Grumpy Old Guides

During our most recent trip to Spain, Mr. Grumpy, aka Tim, celebrated a birthday. Mrs. Grumpy, aka Sonja, feeling unusually generous, decided to treat Tim to a night away from their holiday apartment and an opportunity to explore somewhere a little different.

After weeks spent poring over maps, hotel reviews, and the seductive promises of Booking.com photography, Mrs. Grumpy had a revelation: perhaps they didn’t actually need to travel very far at all. Instead, she settled upon Alicante.

Now, like millions of other people, Mrs. Grumpy had spent most of her adult life flying into Alicante Airport only to immediately leave it behind. Alicante, for many, is merely the place where luggage is reclaimed, arguments about car hire excess insurance begin, and holidaymakers scatter themselves across the Costa Blanca.

In 2025, some 20 million passengers passed through Alicante Airport, yet somehow the Spanish have managed to keep the actual city itself remarkably well hidden. Most visitors merely glimpse it through the smeary window of a transfer coach before disappearing off toward Benidorm, Torrevieja, or whichever resort promises the cheapest happy hour cocktails.

As the surprise trip approached, however, Mrs. Grumpy began to worry. Perhaps there was a reason nobody stayed in Alicante itself. Perhaps this carefully planned birthday surprise would prove a catastrophic misjudgement and leave Mr. Grumpy grumpier than ever.

The omens were mixed from the outset.

Mr. Grumpy insisted they avoid the motorway entirely and instead take the coast road via Torrevieja (which elicited an involuntary “urgh” from Mrs Grumpy), before continuing through Guardamar, La Marina, Santa Pola, and onward to Alicante. Mrs. Grumpy reluctantly agreed, only to discover, as they cruised past the shimmering salt lagoons of La Mata dotted with elegant flamingos, that he had been absolutely right.

A dangerous precedent.

Arriving in Alicante itself, they navigated the gloriously narrow streets of the old town in search of their hotel’s unloading point, before eventually abandoning the car in the marina car park with the sort of relief normally associated with surviving a natural disaster.

Their hotel stood opposite Alicante’s town hall in a beautiful square lined with chic bars and restaurants, tables spilling elegantly across the plaza. Stylish Spanish ladies sipped sangria beneath parasols while impossibly well-dressed men lounged as though they had nowhere in the world they needed to be. Mrs. Grumpy immediately felt a huge wave of relief.

This had potential.

After dropping off their bags pending check-in, the Grumpies wandered in search of coffee – a matter they take extremely seriously whilst travelling. Fans of the Grumpies will already know that morning coffee is not simply about caffeine. It is about atmosphere. People watching. Shade. Proper chairs and within close proximity of a toilet.

Within minutes they discovered a beautiful square completely sheltered from the fierce midday sun by enormous banyan trees. Beneath them sat a charming little patisserie with rattan tables and chairs scattered invitingly beneath the canopy.

As it was Mr. Grumpy’s birthday, cake was officially permitted alongside the iced lattes. This represented a major relaxation in policy, given Mr. Grumpy’s recently acquired portly belly and the strict rationing programme imposed by Mrs. Grumpy in recent weeks.

The coffee was superb. The setting even better. Every box was ticked.

Suitably refreshed, they began exploring Alicante’s old town, and what an absolute pleasure it was. Cobbled streets, now completely pedestrianised, wound between elegant old buildings, while countless palm trees provided desperately needed shade and, presumably, oxygen to the rest of the province.

They visited the Basilica of Santa Maria and St Nicholas Cathedral, climbing steep streets whilst puffing and panting with the sort of theatrical exhaustion that only those ‘getting on a bit’ can truly deliver. Above it all loomed the Castle of Santa Bárbara, perched high on the hill like a watchful guardian of the city.

Now if you follow the Grumpy Guides regularly, you will know they are unapologetic open-top bus nerds. If a city offers a sightseeing bus, they’re on it. Eastbourne twice. Cartagena twice. Barcelona. No shame whatsoever.

Usually, these tours offer useful insights delivered at a pleasantly old-fogey-friendly pace. Alicante, however, approached matters somewhat differently. First came the disappointment that the buses apparently take a siesta between 2pm and 4pm, an operational policy unlikely to succeed in Britain where people become irritable if deprived of sightseeing for more than eleven minutes.

Having waited patiently until 4pm, the Grumpies boarded with anticipation, only to discover the commentary consisted largely of someone announcing the names of buildings they were already passing. Educational it was not. The Alicante Tourist Board could learn a thing or two from Cartagena, whose sightseeing buses provide genuinely fascinating information rather than what amounted to a moving game of architectural bingo.

Still, commentary aside, it remained a wonderfully relaxing way to see the city.

After the tour, the Grumpies returned to the square by the town hall and ordered a jug of sangria, which slipped down with alarming ease while they indulged in one of their favourite holiday activities: people watching.

Mrs. Grumpy, however, still had one final birthday surprise planned.

First though, dinner.

Earlier that day they had discovered a tiny cobbled lane absolutely crammed with restaurants, tables spilling into the street so densely that only narrow pathways remained between them. The air was thick with the smell of grilled meats, garlic, seafood, and warm bread, essentially everything that makes dieting impossible in Spain.

Here they found a small table and studied the menu with great seriousness. Should they sensibly opt for the excellent-value menú del día, or splash out on the à la carte? Mrs. Grumpy leaned instinctively toward extravagance, while Mr. Grumpy, ever alert to unnecessary expenditure, viewed this as yet another example of her financially reckless tendencies.

Eventually compromise prevailed: à la carte, but with tapas to start.

As they debated their choices, a mariachi band suddenly appeared beside their table and launched enthusiastically into Viva España. Mrs. Grumpy, caught up in the moment, applauded warmly at the end.

This proved to be an error.

Unlike the experienced Spanish diners, who wisely maintained expressions of polite neutrality, Mrs. Grumpy’s enthusiasm immediately resulted in a hat being thrust under her nose. Forced into a hurried search for suitable coins, she donated what Mr. Grumpy no doubt considered a disproportionately generous contribution.

Then came the evening’s final surprise.

Just a few minutes away, hidden behind an unassuming doorway in the old town, they entered an ancient building that once formed the stables of a palace. Stone arches framed a tiny stage in an intimate room holding perhaps fifty people at most.

Mrs. Grumpy had booked tickets for an authentic flamenco performance.

She hoped it might be good.

It was extraordinary.

The flamenco felt less like a performance and more like being allowed to witness something deeply private. Every stomp, every breath, every glance carried raw emotion. The singers and musicians did not perform for the audience, they seemed entirely absorbed in telling their story, while the dancers moved as though possessed by it.

At moments it almost felt intrusive to watch – as though grief, pride, love and heartbreak were unfolding right there in front of them in real time. Fierce, beautiful, and utterly authentic.

When it ended, Mr. Grumpy quietly declared it one of the most special of days.

Mrs. Grumpy was delighted.   Another Sangria night cap was enjoyed before a comfortable night in their lovely hotel, which had also been a great choice.

The following morning, after a hearty continental breakfast, the Grumpies set off on foot for the imposing Castle of Santa Bárbara, which sits proudly high above Alicante. Visitors can reach the castle either by bus or via a lift carved deep into the mountain itself — an experience Mrs. Grumpy approached with considerably less enthusiasm than Mr. Grumpy.

The entrance to the lift is through a long tunnel burrowed beneath the rock, which did little to soothe Mrs. Grumpy’s claustrophobia. The lift shaft itself, disappearing alarmingly into the depths of the mountain, felt less like a tourist attraction and more like a possible descent into the very firing pits of hell. Admittedly, this assessment may have been slightly exaggerated by her increasing conviction that the tunnel contained no oxygen whatsoever.

Clinging tightly to Mr. Grumpy, and fighting off waves of dizziness, she survived the ascent intact. Mr. Grumpy, meanwhile, remained entirely unbothered and was instead revelling in the discovery that over-65s receive free access to the castle lift — a perk he felt thoroughly justified years of advancing age.

Emerging into daylight at the top, Mrs. Grumpy was flooded with relief, oxygen, and renewed appreciation for fresh air. The Grumpies wandered along the castle walls admiring the spectacular panoramic views across Alicante, the marina, and the shimmering bay beyond.

Unfortunately, it was at this point they realised the lift had only performed part of the task. The actual historic castle still required another long, steep climb uphill.

The blazing sunshine, which moments earlier had felt so glorious after the subterranean tunnel experience, now became distinctly less welcome. Puffing and panting commenced almost immediately.

Mrs. Grumpy soon declared herself entirely unfit for further ascent. Mr. Grumpy, somewhat suspiciously, was remarkably understanding and gallantly insisted that her comfort and wellbeing were of paramount importance. Mrs. Grumpy knew perfectly well that he was secretly relieved not to continue either.

It was then that Mr. Grumpy had a sudden moment of clarity.

“No wonder the over-65s get in free,” he observed.

This revelation was swiftly followed by the excellent suggestion that they abandon all further climbing and head back down to the beachfront for coffee instead.

Not only is Alicante a stunningly beautiful city, it also boasts a glorious urban beach, Playa del Postiguet, which was thronged with Spanish families enjoying the hot sand and warm Mediterranean waters.

The beachfront cafés provided yet another perfect spot for the Grumpies to enjoy iced vanilla lattes while indulging in their favourite pastime of people watching. Particularly entertaining were the African beach vendors selling brightly coloured towels and rugs, who repeatedly bundled up their entire displays with lightning speed every time a police car passed by, only to unpack them all again moments later once the coast was clear.

Together they concluded that Alicante is one of Spain’s great hidden treasures: elegant, atmospheric, vibrant, and refreshingly untouched by the worst excesses of foreign tourism. A city still largely enjoyed by the Spanish themselves.

They felt genuinely privileged to have shared it, even briefly.

Far from being grumpy visitors, the Grumpies left Alicante unexpectedly happy, and absolutely determined to return.  Mr. Grumpy declared that his grown up children would absolutely love it, admitting that these days, this had increasingly become the measure by which he judged places.

The Grumpies stayed at Eurostars Mediterranea Plaza

The Flamenco Show venue/tickets:  https://gyg.me/mQL2sfyq