Marta here. This one’s about us getting in the car. Always a gamble.
You see, Bryan has this strange, deeply British confidence when it comes to driving in Spain. He claims it’s “all the same but a bit sunnier.” It’s not. There are roundabouts that require black magic to exit correctly, road signs that contradict each other mid-sentence, and occasional goats. Actual goats.
But sometimes, you just need to get out. Shake off the routine. Eat somewhere different. Try not to scream at Google Maps. So here’s how our weekend getaways from Casa Amada usually go.
Jávea: The “Let’s Just Nip Over There” Trip
“Nip” being a strong word. It starts as a 20-minute drive. It never stays that way.
Anna insists on taking the coastal road because she wants “b-roll footage” for whatever TikTok montage she’s making. Bryan starts talking about how he could totally live on a boat (again). Luke asks if we’re there yet before we leave the driveway.
But when we do finally get to Jávea? Magic. We wander the old town, have calamari that ruins us for all future calamari, and sit by the port watching ridiculously beautiful people in white linen do nothing in particular. It’s like being in a brochure.
Guadalest: We Nearly Died (Slightly)
We heard, like everyone does, that Guadalest is beautiful. What nobody told us is that the road there is like driving a shopping trolley down a fire escape.
Switchbacks. Sheer drops. Bryan doing that slow, focused breathing thing he does when he’s pretending not to panic. Anna narrating the whole thing like David Attenborough for her followers. Luke googling “how often do brakes fail”. Me, clutching the door handle like it’s blessed.
Was it worth it? Absolutely. Whitewashed village, castle views, and a blue reservoir that looks like Photoshop but isn’t. We had ice cream. Nobody cried. Success.
The “Let’s Just See Where This Road Goes” Method
Highly unrecommended. Yet we do it all the time.
On one such occasion, we ended up in a tiny village that may or may not exist on actual maps. There was one bar. An old man who may have been the mayor. And, inexplicably, a shop selling nothing but brightly coloured ceramic donkeys. Did we buy one? Of course. Bryan named him “Terrance.”
The owner gave us directions back that included a left at the fig tree, a sharp right after “the house with the barking dog,” and something about a man named Paco who drives a red van. Somehow, it worked.
Finding New Ideas (and Improving Casa Amada Bit by Bit)
Of course, after every trip, we come home and Bryan starts muttering about “improvements.” Like how lovely it would be to enjoy the terrace without being turned into crispy bacon by the Spanish sun or fighting off horizontal rain when the wind changes its mind.
Enter glass curtains. We’ve actually started looking at options from AmasVista — brilliant system if you want to enclose your terrace without blocking the view. Bryan’s now dreaming of a year-round outdoor space where he can sip coffee, read financial blogs, and pretend the DIY list doesn’t exist. Me? I just want a place to sit where my hair isn’t constantly blowing into my mouth.
The Verdict
Are our weekend getaways perfectly planned? Absolutely not. Do we argue over directions? Yes. Is Bryan permanently confused by Spanish road markings? Definitely.
But somehow, that’s what makes them perfect. Because every wrong turn, every random village, every time Luke names a lizard after his teacher—that’s the story. That’s the memory.
Casa Amada isn’t just the house. It’s the hub. The launch pad. And every weekend that starts with Bryan mumbling about fuel prices somehow ends with us sunburnt, overfed, slightly lost, and very, very happy.
Next trip? No idea. But I’m packing snacks, charging the phones, and preparing emotionally for another village mayor named Paco.