The memory of that wonderful night in April, when Essien's late winner sealed our place in the semi-finals, had my mate Clive and I enthusiastically making our rather convoluted travel plans.
However, these turned out to be more straightforward than the events at Chelsea during our disappointing start to the season.
Rather than fly direct to Valencia we chose the cheaper option of an evening flight to Reus, a small town which Ryanair cheekily suggest is on the outskirts of Barcelona when the distance between the two places is actually around 100 kilometres.
Reus is not exactly near Valencia either, but it is handily placed for Tarragona - an attractive town on the coast which boasts a number of Roman ruins and a pleasant central square lined with smoke-filled bars.
Having taken full advantage of the lively nightlife we awoke the next morning, the day of the match, slightly the worse for wear.
After breakfast we set off for the train station, passing the impressive Roman amphitheatre overlooking the Mediterranean.
At Tarragona station we discovered, to our irritation, that the train to Valencia we intended to catch had been cancelled due to a strike.
Fortunately, rather than closing down the entire Spanish rail network, the strike only affected this single train. Who, we wondered, was this local version of Citizen Smith, defiantly taking on his bosses while his so-called comrades breezed past his one-man picket line?
We never found out, of course, and after a short wait for the next train we were soon speeding past a scenic vista of smoke-belching factories and power plants on our way to Valencia.
The city was a glorious 25 degrees when we arrived. After checking into our centrally located hotel we found a restaurant in a shady square where we enjoyed a long lunch with a bottle of wine followed by the customary siesta.
A couple of hours later we completed our circuitous route to the stadium by metro. At the stop for the stadium we filed out with a couple of hundred Chelsea fans, all noisily chanting the name of their recently deposed leader.
The Mestalla has seen better days, and is soon to be replaced by a new modern stadium.
However, its sheer stands create an electrifying atmosphere that must be intimidating to play in.
We found our seats, by way of a confusing system of stairways that seemed to require one to go down before going up, and were delighted to find that our ticketing contact had come through with his promise of 'great seats, mate' as we peered down on the pitch from above the halfway line.
Our position among the home fans meant we'd have to limit our vocal support, but there was certainly nothing to shout about when Valencia took an early lead.
Being partially sighted, I couldn't clearly make out what happened but the goal seemed to stem from an un-Chelsea like defensive balls up.
A long night appeared to lie ahead, but the lads rallied well and withstood anything Valencia had to offer.
Chelsea got more into the game and when Malouda took the ball up the left wing we could sense that his cross would have potential.
It certainly did, with Joe Cole nipping in ahead of a defender to provide the final touch. Then, in the second half, Joe turned provider and supplied Drogba with a wonderful pass that he masterfully slotted into the Valencia net.
We began to believe that victory, as in April, would be ours, but Valencia did not give up easily and after bringing on a gangly player who must have been nearer seven foot than six maintained an almost constant bombardment for the last ten minutes.
Happily, this none-too-subtle blitz was seen off by a be-masked JT and his well-marshalled defence. At the final whistle the small group of jubilant traveling supporters were applauded by the team - and rightly so.
Once again, Valencia had proved to be a happy hunting ground. New manager, same result. As we strolled off into the still warm Spanish night to celebrate victory in yet another bar we started to believe that this could be the game to reclaim our season.