We left San Pedro de Alcantara and travelled inland towards the mountaintop city of Ronda. The road climbed steeply and the views back over the Costa de Sol were stunning, lavish houses were nestled in the hills. The higher we got the cloudier it became, and we were soon driving through thick fog and drizzle. Ronda is only 60km from the coast, but the temperatures are 10 degrees cooler. We knew this would be the case so had only planned to stay one night as Mr Love hates the cold, but with the weather as it was we thought our day of sight-seeing may need to be postponed and we’d have to stay an extra night. The vivacious French receptionist at the campsite tried very hard to persuade us to stay a week, offering us discounted rates. We could see why as we were one of only two vans there. The weather didn’t seem to be getting any worse and our weather App promised clearer skies were only a couple of hours away, so we took a chance and biked into Ronda. It drizzled a little on the ride in, but had stopped when we got there, and a thick mist hung over the city. I was feeling a bit disappointed as Ronda is one of the most famous Pueblos Blancos (White Villages) of Andalusia and has been on my must-see list for a long while. All the photos I had seen were in brilliant sunshine and I didn’t want our experience to be lessened by the weather. I made Andrew promise that if I didn’t get the view of Ronda that I had hoped for we would brave the cold, stay another night and try again.
What makes Ronda so special is its setting, dramatically balanced on a cliff-edge above a deep gorge. This gorge, El Tajo, separates the city’s 15th century new town from its old town, dating to Moorish rule. The historic stone bridge, Puente Nuevo, hangs high over the 100-metre ravine and connects the two parts of Ronda. This spectacular structure and the view across El Tajo is what I had been waiting to see. When we arrived at Puente Nuevo the mist was still swirling around and the view, although stunning, was muted by the grey skies and clouds were covering the Serrania de Ronda mountains in the distance. We would have to wait for the weather to clear further and there was more to see in the meantime. We walked across the bridge and around the cliff tops, past the bullring and through to the town square where we stopped for lunch. After an enjoyable Menu del Dia it was back to the bullring.
Another claim to fame for Ronda is that is the birthplace of modern bullfighting. It was here where legendary bullfighter Pedro Romero broke away from the prevailing horseback bullfighting and instead faced the bull on foot. The bullring, Plaza de Toros, is now an interesting museum showcasing matador costumes through the ages, the stuffed heads of beautiful and brave bulls, and art depicting this bloody sport. Access to the arena itself was included and we stood in the middle imaging the feeling of facing a huge black toro coming through the gate, nostrils flaring, angry and in pain. A group of Koreans were having a great time pretending to be matadors, strutting their stuff and waving their scarves for numerous photos. A museum is the where this sport belongs, but it is still practised widely and in Ronda a bullfighting festival is held once a year. The Spanish defend this brutal sport saying its culturally significant, but its in direct conflict with modern sentiments on animal cruelty and the EU’s stringent guidelines for animal welfare are a cause of friction with Spain.
By this time the clouds were clearing, and we walked back across the bridge and down the track into the gorge. The sun came out, shining directly onto Puente Nuevo, showing it in all its glory and giving me the spectacular views I had wished for. I was happy and so was Andrew, now he only had to brave one cold night and not two.
Mijas
The next morning it was beautifully sunny, and we set off back to the coast and towards Malaga. We had another well-known Pueblos Blancos to visit on the way, Mijas Pueblo. The white villages of Andalusia are influenced by the architecture of North Africa, the Moors’ native land. A chain of these hilltop villages stretches right through Andalusia like a string of pearls. Mijas is one of the more beautiful. It is tucked into the mountainside only 10km from the coast, and many of the 7,500 residents are foreigners who have chosen this picturesque village as their place in the sun. Mijas is also famous for its donkey taxis. These villages were built in a time when donkeys were the main mode of transport and the narrow streets are not designed for cars, especially not campervans. When we arrived, we realised parking was an issue and we were never going to fit in the one parking building. After driving around a few times we were about to give up when we spotted a policeman talking to a bus driver. We stopped and asked him if there was anywhere a van our size could park. He asked how long we needed, we told him no longer than two hours and he directed us to a loading zone area for goods vehicles. In our experience, nothing is too much trouble for the Spanish. They are laidback, helpful and “yes” is the default answer. The culture of “you can’t do that”, “that’s not regulation” and “I have to check with my boss” doesn’t exist here. It’s refreshing.
Mijas was lovely – whitewashed to perfection and sparkling in the sunshine. The donkeys were all lined up with their colourful saddles and with tassels on their heads, ready to take tourists for rides through the narrow lanes for an exorbitant price. With 13 donkeys in New Zealand that he can ride for free, there was no way Mr Love was going to pay.
We soaked in the view across to the coast, wandered through the picture-perfect streets, admired a Christmas tree made entirely of recycled plastic bottles, bought a ceramic wall-hanging of a whitewashed house, and treated ourselves to some delicious homemade ice-cream. By this time our two hours was almost up and not wanting to break our promise to the policeman we made our way back to the van and resumed our journey to Malaga.
Malaga
I had found a motorhome camping area around the bay from Malaga that looked great online and was only 12 Euros a night. We had four nights to fill in before our next house-sitting stint and thought if the campsite was good we’d stay put for the entire time. It was, and we did. It was a large gravelled area, fully fenced and right beside the beach – walk out the gate and you were in sand. There was a village 100 metres along the boulevard with a few seaside restaurants and 4km further around the bay was the seaside resort town of Rincon de la Victoria. It was the perfect location for walking, biking and, of course, relaxing. To top it off the weather was stunning – no wonder the campsite was full of Germans, Scandinavians and British escaping the cold.
We arrived on Saturday and on Sunday we walked along the boulevard to Rincon de la Victoria. Sundays in Spain are family days and that means extended families. Large groups of all generations fill the streets, playgrounds and restaurants, and its common to see teenagers walking arm in arm with their grandparents or great-grandparents, deep in conversation.
The next day we caught the bus to Malaga. Malaga is the capital of the Costa de Sol, but was not at all what we expected the capital of a glitzy resort area to be like. It is port city and has been a trade hub since the Phoenicians set up a commercial centre here early in the 7th century BC. This history keeps Malaga grounded and, despite being known for its high-rise hotels and resorts rising from gold-sand beaches, it is incredibly charming and cultured. On the hilltops above the city history keeps watch, with remnants of Moorish rule, the Alcazaba and ruined Gibralfaro, guarding the skyline. In the town centre below the majestic Renaissance cathedral makes its presence felt, nicknamed La Manquita (one-armed lady) because one of its towers was curiously left unbuilt.
We climbed the hill to the alcazaba when it was bathed in afternoon sunlight. The horseshoe archways, crescent shaped windows and intimate courtyards transporting us to a time long ago when the Moors ruled this area of Iberian Peninsula. This alcazaba was built by the Hammudid dynasty in the early 11th century and is considered to be the best-preserved in Spain. Below lies another reminder of the long history of Malaga, the ancient Roman amphitheatre built in the 1st century AD.
Malaga is where Picasso was born so we thought it only appropriate to visit the Picasso Museum. The museum consists of 285 works donated by members of Picasso’s family. Most are not well-known, as Spain’s main collection of Picasso’s art is in the Prado National Museum in Madrid. We were a bit disappointed, not with the art, but with the lack of story. Being his home town, it would have been the perfect opportunity to weave his life story into the exhibition, like what the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam does so well. It felt hollow and lacked humanity. The best part was an adjourning exhibition of female Surrealists – the art was incredible, and their stories were told well.
Not far from the Picasso Museum is the Malaga Cathedral and I once again found myself inside this magnificent building alone, Mr Love is starting to tire of cathedrals. The chapels in Malaga Cathedral were mostly rebuilt after being destroyed in the Spanish Civil War. Parts, including the ornate choir, were saved after being bricked-up to protect them. There is not much evidence of the Spanish Civil War, it’s not openly remembered and recognised like WWI and WWII are in the rest of Europe. It seems a culture of “leave the past be” has been cultivated. Malaga was hard hit during the war as it was staunchly Republican, and Franco saw it as a prize. Around 20,000 citizens of Malaga were shot by the Nationalists and buried in mass graves in the city’s cemetery. Similar events happened across the country and continued under Franco’s rule, well after the war was over.
I joined Andrew again and we continued on our way. We had planned out day around seeing the Christmas lights. The Malaga Christmas lights are renowned as some of the best in Spain, if not Europe. The show was set to start at 6:30 and as we’d stumbled on a Guinness pub and as we had half an hour to fill it seemed a shame not to stop for a pint. Thirst quenched and darkness falling we walked to Plaza de la Constitucion and joined the crowds. The lights did not disappoint. They were designed to create a cathedral-like effect arching across the main street of Calle Marques de Larios. Hundreds of thousands of lights shimmying in time to the music, and it wouldn’t be a light show in Spain without Boney M’s Feliz Navidad playing at top volume and everyone shouting along to the chorus.
Clear skies and sunshine greeted us again when we woke the next morning. It was our last day before heading to our next house-sitting assignment in the countryside, so we decided to treat ourselves to lunch beside the sea in Rincon de la Victoria. All along the beaches, in front of the restaurants, are big open BBQ’s in which a Malaga speciality of espetos of sardines are cooked. Espetar means to spear and it’s not just sardines, all types of fish and meat are prepared on these open fires. I was keen to try espetos of sardines, so we picked a restaurant right on the sand with a BBQ fired up. I ordered sardines for entrée and an assortment of seafood for main. Andrew stayed with the one dish, a BBQed pork and vege skewer. The sardines were divine, but I ate too many. Andrew wouldn’t help me because he doesn’t eat things with their eyes still in. A dish of rich fried seafood to follow didn’t help matters and I spent the rest of the day feeling quite ill, and without any sympathy from Mr Love.
We enjoyed our four days by the beach and loved Malaga. But duty called, and the next day we packed up and headed into the hills to the small village of Periana where a menagerie was waiting for us.
