Most Scotland fans went to Boston. We went to Málaga, which had never really been on our list. It probably should have been.
Wednesday
The flight was at 06:35 out of Prestwick, arriving into Malaga at eleven. Boarding went exactly to time, but once on the plane the captain had announced there could be a delay due to air traffic control restrictions. Fortunately for us that delay was minutes rather than hours.
Most EU countries now require EES biometric processing for UK passport holders on arrival and departure. If you'd read the press in the weeks beforehand, you'd have been expecting significant delays at the border. The EES fingerprint queue on arrival at Malaga moved faster than we'd expected, but still added enough time that the taxi didn't get us to the apartment until around midday. The taxis, incidentally, are not where the signs suggest. As you exit the terminal there's a small taxi sign, attended by a couple of men in yellow taxi info jackets who are more interested in talking to each other than pointing anyone anywhere. The sign is misleading in any case. Walk round the other side of an unmarked building and there they are.
Karen does the research for our holidays, and I've learned to trust her process without asking too many questions. This time she'd found a Feelathome apartment near Plaza de la Merced. It turned out to be perfect. The Cathedral, the Alcazaba, the best restaurants we found, most of what we wanted to do, all of it on foot, and none of it more than ten minutes away. That kind of base makes a trip easier in ways you don't fully appreciate until you're back at the apartment in ten minutes rather than forty-five.
The apartment wasn't available until two o'clock. We had luggage, it was warm, and the Roman Amphitheatre was right there. We knew exactly what kind of area it was. We went anyway, picked the wrong bar, and paid accordingly. We regrouped, made our way back to the apartment, and had lunch at Cortijo de Pepe next door. Rather better on both counts.
The afternoon was unhurried. We walked without any particular plan, got our bearings, and found Helados y Turrones Casa Mira on Calle Císter, an ice cream shop, just off the cathedral square. The pistachio was seriously good. We noted it for return visits.
Dinner at Maldita Dolores. Victor, our waiter for the evening, had worked in London and his English was excellent. He went through the menu with us properly, explaining each dish as he went. He also explained that the rabbit paella had come off the menu. Too many tourists regard rabbit as a pet rather than an ingredient, and it wasn't selling. Our loss, as we'd had our hearts set on it. We had the Iberian pork paella instead. It was excellent. Duck croquettes to start, which rivalled the ones we had in Toledo a few years ago and still talk about to this day. Karen agreed on both counts.
Thursday
Thursday we started at Casa Aranda for churros. It's been on Calle Herrería del Rey since 1932. The other tables were full of people who looked like they came every week. They apparently use a sourdough recipe, which sets them apart from most churros you'll eat. Different to the standard version. Worth knowing before you order.
The Picasso Museum was next. It's in the 16th-century Palacio de Buenavista, a couple of minutes from the Cathedral. Around 200 works, well laid out. I wouldn't call myself an art lover, but we spent an hour and a quarter walking round enjoying the works. Tickets are €14 and include a web-app audio guide accessible from your phone with no download required. Free entry for the last two hours on Sundays if you're timing things that way.
We came out of the Picasso Museum and walked to Mesón Ibérico on Calle San Lorenzo, a side street a few minutes north of the Cathedral. A traditional tapas bar with a large menu. It gets busy quickly after opening with locals and tourists alike sitting around the bar. The longer you sit there, the louder it gets. Our choice today was Boquerones fritos, sardines on avocado toast and jamón ibérico. This was the place I was introduced to Tinto de Verano, literally translated to Summer Red, the lighter cousin of Sangria, made with just two ingredients, red wine and a lemon soda in equal measures poured over ice. Refreshing enough in the heat that I had another before I'd thought about it. We were thinking about coming back before we'd asked for the bill. We did come back.
In the afternoon we went to the beach at La Malagueta. Or rather, the promenade alongside it. I don't like beaches. The distinction matters to me. Scotland were playing in the World Cup on Friday, which had put us in the habit of clocking any bar that might take an interest in the result. On the way back from La Malagueta we passed one with a Scottish theme. It was closed. Of course it was.
Dinner that evening was at Comparte. We'd spotted it on a YouTube video a few weeks earlier and booked it on that basis. It's on a side street off the main shopping street, easy to miss if you don't know it's there. The kitchen centres on a brasa, a live-fire charcoal grill, and everything goes through it: meat, fish, and apparently the cheesecake. The staff took time to talk us through the menu properly. It's not a long menu. Everything on it was worth ordering. The name tells you how to approach it, compartir means to share, so we did. Ham Croquettes, Padrón Peppers, Pork Cheek and Wild Boar Sirloin Steak. All of it was excellent. I had the Tinto de Verano, which had by this point become my usual. Karen drinks white as a rule, and the Verdejo gave her no reason to reconsider.
Friday
Friday we were up early. We wanted to reach the Alcazaba before the heat made the climb miserable, which meant breakfast somewhere quick and nearby. There's a chain café a few minutes from the apartment. The food was fine, Spanish in the way chains manage to be. No churros.
We went on to the Alcazaba, which costs €7 on its own, €10 if you want to include the Gibralfaro as well. The Gibralfaro castle sits above it but they are not connected in any way. We just went to Alcazaba, too hot for the climb up to the castle, which may have been a mistake. The Alcazaba gives you the lower fortification and the palace. Gibralfaro gives you the view. We only did half the job.
Back to Mesón Ibérico for lunch. Fantástica, again. A pattern was establishing itself.
That afternoon we walked around without intention and found La Tranca, a tapas bar on Calle Carretería that was doing serious business. Packed. Bar staff who never stopped moving, food and drink arriving faster than you'd expect given how many people were in the room. The kind of place where you have one drink and stay for two more because the energy makes it difficult to leave. Old style in the best sense. When you ask for the bill, no receipt comes out of a machine. The barman just tots it up on the bar in chalk.
We also stumbled on a bike shop. The bikes were excellent. They didn't have any jerseys in my size, which was probably for the best.
Home for a nap, then back to Comparte for dinner. Thursday had made the decision easy. This time we ordered a local delicacy called Flamenquín, Tomato salad with stracciatella (the cheese, not the ice cream) and Pluma Ibérico de Bellota, acorn-fed Iberian pork, which was the best argument yet for the brasa. We finished off with a Tiramisu. Yes, before you ask, I had more Tinto de Verano, Karen stuck to Verdejo. Then we went looking for somewhere to watch the football.
Saturday
Scotland played Morocco in the World Cup at midnight Malaga time. Karen is not a football person. She knows, though, that Scotland at a World Cup doesn't happen very often these days. She came anyway, and I was glad of the company.
The Irish bars near the centre were all showing it and all full, turning people away at the door. We found a quieter pub nearby with lots of screens and mostly Morocco fans. We took seats beside a younger Scottish couple who were there for both the football and a thirtieth birthday. Good company.
Then a large group of guys arrived singing No Scotland No Party. We assumed we had found some compatriots. Turns out they were from Northern Spain, just in Malaga to celebrate one of the lads' birthdays. One of them had spent time working in Glasgow, learned the songs, and had apparently done a thorough job of passing them on. They were good. The pub got a lot less quiet. As for Scotland's night on the pitch, the details are perhaps best left there.
Saturday was consequently slow. Breakfast was late, Casa Aranda again for churros, because by this point it was the obvious choice.
We'd planned to head out to El Palo, a district along the coast, to visit Restaurante El Tintero. It didn't happen. Everyone on the buses seemed to be paying with a local travel card. We didn't have one, and neither of us had the energy, after our late night, to work out where to get one. We settled for a slow day in the city instead, which was probably the right call.
We did the Hop On Hop Off bus. The red line is fine, a reasonable way to see the city without walking in the heat. The blue line goes along the coast and back, and unless you have a specific interest in a thirty minute view of apartment blocks and a beach from a bus window, you can skip it. The two routes connect, so there's no need to change buses. Board where the blue route ends and the red begins if you can. You get the city circuit without the coastal stretch first. On the whole it's expensive for what you get, and we've had better HoHo trips in other cities.
We left lunch to chance. Found a café just off the shopping street, found without much effort or intention. Fine, nothing you'd seek out. We won't be naming it, which tells you everything you need to know. The afternoon was slow. These things happen on the fourth day.
Dinner at Diestro Tapas y Paella. The food was good. The service was what you might call present rather than attentive. We had a couple of drinks afterwards at a nearby bar, and then Málaga CF arrived.
The football club had just won promotion to La Liga through the playoff system, 2-1 on the night and on aggregate, and the city had decided to celebrate thoroughly. Fans in blue and white filled the streets. Car horns from every direction. Chanting. A procession with a great deal of energy and no obvious destination. It went on well past midnight, which felt appropriate. We watched from the bar and walked home through the noise.
Sunday
Sunday was for going home. Breakfast at Tejeringo's Coffee, a chain café that serves churros among other things. Not Casa Aranda churros, but perfectly serviceable and unhurried. We dropped the luggage at Locker in the City (map), a storage facility in the SOHO district near the train station. It made the rest of the morning considerably easier, and it's worth knowing about if you're catching a late flight. Access is via a code sent to you when you book. The same code opens the door and your locker.
One last stop at Comparte for lunch, because why wouldn't you? Then we found some shade for a bit, picked up our cases and headed to the airport.
The new EES entry and exit system is now operating at Spanish airports, so we went earlier than we might otherwise have. It turned out the airport was quiet, the system was running smoothly, and we went through the new gates without any queues. We ended our time in Malaga by browsing Duty Free and reading our Kindles until it was time to board.
Arrived at Prestwick around 23:00. Border control was slower, manual passport checking, which felt antiquated given that we'd sailed through an automated system in a foreign country a few hours earlier. Home by quarter to midnight.
Five days. We ate well. We'd go back.