THE FRESH, pine-like fragrance of rosemary fills the warm air whilst birds – lots of them – sing jubilantly from the surrounding trees and shrubs. In one direction jagged limestone ridges, dazzling against the azure sky, fill the horizon; turning around, we look out to the distant Mediterranean Sea. The gloom of a dull, damp, lifeless British February, experienced just the previous day, might as well be on the other side of the planet rather than just a three-hour flight away. This, believe it or not, is the Costa Blanca.
Where are the lines of high-rise buildings looming over beaches rammed with sun-loungers? And what about the lobster-tanned holidaymakers queueing outside clubs to watch lurid cabaret acts? There aren’t even any fish and chip shops or British pubs. I have to admit that, when my partner Heleyne first typed ‘Spanish winter sun walking destinations’ into Google, the region made famous by 1970s package tour operators hadn’t really been on my radar; but our post-lockdown needs were simple – we both wanted to be outdoors, to walk, to feel the sun on our arms; and we didn’t want a long flight.
