Malaga - into the melting pot

Malaga's old town... 
bravely clinging onto its charm.

“Walking into the crowd was like sinking into a stew - you became an ingredient, you took on a certain flavour.”  

Margaret Atwood (in The Blind Assassin).

There has been a lot spoken and written about the city of Malaga in recent years. Most commonly, you’ll read the “from seedy to stylish” theme. And I’ve written it myself. You’ll hear how the city has been transformed from a tatty, rarely-visited provincial capital which just happened to have a large airport that provided access to the infamous Costa del Sol resorts. 

Most of it is true. In an unplanned way, we’ve enjoyed a visit to Malaga late in the year for the past 3 or 4 years, and it’s been a delight. I think that what the “seedy to stylish” writers fail to illustrate is that the transformation is continuous, seemingly unstoppable.

La Malagueta - crystal clear in December.

This year’s winter visit (flight times to Valencia were not going to work for us) showed us a Malaga that had moved forward even from 1 year ago. The delightful Muelle Uno now had a little more buzz, a little more style, sleeker boats, more professional restaurants. Going round by the lighthouse, we found that La Malagueta beach had now realized that the city had a lot of visitors in December, and the chiringuitos were operating as if it was July.

There was the usual Christmas market lining one side of the Paseo del Parque, selling buñuelos, candy floss, fireworks and all the usual Spanish street market junk, but principally items for your “Belén”. Belén is the Spanish word for Bethlehem, but more commonly it describes the nativity scenes that are essential part of Navidad in Spain. Many civic buildings have a large, elaborate display, and there will be big queues to view them. Most homes will also have a Belén, and these stalls (along with many shops in town) supply absolutely anything that might conceivably be included in your nativity scene. And some that might not.

Giraffe anyone?

The Alcazaba and the Teatro Romano.

But this year, lining the other side of the Paso del Parque, was a well-presented local food and drink market. Organised by the Sabor a Malaga organization (who appear to be doing amazing things for the gastronomy of the region) this market showcased all the tasty delights that can come to your table from the area.

Malaga old town -
still charming your socks off.

To add to the above, the old town has bravely held on to its past. Below Castillo Gibralfaro, The Alcazaba shimmers above the Teatro Romano and the clean, wide pedestrian walkway that allows you to pass and take it in. New restaurants and bars may sit in the heart of the tourist trap, but they are new and clean and smell of re-development and ambition. And they respect and enhance the old town.

Pleasingly, the old restaurants have not lost any of their edge, any of their consistent push for quality. An old favourite lived up to its reputation on our second night. The organized chaos and genuine welcome that characterizes these places is as unctuous as the great food… you become an ingredient, as Margaret said at the beginning. A jovial old boy on a table near us bought 6 red roses from a circulating seller, and insisted that each of the staff got one.

Even Plaza Merced (as if to scoff at the prediction in my last Malaga post) was still attractive, still a nice place to eat and drink. Starbucks and the Irish bar hadn’t gone away, but they were kept at bay by the care, cleanliness and decent service from their neighbours. The trees and the smoke from the chestnut stalls diffused the beautiful December sunlight, and made it a delightful place to pass a couple of hours.

Plaza Merced shimmers and shines.
People often ask me why I bother with Spain in December.

What characterized this visit most of all, however, was the crowds. Malaga was packed. There were thousands upon thousands of people in the streets at all times of the day and night. 

Thursday 6^th December had been Día de la Constitución. Saturday 8th December was Día de la Inmaculada Concepción. These were important days in Spain, particularly with it being the 40th anniversary of the constitution that (most) Spaniards hold so dear. Sunday 9th was the Malaga Marathon. The weather was flawless. But what also attracts these crowds is the fact that Malaga really does Christmas, and most of all, Christmas lights. 

There were some impressive Christmas touches all over town. Lights, trees, smiles, eating, drinking, singing, and fun. Los Malagueños are good at having fun, they have this in common with Los Valencianos. But we must go down to Calle Marqués de Larios to catch the main event. 

Calle Marques de Larios
and the incredible Christmas lights.

This elegant, clean, pedestrianised thoroughfare is where you’ll find the only brands who can afford the rent. From Desigual at the top to Massimo Dutti at the bottom (great shirts) it’s retail paradise if that’s what makes you happy. But from late November through the Christmas season, it is the canvas for the most incredible Christmas light display. 

Soaring above the crowds, and running the whole length of this retail-dedicated avenue, you can see a stunning display. For 2018, the display is based on the stained glass windows and domes of the nearby Cathedral. The city council spend many thousands of Euros on this. 

And it appears to be worth every céntimo in visitor numbers. In the minutes before switch-on at dusk, both Plaza de la Constitución and Marqués de Larios itself are rammed with people, so much so that nobody can move… all the way down to Alameda Principal. The same goes for the twice-nightly musical display where the lights “move” in time with the music. It’s “gilding the lily” in our view, but thousands and thousands take this in, every night. We crossed Alameda Principal one evening from our hotel, and blindly collided with the crowd waiting for this musical spectacular. Stuck. Not moving. Only a little shoving and a little luck got us out of that crowd and into a street where you could actually walk. 

Waiting in their thousands for the switch-on at dusk.

The Spanish love crowds, love crowded places. Moving around the streets (when possible) you become aware of their habit of stopping in groups (obvs) to talk (obvs) in the middle of a crowded street. The tide of humanity has to find a way round, and nobody seems to mind. 

The principal phenomenon, however, is the pace that some of the Spanish can walk at. Typically (but not exclusively) a trait of the slightly older Spaniard, is the ability to look like they’re walking, but they are actually moving at marginally under 0.45 miles per hour (0.724 km/h)*. We have been able to adapt to a slower pace as a result of our experiences of Spain, but to walk at this extraordinarily low pace is not achievable by us, and remains a true wonder. 

We have concluded that this ability to perambulate at less than a snails pace has been very deliberately engineered over many years. It may allow time for eating. It may allow time for smoking. It may allow time for a multitude of activities involving a telefono movil. But mostly it allows time for talking. When you hit the brakes to involve an incident with a slow-moving group on any given Spanish calle or plaza, you know that they will be talking. All of them. At the same time. 

In other words, and with extreme skill, they have taken the simple act of getting from point A to point B, and turned it into a social occasion, an opportunity to pass information and opinion, to instruct, to involve, to arrange, to gossip, to indulge their irresistible urge to talk. 

And this cannot be rushed. 

How we wish we could take our time like this. One day.

Perhaps for a little crowd-avoidance, we went into the cathedral for the first time. My education and previous experience of cathedrals led my mind’s eye to envisage the magnificent gothic structures typified by York Minster, Notre Dame de Paris, Palma de Mallorca Cathedral, and so on. Beautiful, soaring spaces, symmetrical and sometimes austere. 

Truly awesome.

Known as La Manquita (the one-armed Lady) due to an incomplete southern tower, Malaga Catherdral is different. The Renaissance architectural tradition gives the interior layers, perspectives and visual interest that keeps you moving around the inside, as if to make sure you don’t miss what’s on offer to your eyes. Some of the elaborate craftsmanship typical of the catholic tradition is truly incredible. 

Whatever your beliefs, I think a little time spent in places such as this is a must. It takes you away from everything, into a world unaffected by Brexit or broadband speed or beating the traffic or bemoaning the exchange rate. 

We realised with some surprise that we had never even been into Valencia Cathedral, nor seen the (allegedly) very special artefact which is held within. This will be corrected before the end of 2018. Having experienced the magnificence of the Basilica de la Virgen de los Desamparados next door, it’s a keenly anticipated visit. 

So we had taken on a little of the flavor of Malaga. We had become an ingredient for a while. It’s not Valencia. It doesn’t want or need to be Valencia. It has gone from seedy to stylish, but it won’t stop there. We’ll visit again, enjoy the crowds again, and we’ll walk at marginally under 0.45 miles per hour if required. We’ll enjoy what’s new next time, because there will be something new. 

We’ll be back in Valencia over the Christmas holidays. We need to prepare for 2019 rentals, and we need to arrange our own visits for the year. Perhaps Fallas in March, perhaps a long, soporific summer holiday. Perhaps both. 

I’m grateful to Los Malagueños. They’re fun. I think we bumped into all 600,000 of them.


*Not scientifically verified.

 

 

 

 

El Orgullo

Pride: The state or feeling of being proud.

Pride: A becoming or dignified sense of what is due to oneself or one's position or character; self-respect; self-esteem.

Pride: Pleasure or satisfaction taken in something done by or belonging to oneself or believed to reflect credit upon oneself: civic pride, national pride.

Pride: Something that causes a person or persons to be proud: His art collection was the pride of the family.

Pride: To indulge or plume (oneself) in a feeling of pride (usually followed by on or upon): They pride themselves on their beliefs.

Pride (idiom): pride and joy, someone or something cherished, valued, or enjoyed above all others: Their daughter is their pride and joy.

Pride (movement): Is the positive stance against discrimination and violence toward lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) people to promote their self-affirmation, dignity, equality rights, increase their visibility as a social group, build community, and celebrate sexual diversity and gender variance.

For the purposes of this blog post, I have selected the most appropriate definitions of pride from the countless definitions that exist. If your particular favourite (e.g. Lions) is not in my little list, I apologise. 

The Valencian flag hangs above the
Torres Serranos - one of the gateways to the old city.

October 9^th is the national day of the autonomous region of Valencia, Communidad Valenciana. The celebration as a whole is known as “Nou d’Octubre”, and is celebrated with events over several days leading up to its climax on the 9^th.

It is a major event for Valencians across the entire region, and we wanted to experience it.

Arriving late on the 6^th, it was drop bags and find food. In a very busy old town, we were lucky to find a table in a tapas place. The place was packed and typically deafening. We now fall easily into the way Valencia works. Service is slow, but who cares? Some dishes have sold out, so we’ll choose something else. The waiter seems rude, but engage him a little, and you’ll realize that he’s busy, not rude.

Marina Real Juan Carlos I.

The 7^th is a Sunday, and we like to spend these Sundays around the Marina Real Juan Carlos I where there are sunny, comfortable bars overlooking the marina. We’ll wander down to Paseo Maritimo for lunch. Here, you choose your eating venue with care. There are informal café bars and formal restaurants, but many visitors have been fooled by a linen tablecloth. Having booked what we think is the best, we enjoyed the usual quality experience. Good service, great food.

At this iconic old restaurant, their pride in their work is obvious. As is often the case, there is a young man experiencing his first busy Sunday as a camarero. Nervous as a kitten, he’s only permitted to clear tables. His only mission is to not drop any crockery. Mission not accomplished. We’ll see him again next year as a confident, professional, waiter taking pride in doing a good job, highly valued by colleagues and customers.

Salon Dorado in the Palau de la Generalitat.

There is also the aged Jefe. He must be in his 80s, and he clearly cannot tear himself away from making sure the huge dining room runs as he believes it should. Every time we visit, we silently implore him to swallow his pride, and go home and get his feet up, or at least sit down with his family and enjoy lunch!

Monday 8^th is where Nou d’Octubre really starts for us. We start to immerse ourselves in this celebration of Valencian culture.

To mark the celebrations, many of the civic and parliamentary buildings are open to the public. The Palau de la Generalitat is a magnificent 15^th century palace, now the headquarters of the Valencia government. It towers over the Plaza de la Virgen so it’s never far from view, but you don’t get to see inside it every day. It’s a privilege to stand in the immense entrance hall and see the golden ceiling and the incredible tiled floor of the Salon Dorado.

The Real Senyera de Valencia in the Salon de Crystal.

We visited the Ayuntamiento (city hall), which is an eclectic mix of 18^th and 20^th century construction overlooking Plaza Ayuntamiento, the civic heart of Valencia. From its balcony, the mayor and other dignitaries preside over events and celebrations. It’s where the Falleras gather to view the Mascletas during Las Fallas… the best seat in the house. For Nou d’Octubre, the breathtaking Salon de Crystal displays the Real Senyera de Valencia. This flag (here we go with flags again) is symbolic of Valencia itself for many, and is carried at the head of the main parade on the 9^th. It was fascinating to see other rooms in the Ayuntamiento also, displaying maps and artifacts from a proud and dramatic history.

Plaza Ayuntamiento is a fitting centerpiece to the city. Entering from the Estacion del Norte at the southern end, you pass the Hard Rock Café and the Valencia Club de Futbol shop. The main Post Office is an incredible building that faces off against the Ayuntamiento across the square. Countless buses and taxis mix in a coordinated chaos of traffic lights and noise as you pass the imposing Ateneo Mercantil building and approach the northern end towards Mercado Central. Chain shops and restaurants crowd the apex of the triangular square, but a glance upwards and around you confirms that here is where the “soaring architecture” of Valencia has its home. Hotels, banks and apartment buildings rise like the sides of a steep ravine above the mass of commercial clamor, as if to hold it firmly in its place.

Plaza Ayuntamiento - the pointy end.

We knew that the next day, a large part of the square would be dedicated to a keenly anticipated Mascleta, the traditional daytime firework display.

That evening was wet. We enjoyed a fantastic meal just around the corner from the Correos building, and made sure we were in time for the highlight of the day, and the event that heralded the arrival of Nou d’Octubre itself.

We know that the Valencians love fireworks, you hear them randomly around the city all the time. We know about Las Fallas, and we know that pyrotechnics are a major player throughout. But nothing can really prepare you for unbridled Valencian fireworks when you have a front row position.

The skies had cleared out of respect for what was to come. At 11.50 pm a single explosion above us gave a 10-minute warning. Another at 11.55. Then we enjoyed the first colours and noise of the display from our position close to the riverbed park between two bridges, Puente del Exposicion and Puente de las Flores. We watched alongside thousands of Valencians and visitors standing in the closed roads that run alongside the riverbed park. We see excellent firework displays on November 5^th and on New Year’s Eve in the UK, and across the world on TV.

Nothing compared to seeing this up close.

There was an overwhelming sense that this had been designed and executed with great skill. The very knowledgeable Valencian crowd showed their appreciation as the display built in colour, noise and intensity. As inexperienced firework spectators, we sensed the climax of the display was close, but it continued to reach new peaks. Again and again we assumed a big finish was imminent, only to see it surpassed. When the display did finally reach its big finish, it was awesome enough to be emotional.

I get it now. I get why they love this so much. I’ve never really been that impressed by fireworks, but this was incredible. I got the impression from the Valencians around us that this display had been marked at around 8 out of 10 by their exacting standards. For us, it was an amazing experience.

Midnight had passed, it was Nou d’Octubre. A drink for luck at Café de las Horas, and home.

The weather was moody on the morning of the 9^th. It was humid, cloudy, and very warm. On our walk into town from La Saidia, we walked through the Medieval Market specially set up on Puente Serranos and all the way up to and through Torres Serranos into Plaza dels Furs. At times, it was almost impossible to get through the crowds on the bridge, so you had no choice but to be assaulted by the sounds and smells of this market. Mostly smells. The cheese stalls had a distinctive odour before the big day, but by the following Friday we were using another bridge.

In 2017, there had been violence around the main Nou d’Octubre parade. Political groups know the eyes of Spain will be on the city today, and they will use this day to make their voices heard. We were unable to walk through Plaza de la Virgen that morning, as the policia had isolated one protesting group in there, waiting for the appropriate time to release them to exercise their right to demonstrate.

La Senyera proudly worn.

Flags. As we got closer to Plaza Ayuntamiento, flags were what you could see. Mostly the Valencian flag, but mixed with the Spanish flag "La Rojigualda” and those of various political movements. No Bob Esponja balloons here… this wasn’t a joyful Easter Sunday in the Cabañal, the atmosphere was very different.

A tide of humanity had moved into Plaza Ayuntamiento. Unsure of the best vantage point, and acutely aware of the violent exchanges of 2017, we moved through the crowds towards the Ayuntamiento.

Choosing a position where we could see the balcony of the Ayuntamiento, but also most of the square as well, I kept an eye on the throng. All Valencian life was here, plus many visitors. Most had flags. The Valencian Senyera was carried in its thousands of course, but many others also. The group had been released forom the Plaza de la Virgen, and carried blue flags, but I wasn’t sure of their allegiances. There were many versions of the Spanish flag with various black symbols added, signifying beliefs and movements. There was the LGBT Rainbow flag and the flag of the Republic. The police had permitted some small marches, and one passed by us… a young moderate right-wing group it seemed, peacefully demonstrating alongside those who championed Valencia as part of a unified Spain, untainted by the extremism of the Catalan struggle for independence.

Nou d'Octubre in Plaza Ayuntamiento.

There was a sense of excitement and anticipation, perhaps even tension, but trouble did not flare. The neo-nazi ultraderechas who had been at the centre of the violence in 2017 appeared to be absent. There was chanting and posturing from many parts of the square, but everyone appeared to be coexisting in relative harmony.

Later, we learnt that most of the ultraderechas had been held by the riot police in a square close to Plaza Ayuntamiento for the duration of the day. Only a few stragglers had tried (and failed) to cause trouble on the edge of the square, which barely anyone noticed. I got the impression that the police and security forces had handled a very difficult situation extremely well. There was certainly no leave granted that day, they were a big, visible, proactive presence.

The parade makes its way along
Calle San Vicente Martir.

Several loud firework explosions heralded the start of the main parade. The Real Senyera de Valencia was slowly marched onto the balcony and lowered to the Valencian politician who had been granted the privilege of leading the parade, and so it set off at a stately pace towards Calle San Vicente Martir.

We used the alleys around the square to move to a place on the very same street. The atmosphere was intense by now, and you felt much more up close and personal with this parade than you might feel at Easter in the Cabañal. San Vicente is quite an enclosed street as you get towards Plaza de la Reina. It was packed, and many people had an opinion that needed to be loudly directed at some of the parading dignitaries. Very suddenly, a large group of forest firefighters appeared across the street from us, chanting loudly in a protest about their rights and conditions, closely followed by police in riot gear who allowed their protest but hemmed it in.

Beautiful traditional Valencian dress.

The parade filed past, led by the traditional uniformed riders. Politicians and their parties, the leaders of the military and security forces 6 or 7 abreast, the Falleras and their entourage and the many cultural organisations were all represented, and most were applauded with real pride and appreciation. Our firefighter friends of course, saved their very loudest jeers for the Government leaders, and for the Mayor and his team. Husbands made their views loudly known, and wives tried to silence them. Old ladies rudely pushed to the front and cared not how they brandished their flags.

Along with many others, we broke away once the main parade was past, and made our way down the Plaza Alfonso el Magnanimo. This is where the head of the parade lays a floral tribute at the base of the magnificent statue of King Jaume 1. This King of Aragon liberated Valencia from the Moors. It couldn’t have happened without him. A few flowers are the least he can expect.

We couldn’t see any of this… too many proud Valencians!

So in our thousands, we made our way back to Plaza Ayuntamiento. As soon as the parade returned there, and the great and the good filled the balcony once more, it would be time for the Mascleta. This was a watershed moment in our Valencian experiences. We had heard so many things about the Mascleta. Pregnant women shouldn’t attend, hearing can be damaged, etc, etc, but we had decided that we needed to experience this.

We found a place in front of the Correos, facing the middle of the square, only 3 back from the barrier. For Mascleta first-timers, this just might be too close. The anticipation was palpable. These people absolutely love this stuff.

No photograph will ever do justice to a Mascleta.

The sun came out, and it was hot. Cans of beer were sold from dustbins full of ice. People peered from the parapets of the huge buildings, countless floors up. Someone fainted at the front, and was rescued by an ambulance crew. People of all ages waited until that balcony was full again, and the Mascleta could start. The emergency services took their positions.

Eventually, a series of single airborne explosions heralded the start of the display. Every pigeon fled simultaneously from every building in the square. The police helicopter stayed at a respectful distance. The explosions and smoke built and built until the sound physically pushed at you. To rapturous cheers, a series of fireworks exploded upward with smoke that painted the colours of the Valencian flag into the blue sky. The display approached its climax with an intensity of noise that moved the air around you. I think the crowd gave this one a 9.

This was amazing. I really do get it now. You can consider us converted. So much so that over lunch, we readily agreed that we would go to Las Fallas 2019, for (much) more of the same!!

Here come the Christians.

Later that day, the traditional Moors and Christians parade celebrated the expulsion of the Moors from the city. A heavy shower turned to steady drizzle, but the enthusiasm and colour of the parade remained. As with the Easter parades, it leaves one wondering how all of this is prepared and executed. The thousands of costumes. The training of people, horses and even camels. It is an amazing undertaking.

As the last group of Holy Knights and their accompanying musical entourage passed by, Nou d’Octubre was over for 2018.

Amazing details at La Lonja.

We spent the remaining days of this visit just being part of a slightly quieter Valencia. Coffee and empanadas standing at the counter in Mercado Central. Buy some saffron, some bargain pictures for the single room, a cushion cover, and a bigger sugar pot. Get lost in La Xerea and discover the amazing San Juan del Hospital purely by chance. Marvel at La Lonja once again. Stare up at a building for sale just off Plaza Ayuntamiento, and discuss unrealistic plans to buy and refurbish it. Make running repairs to the apartment. Explore the fascinating “Bazar Chino” shops that appear on every street. Pick up a bit more Spanish. Take our time at Café Sant Jaume, the world’s premier people-watching venue.

A peaceful part of the old city.

Once or twice, I caught myself feeling something new. Then I realized it was the feeling of being completely at home. It took me by surprise… but it was oddly comforting at the same time. And of course it made me feel proud. The apartment was no longer a project or a novelty. It was now much more than a comfortable base from which to explore the city and area like a tourist. It had become a home that we were lucky enough to have. A home that means we can live in Valencia, only not on a full-time basis.

In conversation, I heard myself telling people that we had a home in Valencia (to make sure they knew I wasn’t a tourist!), where I had never described it as a home before. There had been a shift in how we perceived the apartment and the city, and what it meant to us. I think maybe I was a bit proud.

On our last day, we went to Meat Carnival 2018. Billed as “the greatest meat and live coal festival in Spain”. It was all set up in part of the Marina. We ran the gauntlet of Vegans holding up signs about murder (but who were oddly inactive in any other way, so it wasn’t much of a gauntlet), and walked into a large collection of outdoor stalls cooking up barbecued meat dishes in various forms, plus 2 huge outdoor bars (qué sorpresa) and numerous other drinks outlets. Carnivore heaven.

We took it all in, and surveyed the meaty options over a beer. There were 4 whole lambs spread over coals in one corner. There was a cooking demo where the enthusiastic host talked us through how the lady next to him was making a chicken sandwich. Cutting this sandwich at attractive angles appeared to be the highlight of the whole operation. The next demo involved whisky tasting, and attracted a larger crowd for some reason.

We opted for Argentinian choripan and steak. People were walking around with oysters on ice for tasting. The sun blazed down, and most Valencians found shade at the bar. There was a Fallas-style ninot of a 3-foot steak over a grill surrounded by bags of charcoal. A guitarist belted out the tunes close to a double-decker bus selling chicken wings. A whole row of other stalls grilled up beef, meatballs, various sausage varieties, and pulled pork (obvs).

We had another beer and tried to imagine what all of this might be like by 10pm. I think they’d have got through an insane amount of Amstel Oro and wagyu burgers by then. The diet of champions.

The upstairs chamber at La Lonja.
Those Valencians and their tiles.

We packed a lot into this visit. So many new experiences. A Nou d’Octubre parade. The inside of the Palau del la Generalitat and the Ayuntamiento. A Valencian firework display. A Mascleta. Seeing a camel walking up Calle la Paz. A Meat Carnival. A forest firefighters demo. New enchanting parts of the Barrio del Carmen. The sights and smells (but mostly smells) of a “Medieval” market, that wasn’t very Medieval.

And the feeling of being completely at home.

Perhaps a visit at Christmas, and then what will be an amazing Las Fallas 2019. This will all happen well before the dreaded Brexit date of 29^th March, so we will be able experience the flames and the fireworks and the joy.

It remains to be seen how the shambles of Brexit will affect our visits to Valencia, and the degree of permanence we can enjoy as time passes.

We’ll see. At the moment, I don’t know if I’m going or leaving home.

La verdad sobre la Costa del Sol

I found a nice quotation, which I hope is (or will prove to be) accurate:

A stunning southern sunset.

“The truth about the Costa del Sol is that what endures, what is worthwhile, is what is Spanish.”

David Hewson

The reason for my renewed interest in the sunny south of Spain is that (not for the first time) we found ourselves taking a holiday away from the holy ground of Valencia due to very welcome tenants in our Valencia apartment.

Once again, La Cala de Mijas was the resort of choice, but this post tries to cast a wider net across more of the Costa del Sol, and some of its characters. The contrasts with Valencia may be obvious, and the things the two places have in common equally so.

La Cala de Mijas, looking west
towards Torrenueva, from
the best chiringuito in town.

Looking back on his travels in “As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning”, Laurie Lee wrote of this coast:

“The road to Malaga followed a beautiful but exhausted shore, seemingly forgotten by the world. I remember the names, San Pedro, Estepona, Marbella and Fuengirola. They were saltfish villages, thin ribbed, sea hating, cursing their place in the sun. At that time one could have bought the whole coast for a shilling. Not Emperors could buy it now”. 

Lonely Planet colourfully describes the Cost del Sol as “that chameleonic agglomeration of end-to-end resort towns”. Indeed, there are so many opinions and descriptions of this long strip of coast that it is impossible to mention even a fraction of them here.

Before the crowds,
and the medusas arrive.

I have been lucky enough to experience much of the southern coast of Spain from Nerja to the east of Malaga, all the way west to where the Rio Guadiana forms the border with Portugal. I can say that there is truth in all these opinions, because all human life is here, on this particular part of that coast where Malaga province meets the sea.

Estepona still retains a certain elegance. Marbella (and its port playground Puerto Banus) is indescribably weird and wonderful, glamorous and hideous all at the very same time. But it is the resorts that string along the coast between Marbella and Malaga that Lonely Planet so eloquently describes.

Cabopino, Calahonda, La Cala de Mijas, Fuengirola, Benalmadena, Torremolinos. In varying degrees, these are names to strike fear and loathing into the hearts of some. Equally, they inspire excited anticipation in others. Different strokes and all that.

Stunning hibiscus.

There is real beauty here. The startling and fragrant primaries and pinks of hibiscus and bougainvillea. The two amazing blues of sea and sky forming a lazily-defined interface, which creates that dreamy “boats in the sky” illusion on the stillest of days. 

When the beaches are quiet and the air is sweet early in the morning, you may be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of dolphins, as we have in the past. 

Despite the popular myth about Andalucians being lazy, we saw very hard-working people who impressively retain a great sense of humour, and they can be endearingly friendly and welcoming. The owner of the apartment we rented was the most gracious landlady, sharing her friend’s house while she was able to make a living from renting out her own.

Behind you, the mountains tower over it all, spectacularly beautiful in the evening sunshine. I feel like they glower down disapprovingly over the Costa del Sol, but they are also protectors. They protect the “real” Spain inland from pringles, orange fanta and "evening entertainment". On the other hand, they also grudgingly protect the Costa del Sol from actual reality. The reality of earning a living in the “unvisited” Spain that you get the tiniest impression of from up there on your budget airline. The reality that you ignore in favour of the in-flight menu. More pringles anyone? Pringles annoy me much more than they should.

Another potentially lethal fire flares up behind the holiday villas.

There is real ugly here as well. The cockroach and mosquito populations thrive. When the jellyfish swarm on calm days, the sweltering beaches also swarm with tearful children asking “ay medusas?” as they are told they can’t go in the water. Forest fires flare up in the foothills of the sierras, often started deliberately so that abandoned houses can be looted. In the shops, there are inflatables shaped like slices of pizza, and key fobs shaped like penises. There are hordes and hordes of pink northern European tourists heading for the Irish pub and American fast food. 

You know that “fear and loathing” I mentioned?

Blatant, unashamed commercialism is here. There are cafés where you're disallowed from sitting to enjoy a drink and a chat (that most Spanish of pastimes) as they only make good margins on food. Picturesque, quiet streets where the residents have taken great care to keep window boxes and plant pots bright and fresh are being slowly eroded by gift shops, noodle bars and real estate agents selling overpriced boxes with bright blue puddles outside. If a restaurant can get away with more tables on the pavement, you’ll have to take your chances with the traffic, folks.

The ubiquitous, and very tasy Sardinas.

I don’t want to sound too scathing about it all. A chringuito in an area we know well is our go-to for both beach days and lunch. It’s family-run, and for a beach restaurant is an amazing operation. The fresh fish is so good that you have to book in advance for a table on the sand. The staff sprint around in the heat, picking up fresh fish from the barbecue when they hear the shout from the chef. He endlessly barbecues espetos de sardinas, and whole dorada and lubina. You drink in the atmosphere as well as the rosado, and it’s one of those restaurants where you feel that if you keep your side of the bargain (speak a little Spanish if you can, treat the staff with respect, don’t expect to be served in an instant) then you start to realise that they will make sure you have a great experience and great food. It’s right that there are 2 sides to the deal.

We were horizontal on sunbeds at this very spot late one morning when it happened. Without warning, and with startling velocity, the noise started and reached a crescendo. The raucous, unholy cries of a species common to all of Spain, not at all confined to the Costa del Sol. They sweep all before them in a relentless stampede, a race to establish supremacy.

Spanish ladies “of a certain age”. Hordes of them. Bursting onto the beach as one, as if collectively ejected from the nearest El Corte Inglés. To those of a weak disposition, please look away now.

Good old Laurie Lee wrote “I could hear the talk, the cries, the Spanish-Arabic voices pitched to carry from Sierra to Sierra”. These voices remained pitched to carry from sierra to sierra for some time, but you’ll appreciate that they were only carrying from sunbed to sunbed.

It was clear that they had all been the same shop for their swimsuits, pareos, sandals and beach bags (undoubtedly El Corte Inglés) and to the same hairdresser. And they were all same shape and size.

The roles quickly became clear. The loudest (some achievement in this group) established how many sunbeds were required, and who would be granted access to them. The bossiest then barked orders to a very likeable late-teen by the name of Raul, who managed the sunbed operation (and waited tables at the same time) addressing him repeatedly as “niño” as if he were some sort of child slave.

Once territories were established, the noise subsided to some degree. This respite was short-lived, as it was soon deemed to be beer o’clock, and poor Raul was bullied into service once again with a sharp cry of “niño!”. The excitement and pre-lunch beer-buzz raised the volume once again, and most of the 16-or-so hired sunbeds were abandoned as the assembled coven (there, I’ve said it) managed to squeeze onto 2, and all talk at the same time, still pitching from sierra to sierra.

These ladies had brought others along to join the fun, and they were:

a) Husbands (2), roles as follows: Do nothing. Say nothing unless spoken to. If you’re lucky enough to be assigned a sunbed, lie on it in the shade and don’t move. These gentlemen had clearly realised some years ago that it was wise to obey these instructions to the letter.

b) Grandson (1), role as follows: Do the same thing as in a) above, except that the chances of getting a sunbed are zero. If in doubt about anything, ask Grandad and do not disturb any female member of the group.

c) Granddaughter (1), role as follows: Sit with your abuela, and all the other ladies, and learn things that 12-year-old girls shouldn’t learn yet. Laugh in an uncomfortable way until you’re released to go and get an ice-cream.

The 2 husbands had a quick chat with each other when the ladies went down to the sea, but I’m not telling.

Lunchtime brought more delights for Raul. Whoever decided that he should look after their table must have a wicked sense of humour, or perhaps they’re genuinely evil. The bossy one ordered for everyone, repeatedly addressing Raul loudly as “niño!”. 

There may be a clause in Spanish culture that says it’s acceptable for a young man who is earning a living to be addressed as such, but it came across as rude at best.

Once mountains of fried fish, calamari and paella had been devoured, and many jugs of tinto verano supped, another character emerged. This one was smaller, and perhaps a little older than the rest. She hovered from one little group to the other at the table during the typically long-drawn-out sobremesa. She gossiped and gestured, nodded and tutted, then moved onto another group for more. I couldn’t catch all the dialogue (only a few were intended to) but it was clear that she had a very large cuchara de madera with which to stir up la mierda. 

The others loved her, and lapped it all up. It's all part of the game!

All of this is classic pack behavior, of course. We’ve seen the same ladies, along with their husbands, spend gentle, loving, fun days with their grandchildren on the beach and in city parks and gardens. La Abuela is loved and respected, is the core of many families and many couldn’t do without her.

But beware, that’s all I’m saying.

The blues of sea and sky beyond the pantiles.

I suppose what all of this this means, is that the Costa del Sol may have multiple personalities, but it still has its Spanish soul. Authentic Spain may still be found in abundance in Valencia, and we count ourselves lucky. But even along this livid strip, with its relentless battle for your Euro, genuine Spain still has more than a foothold.

I know that David Hewson is right. What is worthwhile, is what is Spanish.

Now back in the unfeasibly good English Summer, we cast our minds forward to the Nou d'Octubre celebrations in Valencia (tenants permitting) as it will be our first experience of this.

One for the future: I want to be able to write a little piece on Andalucia, not just the Costa del Sol. Sevilla, Cordoba and Granada are on the list, complete with empty boxes, ready for ticking. I hope we'll be lucky enough to see them.

Pronto volveremos a Valencia.