Andalucid Again

Out of Málaga: To Álora and Chorro Gorge

Now that our everyday busyscape is defined by the skylines a city draws, it’s easy to forget the huge vistas Andalucía offers, the paisaje on our doorstep. Just an hour or so drive from central Málaga, out past the airport towards Cártama, Pizarra and Álora to the Embalse El Tajo and the Chorro Gorge, you feel you are moving through immensity.

In the pure light of this January day, all colours are definitive, absolute. White farmhouses in bright green fields vibrate against the deep blue sky, and the acid yellow gantry at the entrance to the El Tajo hydroelectric plant shouts so loud you have to laugh.

En route, Álora looked moody from the motorway, more mundane on foot. Café Alegría in the main Plaza is a good place to stop for a mid-morning coffee and snack, cosy with comfortable ladies who surely have gaggled there since they were brides.

From Álora, you wind up to Bermeja. Soon you can trace (with the eye only unless you are very different from me) the spidery walkways of the Caminito del Rey (the King’s Little Pathway) threading the dizzy drop acros the El Chorro gorge to the dam, the Embalse de Gaitenejo.

Looking right across to all this beauty and drama is Hotel La Garganta, a sprawling ‘Complejo Turístico Rural’. Displayed among the usual rustic tropes – farm implements on rough stone walls, grape arbour over the terrace, chunky furniture and such, are old components from the plant, as reverently shaped to their old purposes as Easter Island figures.

Lunch at La Garganta is one delicious surprise after another: croquettes with kid in a red wine reduction, delicias of goat’s cheese rolled in a Rice Krispie cake coating of frutos secos; a silky-sweet onion soup that could raise you from your sickbed. The portions are for mountain appetites.

The quality and value of everything we ate on that sunny terrace seemed part of the whole abundant day, and on that note, I wish all Andalucid readers a 2015 with many moments of simple wellbeing, vibrant colour and as much sunshine as you could wish to bask in!

I'd love to hear from you at: [email protected], so please drop me a line and let me know you are still out there - I'm still here!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arabic Lament

A violin, a lute, and a set of drums stacked around their feet like allsorts dogs brought home from the shelter. The fourth-storey rooftop of the old, tired Hammam off Calle Beatas. And 25 shabby chic music-lovers and a waft of ethnic print shawls, waiting to be wowed. 

A British couple with the tiredest and kindest faces I have ever seen play old Al-Andaluz tunes. They look as if they spend a lot of time living the inner life. I want to love their music and catch their spirit. 

The drums I could listen to all night, if they'd been playing one floor below me and I'd had the twilight rooftop to myself with a gin and tonic and a bowl of nuts. But the violin and lute....they make sounds full of woe. Woeful sounds. Tune follows tune, like an endlessly unravelling tapestry thread, all the same colour.

The two musicians gaze at each other, rapt in the gathering shadows. They nod and smile gently, lost in the world they have entered, but forgotten to take me to. Their instruments talk to each other, the way long-married couples do, the weary ritual exchange of suggestions and petitions. "Could you take the dog out?" "I took him out last night." Time becomes an elderly person on stately progress down the middle of a narrow street.

I gaze over the sharpening silhouette of rooftops to the tower of the Cathedral. Swallows swoop and soar, free in the big purple. There is distant thunder and the smell of rain but the players carry on playing, dauntless, indefatigable.

Surely lightning will soon rend the sky. Surely God will send hailstones. 

At last, nature speaks. Rain falls. The rooftop clears.

I turn and flee into the night. 

 

 

 

 

Lights, camera, action I: Málaga's Christmas season begins

Friday night. I'd arranged to meet my friend Jude at jewel-box bar El Palco, across the plaza from Teatro Cervantes. I hadn't counted on meeting another 300 or so revellers packing the square around a newly sprouted mini-forest of scarlet poinsettias , nor the 70-strong choir swaying to their own jolly villancico carol rhythms on the steps of the Teatro.

Taking me by surprise, a single joyful moment, the sparkling promise of Christmas before the spending and scheduling and jaded feelings set in.

El Palco is a handsome little bar and Borja, the owner, is a handsome little man. (Sorry Borja, I will sacrifice anyone for a neat line).

Get there before 10.00 pm and bag the first-floor table in front of the long windows. From there, you can see the sparkly lights and hear the jaleo of Málaga life in the plaza below. Guaranteed to restore your Christmas cheer. (And the mushroom risotto will make you happy too).

Until soon!

 

Hot Baroque: Accademia del Piacere at Teatro Cervantes, Málaga

We're lucky enough to have several active theatres in Málaga. Just a stone's throw from Plaza Merced and a gentle stroll from some of the best tapas in town is Teatro Cervantes.

Destroyed by fire in the mid 19th century, it was restored and reopened in 1870 reflecting a Málaga at the height of its commercial wealth and cultural sophistication. Years of decline followed this peak, until it was rescued again by the city and re-opened in 1987. I think it's stayed relevant because of an eclectic programme that takes in opera, classical, rock and pop music, theatre, dance and great interactive stuff for kids.

Fred and I were lured in for the first time last week, splashing out €15 a ticket on two concerts during the IX Festival de Música Antigua de Málaga.

The first concert was performed by Accademia del Piacere Arcángel. Arcángel himself is a suitably moody-looking flamenco singer with a national reputation. With viola da gamba player Fahmi Alqhai, two superb guitarists and percussionist, he whispered, hissed and howled his way through songs from the Accademia's recent album, Las Idas y Las Vueltas, tracing the roots of flamenco in colonial Baroque music.  It was so....untamed. Thrilling! At the end we all leapt to our feet and applauded until they came back with an even more electrifying encore. Get a flavour of their sound on this YouTube video.

A few days later , the Malaga Philharmonic played Telemann, and Handel's music for the  Royal Fireworks. It was dull. Fred didn't hang around for the second half ("I'm in Telemann hell"). He walked back to PLaza Merced for a nightcap, to find Sexteto de Jazz Iñanki Askunze playing a long and wonderful set. The sort of delightful surprise that can happen in music-loving Málaga.

 

Tapas like it used to be

The sun got up late today and so did we (our neighbours upstairs were having a chair-scraping party until 2.00 am). Skipped brunch and contemplated lunch. "Cheap and cheerful," I said to Fred. He duly led me down narrow shuttered streets to Taberna Cofrade Las Merchanas at C/Mosquera 5, off Plaza San Juan de Dios.

Forget the fuschia leather sushi bar and the polite vegan platters of the new city. Here, to the sound of solemn march music and surrounded by Semana Santa artefacts, we shared a traditional plate of fat chorizo sausage, pocket hanky-size seared pork lomo and a lacy fried egg nestling on chips soggy with olive oil. Washed down with icy dry fino manzanilla and cañas. Looked out at the hot white street from our cool dark passageway.

We paid the modest bill and stepped back out into the 21st century. If we looked back, would the bar still be there, or did we just stumble through a wrinkle in time?

See more pics of Taberna Cofrade Las Merchanas - if we see you there, we'll buy you a cold one!

 

The sun got up late today and so did we (our neighbours upstairs were having a chair-scraping party until 2.00 am). Skipped brunch and contemplated lunch. "Cheap and cheerful," I said to Fred. He duly led me down narrow shuttered streets to Taberna Cofrade Las Merchanas at C/Mosquera 5, off Plaza San Juan de Dios.

Forget the fuschia leather sushi bar and the polite vegan platters of the new city. Here, to the sound of solemn march music and surrounded by Semana Santa artefacts, we shared a traditional plate of fat chorizo sausage, pocket hanky-size seared pork lomo and a lacy fried egg nestling on chips soggy with olive oil. Washed down with icy dry fino manzanilla and cañas. Looked out at the hot white street from our cool dark passageway.

We paid the modest bill and stepped back out into the 21st century. If we looked back, would the bar still be there, or did we just stumble through a wrinkle in time?

See more pics of Taberna Cofrade Las Merchanas - if we see you there, we'll buy you a cold one!

 

Talk about a Málaga weekend

“Says 24 degrees centigrade…”
“Mmm, lovely blue sky and that fresh breeze…”
“Let’s walk through the Paseo del Parque to the harbour, and Muelle Uno.”

“Look at the sun shining through the hibiscus and look, the reddest roses ever, hundreds of them.”
“That smell, oh yes, it’s an Indian Jasmine tree.”
“There’s a parakeet. See it? That flash of lime green?”
“I love this Zen pool, just overflowing with ripples.”

“Coffee at Gallo Rojo?”
“If there’s a seat in the shade.”
“Dos cafés con leche, por favor, y un agua sin gas.”

Look! Those lovely little girls in frothy white. Of course, it’s the first weekend in May, all those Communions. And their mothers, dressed to kill. Wicked scarlet satin tiny jacket and scarlet heels to match. Everyone looks so happy!”
“¡Que guapa, que chulo tu traje!”
“Gracias…”

“Let’s go to La Moraga for a tapa.”
“OK, here, this table looking out on the beach.”
“These are the best coquinas I have ever eaten, so fresh and delicate.”
“Dos copas de Rueda, por favor.”

“OK, coffee and lemon sorbet at Galopain on the way home?”
“Why not?”
“Best coffee in town, Galopain.”
“Isn’t Málaga lovely?”
“It is. It is.”

Málaga's Holy Week: a celebration of life

I tell my smartly dressed young taxi driver that we followed the Gitanos (gypsy) trono last night. Suddenly animated, he replies that he’s one of the portapasos (float carriers) for the Virgen del Rocío this week.

I ask if he’s done much training for carrying the crushing weight of what amounts to a small chapel. (This one is 50 kilos each shoulder, 240 men). “Oh no,” he says, “we don’t train. How would we suffer for the beloved Virgen if we were used to it?” I agree that his pain – and love - will be much greater this way.

It’s our first Semana Santa or Holy Week in Málaga and like our neighbours we’re getting a bit dizzy with devotion. Forty-two processions over seven days, criss-crossing the city in unruly splendour, streets jammed with penitents and followers, a mediaeval painting sprung to life. The gilded tronos swaying drunkenly, urged on by showers of applause, relentless drums and the raw, high cante jondo of the trumpets. It's the music of pain.

Following the Gitano’s dusky idols, the women sing and dance twirly Sevillanas. I don’t even bother to ask if that's appropriate for such a solemn occasion. In Málaga, the sociable city, this intense love for life in the context of pain and death is a kind of worship too.

Thanks as ever to Fred for the photos - if you want to see more candid captures of this amazing week, you're welcome to visit his Flickr site.

Wishing you a bright and hopeful Easter, wherever you are.

Crucifixion, coffee and cake

It’s Friday night and I’m sitting with Fred at Puerta Oscura, an elegant cocktail bar of Edwardian cushiness in old town Málaga (C/Molino Lario 5).   In front of me, coffee and a delicate piece of torrija, a traditional Easter treat made with a mediaeval disregard for carb count. I’m ready to take my first bite, but can’t quite pick up my fork.

In the alcove opposite me, Mary the mother of Jesus sits with John. This is a woman who hasn’t slept in many nights, haggard, puffy-eyed, bowed with grief. John is holding her hand, but it’s clear he’s run out of things to say.

Opposite them, Mary Magdalene is slumped against a block, auburn hair tangled, eyes red from weeping.  Behind her, Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea wait, grim-faced, to collect Christ’s body for burial.

Here is the supporting cast of the Crucifixion as you’ve never seen it before, far from the impassive doll-faced Madonna and Jesus figures paraded everywhere during Holy Week. Their grief is so raw, you'll do anything to avoid eye contact.

This extraordinary tableau, ‘Duelo y Tristeza’ (‘Pain and Grief’) is the work of three Spanish sculptors, made in the 1980s, in a hyper-realistic style. Juan Manuel Parra, Álvaro Abrines and Juan Vega glower at me from the pages of the Easter Week guide, young, bearded, possibly reproving.

But the three young men next to me have just settled to their gin and tonics. People stroll in to look at the figures, then stay to order drinks. There’s a buzz of voices, a clatter of cutlery.  I think about how life, devotion and death often blur together in Spain, about the bleeding Jesus posters in the windows of jamonerías and dry cleaners and everywhere else at this time of year. I pick up my fork and plunge it into the creamy heart of the torrija.  It tastes divine.

It's official: Elle loves Málaga

The travel gurus at Spanish Elle have turned their gaze on Málaga, and they're liking our city a lot. A brief article in the online magazine raves about new galleries, a 'radiant' marina, beaches with buzz and endless tapas options.

Málaga used to be on the way to somewhere else, usually somewhere along the Costa del Sol. But over the past few years it's become a leisure and culture destination in its own right. With the recent addition of the Carmen-Thyssen gallery and the shiny new Automobile Museum, there's plenty to seduce you away from the beach and marina playground at Muelle Uno.

In fact, winter (though most sunny days the temperature tops 20ºC) is a good time to see the great indoors in this city, and to visit its very own 'Alhambra', the palace-fortress of the Alcazaba, set on the hill above the Roman ruins (enter through ticket office to one side).

We went early in January on a brilliant sunny morning, clambering up old stone steps to be surprised by patio courtyards with exuberant fountains or silent ponds, towers with arches carved like lace, and sudden, breathtaking views of the city and the glittering sea.

At this time of year, you can even find yourself for a few moments quite alone, dreaming yourself back into that mythic past when the sea touched the very walls and whispers of passion and ambition were captured in the listening shadows...

Thanks as ever to Fred for the photos - I hope you'll visit and tell me what you think of the citadel - and the city!

 

 

 

It's a doll's life at Malaga's Botanical Gardens

If you go down to the Málaga Botanical Gardens today, you're sure of a big surprise. If you go down to the...etc, you'll never believe your eyes...

A team of clever and industrious elves has created recreated dozens of charming scenes echoing old photographs of the Marqueses de Loring family at play in their handsome country house 'palácio' in the late 19th century. The stars of the show are the Barbie and Ken dolls, over a hundred of them. Exquisitely dressed in handmade costumes, perfect down to the last button and frill, taking tea, riding out to pay calls, having a lazy summer lunch in the Wisteria Arbour...the little girl in everyone will be absolutely fascinated.

This magical exhibition will vanish into thin air on January 6th, so if you can possibly make it, I recommend you go.

The house is set in the dreamy, leafy Botanical Gardens, 4km north of Málaga centre. (The Málaga Tour Bus goes there from the Bus Station, and the No. 12 bus stops outside the gate).

Fred and I went on Boxing Day. Bright sunshine sifted through hundreds of palm trees and gilded the tropical plants. There's even a super café for quiche-y lunches and salads. It might look like a garden shed, but the owner prepares all the food herself, and it's excellent.

I'll sign off by wishing you all the best for 2013. May all your problems be doll-sized, and may you too find joy in unexpected places.  ¡Feliz Año Nuevo!