I sit
in a largely deserted McDonalds nursing a cup of very hot black coffee,
revolving it in my bare hands to give them some warmth. A matchstick of a stray
cat mews pitifully outside the entrance, seeking to rush in every time a
bedraggled customer plunges through the door. It’s an abominable evening:
freezing, with the endless, heavy rain you experience in the rainy season in
Japan, topped off by furious gusts of wind.
 |
| A bridge in Ronda (not the famous one, and not taken on the day in question) |
I can
hardly believe I spent the morning sauntering around the marble streets of Málaga,
admiring its orange trees and elegant architecture as the warm sun beat down
lovingly on my pale face. I sacrificed all that to travel west into the
mountains, lured by the magnetic pull of this famous town atop a gorge,
traversed by a stupendous bridge. Now I wish I had my iPod, instead of a
notebook and a pamphlet about a cemetery, so I could listen to some A.R. Rahman
and drown in self-pity.
In
my defence, there’s a magic about Ronda. It’s a Disneyland with a beating
heart. The atmosphere at dusk as you wander the empty, crumbling side streets
of its old town (La Ciudad), where houses are decaying or have been abandoned,
is unbelievably romantic. A less than perfect path leads down to near the foot
of the eighteenth-century Puente Nuevo and, even in the twilight, you thrill at
the soaring structure before you.
Even that, though, is nothing compared
to the spine-tingling sight that awaits those who spend the night. I will
always remember pausing on the bridge after a dinner of snails, jamón ibérico
and patatas bravas on a clear night in January. On one side lights were visible
in the houses overlooking the river far below, while on the other, which looked
out onto the countryside, I saw nothing but the deepest black emptiness. What a
location this was!
That was why I came back: to stare
into the void once more, and take a picture of the great Puente Nuevo. (On the previous
occasion my camera’s battery expired). I was gripped by a steely determination
to make the journey.
Alas, things did not go well from the
get-go. My lunch in minuscule Bar Maestro, whose walls were adorned with
pictures of Orson Welles, Hemingway and illustrious bullfighters, was marred by
staff who showed ill-concealed displeasure in serving me. Having hastily consumed
my bocadillo, I slunk out like a whipped dog and headed through the misty rain
to the Casa del Rey Moro, determined to make the best of things.
This house is notable for its ancient
stairway, cut by slaves, which takes you all the way down to the turquoise
waters of the river. For a year I had wanted to descend these 365 steps. What
followed, however, was hair-raising. The steep path was a mixture of puddles
and rivulets and I clung on to the railing almost in desperation. Arches
apparently cut for midgets necessitated bodily contortions worthy of gymnasts.
The only other soul I saw was a young Asian man ascending the stairs with an
alarmed expression on his face. As our eyes met we shared a brief moment of
telepathy, the message being ‘what the f*** was I thinking?’
To my chagrin, I discovered there
wasn’t even a view of the bridge at the bottom. Defeated, I retreated back
across the Mercadillo, or new town, to my hotel, where I climbed into bed fully
clothed in an effort to warm up. Eventually I got up and had a bottle of Cruzcampo
in an Irish pub, which I had to myself save for a young couple making out. Then,
at a loss for what to do, I trudged into McDonalds.
As I stare at my coffee, it occurs to
me that I have proved something to myself: even the most dramatic of places can
suck when the weather is foul. I didn’t even get a chance to take my picture. But
I will be back.
