Cehegin

01 May

The unplanned route out of Cehegin starts under a flawless blue sky and a landscape of dramatic red rock and earth. Like the previous two days, motorway average speeds are achievable without drama. Olive groves and vineyards are a blur so by early afternoon, I’m struggling to find my ‘boutique’ hotel in Cegegin.

If Utiel lacked character, the same cannot be said of Cehegin. There are two sides to the town, one functional and soulless. The other is ancient, largely pedestrianised and perched on a hill. The streets are steep and narrow and the buildings solid stone, so the racket created by Bologna’s finest V-twin, amplified through the scarcely-road-legal Akrapovic exhaust system I bought with the bike, creates a cacophony of sound as I arrive with siesta in full swing if that’s not an oxymoron.

The hotel is definitely ‘boutique’, seemingly not updated for a few hundred years, and stuffed with various knick-knacks. But the two ladies who run it are kindness personified and cluck around making sure I have everything I need. Just as the town has nodded off again, the Panigale’s dodgy alarm gets triggered for no reason, disturbing siesta for a second time.

If Spain has her own George Orwell, he or she probably has in mind this place as  La Luna Bajo el Agua to complement Orwell’s mythical, perfect pub: ‘The Moon Under Water’.

Here, for under €20 including wine, you can have five or six absolutely lip-smacking little dishes. Everything we know and love from tapas bars elsewhere is present and correct: Jamon Iberica, lovingly and expertly pared to order from the joint, clamped in an elaborate antique stand. Chunky discs of chorizo drowned in a bubbling reduction of the wonderfully-named Altoinfanzón  cider. Fried-to-a-crisp Patatas Bravas, smothered in rich, smoky, paprika-infused ketchup. Prawns sizzling in olive oil and garlic, mopped up with crusty pan. Marbled, Asados beef: gamey, earthy and testament to the animal’s long and active life.

The list goes on. Just come as you are; on your own or bring the kids; have as much or as little as you like and in any order; linger for the evening or wolf it down and get off. It really is the perfect way of eating.

Like pretty much everywhere else I went, the choice here is red, white or rose when buying wine por el vaso, but you sense a degree of pride has been exercised in choosing the house selections. By contrast, I’ve had a few ‘carefully-curated-to-match-each-dish’ bullshit wine pairings at various celebrated restaurants in the last year. Some of these have been just ‘not good’ on a basic, technical level and others, actually unpleasant to drink.