It’s well known that there are a lot of
wealthy people on the Costa Del Sol, and somewhere amongst them, the worlds
most successful concrete salesmen live a
glamorous high life of fast cars, flash villas, and fun. They sold a lot of
concrete. It coats the ground from the sea towards the mountains, and stretches
skywards in a quest to occupy all three dimensions. Huge concrete highways connect
the concrete airport in Marbella to the concrete hotels and resorts along the
coast in a topography where concrete salesmen outnumber conservationists.
Cross the highway, and a different Spain
opens up. Whilst the continuation of concrete suggests this is not exactly the
“real” Spain, it is still real enough to have proper tapas for 5 people and get change from
EUR50, then slip next door for crunchy Churros dipped in thick warm chocolate.
English is barely spoken this side of the road, a world away from the
holiday-makers across the road taking conference calls from the sun-loungers.
As ever in a Spanish-speaking country, the combination of children and
something kickable allows a game of football to initiate. Whilst more children
join, more beer is drunk… and there goes another afternoon in the sunshine.
Flights and accommodation are plentiful and
inexpensive, and activities for children boundless, making this part of Spain a
reliable recipe for a pleasantly easy, if unadventurous, family holiday. And
the beach itself, whilst only a thin strip between the concrete and the sea, is
sandy and virtually deserted during our visit over Easter. The distant views of
the romantic mountains of Morocco in the distance across the sea add a stunning
backdrop to a lazy day.
We stayed in one of hundreds of very
similar concrete timeshare resorts sandwiched between the concrete highway and the
sea, chosen mainly because the apartment easily accommodated our family of five
with two good bedrooms and a sofa bed in the living room. The resort facilities included the standard
set of indoor and outdoor swimming pools, restaurants and bars, a little
football area and a kids club. Even with all that however, the most fun is to
be had on the beach. The sea was just about warm enough over Easter for a swim, the sand
was just firm enough for us to create our own fortifications, and the space
enough to run around.
Despite our general idleness on this trip,
we did one day set off with a plan and caught the bus along the concrete
highway to Marbella, and its jolly pretty old town full of Orange Trees and
shady passageways. A statue of the King commemorating the restoration of the
monarchy reminds us that this modern European country was a dictatorship in our
lifetimes. Despite my fascinating
lecture on twentieth century Spanish history, the children decide that getting ice-cream would be a more interesting option at this point. Both of the
overpriced restaurants recommended by the resort are closed, so we follow a
group of hungry looking builders into a café and order by pointing at
neighbouring tables – and ate like – well – hungry builders.
But the holiday is mainly a good value week
of quality time with children. We swim, we read, we play football, we colour in
princess pictures, we eavesdrop on conference calls taken by the pool. We buy
fresh food in the market across the road, and serve up on the balcony of the
apartment having leisurely late evening meals all together. We talk to each
other, often without shouting. The ipads and phones stayed locked in the safe forgotten about.
And at the end of the week, we follow the concrete strip back to the airport
and home, having properly unwound ourselves.
