AN EARLY CHRISTMAS IN SPAIN

The Castillo of Santa Barbara atop Alicante’s highest hill had been an active castle and watchtower in medieval times; it prevented pirate and Moorish attacks, and merchant ships could always be spotted on the shores below. Through time, lords and crowned heads inhabited it as did an assemblage of service people who developed the land, the farms, villages and streams that washed down the hillside sloping towards the Mediterranean Sea.                                                                              

Evocative of the olden lifestyle of Spain’s southeastern parts, today, the castle is Alicante’s chief symbol; a living treasure for the town and its inhabitants.

When we first arrived nearing the noon hour on this medium sized, Costa Blanca seaside town in late September 1972, the afternoon was sweltering betraying the autumnal calendar season. My attention taken by the white-washed houses and apartment buildings along the very narrow, cobble-stoned lanes that lined the bottom of the hill overlooking the expansive blue sea; the docked fishing boats hugging the beach and delectable aromas of fresh seafood wafting through open doors and windows of dining folk.

In those days, Alicante was famed for its nougat candy, abundant seafood, olive and almond orchards, and well-developed cheese making traditions.

We first stayed at a room-and-board, in the center of town, overlooking the west side of the Santa Barbara Castle. A week later, we moved to a front-facing balconied apartment on the sixth floor of a modern building, situated on one of the coveted cobbled lanes at the foot of the castled mount, just across the Mediterranean and only one mile from town. Though sparingly furnished, the apartment was cozy and full of light.

With our first-born Carolynne, aged 3 and a half, we soon began a living and learning routine as we prepared to reside in this town for the one-year posting.

Our previous year in Northern Spain had been successful as far as work and schooling for Carolyn in the conservative town of Vitoria (Yes, without a C) in the Basque Country. Alicante, now promised to be just as grand an experience, as highly encouraged, we settled ourselves to discover it.

A bilingual school for our daughter, an English teaching job for me plus a yoga class, completed our early arrangements. 

Soon after that, and on a long weekend we hired a smallish car, and started north, through the beautiful Spanish countryside, driving all the way to Vitoria, some 350 miles to our friends’ home, who the previous spring -- before we left for our summer in the USA – had graciously offered to store our household effects until our return to Spain. 

October was a sizzling month but come November temperatures dropped and in place of bathers on the beach, we spotted runners and young children building castles in the sand.

By December the Costa Blanca weather turned bitter, and snow (unseen for the past 25 years) covered the neighboring Sierra de Bernia hills which rise about 5000 feet above the sea.

The customary birds that grace the Mediterranean coast’s mild winters, found warm refuge on the inside of verandas and apartment back patios such as ours, a sight that made Carolynne squeal with joy.

Although the cold kept people indoors, we pulled our thick woolen coats, hats and scarves out of storage and on we marched on foot to school and job. On our dusky walk back, as indoor lights came on, one by one, in the town’s houses and shops, we would stop by ‘our’ bakery right on our way home, to buy some ‘just out of the oven’ crumpets (ensaimadas) filled with cream and sprinkled with powdered sugar, and eat them on the remainder of our brisk walk. The pine-scented smoke from the street corner chestnut sellers, veiled the air in a filmy healing aroma, fueling our mounting expectations of the fast approaching holiday season.

We did not have a car those years in Spain, our way of transport being our own two feet, public buses and sometimes a rented car when we wanted to enjoy a weekend exploring beyond Alicante.  Walking is a common way of life in Spain; healthy, clean, and ecological; countless observations can be made without having to park or bother with a car. I walk all over town or take the bus from the market, with my rattan grocery basket full of produce.

Nearly every family in Alicante either walks or rides public transportation to school or work; some own cars but only drive on weekends.

One Saturday in December, we rented a small car (a tiny Fiat 600 for those familiar with Fiats) and went off in search of a Christmas tree farm a neighbor had told us about. Driving along an isolated road between the sea and the hills, we were suddenly overtaken by a herd of goats, thirty or forty in all, some bushy, some with heavy coiled horns. To Carolynne’s delight and acclamation, we stopped the car allowing the confused goats to surround us in every way and direction possible in the middle of the road. In a whirl of bells and a melody of flutes, a young shepherd appeared up the path, urging the flock to settle into a sort of straight line to liberate the road.

The Christmas tree we picked, a tall and skinny fir, had to be accommodated diagonally inside the car, its top sticking out the front passenger window, its bottom trunk against the back window; we drove home singing carols and inhaling the amazing scent from the pine forests.

The afternoon excitement was so empowering that our young daughter, on being asked her name (in Spanish) by a nice grandfatherly man, replied blatantly “My name is Wee Wee Denken” to which the gentleman retorted (in Spanish), with a smile, “Ah, you must be a foreigner then”

When spring lastly arrived, the pale apple and almond trees greeted us with god-sent perfumed blossoms gifting us with suspended canopies in bloom; the hills and the Santa Barbara castle offering a seemingly pious light reflected by the sea and the setting sun. ©1973 ESW