TOP OF THE LEAGUE!
El Tel’s still in the game — in charge of a swish Spanish hideaway, says MARK PALMER
FLAMENCO night and a man wearing a hawaiian-style shirt and neat, greying beard is watching contentedly from a distance, a smile stretched across his tanned face. he seems to be enjoying himself, but then this east end lad, who is feted almost as much in Spain as he is back in Blighty, has a reputation for living life to the full.
Yes, it’s el Tel, the diamond geezer from Dagenham and much-admired former coach of Barcelona and england, and he’s playing a blinder — but it has nothing to do with sweaty men kicking a football about.
For the past three years, Terry Venables, 74, and his charming wife, Yvette, have been running a boutique hotel called La escondida, in the Font roja National Park, about 45 minutes inland from Alicante on Spain’s Costa Blanca.
Already, they’ve garnered a loyal following. ‘We’ve been twice this year and are coming again in October,’ says a man from Cheshire as we tread water in the pool, which looks across spectacular, arid countryside some 2,000 ft above sea level in a part of Spain that few tourists get to see.
I’m not surprised he’s coming back. Apart from the four or five times a year when a Flamenco troupe is invited to do a turn, this is the quietest of spots.
There’S a stillness that is instantly disarming, helped by the balmy heat, a reluctance to take children and an absence of TVs and radios in the ten pretty rooms and two cabins perched on a hill above the main building.
el Tel might have worn a gold chain around his neck while barking instructions from the dug- out, but there’s nothing flash about this hideway.
No dress code; no flunky coming round with a piece of watermelon on a stick or asking to clean your sunglasses. No unnecessary fawning. It feels like a cross between a retreat and staying in a friend’s wellappointed holiday home, where relaxation is the drug of choice.
Mind you, things are not going strictly to plan on flamenco night. The Michelin-star trained chef, Darron Bunn, has gone down with a nasty bug and some 12 non-residents are coming for dinner on the huge terrace, where tables dressed in white linen surround the dance floor and candles compete with the evening breeze. We know this because my wife asks Terry what’s happened to Yvette.
‘She’s in the kitchen because the chef’s ill and we’ve got lots of people coming over,’ he says. ‘Can she cook?’ asks Joanna. ‘No,’ says Terry, with a twinkle. Which is either Terry telling porkies or Yvette and the chef’s two British assistants are, in footy- speak, ‘giving it their 110 per cent’ because what arrives on our plates tonight and throughout our far too short stay is, well, sensational. The Venableses bought what was a run-down hostel, with 500 acres of olive and almond groves — plus a derelict manor house with its own 13th- century defensive tower — some 18 years ago. Neither of them had any hotel experience. At one point, they toyed with the idea of turning it into a football academy, hence the expansive lawn. Now it’s very much Yvette’s baby, helped by a team of dedicated staff, many of them local. She works ferociously hard (‘we haven’t had a holiday ourselves for two years’), with Terry happy to assume the front of house role, chatting to people like me who ask blindingly obvious questions such as who’s your all-time favourite player (‘Bobby Moore is right up there’) and what’s your biggest regret (‘Oh it has to be Gazza — lovely boy — missing by inches to beat Germany in the euro 96 semis’).
The nearest town of note is Alcoy, which was central to Spain’s industrial revolution. It’s a low-key place that zips into life at the Festival of Alcoy in April, marking the 1276 battle between the Moors and Christians.
We also visited the Castle of Guadalest, which is a village (plus a castle) perched on a ridge overlooking ravines and a reservoir that serves Benidorm and much of the busy coast.
On our return, we embark on one of the hotel’s suggested walks and come across the biggest herd of goats I’ve ever seen, some with bells around their necks, the shepherd hunched and bearded. It’s almost Biblical.
Terry’s parents used to run a pub called the royal Oak in Chingford, essex. They would be amazed that their son is now involved with an enterprise such as La escondida and I suspect they would be like that chap in the pool — a regular. Certainly, I’d love to be a regular here.