On the morning of Thursday 22 August, we
left our delightful little apartment in the centre of Seville, in the furnace
of southern Europe, and walked to our car in the oppressively hot car park where
I repacked our stuff and we headed towards the Sierra Nevada, a complete
contrast to what we had been used to down at sea level for the last 49 days,
since we left our first stop in the Sierra de Urbasa.
I was looking for a place to stop on the
way. I would have loved to go to Cordoba and see the Mezquita-Cathedral, but it
was just too far off our path. Malaga would have been another good stopover but
again, we would have had very little time there. However, in Malaga province,
is the town of Antequera, an inland expat stronghold, but a lovely place to
stop for a while. And it was only a nine-kilometre detour.
On the way, we passed through the dustbowl
of emptiness between Seville and Antequera, stopping at one of those roadside
cafés so prevalent throughout the yellow parts of Spain. These are institutions
– usually with cold lighting, a metallic countertop with a few tapas in a glass
display, some radio music or the TV blaring out in the corner, and a couple of
old geezers chatting to the boss. This one had gone the full distance by
selling lottery tickets, olive oil and multi-use camping knives. There was also
a large dining area with wooden tables and white table cloths with coloured
trim. In Spain, you instantly know you are in a place you can take refuge
because it smells of bread.
Here is the thing I have noticed about
Spain: it is totally underestimated. When people go to Italy, they often go for
the history and culture. But Spain unfortunately set its bar too low very early
on in the 1960s by promoting mass tourism rather than promote visits to its
cultural hubs. Apart from the obvious ones like Venice, Rome, Naples and
Florence, Italy has a host of very visitable cities, like Como, Bologna,
Catania and Padova.
Conversely, in Spain, the hordes flock to
the worst parts of it: Torremolinos, with its soulless blocks of concrete
hastily put up to accommodate the lowest common denominator; Benidorm, the poor
person’s Vegas, what Croydon would look like if it were by the sea; Marbella,
the place where influencers come to die. Let’s face it: there are quite a few
places along the coast of Spain that could do with a few bulldozers and
wrecking balls. Not to mention the odd extradition.
But I would say without hesitation that
cities like Valencia, Sevilla, Malaga, Salamanca, not to mention Madrid and
Barcelona, can match or even surpass the standard of culture and liveability of
any other place in Europe. But the Spanish are (believe it or not) incredibly
critical of their country. Yes, there are a lot of issues here, but the
advantages of living in Spain outweigh those problems by a hefty margin. In no
other country have I seen such a level of engagement in the community as I have
in Spain.
And yet, there was a recent survey which asked
Europeans if their country’s culture was superior to others. Paradoxically
enough, but unsurprisingly, Greece was at the top with 89%. In the middle were
most central European countries from Poland to Italy, Germany to Ukraine, with
scores hovering between 45% and 55%. The UK was 46%, Sweden typically low with
26%. But Spain’s was a mere 20%, the lowest in Europe, three percentage points
below Belgium and Estonia. And yet there’s more culture in the little finger of
a Spanish Abuela than in some entire countries.
We parked the car in Antequera’s central
parking garage and took a stroll around the streets of the old town. There was
a mix between some busy places and empty streets. Google Maps told me there was
a cluster of restaurants about 300 metres away. Milda was incredibly tired, but
I didn’t want to settle on the first place I saw, especially as some of them
were empty or had rather unattractive décor.
Turning the corner into one of the empty streets, I saw a restaurant hidden between some trees and buildings, and I was sure it was the one we needed to go to. The proprietor was a merry and good-natured soul with a special knowledge of how to keep children happy. The menu was another work of art and had plenty of mischievous dishes to keep us fully entertained. This is another place we shall return to.
Continuing our journey, it started getting higher. After Granada, we took the road to Sierra Nevada, a spectacular road of around 30 kilometres, that goes on and on up the mountain until it comes to a halt in the urbanisation closest to Mulhacén, continental Spain’s highest mountain. On the way, we passed ravines, lakes, giant shards of rock rising out of the land, and views as far as the sea, still a good 50 kilometres away.
If this road trip has done anything, it has opened the children’s eyes to new concepts: they now appreciate spectacular panoramas, understand the beauty of nature, and ask to stop to take a look. When I pulled over next to one of the numerous inns on the way up the mountain, Dainoris and Livia asked to get out to take a look. The adjectives they used to describe the view in front of them told me they were on the right path.
When we reached the top, after a series of
twists and turns that kept me very busy and alert, I passed the offices of the
agency in charge of our apartment for the next four days. I sent the others to
a café on the viewing platform and went to get the key. The guy was really
nice, and gave us a bigger apartment at no extra cost. It was located in a
white building with diagonal façade and balconies that reminded me of those
apartment buildings in Monaco that look out over the Mediterranean.
But when I got there, we were round the back with just a close-up view of the rocks. Normal people would be quite upset to have had their view removed, but I wasn’t. I had been informed that there was a rock festival in the square right in front of where the apartment I originally asked for was located. In this new building, the apartments at the front would most probably feel the brunt of the noise, but round the back we would be protected. I was quite thankful for that.
After such a huge afternoon meal, bread,
ham and cheese were on the menu for the evening. But I had to find a
supermarket. It was about half past seven, so normally plenty of time. When I
got to it, the shopkeeper said “sorry, we are closed, so please be quick.” And
I couldn’t help wondering if this town was an exclave of northern Europe,
because I don’t know a single place in Spain where a supermarket closes at that
time.
I gathered what I could. Supermarkets in
places where there are no permanent residents tend to have the basics, and
forgo the quality. So you might find only white bread, maybe some appalling UHT
low-fat milk rubbish, and chocolate-covered cereals. This place was no
different, but at least it had ham and cheese. We fed the children and tried to
settle them into bed. The day after was going to be exhausting.
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