Malaga

Thursday

Storm Goretti is blowing outside our bedroom window. I can hear the glass creaking in the wind. Sixty-mile-an-hour gusts are forecast overnight, and the temperature is hovering just above zero. I’m huddled under the covers, wondering whether I should go and fetch another blanket.

What is it with naming storms nowadays? It used to be that the weatherman (and it was always a man) would tell you it was going to be a bit breezy tonight and to take care on the roads. Now it’s all drama and storm tracking, with red-level warnings. I don’t know whether the names are supposed to scare or comfort us. You lose most of your roof, but somehow don’t feel quite as bad knowing the storm was named Flora, as if polite branding might soften the blow.

‘I’m cold,’ says Madam. ‘Why haven’t you booked a holiday in the sun?’

‘Ummm.’

‘My friend says Andalusia is lovely, even in winter. You should book flights.’

‘Ummm.’

‘Have you booked them yet?’

‘Ummm.’

‘Well?’

I reach for my phone like a man reaching for a lifeboat. ‘Is the day after tomorrow too soon, my sweet?’

‘Book it. And don’t forget the hotel. A nice hotel. Don’t be cheap this time.’

Friday.

It’s 2:55 a.m., and Madam is poking me awake.

‘The water’s making a funny noise. Low pressure,’ she says. ‘I looked online—there’s a burst water main just down the road.’

I’m not sure whether she expects me to don my raincoat, grab a shovel, and help with the broken main, or just sympathise with her for having her equilibrium disturbed in the middle of the night.

I get up and listen to her toilet cistern filling. The water splutters and gurgles. Somewhere in the building, faint water hammer rattles.

‘It’s just air in the pipes,’ I say.

‘I’ve filled the kettle just in case,’ she replies.

I burrow back under the covers, hoping for sleep. I lie awake for over an hour while Madam snores softly beside me. When I finally fall into a restless sleep, I dream the entire country has flooded from the broken water main, and we’re swimming to the airport using our suitcases as buoyancy aids, passports clenched between our teeth

Saturday

We managed to get exit row seats on the plane. They are supposed to have extra leg room, but my knees are still touching the seat in front. I think there must be a mistake, but the exit door over the wing is right there next to me, looming with responsibility.

“In the event of an emergency, please shuffle sideways towards the exit. Fat people just stay at the back of the plane and wait for it to catch fire.”

The flight is uneventful, but I am worried whether it would be impolite to hook my leg over the seat in front should I ever be called upon to open the emergency exit.

Addendum: Madam says I’m not allowed to use the word “fat” anymore, so please replace it with “overweight” in the above paragraph.

Secundum addendum: Madam says “overweight” isn’t acceptable either, so please replace the words “fat” and “overweight” with “larger”.

There have been lots of horror stories in the media of multi-hour queues to go through immigration at Spanish airports, especially Malaga. Maybe we were just lucky, but the immigration hall was almost empty when we arrived. There are two lines, one for EU citizens and one for other nationalities. The EU citizens just walk into the country with a smile and a wave. The British have to wait at a bank of electronic terminals to have our picture and our fingerprints taken. #BrexitBonus.

I scan my passport at the terminal and wait for it to take my photograph. It whirs for a while, then asks me to remove my glasses. I remove them. It tries my photo again. There is another long delay, and a red light flashes, and a message is displayed in large letters on the screen. I forget the exact wording, but it was something along the lines of ‘I’m having a bad day and I can’t cope with you right now, go and see a human’. I stand in another line and present my passport to an unsmiling immigration officer who stamps it and returns it to me without a word.

We head out of the airport towards the train station. The weather forecast for today is 15 degrees Celsius and sunny, so I take off my coat. A blast of icy wind hits us as we leave the terminal. I recheck my phone for the forecast. It still says 15 degrees. I put my coat back on, but I’m still shivering. It seems that the weather works differently here. Sunny and 15 degrees in England, and I’m thinking about wearing shorts.

Our hotel is in a pedestrian area in the centre of the city. The reviews all warned us that getting a taxi would be pointless, as they can’t get anywhere near the entrance, and that the train was by far the best option. Supposedly, you can just tap in and tap out with any credit card, just like on the London Underground. Madam tries first with her watch. It beeps, but the gate stubbornly refuses to open. She then tries with her phone. Another hopeful beep, another closed gate.

We move on to the ticket machine, but it doesn’t accept cards either. Madam feeds in a €20 note. It’s rejected. She tries again. Still rejected. By now, she’s getting a little tense. It’s obviously my fault. Eventually, we find a note the machine will accept and manage to buy tickets for the train. It’s only a few stops. Google Maps assures us that it’s one a nine-minute walk, but there are no street names that we can see, so we have no idea which direction to head.

I point and say to Madam, ‘I think it’s that way.’

‘No, it’s the opposite direction,’ she replies.

‘I think there is a river somewhere near.’

Madam peers at the map on her phone. ‘This way,’ she says without a great deal of confidence. The river looked more like a drainage ditch, but once we crossed the dribble of water, the route became clearer. Madam was right, of course.

We present our passports at the hotel reception and fill in a long form detailing our home address, phone numbers, emails, flight details, bank account and credit card numbers, blood type, shoe size, weight, height, sexual preferences and a few other things. The receptionist apologises for the length and said the police need it for non EU citizens. #BrexitBonus.

To be honest, I lost interest about halfway down the form and started putting in random stuff. Somewhere deep in an electronic filing cabinet I am described as three feet tall with spiky orange hair and wearing size seventeen shoes.

Madam spends an age unpacking and organising. She checks under the bed for dust or bodies. Inspects the bathroom in detail and switches all the lights on and off. Adjusts the air conditioning to five degrees below freezing. She counts the pillows and coat hangers. Neither meets her requirements so she asks reception for more of each.

She is finally ready and we head out and wander around the pedestrian area in the centre of the city. Streets such as Calle Larios and the surrounding lanes are closed to traffic, making them perfect for relaxed walking and shopping. The area is lined with the usual chain stores as well as local shops, cafes and restaurants. Street performers add to the atmosphere. Historic buildings sit alongside modern stores, giving the centre a mix of tradition and contemporary life. There are palm and orange trees dotted around the streets and squares. The streets are busy even on this chilly January day.

Madam stops every few yards to take pictures while I wait beside her. I’m still cold despite wearing three layers of clothing, my hands tucked deep into my pockets. I check the weather forecast again, half expecting it to have changed. It’s still 15C, yet I’m shivering anyway. We find a bakery and stop for a pastry and hot chocolate, hoping the warmth will help. The only free table is by the open door, so I stay huddled in my coat, refusing to take it off. After that, we head back to the hotel so I can add a fleece as a fourth layer. Wrapped up properly at last, we walk some more and eventually find a pincho restaurant for dinner. Directly opposite, there’s a frozen Greek yogurt shop waiting to serve us dessert.

Sunday

The hotel supplies robes and disposable slippers, which feels indulgent, like being briefly mistaken for someone important. I shower and put on the slippers.

‘My left foot says Dreams and my right says Sweet’, I say, ‘Wouldn’t it be better if they said Sweet Dreams’?

‘Try them on the other feet’, replies Madam.

Some days just start that way.

We leave the hotel after breakfast and head to the Malaga Museum, or maybe it was the Museum of Malaga. I forget which. The guard at the door directs us to the ticket counter. It’s free entry for EU citizens but €1.50 for everyone else. We tell her we are from Britannia but she still gives us free tickets. Either she hasn’t heard of an entire country’s stupid mistake or she felt sorry for us. But enough of my hobby horse. I promise not to mention Brexit again. For at least an hour.

The Malaga Museum is a great place to explore the city’s past. Set inside the old Palacio de la Aduana, it mixes archaeology and art, with everything from ancient Roman pieces to Spanish paintings. It’s interesting, and great for learning a bit of Málaga’s history.

It was almost empty of visitors; many of the rooms were deserted with no guards to supervise us. I could have picked up a Roman statuette for a closer look. I didn’t, of course. Even if I had, Madam would have made me put it back and told me off. Either way, you would hardly see the join where the head had broken off when I dropped it. But I didn’t, so it’s entirely academic.

After a brief pit stop at the hotel, we headed to the Alcazaba. Due to the slight misunderstanding at the museum this morning, Madam told me not to touch anything under any circumstances. After thinking a little more, she told me not to even look at anything, so I can’t tell you much about it, so I asked ChatGPT to summarise it for you:

“The Alcazaba of Málaga is one of the city’s most iconic and best-preserved historic landmarks. Built in the 11th century during Muslim rule, this impressive fortress was designed to protect the city while also serving as a residence for local rulers. It features thick defensive walls, watchtowers, and a clever layout that made it difficult for enemies to invade. Inside, the Alcazaba feels surprisingly peaceful, with elegant arches, stone pathways, fountains, and small gardens inspired by Islamic design. As visitors walk through the winding corridors, they are rewarded with stunning views over Málaga’s old town, the harbour, and the Mediterranean Sea. Located next to the Roman Theatre, the Alcazaba highlights the city’s layered history, blending Roman and Moorish influences. Today, it remains a fascinating place to explore, offering both historical insight and beautiful scenery.”

After a rejuvenating pastry and a hot chocolate at our favourite bakery chain, it’s almost 4 p.m. and I’m excited as the Picasso museum has free entry for the last two opening hours on Sundays. It’s only a two-minute walk from the bakery to the start of the queue. ‘We need to find the end of the queue,’ says Madam. We follow the line of people, waiting four abreast, down the length of the first street, turn the corner, follow for another hundred yards, then onto the next street. We snake around the cathedral twice, then through the city centre down to the docks. Once around the unloading crane and then along the harbour wall. ‘There’s the end of the queue!’ says Madam.

We decide to visit another day, retreating with dignity intact but my wallet slightly dented.

In the evening, we go to the same two restaurants as yesterday for pinchos and frozen yogurt.

‘We can go to an Irish pub afterwards if you like,’ says Madam.

This came as something of a surprise as she has always viewed Irish pubs to be the epitome of everything that is wrong with over-touristed places. We walk up to the entertainment district and find one with an empty table. Two drinks are an exorbitant €14. We are inside, but it’s still cold, and I keep my coat on. There’s a TV in my left ear playing loud pop music and one in my right ear playing a football match at full volume. It is so loud in there that I can’t hear Madam’s instructions, I mean guidance. We stand it for as long as we can, then head back to the hotel for another early night. On the walk back, we look down the side streets for a neighbourhood bar like La Buena Vida.

Monday

I have decided that Malaga uses an entirely different temperature scale to England. Those sneaky Europeans obviously changed it without telling us. The forecast is 17C, feels like 20C. We are wearing coats.

We go in search of thermal underwear. There is a department store just down the road from the hotel that has an outdoor/sports section on the fifth floor. I’m a bit confused by the different types but find one that is rated as super duper warm, or something like that. We are now prepared for evening temperatures.

We find the main bus station to see how (dis)organised it is. The emphasis is on the dis. There are long queues for the ticket machines and none of the manned windows are open. One window opens briefly and is quickly mobbed. Buses seem to go everywhere in Spain but there are no maps and very little information. We had planned to take the bus to a few neighbouring towns but may have to be tourists and take organised coach trips with a guide.

We take the metro (49 cents – London Transport take note) to the far end of the beach and walk back along the promenade. Malaga has a wide sandy beach with plenty of space to walk along the shore or sit and enjoy the sea views. Some cafés and chiringuitos are open, so we stop for a drink and to rest our feet. I’m hot from walking and finally get to remove my jacket. There are a few people sitting or lying on the beach. The sea is flat calm but we don’t see anyone swimming.

We get back to the hotel and realise that we have walked over six miles today so need to find somewhere close for dinner.

Madam finds one a three-minute walk away called Byoko. Their website bills it as “Ecological, healthy and sustainable food in the centre of Malaga, elaborated with organic and proximity with organic and local ingredients.”

My experience is that any restaurant with a similar description, slightly odd translation aside, will be serving something dry and tasteless with a side of over-ripe avocado. I order the Spring Veggie Burger but the waitress tells me that it’s only available in the spring. Of course. Silly me. I need to remember that when I next ask for Spring Rolls in a Chinese restaurant.

She redirects me to a Galafa roll, which the menu describes as falafel-based with egg, cheese, roasted peppers, caramelised onion, and baby spinach in a buckwheat roll. The roll arrives like a revelation, each bite undoing years of scepticism. Probably the best restaurant dish I’ve had in years. You should go there if you are in Malaga. In fact, wherever you are, drop everything you are doing and go there immediately.

We continue our search for a friendly neighbourhood bar frequented by locals instead of tourists. Madam does something clever on her phone and tells me there is a bar just around the corner. It’s almost empty. Madam orders a glass of sangria and I a brandy. The brandy comes in a large glass half full. I’ve seen smaller measures of wine. There are two televisions, one at each end of the bar tuned to a cooking show. Loud Spanish music is playing over the bar speakers. Madam says she likes the music. I’m less keen. The barman turns up the volume. I’m even less keen. ‘I really like this bar’, says Madam. The barman switches the TV to a quiz show and stands there obviously enthralled. I work hard on the brandy but can’t finish it, so I pour the remains into Madam’s empty glass while the barman isn’t looking.