I’m Eric. I came to Jávea in 1997, retired early from a career in finance and decided the correct use of the time I’d bought was to eat and drink properly in the sun. Yorkshire’s loss.

The covered market (largely unchanged today) by San Bartolomé opened at seven and was already thick with black tobacco smoke (think Gitanes but I can’t recall the brand) by the time I used to get there. The Guardia Civil were at the bar working through the brandies and beers before their shift as was the norm in those days. I ordered beer like a native. To fit in really. My family used to look at me like I had developed a drinking problem.

The streets climbing from the Plaça del Convent were narrow by design, built to slow down anyone who didn’t belong, (perhaps me) the Moorish threat still written into the layout centuries after it had long passed. Older residents in traditional dress gathered in doorways gossiping. Every door it seemed had a hand and ball knocker worn to varying degrees of popularity over centuries. Wooden slats propped against the base of the doors – flood protection against the rain that can come down hard and fast down these narrow streets in autumn. They still do it now even though there is no rain forecast for the forseeable.

There was a bodega on the high street run by an old man who called me ‘gordo’ (fat in English). He was fatter. I swear. His son still runs it.

An artist called Manet had a studio nearby. I bought five of his paintings as we had a lot of empty walls and nearly thirty years later he remembered me by name. I said no, surely not? He said “you are the only person who bought 5 paintings off me in one morning in my entire career, of course I remember you”.

The Imperial Bar by the church did simple tapas with bullfighting always on the television, if you could see it through the smoke. It is still there and still my favourite.

You parked directly outside the church and market because nobody had decided yet that you shouldn’t.

The building opposite, the Tosca arch, the ceramic pots up both sides looks exactly as it did then. Nothing has moved or changed too much.

I started photographing the Old Town because I was bewildered that nobody else had done it properly. Not as a guide but as a record of what the place is actually made of, the stone, the doors, the knockers, the inscriptions, the wear on surfaces that have been touched by the same hands for centuries.

The place paints a picture of its history and it still fascinates me all these years later. I hope you enjoy reading and looking at this great little Spanish town.

If you have any memories or special photos of the town, drop me a line. Eric@javeaoldtown.com