The Valencia Run

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. 🙂

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