Bandit Country stole our hearts
Wendy Holden is smitten by the stunning scenery, fab cuisine and colourful history of southern Spain
WE’RE’ getting married in Granada and you’re invited!’ read the card from the happy couple. Andalucia! Land of bandits and bull-fighting, castanets and chorizo, and foot-stamping, nostril-flaring flamenco fabulousness. Alas, we couldn’t make the ceremony itself, but we could certainly go for a long weekend and meet up with the wedding party.
Our first stop was the stunning hilltop town of Ronda – the road from Malaga airport winds up through the Serrania de Ronda mountains. Ronda has an 18th Century bull-ring straight out of Carmen, and a dramatic rock chasm straight out of the Ice Age.
There’s a river at the bottom, 400ft down, and an old bridge at the top. The grand parador, once the town hall, crouches on the edge.
We wandered along tiny cobbled lanes and through squares with orange trees and splendiferous churches. We passed El Museo del Bandolero. Then we retraced our steps. One does not walk past a Bandit Museum. Certainly not around here, in Bandit Central.
Bandoleros are heroes to the Spanish in the way Robin Hood is to the British. Bandits were highwaymen as well as cattle-rustlers. They lived in caves, galloped about on ponies, thwarted the Guardia Civil, and generally represented romantic rebellion to an oppressed and impoverished people.
They made their own ordnance; the museum had some fearsome black blunderbusses seemingly fashioned out of drainpipes. And the walls were adorned with police mugshots of 19th Century bandits.
They were a mixed bunch. One, El Tragabuches, never swore and made women sit in the shade while he robbed their coaches. In contrast, El Pernales was beastly. His hairstyle – a bizarre triangular fringe – was certainly scary.
Tabanco Los Arcos, with its splendid beams and wooden shutters, was the perfect place for supper. We examined the excellent local wine in the detail it deserved and enjoyed delicious tapas of stewed cod and baby broad beans. The next day we were off to Seville. Southern Spain has excellent fast roads that whisk you from city to city through enormous landscapes of olive trees. A mere couple of hours later we were fighting through Seville’s choking Friday traffic. There was only one answer to this – lunch.
My husband Jon, whose eye for a restaurant is flawless, instantly spotted La Esquinita de Arfe. It was wildly authentic – wooden tables, locals propping up the bar, and a large, jolly waitress who was a dead ringer for Lillas Pastia, owner of the bar on the Seville ramparts where Carmen famously drinks manzanilla.
I had a glass of the famous sherry in Carmen’s honour while Jon ordered a vast array of food, including my favourite, ridiculously expensive Iberico ham, and some fried shrimp pancakes, which he pronounced superb – much to our hostess’s delight.
SEVILLE’S architectural jewels are its magnificent cathedral and the adjoining Giralda, a huge 12th Century tower. The cathedral was once a mosque, and the Gothic-Islamic mash-up is quintessentially Andalucian – the region was ruled by Moors (as the Muslim overlords were known) until the late 15th Century. Then Isabella and Ferdinand, the Catholic monarchs, came and stopped the party.
Booking online is essential for the Giralda and cathedral, but not everywhere in Seville is an unmoving queue of tourists. In one of the city’s picturesque backstreets we found La Casa de Pilatos – Pilate’s House. This fabulous Renaissance palace is apparently inspired by Pontius’s house in Jerusalem, which a former owner supposedly visited.
But the main influence is Islamic – graceful arcaded courtyards, patterned tiles, honeycomb ceilings and lovely Arabic stuccowork make it a mini Alhambra. In one of the pretty gardens, a whole wall of jasmine pulsated with scent.
Our berth that night, the parador at Carmona, occupies an ancient sand-coloured Arab fort just outside Seville. Its public rooms are beautiful; a huge, airy restaurant looking out over an endless plain, and graceful, stone-walled lounges with glass doors to give a view of the fountained courtyard.
In Carmona’s main square, the children were playing while their parents watched fondly from the bar. Then, a sensation. Some robed men from a church appeared bearing religious silverware. Behind them came a wobbling bier with Jesus, Descended From The Cross, draped on a heap of craggy resin rocks. A magnificently sorrowful Virgin followed on another bier and a trail of candle-clutching townsfolk brought up the rear.
Granada was our final stop and the one we were most looking forward to. The road to the Alhambra winds up past hillsides holed with caves featuring garden gates and windowshutters. According to our friends, some even have broadband. We were staying in the Hotel America, within the actual walls of the Alhambra, a romantic, enchanting, eccentric establishment whose entrance is a tumble of wisteria.
Passing an inner courtyard full of tables and chat, you take the winding wooden staircase up to rooms that were boho-chic before the term was ever invented. You wake up to a chorus of birdsong and a view of blue sky through the leaves of orange trees. ‘La reina posa la noche aqui’
– the Queen stayed here – reads a discreet sign by the reception desk.
The Alhambra was once an entire city, independent from Granada, which explains its lofty site, vast walls and huge entrances.
There are many different parts but you need tickets for the most famous sections; the Generalife (summer residence of the caliphs), the gardens and the palaces.
For most visitors, a selfie in the Court of The Lions is must. But the place I was keenest to see was the Hall of the Abencerrajes.
HERE it was, according to legend, that the boycaliph Boabdil invited his enemies to a party and executed them, afterwards piling their heads in the central fountain.
Still, it didn’t do him any good; Boabdil was relieved of both throne and Alhambra in 1492 by Ferdinand and Isabella, proud sponsors of Christopher Columbus, and the parents of Catherine of Aragon. They were the ultimate royal husband-andwife team or the original gruesome twosome (depending on how revisionist you like your history).
But perhaps we should cut the Catholic monarchs some slack. Given the colossal queues that choke the place daily, invasion is the only option if you haven’t booked online in advance.
However, if you haven’t prebooked, all is not lost. A good (free) view of the palace gardens is afforded from the terrace of the Alhambra’s parador (also perfect for drinks and lunch). And there are areas within the walls where you can roam without a ticket.
At night, when the Alhambra is empty of tourists but full of atmosphere, the white-painted Albaicin (ancient Arab quarter) alight on the opposite hill looks lovely. And a walk through the Albaicin’s narrow cobbled streets in the morning, before the sun gets too hot, is another delightful treat.
The Alhambra from Albaicin, with the Sierra Nevada in the background, is the iconic image – the one seen on a million postcards, but no less lovely for that. However, for me, the view is best enjoyed from the peaceful garden of Granada’s modern mosque, which authorities have opened to visitors. Having gazed until your heart is content, you can then wander back by a different route to the citadel, through the beautiful shady (but pretty steep) Alhambra Woods. All that walking left us with a leg strain dubbed Albaicin Calf. Alternatively, you can go into Granada and see the carved Capilla Real, where the Catholic monarchs are buried. Atop a magnificent white tomb, the marble conquerors lie in eternal glory. Beneath, in the vault, their black, lead-sealed coffins show the reality of the situation. Elsewhere in the chapel is Isabella’s wonderful art collection and a 16th Century statue of Ferdinand, with glam-rock locks and designer stubble. Most exciting of all is Isabella’s crown. Looking at it, I imagined little Catherine of Aragon trying it on and wondering if she’d be a queen one day. Well, we all know the answer to that…
Wendy Holden’s novel Laura Lake And The Hipster Weddings is published by Head of Zeus.