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.