Holidays in Estepona, Costa del Sol: Sunshine and Sangria, and the Up-close and personal
Few phrases elicit more happiness from a tired British soul than “cheap flights to Spain.” Add the words “Costa del Sol” and you can almost hear the collective sigh of relief echoing from every rainy UK high street. And so, charmed by the promise of sun and sea and maybe just a bit too much sangria, I recently dropped into Estepona, a lovely, coastal town that seems to be doing both real Spanish for people who aren’t good at saying “gracias” correct. Estepona is one of those places that has been able to steer clear of the worst of the package holiday mayhem. You won’t notice neon nightclubs advertising two-for-one tequila shots or tattoo parlours serving “no regerts” in slightly smudged cursive. Instead, you find cobbled streets lined with flower pots, whitewashed buildings and locals who appear to have a real interest in living there. It’s beautiful enough to give you a sense of dubiousness. The town’s vintage quarter is the type of spot that makes you want to photograph doorways, when doors have never even been a thing to you. Each street appears to have been designed by somebody obsessed with pastel shades and geraniums. Wandering through, for a little while I was under the impression that I too could, one day, find myself living here, possibly have my very own little shop and market overpriced smoothies to other deluded expats as well. Then I remembered that I didn’t speak Spanish except dos cervezas por favor and that the houseplants I currently own are mostly dead. No trip to Estepona, of course, would be a happy one without visiting the beach. There’s something incredibly British about wanting to hang out on a sun lounger for hours, roasting like a supermarket rotisserie chicken slowly, denying if it could have been a little too hot, perhaps. I, naturally, joined in. Because what’s a holiday without the satisfying sting of mild sunburn? The sea is gloriously warm, the sand is soft and the beach bars are dangerously efficient at refilling your drink before it sinks in that you’ve already had three. Estepona’s food deserves its own love letter. Tapas, seafood, paella — all so fresh you start to doubt every soggy prawn sandwich you’ve ever eaten back home. I had one of those long, lazy lunches where time doesn’t have any real meaning and the waiter just keeps delivering plates until you start to suspect he’s putting your limits to the test. I failed, happily. The evenings are when Estepona truly lives. The promenade is full of people munching on ice cream, chatting and generally looking more cool than anyone should have to be. It’s almost a little casual.
I’m walking around in flip-flops, sunburned shoulders, glowing like traffic lights, wondering why no one else appears to be sweating. By the end of the week, I’d lost myself entirely to Estepona’s spell. And the concoction of sunshine, good food and easygoing charm is dangerously addictive. When I was trying to pack that suitcase (which of course had, now, more local olive oil than clothes), I couldn’t help but wonder if I could have finally hit the happy spot. Then I checked the weather forecast for home. Rain. Of course. Perhaps I’ll just stay another week. For cultural enrichment, obviously. |
