However, typecast for the role of earnest, child- dragging Holiday Dad, I was restless, plotting a journey inland, thinking my children ought to see the Spain that wasn’t lying around on holiday with its clothes off. Flicking through a guidebook, my eye caught “the breathtaking town of Alcala del Jucar”, in the tree-filled gorge of the Rio Jucar. There is a 15th-century castle and the houses are cut into the rocks — that’ll teach them something, surely. It was more than 100 miles away, but I was convinced it was the perfect place to go, and with the subtle ruse of pointing it out on a map with the scale 1:1,100,000, I convinced Janet, my wife.

Having got lost on Spanish roads on previous holidays, I planned our drive meticulously, writing out all the road numbers and signposts. It was basically one road all the way: the N330. I crosschecked it on three maps.

We cruised the industrial outskirts of Alicante for 40 minutes, looking for the N330. For a main traffic artery it is very well hidden. None of the towns en route was signposted. All that was signposted was Madrid, some 422km away on a road called the A31, which didn’t appear on any of our maps.

Nervously we committed ourselves to the A31, but after half an hour with no signposts to anywhere recognisable, I panicked and pulled off into an industrial estate. Just as we got on the other side and were headed back for Alicante, I caught sight of a small sign pointing back: “Albacete”, the nearest big town to Alcala del Jucar. So the N330 and the A31 were one and the same. But we were now going the wrong way and were back in Alicante before we could turn around. I wasn’t going to give up that easily. I told Freddie (11) and Bertie (9) to stop moaning and enjoy the view. Not everyone gets to see the industrial areas of their holiday resort.

Call me Jeremy Clarkson, but driving in Spain is enjoyable. The roads are good and, after Britain, practically empty. Also, outside it was 35C, while the car was coolly air-conditioned. We went up sierras, across plains and into La Mancha. Spain is so big and so empty, no wonder they feel compelled to keep building on it. At one point, we stopped the car and got out just to wonder at the immense flat emptiness that lies between the mountain ranges. You’ll understand, says one of our books, why Don Quixote went mad. Though it may have been something to do with the maps, if you ask me.

It got hotter, rockier and more arid as we neared Alcala del Jucar, until we made a hairpin twisting descent into the gorge and sudden, deep greenness. The sides were almost vertical, yet a small town clung in there, overlooked by a castle. At the bottom of the gorge was a Roman bridge over the river and a small dusty square shaded by a crowd of huge trees. Facing onto the square was the Hostal Rambla, where the tables outside were laid for lunch and the barbacoa had been lit. We entered the terrace through a small gate. After a long drive and a sweaty climb up to the castle, we were hungry and thirsty. The drifting wood smoke gave further edge to our appetite. The waiter, a cherubic Peter Kay lookalike, though probably all of 15, approached us.

“A table for cinco, por favor,” I said, wafting an arm over the serried ranks obviously desperate for diners. The waiter looked at me with earnest concern and launched into a rapid torrent of Spanish. I think he was saying: “Suppose a body of mass x decelerating at 42 metres per second per second up an incline of 1.5% encounters a body of mass y accelerating at 36 metres per second per second, then...” He caught my bafflement and looked exasperated. He started again, but slowly and more loudly: “Body mass x moving at 40 metres per second on a flat surface meets...” I shook my head. “Momento,” he said.

He came back with a scrap of paper. “Consider,” he seemed to be saying, “the laws of motion. One.” And he displayed his piece of paper. It said: “Open 13.30”.

()

I consulted my watch. It was 13.28. I showed Pete. He shook his head, flourished the scrap of paper and launched into another explanation of Newtonian physics. So we retreated three steps back to the other side of the gate and sat on the wall. Pete sat on a chair and we looked at each other. At 13.30, we stood up, walked through the gate and Pete the gracious host greeted us fulsomely. To our relief, a waitress appeared, announced she spoke English and took over. Her English was such that I asked for a glass of red wine and got a bottle of rosé — a detail, because the food was very good, cooked on the barbecue by a chef who wore his hat sinisterly low on his forehead, probably because he was on the run from the Foreign Legion. I wondered if he beat the sheep to death round the back before ripping the chops from the sides with his bare hands. He sidled over and started expostulating with me huskily. I laughed in what I hoped was a manly style and apologised for being English. He shrugged and slunk off.

AFTER THE success of this excursion, a few days later I persuaded the family to go on another improving trip: to Orihuela, a university town about 20 miles inland. “Just as long as there’s not any churches,” said Matilda (7).

“Not just churches,” I enthused, “there’s a museum too!”

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