The rain in Spain falls mainly on Cordoba

It’s often difficult and almost always unfair to judge a place when it’s raining. For that reason and that reason alone, we hopped on the train in Malaga with a certain sense of dread regarding the forecast precipitation. Let’s be honest though, it’s probably time to draw stumps if a young Lancastrian couple are ready to throw one in at the first signs of drizzle.

Speeding north through tunnelled peaks, we soon noticed that the arid ‘campo’ home rugged goats and groaning under the sheer weight of ‘Olivos’, was decidedly parched. Perhaps today of all days the big man upstairs would pick up the old watering can and provide thirsty Andalucía with some much needed divine irrigation, though a petulant formation of low lying cloud up ahead suggested otherwise. He’d opted for the hose pipe instead. Alas, ‘adelante’.

Within thirty seconds of exiting Cordoba’s unremarkable train station my Stan Smiths were already taking on water. Not too worry, Mr Smith’s been about a bit. Almost sixty years to be exact, although he formerly went by Robert Haillet, who after a quick scan of the web turns out was also partial to a bit of the old ‘croc’, hats off Bob. Endorser regardless, Adidas’ iconic tennis shoe is still the go to. Pair them with a suit for a wedding abroad, chinos when entertaining guests on your super yacht, or Italian knitwear when at the match, they really are bomb proof when done right (off white sole).

Dirt speckled trotters aside I was delighted to be in the mix, we both where, though I suspect Courts was far more enamoured with the prospect of sampling Cordobás culinary delights than the constant tripe I’d been feeding her about fallen Arabian dynasties. Talking of food, in an attempt to escape the consistent if not torrential downpour we found ourselves in Panadería San Francisco. Slightly off the beaten track and showing all the hallmarks of a traditional bakery our request for something local produced a ‘Pastel Cordobés’. Not unlike an apple pie in shape, but filled instead with a jam made from fig leaf gourd (aka Angel’s hair), this cinnamon topped delight went down quicker than Rivaldo in Japan.

A proper bakery

Things were looking up and after two pastries, two café con leche and two bottles of water for €6 (take note rip off Britain), we were ready to brave the elements. Armed with a couple of ‘paraguas’ kindly donated by the hotel we slushed passed ancient churches and bronze statues of revered ‘toreros’. Whilst on the subject of sculptures, can we please arrange for a life size replica of Jimmy Anderson to be erected somewhere prominent in Burnley. One of the finest bowlers in the history of test cricket, he’s always represented the town impeccably and we really should be prouder of what he’s achieved. Let’s do the ‘King of Swing’ justice though, see Michelangelo’s David not Manchester City’s Aguero.

Marching the deserted streets of the old town we giggled at an old chap attempting to tame his contorted brolly, but were soon humbled when Courts channeled her own inner Mary Poppins..karma. By now, any hopes of winter sun had evaporated into the endless murk, with a thick layer of surly cloud attaching itself to the verdant peaks of the Sierra Morena that straddle the city to the north. Cue another pit stop. Bar Santos is a local institution that proudly serves the largest Spanish omelette in the whole of the Iberian peninsula. I’d recently seen Portillo try it on his travels round the region and although I’m not a fan of his politics, he can’t half make a good travel doc and is also a sucker for burgundy cords, hence the reason we were all in. This tiny tapas bar in the shadow of the fabled ‘Mezquita’ did not disappoint and we strolled out an hour later feeling fully restored.

Spain’s largest tortilla

Now for the main event, the aforementioned ‘Mezquita’ or as it’s been known for the best part of the last 800 years ‘Mezquita-Catedral’. Built over 1200 years ago when Cordoba was the proud capital of the Arab caliphate of Al-Ándalus, this is without doubt the most impressive historic building I’ve ever visited. Now the origins of this majestic edifice or at least the site on which it is built are widely debated, lost to eternity, but one theory maintains that the site originally played host to a Roman temple. Colourfully tiled floors visible through a glass platform do little to disprove this particular train of thought. With the ‘reconquista’ of Cordoba, the mosque became a cathedral, and although the victorious Catholics were eager to dispose of their Muslim adversaries, the same can’t be said for their attitude towards Moorish architecture. Having seen the place, it’s little wonder why. Drifting amongst ornate arches, mosaicked walls and serene fountains, history here feels tangible.

Stumbling forth on tiring legs, we dodged fallen oranges that sadly lined the sodden streets of ‘la judería’. Reminiscent of the now sadly defunct tangerine ball on a snow covered pitch, these fruits are of the bitter marmalade making variety, hence the reason you’d be as well attempting to channel your inner Geoff Hurst rather than eating them. Having splashed well over 15k since stepping off the train we were again ready for some sustenance and opted to give ‘Casa Pepe de La Judería’ a try. It’s usually best to follow local advice when visiting a new place, so it’s just as well that a good pal of mine is a native of the city. Again we opted to try our luck with the regional favourites. The ‘Rabo de Toro’ (oxtail stew) was a standout but closely followed by the ‘Flamenquín’ (deep fried pork) whilst the ‘Berenjenas’ (deep fried aubergines in honey) tasted like donuts you’d get at the fair. Muchas gracias por la recomendación Jose.

We’d still a couple of hours to spare before catching the rattler back to the coast and so trudged on to check out a couple more sights, the most impressive of which was the ‘Alcazar de los Reyes Cristianos’. Mundane exterior walls intermittently interrupted by various shaped watchtowers are vastly outshone by the splendid interior, however gardens and ponds that promise a kaleidoscopic burst of summer colour appeared a sombre shade of January blue, like a supermodel after a night on the town. Nestled between the cypress and palm trees stands a statue of Christopher Colombus and his powerful patronage, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabelle, the Catholic Monarchs. It was here that the trio first met, with Colombus floating his idea of an exploration westward in the quest for new trade routes between Europe and the Far East. The rest as they say is history.

Columbus, Ferdinand and Isabelle

The train ride home gave us time for ample sleepy reflection. Cordoba is yet another intriguing city in a part of the world which I love. Andalucía is shaped by its history, as are we all. From the food that we eat to the gods to whom we pray, history and the places we are born dictate to us a varying set of preordained beliefs, values and even pastimes. History is omnipresent but ever changing, at times astounding and at others appalling, Cordoba has seen it all.

‘campo’ – countryside

‘Olivos’ – olive trees

‘adelante’ – onward

‘croc’ – Lacoste

‘paraguas’ – umbrellas

‘toreros’ – bullfighters

‘Mezquita’ – mosque

‘Mezquita-Catedral’ – mosque-cathedral

‘reconquista’ – reconquest

‘la juderia’- jewish quarter

‘Alcazar de los Reyes Cristianos’ – castle of the Christian monarchs