Squid Ink: The Book of Costa Blanca – a Spanish travelogue

Curso Tres

Sella

Several times in the next year, my husband goes back to Spain for business, and for climbing, to prove that he should not buy a house on an isolated island like Mallorca. Other climbers sway him to buy in a place where you can easily drive to lots of crags and to an area connected to a mainland. He meets up with a real estate agent in Tortossa on the Costa Brava and he climbs at Siurana. Again, there are many crags in this area of Spain with thousands of bolted limestone routes and Siurana is only one of the crags. After my husband looks at many goat shacks and empty olive plots in this area of the Costa Daurada, he moves his real estate sights further south and closer to more world class climbing areas.

He decides he needs to show us this new area of Spain that he is smitten with. This trip we go to the Costa Blanca near Alicante. We book a room at a sort of climbing hostal from an advertisement out of the back of a Rock Fax climbing guide and we're off on another spring climbing trip to Spain.

What a mind blow this trip is. We land at the airport in Alicante and take the paeja (toll road) along a newly built mega highway that follows the sea north. The most noticeable effect of Spain joining the European Union is the abundance of trash. Piles of trash, plastic chairs, smashed beach umbrellas, plastic bottles and plastic bags seeping with pure rubbish and general grossness in huge piles down random red ravines. The next noticeable eyesore is the barrenness of the hillsides. This is the part of Spain that often resorts to water restrictions and the grape vines look wilted, tiny and tattered. No shrubs or trees or even green grass survives on these red dirt hills. This must be where they invented the word desertification.

Before we head into the La Marinas mountains and off the paeje, we turn a corner on the A7 and there is Benidorm-I imagine this as the Rio of the Costa Blanca. It looks like a giant high rise city and not what I imagined the Mediterranean coast to look like. My best tourist guess is that it used to be called the Costa Blanca because of the white Moorish hillside towns and the white sand and white pebbled beaches. Now what we see are the glowering white high rise hotels and the white flashing lights of skyscraping casinos lining the coast at Benidorm. It is the same effect as driving towards Las Vegas on I-70 at night. The tallest building in Europe sits unfinished on the skyline obscuring the view to tiny islands that jut out of the sea on the coastline. It looks unreal and unexpected. They call it the Costa Blanca to lure tourists. The Spanish did not call it Costa Blanca one hundred years ago.

Luckily, that's all I see of Benidorm and mega touristica land on this trip as we turn into the mountain landscape and away from the crowds of British sunseekers. I am not a traveler of cities. I detest concrete, fluorescent lights and walled-in streets anywhere, so I leave Benidorm to the lovers of tour packages. Luckily, Benidorm is surrounded by the Sierra Helado to the East and the Aitana mountains to the north and so there is a natural mountain barrier between the high rises of the beach and the mountain towns inland.

The climber's hostal is in Finestrat, on the edge of a small village inland. The hostal is actually an old Spanish villa that has been turned into a climber's hotel. The Orange House is run by a young British couple and only climbers stay there, mostly Brits and Scots, but a few other nationalities come and go as well. There are eight rooms inside the big brightly painted house, plus bunkhouses and a campground with an outdoor kitchen and outdoor showers. The house has terraced patios and decks and a swimming pool as well as a slack line and a cool wood and tile bar stocked with good beer and cold soda. The owner's two boys are the same age as my son and he quickly makes best friends and finds nirvana at the town football (American soccer) pitch that sits 400 yards from the house. The frenzied boys run back and forth between the house and the field with a small wire haired terrier racing after them. The rescued terrier runs wicked fast for a Spanish dog and likes to do his daily business on the turf of the football field.

We get right to the climbing the next day after sleeping away most of the morning because of jet lag. Sella, the closest climbing area, is only 20 minutes away, past the hill top town of Finestrat, on a narrow winding road that seems to be a regular route for cyclists through the hilltop town of Sella. The Spanish Vuelta often goes over this same winding route.

The massive limestone cliffs of Sella stand surrounded by blooming rows of almond trees and pine trees and form a canyon between several low mountain passes. The pink almond trees glow in spectacular springness and they smell sweet and heavenly in the clear mountain air. The olives are also blooming white this time of year on their knarled and terraced dirt, but the countryside is noticeably absent of sheep. I don't see herds of any rural animal, just rows of olive trees and mountain pines on Moorish terraces. You can always hear dogs barking through the mountain air, but there are no roaming herds of sheep like on Mallorca.

Sella is the reason to come to the Costa Blanca. The routes climb perfecto, like steep, easy routes set at a climbing gym. This is world class, high quality, bolted limestone. The main crag at Sella generally attracts more climbers than other crags in the area because of the easy access and the reasonable grades, but the routes are worth a wait in line and Spanish crags can be highly entertaining. You can be alone belaying one moment watching your partner and reveling in the spring smells of sage and almond and then surrounded by a group of Spanish climbers the next, complete with dogs, babies and boom boxes. You are just as likely to climb side by side with Germans or English speaking Brits and trading climbing info takes little effort in any language.

After a couple of days climbing at Sella, we start looking for the hundreds of other cliffs that surround this area. We drive the frenetic paeje so we can avoid the tourist towns of Calpe and Benidorm . The Sierra Bernia separates the Marina Alta from the Marina Baja and so the mountains form a natural barrier. You cannot see the high rise town of Calpe from inland, just as you cannot see the town of Benidorm from Finestrat. We can flash right by Calpe on the A7 and head into the country. It is not until you are climbing up high on some mountain ridge that you can study the high rise outline of Calpe. By then you are standing in the sea breeze of the mountains and smelling the sage and rosemary that grows near the cliffs. Calpe sort of stands down at the water's edge like the Forbidden City or some sort of Disney World and it's easy to just look at it from afar.

We find another stellar cliff on the A7 north of Finestrat close to the town of Gandia. The approach to the cliff is short, along the typical piles of trash in a dry streambed path. The routes at Gandia are steeper with lots of tufa climbing, but overhanging routes mean shelter from cold wind and possible rain. A good climbing partner looks out for the whole posse. Spring in Spain means cold wind or possible rain mixed with spurts of warm sun.

Another day we drive the other direction on the A7 and go inland from Elche to a mountain above some castle town, Castalla I think. We climb on a mountain top at Forada overlooking Spanish valleys with miles of blooming almond trees and trails that snake out in every direction. It feels worlds away from seaside high rises or highways. It only gets crowded on the weekends when Spanish families hike on the trails before lunch. Fun, easy climbs warm us up on the sunny south side of Forada and shady climbs on the pocketed north side are crowded with good Spanish climbers. Raptors and swallows love it here swooping off the high cliffs into the valleys. Forada feels fresh in the cool wind and I enjoy the day watching the Spanish birdlife catch the updrafts and play. This crag exemplifies Spanish climbing because the cliff has a route for everyone. There are always easy, closely bolted vertical routes and then there will be a steeper wall with routes as hard as you can climb. There is a reason the Spanish are some of the best sport climbers in the world. There are amazing limestone cliffs everywhere, and climbing is a family sport.

Back in Finestrat, at the climber's hostal, I wake up earlier than everyone and I walk the road past the cemetery to the center of Finestrat in search of fresh croissants and wheat bread. The Spanish love their crusty white bread, which is a little softer and doughier than a French baguette. Staying at the hostal is like living by a college frat house. There is noise, partying and people coming and going all night. After all, this is Spain and staying out all night is normal. Benidorm has a strong Vegas like pull and some of the climbers come to party and drink Sangria into the wee hours as well as to climb. That means everyone sleeps late and I am greeted in the morning only by Pepper, the cute Spanish terrier, who accompanies me to the edge of the property on my walks. The mountains surround the town of Finestrat in an arc of pine trees, olive trees, carob trees and rock, so it's a pleasant place to walk while the roosters are still crowing.

Some mornings when I walk up the hill to town, the bakery on the main calle is open and some mornings it is mysteriously closed. I am still learning about Spanish holidays and how they can last for days or alternating weeks depending on the phase of the moon or what Saints birthday it is that day. Finestrat rests on a hillside with a central cathedral in the middle and a main street just wide enough for a car-when there are not chairs from the restaurants set out in the street. The little Spanish ladies in their wool cardigan sweaters and plaid skirts yell at each other "chica" and chat about the competing bakeries (I'm guessing), their grandkids and their barky dogs.

Small Chihuahua like dogs pee on every wall and old stone corner and chase the feral cats that hang out in the shuttered windows. They act a bit like furry town mayors who clearly have the place in order and couldn't care less about tourists. The small village houses have beaded curtains to let in the fresh air and to keep out the gnats. At lunchtime, smells of garlic mixed with dog pee from the cobblestone streets filter through the town, the symbolic juxtaposition of Spain, a bittersweet smell. On the other main street there are two lanes of traffic with sidewalk parking-a veritable Grand Avenue and sidewalk cafes. Patrons of the four outdoor bars and the other three or four restaurants, candy shop, internet bar and mechanic vie for the closest parking spots when they stop to shop or to get their daily shot-espresso or otherwise.

I find a café and my morning walk or run begins to detour to the Moli Dos for my own mother's helper of espresso. The Font Moli is the village fountain where the locals still get their fresh water and is just around the corner. I get a small café cortado, a short spanish version of a cappuccino, with one perfect shot of Spanish espresso and just a little steamed milk. The awning is jauntily blue and white striped with matching chair cushions and the locals come and go depending on the hour and whether it is time for coffee, beer or tapas. The grandmas push strollers in with their daughters for their 11 o'clock, post market beer. The cyclists, dressed in the tight logoed jerseys of the local cycling club, stop for Coca Cola, olives and boccadillos. Next, the construction crews pile in to eat hardy lunches with soup, grilled fish and salade mistas followed by more wine, cigarettes and coffee before the 4 o'clock siesta is over and work resumes.

A definite rhythm and schedule slowly appears to me once I take time to notice the small Spanish town nuances at the small cafes. This is my hook. I am psychopathically lured by the comings and goings of the waiters and the people I see there at all times of day. I am the kind of curious onlooker, or nosy tourist, that needs to know what everyone is there for and I make up stories based on my theories and stolen stares. I am like Gladys in Bewitched waiting for something strange to happen. Some days when the sky is Mediterranean blue and there is not a car parked in the way, I can sit at the Moli Dos and look down to the sea while I watch the intrigue of slow packed action. There are stories to be told here and novels to be written about the characters that weave in and out of the café. The owner speaks rapid fire Spanish and stands in the doorway and squints up and down the sidewalk to see who is where and what is up. A regular group of Brits pull up in a Mercedes convertible and an old Citroen pulls up loaded with wood and garbage and an old Spanish farmer. The Romanian waiter playfully forces the Brits to try and speak Spanish while he pours a regular drink for the farmer without a spoken word. It's the perfect place as the waiters are nice and the street entertainment is enthralling for me.

When we run out of food to cook at the hostal, we drive madly down the hill to the new Carrefour to shop for groceries. The traffic flow makes it a mad drive and we go from a quiet hilltop village around the round abouts into mass tourism. With the tax money from tourists and from the influx of the Euro the locals have built a mega mall complex on the edge of Benidorm. There is a McDonalds and a Sprinter.

The Carrefour is a large French grocery store like a Spanish Walmart. They have everything you could want to buy, but everything is strangely Spanish and very European. The store is so mega huge that it is impossible to go in and out for just a spot of milk. There are several aisles of milk and only a tiny case of refrigerated milk. I have to look at all of it. Spanish labels take a long time for me to decipher, but it's like a brain teaser and I like to work it out. There is an aisle filled with P&G Tips, Walker Shortbreads and Scotch in case the Brits get homesick and a health food isle with lots of German health food products.

As a girl who has spent 20 years grocery shopping at the same King Soopers store, I find the Carrefour a terrifying source of entertainment. Water, wine and nuts each take up several aisles. Rioja has its own isle and so do licors des frutos. The jamons hang over a cooler, grande and pequeno, bloody and dried, jamon Iberico and Serrano next to lovely European cheese and queso del pais and they have packaged the fresh squid and gambas in plastic over ice. I have heard that most of the fish they eat is flown in, not fished from the water that is five minutes away. I am no authority on that yet.

The Spanish deli section displays buckets of olives and marinated queso. There are aisles of socks, cheap stemware, bedding for odd sized European beds and beach floatation devices. The yogurt isle completely stumps me as I search for one I would eat. I get better at the when-in-Rome attitude, but I can be very picky about my food and tend to lose weight on trips because everything tastes so, well, Spanish. I'm all about trying new Spanish wines for 2 or 3 euros to see what cheap Spanish wine tastes like. But a three euro or five euro bottle of wine tastes much better after a good day outside in Spain then it does at your own kitchen table. We don't venture to any of the other stores at the mall as this Carrefour tends to be a huge energy drain each time we go. It takes hours to get through under the fluorescent lights and the lines are staggeringly long and unnerving. You must bag your own groceries and all communication is done in broken Spanish with a couple of nods and smiles thrown in because I can't tell what the little check-out chicas are really saying.

I overcome my loathing of the Carrefour with a quick espresso and snack at the Carrefour bar before I dive into crowds of Spanish and British shoppers. Fluorescent lights look much worse on an empty stomach.

Because I dislike the Carrefour, I learn the bakery hours in Finestrat by necessity, so I can find something to eat before spending a whole day out at the crags. One day, I find an inexpensive Pizzaria in Finestrat that serves lasagna and fresh mixed salads, so we don't have to fight the other climbers for kitchen space at the Orange House. The restaurant is hidden on the main street in a narrow village building that looks closed until the plastic chairs are set outside on the street. The pizzeria owner speaks no English but flourishingly speaks to us in a Spanish we can comprehend. I go back to the Moli Dos café at every opportunity for coffee, or for beer which is always accompanied by cacahuetas. (Sounds like cockroach, but really means peanuts. More on cockroaches later.)

We meet a Spanish real estate dealer over the pass a half hour from Finestrat in a valley near Alcoi to look at rural properties. The mountain pass outside of Sella is astoundingly void of traffic and seems like some sort of Hatfield and McCoy divide between one micro region of Spain and another. No one from either side seems to cross over on that road. It's as if the road stops at the town of Sella. One side is rural valley and the other side is fast paced costa. It is one of the mountain passes that the Spanish Vuelta often uses to punish its cyclists. We meet a real estate agent at a shiny black marble tiled bar in the lobby of a grand hotel on a busy, street in Concetaina and set off riding in one jeep. The espresso I drank at that sparkling black tile and metal bar will haunt me as I sit quietly in the back seat between each rural house and ruined lot. The real estate dealer was spectacularly Spanish and only wanted to talk to the man in charge. Spanish men have no idea that American women share the bank account.

The first two properties we look at are grand old ruins on large acres with olive trees. One house has access to spring water and the better piece of land with the beautiful olive grove has no water. So, that is the catch. In the Spanish countryside there are no water mains or electric lines to tap into. Houses are sold to the foreigners, extranjeros, with pools, but they are more like cisterns filled with slimy green rain water saved for later use. The two story ruins look rustically exquisite and I have visions of renovations like Peter Mayle in Provence. I can picture setting up plastic chairs in my own olive grove and drinking vino tinto out of gallon milk jugs from the local winery. I could build a dirt track around the olive grove to run around. I envision a feature article in Casa and Campo.

After an hour or so, we cross a slimy green ravine to look at houses with water and electric, but with bars on the windows and trash in the neighboring lots. One site sits picturesquely against a national forest and next to a thousand year old church. It is freakishly quaint and lovely and most definitely haunted. The church is super creepy old, but sits stunningly overlooking a large reservoir with pine trees and olive groves. There's even a castle ruin across the valley. The real estate agent is getting more desperate to find a piece of land or a bit of house that los Americanos seem excited over. In our price range, the ruins seem overwhelming and the plots of land seem dry and uninhabitable. My husband likes the houses with the iron bars and cisterns. I know he has visions of setting up camp inside and going climbing all day. I have visions of no running water and no showers in a hot climate. You begin to understand why those rural old people live in the same battered wool sweater and wear hats and smell kind of musty. They know they need to save water, unlike the tourists on the other side of the mountain.

After two weeks of spring weather and muchas football, no one wants to go home. My son has inherited new brothers and cries and says he'll never see his friends again if we leave. He says emphatically that he wants to move to Finestrat because his real calling is absolutely football. He claims he wants to play for Manchester United when he grows up instead of go to school. Notice he wants to play for Man U and not the Spanish teams. The British influence is overwhelming in this part of Spain. My husband wants to move to Finestrat too. There are so many more routes to do in Sella and so many more crags to explore. There are massive limestone cliffs where perfect tufa lines are just begging for first ascents. He is smitten by the awesome limestone and by people who can speak English in a Spanish town.

I just want to go home. I get grumpy when I am off schedule. I miss my cats and I feel guilty feeding the town's feral cats. I have had enough of trying to talk to people when I can't speak the language. I am tired of climbing in the spring rain and going to bed weary every night before everyone else. I would really like to look at real estate somewhere in the United States or maybe just fix up the house we live in currently. Our bathroom needs remodeling and the garage door sticks. I am the tired traveler when everyone else is just getting started.

A few months later, my husband goes back to the Costa Blanca again without me. I don't really want to go because I don't feel the same pull and the same luring force that he feels. He has climbing projects to finish and is in search of eternal limestone. I miss him and I'm jealous of his trip. So, of course, I give in and go back in less than a year. This is when the interval between trips gets shorter.