Spanish retreat – Day 12

Posted on February 25, 2026 by JJS

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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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Spanish retreat – Day 11

Posted on February 25, 2026 by JJS

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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.

Screenshot

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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Spanish retreat – Day 10

Posted on February 24, 2026 by JJS

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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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Spanish retreat – Day 9

Posted on February 23, 2026 by JJS

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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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Spanish retreat – Day 8

Posted on February 22, 2026 by JJS

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Castles, crowds & the holy trinity of drinks

Day 8 began with the holy trifecta of travel recovery: a good night’s sleep, a coffee strong enough to revive the dead, and a sudden, dramatic change of plan. The original idea was to hop on the tram to Dénia. Then we discovered it would take roughly two hours each way. We love a scenic tram ride, but four hours of rail-based meditation felt less like “holiday vibes” and more like “accidental commuter lifestyle.” Hard pass.

So we embraced the open road and pointed the car inland towards Guadalest, a jaw-droppingly pretty mountain village perched on a rock like it’s auditioning for a fantasy movie. The drive was easy enough—turn inland at Benidorm and resist the gravitational pull of neon signs and hen parties. We succeeded. Personal growth! 🌱

Guadalest was busy (because of course it was—turns out everyone else on Earth also enjoys stunning views), but we arrived early enough to dodge the worst of the queues for the old castle.

After weaving through the crowds and silently judging other tourists’ footwear choices, we unanimously decided: “Let’s escape back to the beach and eat carbs.” Truly, the wisdom of our generation.

Back home by lunchtime, we secured a sun-kissed table and did our patriotic duty by ordering paella. Because when in Spain, one must eat paella. It’s basically a legal requirement. A post-lunch digestive stroll along the promenade followed, during which we conducted very serious research into “potential future dining establishments,” aka window-shopping menus and pretending we’re food critics.

Late afternoon brought me to my sacred ritual: the daily nap. Do not disturb. This is a cornerstone of my wellbeing and possibly my personality now.

Evening rolled in with our now well-established routine:

  • Aperitif: Gin & Tonic (hydration, but stylish)
  • Very light dinner: Red wine (liquid salad)
  • Night cap: Whisky (because… adulthood)

The others stayed up watching Notting Hill, while I heroically retired early like the disciplined athlete I am (ignore the three drinks, please).

All in all: castles, crowds, carbs, cocktails, and collapsing into bed before the rom-com even finished. A very sunny, very excellent day. ☀️

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Spanish retreat – Day 7

Posted on February 21, 2026 by JJS

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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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Spanish retreat – Day 6

Posted on February 20, 2026 by JJS

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Palms, processions & the perilous shortage of gin

Today we decided to broaden our horizons (and by “broaden,” I mean drive a whole 30km without snacks). Destination: Elche, a proper city near the airport, which feels like it should be small and therefore navigable, but is in fact the sort of place that enjoys playing hide-and-seek with tourists.

Why Elche, you ask? Because it boasts the largest palm grove in Europe, which sounds like something made up by a tourism board until you’re actually standing in it, squinting up at trees that look like they’ve got excellent hair days. These palms were imported back in the 600s by Muslims, who also sorted out the drainage and watering systems. Frankly, I can barely organise my sock drawer, so respect where respect is due.

We took a wrong turn or seven, then did the sensible thing and asked the nice people at the tourist office. As luck would have it, a 90-minute walking tour was starting almost immediately. Naturally, we joined—because nothing says “holiday relaxation” like brisk educational marching. The group consisted of the four of us, two Germans (who I assume were born with walking shoes on), and a guide who spoke English with admirable patience.

First stop: a gentle wander through part of the palm grove. Here we learned that palm trees enjoy salted water (relatable), that there are male and female palms (nature, always keeping things dramatic), and that palm trees have more or less ruled the life of Elche for centuries. Honestly, they should be on the city council at this point.

We then headed into the main square, where we discovered that August is basically one long procession in honour of the Virgin Mary. Elche in summer, it seems, is part faith, part pageantry, part “oh look, another procession.” Along the way, we were told about a restaurant called Museum that serves a local speciality (the name completely escaped me, which is deeply inconvenient for future boasting). Naturally, this is where we went for lunch, because we are nothing if not obedient tourists when food is involved.

Post-culture, we drove back via the coastal road through Alicante, which was all very scenic and wholesome until we remembered we were running critically low on the essentials. Emergency stop at Carrefour to replenish supplies of wine and gin. Food was also purchased, but only as a supporting act.

Back home in time for aperitif (as tradition demands), followed by the weekly virtual quiz show (which I participated in with the confidence of someone who knows nothing but answers anyway), then a small healthy dinner. This was, of course, balanced with a couple of whisky nightcaps because wellness is about equilibrium.

Shockingly, I was the first one to retire to bed. I don’t know who I am anymore, but I suspect the palm trees have changed me.

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Spanish retreat – Day 5

Posted on February 19, 2026 by JJS

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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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Spanish retreat – Day 4

Posted on February 18, 2026 by JJS

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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.

Sunrise as we are facing due east

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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Spanish retreat – Day 3

Posted on February 17, 2026 by JJS

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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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