loquitohermoso

I’ve never been a particular fan of the festive period, striving always to avoid the C word where possible. It’s not that I am grumpy, it’s just the ramming of it down your throat from November onwards and the false expectations and obligations on everyone.

Around the start of December I found myself with 4 clear weekdays off after a couple of utterly mind-shredding sets of shifts. Mark was off up North for a few days with work.

I don’t like to waste time off. Had I the opportunity, I would probably have snuck in an overtime shift, I try to do more this time of year to free up the summer, whilst sticking to my own strict limits to avoid donating even more tax money for the Govermment to waste on muppets. My next default answer would be ‘jump in the van’ but even as a hardy perennial camper the weather wasn’t looking friendly at all. Like, weather warning unfriendly. I love a bit of cold, don’t mind wind, but getting soaked to the skin just for daring to venture outside the van is not my idea of a super fun time.

At times like these, I start idly checking flights. Any prospect of sunshine seemed remote, but there was a glimmer of hope. And I started seeing return flights to Malaga for about £55. Surely I shouldn’t? Could I? It would cost me more than that in fuel to drag the van down to a damp Cornish field.

I went out early that Sunday evening to meet a mate for a pint. The same friend who’d recently spontaneously whipped his daughter away to Disneyland for a break. I knew this was the man who’d give me the correct answer. The answer I needed confirmation of. Take the flight.

Suitably emboldened, and now rather distracted, I checked the Malaga flights again. Damn, £80, with worse flight times. Hold on, Alicante… still £60 return. That’s the plan then. Booked at the pub table. Right, we’re off…in about 8 hours. Eek. Malaga would have been first choice, but I like all of that coastline, and the hotels were coming out way cheaper. More money for churros.

With this in mind, I cut myself off at the 2 pint mark, realising that I’d have to leave home at 2am to safely catch the 6.45 flight. To be honest, having come off nights in the morning this was pretty much in line with my current sleep pattern, so no hardship. A nap was therefore pretty unsuccessful so I just got up and ate cereal before departure.

My first thought would have been to park at Bristol, but it seems that they’ve managed to ramp up even the previously scandalous fees, and none of my dodgy off-site parking options were coming up with anything. Since, out of principle, I wasn’t paying over £80 to park for 3 days, bus it was. £15 return from Taunton, perfick.

As I parked up near the bus stop an older couple toting cabin bags walked past and shot me a disdainful look as I exited my middle class Mercedes head to toe in Crew and Brasher, clearly a dodgy character. Part of a larger group which assembled at the bus stop, so determined to be first on the bus that the door actually clipped them as it opened.

En route, the man behind me started watching a video without headphones. As I gradually tuned into this distinct annoyance it became clear he was repeatedly looping some kind of car review. I got to the 5th repetition of “Today I am driving a 1996 Starlet. This is one of the best cars I have ever owned” before I turned around in my seat and fixed him with a glare somewhere between steely and murderous. This was immediately effective. If nothing else in this world, I’ve perfected that look.

People are awful. The new bus station and arrival area at Bristol Airport is very impressive though. All until you have to funnel through a single entrance into a narrow passageway to departures. They really haven’t thought that through. Security’s gone all TSA too with various orders barked during the process, albeit in a reasonably friendly manner. I did well, until the giblet scanner did not like my sweater zip, therefore received a very thorough rub. Mustn’t grumble.

I was a little disappointed not to be regaled with a shot of Jess Glynn as we boarded. My seatmate seemed a little grumpy at first, until I realised, whilst being offered a chip, that she and her friend were extravagantly drunk, impressive at 6.30am. The lady in front was probably afflicted similarly, I thought she was just dozing against the window until 2 flight attendants arrived with concerned glances and plastic gloves to deal with the avalanche of vomit down her front.

Did I mention my last long haul flight in BA Club World? This was not it, bravely rawdogging 2 and a half hours of no extras cattle class. Freed of the shackles of my 6’7” partner I was determined not to pay for any extras, just take the allocated seat, tiny rucksack etc etc.

On the plus side I was in the window, and the views outside were amazing on our approach to Alicante, with the sun definitely out, or as my Welsh seatmate eloquently put it “tits out weather”. I couldn’t disagree, and wished her and her also extravagantly pissed partner the very best, spending the last of a £50,000 bingo win earlier this year.

After a remarkably efficient e-gate passport control I was let loose on the concourse to catch the bus into town (4.70eur). This, gratifyingly, drops you directly beside the beach. As I gratefully stepped onto the sun-baked sand I realised that my shoes had mesh slightly wider than a grain of sand so they were quickly filling up. Folks, Salomon Barakee shoes, avoid if you like beaches…

By this point I’d been awake for a bit too long, and check-in wasn’t for another 4 hours, so a cafecito on the beach was needed. Naturally, since this is Spain it wasn’t brilliant, but the jamón y queso croissant that accompanied it was historic.

Monday was a national holiday in Spain. I always seem to catch these on short trips, which probably speaks less of my frequent traveller status and more that Spanish people bloody love a good day off. When in Rome, they say, so I decided to join the rest of Alicante aimlessly wandering round the coast…in fact a very nice old railway line up to Santa Pola before catching the tram back. The wrong line, to the wrong end of the city, but a good chance to explore en route back to lodgings.

I’d picked a small pension somewhere in the heart of the historic centre, partly to be well-located but mainly to purge myself of luxury on this trip… normally it would have been something like the nice Meliá on the harbour, but this time it was back to basics.

Last time I stayed in Alicante it was at the very Spanish old school Hotel Cervantes, an abiding memory of which was accidentally slamming my room door and having a wiry but furious Spanish man, clad only in y-fronts and an impressive chest wig, burst from the next door room, only muttering “bueno” at my stuttered apology before going back inside.

No such shenanigans at the Pension San Nicolas, an immaculately clean and comfortable pad for a brilliant £35 a night.

I headed out in the evening to take the air and grab some food, with seemingly most of Alicante following suit. Eventually after much deliberation a street table was acquired at a small family restaurant, with some exceptional Salmorejo to start and a very decent pork dish to follow up.

In a time of rampant price inflation everywhere, eating out in Spain is still very good value, with none of my meals coming to more than £25ish, even with wine and/or beer. In fact, my first cańa of beer at the restaurant came with 2 empanadas for 2 and a half Euros… with hindsight I could have just done a few of those!

Plan A for the next day was a wander over to Elche, the neighbouring town with some apparently interesting history (courtesy of Google Maps) however I hadn’t exactly seized the day, recovering from nights and sleeping far too late.

I set out on the promenade for a wander and found somewhere nice for a quick coffee and pastry with the duck (ALWAYS travel with a duck) before receiving a message from friends who were pet sitting a little way up the coast. Since this trip was founded on spontaneity I decided to ditch Elche and head up there on the tram. A slow but scenic route, changing at good old Beni. I let myself down by hastily grabbing a seat on the non-sea side. Must do better.

A pleasant wander around Altea’s seafront brought back memories of popping in here a few years ago, thankfully the local recommendation provided a far superior Menu del Día this time. And also alerted me to the fact you have to walk uphill to see the best of the old town… who knew? Very nice to catch up with Catherine and Rob ‘doing it’…living sustainably in retirement by travelling and pet sitting in some incredible houses. An inspiration to build on.

A quick Negroni on the square to make the most of the rapidly-dwindling winter sun and it was time to depart…back this time on the quicker ALSA bus from Benidorm to Alicante. Less scenic, double the price but definitely comfier than the tram, with reclining seats and seat back entertainment. I’m still somewhat confused by the ticket machine allocating me Seat 61 on a bus with 60 seats, but by sitting right at the back I thankfully avoided a repeat of my 2013 Peru trip when I kindly allowed someone to sit in my seat and then got bounced all over the bus over the following hours due to new passengers boarding and claiming ‘their’ seats!

I wandered back into town to grab a snack…this place was certainly inviting price-wise but also utterly rammed. Back to the pension to re-group and head back out.

Now, this isn’t orthodoxy and will definitely harm my edgy traveller vibe, but in places like Alicante good/reasonable places to eat are so numerous that sometimes it’s good to just hit Google Maps, decide what you’re after and read some reviews.

Hence, I found myself at the wonderful Palmito restaurant, a couple of blocks from my lodgings but conspicuously apart from the tourist trade streets further into town. No multilingual picture menus. Fantastic, the place where you can sit and pretend you belong along the other stylish Catalans.

A place where the staff, gratifyingly, didn’t immediately switch to English, however to preserve the illusion I knew what I was doing I had to pretend to understand the wine list reeled off in rapidfire Catalan.

For my first round, thankfully, I understood that Verdejo was a favourite, on my second round I simply threw myself on the mercy of fate and asked for “el ultimo”…the last one…which was pretty palatable.

And the food? Well, well outside the bounds of patatas bravas and the like. A genuinely super-inventive menu where, although I understood the components, didn’t quite know what I would receive.

Three of these bonkers tapas, 2 glasses of very decent wine, 30 Euros. How do these places make any money?

Suitably refreshed, I returned to the guesthouse, and over the following nine hours, realised that my initial optimism about the super bargain price was somewhat mis-placed since there were now people in other rooms and I could hear them as plainly as if they were standing at the end of the bed.

The next morning, I blearily wandered up through town via a quick coffee and pastry to the airport bus, and hence, homewards. Gratifyingly, my car was where I had left it and fully intact, and another lady from the bus commented that it was like her car, nicely squaring the circle from the grumpy boomers on the way out.

This was a great set of rest days. 200 quid probably, all in, to come back fat, relaxed with a suntan in mid December? Yup.

Costs

Megabus Taunton-Bristol £15

Bristol-Alicante on Jet2 £35

Pensión San Nicolas £77 for 2 nights

Alicante-Bristol EasyJet £26

Airport bus in Alicante 4.60Eur each way…although you can get a 10 trip ticket for about 8.10Eur, well worth doing for 2 of you, even there and back. I’m still not 100% how they all intertwine, but most modes of transport have these “10 Bono” tickets bringing costs of local travel down from ‘cheap’ to ‘exceptionally cheap’, if you understand the rules.

The multi tram/bus tickets, which don’t include the airport line, are even cheaper.