Right. So, Easter. Marta here. Slightly sweaty, confused, and emotionally side-eyed by a chick-topped cake. Let me explain.
We just survived our first proper Spanish Easter at Casa Amada, and if you’re imagining daffodils, rain, and a cheeky Lindt bunny… no. Try incense, 400-year-old statues, and a brass band that somehow sounded mournful and terrifying at the same time.
Holy Week: Nobody Mention the Bunny
Back in Ashburton, Easter is simple: roast lamb, two chocolate eggs per child (plus one snuck into the trolley for Mum), and a drizzle-drenched egg hunt that usually ends in soggy socks and mild frostbite.
Spain? Spain shows up in full regalia with Semana Santa. I mean, there are marching bands. There are hooded nazarenos moving in total silence, like a ghost army out of a medieval drama. Bryan thought we were off to see a “bit of a procession”. Ten minutes later, he’s clutching my hand like we’re in a Victorian seance. Anna cried. Luke whispered, “Is this a funeral for Jesus or a cult?” I told him yes.
The thing is: it’s beautiful. It’s haunting. It’s ancient and completely unapologetic in how seriously it takes itself. And as a non-practicing-but-not-quite-not-anything Catholic, I felt… something. I don’t know what. But it settled right in my chest and stayed there.
And Yet: WHERE IS THE CHOCOLATE?
Look. I’m all for reverence and soul, but at some point I had to ask: where the hell are the chocolate eggs? The pastel crap? The weird rabbit shaped like it’s judging your life choices?
Enter the mona de Pascua. A cake. With hard-boiled eggs baked into it. Sometimes feathers. Sometimes cartoon characters. No warning. Just there. Existing.
Anna: “It’s quirky.” Luke: “It tastes like a confused breakfast.” Me: quietly craving a cream egg and spiralling.
Bryan, hero of the hour, found a bag of Mini Eggs in the overpriced “British nostalgia” corner of a supermarket in Valencia. He flinched at the price. I bought two. Worth every cent.
The Slow, The Sacred, The Shut
What really hits you? Everything slows down. Like, properly. Shops shut. Streets empty. Time stretches. No one apologises. It’s like the country just… breathes.
Back in England, Easter ends before the chocolate melts. Here? It hangs around. Lingers. A mood, not a date. People sit. Talk. Listen to drums in the distance. It’s quiet, but it vibrates.
I’m not used to it. But I want to be.
Who Wins?
Honestly? Both. England gives me Cadbury. Spain gives me spine-tingling tradition. I’ll take the drizzle and the incense, the roast lamb and the eerie trumpet solo that made Luke ask if we were being followed by sad ghosts.
Casa Amada? She held it all. The sacred, the sweet, the weird. And somehow, it worked.
Until next time—I’ll be the one in the garden, trying to explain to Ricardo the Gecko why our Easter cake had feathers.
Feliz Pascua, you beautiful, confusing holiday.