What ever you do, make sure you go to Málaga

At no point, ever in my life, has somebody come up to me and said, “you know what, you really have to go to Málaga, don’t miss it, take my credit card and really visit the place.” And I hold many of you responsible for that, even those among you who don’t know me. What is stopping you from extending this simple act of kindness to a stranger? This is what is wrong with modern society.

I woke up following my strenuous efforts of the previous day with an inexplicable feeling of fogginess. Thankfully there was no headache, but I could tell immediately that this was not going to be a day upon which a great literary masterpiece was to be written. Or anything I might be working on either, for that matter. So I went on the hunt for my sock, which had mysteriously hidden itself overnight, thought about having a shower (and decided against it), packed my camera and headed off for the bus stop.

The thing about buses to Fuengirola is that, regardless of the time you arrive at the stop, you always have to wait 30 minutes. It’s the law (Ley organica 20.76 unless I am mistaken). So I waited and after 30 minutes the bus turned up. It took me to Fuengirola, and I trudged the 100 metres to the train station, stopping at only two coffee shops on the way. A 30-minute train ride later and I was there.

The thing you notice when you get off the train at Málaga Central is that it is not very prepossessing. It looks as if someone has decided to condemn the building but had second thoughts half-way through the job. I can say the same for the building next to it too, the old post office, which is actually covered in some sort of netting, as if it were a fragile ornamental in a garden being protected against the winter frost. I wasn’t exactly inspired, so I set off in the director of the Corte ingles in search of further sustenance. I wandered around a couple of stores, looking at books, and then set out to explore.

You’ll be pleased to know that my infallible sense of direction took me, as always, in exactly the wrong direction. I ended up walking through an area that had obviously recently been host to the World Tagging Championships. It wasn’t an auspicious start. The buildings were more industrial than anything else and I was about to turn round and get on a train somewhere else when I came to a river. I wandered along that for a little bit, went past the train station again and, as often happens, found my way to another café.

There I sat and watched as a man with the most amazing syrup went by (see extra). Really, this one was a work of art. The guy must have been 80-85, yet his wig looked like it had been ordered from an Action Man catalogue. It was sensational. I was inspired by it – any town with inhabitants that have this much confidence is a place I want to be. So I got up and wandered down whatever streets presented themselves and ended up in the old town. And this is more like it.

Maybe it was down to the contrast with the first part of the morning, but the whole area struck me as being one of finest places I had ever been to. I loved it. A heady combination of small, narrow streets, filled with older cafés and restaurants; of large squares with terraces and works of art; of street vendors and musicians; but above all, of absolutely stunning architecture.

I carried on down to the Plaza del Obispo (main picture) and was absolutely entranced by it. Just a fantastic sense of purpose and serenity about the place; the colours are, as always in Spain, enhanced by the sun, not diminished by it. And it fits in perfectly with the cathedral, in whose shadow it sits. I had a choice to make by this time, having wandered for a couple of hours around the old town: cathedral or Picasso museum?

I went for expediency and chose the cathedral and I’m glad I did. It too was impressive. Not gaudily opulent in the way some can be, but still awe inspiring. The internal light blew me away (extra); this is what gives the impression of gold in the cathedral, and it alone was well worth the visit to Málaga.

I was tempted to go up to the cathedral roof but, well aware of what usually happens in these situations (I chicken out half way up) and also of the fact that there was a crowd waiting to get up, I decided against it. Instead, I carried on walking through the streets and stopping for occasional rests in whatever establishment caught my eye.
Got the train and bus back to Calahonda, showered and went out for dinner. To my absolute disgust, both Chambao Village and La Tabla Belga were closed, so I went to El Zoco and had a fantastic Andalusian fish soup at the Meson de Calahonda.