David Mitchell

I told the taxi driver we wanted to go to Málaga, surely an unsurprising request at Málaga airport? He struggled with this idea, prodding his satnav and saying things in Spanish that were clearly meant to lower our expectations of the journey. We grasped that he could take us somewhere near our accommodation but we were up against the ‘procesiones’ – the Holy Week parades – which made the city centre inaccessible. He didn’t like the procesiones – he said that more than once – but whether this was for reasons of theology or traffic or something else was unclear.   

It was, then, funny that he got us to the end of our street without any trouble. Our apartment was in La Trinidad, notable as one of the few ‘areas to avoid’ in Málaga according to a travel website I read shortly after making the unchangeable booking three months earlier. At the base of huge, dilapidated blocks of apartments were bars and shops which looked to be carrying on their existence decades in the past. You could imagine La Trinidad standing in for somewhere like Beirut in a film shoot. It wasn’t pretty but it turned out to be a fine and peaceful place to stay.

Our building was clean and modern and we quickly untidied the place and headed out to find something to eat. It was about 8pm. There was a kebab and pizza place around the corner which the kids lobbied for. I was sceptical and gave them a life lesson about not settling for the first thing that comes along. We had the whole of Málaga to discover!

Onwards, we saw people walking in that manner that indicates a large public event nearby. These weren’t tourists, not international ones anyway. Their clothes were all smart-casual. They may also have been dressed for winter. We stuck out in our shorts.

We were hoping to reach the Centro Historico, the pedestrianised old city which is cut off from La Trinidad by a curious and ugly river that had no water. The crowds got thicker. It became harder for us to keep sight of each other. We started to cross a footbridge.

Too late, we realised we were going against the flow. We got separated. The bodies closed in. It doesn’t take much for me to catastrophise but it felt like the early stages of crowd-crush disaster. So we got the hell off that bridge, but it took us a while.

Ever hungrier and chillier, and after more navigational arguments with Wife and more reassurances to the kids that any moment we would stumble upon Delicious Food That They Would Definitely Like, we found another bridge and entered the old city. All we could see in the crowded street was a fancy, modern tapas bar. We sat down at a table. After another collective argument of shifting alliances, and a few literal tears, we left in a fluster with a new ambition of finding a bread roll or a packet of crisps, maybe some scraps found in a bin or nicked from a pigeon.

No bread rolls but we did find crisps and a packet of pasta in a newsagent. Sauceless pasta it would be. We turned for home and crossed back into La Trinidad, quickly getting lost, standing with Google Maps open and turning around and around like eejits to see what direction the phone pointed. Then our fortunes changed. Shining in the distance, the word, ‘acai’.

Minutes later were sitting in a nice little café, eating freezing cold acai bowls and chatting to the one staff member.

Acai Guy (not his real name) was from Argentina and had come to Spain travelling, staying to study in the city because he liked it. Were these processions going to be going on all week? All week, he said. His devout mother was envious that he would get to see them. The crowds were from all over Spain. Málagans left Málaga this week.

Feeling resurrected, we walked back through the darkness to the apartment. We stopped in to the pizza and kebab place and got a cheap and tasty pizza, as we should have done two hours earlier. The kids turned this into a life lesson for me about not judging things by their appearance and how I am ‘literally always wrong about everything’. 

Thus ended the first evening.

*

The apartment had everything from a Nespresso machine to an ironing board but no actual coffee, so I went out early to locate caffeine. There was a ‘municipal market’ nearby, Mercado de Bailen. It was spotless and bright, a sort of art deco factory-style building. In the little café, a cortado was a miraculous one euro seventy. I got some oranges and a watermelon. Fruit seems to be on another level in Spain.

We set out again for the old city, glaring with dread at that awful footbridge, and began our exploration of Málaga. The Centro Historico is fantastic, a maze of narrow alleys and sudden squares, all beautifully split between deep sun and shade. Perhaps more a place for couples to amble rather than kids to be dragged. The crowds were ridiculous. We got a coffee, checked out the landmark Atarazanas market, and escaped to the beach via the Parque de Málaga which was full of my new favourite things: palm trees. 

I hadn’t laid eyes on the Mediterranean in sixteen years, so it was great to be by the blue water at Playa de Malagueta. Málaga’s setting between the sea and gentle mountains is superb; you can imagine it being particularly fetching before all the port facilities and apartment blocks were built. After the beach we hung around Muello Uno for a bit, a relatively recent promenade development of pleasant if soulless shops and restaurants, at the end of which the cruise ships dock. Boat trips are usually something we can all get on board with, so to speak, so this was next.

It looked to be a substantial vessel but… ‘This boat feels quite boaty,’ I said as we sat down. It was in the harbour and was already rocking. But how bad could it be? This was the Med, not Ballycastle. Drinks for all!  

The next hour was an exercise in holding one’s stomach in place in the face of the relentless rising and falling of the boat – an effort which may not actually do anything but you think you have to try. We, and I believe the rest of the passengers, fell silent as we concentrated our energies on not throwing up. Our beverages were quietly abandoned. There was an historical commentary for the first fifteen minutes – apparently Hans Chistian Andersen loved Málaga – but then it was just Michael Jackson songs.

*

We ran into the ‘Semana Santa’ processions a few times accross the three days. We saw the massive ‘thrones’ carrying various religious figures floating above scores of bearers. Many in the processions had robes and conical hats, and there were drums and bands. Streets were lined with crash barriers and huge spectator stands were erected here and there. When not being paraded, the thrones sat in kind of open garages, attracting small crowds. It was all a bit alien to my Ulster Presbyterian programming. Then again, maybe not. (Religious parades; street sellers and marching bands; locals leaving…) 

Málaga’s top attraction is the ancient fortress Alcazaba. In a surprise to no one, the kids were unmoved by the intricate Moorish architectural flourishes, and we didn’t last long there. You could see how tranquil the gardens and court yards would be without tourists. Beside it is the Teatro Romano, the Roman amphitheatre which is perhaps best described as looking precisely like a Roman amphitheatre. I did like how it just appeared on the street as if it was a pharmacy or tobacconist.

Two famous sons of Málaga are Pablo Picasso and Antonio Banderas. There’s a Picasso Museum which was on my list of places to go but we gave up that hope when we saw the queue stretching down the street. The same for the tapas bar, El Gimpi, owned by Banderas. Apparently, he lives in the city and joins his brotherhood to parade in Holy Week.

A few other sights we ticked off: the Museum of Málaga is in a beautiful old building and is catastrophically dull. Free, though, with an EU passport. The Centre Pompidou modern art gallery sits incongruously in the middle of the cruise/tourist area of Muelle Uno, in an interesting underground structure. We got told off for touching an artwork. Both these places were deserted, suggesting the crowds know what’s what.

We traded these worthy visits with the kids for a few more fun ones. We popped in to Paco Jose, a vintage crisp and sweet shop which Joe Lycett visits on the Travel Man Málaga episode – probably not the only reason it is notable. The building that houses the Museum of the Imagination feels more like a church hall than a monument to human creativity. It is made up of optical illusions and is briefly diverting. Unlike the more high-brow attractions, there were people actually enjoying themselves in it. In the Oxo video game museum, you get two hours to play on current and vintage video and arcade games. The boy and I bonded over blasting bad guys in Time Crisis, an old favourite of mine. No need to put in another pound coin in when you die!

*

After a final gelato, we trekked to the train station and rode the eight minutes to Málaga airport. It was an odd mindset to be in for 72 hours: not quite sure what we were doing or should do in Málaga but in awe at the privilege of being anywhere on a family holiday.

I don’t know that we left our hearts in Málaga. We definitely left a packet of uncooked dried pasta. We were all alive and together. Some of us are growing up too fast.

Holy Week in Málaga.