South to Zuheros - Zuheros, Spain, Europe

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My journey began on a wonderful spring day in May. It was one of those mornings we often associate with an English spring, although they rarely seem to materialise. The sun was shining. There was no imminent danger of rain and a profound calm engulfed the Devon countryside.

It was with a degree of self satisfaction that I set out on the "Spanish Odyssey" as I had named the expedition. I decided to spend ten days in the Andalucian village of Zuheros, some seventy-five kilometers southeast of Córdoba. I needed to relax and unwind after a very hectic year.

Arrangements had been made online, without the necessity of speaking to a single human being; this suited me down to the ground as I am an anti-social person at the best of times. As the name implies, Easyjet does make it easy to book, with instant confirmation, a reference number and no tickets. I found that a bit worrying.

Car hire was simple as there are firms by the gross in and around Malaga. The hotel presented more of a challenge as there is only one in Zuheros. If I couldn’t book online, I would have to change the destination. However, with a little diligent surfing, I found the hotel listed with Interhotels, a Spanish website handling accommodations worldwide. They confirmed within twenty four hours and duly e-mailed the voucher.

To recap, there were three pieces of paper - one, a flight reservation; two, a car hire docket; and three, a hotel voucher. The potential for error, omission and loss was vast. Added to this was my own inherent ineptitude - we have a valid reason for the indigestion and foreboding I was experiencing.

The choice to go it alone and not use a travel firm was again down to my anti-social tendencies, and to give myself a little challenge. I wanted to stimulate the flow of adrenaline, something which happens rarely when one lives in rural East Devon. This is how I came to find myself, on the spring morning, travelling north along the M5 Motorway to Bristol, its southern suburbs and its airport.

Bristol Airport is small, modern and friendly; it is void of the mass of humanity found at the larger provincial airports. Ignoring the main entrance, I took the next left and turned into Downside Road, my first objective being Coombe Garage, to check-in for my airport parking. This is an excellent service whereby you are ferried to and from the airport; the car being locked in a secure compound. No forgetting where you left the car and taking a bus home or wondering whether it has been vandalised.

I did have a fleeting mental image of my car rallying across Avon and Somerset with a number painted on the side, my paranoia I suppose. Once inside the terminal building, I sought out the Easyjet check in desk and proffered a grubby bit of paper, number one. It worked. I was booked on the flight, if I could produce my passport. That done and after watching my suitcase disappear behind a plastic screen, to wherever suitcases go afterwards, I headed through passport control and the departure lounge.

The lounge is a large glass fronted affair - shops on the ground floor and restaurants on the mezzanine. It was clean, relatively comfortable and offered a good view of aircraft arriving and leaving. Bristol Airport can be described as essentially a holiday airport; there are always tour groups passing through. Today was no exception.

Despite still being only nine o’clock in the morning, one group, predominantly men, were consuming lager at an alarming rate, their chatter reaching crescendo level. It revolved around one of the group members to whom the rest were relating every aircraft disaster since Orville Wright made his now famous heavy landing. The individual was obviously afraid of flying and had stupidly told one of his friends. Still, it added to the atmosphere of the place.

I opted for a coffee, and sat down to wait for my flight to be called. "Flight EZY6057 to Malaga is now boarding at gate 10," at least I think that was the announcement. The PA operator, judging by her volume and pitch, wanted to keep all aircraft movements a secret - part of the tighter security, perhaps. She was, however, foiled by the monitor above the gate, which boldly declared the imminent departure of the flight.

I had my boarding pass and passport checked by a gaggle of chirpy Easyjet staff, and proceeded to the aircraft, a 737 which looked as if it had seen better days. As long as it had been well maintained and the crew sober, all should be well. The window seat that I settled into overlooked the port wing, the window itself appeared sound and devoid of cracks. I tried to make myself comfortable.

It was then that I noticed a rather unusual sight. Young ladies were getting themselves seated and sorted out further down the aircraft, their T-shirt legends proclaiming "Sara’s hen outing". The odd part was their choice of head gear. They wore headbands that had springs with comic eyes attached. They bounced about as the wearer walked. These resourceful young ladies had modified the arrangement. They had removed the eyes and replaced them with replicas of the male genitalia, very detailed, blue in colour, which I found a little disturbing. They made a hypnotic sight, twenty-four phalli, in pairs, shaking and gyrating in sympathy with the movement of the aircraft, a visual indication of the pilot’s ability to fly straight and level.

We left the ground with the usual roar of engines, followed by the other mysterious clicking, humming and clankings that are associated with take-offs. A slight turn to port and we headed south, with the green fields of England slipping away below us. The journey took just over two hours and was relatively uneventful. I partook of coffee and pâté with crackers, not cheap, but I could hardly shop elsewhere.

Our imminent arrival was heralded by the changing scenery; widely spaced rows of olive trees dominated the landscape, looking like small green puffs of smoke. The rows appeared endless as we lost height, closing in on Malaga Airport.

The parade of phalli rocked in unison as the plane trundled its way across the airport tarmac. We made several seemingly pointless turns before coming to a stop by the terminal building; then the usual free for all broke out. Why do people fight tooth and nail to get off the aircraft first? They pushed, jabbed and shoved.

I waited with a smug grin for the cabin to clear and then made my way into the terminal and the luggage carousel. Was my suitcase going to reappear from behind the curtain in Malaga? What would happen if it completed more than one circumnavigation of the conveyor belt without being collected? Would I collect someone else’s case by mistake and spend the next ten days in drag? Would I even find the baggage claim area?

The airport appeared to go on forever. From one of the carousels, I could see the welcome sight of two dozen dancing phalli; a monitor confirmed that it was the baggage claim for flight EZY6057. With my suitcase safely in tow, I made my way into the arrival lounge. I had one of those cases with wheels and a handle, you feel like an idiot pulling the thing, but they make travelling so much easier.

Most of the larger car rental companies had a kiosk at the airport, located down a ramp, but the company I used obviously couldn’t afford this luxury. I had to use the courtesy bus to get to their offices, perhaps half a mile from the terminal.

Time for grubby paper number two. Again, it worked. They were expecting me. The car was ready. After a few details, off I trotted to my vehicle. The car, diminutive to say the least, was clean, fuelled up and ready to go. My suitcase was too big for the car’s boot, though, and my boot was too big for the car’s foot pedals. With my suitcase on the back seat along with my boots, I drove tentatively from the parking area.

In England I have a four-wheel drive vehicle, quite a heavy car, with the steering wheel firmly attached to the right hand side. Saturday nights excluded, it is driven on the left hand side of the road. This configuration, as the history books tell us, frees the pistol hand in order to deal with the attentions of belligerent highwaymen.

I was now in a little French perambulating sardine tin. The steering wheel was in the front passenger seat, and I was driving on the same side of the road as I would have expected the on-coming traffic to be. That I could have handled, but the first thing I saw when I left the hire car compound was the biggest roundabout in Christendom.

The entire population of Malaga appeared to be circumnavigating in the wrong direction, but at least there wasn’t a highwayman in sight. The traffic was continual - blaring horns and screeching tyres. A never ending procession was around the traffic island. I had to do something. I waited for a reasonable gap, closed my eyes and put my foot down. A few waved fists and I was on my way.

It appeared as if the whole of Spain was on the move - all lanes were jam-packed with sweating, swearing and frustrated drivers. They performed all sorts of suicidal manoeuvres, just for the sake of getting past the car ahead. I had to do a few of my own in order to follow my route. Somehow I managed to find myself on the N331, on course and heading north. The traffic thinned and my blind panic subsided.

I began to take notice of mundane details again - the road surface, the countryside and how to work the bloody air-conditioning. I even eased my grip on the steering wheel and allowed the blood to flow back into my knuckles. The roads were in very good condition. In general Spanish drivers are courteous and observe lane discipline. These weren’t the manic drivers I had met around Malaga; crowds in whatever context always bring out the worst in people.

Driving became pleasurable once more. I had discovered the secret of the air-conditioning, and my navigation appeared to be spot on, from the N331 a right turn and I was on the A316 for the final leg of my journey. The landscape consisted of rolling hills with the ever present olive trees, seemingly taking no notice of boundaries or topography, but disappearing into the far distance. Occasionally a sheer crag would appear as if by magic; giving an enhanced three dimension effect, almost surreal!

I began to recognise place names from the maps I had studied prior to departure, Lucena - getting close, Cabra - be there soon. Left to Doña Mencía, right to Zuheros, onto a local road, a few pot holes and tight bends but nothing too testing.

Zuheros is situated in the Parque Natural Sierra Subbètica, an area of fourteen towns. Zuheros is one of these fourteen, with a population of about eight hundred. It sits, perched on the top of a cliff, with its castle hanging on by its eyelashes, to a precarious position above a sheer drop.

I entered the pueblo along its narrow winding streets, the houses immaculate in whitewash and flowers. Two ancient sun wrinkled women, each sitting on her own doorstep and diametrically opposed, each in imminent danger of having her toes crushed. Being a caring person I stopped. “¿Dónde está El Hotel Zuhayra, por favor?” I received an appalling load of gibberish in return.

It would seem that the local accent was going to be as hard for me to understand as a Geordie would be for the average citizen of Madrid. I got the impression they didn’t know. I thanked them and drove on, not for long, however, as the hotel was only fifty yards further down the road. The two ancients obviously didn’t get out much.

The hotel was virtually indistinguishable from the surrounding houses, whether by original design or modification, it was impossible to tell. A now very grubby piece of paper, number three, was proffered at the reception desk, and like its two predecessors, it worked. My room was ready. Passport and credit card details noted, I headed for my room.

After a wash and a general tidy up, a feeling of overwhelming achievement came over me, so I decided to reward myself with a glass of wine at the bar. “Un vaso de vino tinto, por favor”, I said to the camarero. Lo mismo, in this context it meant, the same again (saves a great deal of time when you are thirsty). The lo mismos kept coming and I chatted to the barman in his native tongue.

After an hour or so I noted a very peculiar phenomenon. My ability to speak Spanish was proportional to my alcohol intake - the more I drank, the better my Spanish. I also noted that my ability to speak English was, however, inversely proportional to my alcohol intake. I wondered what would happen first, either complete fluency in Castilian or total unconsciousness.

It was at this point that the bar staff changed shifts! The new incumbent was a camarera, raven haired, olive skinned, with expressive almond eyes, a mischievous smile and a voice that would melt a polar ice cap. I lost the ability to speak both in my native and adopted tongues. Fresh air seemed the solution.

I headed rather unsteadily for the village square, which being at the cliff edge, offered an excellent vantage point. The late evening sun cast its long shadows as the intoxicating aroma from the olive groves below was carried up on the evening breeze. I was engulfed by the warm night, heady from the wine and the day’s events; I felt that I had found my sitio perfecto.

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