Torremolinos

All I know about Torremolinos I learned from Monty Python:

“You sit next to a party of people from Rhyl who keep singing ‘Torremolinos, Torremolinos’, and complaining about the food, ‘Oh! It’s so greasy, isn’t it?'”

I dug up a couple more cultural references from the 1960s and 1970s:

“A scandalous place where drugs and homosexuality are commonplace.”

“British are perceived as bringing freedom and debauchery, including sex, alcohol, and open lifestyles.”

Well, shocking.

To be fair, I should also include a more modern description:

“Torremolinos is a coastal town on Spain’s Costa del Sol, just a short drive from Malaga. It has long sandy beaches and a busy promenade, though it can feel crowded and touristy, especially in high season. The town mixes older Andalusian streets with modern resorts, restaurants, and bars, but the overall impression is often commercial rather than charming. The old quarter still has some narrow streets and tapas bars, but much of the focus is on tourism. There are opportunities for water sports and festivals, yet the atmosphere can feel loud and hectic rather than relaxing.”

Different but perhaps not better.

Clearly, we need to do our own investigation.

We take the train from Malaga, where a security guard patrols the train with a heavy truncheon hanging from his belt. He walks up and down with purpose, stopping occasionally to pick up litter, like a man ready for both civil unrest and a little light housekeeping. It’s oddly reassuring.

Torremolinos makes no attempt at subtlety. We emerge from the station directly opposite the entrance to a VIP Irish Sports Pub, as if the town has cleared its throat and announced itself loudly before we’ve had time to blink. A sign outside advertises bingo at 8 p.m. I briefly imagine us still being here at that hour and immediately dismiss the thought. We pass another Irish pub—because of course we do—and take refuge in a busy bakery for hot chocolate.

The air inside is warm and sweet-smelling, and I manage to grab the last free table inside while Madam goes to order. For a few minutes, at least, things feel comfortable.

‘I don’t think I like Torremolinos,’ says Madam as we head towards the beach.

We head towards the seafront. On the way, we pass a Burger King, then something called Guapatini’s Show Bar, which sounds less like a bar and more like a dare. Outside tables are crammed together around the bars and restaurants in the square.

A busker is playing the saxophone with heroic commitment, filling the street with music that bounces cheerfully off the buildings. The sound follows us like a determined mosquito, but it does add a certain charm. We turn down a narrow pedestrian street lined with tourist shops, all selling the same souvenirs in slightly different shades of regret. Signs promise full English breakfasts and authentic fish and chips. Bars display English football matches, as if Britain has been carefully unpacked and reassembled here, but without the bad weather or the queues.

Torremolinos sits high above its beach, perched on a low cliff like a spectator watching the sea from a distance. The town rises in uneven layers, with streets and buildings stacked above the shoreline. Reaching the beach means long steps or lifts, reminding you how far up the town really is.

We descend the set of zigzagging steps towards the beach, the width of the treads changing unpredictably, the surface slick in places. They feel less like stairs and more like a test of resolve. My ankle starts to protest, so I pause halfway down while it sulks. Below us sits another Burger King, naturally, and a mini-golf course, its obstacles glowing in the weak sunlight. Beyond that, the beach opens out, wide and sandy, with plenty of space and an uninterrupted view of the sea. I thought that the beach had a certain appeal with its soft sand, thatched sunshades and welcoming beach bars. Sadly, they were mostly closed for winter.

‘I’m glad we didn’t stay here,’ Madam says, and I sense this is now an established position rather than a passing thought.

The seafront is more spread out than I’d imagined, restaurants scattered between apartment blocks like punctuation marks in my badly written sentences. We pass more Irish pubs. More massage parlours.

The parlours are closed and Madam comments that the women are probably worn out from yesterday. I’ve no doubt their fingers ache from all that massaging.

Still, the air is fresh, the sea calm, and there’s room to breathe. Madam’s expression suggests Torremolinos is failing a series of her silent but rigorous tests. I think it has a certain appeal if you just want a beach holiday without cultural distractions, but I wisely keep my opinions to myself.

On the beach, the only person in sight is a lone fisherman, standing motionless and facing the sea, like a man who has either found peace or given up entirely.

‘I’m never coming here again,’ says Madam.

We splash out one euro on the lift back up to the centre of town. My ankle is feeling better, but I don’t fancy testing it on the stairs again, and the lift feels like a small, sensible luxury.

We go to Burger King, where decisions are simple and expectations known. Afterwards, we take a desultory wander through more streets, each one echoing the last: restaurants, souvenir shops, the same magnets, the same hats, the same inflatable nonsense bobbing gently in the breeze.

‘I really don’t like it here,’ says Madam, finally, as if delivering a verdict.

We get the train back to Malaga, Torremolinos receding behind us. I don’t believe I will get to come here again.