I do it my way

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Romans, Moors and curry

Today was officially declared Cultural Day. This means we replaced flip-flops with Purpose and boarded Alicante’s delightfully efficient tram, which continues to perform like a Swiss watch that happens to run along the Costa Blanca.

Our destination: the excellent Museo Arqueológico de Alicante (MARQ). Now, I have always had a soft spot for the Romans. You have to admire a civilisation that could build roads, aqueducts, amphitheatres and still find time for decent plumbing. Two thousand years later, I struggle to assemble an IKEA bedside table without moral support.

The Roman exhibits were, as ever, impressive. Mosaics! Amphorae! Serious-looking busts of men who clearly disapproved of late arrivals and weak wine. One walks out feeling that the Romans basically invented everything except Wi-Fi and sunscreen.

And then, of course, Spain’s other extraordinary chapter: the impact of the Muslims. The elegance, the architecture, the science, the refinement. If the Romans were about straight lines and empire, the Moors were about geometry, grace and making everything look as though it belonged in a palace. Honestly, between the two of them, they’ve set the bar quite high for the rest of us.

Once culturally enriched (and slightly museum-weary), we stepped back into the sunshine and began the noble Mediterranean quest for refreshment. In Alicante, this is less a challenge and more a hobby. A cool drink was located with remarkable speed. Hydration achieved. Civilisation preserved.

Lunch was at Indian House, a place I had visited a few years ago on the glowing recommendation of friends. I am pleased to report that it remains gloriously dependable. Fragrant curries, warm naan, and the comforting knowledge that spice levels can be negotiated diplomatically. I shall most certainly return when the occasion arises – or when I simply fancy pretending I am on the subcontinent while actually in Alicante.

We then trammed our way home, arriving at the exceedingly civilised hour of 5pm. At this point, dear reader, I embraced one of the great pillars of Southern European culture: the nap. From 5pm to 6pm, I was unavailable for comment.

At 6pm sharp: apéritif. One must maintain standards.

The evening followed a reassuring pattern similar to the previous day – sunshine fading, conversation flowing, glasses refilled with the sort of generosity that suggests optimism about tomorrow. And once again, after a couple of robust nightcaps (purely for digestive purposes, you understand), I was the first to retire. Not defeated, merely… efficient.

All in all: an interesting, sunny, historically rich day. The Romans would have approved of our infrastructure. The Moors would have admired the arches. And I feel fairly certain both would have endorsed the nightcaps.

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Trams, stamps and strategic nightcaps

The mission for today was admirably simple: embrace public transport like seasoned locals and take the tram into Alicante’s town centre. No hire cars, no heroic marches – just us and modern infrastructure.

After a leisurely breakfast (the sort that gently suggests productivity without actually delivering it), three of us set off. Chris remained behind, looking pale and heroic in equal measure. The tram stop was reassuringly close, and we had read that tickets could be purchased on board. This was technically true. Practically speaking, however, it required the combined intellectual firepower of three adults and several increasingly firm taps on a screen that appeared to resent us personally.

Eventually – victory. Tickets acquired. Dignity partially restored.

The ride into town is mercifully short, which is fortunate when one is still slightly traumatised by ticket machines. As we stepped out, I was hit by a powerful sense of déjà vu. I had spent a night here a few years ago and immediately recognised the area. Naturally, I took command and led the party towards the old town and the port, with the confidence of a man who once stayed “round the corner”.

The Great Stamp Quest

Before any cultural exploration could commence, I had a pressing international obligation: a letter needed posting to Germany. How hard could it be to find a post office in a European city?

Reader, it can be very hard.

Even after asking a postman – an actual postman, in uniform, mid-delivery – we remained baffled. Eventually we discovered that stamps could be purchased in a tobacconist’s shop. This felt slightly illicit, as though we were acquiring contraband rather than philatelic legitimacy. Still, stamp secured. One small victory for Franco-German relations.

The girls then embarked upon a light but determined shopping expedition – perfume, T-shirts, and various items whose necessity will doubtless be justified later.

Port, Sun and Civilised Hydration

We made our way down to the port and, more importantly, to the Samoa Bar.

Sitting in the sun with a cool drink in hand, watching yachts bob about as if they had nowhere better to be, remains one of my favourite occupations. It is the sort of scene that makes you briefly consider becoming the kind of person who owns a yacht, before remembering you struggle with tram ticket machines.

At some point, responsibility called. On the way back to the tram we executed a minor detour in search of a postbox, which my phone insisted was nearby. Miraculously, it existed. In fact, it is the only postbox I have seen in Alicante so far. I treated it with the reverence usually reserved for rare wildlife.

The tram ride home was uneventful – a blessed relief – and Chris, restored to health, was waiting for us at the stop. We had a drink (purely medicinal, of course) before retiring home for a brief rest and strategic planning session. I contributed to this planning by falling asleep.

Six Kilometres to Supper

In the evening, we decided upon a gentle stroll along the beachfront to scout potential restaurants. Six kilometres later – because “gentle stroll” is clearly open to interpretation – we selected Muchavista.

We were the only customers in this vast establishment, which would have been concerning had it not been 8 p.m. In Spain, this is essentially mid-afternoon in culinary terms. The staff regarded us with polite curiosity, as though we were particularly enthusiastic early birds.

Dinner was excellent, the walk back bracing, and a nightcap was deemed essential. The others retired sensibly to bed. I, displaying commendable dedication to holiday living, stayed up for a second and possibly third nightcap. One must commit to these things.

All told, we clocked around 12 kilometres on foot. Not bad for a day that began with public transport and nearly ended in postal despair.

There is apparently a storm on the way, so tomorrow may not follow the same sun-drenched pattern. Still, if there are trams, stamps, and somewhere serving drinks by the sea, I feel we shall cope admirably.

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Spain, Day 4: Sunshine, Tapas, and the Heroic Quest for Wine

Woke up late to a frankly illegal amount of sunshine. The sort that immediately forgives you for all past sins and makes you believe you are, at heart, a better person than you were yesterday. Add a decent coffee and suddenly life feels suspiciously close to perfect.

Today was also Injection Day for my new “miracle molecule”, which sounds either like cutting-edge medicine or something cooked up by a mad scientist in a shed. Either way, it didn’t dent my mood in the slightest. The sun was out, the sky was smugly blue, and my optimism levels were medically inadvisable.

As if the universe hadn’t already done enough, it was also Mardi Gras. In theory, this means serious fasting is meant to begin tomorrow. In practice, I predict that tomorrow will involve very little fasting and quite a lot of “just finishing what’s left”. Tradition is important, but so is not wasting wine.

The main event of the day, however, was the arrival of our visitors from England. This required a pilgrimage to the airport on the far side of town, which we undertook with the usual optimism that it would be “a quick run”. Their flight from Bristol landed a heroic forty minutes early, presumably powered by British efficiency and the desire to escape the weather. Miraculously, we arrived on time too, proving that the holiday gods were in a generous mood.

By the time we made it back home, it was technically lunchtime, although offensively early by Spanish standards. The beachside restaurant was closed for reasons known only to itself and perhaps a higher power, so we crossed the road and found a small place that served a respectable selection of tapas. Nothing fancy, nothing life-changing, but exactly what was needed to line the stomach and reassure us that yes, we were indeed on holiday.

Post-lunch, the group split like a mildly dysfunctional sitcom cast. The girls headed off to the beach to do important beach-related research. I claimed my rightful spot on our little terrace to soak up the sun like a lizard with good Wi-Fi. My friend Chris, however, was struck down by a dramatic tummy ache and heroically retired for a nap, presumably to wrestle his digestive system into submission.

Late afternoon rolled around, which meant only one thing: a vital trip to the supermarket to replenish the wine supplies. Whilst there, we also acquired a new bottle of whisky because, frankly, it would have been irresponsible not to. Back home, it was aperitif o’clock (the most reliable time zone known to humanity), followed by a small dinner that mainly consisted of a healthy salad. This, of course, was entirely undone by the nightcap: two large whiskies in my case, because hydration is important and whisky is, in its own way, a liquid.

And so, once again, it was an early night. No drama, no stress, no frantic sightseeing. Just sunshine, food, friends, and the gentle, reassuring knowledge that tomorrow would probably involve much the same. Another wildly successful day of doing very little — which, let’s be honest, is the true art of a holiday.

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Ham, hypermarkets and heroic beach strolling

Today’s mission: supplies. Not just any supplies. Spanish supplies. The kind that make your fridge look like it’s about to host a tapas-themed TED Talk.

We kicked things off at the local Mercadona, where we acquired the holy grail of cured meats: proper Spanish ham, the kind that tastes like it’s been personally blessed by a pig who lived a full, meaningful life.

After the first tactical offload at home (aka: collapsing briefly on the sofa and reassessing our choices), we escalated operations to the mighty Carrefour. This place is so big it probably has its own weather system. We’ve officially declared it our holiday headquarters for groceries. If we get lost in there later this week, please send snacks and emotional support.

Supplies secured, we committed to the noble plan of a long beachfront walk. Today’s direction: north. Tomorrow: south. We’re basically doing a low-budget, sun-soaked remake of a great expedition, minus the hardship and plus the beer. Speaking of which, a refreshing cerveza was absolutely required before turning back. Hydration is important. So is morale.

We clocked in a heroic 10km and are now wildly optimistic about doing this every day. This optimism may or may not survive contact with reality, but for now, let us dream.

On the way back, we tested the little bar facing the sea right next to our apartment block in El Campello and can confirm: excellent vibes, excellent beer, dangerously convenient location. This is how routines are born. This is also how routines ruin you.

Back home, it was aperitif and nibbles instead of a proper dinner, because apparently we are now “people who are trying to keep fit.” For scientific balance, I added a couple of large whiskies. You know. To level the playing field.

Then came the shock twist of the evening: I went to bed early. Voluntarily. On holiday. Someone check my passport; I might have been replaced by a responsible adult.

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500km, one shoulder and the sacred Spanish lunch hour

I woke up with my shoulder still auditioning for a tragic opera, but with slightly less commitment to the role than yesterday. Progress! After a lightning-round shower and a coffee so fast it barely had time to emotionally support me, we located the car park and pointed the car south for a casual 500km road trip. You know, the kind you do when you’re feeling chill and don’t mind your spine questioning its life choices.

Escaping Barcelona on a Sunday morning was suspiciously easy. No traffic. No chaos. No dramatic honking symphony. It felt illegal. The motorway was similarly empty, like the rest of Spain had collectively decided, “Nah, today we nap.”

The original plan was to stop for lunch around Valencia, but time did one of those cinematic montages where suddenly you’re basically at Alicante wondering how your life got here. A few kilometres later, we rolled into El Campello, parked next to the only beach restaurant in sight (which is both convenient and emotionally reassuring), and sat down for a “late lunch.” Or, as the Spanish call it: lunch. Right on schedule.

From our table, we could actually see the building where our apartment lived, casually staring at us like, “You done with your food yet or what?” Armed with video instructions from the landlady (featuring thrilling content like “press this button” and “no, the other one”), we made our way up to the 8th floor to inspect our new kingdom. Then it was back down, relocate the car to the building’s car park, and haul approximately 47 suitcases upstairs, each one heavier than the last because that’s how physics works on holiday.

Next came the emergency shopping run, which included:

• 1 bottle of gin
• 1 bottle of whisky
• Bread and cheese (for legal nutritional purposes)

A “proper” shop was postponed to tomorrow, because today was clearly dedicated to survival, not responsibility.

Back in our new home, a windstorm kicked off outside like nature’s way of saying, “Congrats on arriving, now stay indoors.” Which we did. The gin was opened for aperitif (culture), followed by snacks for dinner (more culture), and an evening of semi-watching random things on Netflix (peak intellectual activity).

After a couple of generous whiskys and the long drive, I felt the powerful call of the bed. I think I fell asleep instantly. Like, lights out, soul gone, loading screen appeared. Day 2: conquered.

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The kind of sentence that smells faintly of sunscreen and irresponsibility.

We left home with the precision of a German train timetable and arrived in Barcelona in 2 hours and 54 minutes. Not 3 hours. Not “about 3 hours.” Two. Fifty. Four. I mention this because at our age, shaving six minutes off a road trip feels like qualifying for the Olympics.

By 1pm we were parked in the middle of town, the sun shining with that smug Mediterranean confidence, as if to say, “Welcome. You look pale.”

Our hostel (yes, hostel — we are adventurous, not reckless) was conveniently located just around the corner from where we abandoned the car. Overnight bags dropped. Hunger activated. Within minutes we were striding across Plaça de Catalunya, sweeping down La Rambla like seasoned locals — if seasoned locals walked at the speed of people who had skipped lunch.

The tourist population of the planet appeared to be concentrated between La Rambla and Plaça Reial. Selfie sticks. Guided tours. A man dressed as something metallic and motionless.

Yet none of this prevented us from accomplishing the sacred ritual: securing a table in the sun at L’Ambos Mundos.

Large beer for me. (Hydration is important.)

Tapas to share. (Balance is important.)

The warmth felt glorious. That first Spanish beer on foreign soil should be bottled and prescribed by doctors.

By 3pm, like responsible adults who know their limits, we retreated to the hostel for what I described as a “well-deserved rest” and what younger people would call “a nap.”

There was a time — and I say this with a slight tremor of nostalgia — when the first thing I did in any hotel room was turn on the television. Business trips. Anonymous rooms. CNN murmuring in the background like a loyal but slightly dull companion. It felt like company.

Now?

The TV screen remains dark. A silent relic mounted on the wall. Phones and tablets have staged a quiet coup. We don’t watch television anymore; we scroll. Progress, apparently.

By 6pm we were back in motion, heading towards the Gothic Quarter with the seriousness of people on a mission: aperitif.

Finding a good bar in Barcelona is roughly as difficult as finding sand on a beach. We settled into Bar Brutal, where Negronis appeared as if summoned by Italian spirits. Two of them, in fact. Strictly for cultural integration.

A few minutes later we arrived at our pre-booked dinner destination: Tapeo del Born. Reservations are not optional here unless you enjoy watching other people eat.

Miraculously, we were seated at more or less the same spots at the bar as on previous visits. Either loyalty is rewarded, or we simply look like people who refuse to sit anywhere else.

The tapas menu appears unchanged in years. This is not a complaint. In a world obsessed with reinvention, there is something deeply comforting about croquettes that know exactly who they are. The bottle of red wine understood the assignment perfectly.

The walk home was easy, pleasant, and entirely map-free. I take disproportionate pride in not needing a digital map. Somewhere inside me lives a 17th-century navigator.

Bed by 10pm.

Let me repeat that.

10pm.

For me, this is usually the time I consider opening a book, starting a film, or making ambitious life decisions. Instead, I was horizontal. Partly from the day’s travel, partly from the Negroni diplomacy, and partly because my left shoulder — which has recently decided to pursue a solo career in pain performance art — demanded surrender.

And so ended Day 1 of our month away from home.

Everything went exactly to plan:

Efficient drive Sun Beer Tapas Wine Mild existential reflections about televisions Early bedtime

If this is the opening chapter, Spain, we’re listening.

Stay tuned. I suspect the shoulder has opinions.

(Distance walked 9.8km)

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