West Dean, Singleton, Charlton and East Dean

One cosy little part of West Sussex that is worth exploring is the East Dean, West Dean, Singleton, Charlton area just north of the Goodwood race course. This clutch of villages is strung out either on or near the main road from Chichester to Midhurst, Old England may be slowly disappearing but this area trumpets the old traditions in spadefuls.

West Dean is tucked into the valley running west from East Dean (makes sense!) and is like a whole village hidden inside the walls of an old stately home, West Dean House. The long straight main road from Midhurst to Chichester courses down the valley alongside an old flint wall that obviously conceals this rather unusual mix of old flint cottages, narrow lanes and estate outbuildings. West Dean has a charm all of its own with barely a slit in the armour as a limited number of tiny lanes dips down off the main road into this mix. Turn left at the pub as you're heading west, towards the end of the village, and you tumble down the hill and reach a neat little rectangle of settlement on your left with a village shop cum cafe and wooden table and benches outside to enjoy the views down the valley. Down the bottom you hit a long pencil thin lane that traces the wall of the estate which itself dates back to 1086. Go right and you are in a distinct farm building environment, go left and after passing a number of cottages you get to St Andrews church where you can throw a tennis ball over the church wall and hit the windows of the stately home on the other side, now an agricultural College but still sufficiently Downton Abbey looking to make you think a chap in plus fours, a Burberry jacket and carrying a shotgun will suddenly appear in the churchyard and then disappear again through the gate in the wall.

Back in the good old days this estate was the centre of what was known as the Marlborough House Set (how many of these sets were there?) which entertained the Prince of Wales at resident house parties. The poor old pheasant population must have suffered serious depletion in those days. Up the road was a very developed railway station, Singleton, which was the arrival point for visitors to Goodwood race course until they got fed up with the uphill route to the racecourse and preferred to use Chichester railway station. You can still see the old station building, now presumably a private house, and what must have been quite a posh tree lined drive up to the station from the main road. In its pomp and prime it must have been one of the places to arrive at for a weekend's horse racing at Goodwood, falling off a train straight onto the edges of an ancient estate, then a short hike to one of the most beautiful racecourses in the world. 

If you walk up the track to the right of the old station building you reach an overgrown, dilapidated flat area which was obviously where the railway once went. There were four platforms here in the station's prime, and you can still see an old railway building which looked like a goods or maintenance depot. It now acts as some sort of store. I took a look inside to find a forlorn and decrepit looking office and a gloomy interior behind the office used for storage.

Back on the other side of the road the estate itself has West Dean Gardens to visit with cafe, car parking spaces and a collection of art and craft buildings, so if you want to sculpt a bust of your favourite icon, weave a few baskets, or hand craft a metal gate this is the place to come. Of course autumn is a good time to come for the gardens and surrounding valley, arguably bringing out the best colour mix of the year. Is it just me but autumn in England seems to be more glorious than normal in 2016, with a richer palette of colour plumping out the reds and ochres which are normally more understated. Must be something to do with coming out from under the shadow of the EU! The weather has been on our side, with an abundance of crisp, blue sky days to heighten the contrasts.

 Whilst West Dean is not your normal English village, being a village tucked inside the skirts of a stately home, East Dean is much more your traditional affair with its flint cottages arranged around a pond in the centre of the village. Handsome hilly scenery surrounds the village, and it's easy to take a hike out of the village as I did through woods and fields to enjoy the valley and also the gentle descents towards the English Channel.

Between the villages of East Dean and West Dean lie another pair of settlements. Tracing the valley west from East Dean you first drive through Charlton, and a little further get to Singleton, which boasts the Weald and Downland Open Air Museum, Sussex Visitor Attraction of the Year 2015, where you can 'come and discover rescued traditional rural buildings set in a beautiful landscape, which tell the stories of the men, women and children who lived and worked in them over a 950 year period.' (Museum website). Having said this, I have yet to visit! What I did do was take a walk up over the Downs from the village. After parking up, I walked through the centre of the village and then took a path which heads out of the churchyard south up the hill. This is an easy on the eye stroll which eventually takes you up out of the valley and over the downland with extensive views until you get to glimpse your first sighting of Goodwood racecourse on the top of the South Downs. The path takes you onto a narrow lane which skirts the west side of the racecourse, then past the 'Triangle' the convenient parking space on the main road, and up onto St Roche's Hill, or alternatively the Trundle, an Iron Age hill fort which gives superb 360 degree views out to sea and over the national park. Here you can spot the Rampion Wind Farm out to the south east, whilst Chichester glints to the south. A great way to spend an hour or two.

Corfu

Well we all know why Corfu is called Corfu, cos when you step off the plane you exclaim 'Cor, phew' at the blistering heat that assaults you as you descend the aircraft steps. That was not my experience however as I landed on the island courtesy of Easyjet gone 11pm at night, when the alluring lights of the indented coastal settlement peeped up out of the darkness at the plane as it coasted into land at Corfu airport. After a smooth landing I caught a taxi to my destination, the City Marina Hotel overlooking the Old and New Ports and the New Fort, a hulking stone monstrosity sitting on a mound opposite the hotel windows. The airport is tucked right into the town, up its bottom you might say, to the south of the urban sprawl. So the taxi fare shouldn't be much for a mere three kilometres. However, it is late, and I am charged fifteen euro, which apparently is the norm. The taxi driver gives me a potted tourist guide to the town as we traverse the short distance to the hotel.

When I arrive at the hotel I am afforded a fairly low key reception from a seriously non smiley lady who might have been mistaken for a no nonsense hospital matron about to stick a syringe in your backside. Room 204 I am told is my destination. My friend has already arrived, a day and a half earlier, and is ready to meet me, regaling me with an account of his activities. He has already christened our receptionist 'the old bat' and it will stick. Fortunately she is not the only receptionist.

We're right on the seafront, and daybreak reveals a great view from the hotel over the New Fort, harbour and twisting coastline, and we're facing west, so a plum evening view from the balcony of sunsets over a can of beer beckons. The first day is spent in town, getting the bearings and visiting the New Venetian Fortress in the morning. It is seriously hot, and climbing tracks to exposed fortresses is not the easiest holiday activity. My friend is sweating alarmingly and the sun lotion does not seem to have quite taken. Perhaps it was not rubbed in enough. There is nothing much to see in the New Fort, no guides or plaques to read. So we just admire the views of Corfu Town dominated by the surrounding sea and the two sister Old and New Forts. Good photo snapping opportunity!

You can get a ticket to cover four attractions for 14 euro, the Old Fort, Asian art museum, Byzantine museum and Mon Repos are all included in the ticket so it makes sense to buy it. The Old Fort is far more interesting and has lots more to see than the New Fort, the Asian art museum has Japanese samurai artefacts amongst other not incredibly interesting exhibits, and the Byzantine museum is all about icons and Greek Orthodox symbolism. We spent a good while on the New Fort, which sprawls like icing on top of a cake over the mound that sits at the eastern end of Corfu Town. It is separated from the main part of the island by a bridge which joins the harbour walls to the Fort ramparts. You can follow the trail right up to the top past various on site buildings including a church building and barrack like blocks lower down. It's a fair walk to the top, where you are rewarded by great views from the fortification ramparts through 360 degrees over the town with the cricket pitch in the foreground, the harbour and out across the straights to Albania. On descent we found a great cafe at the yacht club which sits snug against the harbour walls below the New Fort and where you can sit all afternoon and watch the Mandraki harbour scene, full of bobbing boats on the gentle swell.

One day we visited Vidos, a small island just off the coast of Corfu Town to the north. You can get there for two euro return on a boat trip that lasts about ten minutes. Vidos has an important historical association  as it provided quarantine for a large number of Serbian troops during the First World War who succumbed to typhus and cholera. Sadly, many of them died and were buried locally at sea. A memorial and large mausoleum honours their memory. Many Serbians come to visit this spot and a  young Serbian helped us translate the memorial inscriptions, written at least partly in French.

The island is easy to walk over in a half day, and has a restaurant, cafe and bar just up from the boat mooring. There are numerous camp grounds, and one in the middle of the island was hosting youngster's activities. There are also a few small beaches with forlorn infrastructure which has seen better days. Talking to the lady at the bar, it seems the austerity measures of recent years have taken their toll on the tourist industry. We wound up at a beach on the north end of the isle with a smattering of people arriving and departing, but worn out and abandoned beach furniture was a sad feature again. A couple of guys had fishing rods whilst children swam and a tiny number sunbathed. Unusually, darting pheasants and rabbits shared the beachfront with us, and the odd bit of apple enabled a pheasant 'close up' shot. The weather was not so good today, with thunder and rain at times sharing our airspace. The beach was pleasant but not warm or sunny enough for me to venture into the sea. In the north western quadrant of the island is a Martello tower, but not of the type that decks the south coast of England. This was a somewhat larger fortification with significant ramparts, topped with woodland and standing sentinel over the sea below.

For me the best day was spent at Paleokastrista on the other side of the island, although a mere sixteen miles away across the neck of the island. Our attention had been drawn to this spot by a waitress on the Liston, the elegant colonnaded thoroughfare on the Corfu town seafront that borders the famous cricket pitch described by David Gower as the best pitch he had ever played on. The waitress persuaded us that Paleo as we called it was a plum destination, and so we set our minds to it. We hired a car for the day, and a short ride across the island reveals a wilder more craggy coastline with rocky headlands and promontories plunging into the sea along a wildly serpentine coastline, seemingly randomly thrown together by Providence but making a glorious whole. 'Paleo' as I shall call it, itself nestles at the foot of one section of this riotous shoreline, commanding a position over two bays, each with its own beach. The weather had somewhat improved since the previous day, and now the beach was filling up nicely with sunbathers. A monastery perches on top of the promontory just beyond Paleo, being reached either by foot up the winding road ascent or by vehicle. The monastery itself is flush with tourists visiting the oil mill and little church, while the museum harbours the bones of some gargantuan ancient creature, probably a whale. An old Greek Orthodox priest waxes lyrical to groups of the faithful in the gardens adjoining the monastery. The gardens are a real haven from the midday heat, on the one side of the monastery almost splicing onto the ragged cliffs, on the other surrounding a well decorated with mosaic and filled with coins. We eye the grapes hanging from a trellis and a vibrant splash of bougainvillea adds a welter of colour.

The bay proves to be a winner for snorkelers, pinched on either side by a couple of jutting headlands and bounded by steep rocky slopes. I venture out a couple of times, on the second occasion swimming right out beyond the headland into crystal water in every shade of blue poured over a rock strewn seabed and into secret caves and grottoes etched into the rock face. Here a simple rock formation soars out of the water to create a natural chair upon which one can sit out of the water to admire the view and to remove one's snorkel to shake out the mask. Here multitudinous craft forage to and fro, dodging the swimmers, including pedalos, one shaped like a Volkswagen VW. Fish are a bit more numerous here, the highlight being a blue beauty amongst all the rather plain beige and fawn coloured relatives.

The hired car takes us later up to the 'Bella Vista,' a restaurant hanging for dear life onto the cliff edge but yielding a magnificent view down over the said coastline. Here we met a couple froml northeast England who were here for ten days, who had actually come out on the same flight as my accomplice. They were motorbiking round the island and sang the praises of the north end of the island, an experience we would miss. This is a great spot for a snack or meal as the views are unbeatable. Having said that, later on we drove south-east to the 'Kaisers Throne' at Pelekas not far from the west coast. You drive off the main road up through the village, twisting and turning along tiny streets, still up and up until you arrive at a car park with adjoining perfectly situated hotel at the top of the hill. A viewpoint provides an almost 360 degree view of Corfu, over to Corfu Town and Albania across the straits, down to the south, and up to the north where sits a 917m mountain, quite a biggie for a Greek island. This viewpoint tells you that Corfu is a very green island, lush in every direction, much more so than the barren, dusty islands of the Aegean Sea.

Later on that day, after traversing a rather flat inner part of the island, we meandered up over the coastal hills by twisting roads to arrive at Benitses back on the east coast, a coastal resort and port just a few kilometres south of Corfu Town. Here we parked up by the main road and strolled up the seafront. Then we followed signs to the old village, but the signs petered out, so we had to wander what presumably was the old village. I asked one or two guys seated outside where the square was, and they replied with the amazingly specific answer of 'around.' After looking at the Roman bathhouse and being knocked out by it (not really) we decided to return to Corfu Town for dinner. We deposited the hired car near the rental office after a desperate attempt to park it by reversing against the flow of traffic which had no intention of giving way. Infuriating for my driving friend who threw out a few expletives at their intransigence.

Our last day was spent renting a cycle from near the port and biking a few kilometres to Mon Repos and Kanoni at the end of a spit of land adjacent to Corfu airport runway. Mon Repos, I found a bit more interesting than the Asian art museum and Byzantine museum, with a photographic exhibition of black and white nineteenth century scenes taken by a British officer who served in Corfu. There are also rooms set out in Regency style, an exhibition of watercolours, and various items from assorted archeological digs. This is not to forget that Mon Repos is the birthplace of our very own national treasure, the Duke of Edinburgh, who was born here in 1921 as the house was used by the Greek royal family. You approach the house by a long winding drive that heists upwards through pine woodland until you virtually reach the bluff above the craggy cliffs. The grounds of the house have various ancient ruins including a temple sitting and again overlooking the tumbling sea below. It proved to be an elusive site to find as the signposts to said temple peter out leaving you to work out for yourself which track leads to the 'pot at the end of the rainbow.'

Mon Repos

Further on we reach Kanoni. Here there is a classic picture postcard scene with a 'marooned' little white church reached by a tiny causeway and a few hundred yards out to sea the appropriately named 'Mouse Island,' with the hint of a building peeping up from the trees. You can survey the scene at an excellent cafe located in just the right spot, even more so because aircraft fly very close across your line of vision as they land or take off, an opportunity for some exhilarating sights and sounds. Meanwhile another bigger causeway runs across the channel dividing the sea from a calm lagoon. It runs right under the flight path. You can bike across this but beware the poor surface and pedestrians which make the possibility of flying off into the sea from the seriously narrow path rather more imminent. However the locals show us how it's done by expertly steering their motor scooters across, one with a little dog perched on the footrest.

Later we visited the Moni Viacherapa beach just east of the cafe to catch a last bit of sun before tomorrow's flight home. The beach is a sheltered lagoon and is well populated with bathers. Not great for snorkelers however. The heat of the afternoon was bizarrely interrupted by a rainstorm which swept in as I snorkelled through the shallow waters. Never before have I experienced rain pummelling down on my back whilst swimming in the Mediterranean! Meanwhile towels and accompaniments on the beach received a thorough soaking.

This outing is an easy day out, not too strenuous a bike ride from Corfu Town with a bit of up and down through the urban sprawl. Towards the south it's a one way system, you can hurtle down towards Kanoni, and climb back up the hill on your return by a different route. But the trip is well within the capabilities of any reasonably fit .person .

The flight home was indirect via Athens to Heathrow to save a bit of money, by Aegean airlines. A chance to look down thousands of feet at the Greek archipelago on its west coast, islands glittering temptingly in the azure ocean, as the plane forged east to Athens. Cabin service on the flight to London" was pucker, with sweets being given out first, followed by five rounds of drinks on the flight distributed around a very tasty airline meal. I'm impressed!

Alicante and the Costa Blanca

This is not a destination I planned, but a friend invited me to stay at an apartment he'd rented for the week in Alicante with another friend, it was still summer, and I didn't think I'd fulfilled my full quota of holiday. Five days in Greece is jut not enough! It was a case of going out late and joining them for a couple of days, then fending for myself.

The apartment was fairly basic, 180 euro for the week, but it did the job. It was the real Spain, rented apparently by a very nice lady in a very ordinary side street just on the edge of the city centre. So ordinary that where the block met the main road there was a hole in the wall behind which a man lived! We did not venture to find out more, but Spain is not the wealthiest country in Europe and has a frightening unemployment rate.

The apartment had two bedrooms, a lounge/dining area which merged into a kitchen, a bathroom and outside area for washing machine. I slept in a bunk bed when I arrived whilst my friend gave up the bunk for a mattress on the floor in the lounge. The windows to the street outside were protected with iron bars, comforting if anyone wanted to break in.

The Easyjet flight from London was a little late, but we experienced significant buffeting on the descent to Alicante, although the turbulence wasn't so bad that we were flying up to the ceiling, just that slight uneasiness one feels when the aircraft loses that smooth 'we'll get you there in one piece' feeling. Alicante airport was big and proved infuriatingly difficult for finding the bus into town. After going up in a lift and going back down whilst asking people I finally found the right place.

The bus was packed out and in the end I gave up my seat in anticipation of alighting at the right spot. Talking to folk on the bus for directions, a middle aged couple assured me not to worry, we had further to go and I just had to get off where they got off. The highlight had to be when the lady asked me whether I had come all the way from Australia that day! To enlighten the reader I have a certain Aussie twang.

When I arrived my two associates were seated on the edge of the main beach at an outside cafe somewhat feeling the heat, and we decided to retire to the Hotel Melia Alicante to wallow in the air conditioning and enjoy a cool drink, while I caught up with the exploits of my friends. I think both were coveting the extreme luxuriousness of the hotel and bewailing the extreme ordinariness of the lodgings they were about to introduce me to.

We sought a restaurant for the evening already visited by my two friends, but we found that it was closed. So we headed to the seafront and fell into the trap of eating at a typical tourist joint, one of several strung out with endless table and chairs along the seafront promenade. My course was glorified chicken and chips, with a touch of vegetables thrown in. Adequate but not very Spanish.

Alicante would perhaps have given me preconceived ideas from what I've heard about Spanish package holidays. In fact it's a pleasure to visit, with some really elegant old architecture in the centre, fountains and squares, graceful old lamp posts alongside the boulevards and a hulk of a castle to keep watch over the beach and harbour. It's no recent Mecca purely raised up to cater for the post-war tourist boom, but a settled city with a long past and established tradition.

We wandered the city centre on my first morning, stopping at the tourist office and deciding to visit the Marq museum, set in an old hospital to the north east of the castle mound. Unfortunately it was closed when we got there until later in the day, so we had lunch at a cafe high above the beach, then spent the rest of the afternoon swimming and sunbathing on the main city beach, a substantial swathe, both wide and deep. Here the water is very shallow and incredibly warm, very safe for children, and stretches of open beach vie with more regimented patches of umbrellas and sunbeams. A couple of topless bathers insisted on doing various gym exercises at the water's edge, which must have provided entertainment for anyone within sight. I snorkel with zero success, not seeing one fish, possibly my least rewarding expedition ever.

Later as eveing approaches we began the considerable climb to the castle from the beachfront, but this is worth every step, as the views are brilliant. Ours ascent snaked up the southern side, then whipped around the north side of the mound into the castle itself, whose fortifications mantle a huge area. On the way up we encounter young people running up and down the slopes. What madness is this in these temperatures? They turn out to be police, perhaps cadets doing their training, overseen by a couple of what can only be described as 'sadistic' trainers! Thankfully we find a water fountain on the way up, as we are running out of water.

The fortification is incredibly well preserved and meanders over a wide and undulating area. There are also two welcome cafes just below the summit. A large flat area at the top gives wonderful 360 degree views up and down the coast and over the city inland towards the mountains. We stop at a cafe and discover the sangria drink. I see a group drinking the deep red juice and want it for myself! We are now hooked and sangria is an everyday essential!

I booked a pension late in the evening with one of our mobiles. Tomorrow we will leave the apartment, deposit my friends' bags there before their flight, and enjoy a last day together. The next morning we follow the sat nav on my friend's mobile and cannot find the new accommodation. It deposits us in the city centre but wildly away from where we are meant to be. Something has gone seriously wrong. However we have the address and eventually between the mobile and the map manage to find the pension tucked away neatly at the corner of an elegant square right up against the seafront in the centre of town. A perfect location! I have to admit I was becoming a little stressed by the insistence on the part of the destination of making it virtually impossible for us to find it up to this point. However, all was not over yet, for the receptionist, an amenable young chap, couldn't speak a word of English and seemed to have no awareness that I had reserved a room. Thankfully I was able to show him my reservation on my phone, but he still had to use his English Spanish translator on his phone to make contact. This was a method of communication I was not familiar with, speaking English into a phone which then translated your words into Spanish. We got there in the end as I handed over my 60 euro for two nights.

The room was fine, with decent bed and TV. The bathroom was a touch poky, especially the shower cubicle, one of those designed for a person twice as small as whoever is using it. In addition the shower doors were decidedly dodgy, insisting on coming off their hinges on the odd occasion. On top of this, as one was showering, on both occasions I used it the bathroom light went off to leave one showering in a midget person size compartment in the dark. Standing on one leg to wash one's feet is doubly difficult in the dark, as one feels more inclined to lose one's balance and crash against the side of the unit, like one's internal GPS has folded. Infuriatingly, drying yourself in this weeny space almost always ensures banging against the shower sides as you manoeuvre the towel over your wet curves. Meanwhile, security of the bathroom hangs literally on a small hook that ensures a slide door protects your modesty from the outside world, but the real sting in the tail is leaving the bathroom, as it's a step down into the hall over a tiny ledge, and twice I stubbed my heel on this wretched architectural anomaly. Whatever possessed the designer to not ensure the floor of the bathroom was flush with the floors of the outside corridor?

The tram takes us to El Campello the next day, a reasonably close destination given that my friends are returning to the UK that evening. It's just a short ride up the coast north, and boasts a fine beach and a great tapas restaurant (Restaurante Cavia) on the seafront where we enjoyed an abundance of courses. I was set for lunch, but the amount of food provided made it the main meal of the day. There was bread and sausage, some sort of fish sauce with a tiny spoon to sup with, potatoes, a splendidly presented egg salad, a crispy pancake dish, and a couple of fish dishes, one of which I must confess looked like fried lizards from the near distance, but on closer inspection must have been fish. The people at an adjoining table I would have bet were Spanish, but lo and behold turned out to be Brits, The beach was a fine stretch, rather less occupied than the Alicante city beach. The water here proved to be much less shallow than Alicante. Not much of a spot for snorkeling though.

A late afternoon, early evening return to Alicante was called for as my friends flight home was imminent. We said our goodbyes at the airport bus, and I was on my own. Slightly deflated, I took a walk around the harbour and contemplated my next move. The harbour is a good place for an evening stroll as the setting sun casts mellow hues over the bobbing boats and calm waters. There is a photogenic old sailing ship rigged up at the waterside with its own restaurant. I soon moved into the smooth rhythm of the Englishman abroad however, and before you could say 'Bobs your uncle' was consuming pizza, coke and cheese pasta at a fast food joint.

The day after my friends flew home I decided to take a trip to Altea, a good journey up the coast by the tram rail car which plies up and down the Costa Blanca. It was about an hour and 10m to Benidorm, then a bit of a wait before a 17m ride to Altea, so you have to allow for a couple of hours. You can catch the tram at Mercado, an underground hub just up from the Alicante seafront. Line 1 goes to Benidorm, line 3 to Altea and Denia by the same route. The trams are modern and comfortable, and the line twists and turns out of Alicante, seeing daylight beyond the castle mound, before hitting the coast and following a lovely long beach up to El Campollo. After that the line plies through more country, the landscape as dry as dust, between numerous settlement strewn up and down the slopes and down to the sea. I have had a quiet ride so far, then an older gentleman gets on and sits opposite me and strikes me as a little weird. He has a green hat on and has an array of what look like lottery tickets pinned down his front above a man bag. He seems to sing or talk to himself as we progress, and I do not look at him too hard  in case he engages me in what could be a fruitless exchange, given the sparseness of my Spanish. He reminds me of a dwarf character that has just been mining for gold in some fabled mountain.

Before we arrive at Benidorm we know it is coming up. It represents a striking incongruity with the surrounding landscapes of dusty Spanish villages and rain starved countryside. A huge array of giant apartment blocks fills the near horizon over a large area. One such remarkable block looks as if it has been plucked from Dubai and set down in southern Spain. It has two legs stretching up to form an arch at the top. What is all this? A Spanish dodge city? A Canary Wharf for the tourists? I am not particularly tempted to go into the town, and wait on the connection. Maybe it's a bit like visiting Blackpool, there is a strong element of curiosity, but one visit's enough.

Altea is only about five stops later, and the landscape becomes much more green compared with further south. Altea is definitely worth a visit. The best part is on a hill looking down over the railway and coast, and the town is set between two headlands in the far distance making for an attractive beach location. However the eastern end of the seafront is out of bounds as some sort of big construction redevelopment is going on. After spending some time having lunch and visiting rather a quiet beach, I take a walk in the evening up to the top of the hill, where I admire the views and take a few shots. Jammed with quaint climbing alleyways, steps and thoroughfares, this is the best bit. Restaurants and shops spring up like flowers as you approach the top which is crowned by a lovely square on which sits a large church with a couple of attractive blue domes. If I had more time I would stay, but the train I am aiming for will not arrive back in Alicante until 9.45pm. I descend the hill to the station, where I have a coffee before enjoying the ride back in the company of my novel. By now it is dark.

The next day I try to book an extra night in Alicante. Gives me a chance to visit the Marq museum, the church and perhaps visit the lovely looking beach north of Alicante. However all that is left is a 40 euro private room and I decide to move on, it will be Torreviejo today. I walk along the seafront along elegant tree lined walkways to the bus station west of the port. Here I buy a ticket for 4.50 euro for the 1pm bus to Torreviejo.

We arrive at Torreviejo about an hour later and I am struck by how big the town is, with a population of 100,000 plus. This is no small resort but quite a sprawling urban area catering fully for the tourist and beach lover. There are a lot of British people here and not for nothing is it called the 'Costa Del Yorkshire.' Accommodation has to be sorted out so I sit in a cafe at the bus station mulling over where to stay. I order a snack in the form of a bacon and cheese baguette which turns out to be a rather cardboard offering, possible the worst baguette I have ever had! Hotel Cano sits at the top of the list of possibilities, a £30 per night hostelry that has already been mentioned by a friend who has a flat in the area. Meanwhile should I look for something a bit cheaper? Some reading this might be mortified that I might be unhappy at paying the meagre sum of £30 per night, a sum which would barely get you a bed and breakfast in many parts of England, save perhaps somewhere like the Black Country. Having a nose for budget travel, I know I can find

 a £15 per nighter, but it was the thought of spending possible hours finding such a place when one has limited time and the possibility of spending a scorching afternoon on the beach as a tasty alternative. It was a no brainer, I booked online and literally walked a block or two to arrive at the Hotel Cano.

The Hotel Cano proved to be a shrewd move, the accommodation was getting better the more the holiday progressed, although the guy at reception was a bit glum. I had a lovely big room with two beds, ensuite facilities, free wifi and everything spotlessly clean. What a joy to be back in a bathroom where you could swing a dozen cats, step into the shower without bashing your elbows on ancient and decrepit shower doors, and even have the luxury of a bidet, an item I have never used and was not intending to use! Alarmingly there was no fridge after the previous two inferior accommodations having one. Sadly the view from the window looked out over the inside of the hotel rather than an inspiring stretch of turquoise coastline. However, the bed was 100% comfortable, and a decent bed is the most important thing about any hotel.

I had four days to spend and soon got into a daily routine of having breakfast in the rather attractive Placa de la Constitution on which sits a fine looking church. I split my time between two cafes to consume my coffee and croissant. Downtown Torrevieja is a myriad grid of parallel streets which pour down to the main shopping area and the beachfront. It's no more than a standard and quite pleasant beach resort, still very busy even in September, with plenty of children around. My general routine in a place like this is beach in the afternoon after about 2.30 or even later, and with my snorkel I was quite keen to find some rocky cove to explore rather than frequent just the town beach. Mornings can be used for diverse activities like visiting the tourist office, getting ones bearings, dropping in to the odd church or museum, or simply dilly dallying at the hotel.

On the Sunday morning I walked to the Torrevieja Christian Fellowship which I had spotted from the bus and which my friend frequented when in the area. It proved to be a pleasant enough experience, most of the communicants being middle aged or older ex pats with a sprinkling of Africans and evidently locals. The minister, a Welshman and a bit of a comedian, was due to retire soon but led the service and preached with gusto. I sat next to a friendly Scotsman and his wife, who looked after me after the service and and guided me to the proverbial cup of tea. We sat outside afterwards together with a middle aged lady who claimed to be the child bride of an older man, and a New Zealand couple who were doing Europe and heading for Barcelona.

Torrevieja has quite a good selection of beaches but the main one is the Playa del Cura which sits not far to the east of the harbour. Scattered along the coast to the east and west are a range of beaches, some larger and more general purpose, others small rocky coves with far less people, basically a recipe to suit all tastes.

Another day I hired a bike from an outlet on Avda. Gregorio Maranon, and paid a visit to one of the two salt lakes (Las Salinas) that border the town. If you cycle to the rather well to do suburbs north of the town centre where clouds of bougainvillea and other exotic flowers tumble over the white walls of expensive looking villas, not much further on you can find a gap and cycle out over scrubland to this large inland lake which shimmers with a red hue in the midday sun. Bend down at the waters edge and you see enough salt crystals to keep your spice racks filled for generations. Out from the shore people are bathing, or more accurately sitting or reclining in this giant shallow pool, presumably for the benefits to the skin afforded by siting in this giant salty bath. Not quite your average Mediterranean beach. In the distance you can spot mountains of salt extracted for commercial purposes from this quasi lunar landscape.

I also paid a visit to Torrevieja's old station, now disused but decorated with bright colours alongside an old stretch of track. There is also a submarine museum, the 'Museos Flotantes' down at the harbour (Muelle Pesquero), but I gave that a miss. It hadn't been that long since my last submarine experience at Portsmouth dockyard.

Later on I cycle out south from the town centre to find another beach, preferably one where I can snorkel. After a slightly tortuous route I find a little cove with some promising rocky highlights. Unfortunately the sea proves a little feisty. Not fancying a rogue wave smashing me into a rock headfirst, and with no one on shore to look out for me, I ditch the snorkel and make do with getting into the water and riding the waves.

Evening was quite fun in Torrevieja town as its like some giant has picked up the town, given it a good shake, and sent everybody flying into the town centre. Here they promenade up and down in their finery or sit at one of the plentiful supply of restaurants strewn along the sea front and catering  for every taste. Most nights a young guy in a beret did a puppet show and always got a good crowd. Every night he used the standard three characters, an Elvis type cool singer, a corresponding female singer, and a friendly dog. The children would sit right on top of the puppets and the guy would tease them by bringing his puppets up close and personal. Part of the fun was seeing how the kids reacted, either smothering the puppet or jumping out of the way.

Sirvent is an evening highlight and well worth a visit. This is the daddy of all ice cream parlours on the sea front with an overwhelming choice of flavours. I got into the indulgent habit of making it my dessert stop after a delicious restaurant meal. Take your pick and then sit at one of the tables and do a bit of people watching. The last night there things were a bit quieter but one chap was enjoying his beer. He was already indulging when the waitress brought out another bucket of beers for him to enjoy.

On the last day I popped to the casino on the seafront and just shy of the main square with the fountain. This building has a rather splendid gilded interior and is well worth a visit.

Easyjet took me out. Monarch took me back, but at cruising height we hit a lot of turbulence in the Spain/France area. The soothing words of the typically English captain addressing us as 'ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls' assured us they were doing their best to negotiate the pockets of turbulence and that it should be over in fifteen minutes. In the end it went on for quite a bit longer but we can forgive him, the professionalism of the cabin crew was welcome, and the landing at Gatwick was excellent!

Restaurante Cavia C/ San Vicente, 43, tel 96 563 28 57

Hotel Cano - C/Zoa, 53 (Esquina A, Machado) 03182 Torrevieja (Alicante)

Tel: 96 670 09 58    96 571 76 97

info@hotelcano.com.   www.hotelcano.com

Torrevieja Christian Fellowship, Avenida de las Cortes Valencianas 68
Tel: 966 700 391
info@tcf-spain.org     www.tcf-spain.org