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!
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