Frank, a hairdresser and his wife Doreen, a stroke unit Occupational Therapist are our closest current neighbours. Both German, but Doreen, as she points out, is from the what was DDR (GDR to us). They’re on a three week break, along with their three dogs. A doberman and his two squidgy bodyguards.
Luckily for us, their school English, topped up with English films and pop songs enables their linguistic skills. There are few moments of communication down-time as we drink and chat. At one point in the evening we’re like Richard Dreyfuss and Robert Shaw in that scene from Jaws, when they compare scars and how they came by them. The antics of Beastie and their similarly sized Hymer Corado the source of much shared laughter.
Saturday sees us bike down the Torre del Mar prom as far as it goes. Make a sunny sarnie stop. We’re in luck. Three piece Art Club Band welcome us with their rendition of BB King’s classic “The Thrill Is Gone”. They’re gigging at the end of prom eatery.
Everyone feeling the blues . . . but some apparently happier than most.
Sunday already and we decide to Scoot the 39K into Malaga. There’s a castle and Picasso’s museum beckoning. An hour max should do it. Apart from a short 4K motorway section, it’s a straight, but very windy, coastal road. Or should have been. It’s Bank Holiday week-end of course. One of the on-route towns is blocked off. They’ve got a carnival going on. We spend thirty minutes Scooting around the crazy maze of one-way-only back streets. Like a couple of dumb headless chickens just after the chop.
We are surprised. Malaga has a really good feel to it. A nice Cosmopolitan blend of old and contemporary. The huge footprint of the now ruined Castillo Gibralfaro, perched high above the port and city offer us stunning 360 views. We enter at 2.10pm. Free entry on Sundays from 2pm.
We’re in Pablo’s home town. We can’t leave without paying our respects. It’s now 3.45pm. Short queue. Five minutes later we’re in. Twelve collections in twelve rooms to sift through. Not really our cup of tea. Hoping for something, no matter how small, to connect with. His works not quite abstract. Cubism? No! Absurdism. Seems he loved to chop up the human form, then put it all back together. But not quite as it was. Maybe he missed his calling. Surgeon, butcher, Mafiosi interrogater? Teeth where an ear should be. Headless stark staring eyes looking lost at sea. Legs and arms twisted and contorted like Balloon Benders’ models. Missing toes. Boobs attached to any body part that lacks attention. No doubting his talent. But what was it? Comedy perhaps. We abstract ourselves at just gone 5pm. The queue is now stretched back over three hundred metres. Poor souls.
Then we head back. The carnival escapade has left us short on fuel. We stop to fill up. Money’s in Mary-Ann’s handbag under Scoot’s seat. She lifts the seat. Extracts her bag and goes to pay. Meanwhile a couple of young men on big black beefy scooters pull in. I move Scoot out of the way to allow the first one access to the pump. His money is under his seat too. He lifts it. At that very moment Mary-Ann pops out. Head down as she puts the receipt into her handbag. Walks around his scooter and pops her handbag into his. For a split second her face reveals what her mind can’t fathom. The familiar contents of Scoot’s under seat storage replaced with the unfamiliar. A curious collage. Plastic bottle filled with oil and oily rags. A Picasso masterpiece perhaps? Distorted ripples appear on Mary-Ann’s brow. The young man is dressed from head to toe in black. He’s six feet six. Towers above Mary-Ann’s petite frame. He is bewildered. Is he being hi-jacked? or hi-jinxed? Mary-Ann doesn’t quite come to her senses as she turns her head and peers upwards. A shiny black helmet peers down. Then broad grins are exchanged. Followed by laughter. The scene not unnoticed by the man inside. He’s now outside. We’re all howling. Whoops of laughter. All with a funny story to tell later.