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Published: July 27th 2022
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Today we head south east to Valencia on Spain’s Mediterranean coast.
We’ve loved San Sebastian, and our brains are telling us not to leave. And maybe we still won’t. Issy’s now got a sore foot, and yours truly’s back decided to go out on strike midway through yesterday afternoon. Still let’s look on the bright side, at least one of us can still walk and the other one might still be able to carry things. So I’ll do the walking and Issy can do the carrying, easy. Unfortunately this logic doesn’t seem to be helping too much as we trudge the kilometre or so to the bus station with our overly heavy luggage in tow.
The lady in front of us in the queue to board the plane in Bilbao has got her cat with her. It’s in a bag around her neck, and it seems very comfortable; its head and shoulders are sticking out and it’s having a good look around at the action. We’re fairly sure cats aren’t allowed on planes back home, at least in the part where the passengers are. We’re sitting in one of the exit rows, so we get discussing what might happen
with the cat if we get called into action. We know you’re not allowed to take any “personal belongings“ with you if there’s an emergency evacuation, but what about the cat. It‘s probably classified as a personal belonging, so if its owner did have to leave it behind it would seem a bit overly harsh to just jam it into one of the overhead lockers and hope for the best. The only feasible alternative approach would seem to be to just let it run around the cabin, but wouldn’t it then just follow its owner down the slide anway; oh hang on, that’s what a dog would do, a cat would probably just curl up on one of the seats and go to sleep. I think we might need to start thinking about something else.
San Sebastián was all very lush and green, but everything looks much drier and more parched as we head south. As we get closer to our destination the only things that don’t look parched are the seemingly endless fields of what look to us like fruit trees. I’m not sure it’s actually possible to spot a Valencia orange from 30,000 feet, so we decide
to just run with that as a logical assumption for now. If it’s right there sure are a lot of them.
Our taxi driver takes us through an impossibly complex maze of narrow streets to our apartment, somewhere near the city centre. It’s very cute, and we’re shown around by the delightful Mariana, a friend of the owner Alessandro who apparently spends his time flitting between here and Italy. It’s on the top floor, and it’s got a huge terrace off the living room, and another smaller one off the bedroom. The laundry’s in a cupboard on the smaller terrace, so at least we won’t have too far to go to hang out our wet clothes. It seems they may have more than one interesting way of approaching washing here. Our next door neighbours are drying two single mattresses on their tiled roof. Mariana leaves and I head back out onto the terrace for a closer look. Well that was the plan until the glass door gets in the way. My back’s starting to feel a lot better now that I’m half unconscious.
I leave Issy resting while I head off exploring. Our neighbourhood looks a tad on
the grungy side, but a couple of hundred metres towards the city and I’m now in wide boulevards fronted by some classical looking historic buildings - among them La Lonja de la Seda or The Silk Exchange which we’ve read about, and the Central Market. They didn’t really seem to be all that into siestas and late dining in San Sebastián, but it’s a whole different kettle of fish here in what seems to be much hotter Valencia. I collect Issy and we head out for some 10pm tapas. The whole place is buzzing with life; every available space seems to be an outdoor restaurant and most are doing a roaring trade.
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