Malaga

On Friday, 20 August, G and I snuck out of work early.  Along with two friends, R and J, we were destined for Gatwick airport and then for Malaga for what was intended to be just a weekend away. 

After much debate (via email when we were all pretending to be hard at work), the four of us had decided upon Malaga as a weekend holiday destination due to its proximity, weather and beach.  We flew there on the budget airline EasyJet.

We arrived in Malaga just before midnight on Friday to find ourselves greeted by deliciously warm air.  After leaving the London "summer" (which had already been replaced with typically dreary weather), it marked a promising start to the weekend.

Thankfully J can speak some Spanish.  The rest of us have command only of those essential Spanish phrases "some more wine please" and "I don't understand".  J had a long conversation in Spanish with the taxi driver on the way from the airport to our hotel, where he excitedly informed her that we were fortunate enough to have arrived on the last weekend of the Feria de Malaga.  Our brief research (mainly consisting of questions directed to the hotel staff) suggested this would be a wonderful cultural celebration of Spanish dance, food and wine.  We spent the first night of our weekend at a roof-top bar, toasting our good fortune to have arrived in Malaga for such a special festival. 

During the Saturday the festival was, indeed, a lot of fun.  The locals were out on the streets in traditional costume, spontaneously breaking into dance to the music performed by street performers.  We were were also able to indulge in food and booze.

Unfortunately, however, by the evening the festival was about as cultural as the Notting Hill Carnival.  There were hordes of drunk people out on the streets, stumbling around in a zombie-like state. On that Saturday night We had dinner at the very good Tapeo de Cervantes where the owner said to us, after apologising for the state of Malaga that night, that she really had no idea what the point of the fiesta was, and what it celebrated, other than peole getting drunk.  In other words, it seemed to me exactly like the Notting Hill Carnival!  Nonetheless, it was reassuring to see that people are just as badly behaved on the Continent as they are in England.  And our delicious dinner was more than sufficient compensation for the ruckus outside.

The Sunday in Malaga was spent relaxing on the beach. 

We also managed to fit in a surprisingly good lunch at a restaurant with a view.  R ordered the fish of the day and insists that, notwithstanding the look of his lunch (see below), it was a good meal.

Unfortunately, the evening went downhill on the Sunday night, as we turned up at the airport only to be told (after some time waiting) that our flight was cancelled, to be rescheduled the next day.  The airport was in chaos and so we organised our own accommodation for the night.  We still have the fun of reclaiming that on travel insurance to look forward to!  So our short weekend away ended up turning into a three day weekend, with the four of us finally flying back to London on the Monday and returning to work (sadly) on the Tuesday.  Thanfully G and I had another holiday to Italy in only a week's time to look forward to...