Libre Magazine

The preparations for travelling to Spain began months ago. I printed out my pre-prepared list of items to take and began adding and subtracting items as I visualised the journey plan. At 4:30am on a cold February morning I dragged myself out of bed, check my list, every item I’ve packed already is ticked, I only have to add my unfashionable pyjamas, tooth brush and I’m ready to set off for Bournemouth airport. I check I’ve got my passport, money and mobile phone for the fourth time. I know I’ll need something when I get there that I haven’t packed but what will it be?

I allowed one hour for travel, one hour to check in and a 15 minute safety margin. At 5am in the morning the roads were clear and the journey took 45 minutes. I parked, crossed the road, exchanged my pre booked parking ticket for a pass out of the car park (to use when I return), checked in and passed through security all within 10 – 15 minutes.

The experience is so easy when compared to the pain of flying from one of the big London airports like Heathrow or Gatwick that I sit in the departure lounge holding a cup of coffee wondering what I’ve missed. I have a moments panic as I look for my suitcase before I remember I’ve already checked it in.

The shopping opportunities at Bournemouth are minimal as the whole airport facility seems to consist of three portable cabins bolted together. They haven’t even levelled the ground so there is a ramp between each of the prefabricated units.

I’m determined to be calm about the flight so as we charge down the runway I focus on my book and ignore my clammy palms. The flight leaves on time and two and a half hours later I arrive in Alicante, Spain. It’s overcast and not very warm. I get the keys to my hire car but although I find bay 23 there’s no car there. Just as I’m thinking about whether I know enough Spanish to complain I realise that there are two sets of numbers, one where all the hire cars are and one where I am.

Eventually I find my car and head north towards Calpe. I’ve written the directions down carefully because this is the first time I’ve travelled to our property on my own. I’ve written out a sticky label with “DRIVE ON THE RIGHT” in bold letters to remind me which side of the road I’m supposed to be on. I stick the label onto the steering wheel and set off. I find the most dangerous time for driving on the wrong side of the road, is when I’ve been in the country a few days and I have a break for say lunch. When I get back in the car I’m relaxed everything seems normal and if there’s no other traffic I might set off on the wrong side.

For the first few miles I drive slowly to the annoyance of local motorists as I adjust to the new conditions. I don’t feel confident about the exact width of the car and I’m concerned that I might hit the wing mirrors of the kerb side vehicles.

The thing that I always notice when I come to Spain is how it seems to be so dry yet fertile. The earth along the coast is just like yellow ochre straight out of a tube of paint. The ground is sparsely covered with tough skinned plants which look like they are built to survive drought, but if you travel just a few kilometres in from the coast the hills are covered with orange groves. Along the coast route there is little of the old Spain remaining the buildings are mostly modern, constructed of concrete painted in bright yellows and white often topped off with red tiles. The coast is built up for miles here except where there are cliffs.

The most noticeable item along the way are the skyscrapers of Benidorm a little fishing village in the 1970s it is now a sprawling metropolis with many tall buildings (I guess about 100) mostly apartment blocks.

An hour and quarter later I arrive at out property. Unlock the gate, walk to the front door, it looks OK from outside but last time I came water had got through the roof and part of the ceiling fell on me. But … that is another story.