Malaga wasn't a huge thing for us. Always hearing of it as a party town where Brits go to get drunk, we would have far preferred to have stayed elsewhere. But with an early morning flight, it was convenient, and at least we could say that we had been. Even if it is just to justify why we would't choose to go again.
Our hostel was located just outside of the city centre, which meant we had the chance to explore the streets a little before ending up in the middle of the inevitable hustle and bustle.
The room was clean and there was a great roof terrace at the top, where we planned to enjoy a final beer at the end of the night, but first - food and city life.
As it turned out, when we reached the centre, there was a huge football match taking place between two big Spanish teams. Quite honestly I didn't take note of which ones (if you can't tell, football isn't my thing), but K was keen to watch the match.
Every bar was packed to the rafters and we struggled to find a spot free. In fact the only place with a clear screen and any seating available was an Italian restaurant in the main square. So as K spent a couple of hours cheering with locals, I spent my time looking in the opposite direction and taking in the intricate architecture of Malaga Cathedral.
As we were in Spain, there was no way we would be eating Italian, so after enjoying a beer and nibbling on the complimentary breadsticks, we headed off quickly, avoiding the waitress who had been waiting for us to order, and went in search of tapas.
As we suspected with Malaga, especially in the centre, everywhere bar was catering to tourists and the fish and chips looked better than the tapas.
I have a rule of not trusting any restaurant with a sign in multiple languages and waiters standing outside, desperately trying to entice you inside. But beggars can't be choosers, especially when every restaurant was the same, so eventually we sat down at one and ordered some Paella and a Tortilla Espanol. Both of which were utterly horrendous.
Drunk screaming brits were filling the streets and it was starting to get late, so we headed grabbed a final couple of beers and headed back to the hosel to enjoy our final hours on the roof terrace.
Walking through the streets we could hear sirens going off and we could see smoke rising above the buildings. Turning on to our street, we were greeted with fire engines, hundreds of people stood around watching, and firemen galore. Stepping through to try and get back, we realised the building next door to the hostel was on fire! But in true Spanish style, they didn't stop us from getting in and heading straight up to the terrace to watch what was going on below. (Like they would ever allow that in Britain!)
So our final evening in Spain was spent atop the hostel, chatting with other guests and the firemen who were running through trying to put out the fire below, cold beer in hand. An unusual end to an incredible tour of Andalusia, which has only wetted our appetite for so much more.
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