Rincon relaxes

A quiet domestic sort of day today, not venturing far until early evening, when I went out for my daily paseo along the promenade. It was much busier than expected. On the beach outside the Tourist Office, a fiesta stage had been erected, and a band was setting up and doing sound tests. Backing to the Tourist Office opposite, another temporary structure house three comidas with bar, selling local specialities. Banners announced this event as the Fiesta de Boqueron Victoriana. 

It's a celebration of the anchovies harvested offshore around here and served in every eating place, cooked according to local recipes. The eponymous Boqueron Victoriana, I found when served in a restaurant menu, was crisply fried fish in a light breadcrumb coating. My preference is for boquereones pickled in and vinegar rather than cooked. The salted variety are OK as a garnish on a pizza occasionally, but are otherwise rather strong tasting.

I walked around for a while and took some photographs, before returning to the apartment. There were fireworks some time after midnight - I didn't check when, as I was in bed by then - and soon after the distant thump of amplified music gave way to silence.

The bulk of summer tourists have now departed, though not entirely, as the local surface car parks are as full as ever. I imagine this fiesta is more oriented towards local inhabitants than extranjeros. Some chirungitos on the beach have already closed and packed their tables away as demand dips. It was a pleasure to see many young families out with their children, gathering for the fiesta, socialising with friends over a beer on a warm evening. Maybe, after months of incessant hard work, this is a welcome time to relax and take a break, and enjoy being part of the host community. 

  

Sunrise at the beach

Having woken at first light, I was too restless to doze for another hour, so I went out and walked eastwards along the beach towards Benalgobion. The sky was rich with red orange and yellow clouds,  precursor to an overcast day, but most spectacular as it changed.

The beach is oriented east southeast, so the sun emerging on the horizon at eight wasn't visible, but to be glimpsed through trees half an hour later. Already there were scores of walkers and joggers out enjoying the cool still fresh morning air.

Sand on the foreshore, up as far as the parasols and sun loungers, had been flattened by a plough similar to those used for making snow pistes. I guess it's a good way of trawling for rubbish, especially broken glass and cans, as well as giving a fresh impression to holidaymakers, although numbers are now starting to dwindle as high season finishes.

Offshore, half a dozen small fishing boats were out, either laying their pots or casting their nets or hauling them in. It was hard to tell in low light a hundred metres away. It was still too early for gulls and pigeons to be active when I set out, but on my way back, the starlings, sparrows, blackbirds and even noisy flocks of parakeets were on the move. There wee few signs of life in the restaurants or shops too. Most tend to open after nine, except the panaderos.

It was a delightful way to start the day.

After breakfast I looked at the photos taken earlier and edited them ready for upload when I next go to St George's, but not today. I have often started thinking about next Sunday's sermon on a Monday, and the discovery of a Common Worship app called Sunday Worship, which delivers just next Sunday's Anglican readings and collects is proving to be an asset, as you don't have to mess around with lectionaries, the necessary text is right there for you to ponder on. So, yet again this week, I'd made an early first draft before lunch.

The preliminary to this was searching for a stand alone Chromebook app which would enable me to do word processing and save files in a useable format without ever needing to be on line. Google Docs apps work well, albeit in a rather convoluted way with different file formats, offline as well as online, with the rigmarole of syncing between the two governed always by connection speed and reliability. But often I want to write and save a text to a flash drive not to the device or the web. This process is not straightforward enough, and I have lost material accidentally in doing so. An app that sits on the device and does offline only what you ask of it is desirable. But how to find the right one?

I wasted an hour trying apps called Writer and Ain't with no satisfaction and in the end resorted to performing the simple task of sermon writing on the office Windows 7 laptop. It's got a nag to update to Windows 10, but now it's too late. The connection speed is too low even to enable it to do Toshiba system updates, apart from pop up reminders. 'Everybody ought to have fast enough internet to run our software' is hardly a realistic design requirement. Consequently, there's a gulf between marketing expectation and mundane reality. Such foolishness.

I wondered what using just my beloved Chromebook for a month might be like, aware there might be risks of poor connectivity. Now I wish I'd brought the spare MS Surface RT along as well. Despite its many software limits, this works better offline. Even better would be a small portable with Linux Mint installed. That would cover my travel needs for offline work. Maybe I can find a second hand machine for a reasonable price, and convert it for another tour of duty.

Lunch, siesta, evening walk under an overcast sky, quite cool really. A surfing class going on down the end of the beach near Nuestra Señora del Carmen. Children youngsters and adults all wearing Malaga Bahia matching sweatshirts, out jogging, dozens of them, spread out over a kilometer of the paseo maritimo, with men on bikes at either end of the group shepherding them. Old people chatting with friends, strolling at a leisurely pace or sitting together in bars or on benches. Fewer visitors now, more space for locals to socialise, and enjoy the coming of autumn.

I have taken an old pair of dark blue 'cargo' shorts acquired a few years ago in Vinaros and now looking very tired, and soaked them in bleach overnight. The result is a rather interesting shade of red. Certainly a revival of fortunes for them. It's better than throwing them away. They are taking a long time to dry in this weather. I look forward to wearing them in their new guise.

  

Old road to Velez

I drove into town this morning, somewhat nervously, as I was uncertain about the last part of the route to St George's Cemetery, and the thought of this made me nervous about getting into heavy traffic and losing my way. I was fortunate as traffic was light, and I had no trouble finding the street along which to travel for the last few kilometres of the journey. Much easier than anticipated! 

I arrived an hour ahead of time, and that gave me plenty of time to take advantage of the office internet connection, and even deal with work issues before the Holy Cross Day Eucharist. There were three of us for the service, although a few visitors wandered in as we were starting. Did they understand what was happening? I couldn't help wondering.

The parking area around the SuperSol in Rincon was busy with an outdoor mercadillo all morning. So, anticipating parking problems, I decided to explore the coast road, the old road to Velez Malaga, before returning to the apartment, and give time to those leaving the market to get away with ease. 

I drove through Benalgabon and Benajarafe as far as ValleNiza. This was the point I'd reached from the other direction when I drove down beyond Velez from Nerja a while back. So now I can say that I've followed the old coast road in stages from Nerja to Malaga.

On the N340a outside Niza is a fine old fortified mansion which has been modernised, to accommodate a restaurant and a hotel school - the Castillo del Marques. Sadly, the building gave the impression that it had closed down earlier this year, although there was no information to state what was happening.

By the time I got back to Rincon. stallholders were leaving and I had no problem parking.
   

Viento y lluvia

I was once told that before Franco rebranded the Andalusia holiday beaches as the Costa del Sol, this maritime region was known as the Costa del viento, the windy coast. Today was such a day, with a 24kph wind coming in from the sea, driving big banks of cloud inland. Doors and windows rattled throughout the building, but the through breeze was refreshing.

I had some shopping to do, first thing, but then settled down, wrote a draft of my next Sunday sermon, and then tackled some office work. It was around four when I went to the beach. It was all but deserted, also the outdoor restaurants. The playa guardia platforms were flying red flags, and a couple of them patrolled the water's edge to dissuade the young and foolhardy from playing among the huge breaking waves. There were a few crazy folk swimming off shore facing off the breakers, plus a couple of windsurfers off Benagalbón playa. They were going at breakneck speed, where they were beyond reproach or rescue from the playa guardia.

The sand on these beaches is very fine, and blows up into a dust cloud, while the coarser grains whip one's ankles mercilessly. To avoid both saharan plagues, I went down to the shore line, to that point where the biggest waves have made the sand wet and firm so that it doesn't fly. There's sea spray but that's infinitely more preferable than dust.

There were small groups of pigeons grounded along the shoreline, their heads pointing into the wind, their tenure no doubt aided by their natural streamlining. They seemed un-bothered by the buffeting. It was an exhilarating paseo for a change. Just after I reached the apartment it began to rain fitfully bringing a new thread of sound into the apartment soundscape, as raindrops hit aluminium roofing over back yards in the street of houses below. And there's a little more birdsong than is usual around here at this time of year. I spotted two blackbirds on a neighbouring lawn, out enjoying the rain, foraging. 

At home, so much rain makes me shun the outdoors. I hate getting wet. Here, it's refreshing and drying off is rarely much trouble, except when its very humid.

The rain stopped an hour before sunset and the cloud began to clear, and this made for a spectacular sunset sky, full of oranges and yellow tinges to cloudy shades of grey. What a treat for onlookers. I saw people in the street taking photos with their phones, but not me, for once.

Flamenco de noche

Another hot sunny day today, and a busy day at the office back in Cardiff, with the arrival of news confirming the next stage in our developing work. There were things for me to do here as well, a sermon to write, a document to prepare for the board meeting.  Where work is concerned, I'm still hindered by the limitations imposed on roaming network connection by Orange ES, despite promises made by BT back home. My workaround solutions don't always succeed, being very much depended on local phone network traffic.

Also, for reasons I don't understand , a Blackberry update a while back killed my Skype app, and when I needed it lately, it wasn't there. After a web search, I found the free app on Amazon web store, which I'd never used before. When I downloaded it, I got a message to say it was already installed, and was able to log into my account and use it, although with on Skype icon. I returned to AWS and was offered a Skype update and this restored the necessary icon. It's taken me ages to get around to doing this, but it's invaluable for staying in touch with home.

Something I am grateful for and that's the internet radio site and app 'rad.io', which works on Andriod and Blackberry. Is there a Windows app? I've not got around to checking yet. It sometimes stutters if the Blackberry network attachment is busy, but gets there eventually. It's been invaluable for following the twists and turns of Helen's trial on the Archers this week. And I understand there's an hour long edition in with the jury this Sunday night. Can it be true? It's certainly been attracting a lot of attention recently.

It was late when I finally took my daily paseo, walking along the coast path as far as Benagalbón. This stretch of beach has fewer hotels, fewer beach restaurants or chirungitos and many more private houses. At the point when I turned around to walk back, there was a restaurant with bar, hosting a flamenco guitarist and singer, and they were in the midst of a performance. I had to resist the impulse to enter an spend an hour or so listening, as I knew I needed sleep before an early start to get to Fuengirola to take the funeral.

There were few street lights in this locality, so the half moon shone  brightly and was reflected in the sea. The beach was shrouded in darkness, save for the tell-tale blue lights atop fishing rods along the shore. Some stars were visible, and on the horizon were the lights of a cruise liner, probably sailing up the coast from Málaga to Valencia overnight. The singer's powerful voice in lamentful nocturnal mood was audible for two hundred metres, as I walked away. Flamenco singing truly is the original european blues music. It was a delightful moment after a busy day of brain work. No fear of insomnia after a 5km walk before bed.

   

Rincon Fiesta

This morning I drove to Fuengirola to meet the husband and son, both called Mike, of a woman whose funeral I'll be officiating at on Saturday. Apart from finding my way up to a suitable motorway junction uphill a few kilometres from Rincon, the journey was easy, as I remembered its various stages from the time I've spent ministering in Chaplaincies along the Costa del Sol over the past five years. 

We met at the crematorium where the funeral will take place, which enabled me to show them where the service is scheduled to take place. This is their first experience of a family funeral, and they needed help to understand how a public service would unfold. I left them to choose music. They weren't familiar with hymn singing, like many others these days. They needed permission to select music to evoke memories - the soundtrack of their lives - was how I described it to them. I think they understood. 

Last time I took a service here, the crem sound system was broken, and last minute efforts to improvise with a portable CD player weren't outstanding. There was no member of staff around to enquire about the current status of their sound system, and frankly you can't trust funeral directors to possess certain knowledge of the many locations they work in. The tendency they have is to leave it to families to sort out for themselves, rather than help them, as would happen in Britain. Conscious of the risk that the same thing could happen again with playing music, I advised them to make their own arrangements for reproducing whatever music they decided they'd like to use. If I had the equipment, I'd help, but I don't.

Rather than dropping in on friends in the area, I drove straight back to Rincon and had lunch, and a siesta. The Golf estate version is a nice car to drive, more luxurious than ours at home, and a bit longer, so it did take me a little while to get used to on the open road. Driving on crowded urban motorways is more demanding than the routes I am used to driving in Spain - Nerja - Almunecar, Vinaros - Alcosebre or L'Ampolla. I am conscious of the need for adjustment, and indeed, it's more tiring now that it would have been ten years ago, so more caution, less speed is necessary. A consequence of ageing, no doubt.

In the evening, there was a big festive Mass at the Parish Church of Nuestra Senora de la Victoria, from which the commune derives its full title - Rincon de la Victoria. I walked to church at the other end of town, for Mass. The church was full, about 200 people I guess. It was a Sung Mass. I guess it might be called a Flamenco Mass, as the texts of the Ordinary were sung by a guitar playing duo in tight harmony while the congregation listened. It was a powerful and evocative sound, quite unexpected.

During the Eucharist, a band could he heard tuning up outside. After the service they processed into the square outside the church from the main street, and waited outside for the procession of dignitaries of the town's cofradia to emerge from the church, with a team of thirty men carrying Our Lady's image on a trona. It was wonderful to see how many children and young people took part in the procession. Every now and then a woman with a loud and penetrating voice would act as cheerleader, shouting out: 'Que viva Nuestra Senora de la Victoria!' To which the reply is 'Que viva!' Or 'Que viva, la patrona de nuestra paroquia!', then shouts of Guapa! Guapa! Guapa! (comely!) with rounds of applause.

From the church square, the procession moved a few hundred metres up the main road, then turned left, heading towards the beach. It passed through a crowded car park and out the other side into a street parallel to the main road, through the oldest area of housing in Rincon, the remnants of its its original fishing village. At a guess, a couple of hundred people were involved in the procession in their various roles. Hundreds more watched, locals and visitors like me, taking photographs. 

All the usual evening sea front activities continued as usual - games one the beach, cyclists, joggers on the old rail path, folk dining in the many restaurants. A witness to living faith expressed in the midst of everyday life, and a marvellous expression of local community in a place that usually seems much more anonymous because local life is overshadowed by the demands and presence of visitors.

As darkness arrived, so did my realisation that I was hungry, so I missed the last hour of the procession walked back to the apartment and had supper. I found the evening quite inspirational, and impressed that a busy town can involve so many parishioners in a diverse and demanding activity on a weeknight. It's hard to imagine British communities working together in such numbers, to the glory of God.

   

Seaside shrine

Another hot day today, but not humid, so the weather was bearable. In the morning, I prepared and sent out the documents for the next BCRP Board meeting. It took me more time than usual as accessing what I needed in our on-line file system took longer than usual. Fortunately the documents needed were also attached to findable emails, so I had a work around solution when needed.

I went out food shopping before lunch and went through recent photos and stored them off-camera ready for uploading on my next office visit. Just as was nodding off for a siesta a phone call came in about officiating at a funeral this Saturday, in Fuengirola Crematorium. I was happy to agree to this, as it's familiar territory from two years ago. As it's a September Saturday, I imagine the Costa del Sol Chaplains are busy with wedding blessings. There are few of these in Malaga. Funerals, sure, but also Christenings of African infants from a constituency for which Christian tradition and custom is still alive. It makes a refreshing change.

Before supper I walked the promenade westwards as far as the first tunnel, to investigate an area under the cliff at the end of the footpath, covered by a canopy, visible from afar. What I discovered was a shrine set into the rock, with a long line of benches set against the rock decorated in blue and white tessera and facing out to the sea shore. At the entry to the domain was a linear fountain, below a rock garden above which was the legend: Nuestra Señora del Carmen. This area is dedicated to those who have lost their lives at sea.

There was a notice in front of the shrine asking people not deposit votive candles there. Instead, people brought fresh flowers, and there were lots of them, tidily arranged. I watched an old man praying from his mobility buggy, a young girl in a swimming costume bringing a single glower, and a young man bringing a bunch of white carnations.
That canopy, partly sailcloth, partly netting is to protect visitors from rock fragments falling from crumbly cliff faces above.

I returned via the main street, but curiosity distracted me up a side road which led up a steep hill to Rincon's cemetery, with its maze of burial walls, mostly full, each niche decorated with fading artificial flowers. Only for All Souls and maybe Easter do these tend to get replaced by cut flowers. I noticed a new almost empty wall of burial niches, half the size of others, probably destined for cremated remains, now that this has become more widespread in the past half century.

As I was about to leave, Clare skyped me, and we talked while I strolled home, right up to the time of the Archers, and the attempted murder trial of Helen née Archer. Compelling listening this!
  

Costa cave art

I waited in again for the gas bottle deliveryman to come, and he arrived eventually at one thirty, too late for me to spend a full day in Málaga, but not a day wasted. A number of CBS admin issues needed to be dealt with, and with telephone calls, that absorbed the time between breakfast and lunch.

As soon as I could, I started walking out of town, westward, on the coast road to La Cala del Moral. At a crossroads on top of the ridge dividing Rincon from La Cala del Moral, I noticed a tourism sign saying 'Cuevas del Tresor'. Intrigued, I followed the signs uphill for about a kilometer though a densely packed area of suburban housing, with the addition of several half finished structures of large hotels or apartment blocks filling odd spaces in this steep rocky terrain.

Just short of the hilltop there was a levelled area for car parking, in feont of a modern building, hosting both a local radio station and Las Cuevas del Tresor. But still no clue as to what the building was for.

At the far end of the car park is an open space in the hillside overlooking the cove of El Moral below. Here, interpretation panels said that the hillside was a conservation area devised to include only such native species as could have been found here 5000 years ago, and supplying plants from which paint used in cave paintings  could be made. Then the penny dropped, thanks to the panels. Here one can get to see cave art in situ, just like in the Ermita de Ulldecona, which I visited back at the end of July. Such a surprising discovery, right at the heart of a contemporary concrete hillside settlement.

The cave visitor centre was closed, its first evening tour would have meant waiting three quarters of an hour, so I walked on, since I was out for exercise. I saw a large flock of goldfinches roosting on a fence of wire netting, and get a few photos of three that didn't fly off. Later, walking ba k along the coast path to Rincon, I was also rewarded with a few shots of parakeets for the first time. Thousands of these birds live in trees along the southern costas, but more often heard than seen. I was delighted with the pictures I took.

On the way back, I learned from a poster that the days leading up to the Feast Of Our Lady's Nativity on the eighth will include prayers and processions to mark a patronal fiesta. An interesting prospect for the coming week.
   

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.
  

Early journey

I woke up at twenty past five, breakfasted, and then headed to out to find a bus to get me into town for the six twenty T9 to the airport. This bus arrived several minutes late, but arrived at the airport dead on time. There we no queues, and by five past seven I was settling down for the half hour or so wait until my flight to Malaga was called. This left on time and arrived five minutes early. Cardiff was mild and sunny, Malaga decidedly humid at twenty eight degrees. After an exchange of phone calls, I met up with churchwarden Rosella, who then took me by car to the apartment in Rincon de la Victoria where I'll be staying for the next four weeks.

It's a well appointed second floor apartment in a block, surrounded by other apartment blocks, three hundred metres from the sea shore. After unpacking, I first walked down to the sea, and then back through the streets to find a supermarket to shop for food. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and by then it was siesta time, rather than lunch time, so I made an effort to start my stay by cooking a proper meal, and then go out for a proper walk, which I did early evening.

The beach is of fine sand and runs right along this coast, one of the first areas of the Costal del Sol to be colonised by holidaymakers.  Nowadays, Rosella told me, it's also a dormitory town for commuters to Malaga, whose town centre is just half an hour away by bus. It's a densely packed urban environment, with a great variety of small stylish modern shops. Logistically this is a good place to be, as it's half way between St George's in Malaga, and Velez Malaga, where the other Sunday service is held.

In the first half of the twentieth century there was a railway line between Malaga and Velez Malaga, serving towns along the route where the sugar cane industry powered the local economy. In the sixties, as the industry declined, the line was closed, and eventually re-purposed as a coastal path.

To the west of Rincon is a rocky promontory with its coastal watch tower, and beneath it runs the first of a series of railway tunnels running through deep rocky cuttings. The path is well lit and is used by joggers and cyclists, as well as pedestrians out for their evening paseo. There are also fenced walking paths with lots of steps along the ridges on the sea side above the cuttings, right on the edge of the cliff, with the sea 15-20m below. The coastal views are just superb. 

The chaplaincy has a non-stipendiary priest who lives half way to Granada from Velez. She lives near Salinas, and looks after a third congregation there, as well as taking services in the other two. There are also two retired clerics who help out with Sunday services as well , on rotation. As it happens, all three are female, and the good news is that the Archbishop of Malaga is a man of ecumenical sympathies, unlike his conservative colleague in Tortosa.  He is well disposed towards clergy of different tradition and genders, who share in Christian ministry across a region of Spain with a large population of ex-patriates from all over Europe, not just Brits. A fifth of Spain's UK citizens live in Andalucia, over 60,000.

Malaga, I am already acquainted with, so having an opportunity to discover Rincon, means discovering another slice of life here in coastal Andalucia. I am most fortunate.