At the base of the Alcazaba fortress sits the remains of a Roman theatre, which is impressive not only for its age but for the fact that everyone managed to lose it for several centuries. Built during the reign of Augustus, it was used for public performances until the 3rd century, then buried, forgotten, and finally rediscovered in 1951 when someone with a shovel had an unexpectedly interesting day at work, no doubt followed by a lot of paperwork. How an amphitheatre — essentially a large, permanent hole lined with stone — can go unnoticed for so long remains one of history’s quieter mysteries.
We meant to pay it a visit last Sunday along with the Alcazaba but somehow got distracted in our haste to get to the Picasso museum while it was still free entry because culture is all very well, but free culture is better. We present ourselves at the entrance to the amphitheatre only to be told there is a class of far more important people and to come back in thirty minutes.
We walk a few yards to Plaza de la Merced and sit for a while. There’s a bronze statue of Picasso seated on one of the benches looking as though he’s waiting for a bus that will never arrive. We join the queue to have our picture taken with him. Madam tells me I have to rub his head for luck. I’m sceptical, but comply adding the the already glistening shine.
We go back to the amphitheatre and the more important people have gone so we gain access. We linger for a while amazed at this solidly built structure, created by a civilisation that thought it would last forever. In its current state, it’s half revealed and half imagined. Weathered stone steps curve towards a vanished stage. It lies open to the sky, its curved stone seating worn smooth by centuries of weather and indifference. Standing there, it is easy to imagine the murmur of a crowd, the scrape of sandals on stone, the voices, the arguments, the applause. People all long gone and forgotten.
We stumble upon a charity shop—the first we’ve seen in Málaga. They’re having a half-price sale, and I snag a B&M shirt for three euros. This feels like a sensible financial decision, though I’m not entirely sure why.
We stop at a Granier bakery for a pastry and hot chocolate, as has become our custom. Madam buys me a pastry the size of a dinner plate. I’m not that hungry, but I eat it anyway.
I suggest a boat trip from the harbour. There’s an eco tour, I tell her.
‘How is it eco?’ she asks.
‘Probably because it has sails instead of an engine.’
Madam looks doubtful, so I add, ‘Well, I expect it has an engine as well.’
We pass the Arbema, a 78-metre luxury yacht. Madam does something on her phone. She does a lot of somethings on her phone. She tells me that we could charter it for a week for a mere €600,000. ‘It sleeps twelve,’ she adds hopefully, ‘we could share the cost.’
I tell her that if we stop buying pastries and hot chocolate for the next thousand years, we could at least afford the deposit. She looks doubtful. I’m not sure if she doesn’t trust my maths or can’t imagine life without Spanish hot chocolate.
On one side of the harbour, there’s a Burger King, a KFC, and a Starbucks standing shoulder to shoulder like old friends; on the other side, sleek yachts that look as though they belong to people who’ve never had to eat in a Burger King in their lives.
We glide past a scenic old lighthouse, followed by a distinctly less scenic cement works. Palm trees line the harbour edge wall, trying their best to soften the industrial nature of the harbour.
The breeze stiffens and we both put on our coats.
We pass a docked Chinese freighter which announces that it is methanol-powered in large letters on the hull. I’m not sure if this is a boast or a warning. We pass another giant container ship and finally leave the harbour. It has taken fifteen minutes.
Madam finds someone to talk to while I stand near the bow and watch the scenery. The wind picks up, and ominous, dark grey clouds form. It was warm and sunny when we left; now we are huddled in our coats. We sail out into Málaga Bay in a wide, unambitious circle and head back in again. The sails are never raised. As boat tours go, it’s distinctly underwhelming.
Madam’s new friend tells her that she is heading to Torremolinos tomorrow for a few days. How is it, she asks. Madam redirects the question to me, unwilling to disappoint her new friend.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘it has a beach.’
This does not help.
‘Some beach bars,’ I add. ‘Mostly closed in winter.’
This helps even less.
She starts to look a little crestfallen, so I add, ‘but there are plenty of pubs and restaurants open in the town.’
She perks up at the mention of pubs. I hope she isn’t disappointed.
It’s still cloudy, but the threat of rain has receded, so we walk further along the harbour. We pass the Nao Santa María, or at least a reproduction of it. Madam seems excited, but I don’t know why, so I ask her.
‘You know… in 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue, blah blah blah… I can’t remember the rest of it…’
She explains it has something to do with the discovery of America, although I think the Native Americans or possibly the Vikings have a prior claim. The expedition was a bit of a failure in some respects. Columbus was trying to find a shortcut to Asia, not a new continent. From a navigational and geographical standpoint, that’s a failure of understanding. He didn’t realise he’d stumbled onto an entirely new continent, which meant he misunderstood the scale of the world – something the ancient Greeks had calculated centuries before. He promised Spain a fast, profitable route to the riches of Asia—spices, silk, and gold. What he delivered instead were small amounts of gold, struggling colonies, and repeated demands for more funding. How you view Columbus may depend on which history book you read.
Built in Spain by the Nao Victoria Foundation and launched in 2018, the 200-tonne historic reproduction of the Santa María serves as a floating museum and is open to the public, offering a glimpse into 15th-century seafaring life. The ship faithfully matches the original in size and rigging, with about 28 metres in length, three masts, and five sails totalling roughly 303 m², and around three kilometres of ropes. That’s a lot of trip hazards.
It costs €8 each just to stand on the deck, which I think is a bit steep, but Madam is already waiting for me by the ticket office, credit card in hand.
It’s far more interesting than I thought. Lots of informative signs in both Spanish and English, telling us about life on board for the original crew sailing in search of a shortcut to India. The main meal for the crew consisted of wine and twice-baked bread. The ship also carried vegetables and fruit, but these soon rotted, leaving only salted fish and meat, nuts, and cheese to be rationed sparingly. Acts such as swearing, blasphemy, playing cards, nudity, or sexual activity were considered serious misconduct, and the penalties could range from the loss of salary to whipping or even death.
We continue along the harbour past chain stores and glossy restaurants, pausing to make use of the free public toilets. Back home, our local council has started charging a pound just to pee. As a result, many men now resort to whatever semi-private corner they can find, creating an atmosphere along the seafront that could politely be described as aromatic.
Madam goes into Koala Bay. She tells me that it’s “just to check prices”. I know after decades together that this is code for I’m going to buy something. Probably several somethings.
We walk back towards the hotel through a park beneath the Alcazaba’s walls. A few oranges still cling to the trees; others have fallen and lie bruised and slowly decomposing on the ground.
We pass the cathedral, and Madam stops to take yet more pictures. I sit on the wall and wait. There are more oranges on the ground here, some squashed flat. Eventually, she joins me and complains about tourists getting in the way of her pictures.
We pass a walk-in tattoo parlour. I ask Madam if she wants to get a souvenir Malaga tattoo. ‘After you,’ she says. I decline.
She looks in the window of an expensive jewellery shop. I hope she really is just checking prices.
Travels With Madam 