Another set of beautiful blue skies but this time without the nasty cold wind. This was definitely a day for some walking. We thought we’d break Steve and Rosemary in gently and take them up to a cross on a hillside overlooking Senija. Carol and I had done this walk before, all the way to the so-called Giant’s Cave. However, the route down from that point was both difficult to follow and seed to us to be a little treacherous, being little more or less than a steep scree slope. Not wishing to repeat our previous heart-in-mouth exercise, we thought we’d simply retrace our steps back down again.

Some wisps of thin, high cloud developed but it remained essentially blue as we made our way up hill. Conditions were perfect for walking: not too hot, not too cold. As well as wild thyme and wild rosemary, the hillside is covered with old farming strips divided by stone walls. Sometimes the stone walls are wider that the strips of land which they divide. After passing an old deserted farmhouse and an old well, we soon up by the cross at the summit admiring the views around. It’s a gentle introduction to walking in Spain which on occasion can be considerably rougher and more severe than anything to which we are accustomed. They must breed walkers tough over here.

Our route towards the precipitous descent led us across a narrow lane which seemed to snake its way back down into Senija, so we decided to follow this instead of retracing our steps. Arriving back in Senija I was accosted by a delightful old Spanish gentleman intent on imparting some information which I just couldn’t grasp. There’s something which seems essentially dishonest about stating, in Spanish, that one doesn’t speak Spanish, nonetheless, I tried: “No hablo Español, señor”. Undaunted, he continued to no avail. I really had no idea what he might be talking about. Once again in Spanish, I apologized: “lo siento, señor”, and patted him on the shoulder in as friendly a manner as I could muster. Eventually, both parties frustrated, I suspect, we parted and we continued back to our car.

As we were loading the car, our new Spanish friend reappeared, parked opposite and crossed the road to try again. He really was very determined to impart whatever knowledge he found crucial to our wellbeing. He was indicating the hillside from which we had just descended and I eventually twigged that he might be referring to the Giant’s Cave, the very one that we had avoided due to the treacherous scree slope. This time I nodded sagely, muttered something about “gargantua” which seemed to elicit a more positive response, and we parted again much more satisfied. We’ll never really know what he wanted, though.

A strong wind had both blown over a large and very heavy parasol on our veranda and had cleared the clods from the Vall de Pop.  Actually, from what we could see of the early morning weather map courtesy of Sky TV and the BBC, the wind had cleared the clouds from pretty much the whole of Spain. We awoke to my favourite colour skies: clear blue.

Unfortunately, not only was the wind strong but it was also quite cold, even though it seemed to contain a southerly component, so it felt a little biting. One of our friends in the valley reported that Calpe, quite close on the coast, was noticeably warmer so we headed off to find some shelter from the wind.

Given the strong, cold wind, this didn’t seem like a day for scaling heights so, rather than tackling the impressive climb up Calpe’s imposing Penon de Ifach, we began by contenting ourselves with a stroll around the fishing harbour. Several boats were in and many were making essential net repairs. Upon one, a couple of crew members appeared to be gutting fish over the stern. Bizarrely, I thought, there were no gulls scavenging the off-cuts.

As we walked around the base of the Penon de Ifach, I looked up and noticed a splash of red that seemed somewhat out of place at the foot what look like a reasonably shear cliff. Clearly, somebody didn’t share our view that today was not suitable for scaling heights; two rock climbers were setting of up to the top via the hard route. As our eyes became accustomed to looking at the detail of the rock face, we started spotting other groups of figures at various positions up what were clearly several different hard routes to the top. In all, about a dozen people obviously didn’t share our view concerning the most appropriate activities on such a day.

While staring skywards, the gulls, which are always floating casually around the Penon de Ifach, even apparently when the fishing boats are discharging fishy tidbits just below, were joined by an organic flock of starlings. I say “organic” because the entire flock seems to move like a single organism, each individual bird being a cell within it. Occasionally a break-away group forms a smaller organism but often the whole flows back together again as they whirl and flash across the sky. It’s an impressive sight that, in England at least, is an autumn phenomenon.

Our last treat, though not one that we were close enough to photograph, were flamingoes on the lagoon in Calpe. We’d heard stories of its being home to these intriguing birds but had not seen any on our previous trips. Maybe we can find a route closer to their side of the lagoon for a more detailed look.

The rain clouds seemed to be firmly stuck in the Vall de Pop (I checked on the cooperative wine label and it seems I’ve been misspelling it – oops) this morning as we had a lazy time keeping the dogs and cats happy while we waited for time to tick around towards the arrival of Steve and Rosemary’s easyJet flight.

Keeping the dogs happy is dead easy: food when the clock says so and fuss at other times. Naturally, they always seem to think any movement on our part indicates food time.

Keeping the cats happy requires a little more thought and understanding. All three are males with quite different characters and, apparently wishes: one likes the occasional bowl of milk; one likes to drink water from a slowly running tap and won’t eat while the other two are eating: one drinks water from the dogs’ bowl but only if the water’s fresh enough, and he does so by dipping a front paw into the water and licking it. Years ago, an English TV advert showed a white cat called Arthur eating cat food straight from the can using his front paw; maybe we have a reincarnation of Arthur to look after.

I eventually found a web site showing Alicante arrivals information and the awaited easyJet flight seemed to be being blown here faster than expected ahead of a northerly wind. It’s about an hour down to Alicante Airport so we left at about 10:45 AM, with the weather seeming to be clearing, for Steve and Rosemary’s expected 11:50 AM arrival. Not only did I correctly  avoid a new road which the Spanish had sneakily thrown in to confuse occasional visitors to their country, but I also successfully negotiated the parking facilities at the airport to have us in place outside baggage claim in time to wave a cheery bienvenidos to our visitors when they appeared. Alicante was sunny so Rosemary was happy.

After an hour more we were introducing our guests to our temporary home overlooking Lliber and Jalon where the wind had dispersed the clouds and the sun was now shining. Sun makes such an improvement to first impressions. Lunch in the open made a fine second impression and the cheap but pleasant rosado made a good third impression.

Just to avoid being completely lazy, we had a wander down to and through the vineyards. The route took us past a few bare almond trees – well, almost bare. February is almond blossom time but, for some reason, one or two of these otherwise naked trees had, quite literally, one or two almond blossoms clinging to them.

Time was too advanced to walk any distance; the sun was dropping and the wind that had cleared the clouds was rising. Time to return and think about the rabbit and artichoke paella that we had planned.

… does not stay mainly on the plain. Today it stuck doggedly to the valley; in this case, the Val de Pop, which is where we are. In fact, when I’ve seen a relief map of Spain the country appears to be basically a collection of mountains. I’m wondering, therefore, just where this plain, which is supposed to hang on to all the rain, might be. It’s my opinion that we have been told a porky or two. [Explanatory note for non Cockney speakers: porky = pork pie = lie.]

Tuesday morning marks the weekly market in the streets of Jalon so, after spending most of the morning getting our local printer to work, we finally braved the low cloud and zoomed off just before 11:00 AM to investigate. Shortly, it started drizzling so, ill equipped as usual, we took shelter in a local shop or two before ending up at the Mas-y-mas supermercado where it is both dry and less of a strain on our very limited Spanish.

I had my heart set on something specific for dinner tomorrow with which to welcome Steve and Rosemary; something that uses ingredients that, to us, sums up this part of Spain. Regrettably Mas-y-mas, which, incidentally, means “more and more”, came up short on the main ingredient so we may have to sneak down under cover of night and change its name to Menos-y-menos.

While in the vicinity we took the opportunity to visit the wine cooperative and pick up 2 litres of extra virgin olive oil and 10 litres of their rosado. After all, I’m sure Steve and Rosemary will be in need of refreshment when they arrive tomorrow. Then it was back for a bite of lunch before, since it was such a good day to stay inside shopping, whizzing into Benissa to visit its Mercadona supermercado, where we had more success on the missing main ingedient.

Excellent, food and wine sorted. Now, where’s that sun gone?

Today is a public holiday in Spain celebrating the Immaculate Conception. Carol suggested that, if the Immaculate Conception is December 8th  and the birth of Christ is supposed to be December 25th, then the gestation period works out at a little over two weeks. Now that really would be immaculate. Well, either that or the gestation period is a little over a year, roughly equivalent to a blue whale. Just a thought.

This computer seems to have something akin to an immaculate conception, too. Now that our hosts have left on their trip, the very reason we are here in Spain, we have moved up into the main house and into the room that also houses Geoff’s computer. I know this is going to sound crazy but, having been hibernated overnight, for the last two nights it has burst into life all by itself and woken us up. Last night it fired up at about 3:30 AM, causing me to get up and put it back to sleep again. The previous night, it was Carol who answered the call. This must be like having a baby (he said, never having had one). Weird!

Since the country was essentially closed today, and to loosen up after yesterday’s assault on the Bernia, we decided to go for a limbering-up walk through the vines down into Lliber for an initial investigation. The weather was decidedly average today proving that even Spain does have a winter but it was a whole lot nicer than being at home. The sky may have looked a little threatening but it was a pleasant 14°C or so, nonetheless. We found a cut-through to the vineyards on the valley floor and were surprised to see several bunches of grapes still clinging to the vines. Most of these were too rotted even for dessert wine. The rot certainly didn’t look very “noble”. I can only assume that these were bunches that were ripening too late for the main harvest and that they had been left in situ.

Once in Lliber, we found the local bread shop tucked up a side street. It was, of course, closed, but a couple of local bars were open so we popped in for a cerveza before wandering back to the house for lunch and the kind of lazy afternoon that befitted both a public holiday and slightly wearied legs.

Before leaving for cold Britannia, Geoff had spotted in a local ex-pats publication what was, to us, an appealing event. There was to be a free guided walk around the Bernia on Sunday morning, meeting at 9:00 AM in Jalon’s main village square. On this exchange rate, “free” is a particularly appealing word. There’s not a lot of parking available in what we thought was Jalon’s main square so we were a little uncertain as to precisely where the intended meeting place might be but we thought we’d give it a go anyway. We had circumperambulated the Bernia on a previous trip but it’s a great walk and we were keen to do it again. Besides, it would refresh our memory of the route so we might be better prepared to take Steve and Rosemary who are flying out to join us on the coming Wednesday.

So, pets fed and watered, we set off at 8:55 AM for Jalon. Sure enough, the main square with very few parking places was the meeting place and cars were littered all around with gay abandon. I joined in and littered Geoff’s car along with the rest. We had been expecting a British party since the notice was in an ex-pats publication. However, it soon became apparent that all bar one of the assembled throng, about 20 strong, was Spanish. Maybe this is an excursion run by the Val de Pop tourist office. There was one other British lady who had apparently lived in Jalon for 18 months so we might have someone else to converse with, but she seemed to get lost on our eventual drive to the start point. Darn! How can she have lived in Jalon for that long and not know where the Bernia is, I wonder?

I’ve been listening to some Spanish podcasts in order to get as bit more familiar with the language. This is not a difficult task since I’ve never before learned any Spanish. However, after a brief round of the obligatory and simple “hola” and/or a perfectly pronounced “buenos dias”, I was floundering. Given my dozen or so 20-minute lessons, I could have told them that today is Sunday, which at least was true, or that I was a student in Madrid, which clearly isn’t true, but they already seemed to be well aware that today was Sunday and I really didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot lying. Neither did it seem appropriate to suddenly announce that I had two brothers, three sisters, one mother, one father, six sons, five daughters and twelve wives. However, should I ever be in a position to impart such intimate knowledge, I will be well equipped to do so. Let’s hope that we’ll eventually meet someone next who is keen to know such things – a blackmailer, perhaps.

Having collectively littered around our various forms of transport once again, this time at the base of the Bernia, and having wondered what had become of our new found but short-lived English friend, we set off amidst a lot of excited Spanish jabbering. After about half a kilometer, I had that sinking feeling that I couldn’t remember having locked the car; Geoff’s car. It’s many years since I attempted to run but, with the Spanish contingent striding purposefully forward, run I did back to the car. At least it was not a false alarm; I hadn’t locked it. Correcting my oversight, I began running all the way back again. I am now very well aware of the reason I found running to be a particularly silly and uncomfortable pastime, especially with a heavy, camera-laden rucksack on one’s back.

Eventually we caught up with the throng and discovered a particularly jolly young lady accompanied by her very tiny dog called “Nilo”, or some such. Nilo was about the size of a Chihuahua but with a pointy snout – painfully cute, really. I wondered if Nilo meant something like “nothing”, given its lack of size. Nilo lived life at a hundred miles an hour and entertained the multitude all the way around the Bernia walk.

Probably the most interesting feature of the walk around the Bernia is crossing from the north side to the south side through a natural tunnel. The tunnel is very low and required everyone except tiny Nilo to crouch to get through it. After negotiating the tunnel and a few scrambles up rock faces, more akin to rock climbing that walking, we eventually completed our walk around the Bernia without further mishap, other than Carol and my legs being savagely licked by little Nilo, presumably for the salt.

Having filled in an assessment form for the guided walk, we once again returned home to free our captive, borrowed pets, before settling down to a well-earned beer/rosado on the patio. I was almost – almost, that is – too hot. What a difference 1000 miles south makes to the strength of the sun in December.

Today was the day for our hosts, Geoff and Pam, to fly to England on the first leg of their journey to Australia for Christmas and New Year. This was going to broaden our horizons because they were flying into Gatwick from Valencia, with which we have no experience. However, leaving the house at 11:00 AM and under the watchful eye of Geoff, chauffeur Curd made the journey up the A7 autovia without any problems. After about 75 minutes, we were dropping them off in plenty of time to check in for their flight. Bon voyage, or whatever the Spanish equivalent is! Now it was time for us to go it alone.

Having been warned about folks getting on the wrong road back from Valencia airport, we were a little concerned. Our first task was to pass a herd of metal goats (how quaint, how very Milton Keynes) on our left. This we accomplished successfully, though the poor goats did look a little rusty and could have done with a lick of paint. Anyway, we were clearly on the right road. The road then, apparently, divides and, though both forks are signed to Alicante, one fork heads inland and misses the section of coast we needed. There was no need to worry, of course; the inland road is clearly marked as such, even to the uninitiated. We took the correct fork and were soon leaving the autovia at Benissa to buy some fresh bread before returning “home” and releasing our captive menagerie and start getting them acclimatized to surrogate keepers for a few weeks.

We were welcomed, by the dogs at least, with gleeful open mouths. The gleeful open mouths were accustomed, I seemed to remember, to receiving a dog chew after longer absences. So, in order to begin ingratiating them, I dutifully gave them one each. My less-than-subtle bribery worked a charm and el perros seemed content.

Valencia had been overcast but we had returned to some very pleasant blue skies. The blue skies really were crying out for a very Spanish (2 o’clock-ish) lunch on the patio: fresh bread, thinly sliced serrano ham and tomatoes, all washed down with a glass or three (OK, four) of the local rosado under said sunny sky looking up the valley beyond the local vineyards towards Jalon. How bad is that?

I could get used to this. In fact, I think I already have. 🙂

Our first weekend here is to be one with disrupted shopping courtesy of the “Immaculate Conception”, whatever that is or was.

“Was that good for you, dear?”

“Absolutely immaculate, darling; thank you for asking.”

Monday seems to be conception time but the shop opening times on Saturday and Sunday are somewhat variable. So, with that and our trip to Valencia airport on Saturday morning to drop off Geoff and Pam for their flight to England before heading out to Australia for their balmy Christmas and New Year, Carol and I needed to hit the food shops and get stocks in for three days. Time to practice driving Geoff’s car all by ourselves.

I’m fine on the right hand side of the road ‘cos we do that in France and in America. I’m pretty comfortable on the left hand side of the car, too, though automatics are easier (America again). There is, however, something inherently uncomfortable, one might almost say alien, about changing gear manually with my right hand; it seems like a most unnatural action. However, Ford makes just about the smoothest gear changes in the world and Geoff’s Ford was no exception. Other than one or two attempts to shift gears using the driver’s door handle, everything went very smoothly and we were soon parked in the Mercadona at Benissa raiding their meat and vegetable counters. Normally, we’d have been raiding their fish counter, too, but the timing was inappropriate since, on this occasion, we needed a longer shelf life than fish and seafood can offer.

We returned blissfully unscathed with our booty, including half a rabbit (conejo), a decent sized steak (beef: lomo) and a duck (pato) breast. It was then time to wait anxiously for the evening’s planned paella party. This was to be a bit like a company meeting of us with our house-sitting clients. Geoff and Pam, our latest customers, had invited Chris and Yvonne, our first customers, for paella and a reunion with us. Scamp, Chris and Yvonne’s energetic small dog (perrito), had apparently been invited, too, but he seems to chase away the resident cats whereupon they disappear for about two weeks. So he was, wisely in my opinion, left at home. Apart from which, as we have experienced, he has a habit of making yours truly fall, fully clad, into swimming pools. We’ll have to take a wander through the vines next week to be reunited with Scamp. That way, I can fall into his swimming pool in the privacy of his own home. 🙂

Pam’s paella was very good  and a splendid evening was had by all. Chris, who likes decent vino, even drank some of our disturbingly cheap rosado.

We had crashed out relatively early courtesy of our predawn start yesterday. The shutter across our bedroom window shuts out almost all the light so we didn’t stir until later than usual. So much for being up and about early. However, stir we did and, when Carol opened the nuclear blast shutters, we were greeted by a sunlit view up the Val de Pop over the vineyards carpeting the valley floor towards Jalon. Once again, the sun did it’s usual spirit-lifting trick and we were two happy campers.

First task of the day, and part of our orientation, was to visit one of the not-so-local springs to fill a car-load of 5 and 10 litre water containers. This is one of those little jobs that we enjoy, simply because we’ve never seen it done anywhere else so it seems, to us, particularly Spanish. As Geoff drove us to his favoured spring halfway up a mountain we passed some magnificent views down a valley and were kicking ourselves for not having brought any cameras. When the weather is suitable, as it was this morning, we must return better equipped.

With the car loaded with water, we returned to Jalon to stop at the Jalon bodega to get a 5 litre jug of our favourite rosado. That should keep us going for a couple of days – now we knew we were in Spain. 🙂 It was good to see several vendors of oranges and mandarins in the parking area opposite the bodega. The house is still full so, on this occasion we didn’t need any but I’m sure we’ll be back to see what this season’s price is (probably €3 for 5 kilos).

Animal care lessons continued back at the ranch when one of the three cats, Jake, put his front paws into the kitchen sink and looked at me expectantly. “Que?”, I thought, confusedly. Jake got out and did it again.“Que?”, I thought, again. Geoff returned, saw my confusion, and explained that Jake was after a drink of water. He turned the tap on to a trickle and Jake proceeded to lap water straight from the stream. What intriguing behaviour.

The Spanish welcome continued with tapas for lunch in Jalon followed by a coffee overlooking the bay at Moraira. A rather loud bunch of eight British hooray Henries – well, four hooray Henries together with four hooray Henriettas, to be more accurate – invaded and attempted to overshadow our tapas but the liver (hidalgo), cuttlefish (sepia), meatballs (albondingas) and pork (lomo) were good enough to resist the concerted attack and remained delicious.

Geoff and Pam have a pink peppercorn tree on their property and were intrigued by reports (from Chris and Yvonne) that we’d most likely be raiding it. Since they were unsure how to use their bountiful harvest, yours truly was pressed into kitchen service to make a pink peppercorn sauce to accompany some pork chops (chuletas de lomo?) Fortunately, I had packed a pair of chef’s trousers and matching apron. Well, one has to make an effort over Christmas.

There’s something about setting an alarm, in this case for about 5:00 AM, that makes you wake up earlier than necessary. Something subconconcious watches the clock waiting for it to ring. We woke up at 4:00 AM. Even taking our time over the few last minute preparations, we were ready by 5:30 AM for our 6:00 AM departure for Luton airport.

It was a cold, crisp frosty morning and we feared potential delays while the plane was de-iced but the fears were unfounded. The check-in lines were short, the airport was relatively calm (for an airport) and the plane was on-time. We even had a northerly wind which hastened our journey to Alicante where we landed in the Spanish sun ten minutes ahead of schedule. How the sun improves one’s mood.

Our luck continued as our two bags appeared on the baggage conveyor belt and Geoff and Pam, whose house and menagerie we are here to look after, recognized us as we emerged from the baggage hall. Bravo – we’ve only meant once and quite briefly at that. Mind you, I had just fallen fally clothed into Chris and Yvonne’s swimming pool at the time. I guess that makes us somewhat memorable.

Timing had been perfect; Geoff and Pam had only just arrived so there was no tedious hanging around and the car park fee was negligible. An hour up the motorway we were being introduced to our charges for the duration and admiring the view from Geoff and Pam’s magnificent location up the Val de Pop towards Jalon.