Enroute to Santa Cruz, Tenerife, Canary Islands

29 September 2012

We’re rollin’ again as we make our way from Cadiz, Spain, to Santa Cruz, Canary Islands, also Spain. I don’t use the term “rollin’” without purpose. The ocean is very choppy here as we get closer and closer to the Tropic of Cancer, and last night was one that brought back memories of the crossing from Halifax to Galway: large swells that rolled me back and forth under the covers as I heard my Spanish wine bottles clank against each other in the cabinet. Nothing broke—not the wine or me.

Continuing my visit to Spain, I left Gibralter around 2:30pm Monday and drove the next 90 minutes to Malaga along a beautiful stretch of 6-lane autovia (expressway) winding along the hills and cliffs above the Costa del Sol. My rented VW Golf was smooth and very quiet sailing along that stretch of highway at 120+ kilometers per hour (KPH), or about 72-75 mph. I didn’t realize at the time, though, that another stretch of autovia was paralleling my course but 1,000 feet below and curving along the beaches of the towns that line the coast. I had chosen the toll road—AP-4—rather than the free (though more crowded) highway—A-4—that Spanish tax dollars had built. That was one of the codes the Frommer’s guide book hadn’t mentioned: that many free highways in Europe have tolled cousins running alongside. In Spain, they’re noted by the additional letter “P” (for payaje) in the numbering scheme. By the time I reached Malaga, that letter had cost me a little over 15 Euro, or about $20.

But the view was wonderful. According to the guidebooks, the Spanish coast between Gibralter and the point where it turns north toward Barcelona was dotted with small, quiet fishing villages until about a quarter century ago when Northern Europeans—especially the Brits—discovered this place that gets over 320 days of sunshine a year (something the Brits have in scarce supply). In the past 25 years, the coast has exploded with resort and condo development until today it looks like all the beach communities of Florida crammed together along one 250-mile-long stretch. The resort developments start at the Mediterranean’s edge and stairstep their way up the foothills to and beyond the AP-4 tollway I drove along—at least 8 miles inland and 1,500 sloping feet above sea level. All of the building is in various shades of white and pastels, so the color and texture of the coast is very pleasing—not natural, but pleasing.

Malaga, a city of about 500,000, sits in the middle of the two south-facing coasts: Costa del Sol and Costa Tropical. So I figured it would be a logical place to hang my hat and from which to explore. It was an excellent choice. I had found, thanks to Trip Advisor, a bed and breakfast in Malaga Este—La Francesca.

La Francesca, a 5-bedroom B&B, was difficult to find because I had relied on Google Maps to get me there. Google was fine with the macro course but, like “Big Vi,” Google struggles in the details. In my case, the maps program mislabeled the autovia exit, leading me to an unplanned tour of the coast east of Malaga until I found a petrol station with a wonderful attendant able to guide me to the La Francesca neighborhood.

The B&B is owned by a couple of teachers. Alfonso, who greeted me, is a secondary-school teacher. Ana, whom I didn’t meet until after I returned from dinner Monday evening, is chair of the international law department at Malaga University and an expert in international terrorism. She has advised NATO on terrorism strategy. And she runs a terrific B&B.

My room, small but more than adequate and with an internet router mounted on the wall, opened onto a patio from where, while I was drinking a glass of wine or eating breakfast, I could catch glimpses of the Mediterranean between the buildings that lined the 300 meters between the B&B and the beach. Those buildings also housed many al fresco restaurants that served excellent tapas, chilled wine, and fine cerveza. As I said, it all turned out to have been an excellent choice.

I had made the plans to visit Malaga only a few days before we arrived in Cadiz. It was my answer to the question, “Now that I have 2 extra days in Spain, what am I going to do with them?” So I knew only that the coast was famous for beaches and sunshine. But it’s also famous for the mountains and mountain villages that dot the rolling landscape of the province of Andalucía. Many of those villages line the 1,000-year-old border that used to separate Christian Spain from the Moors of Muslim Spain. The villages were built on the edges of cliffs and the crests of mountain ridges, where they used to provide look-out against invaders. Many carry the de la Frontera name (for example, Cortes de la Frontera), meaning “along the frontier.”

But what’s most notable about the villages is their color. All buildings of the villages are painted white with pastel trim, making them stand out along those ridges like white caps on a sea of green and brown. So they’re collectively known as Las Pueblos Blancos—the white villages—and, I discovered, run a very close second to the beaches as a draw for tourists. Frankly, they should rank first.

On Tuesday, I drove to see the white villages. I began with the city of Ronda, a medium-size city in the mountains know principally as the birthplace of bullfighting. The drive to Ronda reminded me very much of the drive from Denver west to the Continental Divide. But unlike I-70 that thrusts like an arrow into the Rockies, the highway to Ronda is a 2-lane, winding road that snakes back and forth as it ascends into the mountains, providing ever wider views of the beach communities along the very, very blue Mediterranean. That drive also brought back memories of the drive up the winding highway to Dalat, Vietnam. There, it was the rice paddies several thousand feet below that provided the distraction; on the road to Ronda, it was the sea.

In the center of Ronda sits the oldest bullring in the world, built in the middle of the 16^th Century. September is the end of bullfighting season, after which the matadors and their small armies of attendants travel to Mexico and other countries where the pageant is still practiced. So I might have picked the perfect time to visit. But Tuesday was a non-fighting day, which was unfortunate because I had been to only one bullfight in my life, and that was almost 40 years ago during a layover in Madrid while ferrying an F-100 aircraft from England to the Tucson bone yard. But the ring is also a museum of bullfighting. And the fact no bulls or matadors were present meant tourists could explore the building, including walking into the middle of the ring and imagining what it would be like to stand there waiting for the door to open and the massive animal to charge. I did that. Another iconic moment of this year’s voyage.

I spent a little over an hour exploring the ring and museum, then, after about 30 minutes of trying to find the correct route out of the town, I stopped again to ask directions and was pointed toward the section of Las Pueblos Blancos –the eastern section—I had planned to visit.

Spanish roads are very well built, very well maintained, and very well marked. The challenge is that not all routes are on the maps, that some routes on the maps don’t seem to exist in reality, and that numbers of routes on the maps don’t always match the numbers of routes that lead to where you want to go. The net result is that I took many wrong turns during my driving tour of the white villages, and only my sense of direction, validated by the position of the sun on a bright day, ensured that I made it back to my B&B before the witching hour. There’s an art to driving in Spain—to driving in Europe, in fact. I certainly haven’t mastered it, but getting to where one wants to go triggers a genuine, well-earned sense of accomplishment.

The 3-hour drive back down the mountains to the coast was what I expected: a memorable drive through olive groves, forests, and fields of grazing bulls. And every 30 minutes or so, I’d round a curve and enter another white-washed village. I have no idea what the people of these villages do for a living—beyond painting and repainting their homes and businesses—but I’m grateful for whatever it is.

Around 3pm, I stopped in one of the villages—Cortes de la Frontera—for a small cerveza and to rest from the constant up- and down-shifting needed to maneuver the mountain roads in a standard-shift auto. The beer was cold and delicious, the people were warm and friendly. The stop made the rest of the drive back to La Francesca very easy.

On Wednesday morning, Malaga experienced the first rain they had seen in over 4 months. My hosts were happy to see the moisture, but, of course, I missed the sun. Jim and Shamim were scheduled to arrive by train from Madrid a little after 1pm, so I took advantage of the weather and the internet to get some work done, including writing the first part of the Cadiz blog. Then, a little after noon, I drove to the estacion to meet my friends.

After their arrival, the three of us spent the afternoon exploring the old quarter of Malaga, a genuinely ancient city that, like Lisbon, was founded by Phoenicians and has been occupied for thousands of years. In the center of the city sits the ruins of a Roman amphitheatre, where the city continues to host outdoor musical and theatrical performances. And under a glass pyramid adjacent to the amphitheatre, visitors can stare down into the remnants of 3,000-year-old Phoenician cisterns. In our own “ancient” cities of Boston, Philadelphia, New York, and St Augustine, the paint is barely dry.

We also visited the Picasso museum, which displays some of his work contributed by members of his family. Picasso was born in Malaga, so it’s appropriate that the city should have a museum celebrating his work. The collection is small, but, for someone who is far from an art expert, it was impressive and genuinely moving.

On Thursday, Jim and I drove into the mountains hoping that a particular golf course would be open and dry. But the weather was reminiscent of Enniscrone, Ireland: cool, very wet, and very windy. So we drove back to Malaga without having taken a club out of a bag. The weather in Malaga was looking better, so we made a tee time at a small course 20 minutes east of La Francesca. Fortune, if not the sun, occasionally shines on golfers, and the weather stayed dry long enough for us to get in 18 holes before 6pm. Where there’s a will . . .

Yesterday we woke to pouring rain, very unwelcome as we had to drive the 3 hours back to Cadiz. But, again, fortune shone on us, and the drive back was relatively dry. By the time we unloaded suitcases and golf clubs, turned in the VW Golf, reboarded and unpacked, the sun was out, and the MV Explorer was ready to sail.

A minor hiccup before we departed. Two female students called from Madrid to say they had missed the last train to Cadiz and wouldn’t make it back in time for the scheduled 8pm departure from Cadiz. They asked if the ship could wait. Youth: such a wonderful time of innocence!

The two are flying to the Canary Islands. And, no doubt, they’ll be spending some extra time onboard the ship in a few future ports.