Free ride

The torrential rain began to ease by the time I had breakfast and got myself ready for church this morning. I was grateful for a large black brolly in the hall stand when I left as it was still doing more than drizzle. The streets were awash as I walked down the hill, but I arrived without being soaked through. There were six of us for the Eucharist, and we prayed for Joan whose funeral as being attended by some regulars just as our service ended. Three others turned up as well, for coffee and a chat afterwards, defying the extreme weather. I bought a card with a photo of St Andrew's stained glass east window in the sanctuary to send to Marion with a message of condolence. I wrote this when I got back for lunch, and posted it on my way out afterwards.

I took the train into Malaga for the sheer pleasure of a free ride and went to El Corte Ingles to find out if the covid years had changed the vast department store in any significant way, bearing in mind that the one in Fuengirola's Las Lagunas has been downgraded to a 'designer outlet' discount store with hypermarket in the basement and all but the supermarket of the much smaller store in Los Boliches has been closed down. But no, the flagship city centre store is as glamorous and well stocked as it ever was. Moreover, all the surrounding road works are now complete, so it's easier to negotiate, even if the vast paved area is an empty desert of roads, pedestrian crossings little else.

Having completed my inspection of the area, I returned to Los Boliches. It was dark by the time I arrived. There was just time to get a few grocery items in Mercadona on my way up the hill and reach the house before supper, 'The Archers' and my evening WhatsApp call to Clare. Then an hour working on next week's biblical reflection, and already it's time for bed.

Cofradia fiesta

I was surprised to hear from my sister June this morning that a large sized  envelope of art post cards from the Museo de Revello de Toro, sent on Wednesday, had arrived already. As it happens, there's a smaller envelope of cards from yesterday's visit the Museo Jorge Rando, so I'll send it to her today. The barrio post office is only a couple of hundred metres across the road from the apartment. This is such a convenient place to live. It'll be interesting to see if the second letter takes that much longer over a weekend.

This afternoon, there was a choir rehearsal for an anthem to be sung at the Ascension Day service, at which Bishop David will confirm eight new members. Before and after, there were other jobs to be done, preparing for a 'Book and Marmalade Sale' with outside tables after church tomorrow. An essential income generator for ex-pat congregations, which I recall from Geneva days, is a regular second hand book bookstall, plus home made marmalade, cooked with bitter Seville oranges to UK recipe standards.

It may sound daft, but even the best, most expensive shop bought comestible doesn't come anywhere near the British home cooked product, beloved of ex-pats. In Spain, the value added element in Spain is the range of marmalades (not to mention chutneys and pickles) cooked from whatever citrous fruit, or blend is available to the cook, from their own finca or that of a neighbour or friend, who often cannot be bothered to benefit from this natural abundance. I'm working my way through my third jar of home made marmalade since my arrival.

To prepare for the set up of Book and Marmalade stalls outside the church, I needed to move the car. Eight days since I last used it, and a fortnight after the last battery crisis, once more it wouldn't start. Fortunately Rosella had a set of jump leads in her car. With some difficulty, considering how long it is since I last had to do this, (nobody else present had ever done more than call out the grua on their home start car insurance), we got the car to start, and I left it running, hopefully recharging, while we rehearsed, and on into the evening. Fall-back arrangements were made for me to get to Velez Malaga for the service there, just in case it fails tomorrow. This way I can sleep without anxiety about deadlines.

The port had no visiting cruise ships, when I made my evening paseo. The sun was setting when I went up the seventy odd steps and through the tunnel to the Old Town, wondering which streets to wander through. It's my exercise route, good for strengthening the knees, more interesting than any gym apparatus, as it has views, flowers, people being normal, not straining themselves for health. I love the views from above of town and port.

As I descended the slope to Calle Victoria the other side of the pedestrian tunnel, I heard open air party noises emanating from Calle Alcazabilla again. Different music. More lightweight Spanish pop disco stuff. In the vicinity of the casa cofradia de Estudiantes, opposite the entrance to the Alcazaba, there was a large crowd, of all ages, not just students.

It was a different set up from the previous couple of fiesta days in Calle Alcazabilla. Hundreds of people crammed together, talking, dancing, threading their ways through the crowd carrying drinks to a place at one of the round tables laid out on the patio before the opened doors of the casa cofradia. The tronas used for the procession of Christ's burial and of Our Lady of Sorrows were revealed, and the party flowed around them. Sacred and secular aren't quarantined here. It's quite natural. Something I love.

The atmosphere was relaxed and convivial. Passing through the crowd took time and patience, as so many were evidently comfortable and safe about being crammed into a limited space with close, but always respectful, physical contact. I had this experience first in Semana Santa spectator crowds. It's in stark contrast to being in any crowd back home, where I always feel nervous. It's part of what makes Spain special to me. No shortage of individuality, but also no shortage of togetherness.

In two more weeks, my face will be set for home, and an entirely different set of familiar urban and domestic experiences. How, I wonder, will I have changed when I encounter them?

A saintly parochial doctor

Today was another day of lying low, avoiding the heat, reading and writing until early evening, when I ventured out to Muelle Heredia bus station down the port to book a bus ticket to get me to Maro and back, to see former Nerja Chaplaincy Church Warden Judith Austwick. Moored in port was a 19th century two masted sailing ship, Jersey registered 'Eye of the Wind'. I think it must have been a promotional visit, to advertise sailing holidays as a crew member for the select few who are fit enough and can afford the experience.

Then I walked through the old town to visit the 16-17th century Church of Our Lady of Victories, a big prestigious looking building on a hillside with a grand patio of steps ascending to its main entrance. It's said to have been build on the site where King Ferdinand set up camp in 1487, to lay siege to Malaga during the reconquista campaign. It's a remarkable building, highly decorated and endowed with artworks, and an elaborately sculpted crypt, worth a separate visit some time maybe.

As it was late enough in the day for it to be open to visitors, I thought it would be worth the effort, even if the road leading to it out of the Old Town is noisy and polluted. Indeed, it was open, and a few people were gathered in the entrance porch, embracing each other. The Mass was about to start and when the priest appeared in purple, I realised it was a requiem Mass, and didn't stay. 

I had long enough however to look around breifly, and learn about a devout 19-20th century parishioner, Dr Jose Galvez, a gynaecologist and health care reformer who worked among the poor in the area, especially lepers, and developed a large hospital on the hill above the church. He's known as 'Gálvez Ginachero'. Only later did I realise 'Ginachero' is Spanish for gynaecologist. It seems the Spanish, like the Welsh, can nickname a man by his profession. A framed photo of him hangs on the wall near his tomb in the crypt. An enquiry process to lead to his beatification has been started by Málaga diocese with the Vatican Congregation for the Causes of Saints.

On my return walk I went along the Paseo de Malagueta, and saw that a couple of hundred plastic chairs had been laid out neatly on the beach in rows, ready for tonight's open air free cinema. The huge inflatable screen had not yet arrived, but the projection and sound systems were being tested. A French comedy is showing tonight 'Un hombre de altura' in Spanish, originally 'Un homme a la hauteur'. A Tall Man. It starts at 22.15. Too late for me.

Uncertain envisioning

Today seemed just to slip by, as I was preoccupied once more with drafting an advisory document for others to discuss, and engaging in a lengthy email conversation. Although the circumstances were different, both task were concerned with impending change, how to plan and prepare to make the best of a future that is likely to be different from the way things are now. 

The same is also true at a global level, due to the social and political upheaval caused by Brexit, and the Trump presidency in the USA. Negotiations over Britain's withdrawal from the EU are giving rise to widespread concern at many levels, as so little is known about what the British Government approach will be when confronted with the reality of Commission negotiators who seem to be more experienced and determined to defend agreed EU policy and commitments. What if negotiations result in a stalemate, with no practical agreement possible? The uncertainty could generate change of an undesired kind, an unwanted instability, economic and social. That would make it far harder to see justice done for those whose grievances led to the brexit vote, and those newly aggrieved by the unexpected impact of the brexit referendum thus far.

'Without a vision the people perish' says Proverbs 29:18. Britain has become a place of competing visions of how the common good is to be achieved, and much of this is driven by self-interest, even when claimed to be altruistic. The second half of the Proverbs 28:18 continues 'But he that keeps the Law; happy is he.' God's law is the given that provides a frame of reference within which justice, truth and equity are to be pursued, and envisioning occurs. 

What is found in Hebrew scripture is expressed also in the teachings and law codes of Buddhism, Hinduism and Islam. Sadly, we live in an era where the opinion of economic theorists, some secular philosophers and scientists has more influence in setting the values we live by, than any religious teaching does. All too often, the wisdom that comes from schools of faith is little taken into account in envisioning the kind of world which is fit for all to live in. The world is greatly impoverished, if not put at greater risk as a result.

It was well after ten when I left the apartment, to take a walk along the Paseo Maritime and into the Port. There were groups of teenagers hanging out on the beach together, and drinking from cans and bottles. It's not necessarily binge boozing that goes on, just weekend socialising, for those who are not old enough for clubbing or can't afford it. My only concern was whether they collected up their empties and returned them to the location of a rubbish bin. By the end of the day these overflow. The rubbish clean up begins at first light. 

As Owain and I were waiting for the bus, before eight on Tuesday morning, a young woman, perhaps of school leaving age, in florescent city council street gear was sweeping and tidying the street outside the apartment. I wondered if this was her first job, or if she was on a work training scheme. I have seen street sweeping machines in use, but notice that in many cities, municipalities prefer to maintain a workforce, even if wages are low. Machines are less efficient than people who are conscientious, thorough, and capable of picking discarded cans from bushes, wall ledges and flower beds. People are of more value than all our clever machines and robots.

  

St Peter's day, nearly

As well as preparing my Sunday sermon today, I found myself continuing to think about ministry and mission amongst expatriates, both its diversity and the common elements. This led me to start writing a paper for study and discussion, and that took up most of the day. I don't know who I can try it out on at the moment, but I enjoyed escaping the mental lethargy which extreme heat often produces. Today there were gusts of hot wind as well as high temperatures and bright sun. I walked for an hour or so, and for once returned feeling slightly singed - this is the opposite of wind chill factor!

My afternoon walk took me to the barrio of Perchel Norte just across the rio Guadalmedina, described as part of the old town, but mostly ravaged by 20th century urban redevelopment. It's still going on as a new metro line is created, with bridges and roads being re-arranged to improve traffic flow around the Old Town. Only old churches and Cofradia houses, of which there are several, are left as reminders of past history. One of them is dedicated to San Pedro, so I walked there in hopes of finding it open to look around on this his feast day, but it didn't re-open for another hour. It wasn't the kind of environment in which waiting for an hour would be a congenial experience, so I headed back to the apartment and out of the heat. The location resembled a bare deserted noisy traffic island at this stage of an urban makeover process which could last years. It'll look different when the work is finished and lots of greenery introduced once more.

   

Noche de San Juan in Malaga

After a good long night's sleep and slow start, adjusting to the increasing hear, Owain and I took the bus from outside the apartment door to Atarazanas market again and bought a few gourmet delights, olives, ham, cheese to last us the weekend. After lunch we made our way on foot to La Merced and sought out the Picasso Museum. 

Pablo Picasso was born in a house on the corner of Plaza de la Merced nearest to the market hall, but the museum in his honour is establisehd in a classical Andaluz palacio a few hundred meters beyond the barrio parish church of Santiago where he was baptized in 1881. There's a collection of his work from each of the eighty decades of his life as an artist, including childhood works. The admission ticket includes use of an audio commentary on each room of exhibits and each period of his life as an artist. It was a remarkable educational experience, well thought out and full of insight to reflect upon. We were both mightily impressed.

In the evening we set out on foot to dine at a Guardian recommended restaurant, a little way out of town to the east at El Palo. Being the 'noche de san Juan', every beach and every restaurant along the N340 coadt road was crowded and busy. We were astonished to find the restuarant we sought was closed, and less astonished to realise that on such a night, every place was fully booked. So, we got on a very crowded bus back to La Malagueta, full of young people going in search of their mates for a night of partying, and ate an emergency supper, quickly assembled at home.

We then returned to Playa La Malagueta, which was thronged with people of all ages, gathering to celebrate the midsummer fiesta, and maybe get in a paddle or a swim, in between eating barbecue food and drinking, as is customary on this night. At the and of the beach nearest the port of stage was set up, for a big disco with light show for an audience of many tens of thousands. Hard to guess just how many people were there for fireworks at midnight, or camping around a fire on the beach to watch the sun rise. We didn't stay up to watch. Today, Owain managed a morning and afternoon swim. One way or another, a very full day.

  

A visit from my son

Yesterday, there were three of us for the the midweek Eucharist at St George's, honouring various British martyrs commemorated this week - St Alban, proto-martyr of England, Sts Julius and Aaron the Welsh proto-martyrs of Caerleon, all pre-Constantinian witnesses to Christ during the decline of the Roman Empire. After this the days was occupied with more shopping to get ready for Owain's arrival, and some evening exercise, walking east up the Malagueta promenade to the next barrio, a two miles there and back.

This morning, I walked to the Cercania terminus at the top end of the Alameda and caught the train out to the airport to meet Owain arriving from Bristol, just after ten. We took the train back to the Alameda, then walked the last mile back to the apartment, as he'd only brought a shoulder bag with him for his four day stay. 

 lunch, we walked into the Old Town for an initial exploration with commentary from Dad, going first to La Merced market, then to Atarazanas market. We then returned to La Malagueta so Owain could go for a swim before we had supper. It's great to have his company. It may be as long as 25 years since we last spent time on our own together - we're still trying to work it out.

Festal Weekend, Day Two

All went to plan going to Velez Malaga this morning. I was there by ten but overshot my destination and had to double back. Finding a parking place nearby without disorientating myself in streets still unfamiliar gave me some trouble, so I lost twenty minutes finding a place, but arrived with enough time in hand to start punctually.

There were twenty two present, an enthusiastic and cheerful gathering, attentive and enjoying the singing. Three people shared in leading the intercessions, which was unusual, but it worked. I couldn't help noticing that the lady who read the Hospitality of Abraham story expressively did so using her hands as she spoke. It was far from being a mannerism, the story-teller's instinct was in evidence here. That takes confidence, but also calls for finding a certain pleasure in valuing the story element in reading scripture.

The little bar where we gathered for coffee and fellowship after the service when I was here last September has now closed, due to lease expiry, so we had to walk a few extra pace to the Bar El Tomate on the corner of the block. It's full of light and has simple modern decor. It was crowded and busy, clearly a well used Sunday meeting place in this barrio. 

After a drink and a chat, I drove back to Malaga, cooked lunch and had a siesta before making my way to the Cathedral for the evening's Blessed Sacrament procession. On any evening the streets are crowded with walkers and diners, but tonight an even greater crowd, as people from parishes across the city converged on the Cathedral. Diocesan clergy, Cathedral Canons, seminarians, and various guilds formed the main body of the procession, with some lay people following and more watching, taking photos from the side. It must have been quite difficult for tourists going against the flow of the procession, and perhaps not rally understanding what was going on. I noticed uncomfortable and awkward looks on the faces of some passing by in the opposite direction.

The silver clad flower bedecked trona carrying the Holy Sacrament in a large golden monstrance was not borne by a squad of portadores on this occasion. It was mounted on wheels and pushed by a handful of people. I'd love to know the reason why. Street altars were set up outside the Cathedral, in the Calle Marquesa de Larios, the main luxury shopping area and at a junction of several streets in between. Apparently the number of altars has been reduced in recent years. It it for convenience, faced with the dominant demands made on these streets by visitors? Or is it for practical reasons? 

The custom used to be to stop at a street altar for prayers. Nowadays, prayers and devotional songs go on throughout the time of the procession, aided by a portable public address system using a wireless microphone for the prayer leader. Songs were familiar and sung unaccompanied by heart as we processed slowly. There were a couple of bands, which played intermittently, but accompanying a walking singing crowd would not come naturally to their performance style. I imagine change of this nature doesn't come easy to cofradias that invest such time and energy in maintaining their tradition. What's impressive is the degree of participation by local people. It doesn't feel like a show but a genuine expressing of religious life which succeeds in binding people together.

The procession ended with the Archbishop receiving the Holy Sacrament from the Trona to carry into the Cathedral through the great west door. After leading the final devotions and Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament at the high altar, for the first time since the procession began, Don Jesus Catala donned his episcopal mitre to deliver a brief address to the multitude filling the nave. In the procession he walked bareheaded like all the other clergy, behind the Trona, holding his episcopal crozier, symbol of his pastoral authority in the church and in the wider community. Having the last word, as a preacher of the Gospel in the Apostles' succession, he puts on his teacher's hat. Nice and simple. I wish more Anglican bishops would take note, and parade their mitres in public less often.

It was hot. It was tiring. But joining in the procession, not as a robed cleric but among the people took me back to my young, and reminded me what pilgrimage feels like at the grass roots. It's quite possible to miss out on that experience when you're organising or overseeing a liturgical occasion. So grateful I don't have to undertake those kind of duties any longer.

  

From Rincon by bus

This morning, with enough dirty clothes to make up half a load, it was time to figure out how the washing machine works. It's a different model from ones I've been used to in other places, so I had to read the instruction booklet. Thankfully, once I'd mastered its language of logos and symbols, it was straightforward enough for a quick wash cycle. Not being sure if it was such a good idea to put an airer full of washing out on a street side balcony, I made use of a spare bedroom on the sunny side, with the window open, which did the trick nicely. 

Then it was time to do the rest of the week's shopping, cook lunch and have a siesta before driving out to Rincon del la Victoria to rendezvous with Rosella at the Tamoil Gasolinera just above the autovia junction. When I put this in my Google calendar and typed in 'Tamoil', I was surprised to see that it immediately suggested the correct one at Rincon, 15km away, even though I had not yet typed in 'Rincon'. Rosella said that there are few Tamoil stations around the area, so all Google was doing was helpfully suggesting the nearest one to me. Which, as luck would have it, was correct.

After meeting up, we drove to an auto service garage a kilometre away and left the car. Rosella then dropped me, as planned in Rincon, so that I could catch the bus back to Malaga. This gave me an opportunity to purchase my own Tarjeta Consorcio - a fare card to use in paying for rides at a discount on the ticket cash price. It's still €1.07 for the half hour journey. The rechargeable card costs €1.80, and you need to put a minimum of €5.00 on it to start with. I now have the means to get on one of the buses which stops outside the apartment and see where it takes me.

I got off the bus at the hospital stop, ten minutes walk from St George's, rather than go all the way to the terminus next to the Muelle heredia, in the port which is twenty minutes walk to St George's. I needed to go back there to retrieve my outdoor specs with added shades from the sacristy table, where I left them. I can see well enough to drive without them, but it's hardly a pleasant experience. I turned out into the traffic by the time I realised my omission. Finding a short way back to collect them would certainly have made me late. I was so annoyed with myself. Will I ever get really used to wearing specs, I wonder?

When I finally got back to the apartment, I had a phone call from Curate Doreen, asking how the weekend had been, and it gave me an opportunity to solicit her help in finding a place to stay in or near Salinas when Owain comes for the weekend, since I'm up there celebrating the Eucharist on the weekend he's with me. We have plans to visit Nerja, and then drive up to Granada on the spectacular A44 autovia, which runs for part of its length on viaducts through a valley with a succession of lakes. It'll be great to have someone with me who is happy taking photographs. I've done the trip now several times and never been free to take pictures which do justice to the scenery.

Clare and I had a long conversation later, with both of us using phone headsets, which gave both of us far better reception than when using speaker boost. It's taken a long while for us to realise this. Before turning in for the night, I walked along the east arm of the port to savour the beauty of the port and city skyline at twilight. La Farinola is floodlit, and changes from blue to green at frequent intervals. Curiously, I didn't notice if its was performing its designated duty. Much check tomorrow.
   

Day of election surprises, obsequies and city culture

This morning I woke up to discover Britain has a hung parliament. Although the Labour Party under Jeremy Corbyn didn't overwhelm the Tories, neither was it routed by a landslide as predicted by many wishful thinking pollsters, pundits and disgracefully biassed BBC reporters, and panel game comedians. Serves them right. They all humiliated themselves by showing how much they haven't listened properly to what was happening at the grass roots, especially among young voters. Despite his double rejection by the Parlimentary Labour Party, his patient listening and dialoguing with potential voters has regained support for a economical credible set of policies, which are more representative of pre-Blairite British socialism. Shame on all of them too. Labour has a modest man with moral integrity in charge, who has ignored every attempt at character assassination and isn't a self promoting egomaniac. Such a pity he's not at the helm right now, but he has re-introduced hope into political discourse when it was most needed.

It's not enough however to be nearly, but the challenge of building majority support, despite the lies of the right wing British press, can continue until the next electoral opportunity arrives. The Tories can cling to a slender majority with the support of the even more right wing Democratic Unionist Party, founded by Ian Paisley. It still espouses policies worthy of American fundamentalists. Whether this marriage of convenience is viable or sustainable remains to be seen. It casts another shadow of uncertainty over forthcoming brexit negotiations. How long before we wake up from this bizarre nightmare?

I spent most of the morning preparing a Sunday sermon, editing and uploading photos, finalising the liturgy for this afternoon's funeral. For some reason I can't fathom, I felt apprehensive about doing this. There's nothing new I haven't done before. I know and have driven the route to Velez-Malaga's  'La Esperanza crematorium before. I've prepared and taken services there before. I kept checking things before leaving, and came to the conclusion that I was nervous about omitting something or getting it wrong. Perhaps it's down to the experience of my first contact with the funeral director. 

I explained in my best Spanish that I had been asked to take this funeral by my colleague Doreen. It wasn't that he didn't understand my language, but rather didn't understand who I was and why I was contacting him about this funeral which as far as he was concerned was taken care of. It turned out that he spoke enough English for us to untangle things, but I still didn't understand why he referred to Doreen as 'Roy'. Moreover, neither did she when I asked her. My best guess if that he has 'Roy' as the reference name attached to that particular contact number on his phone. I'm used to muddling through in all sorts of odd situations, but 'unknown unknowns' can rattle the cage of my confidence.

I arrived at 'La Esperanza', short for Nuestra Senora de la Esperanza, with a good half hour to spare, checked in with the staff, and was shown the chapel. It was the one I used before, big enough for a congregation of a hundred, and all the wherewithall to celebrate a Requiem Mass, ready prepared in the sacristy. I wonder how many funerals here are in the setting of a Mass nowadays, compared to the turn of the century? The attendant who looked after me said that only four people had come for a viewing of the body earlier in the day, and wondered if that was the expected number, I explained that people were arriving from UK flights earlier in the day.

There were thirteen mourners for the service, just family and close friends, so they packed into the row of three pews nearest the coffin. The attendant looked after the recorded music, which meant he spent the service at a low cupboard door behind the altar, to control the CD player. Could he not find the remote control device? I wondered. Normally, I guess the officiating priest would stand up there and deejay for himself. The service proceeded as simply and quietly as intended with no surprises, thankfully. The family was appreciative, but with a lot of catching up to do with those who'd just arrived, there was nothing more to ask of me, so I took my leave of them, and returned to Malaga, feeling pleased that I'd spoken only Spanish with the crematorium staff throughout, and had been understood.

After supper, as the sun was setting, I walked through the big noisy road tunnel under the Alcazaba Palace into the Old Town. It lands you close to the historic Plaza del la Merced, whose trees were alight with reddish pink blossom, a delight to behold. The inside edges of the square were lined with matching booths, backs to the road, populated by book sellers and publishing houses. Malaga's Feria del Libro is happening from the 2nd to the 11th of June. In the middle of the Plaza there's a pavilion hosting a children's play and reading area, such as I've seen on the beach at Vinaros. There's another pavilion equipped for literary lectures and discussion. 

In the nearby back streets beyond the Mercado de la Merced, I found a church dedicated to Sta Cruz and St Philip Nerii, founder of the 16th century religious community of the Oratorian Fathers. Also the Iglesia del dos Martires, San Ciriaco y Sta Paula, young Christian converts said to have been martyred in Malaga under the third century persecution of Diocletian. Of them, nothing is known for sure but their names. They are honoured as patron saints of the city. Returning to La Malagueta I walked towards the sea front, along Clle Marquesa de Lario, the heartland of the city's luxury retail outlets, always busy with people strolling, meeting and greeting, hustling, day and night. It's a wonderfully convivial sort of place, all year round.

Walking then along the Parque del Paseo, I heard the sound of voices emanating from loudspeakers at the open air auditorium in the middle. A couple of hundred people were seated therein, and were being addressed by an erudite young man in smart casual clothes. He was accompanied by a screen with a Powerpoint display, and although he spoke quickly, I was able to gather that he was talking about consumer branding and marketing, and how these things work to capture our attention, sell us what we didn't know we needed earning fortunes for digital marketeers. Altogether very interesting, but too near bed time for me to want to stay and learn more. I don't know what sort of enterprise put on this kind of educational event, but I do know that are number of Malaga university buildings are on the edge of the Old Town nearest to here. It's lovely to be within walking distance of a lively city centre, full of people having a good time, that's not plagued by drunken louts and uncollected litter.

  

Family on the move

Today it was Kath, Anto and Rhiannon's turn to head south and in their case, to Seville for a four day New Year weekend break. It was our turn to head back to Wales. Slowly, we all packed and the house was made fit to return to. Packing didn't take me long, so I spent an hour or so preparing a sermon for Sunday. After a left-overs lunch, we squeezed the luggage and five of us into the Golf and drove to Birmingham Airport to drop them off for their late afternoon Monarch flight to Malaga. We drove around the M42 and down the M5 and into the sunset along the M50. We were home by half past five, aware that by then they'd  boarded and flown over us on the first stage of their flight.

Clare made a curry for supper, with chick peas for her and a portion of goose meat for me, which made a pleasant change. By the time we'd listened to the Archers, they'd landed. We watched Charlie Brooker's coarse political satirisation of the major British 2016 events together. His lack of optimism about anything makes me feel distinctly un-optimistic about the future of British comedy.'New Tricks' was about a murder in an old people's home, and that was much funnier, albeit in a different way.

As I was about the shut down for the night I was delighted to see some photos posted on Instagram by Kath, showing them enjoying the night air in Malaga's Calle Molina Lario, the old town's prestige brand shopping street, spectacularly decorated with festive illuminations, featuring a 200m long arcade of white light arches, decorated with moons and stars in different colours. It made me wish I was there with them. It's a mild 12C there tonight. They're off to Seville on the slower train tomorrow. Extra time on board to enjoy the changing winter landscape of Andalusia.

    

Malaga on foot III

I took the bus to Malaga today, fully intent on taking a ride on the Cercania 2 metro line, to Alora, up the Guadalhorce valley past Cartama.  As I waited at the nearest stop, first a MAPFRE branded maintenance van parked on the zig zag yellow lined exclusion zone for all but buses. No sooner than this went away an armoured cash in transit van occupied the same space, and two security personnel took several bags of money, into the Santander premises twenty metres away. It remained until five minutes after the bus arrived.

The bus had to park at an angle in the remainder of the space, and this was fine for the two dozen passengers getting on, except one. A woman with crutches and a small mobility scooter, of a size that could be taken on the bus if it had not been parked away from the kerb. The driver was patient and understanding. She honked the horn and only after several minutes more did the cash men emerge and depart, so that the bus could reposition itself for the lady to get on. Nobody on board seemed bothered by the delay. Kindness prevails thankfully.

Incidents like this can be an everyday occurrence wherever wheel chairs and mobility scooters are used. Urban bus stops are planned with access for disabled people in mind. It simply isn't fair that gun toting civilians with bags of cash, in armoured vans are not required to think twice before obstructing a stop. There is no reason why everyday secure route planning for deliveries shouldn't take this into account, rather than disrupt other people's travel, and make it difficult for a disabled traveller to be accommodated without causing needless embarrassment. No cash truck should ever be allowed to presume the privileges that all would naturally accord to an emergency services vehicle. But money influences how everyone behaves one way or another.

I went from the last bus stop in town to Maria Zambrano station, checked the Cercania timetable and realised I had forty minutes to wait. I walked over to the Larios shopping centre. It's huge and on three storeys with every posh designer brand imaginable selling their wares. I saw a demonstrator at a stall carefully flying a toy sized drone quadrocopter, making an effort to do so safely at a junction of the thoroughfare. Concentration immobilised her face in a stare. Her movements, such as they were, made her look robotic, drained of natural liveliness. Why are we doing these things to ourselves? I wondered.

The shopping centre is so big that I became disoriented and exited on the opposite side of the building. Then I had lost sight of the railway station, and by the time I had discovered where I was, there was not enough time to catch the train. Ah well, another couple of hours on foot in Malaga finding new places would do instead.

I walked back to the old town's Atarazanas market, busy with stall holders and others chatting animatedly, eating and drinking after the majority had ceased trading for the day. A marvellous buzz of conviviality around the bars and eateries open. I settled for a tuna and tomato empanadilla from a stall I've bought from before. Delicious.

From there, I wove me way through a collection of narrow streets with shops at the base of five storey buildings in a rich mix of decorative styles. I discovered a Parish Church dedicated to St John Baptist dating from the 1487 reconquista of Malaga, but rebuilt after the 17th century earthquake. It has a tall brick tower, and it's such a surprise to round a street corner and see a few hundred yards away down a winding narrow street this tall edifice illuminated by the afternoon sun.

A curious feature of this church is to be seen on the west wall of the church adjacent to the porch. Five differently coloured hemispheres, each about the size of a cannon ball arranged in a cruciform pattern. No single explanation for this has gained currency, but the symbol is found in Aztec and in far Eastern cultures. There's an interesting article about it here.

A few blocks away, I found another large brick built church in a narrow street. A walk around the block revealed this to be part of a large school complex behind the shops and apartments, a religious community foundation no doubt at least once upon a time, but how old it's hard to tell. Neither church was open during siesta. The Cathedral can be visited 10.00 till 20.00 (€5.00) and a nearby church is open for perpetual adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. Others open for morning and evening Masses for the most part. A really good church crawl would rely on being out and about early or late, rather than during the day. Maybe another time.

Another good city walkabout, then back on the bus to Rincon by five, to purchase some frozen fish to see me through the weekend and my last few evening meals before heading back home to Cardiff.

   

Journey into the Andalusian interior

I arranged to visit Doreen, the Chaplaincy Curate this morning, and take a tour of the area she's lived in for the past thirteen years, just two o them, since she was ordained. We arranged to meet at the village of Salinas. Google maps confidently showed me this was just to the north of the conurbation of Málaga quite close to the autovia in the commuter town of Puerto de la Torre. I was under the impression that my destination was much further away, and set out harbouring an uncertain feeling. I arrived in good time, but could find no signage to Salinas anywhere. Mystified, I phoned Doreen who confirmed my worst fear. She didn't even know where I was!

Salinas is a common enough place name, referring to the salt industry that's part of its history. Our rendezvous has Salinas Granada as an address although it's actually in Málaga province. The village is in an area where Granada Cordoba and Malaga provincial boundaries intersect. It's like Mulhouse outside Basel, where France, Germany and Switzerland have shared borders, and an airport. It's known as the 'Dreieck' - the three corners. This meant I had another three quarters of an hour's drive, once I had Doreen's instructions.

Fortunately, I was only five minutes drive away from the junction for the Granada autovia. The correct Salinas was easy to find and I arrived but an hour late. We had a coffee and a village bar and then went to see the Ermita, where Anglican services are held. It can accommodate fifty people, and there's an adjacent suite of rooms for social use. This one is I believe dedicated to San Isidro Laborador, patron saint of landless peasants.

It's an early 20th century building in traditional style. It has a suite of church rooms attached to the chapel's south side, originally this housed the first village school, but now, social events. It's the same pattern as many mission churches built in South Wales in the early years of the coal mining boom, to meet the pastoral needs of families migrating to the valleys from rural areas. A useful sort of building to have in a newly developing area.

From another village several kilometres away Doreen drove us and talked about people and villages, the locals and the expat settlers she knew. We did a big circuit of half the Embalse de Iznagar a 35km flooded valley providing both water and hydroelectric power. But four years of drought have dropped the water level by 50-60 metres, exposing a barren shore line, drowned farmhouses and even a handsome brick built road bridge down in the valley below the modern one. There's a huge shallow sloping area of exposed land called 'La Playa', and treated as a beach when waters are low. It's great birdwatching terrain, although in the heat of the day there was little to see and snap.

The hill town of Iznagar with its prominent church and castillo is perched impressively on a high promontory overlooking both halves of the lake. Apparently many Brits have settled there. We went to the hamlet of La Parilla where Doreen lives and had a beer and tapas lunch on a table in the narrow street. Doreen comes here often at lunchtime and meets her neighbours and friends as they pass by.

We visited the local Ermita de Nuestra Señora de Socorro, which last week celebrated its 300th anniversary. The local kids are now bussed out to their classes, but the church has an annexe once used as a school and a couple of back rooms kitted out with beds. For travellers? 'Hospedia' over the door suggests a lodging place provided by the faithful for visitors, maybe itinerant labourers. The hamlet is too small to have its own inn. Impressive to see this remnant of another age, in this once poor region, I suspect, not so long ago.

This is solidly an olive growing region. Andalusia is one of the world's major olive oil producers. There was evidence of many new trees being planted. Spain is benefiting from the drop in production due to war in the Middle East and a nasty olive tree plague hitting Italian and Greek crops. Spain is said now to export to other olive oil producers who then re-badge and sell on as their own produce, provided it is stored in the host country for long enough. Thus a measure of unexpected new prosperity comes to a region that has previously lagged behind more industrialised places.

While stopping for refreshments we saw a spotted flycatcher, and a long tailed tit. Also a spotless starling. At one point we get a great view of a honey buzzard patrolling the thermals above us on the mountainside. But that was all. No hoopoes or bee eaters, or kites or other more exotic locals like the blue rock thrush and azure magpie, but never mind, we has a great day of conversation, which was most enjoyable.

The only misfortune was a wasp sting on my ring finger. I took off the ring and sucked out the venom, then transferred ring to the little finger of the other hand. I found this most uncomfortable and eventually transferred it back, as my finger hadn't swollen.

When I returned there were three documents to send out for the BCRP board meeting for reading before Monday. This normally give minute task took five hours or trial and error due to network congestion. A pretty rotten way to end an amazing beautiful day discovering inland Spain.

  

Malaga centre on foot - again

There was nothing to impede a visit to Malaga today, so I caught the 160 bus at a stop nearby on the main street for the half hour journey along the coast road. I was impressed by how quickly the bus filled with passengers, also on the return trip, mid afternoon. The round trip cost €2.14, so it's no wonder buses are well used throughout the coastal urban area.

The bus stops opposite the giant ferris wheel by the port, that offers tourists a view of the city from on high. It goes on from there to the bus station, next to estación Maria Zambrano for rail travel, which is very convenient for getting out of town. The ferris wheel stop gives quick access to the Alameda Principal, the old town and the prestigious retail street, Molina Lario. 

Along this street, crowded with Saturday shoppers as well as tourists, there were several living statue performers, imaginatively presented and well kitted out of their role. Some has an element of eye catching gravity defying illusion about them, but the one that caught my eye was a man dressed as a miner, totally black, wielding a pickaxe, standing on what looked like a mound of coal. The contrast with the bright sunlit colours of the shops behind him was vivid. As I passed, a lady said to her companion in a distinctive Welsh Valleys accent, "Coal is for good luck, see."

I had no specific aim in wandering about, other than photographing things old and new that caught my eye. I also wanted to see how well I could remember the town layout and navigate my way around, although it is only ten weeks since I was last here. My curiosity about the city's cofradias is as strong as ever, and whichever way I went, there were new cofradia buildings to take in. I crossed the river and went to El Corte Ingles to look around. There's a stylish gourmet restaurant and expensive delicatessen on the top floor, with great cityscape views from its rooftop terrace. Always worth a visit, if only to look.

At the river end of the Alameda one of the twin bridges across the river - it's a wide dual carriageway beyond, is being demolished. Construction site notices all over the area either side of the river announce the coming of new metro lines, so I can only assume the loss of a bridge has something to do with this. 

Even so, with views from one side of the remaining bridge obscured by heras fencing and opaque reinforced plastic to shield pedestrians from work below, the length of the bridge on the opposite side was richly decorated with baskets of flowers. Such a nice malagueño touch of cheer.

I returned to the old town, by way of the Atarazana covered market, alive with colour, almost every stall open for trade, people standing at the several bars drinking and eating freshly cooked tapas, buzzing with conviviality. I wanted a spinach and cheese empañada, but could see none on display n any of the pastelerias, perhaps a little too late in the day. Never mind, next time. Then I walked over to the Cathedral and around its exterior, and on to Alcazaba. By this time, having walked two and a half hours in the heat, I thought it was time to find the return stop for a 160 bus. There was one waiting to leave from just outside the ferris wheel, and after half an hour's air conditioned ride, I was back in Rincon, eating a late lunch.

Then, after a brief supermarket visit for water and beer, supper and a slow paseo before bed. Now I feel I've properly arrived.

 

Benagalbón

The day I arrived, we missed the promised delivery of a reserve gas bottle by just a few minutes. another delivery attempt was supposed to happen today so I stayed in, to be sure not to miss it, rather than go for a walk. But, nobody came. Time was fully occupied however with a full morning's remote work on CBS affairs. For the moment this can on times be frustrating as my Blackberry refuses to share its internet connection with other devices when roaming, despite us having specifically requested this service. What was achievable two and a half years ago when I was in Fuengirola, is now frustratingly out of reach. But never mind, with patience there are always workarounds.

After lunch and siesta, I walked along the old Velez Road to Benagalbón, then back along the ex-railway track coast path. La Torre de Benagalbón was a settlement that took its name from its maritime watch tower, predating Rincon. The nineteenth century development of Rincon was so great that it overwhelmed La Torre and local government relocated to Rincon. Only a fifth on the population of the municipality now lives in La Torre de Benagalbón, and its coastal resort aspect is less well developed, a change noticeable at the arroyo acting as the boundary between the two. The townscape tells its own story.

On the way back to the apartment, I topped up the bus discount fare card provided, and checked the timetable. There's a coach into Malaga from the bottom of the street every 20 minutes from early till late. Now that I'm properly established here, I'm ready to start exploring Malaga on public transport and on foot.
  

Malaga walkabout

As today was free of assignments I thought it was time for an excursion to Malaga. I parked the car at the church and caught the eleven forty RENFE train. As I was picked up by car on arrival, I hadn't realised that the route passes through the airport - how convenient for comings and goings! The train stops at Almeida, just a short walk down the main thoroughfare from the historic part of town and all the main public buildings. 

My first port of call was the Cathedral, a huge building crammed tightly into an area of tall buildings, though none as tall as the Cathedral itself. There was an ancient church on this site which had been replaced by a very grand mosque. After the reconquista in 1475, the building was re-adapted for use as a church, then added to in the sixteenth century. One one of its twin towers was ever completed, due to lack of funds, but the base of the second one goes up to roof level.

The Malaguenos nickname the building 'La Manquita' - the one-armed one. The ceiling of the nave is an extraordinary construction - rows of circular fan vaulted domes, a touch of islamic architectural brilliance I guess.

From the Cathedral I made the steep climb to the tenth century Castello Gibralfaro, perched on a wooded promontory 13 metres above the city, offering wonderful views in every direction. With the Cathedral and its extraordinary roof standing out in the heart of the town.

The Phoenicians first made a settlement with a lighthouse here, then the Caliph of Cordova built the castle in the tenth century. A fortified palace, the Alcazaba was built by the Caliph of Granada at the bottom of the hill in the fourteenth century with a perimeter wall enclosed them both.

From the battlements I could hear the sounds of a heavy metal rock band somewhere far below. When I descended, after scores of photos and a refreshing beer, I tracked the noise to a park opposite the fine Ajuntamento building, sitting at the bottom of the hill. The band was playing to a tiny audience on a open air stage opposite one of the University buildings. There seemed to be some sort of festive event to do with a youth campaign of some sorts, hard to figure out exactly, but it might have something to do with the voting age with a strap-line that translates 'We are coming of age'. Walking on down the same long avenue, out of earshot of the band, I spotted two boys and a girl on a park bench, one was playing a guitar, and another beating out rhythms on a cajon and singing, the girl was enjoying being serenaded. It's a city proud of its culture of festivity both secular and sacred.

Quite near the RENFE station was a huge El Corte Ingles department store with another smaller 'Home and Household' store across the road. Outside the main building, an artificial hill to run sledges down is being prepared, alongside an old fashioned carousel ride for the coming festive season. Nearby, is the town centre's covered Atarazanas market. It looks as if it is a re-build, but the style is traditional Moorish

In this area, criss-crossed by several main roads, there are several distinctive churches, each belonging to the barrio it relates to, each needing to be where it is to have easy access to a main road. This is one of them.

What makes them so noticeable is imposing ancillary buildings attached to each one, as tall if not taller than the church. These look like dwellings several storeys high and each has an annexe with a large portal 5-6 metres tall built into it. External inscriptions indicate that each is the home base of a cofrida - the confraternity which takes charge of a particular wagon bearing a  tableau of the passion, or statues of the saints, taken in procession during Holy Week and other times. 

The cofridas are known for their rivalries as much as their zeal and devotion to duty. In all the places where I've seen cofrida buildings, they stand out in their environment as edifices of status in which much money and commitment has been invested. Being here for Holy Week next year is going to be very interesting indeed.

By the time I got on my return train I was quite tired, having walked for four hours. I was grateful to have done so on a cool and cloudy day and not in the forty degree heat of Andalusian summer.

You can see all the photos I took here