Up before the sun.

Domingo, and being non-conformist anglicans we elected to attend the "English Church" a few miles up the tramline. In fact we attended the "English Church" a few miles up the tramline last Domingo but it was the nearest one to the tram station which lies in the bowels of the backstreets and it started at 1900. This meant it was dark. It was warm and dry so with the iPad's GPS we found the place well lit and underneath a block of flats. Attendance was poor but there were mitigating circumstances so we didn't quite double the numbers but we pretty much halved the average age.

A minister ministered and a lady played a piano and all was very pleasant. As we left a singularly tall, erect and elderly lady with marvellous diction expressed her views regarding the cessation of winter fuel payments to expats. I was sorely grieved for her as I stood, slowly perspiring and wishing I could interrogate the iPad to find out the way to the tram. Had she complained because her summer aircon allowance had been denied I would (probably) have sympathised. As it was my attempted empathetic response was headed off by the minister saying nice things, as ministers do. Usually.

Thus we decided to attend (the other) "English Church" which lies at the northern extremity of this infamous beach resort. This began at 0945, which even for a non conformist anglican is early. This meant getting a tram at very early o'clock and getting up at even sillier o'clock when it was still dark and being faced with a two or three mile walk upon arrival.
 

Hence the photo of the sunrise as I struggled up one of the three not working escalators in the park.

I have to say arriving in, let's carry on calling it Voldemort (see last year's diatribes), before the holidaying residents had woken was not unpleasant. Even with backpack carrying a macinapak (taking heed of catastrophe weather warnings), iPad, camera and donned in a fleece for the first time in ages the place was not unpleasant.

A route march through the deserted park and along Avenida del Mediterraneo was an eye opener. No people, no traffic, no noise apart form the rattle of shopkeepers wheeling out their wares over the tiled pavements. There was the detritus of the night before, a pair of shoes left in a doorway, some clothing left on a concrete parking space next to a Carrefour, plastic pint pots and wine plastics with broken glass in attendance but over all no worse than you'd find anywhere, I suppose.

Our arrival was met with warm greetings, a familiar song book and a request that we sit wherever we wished and have a good time. We began by acquiescing to the former and ended up being recipients of the latter. We felt a couple amongst many and decidedly young. We sang familiar songs, albeit for a little longer than the songwriters may have intended and the minister ministered.

All in all a worthwhile trip.

The stroll back was hot, hot, hot and with no sign of the catastrophe promised. Indeed, the glare from the tiles in the park was so great that I asked to walk up the main street and this was agreed.

The problem with this place by late(ish) morning is that the occupants have by now arisen and the act of charting a course is somewhat fraught. The initial shock of last year has given way to resignation and even the desire to laugh has waned, let alone commit the sights to 0s and 1s. I was tempted to photograph the wearer of tee shirt with "Lancashire Rugby League" prominently displayed taking advantage of a pavement cafe offering "Full English Breakfast XXL XXXL XXXXL with beer" but declined the opportunity.

There is still an awkwardness, though. The Sunday Spanish are nothing if not smart, quite dapper and tending toward stylish and as such they really do stand out in the crowd. As do the visitors for quite different reasons.

Anyway, we were leaving and a tram awaited. Once various layers had been put in the backpack it was just your normal hot day, again. 19 on the tram and bacon bocadillos, magdalenas (nothing in them, nothing on them buns) and coffee awaited as did the balcony.

Alas, the bacon bocadillos, magdalenas and coffee were fine but the balcony, no. Working up a sweat on the way home and looking forward to the shorts in the sun but as one came the other went.

Since we got back the cloud has covered the sky, not quite to the eastern horizon but not far from it. The breeze has a cool edge. The palm fronds are not so much swaying as leaning. The prom is deserted. The balcony doors shut. The waves are audible and quite frequent. Instead of strolling along a deserted beach in the company of a benign sea I'm sat looking at it all typing this.

I may have to put jeans back on. And socks. Maybe a pullover.

Monica, the Spanish weather lady was right, catastrophe indeed.