Having spent several hours up on the bridge of the MV Bonavia, watching with growing anticipation as Gibraltar and the lights of Algeciras grew before us, we were exhausted when we finally docked at 2am. Fortunately we had no onward plans, so we were able to catch a few hours sleep in our cabin and a quick shower, before saying our farewells to the officers and crew and making our way down the gangway to dry land.
We were instructed to wait at the bottom for a port bus, which came 15 minutes later. The driver was pretty surprised when we piled on with all our belongings, usually he takes crew and stevedores between the different ships, so we looked like something out of the ordinary. Not knowing quite what to expect, we were dropped outside a small office. We walked through the open door, down a tiny corridor where we showed our passport to another confused man, and out the other side. That was it. No customs, no "excuse me sir, would you mind opening your bag".
We stood outside the door, slightly perplexed and wondered what on earth to do next. Gemma went back inside and asked the confused man if he could order us a taxi, while I waited with our bags, enjoying the sensation of walking on something that wasn't moving. Until I slipped off the kerb.
Although Algeciras has the feeling of many border towns (people only stop there on their way to or from Morocco), it was actually pretty nice in the old town, full of Moorish ruins and winding side streets. We found a little pension, dropped our bags off and discovered an open restaurant in which to have coffee and some food (of our choice!). We had decided to stay for one night, to give ourselves time to work out what to do next, and frankly because we were still exhausted, which worked out well, because our pension had a comfy double bed with a huge duvet, and we were given a heater too, so we slept away most of the day.
We were instructed to wait at the bottom for a port bus, which came 15 minutes later. The driver was pretty surprised when we piled on with all our belongings, usually he takes crew and stevedores between the different ships, so we looked like something out of the ordinary. Not knowing quite what to expect, we were dropped outside a small office. We walked through the open door, down a tiny corridor where we showed our passport to another confused man, and out the other side. That was it. No customs, no "excuse me sir, would you mind opening your bag".
We stood outside the door, slightly perplexed and wondered what on earth to do next. Gemma went back inside and asked the confused man if he could order us a taxi, while I waited with our bags, enjoying the sensation of walking on something that wasn't moving. Until I slipped off the kerb.
Although Algeciras has the feeling of many border towns (people only stop there on their way to or from Morocco), it was actually pretty nice in the old town, full of Moorish ruins and winding side streets. We found a little pension, dropped our bags off and discovered an open restaurant in which to have coffee and some food (of our choice!). We had decided to stay for one night, to give ourselves time to work out what to do next, and frankly because we were still exhausted, which worked out well, because our pension had a comfy double bed with a huge duvet, and we were given a heater too, so we slept away most of the day.
The next morning we caught a bus to Granada, 5 hours away. It was quite a pleasant drive, the road following the coast through Estepona, Marbella and Malaga before heading inland towards the mountains. When we arrived, my initial impression of Granada was that it looked a lot like a tacky French ski resort, which goes to show you not to judge a town by the row of buildings opposite the bus station. Unless you're in Managua – in which case you should be telling yourself to get back on the next bus out.
Our hostel was in the old town, full of tall imposing buildings in a distinctive style, reached by navigating a maze of tiny side streets which had the odour of sewerage. As Granada is located at the foot of the Sierra Nevada mountains, the air was frosty and we could see our breath for the first time in months. In fact, now that we had recovered from the lack of sleep, we were noticing just how cold it actually was.
In a desperate attempt to warm ourselves up we walked to the Alhambra one morning. There weren’t many people to be seen, and it was such a beautiful walk that our spirits were soon lifted. We reached the ticket office, paid for our entry, and wandered inside. We were curious about the time printed on our ticket, seeming to suggest that in 30, then 29, then 28 minutes we were supposed to be somewhere. But where? Oh Hell – the Nasrid Palace. We raced through the maze like paths, over a stone bridge and past several bathrooms in order to make it in time (the palace is so popular that you have to take up a 30 minute window to enter). We turned the last corner and wham – a huge queue. Blast. By this time we were warm and in need of a toilet (urgently)!
Despite this, the interior of the palace took our breath away. Some of the most original and beautiful examples of ancient Islamic art were tucked away inside. From elaborate window frames and intricately painted tiles to the carved Fountain of Lions, at every new doorway we both let out sounds of awe. For 45 minutes I completely forgot about my pressing need for a bathroom, and happily queued behind long lines of people to take photographs from a million different angles.
Later we walked to the old fort area, and climbed up the narrow, claustrophobic staircase to get an amazing view of the city of Granada spread out before us. We also took in the Palacio de Carlos V, which featured an interesting exhibition on a Welshman, Owen Jones, who had travelled to the Alhambra and been so captivated by the beauty he saw that he built part of the Great Exhibition to resemble what he saw. In fact, it so motivated him that he went on to become one of the most published and influential designers of his era. I got a telling off for trying to take a photograph of his work. I might have tried to explain that surely if Mr Jones was alive today he might have tried to take a few photographs himself, but I resisted. My Spanish was still improving, but it couldn’t cope with an argument.
After filling ourselves with delicious falafels at lunchtime in the old town, we decided to try some of the local tapas for dinner. Granada is apparently one of the few places left in Spain where the tapas is free, provided you buy a drink or two, so we decided to have a glass of Rioja and a free meal. We headed off to find a suitable place, and found ourselves in what looked like a traditional establishment. Seated down at the table with our glass of wine, were we ready for some patatas bravas (fried diced potatoes), gambas al ajillo (prawns in garlic), or maybe a few albondigas (meatballs). We certainly weren’t expecting to be served two ham and cheese bagels, a pasta salad and chips, which was what we received. The waiter misinterpreted our quizzical looks, and kindly brought us some ketchup. We wouldn’t have been more surprised than if Salvador Dali had jumped out from behind the bar and tipped the food over our laps.
The following day we made our way by train to the beautiful hillside town of Ronda, a few hours West. I had been to Ronda previously with my father, and recalled it being one of the most photogenic places I had ever visited. We had two nights to explore the sights, including the stunning, ancient bull-ring, and the impressive gorge-spanning bridge, as well as the beautiful parks and the historic old town. It’s a great place to spend a few days relaxing, and very easy to understand why the likes of Orson Welles and Ernest Hemingway enjoyed coming here so much.
The next destination on our whistle-stop tour of Andalucía was the historic city of Seville. I’d like to say that we took full advantage of our 3 nights, running around town like two mad people. Unfortunately Gemma was starting to feel ill, and I was getting a bit tired of seeing so many people (not that it was especially busy, but after more than two weeks on a boat surrounded by empty ocean, entertaining ourselves, it was hard to readjust to being in a city atmosphere).
We did manage to visit the Royal Alcazar of Seville, a beautiful palace very similar to the Alhambra (without being on a hillside), and one of the best remaining examples of Mudéjar architecture in the world. We were quite surprised to find that many of the Islamic tiles had retained some colour, whereas in the Alhambra they were mostly faded. It looked as though, maybe a few hundred years ago, someone had repainted them – or maybe they had just been better cared for. Yet it was a surprising building, with many layers, which had been built up over many years by a variety of different monarchs. Within 60 seconds you could go from a sultan’s bedroom to the chapel where the Duke of Medina Sidonia (leader of the ill-fated Spanish Armada) had prayed before setting out to invade England. In the spirit of cultural vandalism, I began to whistle the first few lines of “Rule Britannia" in front of a large group of Spanish students.
The following day we had planned to spend in far less exotic surroundings, ignoring the beautiful cathedral and tranquil riverfront, we instead headed to the only suitable place to watch live sport, an Irish pub, and watched the England vs Wales game on a big screen TV. Thinking back to our time on the ship, deprived of so many things we missed, we suddenly felt rather relaxed, although that may have been the effects of the cider. So despite seeing England lose, we rather enjoyed our day, and treated ourselves to cakes at a little place off Seville’s main square, where the chocolate mousse came with gold flakes, and pictures of the staff serving their delicacies at the Whitehouse for US Presidents adorned the walls. It was the perfect way to round off our time in Andalucía. Not because I can find any deep cultural meanings in the deserts we ate. They were just that good.
