We’ve been here before, so it is no surprise is it?
Except, yes it is, it is still so wonderfully sense grabbing that one’s chuff is verily plumped up with more chuffedness and gabberflasting.
Malaga airport is at once a transport hub, a cathedral and a gateway. It is stepping through the wardrobe, or the looking glass, into skin warming and soul cleansing air. But, down in the bowels of the baggage reclaim area, one is entombed in artificially lit concrete and steel with only other dazed and confused passengers waiting, hopefully, for their belongings. The reclaim hall throws adverts at you with promises of a richer better life awaiting you if you purchase this or go there, meanwhile your actual life revolves around the carousel belt in pregnant expectation that indeed you will survive this flight intact. Then with bags safely returned to you, and flashing a “I’m not a bomber” smile, and your passport, at the the border you emerge out of the terminal building blinking into bright blue sunlight, palm trees and the smell of Jasmin. The short walk in the sun blessed open air to the train station is the briefest introduction to Andalucian charm. The runway disappears seemingly towards the distant mountains. One can hear the gin and tonic being poured over tinkling ice, the vino tinto being uncorked with a corky plop, and the patatas bravas sizzling alongside the piri piri gambas.
To get to Mijas involves either an expensive taxi or the train. There is probably a bus but why would you? The railway station is at the terminal itself, and trains run frequently to Fuengirola. For the price of half a pint of decent English Ale, and in thirty minutes along the coast, one arrives in ‘funky town’. All of human life is here on the train. Very young Spanish mums with prams, prune skinned and turtle necked ex pat Brits, leather jacketed cool guys hoping to get a girl with merely a glance, and bright white new arrivals from the frozen and wet north.
We’ve not eaten since breakfast, so 8 hours later we are bit peckish, but not ‘hangry’. It is too beautiful here to bring any angst or existential grief. Mijas has a way of washing out the dirt and grime of an English winter, and there are swallows and swifts here to remind us of what we can expect back home very soon as the spring banishes the ice, rain and despair from our solid English hearts of sodden oak.
The flat is the first floor of the whole house, above us a spiral stair leads to a roof terrace with a 360 degree uncluttered panorama view of the town and surrounding mountains. The sea lies 5 kms and 800 metres below us. The sky has the odd little fluffy clouds. As it is gone 1700 hours, the sun is slipping over the yard arm (somewhere in the world) and a short walk into town and a cold beer awaits.
If I die here right now, I would not complain.