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.

Highlights of Málaga

Málaga is one of the great cities of the Spanish south, and an ideal destination in winter, when the weather’s balmy, tourists are few and prices are low. It is a place of contrasts: there are shiny pedestrian

streets paved with marble and glorious buildings, but also urban disasters like the bone-dry concrete river. You will see stylishly dressed men and women alongside cripples on crutches, and homeless men dossing down in ATM vestibules for the night. I love Málaga: its people are friendly and it exudes romance at night, when the illuminated walls of the Alcazaba and Gibralfaro castle  stand out in the darkness above the city. Here are some highlights. 

1. City Sightseeing Bus

I’m not a great fan of these in general (who needs to take a bus round Bath?), but the one in Málaga is worth the steep 18 euro ticket

price. It passes through some areas, such as the attractive Victoria district, that are relatively unvisited, and an abundance of interesting historical information is provided. There are fabulous views of this handsome city: the Cathedral as seen from the port/lighthouse is a highlight. It’s incredibly practical: tickets are valid for 24 hours, and you can hop on and hop off at multiple points throughout the city. Even better is the fact that your fare incorporates free entry to the Carmen Thyssen art gallery. Safety tip: watch out if you sit on the uncovered upper deck, or you may receive a slap in the face from the fronds of a palm tree.

2. Cathedral 

Leave the sightseeing bus at stop thirteen and visit the renaissance Cathedral (tickets: 5 euros), known locally as ‘La Manquita’, or one-armed lady. The reason for this sobriquet is quickly apparent: it’s missing a tower. Construction began in 1528 and continued until 1782 when the cash ran out, supposedly because the bishop sent the

money to support the Americans in their War of Independence. The facade is suitably grand, with red marble columns and great arches, while the interior has the awe-inspiring immensity of other famous Spanish cathedrals. Be sure to check out the choir, which features superbly detailed wood carvings of bishops, ascetics and pigs, among other figures. One deserves particular mention: a braided female warrior standing with her foot upon a man’s head, her sword thrust through his eye. 

3. English Cemetery

Walk beyond the white and orange Bull Ring, past soaring palms and other exotic trees, to this beautiful cemetery cut into the side of a

hill. When it was founded in 1831, it signaled the end of the grim custom whereby Protestants were buried upright in the sand on the shores of the Mediterranean. Laid out as a botanical garden, and bursting with vivid purple bougainvillea and bizarrely shaped plants, this tranquil spot contains many fascinating monuments and tombs. The simple resting place of the great English writer Gerald Brenan (‘Friend of Spain’) lies next to the flaking white walls of the Inner Cemetery, the oldest part of the graveyard. A highlight is the curious nineteenth century tomb of William Beecher, a long-forgotten American who hailed from Connecticut. It was erected in memory of ‘his useful life’ and is adorned with a bas-relief of Liberty sitting against a backdrop of thirteen stars, representing the original states of the Union.  

4. Gibralfaro castle 

From Plaza de la Aduana, follow the signs to this Moorish bastion, which dates from the fourteenth century. The stiff walk takes you uphill along the reddish-orange wall of the Alcazaba, with its

distinctive square towers. The parched hill is replete with cacti, palm and pine trees, and there are fabulous views south to the lighthouse, port and the Mediterranean Sea. Once inside the castle (entrance: 2.20 euros) you can walk the narrow ramparts, which are surmounted by curious tooth-like battlements, and take in the magnificent panorama. The beautiful grounds attract the elusive red squirrel, as well as a bewildering array of birds: Sardinian warblers, gold finches, chiff chaffs, and many others. If you don't fancy the walk, take bus 35 or the City Sightseeing Bus.

5. Tour the tapas bars

The sheer number of these in Málaga is staggering. Some of the best include:

Lo Gueno. Right in the centre on Calle Marín García, this bar is good for albóndigas and pollo al ajillo. Staff are friendly and if you

go often enough, you may be rewarded with a free glass of sherry. 

Refectorium. A rather smart establishment just south of the Bull Ring that serves terrific gambas pil pil. 

El Rescoldo. Follow the awful bird/hand sculpture beside Calle Marques de Larios to find this fine tapas bar, where you can sit outside enjoying excellent patatas bravas and calamaritos fritos. 

A final tip: try a glass of vino dulce Malagueño, the local sweet wine. 

Greyfriars Churchyard, Edinburgh

            Tom Riddle: a name that is nowhere to be seen. I had others in mind, too, but I gave up on those long ago. I look around me: tombstones that are green with lichen and the passage of centuries lie in every direction, offering both hope and disappointment. 

          It is an attractive spot. There is a carpet of lush green grass and many fine elm and birch trees, crooked and denuded, can be seen. A cobblestone path slopes gently downhill from the yellow-hued church towards Candlemaker Row (the street names in Edinburgh’s Old Town have a lot of charm). To the north Edinburgh Castle is visible atop its rocky perch, the Half Moon Battery resembling a massive grey stone drum from this angle. 

          This is Greyfriars Churchyard, which dates back to 1566. Strikingly elaborate tombs and mausoleums line the edges. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote that these were “appallingly adorned”; no doubt he was referring to the skeletons, skulls and other symbols of death carved upon the stones. Monuments of historical interest abound. One of these is the death mask of George Buchanan, sixteenth-century historian and tutor to King James VI. The detail is tremendous: he has sagging pouches beneath his eyes, sunken cheeks, a prominent lower lip, and a drooping moustache. The Martyrs’ Monument marks a mass grave of Covenanters, religious dissenters executed in the seventeenth century. 

          Many come here to see the simple tombstone dedicated to Greyfriars Bobby, a local dog so devoted to his master that he pined for fourteen years at his grave. Part of the old city wall can also be seen, running through the cemetery. Built following the catastrophic defeat of the Scots by an English army at Flodden in 1513, it is one of the few remaining sections in Edinburgh. 

          I meet one of the volunteers who keep the grounds so spruce, a chatty and genial elderly man versed in the tales of Greyfriars and the Old Town. Hitler, he claims, spared Edinburgh Castle from bombing during World War Two because he wanted it for himself. He laments the behaviour of drunks and other hooligans who entertain themselves of an evening by pushing tombstones over. Last year alone, there were 24 such cases, he tells me. He points out one such supine headstone, which bears the name of Sir Walter Scott’s father. “It’s a sick society”, he says. In a place so full of history I find it hard to disagree. 

          At last, I find what I was searching for. Beyond the arch in the Flodden Wall, down a muddy slope, in a rain-soaked corner of the graveyard where the castle is hidden from view, are two matching slabs of stone. They are tall and commonplace, side by side on the wall. I hear the voices of children playing outside neighbouring George Heriot’s School, and the sun briefly breaks through the bleak sky to illuminate the inscriptions. It turns out the spelling’s different, but who cares? I have tracked down ‘Thomas Riddell Esq’, Harry Potter’s nemesis.  

Edinburgh's Old Calton Cemetery

          A cough from one of the large side tombs almost makes my heart stop. The man inside is barely visible, hidden by the weed and ivy covered roof and the antiquated stone walls that flank the low entrance. I pity him: the level of despair and hopelessness that drove him to take up residence in a dank chamber housing the dead is unimaginable. I think about talking to him, but then he starts urinating. That decides me against my planned introduction. 

          This encounter is in keeping with the air of decay and neglect in Edinburgh’s Old Calton Cemetery. The masonry is flaking and blackened with age, steps are cracked and walls are crumbling, while moss-covered gravestones lie broken in two. Certain of the spacious, room-like tombs look like repositories for green-tinged rocks and blocks of stone. An empty bottle of Buckfast Tonic Wine lies on the floor of one of the cemetery’s architectural gems: the cylinder-shaped tomb of famed Scots philosopher David Hume. A sea of brown leaves and branches is strewn over portions of the ground.

          Still, I love this evocative, centuries old graveyard. Situated a short walk uphill from the east end of Princes Street, the city’s main shopping street, it is an atmospheric spot. The monuments gracing Calton Hill lie just across the road and the glorious skyline of the city’s Old Town is visible to the south. Sounds are few: the occasional bus or car passing outside, the chirping of birds, a distant bagpiper, the homeless man coughing. Nor are there many visitors, at least in January.

          The cemetery is full of fascinating gravestones, which feature macabre carvings of skeletons, skulls and bones, as well as less morbid images, such as angels, a three-mast ship and a pair of symmetrical bare-breasted women clutching books.   There are also wonderful inscriptions, one of which is dedicated to an 18th century actor. His tombstone was, we read, ‘re-erected by a few gentlemen’ who felt his ‘last resting-place should not be forgotten’.

          There are unlikely treasures to be found here. As you climb the steep steps beyond the entrance a towering dark grey obelisk immediately catches the eye, dwarfing its surroundings. There is no Lost Symbol-style mystery about this monument, and the enormous chiselled letters on its sides tell a sad story. It is the Martyrs’ Memorial, and was erected in 1844 as a tribute to 18^th century political reformers who were exiled to Australia. 

          For me, however, the highlight is a lean man perched atop a sandstone plinth. His bearded face is stern and gaunt, and unmistakable. In his hand he clutches a speech. Below him a crouching, barefoot figure with muscular arms, rolled-up trousers and tight curls on his head extends his hand imploringly. Between the two – one a president, the other a slave – a single word is visible: emancipation. The president is Abraham Lincoln, adorning a monument to Scottish-American soldiers who fought in the American Civil War. It was the first statue of him to appear outside the U.S.A.