Ronda

          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.