It might have been the constant pounding of the drums, or the clouds of incense, or even the mournful songs that accompany some of the processions. Ultimately, I blame the over consumption of Torrijas, the sickly sweet traditional pudding of bread soaked in egg and milk before being fried and served up to unsuspecting tourists, but after a few intense days of non-stop processions, Semana Santa started to feel a little overwhelming. A sure sign it was time to leave the city and head for the hills.
Malaga was a lot of fun during Semana Santa, and I suspect it is a fabulous place to visit at any time of year. We visited the Picasso Museum, with a couple of hundred works donated or loaned by Picasso’s relatives; we clambered up the Gibralfaro for fabulous views over the town and ocean; we passed through more overwrought churches than you can shake a stick at; we wandered around the lovely harbour area; and we drank cocktails in wonderful rooftop bars like we truly belonged in the Mediterranean.
Malaga is a town that doesn’t get the appreciation it deserves, but we’ll definitely be going back for more…but for now it was time to sample rural Andalusia.
Notes from Camelid Country 