Keep on Running - Malaga

For those kind souls who are regular readers of my blog, you’ll be well aware of my great admiration for Andalucía. Its white washed villages, vibrant cities and coastal gems have provided the backdrop to some of mine and Courtney’s happiest moments. We’ve watched the sun melt into the sea from an ancient Cadiz harbour, sampled Spain’s biggest tortilla in the shadow of Cordoba’s Mezquita and followed fiery religious processions through Sevilla’s romantic streets. This time we returned with a young fresh faced travelling companion, Luna Rose, our wonderful 11 week old daughter. Far from being a hindrance she helped us discover fresh parts of a region we love, bringing its colours and smells to life with a greater potency than anything we’d previously experienced. I’ve tried to learn a lot from Luna, her beaming smile and ceaselessly inquisitive nature are a joy to behold, but I should also be looking to acquire her great fondness for stretching, which brings me nicely on to the topic of this piece. Running. Here I’ll take you on a short journey to some alternative sites in the fabulous city of Malaga, through the lens of my daily run.

Day 1 - La Rosaleda

Stepping into the half shadowed street outside our Soho apartment I was immediately struck by a slight nip in the air. Now of course the sun was out but this is early February and its oppressive tentacles are yet to warm every last corner of this city by the sea. Not to worry though as I’d soon work up a decent sweat running astride the Rio Guadalmedina. Heading north (no compass but pretty obvious with my back to the Med on Spain’s southern coast) I weaved between the early morning traffic, pensioners out for breakfast and road sweepers cleaning the pavements and gutters. The Rio emitted only a trickle in this notoriously dry part of the Iberian Peninsula and various canine crusaders took advantage of its dry and weed strewn riverbed. Following its path upstream my destination soon appeared on the horizon, La Rosaleda, home to Malaga CF, or as they are known by their moniker ‘Los Boquerones’ (The Anchovies). It’s not long since these boys were dining at the top table of European football, when stars like Joaquin and local youngster Isco went close to Champions League glory under the astute tutelage of Manuel Pelligrini. A little over a decade on, they find themselves consolidating their position down at the foot end of LaLiga2, after a brief stint in the regionalised third tier where they gained promotion through the playoffs. The English for ‘Rosaleda’ is Rose Garden and although I didn’t see anything that will be troubling the judges at this years Chelsea Flower Show, the adjacent river bank did play host to throngs of orange trees. Unsuccessful attempts were made to gain access into the ground itself, so a quick run around its perimeter had to suffice. Alike many of its compatriot contemporaries, the facade of this former World Cup host was decidedly mundane, however the stand with its back to the Rio did conjure up images of an old cast iron radiator. Maybe though the Spaniards are on to something.. concrete bowls with a better on field product or neon lighted mega stadia that host NFL games? I know which I prefer.

Orange Grove or Rose Garden?

Day 2 - Gibralfaro

What better way to begin the day than a steep ascent up the Gibralfaro, a commanding hill top redoubt bang in the centre, that has played host to the Phoenicians, Romans, Moors, Catholic Monarchs, Napoleon’s French and countless others. Today’s conquerors would include a profusely sweating Lancastrian and hordes of Nikon totting day trippers. Now a sporadic warm up must often be endured whilst running through the city in the small hours before midday and this sojourn was to prove no different. Office staff rushing to buy dinner, skateboarders honing their craft and horse drawn carriages all seemed to hamper my progress. Just as well then that I wasn’t in pursuit of Kenyan Mark Korir’s impressive Malaga Marathon record of 02:07:40 or I may have fallen a millisecond or two short of the mark. Onwards I plodded through the verdant Paseo Del Parque, where boisterous parakeets squabbled over palm tree penthouses and book worms expertly found concentrated flashes of sunlight in which to enjoy their latest novel. The end of the Paseo marked the beginning of my ghastly climb to reach the days objective. I’ve walked the route before but had completely forgotten how precipitous it was and I’d scarcely reached halfway before I noticed heavily panting walkers sitting down for a breather. I know it might sound a bit strange but these sort of things tend to spur me on, and so the pace was increased as I flashed by a man painting caricatures and a lone guitarist singing The Animals legendary transatlantic number-one hit, The House Of The Rising Sun. The final challenge presented itself in the form of 40 or 50 steps and though I was certainly aware of my leaden weighted thighs, I’d enough left in the tank to put in a finishing kick, like a thoroughbred a few pounds ahead of its handicap mark. The views from the summit ensured that the mornings travails had not been in vain, with Malaga harbour spilling out into the Mediterranean to my left, impregnable castle walls on my right and the imposing Baroque Cathedral proudly to my fore. I feel the Latin words that have often adorned the crest of my beloved Burnley FC are apt here, ‘Pretiumque At Causa Laboris’, ‘The prize and the cause of our labours’.

The Mediterranean from Gibralfaro

Day 3 - Pacifico

The final leg of this small trilogy was to take me westwards along the seafront through some of Malaga’s old working class fishing neighbourhoods. Flat terrain ensured a decent pace and the crowds of the previous day were of no concern as I was heading away from the hustle and bustle of ‘centro’. Sprawling out to my left was the Puerto De Malaga. Now it wasn’t the Spaniards who built the port or even the Moors or Romans, but a shrewd bunch from a small Lebanese coastal city named Tyre, who’s inhabitants the Phoenicians where trailblazers in the maritime import and export game. They also founded nearby Cadiz among other major towns and cities but perhaps their most famous offspring is the now defunct metropolis of Carthage (modern day Tunis) who’s great wealth and power brought it into direct conflict with Rome. This bitter rivalry would ultimately prove very costly, but not before Carthaginian general Hannibal Barca had marched his troops over frozen Alpine passes to confront the glory of Rome in its own back yard, giving them some humiliating defeats in the process. Back to the modern day and I had soon found myself on the sparsely populated Playa San Andres. Save for the odd mother and child soaking in a salt kissed breeze, here with Africa a distant speck on the horizon, the beach was quiet. A little further along the sands I stumbled across a small community of nudists, who in all fairness bucked the local trend, with most Malagueños wrapped up in down at this time of year. The backdrop to this liberated group was a red brick mill chimney, the sort of which we readily associate with a small group of towns in the North West of England. I may attempt to emulate this hardy bunch on the banks of the Leeds Liverpool canal once home, although speedos will of course be mandatory. Sun lotion on the other hand will not.

Urban Nudists

Last year a taxi driver told me ‘Malaga tiene todo’, ‘Malaga has everything’ and he was right. From its history to its cuisine, beaches to mountains and harbours to museums this truly is a brilliant place to visit. Whether walking, driving or running like me, you are sure to find either a modern day marvel or classical gem around each enchanting corner.