We took the early train out to Buñol with the crowd and waited for the hams on the greased pole to come down. Then the trucks tipped their tomatoes and for an hour the whole street ran red and ankle-deep. Goggles on, phone wrapped in plastic, laughing too hard to aim.

First evening we walked the old Turia riverbed, now a long green park, down to Calatrava's white shells at the City of Arts and Sciences. They glow at dusk against the reflecting pools. Dinner was rice. This is where paella comes from, and they are particular about it.

The Lonja de la Seda, the old silk exchange, has a hall of spiralling stone columns that feel like a forest carved in the 1400s. Cool and quiet after the heat of the square. We ate at the Central Market across the road. The seafood counters, a horchata, oranges everywhere.

Slow last morning before the airport. A café table by the Mercado Central, fresh-squeezed Valencian orange juice, the city's stone going gold in the early light. Three nights felt right for Valencia: enough for the festival and the old town, no rush.