Everything felt fresh after the rain … the sun was out but a cool breeze made it a little chilly for coffee al fresco first thing … although it warmed up nicely by mid morning.  Despite cereal and fruit for breakfast we were feeling quite ravenous by about 1:30.   A stroll down to the Municipal Market where there are outside tables shaded by umbrellas or trees and served by the market’s cafeteria or restaurants across the street.  It’s quite something to see the cameraros/cameraras balancing plates of food and expertly weaving their way between cars … most drivers politely give them right-of-way. We ordered from the cafeteria … the paper tablecloths, affixed with clips, have a QR code to download onto your phone for the menu.  While waiting for our order, the waiter brought bread, a dish of wonderfully flavourful green olives and individual pots of olive oil and vinegar for the dipping of bread.  Out came our plate of breaded and delicately fried chunks of fresh cod  with a dish of tomato compote (jam) … ketchup doesn’t even get a look in against this stuff. The sweetness of the ‘jam’ a perfect foil for the slight saltiness of the cod.   Then a Kaleidoscopic bowl of mixed salad… vibrant shredded beets and carrots jostled with buttery yellow corn, cherry tomatoes, lettuce, hard boiled egg slices and the best tasting flaked tuna.

Time for a walk, me thinks. Through the downtown area, window-shopping along the way.  One ferreteria caught Glen’s eye  -“they seem to have everything BUT ferrets!” – and it was tru … the windows were artistically displaying everything from tools and plumbing connections to kitchenware and the latest model of toilet.  The sign said abierto . . . but the inside was definitely darkened and looked closed.  Perhaps the owner was having a siesta. 

School was out . . . this one must have been a particularly high end private escuela, as many of the parents were lined up in cars – half draped over the sidewalk – obviously on the ‘school run’.  One enormous Porsche SUV took up half the road as well. How on earth do they get around these streets in that!

Suddenly, around the corner came a huge, gleaming tour bus … then another … and another.  There must have been a dozen in all … all colours, all companies.  Presumably some kind of package tour – probably traversing from Malaga to Cordoba – but why that big of a convoy, I have no idea.  Perhaps just to say they had been to Antequera. There must have been about 500 or 600 passengers altogether, and those buses had to make a 90 degree turn right there.

Onwards up the hill to the Alcazaba . . .  perched high on the hill opposite our apartment.  Two main towers, a church, the remains of a 12th century Mosque, and excavations of Roman baths with an astoundingly well-preserved mosaic floor.  We tuned into a history of the place, in English, through our phones.  One of the women was English, the other Spanish . . .  but when we heard the man’s voice, we turned to each other and simultaneously exclaimed “That’s Rupert!” Our landlord.  He has an unmistakable voice.  

There was piped music throughout the gardens, quietly playing a fusion of classical guitar and Arabic … quite evocative.  And pleasantly, the castle was not highly touristy … allowing one to poke around at will.  The views from both towers were stupendous . . . you can certainly see the importance of Antequera’s location centuries ago.  With 360 degree vistas, there wouldn’t be surprise attacks from any direction … Malaga …. Seville … Cordoba … Cádiz.  The gigantic bell in one of the towers was impressive – and still sported a substantial-looking stone striker on one side.  “Wonder if it still works”, I pondered . . .  “No … There’d be warning signs around”, replied Glen … “you’d be deafened standing this close”.  Not two minutes later … BONG, BONG, BONG, BONG  … four o’clock.  It was loud enough inside as I descended the stone steps, but Glen was outside just one floor down and said the fillings in his teeth rattled.

Our entry ticket (a bargain at €3 for seniors) included the church – Real Colegiate de Santa Maria la Mayor.  Beautifully simple with amazing red marble floors and altar – the columns and canopy exquisitely carved from wood.  Entering, you are greeted by a statue of  a Tarasca – a multi-headed creature – half woman, half serpent, with golden claws.  Quite stunning.  Through one elaborate archway – access to the holy W/C …. albeit down a winding stairway into the darkened bowels(!) of the building (please turn off lights when you’re finished).

There was to be a benefit concert the following day – for the Cruz Roja (Red Cross) and technicians were busy outside setting up the stage with sound and lighting.  María Peláe, a local Andalucian singer who incorporates both political commentary and a flamenco influence into her music.  We looked into obtaining tickets but it appears we weren’t the only ones finding it impossible to navigate the website.  No matter, I imagine from our vantage point directly across, we’ll be able to hear some of the concert.

Saturday morning seemed a good day to tackle the washing machine (we were starting to run out of things). Rupert had left clear instructions – good!  The machine looked like a standard-sized (for Europe) front-loading model, but the drum inside appeared to have been sat on and reduced to half size.  Still, it was more than adequate for us.  Two short cycles of 15 minutes and all our clean clothes were draped and pegged on the airer … flapping in the breeze and sun.  Everything was dry in no time.

Leftovers for lunch and then a drive south of town . . .  through shady olive groves and farmer’s fields . . .  the dark red soil recently ploughed into soft-ball sized clods.  On the roadside tall clumps of wild fennel – its seeds not yet dried . . .  and multiple small, trailing plants – something in the cucumber family? . . .  pale yellow star-shaped flowers and clusters of furry green fruits like oversized grapes.  The pretty pueblo of Bobadillo with its now defunct olive oil factory but new cement plant.  On their way to a wedding – a young family crossed the street… husband smart in a dark suit .. wife in a gorgeous flowing turquoise flowered gown …young boy in crisply ironed shorts, shirt and bow tie – hair combed into place (wonder how long that will last) . . . and small girl in a pastel, flounced traditional frock.  Back in town we found a far easier route to the house PLUS a more accessible parking spot – a street away, yes …  but with room for TWO cars to pass without breathing in.

By now the wind had picked up to gale force and continued through the night.  Don’t know how the concert goers fared … it must have been howling up there.  On the menu tonight – pork tenderloin rubbed with olive oil, seasoned and rolled in oregano and dried cilantro.  Roasted on the stove (between two heavy frying pans) … in a saucepan a sort of ratatouille with onions, mushrooms, red peppers, fresh green beans (those long, wide ones) and tomatoes – a good dash of cayenne and oregano with a splash of dry sherry … and microwave baked potatoes.  For dessert some store-bought traditional flans . . . not quite like homemade, but surprisingly good.

Despite the solid walls it’s definitely going to be earplugs tonight. 

Next morning — Aha!, so that was the loud ‘crump’ in the night . .  .  a fairly solid wicker coffee table on the upper deck knocked over and thrown 8 feet away.  No damage though.

Sunday  exactly at noon all the bells across the city rang out … some exuberantly – others more sedately  … tolling  in unison as people spilled out into the streets after church.  Dogs of every size yipped, howled and barked their participation (drowning out the rooster), and pigeons, which up until then had been snoozing contentedly in church rafters, suddenly wheeled into the clear air before circling a couple of times and re-alighting … settling ruffled feathers.  A day for family gatherings … food … ice creams and sweets.  Shops shut tight.

The leftover pork and finely diced veggies with rice and spices made for a very passable meal . . .  not a paella by any means … but more than OK.

Rupert very kindly met us at the bus station, and whizzed us through a dizzying maze of narrow streets with the experienced ease of a local (he and Melanie have lived here almost two decades).  Similar to Cordoba but with even more character . . .  and definitely more vertical!  We’ll have to make sure the car rental company doesn’t try to ‘upgrade’ us from the small car requested.

From the house ‘Castle View’, all streets lead down into town. Rupert parked across the street … hard against the wall … wing mirrors turned inwards as protection from passing vehicles! Inside, the place far exceeded all expectations . . .  thoughtfully updated traditional styles but with all mod cons . . . a totally funky stone-work bathroom . . . a walled lower patio with spiral staircase leading to the larger upper patio …  and an absolutely heart-stopping panoramic view over the town and castle, with backdrop of olive-draped hills and Sierra de Chimenea in behind.  One couldn’t possibly tire of that vista.  Another upper eating area, a shaded lounge area (from sun or wind), plenty of room to arrange loungers for the sun-worshipers . . .  and a dipping pool to cool off after a hot day shopping or sightseeing.  Rupert said he bought the place 17 years ago solely on that view.  At that time this upper deck was just corrugated iron, reached by a rickety ladder.

We whiled away a few hours . . . relaxing and unwinding . . .nibbling sandwiches and dozing, but as the cupboards were bare (figuratively speaking) we grabbed the sturdy wheeled shopping cart (emblazoned with bright fruits and veggies) and zig-zagged our way down, down into town.  It looked miles away, but the distance was deceptive, and it only took maybe ten minutes.  Not sure if personal shopping carts were permissible in the store, so Glen found a shaded bench and sat while I gingerly sallied forth.  I’d researched shopping etiquette  a bit before leaving .  . . but one doesn’t want to make a dreadful faux pas, and each stores seems to have a slightly different procedure. Mercadona is the country’s largest supermarket chain, and like a lot of others prefers pre-packaging its produce and meats – usually in amounts far more than we require.  But a few fruits and veggies went into the basket, the rest we’d leave until the marketplace opened.  But where were the bread and milk sections? … the olive oil, for goodness sake??  I went around the aisles again … just to make sure.  Aha! There’s someone with loaves of bread and paper towels under their arms …  I checked from whence they came and lo and behold … there’s an upstairs!!  So, with cart firmly anchored to the moving walkway, we ascended.  The aroma of freshly baked bread assailed the nostrils . . .  and what a choice.  Stood back and watched the lady ahead, and then followed suit.  Disposable plastic glove … select appropriate sized bakery bag … insert item of choice (no bin number required) … done.  Well that was easy.  The produce section also requires a plastic glove for unwrapped goods.  Soon items were ticked off the list, but strangely, no spaghetti sauce of any sort. Period.  One carton of tomatoes looked hopeful and perhaps came with some other veggies –  I took a chance. Couldn’t find any spices either.

Loading everything into the handcart off we set.  The streets which had seemed steep on the way down, appeared more so going back. On the steeper sections there were flights of stairs, but conveniently these had a narrow ramp up the middle so pushchairs/strollers … and shopping carts … could be hauled/pushed up.  Won’t have to worry about keeping in shape here!

YES, the tomato sauce did indeed have chopped onions, peppers, and zucchini, so with mere the addition of sliced mushrooms, spaghetti al dente and a dusting of really good Parmigiano reggiano, it turned into an excellent meal – complemented of course with thick slices of rustic bread …  robust and crunchy on the outside, dense and soft inside.  Perfection. [this is rapidly turning into more of a food blog … sorry!]

Wednesday started with a very pleasant temperature, but grew progressively hotter as the day progressed … definitely a hot day to explore town on foot.  With airlines restricting the amount of ‘liquids’ one can bring aboard a plane, we’d had to abandon the sunscreen, so we went in search of a Pharmacy/Chemist … easily identified by an illuminated green cross above the door.  Dealing with crema solar was obviously beneath the pharmacist and he referred us to his assistant.  She recommended a good, all-round cream that was light and easily absorbed.  Great.  We’ll apply some when we reach the park across the road.  “I didn’t remember passing an Indian spice shop, did you?  There’s a lovely curry smell”, I remarked.  Wait a minute … that’s US.  It’s the sunscreen!  Smelled our arms, and yes … definitely curry.  Glen remarked that instead of an SPF number, you asked for mild, medium or hot!  Cheeky wotnot.  Although a passing dogwalker had to sharply tug his dogs away as they suddenly took an interest.  We’ll just walk fast.

Next to the bus station is the local bullring … I don’t know if it is still used as such, but the doors were open.  It was quite something to stand on the yellow sand and look around the arena … you could almost imagine the roar of the crowd Olé ... the snorts from el toro as he entered … and the (to my mind) vastly inadequate barricades to duck behind should things go badly for the matador!  Let’s hope he could jump … and the bull couldn’t.  There’s a restaurant and tapas bar here now … and the obligatory photo opportunity of cutout matador … although I don’t know of any who would approve of sunglasses while wearing their ‘suit of lights’!

We trudged up the hill, getting hotter and hotter, but the house was deliciously cool … and the dipping pool, inviting.  Too cool for me – although it felt wonderful to paddle – Glen plunged in waist deep (with a decided gasp, I think).

A big, crisp salad for dinner … rolls of succulent ham … thick slices of Manchego cheese, all drizzled with homemade balsamic and olive oil dressing.  Apple turnovers for dessert.  Nothing fancy, but tasty.

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Today we pick up the car in Malaga.  Plenty of time before the 12:30 bus to explore more of the surrounding streets.  Out the door and turn right (derecha) … every doorstep was newly scrubbed … all doors were open, but with a cloth curtain pulled across for ventilation and to keep the flies and prying eyes out.  One does have to keep an eye on where you walk to avoid the minefield of doggie deposits.  Halfway down a particularly steep street, we met an older Senora huffing and puffing  her way up (this sounds like the beginnings of a Gerard Hoffnung story, doesn’t it?).  She greeted us as she paused to catch her breath … explaining that her Bronchitis (the result of pneumonia) made climbing the hills difficult.  She waved her inhaler as proof. We continued on our separate ways.  “My glasses!” I exclaimed … “I left them behind.”  So about turn . . .  met the same lady, now outside her doorway … and had to explain about my forgotten lentes (glasses). She gave a toothless chuckle. 

The Municipal Market was a bit disappointing – I was hoping for a typical noisy, thriving marketplace … sawdust on the floor … aromas abounding.   Here, there were perhaps two dozen stalls, inside … many tightly shuttered despite it being mid morning.  Mostly fish counters – their product freshly caught that morning and looking wonderful – but only a couple of fruit and veg stalls and meat counters.  Perhaps it was the wrong day.

Overall, we’ve found prices for most things are remarkably inexpensive … internet for example – 100 GB for €15 vs Canada’s 20 GB for $100 … a really nice bottle of red wine for €3 … you can actually walk out of a supermarket with several bags of groceries without having to consider re-mortgaging your house. Gas prices vary a little but here in Antequera they are €1.54 a litre … or if you have a store customer card, as low as €1.37.

Journey into Malaga was uneventful. I don’t think the bus driver was expecting a trip out to the airport after dumping most of his passengers in town – so was a bit grumpy … or maybe that was his normal disposition.  There was a never-ending cavalcade of car courtesy shuttle buses at the airport … scooping up the flood of tourists and their belongings . . . probably most from the UK for a quick, inexpensive holiday in the sun.  The ‘small’ car we’d pre-ordered turned out to be a considerably larger Audi Q2 “crossover” SUV with all bells and whistles … requiring an operations manual to even start the engine (and of course the glove compartment was devoid of anything helpful).  It was a case of sitting in the parking lot trying all buttons and on-screen menus (in Spanish). Must admit it is a comfortable performance vehicle.  Manual drive, but with a lot of automatic safety features like preventing sudden roll-backs on steep hills.  A trial run into Torremolinos just 10 minutes away.  Definitely changed from the last time I was there, many decades ago, but not as horrible as depicted in Monty Python sketches.  Certainly an older demographic of tourists here.  We enjoyed an ice cream and people-watched the waterfront parade.  Goodness, the sights you see (and probably shouldn’t!).

Despite Miss Google’s determination to return us to Malaga forthwith, instead of Antequera, we made good time back.  But now the fun began. We punched in the address and awaited instructions … the maze of narrow, one-way streets here is mind-blowing.  Dutifully following each step we ended up – variously – at the Hermitage way above our casa … or misdirected down side streets with impossibly tight corners and parked lines of vehicles so close our car was frantically emitting warning signals from both sides.  “Watch that window railing!” … “We have an inch and a half to spare!” Round and round we went – trying different streets but frustratingly always ending up either at the wrong end of the street we wanted (which didn’t connect through), or back where we started.  Finally, a call to Rupert for help.  He couldn’t understand Google not working . . . . then, a light bulb moment . . .  “Er, there are TWO streets called San Joaquin … did you put ‘Cerro’ in front?”  No we hadn’t!  This time, Success as our place hove into view.  Now to park The Beast and still allow enough room for other vehicles to pass while not decapitating the wing mirrors. Not too bad, however  it was a relief to sink into a comfortable patio chair …  large glass of wine in hand (purely to sooth frazzled nerves, you understand), and watch the sky slowly darken and the city lights begin to twinkle.

Later that evening there was a thunderous downpour, but we didn’t care.  Awoke to sunny skies and freshly washed sidewalks