I do it my way

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What can I say about today? Well, as it turns out, quite a lot — most of it involving wind. The Costa Brava, never one for subtlety, had apparently decided that Day 18 was the perfect moment to audition for a role in a disaster film. Not the dramatic, photogenic kind of disaster. The annoying, hair-in-your-face, napkins-taking-flight kind.

“The wind was not so much a weather phenomenon as a personality trait — relentless, uninvited, and absolutely convinced it was the most interesting thing in the room.”

🌊 Act I: The Beach, Against All Reasonable Advice

And yet — and this is where it gets interesting — none of this stopped us from packing up the kiddies and heading to the beach for a couple of hours late morning. Parenting, as I understand it, is largely the art of doing things that make no meteorological sense while maintaining an expression of cheerful authority.

The waves kept coming with great theatrical commitment. The sun, bless its optimistic heart, was “trying” to come through — and I use that word deliberately, because the sun was very much trying and not entirely succeeding, filtered as it was through a veil of sea mist whipped up by the very same wind that was stealing everyone’s sunhats. The effect was, I have to admit, quite dramatic. Turner would have painted it. We just sat in it.

The water was cold. The air was surprisingly pleasant. And the beach was, in its windswept, mist-shrouded, wave-crashing entirety, completely, utterly, gloriously empty — save for us. I found myself wondering why we were the only ones there. I suspect the Spanish, who have the good sense to have been born in Spain, simply looked out of the window and said “no.” We, being on holiday and therefore impervious to logic, said “yes, obviously.”

🍳 Act II: The Revolutionary Home Lunch

For a change — and I stress for a change, because this is apparently the sort of event worth noting in the chronicles of a family holiday — we had a home-cooked lunch in the early afternoon. The kiddies were fed. The adults ate. No menu was consulted. No waiter appeared with a basket of bread that costs €4. It was, in its quiet way, magnificent.

🎵 Act III: The Nap, the Balcony, and the Great Playlist Era

The kiddies and their parents, recharged and restless, departed in the afternoon in search of a decent playground — a quest that, on the Costa Brava, tends to require the determination of a small expedition. I, exercising the ancient and sacred rights of the retired grandparent, seized the opportunity to enjoy my daily nap. I say daily as though it is routine. I say it with no apology whatsoever.

Post-nap, I settled into what I can only describe as a long and extremely productive session on the balcony: music playing, the wind doing its thing, the sea doing its thing, and me doing mine — working on my playlists with the focus and dedication of a man who has his priorities absolutely sorted.

 I even started a new playlist titled “The Best Slows Ever” It is, I’m told by no one yet because no one has heard it, a masterpiece in the making. A monument to the slow dance. A gift to humanity.

🥃 Act IV: The Crisis

As aperitif hour approached — that golden, civilised ritual I look forward to with the enthusiasm most people reserve for Christmas morning — I made a discovery of some horror. The whisky was critically, dangerously, almost offensively low. This was not a minor inconvenience. This was an emergency requiring immediate and decisive action.

I walked to the local Dia supermarket. I remedied the situation. Order was restored. The balcony could breathe again.

🌙 Act V: The Denouement

The evening unfolded in much the same agreeable fashion as the one before: a light dinner, the kiddies bundled off to bed with the efficiency that only grandparents and small dictators can muster, and then a couple of large nightcaps consumed in the easy silence of a day well spent. And once again — as if there were any doubt about how this story ends — I was the first one in bed.

Some might call it an early night. I prefer to call it what it is: the confident exit of a man who has had the best day on the balcony, saved the whisky supply from certain extinction, and launched what may well become the definitive slow-dance playlist of our generation. There is nothing left to prove.

Until tomorrow. When, presumably, there will be more wind.

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Wind :1 – Everyone else :0

A grey day, a heroic nap, and the Lego booby traps that keep the empire running.

There are mornings that greet you like a standing ovation, and then there are mornings that greet you because you went to bed at 9pm and have therefore had more sleep than a hibernating bear. Day 17 was, emphatically, the latter — and it was glorious.

The children, infected by whatever mysterious energy transfers through eight hours of unconsciousness, were fully charged. Buzzing, practically vibrating. The adults, one of whom had voluntarily joined the 9pm bedtime club without shame or apology, were cautiously optimistic about the day ahead.

“The beach plan evaporated faster than a puddle in Seville — except today, there was no sun to do the evaporating.”

Then we looked outside. Grey Breezy Suspicious. Spain, it turns out, did not get the memo about what a summer holiday is supposed to look like. The sky wore the expression of a disappointed uncle. The beach — that sandy paradise we had mentally reserved — was demoted to a scenic backdrop. Lunch al fresco? Reconsidered. Lunch on sand? Cancelled. Lunch at all? Still negotiable.

In the meantime, the floor had been weaponised. Lego bricks — scattered with the strategic precision of a medieval moat — covered approximately 80% of walkable surface area. For a barefoot wanderer, this is not a minor inconvenience. This is warfare. The children, oblivious to the psychological damage being inflicted, were delighted. The Lego bought us what every parent on holiday truly craves: twenty uninterrupted minutes.

We used those twenty minutes wisely. First: lunch destination. The beach restaurant was out; the one across the street — a fifteen-minute walk away — was in. A sensible choice, made by sensible adults, with sand-free shoes. Second: hotel booking for the September leg of the holiday, because apparently one holiday is merely a planning session for the next one. Very efficient. Very adult. Very vacation.

“The kite surfers, bless them, saw the same weather and thought: perfect.”

And there they were — a small tribe of wind-worshippers launching themselves into the grey with an enthusiasm that was frankly embarrassing for the rest of us who had retreated indoors. They surfed. All afternoon. Into the dark. They were, in every sense, the heroes of Day 17, and they deserved every gust.

The afternoon passed in the warm domestic haze of entertaining small people, which is its own extreme sport. It was punctuated — punctuated, mind you, not dominated — by a small, dignified, entirely necessary nap. Aperitif hour arrived like a kind friend. Dinner was frugal (the hunger gods were apparently also resting). And then, before the wind had even finished its shift, another early night descended.

Day 17 did not have a plot twist, a dramatic sunset, or a spontaneous flamenco performance. What it had was 💨 wind — relentless, magnificent, the undisputed star of the show. The kite surfers knew it. The grey sky confirmed it. And the highlight of both the day and the night was, without contest, the wind.

Some days the Mediterranean delivers golden magic. Other days it just blows really, really hard. Both are, in their way, unforgettable.

Filed from somewhere warm, indoors, having survived the Lego minefield with only minor injuries to dignity.

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Enter the grandkids (cue the sitcom laugh track)

Spain woke up moody today. Cloudy skies, cool breeze, and a general vibe of “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.” We powered through with a quick breakfast and a mission to the shop for essentials—which, let’s be honest, means things we absolutely needed plus one or two items we emotionally needed.

Late morning, I transformed from Relaxed Holiday Person into Airport Dad. Off to Alicante Airport I went to collect our youngest son, his wife, and—let’s be real—the real VIPs: the two grandkids, aged 5 and 3.

Their flight from Bremen was on time (a small miracle), and within 30 minutes of touchdown, they were through. Another 30 minutes later, we were home, doing the scenic tour of Alicante like proud locals who have mastered all the traffic lights.

Meanwhile, Grandma—tragically benched due to “insufficient car seats” (the great logistical villain of family life)—was waiting at home like a contestant on a reality show finale. Today, of all days, was Grandmother’s Day. The timing was so perfect it felt staged. Tears were narrowly avoided. Hugs were not.

From this moment forward, the household officially entered Child Rule Mode™. Our previous routine? Gone. Our new schedule? Dictated by snack times, mysterious negotiations about shoes, and sudden sprinting for no reason.

After a late lunch (by our standards; by Spanish standards it was practically breakfast), we braved the cool wind and went for a long walk along the beach. The kids made a beeline for the climbing frames we’d clocked earlier in the week—apparently these are the real landmarks of Spain. The fresh air did wonders: it tired the kids (mission objective #1) and made the adults thirsty (mission objective #2).

Which meant… aperitif time. And somehow the gin & tonics tasted exceptionally good. Was it the sea air? The joy of family reunion? Or the fact that I had bought some suspiciously fresh, juicy limes? Science demanded a second gin & tonic to confirm the hypothesis. Peer-reviewed by me. Conclusion: yes, it was the limes. Definitely the limes.

Dinner was simple, picnic-style, which is code for “easy, cheerful, and nobody complained loudly enough to cause concern.” The afternoon walk worked its magic: the kids went to bed without staging a protest, and—according to next day intelligence—slept all night. A parenting unicorn.

I celebrated this rare alignment of the stars with an early nightcap (whisky, obviously) and followed the children’s example by heading to bed at the wildly rebellious hour of 9pm. I, too, slept all night.

An unusual day indeed.
Spain, with kids involved, is a whole new season. And I’m here for the chaos 🍹

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When the sun clocked in late and I clocked out early

Dear Diary (aka my blog),

Spain woke up today and chose light cloud blanket. Rude. I didn’t get my usual “blue sky meets blue sea” postcard moment until about 10am. The sea breeze also decided to audition for the role of Surprisingly Chilly Villain, so the beach and I mutually agreed to see other people this morning.

Luckily, my balcony on the 8th floor remains undefeated. With the window bays flung wide open and the wind politely minding its own business, I lay there like a well-fed cat, basking in the sun, staring at the beach and the sea, and letting my favorite music soundtrack my very serious job of doing absolutely nothing. Honestly, is there anything better? Don’t answer that. There isn’t.

Lunch arrived faster than my willpower disappeared. A quick wardrobe change (goodbye dignity, hello shorts and T-shirt), and off we went to the nearest beach restaurant for—surprise—yet another paella. At this point, the local rice farmers and I are basically on a first-name basis.

The afternoon beach attempt was… ambitious. The wind was technically “feeble,” but emotionally “icy.” After a brief and dramatic surrender, I retreated to my balcony fortress, where the setting sun and I resumed our long-term relationship. Protected, warm, and smug.

Evening followed its familiar, comforting ritual: aperitif, a bit of TV, and for me, the final episode of Drive to Survive on Netflix. High-speed drama on screen, low-speed living in real life. Balance.

Somewhere between sips and screen time, we also did the responsible adult thing and organized the apartment for the imminent arrival of the two grandchildren and their parents. The calm before the toy-strewn storm.

I polished off the bottle of whisky like a hero completing a quest, climbed into bed feeling absurdly content, and realized: another day, another month, wrapped up neatly with sunshine, seafood, streaming, and spirits.

Spain, you’re doing great. Keep it up.

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Clouds, cocktails & questionable life choices

Woke up to a sky that looked like it hadn’t had its morning coffee yet. The weather station promised the clouds would clear by 10am—and, shockingly, it told the truth. Temperatures dipped a couple of degrees, which was all the excuse we needed to postpone beach duty. Sunscreen stayed unemployed; public transport got the call.

We crammed ourselves onto the tram to Alicante, which was doing its usual impression of a human sardine tin. Swift journey though, so points for efficiency. We hopped off at Mercado (because getting off one stop early makes you feel like a local, even if you are, in fact, a very obvious tourist) and marched our way down the avenue like explorers who had accidentally discovered… another tram terminus. Naturally, we turned left toward the port, strolled along the boardwalk, admired boats we absolutely cannot afford, and pretended we could tell yachts apart.

Right on cue, the familiar beacon of hope appeared: Samoa Café Del Puerto.

Since it was officially aperitif o’clock (a sacred time zone), we performed our civic duty and ordered cocktails. With spirits lifted (literally), we crossed into the old town in search of lunch and landed in tapas heaven at Titi Gourmet.

Everyone else sat outside; we chose indoors because warmth is a lifestyle choice. The tapas were… exactly what you’d expect tapas to be: dangerously moreish and absolutely capable of ruining dinner plans. No regrets.

The afternoon mission: culture. We headed back to the port for the Ocean Race Museo—free, fascinating, and alarmingly good at triggering big ideas.

The The Ocean Race is starting from Alicante in 2027, and suddenly I was plotting a future where I’m dramatically waving at elite sailors while pretending I know knots beyond “the annoying one in headphones.” Research will happen. At least one keen friend will be peer-pressured.

Then it was tram home, followed by the sacred daily nap (honestly, the true MVP of the trip) and another evening aperitif because consistency is key. Later, I binged a few episodes of Drive to Survive on Netflix—still more thrilling than actually watching last season’s Formula 1 races. I rounded off the night with a couple of generously sized whiskies and a solemn mental note to restock ASAP (future me is going to be furious).

Early bedtime for once, and just like that, week two of the escapade signed off. Clouds cleared, cocktails delivered, ambitions upgraded. Not a bad Day 14. 🍹

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Beach, beats, betrayal (by waiter) and pub quiz glory

Today we bravely attempted a radical new routine known as “doing almost the same thing, but with sand.” At 10am sharp we crossed the road to the beach, where the sun was doing that smug Spanish thing of being warm without asking permission.

I planned to dive back into La Guerre des Gaules and emerge two hours later speaking fluent Latin and commanding imaginary legions. Reader, I instead put on my AirPods and let Deezer Flow decide my emotional journey for me. And honestly? The algorithm knows me better than some members of my family.

Post-beach, we did a quick change at the apartment and marched back toward the Londres area, lured by two powerful forces:

1. the tyranny of the 10,000-steps target, and
2. the memory of a previously excellent meal at Il Fornello.

Sadly, nostalgia is a liar. The charming, efficient waiter from the other day had vanished into the great hospitality void, replaced by someone whose vibe could best be described as “I’m here, unfortunately.” The food also seemed to have lost some of its former sparkle. Same menu, different energy. Like a band reuniting without the lead singer.

Speaking of waiters: post-Covid, finding hospitality staff back home in France has been a saga. Spain, however, appears to have gone full international remix. We’ve been served by people from Cuba, Chile, Ecuador… basically a Spanish-speaking Avengers team. They blend in so well that unless you’re doing waiter genealogy at the table (which I do not recommend), you’d never know. Globalisation, but make it tapas. Win-win.

After lunch: heroic walk back, followed by my sacred one-hour nap. This is not laziness. This is advanced athletic recovery. Then off we went again to Carrefour for a “last shop before the visitors arrive,” a phrase history has proven to be a filthy liar. Back home as the sun began to set, perfectly timed for aperitif, because we are nothing if not professionals.

Being Thursday, it was virtual pub quiz night with friends in Devon, courtesy of Zoom. Modern technology is wild: I can be in Spain, lose a quiz question about 1990s boy bands, and still feel personally attacked in real time by people in England. Beautiful.

Quiz done, whisky poured, I rounded off the evening with an old French favourite, Le Cœur des hommes. Emotional, nostalgic, and the perfect companion to a reflective nightcap.

I retired to bed deeply satisfied with my day: sun in my skin, music in my ears, mild resentment in my heart toward one particular waiter. Balance.

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Market marvel, tram tetris & aperitif o’clock (again)

Another day, another cloudless flex from the Spanish sky. Despite a night that could politely be described as “character-building,” we were up at the usual time. Breakfast was fruit-forward in the most optimistic way possible: kiwi and mango. Basically a wellness retreat, minus the smug yoga instructor.

At 10:30 we boarded the tram to Alicante and immediately discovered we’d chosen peak human-sardine hour. Squeezed in, we rattled toward Mercado — destination: the famous covered market, Mercado Central de Alicante. Two floors of temptation: one almost entirely dedicated to meat (some of it looked like it could still run away), the other split between fish/seafood and fruit/veg. Sensory overload in the best possible way. I felt morally obliged to buy everything. I bought nothing. Growth? Possibly. Regret? Definitely.

From there, we wandered through the old town on a caffeine quest and to scout lunch options for when Spain officially acknowledges that lunchtime exists (around 1pm, emotionally 3pm). I even had a shortlist and a clear favourite, which is always dangerous because it means disappointment is waiting patiently in the wings.

We drifted toward the beach, where an alarming number of people were already sunbathing. Do these people not have emails to ignore? Meetings to resent?

After a few hundred metres, we performed a conscious U-turn and I spotted a blessed free table in the sun at a bar. Orders were placed with confidence: Aperol Spritz for civilised refreshment, Caipirinha for myself because, well, aperitif o’clock is a lifestyle, not a suggestion.

Our original lunch spot turned out to be… fine. Nice, modern, indoors, and utterly devoid of human life. Hard pass. Thankfully, just around the corner we found a lively cluster of tapas spots, all outdoor tables and good energy. We grabbed a table and struck gold: excellent tapas, a prime old-town location, sunshine doing its best work, and wine that deserved a small round of applause. 10/10, no notes.

Post-lunch, we headed back toward the tram station (a few hundred metres away), and I’m proud to report I’m now officially kind of oriented in Alicante. The tram ride home was busy but mercifully less claustrophobic than the morning’s sardine simulation, and we made it back swiftly.

Beach time was the plan, but once again the sun was betrayed by a cool wind. Rude. So we retired home, where the nap was upgraded to “bed edition,” the deluxe version. As the sun began its slow descent, the universal signal for aperitif hour was given, and here I am typing this with a glass within emotional support distance.

No grand plans for the evening. Possibly a film. Possibly an early night. Possibly another accidental 4am writing session tomorrow. For now: cheers from me 🥂

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Sunrise, size-down trousers & the Mediterranean siesta olympics

Woke up early enough to catch the Mediterranean doing its whole “look how pretty I am” routine. Coffee in hand, zero clouds in sight, and the kind of sunrise that makes you briefly consider becoming a morning person (briefly being the key word).

The local weather confirmed the good vibes: somewhere between 21° and 25°. Basically, spring but with better PR.

First mission of the day: a tactical strike on Carrefour. Objective: refund trousers that were now officially “too big for this new, improved me,” and replace them with a smaller size. Success on all fronts. Also picked up the usual “oh yeah, we forgot this yesterday” items — because travel shopping is 40% necessity, 60% vibes.

Despite injecting my weekly miracle molecule earlier (which theoretically tells my stomach to calm down and mind its business), my tummy started making whale-song noises by late morning. Tragically, Spain does not acknowledge lunch before noon. The plan: walk south along the beach toward Londres, where we’d clocked a few promising restaurants the day before. It felt virtuous — steps for the counter, sea air for the soul, and delusions of fitness for the ego. We’re aiming for 10,000 steps a day, which sounds impressive until you realize half of them are motivated by food.

By the time we arrived, lunch culture was waking up. We settled into an Italian spot called Il Fornello and, honestly, give that decision a Michelin star in my heart. Lamb chops: divine. Wine: perfectly recommended. Dessert: entered the chat and stole the show. If joy had a flavor, it would probably taste like whatever that dessert was.

The walk back took us into the 4pm zone, aka Spain’s sacred nap o’clock. We attempted a beach nap but the breeze had other plans, so we retreated home like sensible, slightly overfed adults. I upgraded the nap to “bed mode” and emerged just in time for aperitif, feeling refreshed and mildly smug about my commitment to the Mediterranean lifestyle.

Evening entertainment: To the Moon, streamed via laptop, VPN, and my emotionally supportive USB-C to HDMI cable. Technology really is beautiful when it works and doesn’t require swearing at the router.

Called it an early night, which felt virtuous at the time and wildly foolish at 4am when my brain decided, “Ah yes, now is the perfect moment to write reflective travel prose.” So here we are. Sunrises admired, trousers downsized, lamb chops worshipped, naps perfected — and sleep schedule absolutely ruined. Would do it all again tomorrow.

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Farewells, fashions and the tragic shortage of alcohol

Day 10 started earlier than our vacation contract with the universe clearly states is acceptable. The reason: airport duty. We had to escort our dear friends Chris & Julia back to civilisation (also known as the UK), which meant braving the Monday morning rush hour. The motorway was, unsurprisingly, in full “I hate everyone” mode, complete with slowdowns and general existential dread.

We redeemed ourselves by taking the scenic route back along the coast and through Alicante, which is basically therapy with a sea view.

Back at the apartment, a quick clean-up and then straight into emergency resupply mode. We headed to the mighty Carrefour because we had reached what can only be described as a critical situation:
The last red wine bottle, the gin and the whisky had all been finished the night before.
I know. Please take a moment to recover from the shock.

On a more heroic note, my pre-holiday diet combined with my shiny new weekly injection of the miracle molecule has resulted in a solid 3–5 kilos of weight loss. This is great news for my health and terrible news for my trousers, which are now doing their best impression of parachutes. I bravely decided to buy a smaller size. Once home, I discovered that I had successfully purchased… trousers that are still too big. Apparently, I am emotionally ready for weight loss, but my shopping instincts are not. Another trip to the supermarket fashion department is now scheduled for later in the week. Pray for me.

By lunchtime, priorities shifted from clothing failure to food success. We crossed the road to our now-official local beach restaurant called appropriately  the Costa Blanca. The staff welcomed us like long-lost family members (the kind you’re actually happy to see), beers and tapas were ordered, and we settled into the sun with the smug comfort of people who have nowhere important to be. Peak holiday energy.

Beach time followed, and I finally started my new book. Let me set the scene: after days of wandering ruins and even visiting the Archaeological Museum in Alicante, I’ve become deeply and sincerely impressed by Roman civilisation. This sparked a dinner table discussion about Rome, Latin, and the small trauma of being forced to study it in high school. Cue memories of battling through La Guerre des Gaules by Jules César.

Inspired by nostalgia (and possibly overconfidence), I downloaded a French edition onto my eReader. The bold new plan: read it from start to finish without constantly consulting the legendary Latin-French dictionary from my youth, the Gaffiot. This is either personal growth or a trap. Time will tell.

As the sun began its dramatic, over-the-top descent towards the west, we returned home for aperitif hour (arguably the most important hour of the day). Dinner was simple, healthy, and refreshingly calm. Later, I set myself up in front of my laptop, connected to French TV via the appropriate VPN wizardry, and enjoyed a couple of well-earned whiskies.

Bedtime arrived early, sleep followed quickly, and thus ended another demanding day of holidaying.

Exhausting, really.

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Accidental athletes, free lifts & peak hydration

Spain – Day 9: Accidental Athletes, Free Lifts & Peak Hydration

Today’s master plan: tram into Alicante, browse the flea market, conquer the castle, and reward ourselves with a very civilised Sunday lunch. Simple. Elegant. Foolproof.

We arrived to discover the city had other ideas. Most of the big avenues were closed because a half marathon and a 10K were in full swing. The streets were lined with cheerful locals cheering on runners who, judging by their faces, were deeply questioning their life choices. We joined the crowd support squad, mainly by clapping and not running. A contribution is a contribution.

The flea market, sadly, had been reduced to a symbolic gesture of a flea market. More “concept of a market” than actual market. At this point, the great question arose: Do we really want to go up to the castle?

Then, like a miracle sent from the gods of laziness, I spotted a sign for the lift to Castillo de Santa Bárbara. Two hundred metres later, we discovered it was free for the over-65s. Cue four grown adults suddenly discovering their inner pensioner and boarding the lift with Olympic-level enthusiasm. Vertical transport has never felt so victorious.

Inside the castle walls, there isn’t a huge amount still standing, but honestly—who needs intact ruins when you have views? The panorama over the town, the sea, and the mountains is the kind of scenery that makes you pretend you’re in a travel documentary.

Naturally, we declared this “thirsty work” and headed back down to town.

It took us approximately 20 minutes to rediscover the exact same bar terrace we had occupied the day before. Muscle memory, but for beer. Pints for the boys, Aperol Spritz for the girls, and suddenly the world felt like a much friendlier place.

Lunch time. I produced my carefully curated shortlist (very professional, very organised), and we chose Restaurant Pelego, a mere four-minute walk away. One swift online reservation later, we were in. And honestly? Chef’s kiss. The ambiance: great. The service: lovely. The food and wine: dangerously good. This is the kind of place you mentally bookmark for future bragging rights.

Post-lunch logistics were painless: tram station nearby, easy ride home. We stopped at the heroic little corner shop next to our building to acquire ice cubes and other absolutely essential aperitif supplies. Back at the apartment, it was once again nap o’clock for me—until I was gently awakened by the unmistakable sound of gin & tonics being poured. Better than any alarm clock.

The evening followed our now well-oiled tradition: light salad dinner, some wine, and then collapsing onto the sofa for a film. Tonight’s choice: A Good Year. Sun, wine, Provence vibes—basically emotional continuation of our holiday, but on a screen.

Then off to bed, because tomorrow required us to be “somewhat sharper than usual,” which is holiday code for slightly less zombie-like.

All in all: free lifts, excellent food, strategic hydration, and zero kilometres run by us personally. Not a bad Sunday at all. 🥂

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