The Casa on the top of Heart Attack Hill!

We must have been driving around for what seemed like hours, all the while trying to find free Wi-Fi, so we could contact the letting agent; frustrated, I threw my hands in the air, in the back of the cab and asked the driver to stop and drop us off in the centre of Gran Alacant. By this time I was red with rage; no one seemed to know where the house was, and worst of all, all the bloody street names were exactly the same. What sort of place was this? Even the taxi drivers didn't know where they were.

It was early on Monday morning, the sun was shining, but it was cold, not 'British cold,' but chilly enough to shiver. Now, when one considers moving to Spain, one never actually believes it is cold in winter, but it was the 1st February and the chill was biting. Stood by the kerb side, phone in hand, frozen, tired and thoroughly fed up, I shrugged my shoulders with despair; can this day actually get any worse?

As I walked up and down the pavement I managed to get a signal, and after a bit of frantic googling, to my surprise, I discovered the real estate agent was literally just around the corner, and luckily for us, he had just opened the shop. I must have looked a right state that morning, as I traipsed in to the OP Group office with Jamie and two suitcases in tow, but as I collapsed on the chair in the office, a smile crossed my face; we had done it, finally done it, moved to Spain, away from a life that had kept us trapped for so long, and I couldn't be happier.

In the office, I took a large wad of Euro's out of my handbag and handed them to the gentleman behind the desk, apparently this is how they like to do business in Spain. Cash was king and to be honest, I was finally relieved to offload it. Luckily for me, the contract was in Spanish and English and seemed self-explanatory, but then I never bothered to read the small print anyway, just wanting to get to the house and finally start to unpack!

Our Agent was English, having moved to Spain with his Spanish wife, and he was pretty knowledgeable about the area, full of useless information and the odd word of advice. Right from the get go, I realised this place was going to be very different to what I imagined, and I could tell an element of 'ducking and diving' was called for. Nevertheless, this wasn't Britain, and I didn't really care how challenging the next few weeks would be, I was just glad to be in Spain, a country where Darrell and I had always wanted to live.

The drive to our casa in Calle Canarias was short, probably about ten minutes, but it was up hill all the way. We drove through most of Gran Alacant on route to the house, and the views were spectacular, as far as the eye could see. Turning left at Sierra Mar Square, we drove the short distance to where we would be living. Up until now, we had only seen a photograph on a web page. Heading down a small side road, we arrived at the top of 'Heart Attack Hill,' appropriately named by the local Expat community. Our casa sat proud on the left-hand side, overlooking Carabassi and Alicante beyond. As he stopped the car, still nattering away, I was struck by the most awesome view I had ever seen. Opening the car door, gingerly walking towards the wooden fence, the only barrier between us and death, I stood there for several minutes, just looking out at the vista before me and fell immediately in love.

Through the gate and up to the front door, we walked inside the small terrace house, or quad as they are called, with a tiny backyard, no bigger than a cupboard and a smell of damp like you wouldn't believe. The agent said an airing would sort that out, but I seriously had me doubts. There was no central heating, insulation or ventilation; the windows were single glazed and the floors were marble; the house was colder, than anything I had lived in before.

After saying goodbye to the agent, practically throwing him out the door, still talking away, we started to explore, what little there was to explore. Essentially we were living in a two up, two down, which was a lot smaller than I was used to. The saving grace was the rooftop solarium, which took two flights of stairs to reach. As I pushed open the door at the top of the house, a freezing cold gust of wind nearly blew me off my feet. Once again I stood there aghast at the stunning, panoramic views; this time I could see right out towards the sea. The stale, mouldy odour throughout the house paled into insignificance as I took it all in. Despite its many faults, this house at the top of Heart Attack Hill felt like home already, and I was happy and content in a way I hadn't been before, living in Britain!

We lived in the house for a little over a year, by which time, the novelty of the views had really worn off. In winter the windows leaked like a sieve and I would often come home to a deluge in the lounge. The mattress in the front bedroom was so damp, it had to be replaced, and the condensation was horrendous. Worst of all however was the freezing cold winters, of which we saw two. The lack of heating was so bad, I walked around with a duvet wrapped around me and our two cats, Precious and Lily, wouldn't leave my side, draining my body heat away faster, than I could make it. This was like living in the UK, back at a time before central heating and double glazing, akin to my childhood in 1970s Britain.

Despite this, the summer was amazing, hot, up to 45 degrees, but with each small urbanization having its own swimming pool, it was easy enough to cool down. My enduring memory, will be the amount of times I climbed up and down that mountain to get to the bars in Carabassi, no wonder it was called Heart Attack Hill. Climbing back to the top, filled with cheap Spanish beer, was always a challenge, especially on one notorious evening where I stumbled and fell, hitting my head on the edge of the chasm, waking up moments later half hanging over the edge. Just one step closer and I would have been a gonna.

One of the locals said to me one evening, after a few too many sherbets, that the amount of people who went missing in the mountains around Gran Alacant was incalculable. Of course, I didn't believe a word of it, as they winked, just before my expedition back up the hill. It was a reminder, however, of just how different this place was, and as much as I complained about it at the time, today that tiny little casa has more memories within its four walls, than I would have collected in a lifetime. This house will always be a part of me and vice versa, and I look forward to the day when I can finally visit Gran Alacant once again. As humans, we do form emotional attachments to homes, and despite moving over thirty times since 1992, my first Casa in Spain is the one I will remember most. It was a brutal introduction to Spanish life, but it was also a positive one. When I dream of Gran Alacant, I dream of the house on Heart Attack Hill; memories that will live on in perpetuity!

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