, it was the most excellent experience of all beaches.

2. Playa de Carnota, Galicia

A wide-open expanse of sand accessed along a wooden walkway from the parking area, this was such a pleasure to spend a glorious afternoon on. The waves were high, but fun for some light surfing.

3. Playa del Puntal, San Vicente de la Barquera

A real delight. A small but lightly frequented beach in an inlet, it’s more like being on a lake. Perfect for paddle boarding and kayaking. The water was not that warm, but the location made up for it. With beautiful views across the inlet to the town, and the frequent passing boats, this place is more like Cornwall or Lake Garda than the Atlantic Ocean.

4. Praia Fonte da Telha, Portugal

With its superb backdrop of cliffs and the pools left behind at low tide, there is so much to take in here. The beach’s crescent shape gives the visitor the impression that it is endless. The high waves break further out in the sea, meaning they roll in quite tamely to the shore. Credit to the lifeguards on this coast – really friendly, motivated, great for a chat, always vigilant.

5. Playa de Estorde and Playa de Sardiñeiro, Galicia

With incredibly calm waters, despite being on the Atlantic Coast, these two beaches provided perfect conditions for safe swimming. The rock pools allow for exploration and the facilities nearby mean you are never far from a drink, some food, or a place to relieve yourself.

6. Playa de las Catedrales, Galicia

With its numerous caves, inlets, pools, hanging rocks and constantly changing shoreline, this was an unforgettable experience, spoiled by the expensive café and need to give your ID to access it.

 

Most Worthwhile Place of Interest

1. The Alcazar of Seville

The entry fee is very reasonable for what you get to see. This is an exquisite complex of buildings and gardens hidden in the very centre of Seville. And it’s huge. To conceal such an immense place in the middle of a city is its greatest asset, because it keeps the Big Building Mafia away. You know, the ones who spoil trips to more visible and more marketed monuments like the Alhambra.

2. Roman ruins of Mérida

As soon as the ruins of the Temple of Diana come into view, you know you’re in a special place. The rest of the building has been converted into a small museum and at 2 euro entry, I was happy to contribute to its upkeep.

3. Obidos

A really special place to visit, with some incredibly beautiful buildings, adorned with flowers and other objects, but I really wouldn’t want to live there. I would go crazy with all the daytime visitors, the convoy of buses and coaches offloading visitors for a few hours before the place goes back to being empty at night. Saying that, I think it is definitely worth a few hours.

4. The Alhambra, Granada

A giant Moorish royal domain perched on the side of a mountain, there are serene gardens with cooling fountains full of trees, bushes and plants, and palaces built by various rulers over the years. It was recently named Europe’s best attraction, but considering the place is crawling with visitors, sitting on all the ledges, wandering in front of you as you try to take a photo, hanging around archways, obstructing the views from the balconies, and pointing their smartphones at everything that doesn’t move, I don’t even consider this the best attraction in Spain. In fact, not even in Andalucia.

5. Moinhos de Gavinhos, near Penacova

These ancient windmills are free to visit, although you need transport to get there. But the views once you are there are spectacular. A great place to stop for a short walk, or a picnic, if you’re travelling through. And there’s no entrance fee.

 

Most Remarkable Experience

1. The boat trip in Galicia with Cruceros Fisterra

At 90 minutes, a perfect length of time for children before they get out of control, the friendly staff of this boat took us out into the deeper waters around the lighthouse at the end of the Old World. With the chance of seeing dolphins enhanced by the boat’s generous amount of exterior decking, this was the pinnacle of pleasure.

2. The old road from Penacova to Coimbra

The N110 between these two towns is narrow, precarious, difficult to locate, with more hairpins than a beauty pageant. A spectacular drive with the most surprising of endings when you suddenly emerge out of the wilderness onto an urban roundabout in a suburb or Coimbra itself.

3. Straddling the hilltops of the Sierra de Urbasa

Up among the heather you can find cows, horses, goats and some rare birds roaming wherever they choose. In this environment, the animals are not encroaching on our roads; we are driving across their territory. Pure nature and some breathtaking views.

4. Exploring the characteristics of different Iberian cities

Santiago de Compostela and Vigo, Granada and Almeria, San Sebastian and Gijón, Coimbra and Braga: cities in the same or similar regions, yet completely different. There are so many diverse and valuable places to visit that these two months have not been nearly enough to properly understand these special places. This is without taking Mérida, Penacova, Setúbal, Sesimbra, Cartagena and Seville into account.

 

Biggest Disappointment

1. Sierra Nevada

It wasn’t just the poky room we were given (which was an upgrade from the original one), it was almost everything else. I have never spent so much money in such a rural backwater. For example, a visit to the supermarket for a bagful of necessities was about 50 euro. On checking out, we had a couple of waffles and pancakes for breakfast for nearly 40 euro. With one road in and out, the place is one massive captive market with parking facilities, a ski lift and a huge number of tiny places for people to sleep.

2. Glamping in the Sierra de Urbasa

Not quite the experience I expected. I loved being greeted by farm animals first thing in the morning, and I thought the cafeteria was excellent. But it closed so early, and with EURO2024 on the TV, we all prayed there wasn’t extra time or penalties because we would miss the vital part. And the number of bugs we found in the tent, both dead and alive, just made us all reluctant to go to sleep. Shudder.

3. Crossing into another time zone over land

Going from Spain to Portugal on the motorway was the first time I had instantly gone from one time zone to another. I have crossed from the UK to France numerous times, but there is either the sea or the tunnel, so it feels like a real journey to get there. I thought going from GMT+2 to GMT+1 would be a thrill, but it caused more problems than excitement.

 

Places We Are Most (And Least) Likely To Return To

MOST LIKELY:

1. Galicia

This glorious part of the world was a true revelation. With its relatively empty beaches, coves, bays and river mouths, we could have spent all summer here. The clement temperatures, serene waters in the bays, dramatic coastlines, fantastic food, kind people, safe towns and cities, it is the perfect place to detoxify.

2. San Vicente de la Barquera

The sound of horns from the ships, the gentle chugging of fishing boats making their way along the inlet, the town centre buzzing with locals talking over lunch, families having fun on the beach, this town is a real panacea to the stressful pace of city life.

3. Penacova

Although the town itself is very quiet and spread out in a way that there isn’t really much opportunity for community life, it is in a beautiful setting. The river beach is a lovely place to hang out in the evening sunshine. It’s only 25 minutes to Coimbra and another 20 minutes to the beach, there are plenty of places in the area to make this the perfect base to explore.

4. Seville

Being fourth on this list is not that I regard it as being fourth priority. But the three above were pleasant surprises. Seville is the city with everything – excellent food, energising atmosphere, splendid architecture, cosmopolitan feel and clean, well-kept public spaces. And is the place on this list we will most likely return to first.

5. Almeria

We really liked the feel of this city. Similar to Granada but without the weight of expectation, as well as being close to the sea, I would love to visit this place in the off-season. There was a certain cheerfulness and enthusiasm in the people there.

 

LEAST LIKELY:

1. Sierra Nevada

No need to say why this place came top.

2. Torrevieja

Of all the places we have visited, this should have been the place we had a real holiday after the two-month exile. But it’s actually quite an ugly, impersonal town with rather dirty beaches and muddy waters. The gaudy seafront has sold its soul to tourist tat shops and generic cafés all selling variations of the same thing. Last year, we spent this week in Peñiscola, and I would swap that place over Torrevieja any day of the year.

3. Setúbal

Probably not going to rule it out totally, as it was quite a pleasant place, and I liked the sedate pace here. The potential to reach Lisbon, Sintra, Cascais, Estoril and the lovely beaches of the Atlantic coast make this quite a good base, but I think we arrived in the wrong frame of mind with low energy after such a strenuous July.

4. The Alhambra

Sorry, we tried this place 21 years ago, and nothing has changed. Maybe we should try this place in mid-January…

The Great Iberian Road Trip, Days 63-64: Forward Into The Past

 

The last full day of our Great Iberian Road Trip had arrived. Not much happened, to be honest, because we were so utterly exhausted. We decided not to cook in order to keep the kitchen mess low, and instead took a short walk to the Arab restaurant once again, as the food had been excellent. And once again, it was exactly what we needed. I had a kabsa with chicken – loaded with fragrant rice, cloves, saffron, cardamom, cinnamon, sultanas, dried apricots, peanuts, pine nuts, pepper and nutmeg, it was incredibly tasty. Bonny Bee settled for another tajine and the children for wraps with some fragrant fillings.

After this we walked around the corner to a clothes shop run by a group of Ukrainian women. Everywhere I have been I have encountered Ukrainian women making a new life for themselves and truly thriving.

The pool was our next destination to escape the oppressive humidity, then a trip to the playground before packing up and having a rest. It was a sure sign that we needed to go home again. We were all holidayed out.

Monday 2 September had threatened to be a cloudy, rainy day. This was an omen and a hint. The rain made it much easier to accept the end of our holiday, and at the same time implied a promising period to come. We had much to look forward to – the children were going to start their new school the week after, and we had to prepare them for this; Bonny Bee and I had a house to search and buy; and there was still a lot of warm Valencian weather to be had.

But after a sunny start in a café across the street for breakfast, the clouds soon moved in as we headed up the coast. We were to pass such places as Benidorm, Oliva, Gandia, Denia and Javea, known as Xàbia locally.

Xàbia has quite an important place in our family’s story: let us go back to the mid-1950s. My mother and her mother were quite close, and my grandmother’s sister had just won a great deal of money on the lottery, just a few weeks before my parents got married. Her aunt treated my parents to a honeymoon in the Grosvenor Hotel in London, at the time one of the most prestigious establishments in the world.

Later, this aunt and her husband decided that they wanted to emigrate, and they had found a house in Xàbia. In those days you had to jump through hoops to live in Spain, but even then it was worth the effort. I remember going to visit them a few times in my childhood. They always made extravagant dishes or took us to local restaurants. To round off our trip, I wanted to return to Xàbia just to see if I remember anything.

The first things that struck me were how many of the other towns in the neighbourhood I remembered: Benitatxell, Jesús Pobre, Gata de Gorgos, Pedreguer, Ondara, Cap de la Nau. All of these places triggered a few recollections of times past. I remember the warmth of being surrounded by my elder relations and being impressed by their satisfaction at lives well lived. Despite my great aunt and uncle’s fortune at winning the lottery, it was always so good-natured.

I, on the other hand, have a restless spirit and I can barely sit still for five minutes.

My elders were able to sit around a table – whether this was on my great aunt’s patio in the sparkling sun of Xàbia or the dining table at my grandmother’s house in a suburb of southeast London, or the table of a spit-and-sawdust pub – for hours and hours. They were able to talk about anything, and the conversation would rarely end. When it did, the silences were convivial, not in the least awkward; they knew their limits.

Luckily, this has rubbed off on me, although it does depend whose presence I am in. I want to reach the same level of inner peace when I reach my senior years, though. This is going to be harder, but not impossible.

Arriving in the town of Xàbia, seeing the greenery all around poking out higher than the houses, I was also reminded of some of its history. To avoid a similar architectonic desecration similar to some of the other towns in the area (actually I mean Benidorm), a decree was made that Xàbia should never suffer the same fate, and that no high-rise buildings should be built here.

I don’t know how true it is, but it is a fact that the late dictator of Spain had quite a bond with Xàbia, and although he let his cronies buy some of Spain’s most prized land to build whatever decadent villa they wanted (see Cala del Ministre for some rather deplorable details), it was his decision to build a Parador in the town that led the town council to grant him a holiday mansion right next door in thanks for this gesture. I wonder who *really* decided he should be rewarded with that… And so it was that in order to not spoil the view, the town council’s building policy rejects building applications above a certain number of floors.

We drove through some rather familiar expat ghettos though. This town has for decades thrived on wealthy emigrants of a certain age. Half of the population are non-natives and the vast majority of them are over 40. So that kind of gives some perspective on the place. And yes, on arrival at the beach front, where there is an improvised car park right on the sea edge (those oldies don’t want to walk too far to their favourite spot!) we took a stroll along the promenade.

It had been raining, but despite this, a lot of northern Europeans came past in their swimming gear. Looking for a place to seat, we passed several restaurants that turned me off: “ALL DAY ENGLISH BREAKFAST, 29 EURO” was one that made my neck hairs burn off. Another one found Ray Winstone lookalikes at the metal tables drinking pints of lager and talking like they’d just fallen out of a barrel of tandoori spices. And a third one proffered a daily menu that was so outrageously expensive, I’m sure even its owner thought twice before eating there.

We found one place though, and it seemed pleasant enough despite all the tourists staring at us in disbelief because we spoke Spanish to the waiting staff and English to each other. The food was unremarkable: Caesar salad followed by a couple of thin pieces of steak with a handful of chips that wouldn’t have made a full potato. Dessert was slightly better – crema catalana for us, ice cream for the kids. These places would also not have deterred my elders, who preferred more genuine establishments where local customers frequented, but we didn’t really have the time to keep looking – we had an appointment at our apartment at 5pm, and it was well after 2.

After a moody walk back to the car in the light rain, having apologised for the mess we made (as usual), we were a little behind schedule. I would have to let the agent know and do a little hurrying… the road between Xàbia and the motorway was full of trucks, camper vans and dithering tourists. Hitting the motorway itself, it all went well, and then we hit Valencia.

And then Valencia hit me. The relief of being back in these familiar surroundings, seeing the City of Arts and Culture, getting bullied by the local drivers, I realised what someone said to me once: Valencian drivers have a reputation for being the maddest drivers in Spain. I didn’t believe it until I had done this tour, and I realised it was true. But not only because of local habits: these wide boulevards, abundant multi-lane roundabouts with traffic signals, half-roundabouts to turn on, grid layout and massive thoroughfares full of traffic are the perfect incubator for mad drivers. I had got used to this over the last year but 2 months out of town and I was a novice once again.

We arrived at our urbanisation about ten minutes after the time I had announced. I had had no answer from the agent at all, so I presumed she was still on the way. We planned to get a drink from the café opposite, but suddenly she appeared from upstairs. After the initial chitchat, we headed up to look around the apartment and have a rest.

It was still the same, although there were a couple of changes: a new water boiler had been fitted (nice) and the place was clean and tidy. The children came in and settled in immediately, as if nothing had happened for the last two months. Things returned to normal more quickly than we could have imagined, although some very big tasks sill lay ahead. Having visited the home of my elders, I realised I had now become them. It’s time to form memories for the children in a similar way.

Thank you for sharing our Great Iberian Road Trip with us – a new adventure is not far away!