Not so much proud grandparents as stunned. That was our reaction when we saw our youngest grand-daughter appear in her class production. We have nine grand-children and because of our living in France, we do not have the opportunity to see them in action at school, so a trip to Sant Cugat, to see our youngest, Violet, in action was welcome.

She attends a school just over the mountain range some 25 minutes from Barcelona.

Our daughter, Carrie-Anne teaches there and, ironically, one of the pupils is Oscar Garcia’s daughter, who joined the older grand-daughter, May’s, class, just after her father’s brief tenure at Watford FC manager earlier this season.

The large auditorium was packed with parents and grand-parents as a sequence of classes chose to sing and perform to some of the greatest of the modern musicals. Violet’s class was performing a song from Grease and they were the penultimate class and also the youngest.

Violet was the second youngest in her class, but having rehearsed over the previous two weeks, they took to the stage with confidence and adopted their set positions. Our grand-daughter was second-to-last onto the stage and looked a little baffled by the sight of so many faces. She hesitated for a moment but the teacher, spotting this, reassured her by sticking a dummy in her mouth.

That is why we were stunned. Violet is 15 months old, and was there replete with nappy, occasionally joining her nursery class colleagues with shaking hip or a waving hand.

They start them young in Spain. She did not look entirely happy throughout, but the class, one of ten to perform, and all under six years old, that afternoon, added to the experience. I should imagine, by the time Violet is four, she will be a veteran performer.

We had dropped off for the weekend as we took what has become an annual Spring break, driving down to Javea to stay with our friends Ross Jenkins, the former Watford FC star, and his wife Eve.

We left the school production, feeling good but it was a short experience because when we arrived at our car, there was a problem. It wasn’t there. Clearly it had been towed away, so we phoned Carrie who arrived with her daughters, and, after enquiries, took us to the station car park, where I had to part with 213 euros to get my car back. Apparently I had parked in a yellow parking bay, which is restricted for council use.

Despite that setback, we had a good weekend, with me enjoying the football: Manchester United winning at Liverpool and then, in the evening, we popped over to a local cafe, where my son-in-law Andy and his friend had booked a table to watch Barcelona v Real Madrid. I was pleased Barcelona won and so were the rest of the clientele that evening. They burst into applause every time a Barcelona player did something worthwhile and emitted calls of “Oh-oh” every time Madrid’s Ronaldo got the ball.

One facet I particularly enjoyed were their cries of “Ole” every time Lionel Messi went past an opponent, greeting his skills as they would a pass by a bullfighter. In fact there were times Real Madrid looked as troubled as a wounded bull.

The next day we drove down to Javea. Ross bought a shepherd’s cottage out in the countryside, on the side of a mountain some years ago, and has been gradually converting it. It has a bedroom and a kitchen-diner. He also has an open-air toilet with water drawn from a container. He is working on building a second area for a separate bedroom, kitchen and toilet.

It was extremely pleasant being away from it all, up a mountain and watching the sunset, but while we have stayed out on the mountain for the night, along with our two Cavalier dogs, on a previous visit, Ellie likes her home comforts when it comes to washing and toiletry.

One day we popped into Javea and searched for a brown leather waistcoat, which I found much reduced at the only leather shop in town. The lady who served me, told me to take my time and think about the purchase, and suggested I come back, but the shop would be closed for ten minutes at noon. She and many others were heading for the nearby church to say a prayer for the victims of the Alpine plane crash, many of whom were Spanish.

Many years ago, back in 1988, we had enjoyed a week in Javea, staying at Ross’s apartment, but they now have a house out there since they retired. The town/resort is far bigger but we were able to indulge in some of the perks of ex-pat-land in the form of a trio of excellent curries, but it really is full of ex-pats: too much for my liking.

On the culinary front, I did excel in Valencia, where we spent two days, while Ross and Eve looked after our dogs. We enjoyed the architecture of Valencia and that evening I sampled the local paella, a dish that is supposed to have originated in the city. Unfortunately Ellie does not like fish, so I had to spend out on a two-person paella, just for me, as they do not offer it as a single dish.

The weather, which had been poor, was breaking, but that first evening in Valencia, I wore my leather waistcoat and leather hat to ward off the chill. When I finished the entire paella (I did not have a starter, incidentally), the owner came and looked at me in admiration. Then he pointed me out to the rest of the diners: “John Wayne,” he said.

Back in 1988, we had popped over to Calpe (Calp as it is in Valencian), and I had enjoyed a lunch by the quaint harbour, within view of our hire car. We returned there for the day last week, but there was no chance of parking near the harbour, let alone enjoying a local meal in rustic surroundings. It is all very much upmarket and developed.

The appeal of Calpe to me, is the fact that after whoever made the world, clearly had this ruddy great almost-mountain-sized rock left over. Not knowing what to do with it, they parked it on the beach at Calpe, while they made up their minds, and there it dominates the area for miles around.

Javea has a similar rock, much more mountain-like called Mongo, and after four days of clouds, it was good to see the summit as the weather changed and the leather waistcoat was packed back in the case.

We dropped into Catalonia on the way back and had a couple of meals at our favourite restaurant. By the time we returned to France, we were both nicely rested (from the traumas of retirement?) and I was feeling happily rioja’d out.