We haven’t been out for a few days, so I suggested that we spend a couple of hours exploring Fuengirola, or more precisely, the neighbourhood, in which we live. There is absolutely nothing we can do to help advance our case with immigration, so my wife agreed. It was only a few hundred yards later that my back started to tell me that it wasn’t too keen on the idea.
It wasn’t much further to a bar that a neighbour had recommended, so I struggled up to that and had two painkillers in the form of pints of beer and we set off again, in the opposite direction of our apartment, because Neem was not done exploring. The next three or four hundred yards were all right, but I noticed that the manhole covers in the pavement bore the name of a different municipality – namely Mijas.
Fuengirola had seamlessly merged with Mijas, which I had thought was about ten miles away. My cousin took me to Mijas nearly thirty-five years ago, but what I saw today was nothing like it. In the Eighties, we went up into the mountains and I remember a bullring.
I also remember that the brakes failed on the way down the mountain and my cousin’s husband managed to tell me without scaring his wife and children. At the foot of the mountain, he called a rescue company and we transferred to a taxi to go home for a few bottles of wine.
The part of Mijas that we saw today seems older than most of Fuengirola, but I don’t know. There definitely appears to be more Arabic influence in the tiling on the outside walls of the house than where we live.
We have enjoyed our four hours exploring Fuengirola, and hope to venture further afield next time, if my back will put up with it, although there are always the painkillers…
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All the best,
Podcast: Exploring Fuengirola