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

Curso Quatro

Finestrat

"Spain is a very special country and one must approach it with respect and with his eyes open. He must be fully aware that once he has penetrated the borders he runs the risk of being made prisoner," writes James Michener in his book "Iberia".

We return to Finestrat via Alicante in the Communidad of Valencia during grade school spring break. Am I a prisoner or is this free will?

When we land at Madrid Barajas airport, I am surprisingly relieved and revived to be in Europe again. I love the weave of languages being spoken in airport lines and the variety of people traveling to and from everywhere in the world. Tired and hungry after the nine hour flight, we stumble into an airport cafeteria and devour Spanish tortilla sandwiches (omelettes with potatoes on long baguettes) and Fanta Limon. The airy and open design of Terminal 4 brings in the spring sun with multi storied, tent-like ceilings supported by yellow concrete beams, sort of like the Denver International Airport design. You can see through the glass to other areas of the terminal and the glass reflects the huge wire and pendant lights. The swallows and falcons swoop around the airport runways from any spot in the waiting area. I like Barajas airport. Airport food and the airport coffee in Spanish airports taste so much better than any American airport, or is that travel fatigue.

We fly Iberia airlines to El Altet Airport in Alicante and head straight to base camp at the Orange House near Finestrat. This year our trip coincides with Easter and we arrive with masses of British tourists for the kick off of Semana Santa, holy week or Easter, in Valencia.

Semana Santa means Spanish fireworks and spontaneous parties. Every big Spanish holiday incorporates fireworks on several days before and after the actually holiday, and Semana Santa is a whole week of religious excuses for a party. Spanish parties ensue everywhere we go and the village shops and even the big grocery stores stay open at odd hours on even numbered days, or so it seems. Strange groups of exuberant costumed people hike and sing in the woods and holy processions of villagers parade up the main calle led by the old town senoras. We find odd rock and stick drawings in the dirt at picnic areas. Banners and string lights hang across the village streets. We don't plan to go to any particular festivity, but we stumble into a parade or a party in the streets by mistake after a day of climbing or by getting stuck in a random traffic jam.

The climbing cliffs are crowded with Brits who climb in the hot sun all day and with large groups of Spanish climbers on Easter holiday. The Spanish senoras in Finestrat have changed their wool cardigans for serious spring dresses in monochrome tones, no egg pastel colors here. This holiday requires serious fiestas with elaborate processions and late night parties and also long lines at the grocery store in preparation for the fiestas. The procession happens one night while we are eating pizza at the taverna. We watch the group carry an effigy of Jesus on the Cross past the restaurant and the event seems surreal. It's an only in Spain moment. We go out to dinner and some procession of hundreds of people, dressed mostly in black goes parading by with candles. It's surreal because we don't understand the significance and history to what is taking place. Where is the guidebook written about this place so I can decipher these events?

At night, after climbing, we walk the streets of Finestrat, cobblestone streets lined with Caribbean colored village houses. One night, we find the town church door open and people walk in and out to light candles to celebrate Semana Santa. The church's facade is built with simple beige stone and appears very plain on the outside, but the inside of the church is filled with gold and everything glitters and sparkles magnificently. Ornate glass cases house all kinds of beautiful local artifacts and give the church a feel of magic and myth belying its simple stone facade.

The church in Finestrat was built in 1751 in honor of Saint Bartolome, the patron saint of the town. Every Spanish town has a patron saint and yearly festivals for each saint can last up to a week. Like many old Spanish towns, this church is obviously the heart of Finestrat and most likely has been the epicenter of the town since the Christians finally defeated the Muslims around 1200.

No one really looks at us or pays attention to us when we creep into the church and we feel honored to be allowed to look inside and into the simple religious acts the town's people exhibit. Old and young worshippers gather on the benches outside the church and then, suddenly, they stream home all at the same time. The village of Finestrat breathes its rhythm of life, as we imagine the villagers going home to dip their bread and pray and eat lovely dinners graced with garlic. The town's residents suddenly take on special characteristics and begin to appear normal and very present in their daily rituals and Spanish gossip.

We watch our first Spanish fireworks display during holy week after we watch the procession of villagers walk through the streets. We find out they were taking candles to the tippy top of the village where a smaller, church sits, the Ermita del Crist del Remei. The Spanish like fire of all kinds, bonfires, candles and big fireworks. Every holiday and fiesta in Valencia begins and ends with a colossal fireworks display. One night around one, we pile into cars with some British families and shuttle to the seaside town of Altea. We arrive just as the fireworks start to explode over our heads. Tapas and dinner are over and a party by the sea is ramping up. Spanish fireworks last longer and brighter and burst more fiery in our faces than any Fourth of July fireworks show I have ever watched in my life. Everyone stands quietly as the bursts of starry colors fall into the sea right next to where we stand. And I mean it showers sparks and ashes on us. I have to worry a little bit about firework debris in the sea and whether I will get hit with anything hot, but I am overcome with the sparkling bursts of sky.

After a few days of sticking close to Finestrat, I decide to be a real tourist, without the bus tour, and to visit something besides climbing areas. I begin to tackle road signage and roundabouts. I am slightly nervous to drive in Spain because my husband, who has not arrived yet, usually drives. But my restless need to see more than one small Spanish town, how American of me, leads me to borrow the official Orange House car—a little VW Golf with big writing all over it advertising the climbing guide service. Subtle. I drive on the two-lane N332 because it's slow and easy and I have more time to react to signage. I shortly discover that the paeje or the paying autopista, is easier because there is less traffic and it takes half the time to get anywhere. The N332 runs super slow and full of slow traffic. I keep a pile of Euro coins ready for the toll road and I get skilled at careening fast like a formula one car out of the slow lane, into the fast left lane and then back to the slow lane, to pass a lorry or to pass old people in tiny two cylinder cars. It takes a little rush of adrenaline to change lanes.

We drive along the Mediterranean coast to the seaside town of Denia and follow a climber's hand drawn map to a rocky beach called Les Rotes. The water shines turquoise and clear and we spy big cliffs laden with cormorants and seagulls of all colors. The temperature stays cool by the water and the beach is washed with round black and white pebbles. There aren't many people sunning on the rough pebbles because the spring wind blows a bit too chilly. The beach bouldering rock is steep and rough, with big chalked hand holds, and it is a scenic little spot to check out.

The narrow road to Les Rotes is lined with elegant old Spanish hotels and the dead-end road does not attract many tourists. I imagine in the summer, the road is packed with beach goers and not so many people looking for the boulders. The old red-tiled hotels along the lane to Les Rotes look classically expensive. The low pink Florida-like buildings invite guests to their shiny white tile terraces overlooking the sparkling sea and manicured palms and green lawns. It's an interesting contrast to the small simple town of Finestrat. I avoid the town and the port of Denia and turn back the way I drove in.

On the drive out of Denia, I run some sort of stop light after a guy looks like he is going to rear end me in a round about. It was a reflex—either keep driving forward or get hit. It is normal for the drivers in Spain to follow unnervingly close behind. In the States, this tailgating technique comes close to road rage, but here they just drive really fast until they have to stop or swerve and if you're going to drive you have to react quicker than the other drivers. If everyone is going really fast, then the traffic flow works out, but when you get a tourist like me, the flow gets a little messed up and too orderly for the Spanish drivers. I move the car through the light to not get rear ended and I sort of glide through a light that looks like one of those flashing lights when you gain access onto a crowded American highway.

Next, I plunge into the wrong lane in another round about and nearly crash into a Land Rover not having learned my lesson the first round about. The driver, probably some British expat who clearly knows the rules of that round about, reprimands me with loud honking and lots of hand gestures. I almost cry, but there is really no place to pull over for that kind of ninny reaction.

After a little pep talk to keep myself headed back on to the Spanish highway, we drive to Altea. I mean really, there is nothing left to do and no one to rescue me on this drive. It's like mountaineering, you just have to keep moving ahead. I drive over the Parque Natura del Montgo and swear to come back to check out a system of trails and beaches that reaches out over the rocky mountain top and back down to the sea. I am always looking for a good place to run, so when I spy a trail, I try and remember the trail's location for a future run. It is amazing to drive out of a hectic coastal town like Denia and to go up and over a largely uninhabited mountain to another coastal resort town. These small pockets of wild Spain appear frequently on our trips and its one of those travel hooks that lures me back.

Altea is a few coastal towns down the N332 from Denia past lots of ceramic outlets and garden shops. This seaside town looks more authentic in the daylight and out from under the sparkle of the surreal fireworks. Altea is a typical white Moorish town on a hill cascading into a large mostly pleasure port on the Costa Blanca. We park by the railway track and walk up long cobblestone alleys that wind up to the old square on a hilltop. The square sports a captain's view of the water and I bet a few pirate look outs were posted here.

In the square, a tall stone, beautifully plain church, in that sort of Gothic style sits next to a blue and white domed mosque. It appears like a mix of Christian and Islamic architecture more typical of Andalucia. I don't really understand how the mosque and the church spire are next to each other, but I am grateful that some Moorish history and the blue domes were left behind because it looks beautiful. Many Spanish towns tore down the blue domes of the mosque when the Muslim worshippers were run out 900 years ago. Some of the cities in Southern Spain held out longer during the Christian invasions, most notably Granada and Cordoba, and these towns have kept their mosques, although the structures are often integrated into the Catholic Church facilities.

Altea has been home to Iberians, Phoenicians, Romans, Greeks and Muslims because of the attraction of the sea port and because of the fresh water of the river Algar that streams into the sea. The distinctly Mediterranean architecture and history make for a good tourist attraction and a fun place to explore. Now, you can watch kite surfers and sail boats. Red and white checked cafe tables and tapas bars encircle the church square where tourists eat ice cream and pizza on hot days and sip dark coffee carajillo laced with fiery alcohol, on cold, windy days. An intriguing maze of narrow cobblestone alleys lead steeply to the sea and the alleys are lined with galleries and ceramic shops that never seem to open despite alluring window displays. It's easy to imagine these alleys, which are actually streets, feeling wider when it was just a humble person with a donkey and a cart to fill them out, but now they are quaint and small with black iron lanterns hanging from the walls.

On one of the small main streets in Altea, a black and white, yin-yang cobblestone street exhibits restaurant menus and door fronts advertising comida excellent that come to life during tapas hour. It is too early for lunch or tapas, so we hopscotch down the black and white street to a cozy bar filled with Spanish people who seem to know this as a regular snack stop. We eat empanadas filled with shredded beef and olives and bocadillos filled with Serrano, cheese and tomato. The cafe con leche is heavenly thick and sweet served in a clear glass cup.

We retrace our walk back down from the Plaza de la Iglesia to the sea and pass a terrace with a steep staircase that stinks of rotted fish. Skinny cats, lounge in the sun on stone stair steps and under cactus. One cat has no right eye and another cat's hip bones look larger than its paws. This is the kind of exploring that we like—checking out where the Spanish cats live. We watch the old men with their boats and fishing nets at the port and see all shapes of yachts and sail boats moored next to large Spanish fishing boats. Boats chug in and out of their parking spots and ferries leave regularly from the port's end. This seems to be a yachtsman's paradise and I wonder if it's possible to ride the ferry to the small islands that you can see from the N332 coast drive. Soon I will wonder if it's possible to buy a boat and sleep in this quiet port. Meanwhile, we revel in a store at the port that sells beach stuff for the warm weather and English newspapers.

To continue my tourist quest, and to try and teach something cultural to my son, we do the local castle at Guadalest on our next trek. Now this is a big deal because I rarely get the opportunity to actually visit an intact castle or take in a famous museum because we're always climbing all day. This is my son's first visit to a real European castle. It is quite touristy with bus loads of people looking for easy access to history and we have to pay to park next to a row of tourist buses. It's quite a feat that I make it past the parking lot as I detest tourist kitche and any sort of crowd, thus the reason we go to Spain on holiday instead of to Disneyland.

The old medieval fortress of Al Zaraq sits on a fin of rock with the castle fortress thing perched on top. A well protected village sits below the castle which you get to by walking through a superb limestone tunnel. Ticky tacky shops line the slippery limestone streets selling key chains and straw bags, but there are shops with ancient swords and suits of armor that conjure up all sorts of history for a small boy. It is quite a spectacular position for a castle, thus the reason they built a fortified castle, because it sits on a sort of prow between tall mountain peaks with a view down to the sea. Guadalest sits inland from Benidorm in a suddenly remote and wild part of Valencia. There may be hordes of tourists at the castle, but the surrounding mountains are their own treasure trove of limestone cliffs and pseudo marked hiking trails. And lucky for us, we are off the bus and can go wherever we please and away from the crowds.

It doesn't take us long to get tired, so we leave the tourists to their buses and we stop to eat a lunch of some sort of pescado (fish) a la plancha and pork chops with lots of white bread dipped in ali oli (tangy garlic and oil mayonnaise) in some anonymous looking Spanish restaurant. I am beginning to see that this is a perfectly normal way to refuel for the rest of a day in Spain. I also see I'm good at teaching certain parts of Spanish culture, like gastronomy.

The next outing, we go to the town of Sella and walk around the town. We only know the name Sella as the climbing area and we know nothing of the town after a half dozen times at the crag. What a lovely discovery. This is the quintessential white hill town with the church perched at the highest point. It is a small, inland village with no resort hotel and only three restaurants that I can find on the main driving road and a bar restaurant in the main square. Benches and Santa Maria shrines line the steep paved walk to the church, maybe to give people time to rest between shrines and before the top. It must be a vigorous walk for an elderly churchgoer, but it would make for an excellent look out during the wars with the Moors. The town has decorated the walk with potted plants between the cool little plaster shrines. The old hilltop church of Santa Barbara was built sometime before 1200.

The village of Sella is made up of small criss cross streets of terraced apartments with white walls and white rooftops. The blinding white of the village apartments is broken up with orange flowers trailing out of terra cotta pots and brilliant blooming ice plants. Potted germaniums sit next to the steps of the white village houses. The stark white against the sunlight is like photos of Greece and is typical of Andalucia, which is a more southerly part of Spain at the Costa del Sol. Sella's streets are empty. I search for a cozy coffee shop like the one with the glass cases in Altea or a bakery that serves the famous almond cake, but everything is quiet and closed.

Later, we go back and check out a few apartments in Sella that are for sale. They are small and are mostly in ruin and seem to be too remote for a project. So, my husband looks at more apartments in Finestrat and we hear more stories of the people of Finestrat from a real estate salesman. One three storied blue house has a fantastic view of the Puig Campana and is for sale and he seriously decides to make an offer. My son and I wander through the winding cobblestone streets of Finestrat, while my husband looks at houses. We tirelessly sit at the Moli Dos and have drinks, cafe con leche, Fanta Limon, and cervezas and search out calico cats with no tails and small Spanish dogs inside tile doorways. There is always an old Spanish woman sweeping or mopping the tile sidewalk in front of her village house or sweeping the trash off the sidewalk. Trash is abundant in Spain, but the villagers take a Swiss pride in cleaning their little plot of Puig paradise.

The town of Finestrat sits at the base of the mountain, the Puig Campana. It is one of the tallest mountains around this southern part of Spain at an elevation of 3281 feet and is sculpted by a rock face that looks as big as El Cap in Yosemite but with its own Spanish shape. The Puig Campana commands a dazzling sea view from most any footpath around its base. It is slightly taller than Ben Nevis in Scotland and mountaineers have a fascination with climbing its face. The Puig helps create the little micro climate that I am already basking in. The weather in Finestrat is typically warm and sunny between mountains and sea. There is no snow in winter and the sky gets to be that egg shell blue like you find only in places like the southern California coast or the high mountains of Colorado. You can climb almost all year in this area and the worst time to climb is the summer when it is hot and dry. The light here is similar to the provincial light that inspired impressionist painters which is the light that makes the contrast of a red geranium plant against a white stucco village so mesmerizing.

The village house with the view of the Puig Campana has two bedrooms, one bathroom and electricity and is ready to move into. It seems a little rough and ugly on the inside to me, but nothing a little love can't wash away, she says optimistically. Anyway, as soon as the real estate agent tells the village house owner that he has a potential buyer, the house is no longer for sale. The owner of the village house tells our real estate agent that his father has reconsidered selling and wants to wait one year so he does not have to pay the taxes. This apparently is an oh-so-Spanish tactic.

One night we go to a renaissance festival in Finestrat to celebrate the town's birthday—700 hundred years or some incomprehensible number like that. Crowds of people queue up to buy some sort of carved meat sandwich on the main street and people sell old stuff like knifes and instruments made out of rock and wood. There are falconers and tall clowns that walk on stilts like the guys from the days of the plague. People sit on plastic chairs in the streets and eat pizza like bread treats and drink beer. The weather seems never to be too hot or too cold for an outdoor party in the streets of Finestrat. Villagers pull up their plastic chairs in front of their village houses and watch the town in action.

The Orange House, at the base of the town of Finestrat, is always a pleasant place to end the day. There is always a climber there to talk about your day and the owners often share a beer or a swim in the pool with climbing guests. Sometimes the outdoor party starts and ends in their shady garden where you can watch the lights of Finestrat keep a glow on the rock face of the Puig Campana at night. We sleep with the windows open and listen to the Spanish dogs bark all night. I like the sounds of the frogs croaking and the roosters crowing. It reminds me of old Hawaii and living near farms and wetlands.

That serious house buying consideration was a weird little slap in the face. However, that sting lasts about the length of a transcontinental plane flight. After we go back to Colorado, my husband checks out the Spanish property websites every evening. The little blue apartment still appears for sale online. Se Vende.