Gran Alicant

Saturday 20th August 2011

The four of us boarded the plane from Manchester to Alicante. This was the first time in the air for Sam, aged one, and he sat on my lap for the duration of the flight. Unsure, when the plane swept off the ground, he clung to me tightly. I sought to keep him entertained by reading to him but every time he grabbed the book out of my hands and lobbed it away. First to go was our ‘Safety on Board’ laminated card. It was followed by ‘Goldilocks’ and ‘Learn Spanish’. The lady who was struck by the last book might have thought it was thrown as a headstrong gesture by someone with strong views on learning the country’s language. I apologised (in English).

In the taxi from the airport, having shown the driver the address, we struggled to relay what turns to take to get us to our destination. Jan had an idea having previously viewed Google Maps but made the mistake of saying turn left in Spanish instead of turn tight. Eventually, as the taxi glided aimlessly around, we spotted the all important road. Watched by bare chested but unthreatening locals we unloaded our stuff into an uphill terraced house. It had an veranda and inside a marble stair case. Some thoughtful previous vacationers had left water, beer and wine.

Propelled two hours on when adjusting for time, we stepped out to find somewhere for an evening meal. Alongside the terraces were fortified apartments off quiet roads lined with sand smudged, sun-guarded cars. Occasionally we’d be aware of a lingering smell of toilets in the air. At the Carabassi Centre, the cuisine of choice pointed to a big Northern European presence: Belgian, Dutch as well as the familiar themed English restaurants. We settled at a restaurant with native cuisine. A roaming guy was playing Spanish classics on an accordion ticking some boxes for our stay in this country. Food here was good but pricey although the beer was affordable. A group of grown people in Pirates of the Carribbean dress boisterously trailed down one end of the restaurant’s outdoor tables before showing up again, some minutes later, similarly animated on the path that lined the front of the restaurants. What this was about, I don’t know; I didn’t spot any promotions on rum.

Sunday 21st August 2011

‘Why use traveller’s cheques when you can use a Travelex card?’ asked the currency desk lady, a week before, in the Sainsbury’s booth. She convincingly outlined the merits of such a card – basically getting it charged up with money without the charges that are picked up along the way. The problem was that having swiped through our shopping at Gran Alicant’s ALDI store, the girl at the till gave said card a doubtful look and said, in Spanish, that the store doesn’t take this. Our shopping was put to one side and Jan went to look for a bank cashpoint to try and withdraw our untapped cash. I sat on the store’s bench with the two boys and watched the same check out girl fielding questions from Brits, talking at cross languages and wearing the sane weary expression. During our stay here it took several shops at this place for our croissants and water before she gave anything approaching a smile.

We had caught the road train to the town’s ‘GA Centre’ and back. We spoke to an elderly couple, behind us in the queue, who said of the train that ‘this is great’. And they were right. There are seated carriages, sheltered but with plastic curtains rolled up which enable us to catch a pleasant breeze while the train is moving. The driver, Paco, makes regular use of the choo choo whistle and gave waves aplenty including to some people who look surprised at receiving them. It conjured up an Edwardian era of friendliness.

Back at the house as we tried to pull out the outside canopy for some shade, a looping rope lofted upwards and out of view, making the thing stuck and unusable. I think the previous vacationers may have left it all wrong or so I’m claiming. We tried to retrieve the rope with an elongated hook on a pole from below, and up above from the balcony, but to no avail.

In the evening, we went to a restaurant on the Carabassi Centre called Sand Hills. A British themed place, it offered attractive two course options on a blackboard, the sort of offers usually missed back home. We had a credibly ‘authentic Indian’ option. We turned down a guy who was selling pirate DVDs who looked known to the diners and was doing a roaring trade. From the house we had already decided to watch a Educating Rita DVD. We also listened to some early Elvis Costello. It takes a break away in sunny climes to enjoy the merits of turn of the decade 70/80s British culture.

Monday 22nd August 2011

We began what was to become a fairly routine day: Jan and Ed went to the pool in the morning; Sam and I went up the hill to the supermarket for our water and fresh foods. In the stifling middle of the day August heat, we would be indoors until tentatively stepping out, covered in sun cream, at 4pm.

The hill to the store was nicknamed ‘Cardiac Hill’ by the locals but I quite enjoyed pushing Sam up there in the buggy. Never the less, things were exposed and it was advisable to be out of it as we approached midday. I bought mainly Spanish based food and drink for this evening’s barbecue to take the edge out of the inevitably higher priced Euro purchases. The walk back proved to be a headache as having descended for what I thought would be the easier part of coming down the hill, it dawned on me that Sam was missing his Mr Men hat. Turning round, I was dismayed to see that he had thrown it off when we were at the precipice of the hill. No-one could be hailed who could bring the sun hat down with them. Thus, with two bags now weighing heavily on the buggy, I turned round, grumbling and sweaty, and trundled back up the hill to retrieve the hat.

Tuesday 23rd August 2011

We had put up a stairgate to prevent any mishaps on the marble staircase. Freed from acting as a bouncer for this gateway to the steps, I turned my attentions to preventing Sam accessing the cupboards containing cleaning chemicals and various fragile types of porcelain and china. For the most part I managed this – there was only a chipped egg cup to answer for by the end of our stay. This was wearing and I was glad when the time came to head out to the pool.

Everyone living or staying in the sets of terraces that back onto it could use this pool. In the daytime it was full of Northern Europeans like us, with the locals coming on the scene for a dip after work and weekends. Ed had already got accustomed and been in the water several times with Jan. Sam, however, was initially unsure and grumpy. Seeing this, another child came over with a water filled purple balloon and gave it to Sam. He returned later, on two occasions, to ask if he’s still playing with the balloon so much so that when it later burst (through catching the tips of my fingers), I think I felt more responsibility over this than I did with the chipped egg cup.