Between a dull headache, rheumy eyes, a rasping cough and my –at the best of times – dodgy night time vision, I suppose it was inevitable that I would ride shotgun for most of our time in Benidorm. Inevitable or not, that did little to settle the simmering discontent that gnawed at my insides each time we had to hop into the car and go somewhere. To compensate I offered directions, commented on lane switches and approaches to roundabouts and generally made myself as obnoxious as possible, particularly when other road users came close enough to see me sat in the other, non-driving seat. In my mind, that (ultimately useless endeavour) made it seem to others that I was in control, orchestrating things from behind the scene rather than being the mere passenger I was. Patriarchal tropes and stereotypes aside, it offered a front row seat from which to observe first-hand all the little discourtesies female drivers endure on the roads. Away from the immediacy of the moment, memories of Adam Gopnik’s New Yorker piece on the subject of learning to drive came to mind. Not that the fact that other men, far more intelligent than I, have struggled with this absolves me of blame here.
England with sunshine, is how someone once described Benidorm to me, and walking down the promenade it was not difficult to see how. In addition to snippets of English conversations borne on the winds, the promenade was littered with bars and pubs self classifying as English and as Irish. Maybe it was because we found ourselves there at lunch time but it seemed almost every bar had a tribute act going. Promenade walks -and long chilled out day recovering from a cold aside - the highlight of Benidorm and the wider Valencian Community area was all the old things. A Cathedral with portions dating back to the 13th century containing relics almost as old, narrow streets towered over by brightly coloured buildings, a notorious river whose will was finally bent to a greater good as a city centre park all stood out as highlights to a day trip to Valencia. A tour of the Mestalla was tempting, but in the end we opted for a leisurely stroll around the city centre, taking in the sights and sounds of the city.
If there was a black mark, it was the culinary efforts of the hotel kitchen at dinner. We had assumed half board meant we would get a buffet for dinner but as it turned out dinners were to a set menu. We hit an absolute nadir on Christmas day dinner with the steak drawing the ire of almost everyone at dinner. There were a few choice words shared by guests to the service chief, the lead taken by several (clearly) English men. Even here at Christmas - justifiably as it were - England cast a long shadow.