Angenais

Moor Moor Moor

We’ve just been to Southern Spain for a week. We drove in a loop from Seville down to Cadiz, then along the coast to Estepona and back up via Ronda.

From the airport we almost made it to our hotel in Seville without getting lost, but just as we spied the road, we took a wrong turn and had to make our way through the old city, down some of the narrowest streets, backing up into impossible spaces to let other cars by.

We got lost again going out to Cadiz. A religious procession with the Virgin Mary held aloft gave us time to ask other drivers the way south. Cadiz is like a sparkling pendant jutting out into the ocean. You can circumnavigate the old city keeping the Atlantic on one side all the while.

Before dark, we made it to Vejer de al Frontera, a pueblo blanco that still feels off-the-beaten-track. It was a joy to get lost among the cobbled streets that echoed to every footstep. We missed out on the open-air Arabic restaurant and had to settle for sticky prawns and sherry in a small taverna. As we drove away next day, you couldn’t help marvel at what life must have been like before the car for a people who’d chosen to live so high up.

The rain came. Wind turbines loomed out of the mist. Tarifa, the southern most tip of Western Europe, was soggy. We nearly caught the ferry to Tangiers, but thought better of it and headed on to Estepona. The hotels looked dreary, the town was dead, so we took a chance and went in search of Albero Lodge.

The coastal highway is confusing and dangerous. We missed the turning and found ourselves at Costalita. Just enough time to take a photo of the sunny billboard (to show Om and Deb we’d been there) before heading back down the highway and missing more turns.

As it turned out, it was worth it. Albero Lodge was like a Moorish haven. “It’s paradise!” said the German man lazing by the pool a couple of days later. He worked for Rolls Royce – there has to be an irony in there somewhere – and this was his second time back in as many weeks.

Before the blissful sun came, we had another day of rain. We felt sorry for the honeymoon couple who already looked bored of each other. Later that day in Casares, another Pueblo Blanco, the people looked just as bored. A once remote picturesque village was now no match for Mercedes coaches from Marbella and Northern Europeans wanting to buy a slice of the good life.

The next day we were on the beach, a stone’s throw from Albero Lodge. In late October the Med had a bite to it. Still, I swam in it, Sep stuck a toe in it. There were more days on the beach, a trip to Marbella and an excellent paella at La Sal.

After four nights we drove back to Seville. It was a brilliant day. From the winding mountain roads we could see Gibraltar, another glimmering jewel hanging from the neck of Europe.

We stopped at Ronda, where a whole school of Americans was painting ‘that bridge’, admiring its beauty, trying to capture its essence. That bridge where 500 were thrown to their death in the civil war.

Our last night in Seville was a feast of flamenco. A converted coal yard was buzzing with locals and tourists. In one yard a singer, in another dancers – sevillana style. The highlight was a young man in a thin suit who played flamenco on a upright piano. Young girls sat admiringly at the ends whose eyes he’d now and again catch, then raise an eyebrow before dashing down again on the keys. More cerveza, more sherry, more tapas.

In the morning we toured the Alcazar without a guide. Originally a muslim palace, it was rebuilt by a Christian king in moorish style and inscribed on the walls in Arabic are the words “Allah is great”. The Moors, or the Muslims of Al Andalus, gave us astronomy, modern mathematics, modern medicine and re-introduced the classical canon, without which there would have been no renaissance.

It was a memorable week. Sep and I will raise a glass of sherry (Cava in her case) to Europe’s Islamic heritage. Take a look at the photos in the Gallery or post a comment.

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