Lots of Carbs, No Marbs

It’s taken me until New Year’s Eve to find the Cordoba I’ve been looking for and it’s only two minutes from the hotel.  Los Mosquitos is everything I want in a Spanish bar.  Azure tiles, large hams hanging up on iron hooks and black and white photos of matadors staring out triumphantly under garish strip lighting.  The clientele is mostly elderly so they know what it’s like to live under a dictatorship.  There’s a lot of Iberian banter flying around which seems to step up a gear when a man shuffles in, orders an espresso and adds a shot of sambuca.  He is closely followed by the Lotto Seller, a potential walking jackpot with three long strips of tickets attached to his coat by bulldog clips.  One of the diners springs out of his chair to purchase one, hoping, like all of us, that his luck will be in for 2025.  It is 9.22 am and for me, this is when New Year begins.  Scoffing bread and cheese in a humble bar that has no website, tucked away in an Andalusian back street.   I don’t know anyone.  I don’t understand anything that’s happening around me, but one thing I know for sure.  I am over it in the UK.

The Mezquita – got there early

Southern Spain is awash with British tourists, flying in from airports I’ve never even heard of (Prestwick anyone?) and whilst not many venture this far inland, there is a lovely moment of Schadenfreude at Malaga airport where I scoot through on my Irish passport, leaving a snake like trail of compatriots looking perplexed and thunderstruck.  Oh well.  It’s what so many of them voted for.  They’ve already been delayed for five hours due to the fog and now they are being treated like second class citizens from a different country.   I wonder when we will ever have a grown-up conversation about this bungled catastrophe, this right-wing stitch-up?   Judging by the gutlessness of so many of our politicians, probably not in this generation.

I want to write about Malaga as it is the place that spoke to me most, but if you do decide to visit Cordoba – and you should – stay at Patio De Posadero, a north African inspired boutique hotel of six guest rooms built around an actual Roman wall.  Run by Lisa, Jose and a team of women who really get hospitality, it is one of the best hotels I’ve ever stayed in, and that is no hyperbole.  Do have a candlelight Hamman, do get to the Mezquita first thing in the morning so you can take photos of the eternal arches without too much human obstruction and do pre-book your ticket up to the Bell Tower because it sells out fast and these are views not to be missed.  The best restaurants can be found dotted along the river and the best wanderings are north of the centre, particularly around Barrio San Lorenzo.  You will feel lost and bewildered amongst the whitewashed houses with their black grilled windows and red poinsettias, but this is all part of the fun.  Cordoba is famous for its patios, so whilst peeking into people’s private gardens is encouraged, the twelve formal Spanish gardens of Palacio de Viana are the height of Andalucian romance and a must see. 

Palacio de Viana

The high-speed train between Malaga and Cordoba takes just under an hour and travels through epic mountainous terrain and olive groves.  I’ve heard mixed reports on Malaga but on arriving I feel instantly more buoyant.  New Year’s Day is always an odd time to arrive in a new town and by 6 pm, exhausted waiters are already looking to close the kitchens.   Ravenous, I manage to find a small restaurant still willing to serve me behind the Plaza de la Constitución in an area once regularly frequented by Lorca called Pasaje de Chinitas.   A glass of decent rioja and a braised beef cheek stew with fried potatoes costs me a laughable twelve quid.  I eat it whilst finishing off Stanley Tucci’s new book ‘What I Ate in A Year’ and am happy.  (The last chapter sees Stanley and his brother-in-law visiting Guy Ritchie’s estate for a shooting weekend.  As a culinary experience, it’s the most decadent thing you’ve ever read – Guy’s films are like his life – or perhaps it’s the other way round). 

They’re not messing around

No one stints on the Christmas lights in Malaga.  These are the Dolly Parton of festive decorations – gaudy, over the top and instantly lovable.   I wander back dazzled towards the hotel and discover enroute the other thing Malaga is good at, surprisingly, is gelato.  Luccianos uses Argentinian dairy to make flavours you didn’t think existed, and the passionfruit cheesecake is like a party in my mouth.   I will, of course, be discussing food more shortly, but first let’s talk about aesthetic. 

Pedregalejo

You do need to angle your camera sometimes in Malaga.  It’s not all pretty.  For someone who is navigationally challenged, I find having a sea on one side of me reassuring and would recommend a long walk via the glitzy port, through La Malagueta, up to the fishing village of Pedregalejo and finally onto El Palo.  You will pass JCB diggers and red and white tape that looks like a crime incident in the sand (it isn’t) but then there will be palm trees, and much quieter, more attractive stretches where local people are exercising in the sun and generally living their best lives (sigh).  The draw in this area are the chiringuitos which are beach side restaurants serving fresh fish barbecued over hot coals, with the barbecue makeshift and created out old rowing boats.  My two favourites were Gabi Restaurante up at El Palo and Oasis Playa between La Malageuta and Pedregalejo.  At both you can eat like a queen and enjoy the best sardines in town for less than 20 euros and at Oasis you also get free cava (if you’re me). 

Malaga had a cultural renaissance at the turn of the century and is now seen as a city of museums.  Seduced by the lure of twenty degrees in January, I manage to visit only one this time, but am disappointed by Picasso’s birthplace, which gives a sanitised account of everyone’s favourite misogynistic genius.  Although I appreciate its maverick brilliance, I do find looking at a lot of Picasso’s art deeply uncomfortable and having listened to a podcast on him recently, I’m now seriously turned off.  Give me a Chagall any day.  At least he loved his wife.  

You may need a defibrilator but do it

I decide not to go to the Picasso Museum, supposedly the jewel in Malaga’s artistic crown, and instead take the long hike up to Castillo Gibalfro via the Alcazarba.   It’s a brutal climb, but the views are extraordinary and there is a café at the top that looks out to sea and across to North Africa.   I sit there for a good long time and think about Morocco and how I haven’t got the balls to do it solo.  I do a lot of sitting around thinking about things, mostly from rooftops because Malaguenos are obsessed with drinking free pour gin and tonics on them.  Where do I want to be?  Do I even know anymore?

H10 Croma Malaga

On my way back to the airport, my taxi driver says he wouldn’t live anywhere else ‘except here between the mountains and the sea’ and is bewildered as to why the British only go to Torremolinos or Marbella.  The city, he says, is best out of season.  When I ask what it’s like in June, he tells me the heat that comes in from the Sahara is too much even for the Spaniards, instantly scotching my fledgling plans to rent an apartment here for that month.  Perhaps this is a winter retreat after all (although I would go to Marbs for the craic and the hope I would bump into someone fun, like Rylan Clark and his Mum).  It leaves some answered questions for this Euro Bird.  What about the summer and beyond?  There is surely a life on the other side of Zone Five?

I go home and download Duolingo…..

Unsung Spanish Hero

Perhaps this is controversial, but I’ve never really understood what the fuss is about Barcelona.  The Gaudi buildings are undeniably stunning and there is always the beach, but in Iberian terms, it’s not the only game in town.  Maybe I didn’t have the best experience there one distant New Year’s Eve.  We ended up in an Irish bar followed by a Chinese buffet under florescent lights, but that’s what happens when you wing a national holiday in a city brimming with eager tourists.  Madrid still gets overlooked which is odd considering it’s both the capital and situated bang in the middle of Spain, but right now it feels like its star is finally in the ascendant.

We are staying in an Airbnb in La Latina, one of the oldest barrios in Madrid.  I am here for a birthday, so let me begin with a truism. Turning 51 is not as exciting as turning 50.  To elevate it would require flamenco and sherry and although we failed on the last count (this is not Andalucia), we absolutely smashed it on the first. 

Madrid is old-world, grown-up grandeur.  Franco may have bombed the bejesus out of it, but it remains a low-rise city of wrought iron balconies, domes, and turrets.  It’s true it doesn’t have the earthiness of Granada or Seville, but it feels affluent, as if it’s been quietly building itself up whilst everyone else was on Las Ramblas avoiding the pickpockets.  Whilst there are certainly foreign tourists here, overwhelmingly what you hear around you are the lilt of Spanish voices.

I don’t do rowing

A good starting point to Madrid is the glamourous El Retiro Park.  One of the great civic spaces of Europe and a UNESCO world heritage site, it has everything I want in a public garden.  A glittering glass house, other worldly topiary and resident peacocks that strut their iridescent tails around for passing admirers.  At its heart is a vast lake dotted with a flotilla of boats and offset with colonnades and empire defining statues.  This is a park that’s not messing around. 

Look down on the edge of the lake and you will see actual live turtles sunbathing. I thought they were strangely positioned statues….

As most cities are experienced through the tastebuds as well as the feet, the food markets of Madrid are worth lingering on because they are abundant and spectacularly good.  Its most upmarket jewel is Mercado de San Miguel, best visited on a weekday (and when it’s not raining) as it will be straining at the sides with ravenous people.  On Sunday whole families arrive early and stake out the much-prized seats, sending each other off to top up on pintxos, fried seafood and tacos.  If you don’t mind the crowds, you can wander the stalls with a glass of wine in your hand and simply graze like a gourmand. 

All hail the pinxtos

One place you probably won’t feel like a gourmand is the café at the entry to Mercado de la Paz in Salamanca.  I wish I could remember its name, but I do like to judge the cleanliness of a restaurant’s kitchen on the state of its bathrooms.  After a brief visit, my travelling companion, Mary-Alice said ‘Well, it’s not Trainspotting….’, making me instantly regret the complimentary seafood paella I’d been given with my wine.  Fortunately, I won that game of Russian Roulette, but do swerve the place that serves chips with everything and has the dirtiest bar you’ve ever seen.

If you’ve got a sweet tooth, you’ve hit the jackpot in Madrid.  There are light and crispy churros with cups of thick chocolate and patisseries galore.  On my birthday, we went to El Riojano which is over a hundred years old and full of old-world charm.  The staff however are not, so just factor in a ‘Paris in the 1990s’ style of brusqueness and enjoy the cake.  It’s all part of the service.  For the best twist on a cinnamon roll this side of Stockholm, do not miss Salt in Cake in Calle de Toledo where you can get takeout.  The mango and passionfruit incarnation was the best breakfast a newly turned fifty one year old could have wished for.   

A word here about Spain and vegetarianism.  I haven’t been since before the pandemic, and they still just don’t get it.  Mary-Alice was faced with an entire wheel of Manchego at the excellent La Taberna de Ramales plus an alarming amount of patatas bravas (although thank god for the Padron peppers supplying some greenery).  I’m not saying there weren’t other good things for her eat, but the variety isn’t there and the Spanish do like to add tuna flakes ‘for flavour’.  This is really a country you go to eat pork.  Special shout out here to the jet lagged Australian guy who told me how excited he was about his plate of jamon.  This is how I feel about a Broadway matinee and a martini, so fair dinkum. 

I will move away from food in a moment, but the prize for the second greatest meal of 2024 has to go to Corral de la Moreria, Madrid’s most famous flamenco venue. Other options are available, but it was beloved of Ava Gardner when she was in her shagging matadors’ phase, so this is the one I plumped for.  You can dine at 6.30 pm in time for the show an hour later, which I realise is a bit un-Spanish being so early, but it is a glorious experience.  As for the dancing, it’s another level of artistry. 

The two big cultural hitters in Madrid are The Prado and The Royal Palace and you need to see both.  The Prado is a monster of a museum along the lines of the Louvre (which shoot me, I’ve never been in) so it needs taking in bitesize chunks or you will just exhaust yourself.  I was expecting endless rooms of chubby babies and Madonna’s and whilst there’s plenty of that, there are some real showstoppers.  I was not expecting another Mona Lisa or the intricate beauty of Fra Angelico’s The Annunciation.  The famous Valezquez painting Las Meninas is also here, and you’ll spot it by the size of the congregation.

Brace yourself

I’ve been inside a lot of European royal palaces, but the one in Madrid is an explosion of opulence.  Followers of my travels will know I am a fan of the chandelier, and this place delivers on an epic scale.  It is also chinoiserie on steroids.  I had no idea that walls could be made of porcelain before I visited here.  Book your tickets in advance and avoid the line of tourists snaking across the courtyard.  Ditto the Prado.  When we came out at 4.30 pm, they were queuing around the block which looked frankly miserable.

So satisfying

Madrid has really whetted the whistle for more Hispanic jaunts.  It’s well-connected for high-speed rail and you can get to Cordoba in under two hours which has long been on my wish list.  Next up, the Dordogne in May for a writing retreat (if writing a blog about writing isn’t too meta…..)

Armchair Cartography

I had been looking forward to donning a bikini this August. I just hadn’t realised I’d be wearing it in the living room with all the curtains closed. Temperatures at my desk have reached a balmy 31.5 degrees and I’ve retreated to the slightly cooler climes of the bedroom where I’m being serenaded by the sound of a power drill emanating from the longest flat refurbishment in history downstairs. I would sit in the garden and top up the vitamin D, but my neighbour is ‘de-magging’ the wheelie bins on the yellowing lawn, so that takes another limited option off the table. I know we should all be counting our blessings right now, but I’ve had better summers.

I’m afraid I haven’t settled into this pandemic. If you’re someone with no desire (or opportunity) to see new places or have new experiences, perhaps you’ve been able to make some kind of peace with its limitations. You can live without the thrill of knowing tomorrow something new and different beckons because of who you’ve met, or where you’ve been or what you’ve seen when you got there. The sheer joy and infinite variety of being alive feels absent right now and a big part of that is the freedom to move across distances. We’re all told we have to be citizens of somewhere but why does it have to be here?

I’ve been thinking a lot about my relationship with travel recently and how it enhances my sense of self. How it comforts me with its rituals and creates the sense of occasion and the landmarks in time that I crave. As the world shrinks, are we going to go backwards to a time when international travel is only for the privileged few? For me, Center Parcs would be like descending into one of the portals of inflatable hell and whilst holidaying in the UK can be wonderful, it’s rarely cheap. If you want to avoid ‘Jeanette and Dougie from Manchester’ (to steal from Willy Russell) you really need to broaden your horizons and go where they are not.

Me pensively channelling Lucy Honeychurch in 1989


Like most kids of my generation, we didn’t travel abroad much. Up to the age of seventeen I can recall only a handful of occasions and they were a very mixed bag. The first foreign place I ever encountered was Amsterdam. I was ten and we stayed on a floating hotel on the canal – Mamma Flâneuse, my grandmother and me, together on our first package holiday. The type where you drive for hours by coach for a photo opportunity involving a pair of outsized clogs against a backdrop of blowsy tulips. I’m pretty sure I enjoyed the novelty of this experience, but I have only a couple of memories now which are more feelings than images. One is staring with inexplicable sadness at the solitary Delftware loo in Anne Frank’s house and the other the sound of my normally prudish grandmother laughing uncontrollably as she recounted her guided tour of somewhere I hadn’t been allowed to go called the Red Light District. This must surely be the genesis of all my FoMo.

The following year I took my first flight and there is a photograph of me coming down the aeroplane steps and onto the runway at Alicante airport, looking ashen-faced and clutching a Snoopy. I had a week in an apartment in Coveta Fumá with my father and stepmother who basked like lizards in the unfamiliar, dry heat, smoking king-size cigarettes and reading fat paperbacks. It couldn’t have been memorable because other than ex-pats looking glitzy and red-faced on bar stools and the sound of Paul McCartney and Wings on the stereo, I don’t remember it at all. My experiences of Southern Spain since then, beyond the triumvirate of pool, pub and hypermarket, are like they come from a different world.

More teenage moodiness on the banks of the Arno

It was another three years before I would get on a plane again. I was that saddest of sounding things an unaccompanied minor, heading off for a fortnight in Germany to see a pen pal in the Moselle Valley and it was the longest two weeks of my life when I realised – as we often did – that she was nothing like her letters. As a natural Latino type, I didn’t gel with the Teutonic way and was bewildered by the sausage parties and the oompah bands (true story). I was more homesick than I have ever been.

There were happier trips to Florence where I channelled my best Lucy Honeychurch in a pensione overlooking a convent because we were all obsessed with Merchant Ivory films and Helena Bonham-Carter’s hair. And who could forget Paris in a one star hotel, with its neon sign that flickered all night though the net curtains and kept us awake, leaving us slightly hysterical in the morning as we ate dry baguettes in the lobby? Basic accommodation didn’t matter so much when you stepped outside into the City of Light. Foreign travel opened our eyes and our minds.

Taking photos in Paris 1986

The monotony of unvaried days and the fear of missing out is not going away any time soon, but the point of the Flâneuse is, after all, to wander aimlessly and that’s hard to do in a global pandemic when you’re playing holiday roulette. What we have for now are memories, books and maps. We are the armchair cartographers of our own far-flung dreams.

In other news, I really can’t be arsed to fight with Ryan Air, so it’s no People’s Republic of Cork for me this month. Instead I will be reaching for ‘Hitching for Hope: A Journey Into the Heart and Soul of Ireland’, by Irish Times bestseller Ruari McKiernan and listening to the sound of much needed rain.

If I imagine hard enough, I might even be there.