Whitewashed Villages of Andalucia

Frigiliana

In Washington Irving's classic book, Tales of the Alhambra, he recounts the story of three Moorish princesses whose father, Mohamed, was a king of Granada. Their mother was a beautiful Christian damsel whose city had been sacked by the Moors—she being carried away as part of the booty. She caught the eye of the king and became part of his harem, eventually being persuaded to marry him.

When the three daughters were born, the king summoned the astrologers, and upon seeing them they shook their heads. “Daughters, O king,” they said, “are always precious property; but these will need your watchfulness when they arrive at a marriageable age; at that time gather them under your wings, and trust them to no other guardianship.”

This omen disturbed the king. He decided to take no chances and determined to have them reared in the Royal Palace in Salobreña, some forty miles from Granada.

“The castle of Salobreña . . . was built upon a hill on the seacoast. One of the exterior walls straggled down the profile of the hill, until it reached a jutting rock overhanging the sea, with a narrow sandy beach at its foot, laved by the rippling billows. A small watchtower on this rock had been fitted up as a pavillion, with latticed windows to admit the sea-breeze. Here the princesses used to pass the sultry hours of mid-day.

“Here the princesses remained immured from the world, but surrounded by enjoyment, and attended by female slaves who anticipated their wishes. They had delightful gardens for their recreation, filled with the rarest of fruits and flowers, with aromatic groves and perfumed baths. On three sides the castle looked down upon a rich valley, enameled with all kinds of culture, and bounded by the lofted Alpuxarra mountains; on the other side it overlooked the broad sunny sea.”

Passing view of Salobreña.

It was with this story as a backdrop that I waited with anxious anticipation for our bus to pass along Salobreña on its route from Granada to Nerja, along the Mediterranean coast of Spain. I recall passing the Suspiro del Moro, the mountain pass that was so named after Boabdil, the last Moorish king in Spain, was driven from his home in Granada. Upon reaching the pass where he would gaze upon the Alhambra one last time, he let out a sigh and broke into crying.

The road came within view of the massive snow-capped Sierra Nevada Mountains. We passed over several large bridges, one that surmounted a deep barranco, and another that spanned the arm of a large blue lake. Hillsides terraced with olive trees grew alongside small whitewashed towns. I knew we were getting close.

Then, the village came into view. Through the dust of the bus window, I saw a prominent hill with an impressive dense cluster of alabaster buildings that covered the entire surface of the hill. It looked like no other town I had ever seen. Topping it off, like a crown jewel, was a 10^th century Moorish castle.

Unfortunately, our bus only passed by Salobreña, so we never had the opportunity to walk its narrow streets. But it was a great introduction to the whitewashed villages of Andalusia. My sole purpose of our detour to the coast was to explore these villages and to see what they were really like.

Playa de la Calahonda

Nerja is a charming little town on the Costa del Sol where our hotel proves to be a true bargain. For only 30 € we have a spacious and clean room with shower and toilet en suite. From our back-facing balcony is a view of a vacant lot, crumbing stone fences, a few scattered palm trees, and tables and lounging chairs from a well-kept patio—as well as a view of hanging laundry. In the distance I can see a swath of Mediterranean blue that marks the sea. From here, we are only a five minute walk to the water along the narrow street of Calle Pintada.

We find a small bar below our hotel and grab a bite to eat before exploring. I choose to eat a bocadillo (a sandwich made on good Spanish crusty bread) de beicon y queso, and Jenelle and I share a small plate of churros with a thick molasses poured over.

We make the stroll to the sea-side and find ourselves on a large platform that has an expansive view of the ocean. This is known as the Balcony of Europe. Nerja is a tourist town and I notice that many of the people don gray hair and are Scandinavian or British in origin. Although it is certainly considered whitewashed, there are enough buildings of other colors that most would consider Nerja not as “pure” as many of the other whitewashed villages.

We are anxious to get close to the water but we didn't bring bathing suits as it is still March and a bit too cold. From the palm-lined plaza that is adjacent to the Balcony of Europe, we walk down a sandy set of steps and onto a beach of course sand. This is the Playa de la Calahonda. There are several hardy sunbathers down here, some in bikini's testing the lapping waves at their ankles, and others stretched out on towels, hoping to catch the sunlight before it disappears behind them.

Nerja has a handful of beaches, and some of them, such as the Playa de la Calahonda, are nestled in protected coves. I see a cat that has found her home on a pile of colorful rags, inside a blue-painted skiff. Since visiting southern Spain, I have noticed that there are cats everywhere.

We return to the streets and find a store where we buy a small selection of mantecados, a simple shortbread common in Andalusia consisting of flour, sugar, milk, nuts, and fat. These ones were made in a convent and wrapped individually.

We carry the sweets with us and find a beach that is more secluded than the first. To get to Playa del Carabeo, we descend another set of steep steps, this one surrounded by green sprawling plants and flowers. We find more abandoned skiffs on the sand and another stray cat. This time, we are the only people on the beach.

Overlooking the Mediterranean from a vista in Nerja.

After eating our sweets, we remove our shoes and take pictures together using my tiny tripod. By now, the sun is well behind us, and hues of pink stretch along the horizon of a cloudless sky. We walk along the beach, getting sand stuck between our toes, and watching the lights on the distant coastal hills slowly turn on. To the south, the rocky outcrop becomes a silhouetted profile with palm trees and, if you look closely, you can see the Balcony of Europe hanging over the sea.

We brush the sand from our feet with our socks and then replace our shoes. Back on top of the bluff, we find a small restaurant with an outdoor terrace to eat our food. I order an individual-sized seafood paella and Jenelle a plate of chicken croquettes. We share a few slices of bread with a nutty pesto sauce drizzled over. I conclude the paella is alright, but I have certainly tasted better. While eating, a man with an accordion walks around the tables to serenade us with music. This is certainly a touristy town.

Then, my eye catches a spectacular scene that unfolds nearby. Through one of the white arches that line the Plaza Balcón de Europa, the full moon rises above the horizon. It is very large and dark orange—almost bloody—in color. We watch it rise in awe and snap a few pictures while some of the local ladies are out for their nightly stroll.

While finishing our meal, the sound of clanking plates and the ping of silverware rise around us. I hear conversations in Castillian Spanish in the background, but so muffled that I can barely understand what is being said. Occasionally, the waiter comes to a table with a new plate of food and I hear someone say, gracias. Somewhere in the darkness, a moped revs up and hurries away along an obscure narrow street.

Church of El Salvador at Plaza Balcón de Europa in Nerja.

Then I hear the bells. Our terrace sits adjacent to El Salvador Church, and at once, the strong chime of the bell rings nine times. Then, without fanfare, the sound ends, and the conversations continue like nothing ever happened.

Before returning to our hotel for the night, we decide to take one last stroll to the end of the balcony. By now, the moon has lost its bloody hue and is higher above the horizon, casting a bright, wavy reflection onto the sea. As far as we can look to the southeast, there is nothing but foreboding darkness, except for where the moon's light has influence.

The beaches on either side of the balcony are lit up, where small nighttime waves roll into the rocks. Up here, a soft, brisk wind blows from the sea. Everything seems perfect as we walk along the palm-lined promenade, lit by iron-post street lamps, back to our hotel.

Maro

The following morning, we take the bus a few miles up the coast to the Caves of Nerja. Our visit there will be for another discussion. After visiting the caves, we walk for only five minutes and we are in the tiny village of Maro.

Maro is considered to be one of the “white villages” perched on the slopes of this Andalucian mountain range, the others being Frigliana, Torrox, and Competa. It sits on a hilltop with a grand view of the sea and surrounded by terraced slopes of olive and almond orchards.

There aren't many streets in Maro, and they all seem to be quiet, which is a relieving contrast to the bustling tourism of Nerja. It is lunch time and we hope to find a place to buy food before everything closes for mediodia, the three-hour gap when most Spaniards close shop and eat a large meal with their family at home, and then take a nap.

We find a small store on the bottom story of an apartment building with only a few shelves of canned goods and a couple walls of produce. An older lady is running the store by herself and is very polite to us when we come in. For less than 3 €, I buy enough food for both Jenelle and I.

We walk along one of Maro's streets, narrow enough for one lane of traffic. All the walls are painted white with different colors of trim around the doors and windows. We walk to the east side of town (in only a minute or two) and sit on a bench along a sidewalk that has a view of a pasture with two horses, and beyond that, the deep blue Mediterranean.

I pull my food from the bag, which consists of a can of calamares, a small loaf of bread, and a pear. As I didn't bring any utensils, I use my fingers to grab the calamares from the can and lift them to my mouth, then I chase them with a chunk of bread. When I am finished eating, I use the bread to mop up the sauce and oils left in the can, and wipe the can clean. The sauce has a taste of red peppers, tomatoes, and garlic.

Watchtowers such as this one are common on the Costa del Sol.

After lunch, we continue our circuit of the village on our way back to the bus stop. On the next hill over, I notice what looks like a watchtower on the crest of the hill. I believe this is a Moorish atalaya. I had read that the Moors placed these towers at regular intervals along the coast to be used for signaling purposes, or else as a defense. Squinting my eyes, it looks like there may be another watchtower even further in the distance—several miles away—but I'm not sure.

On our drive over from Granada, we passed an old Roman bridge. These are reminders that this land has been occupied by many different people for many centuries.

Just arrived in Frigiliana.

On day three, we make a day-trip to the pristine whitewashed village of Frigiliana. Before leaving Nerja, we stop at a bar on the corner and sit down to a breakfast of churros and chocolate espeso. The churros are thick, crisp on the outside, and light in the middle—in other words, perfect! We dip them into the thick hot chocolate, which is as thick as mud, but tastes a whole lot better.

When we board the bus for the ten minute ride to Frigiliana, we notice that almost everyone inside has gray hair and is dressed like a tourist. We are conveyed northward, around the flank of a small mountain. There, the view unfolds, and Frigiliana is draped beautifully in two distinct sections across the hillside.

Near the bus stop is a mechanical theater of sorts, a booth with a glass window and inside a marionette dressed like a Moor, with a parrot next to him on a tree limb. The Moor will speak to you if you drop a euro coin in the slot. The “Moro y su loro” then recounts some of the towns history, emphasizing the lasting influence of Moors, Jews, and Christians alike.

Frigiliana is beautiful. Everything is whitewashed with the exception of occasional blue trimming and colorful potted flowers. The streets wind like a snake, with stairs that twist upward to the next level of street.

Typical street in Frigiliana.

Decorative motifs adorn the main street, Calle Real; yet it is so narrow that anytime a car comes you've got to move inside a doorway to get out of the way. Walking along this street, one may encounter two old ladies walking arm in arm, an old man using his cane, a woman carrying groceries, or a sign advertizing “caña y aceitunas 1 €.”

The higher one gets, the more spectacular the view becomes. There are palm trees, orange and lemon trees, fig trees, and avocado trees. The sea is also visible from here.

Most of our time is spent wandering the narrow streets. We don't find many things “to do,” but are well satisfied just meandering through the labyrinth of walkways.

How would it be if this were your soccer stadium?!

Just off one of the upper streets, we come across an impressive sports complex. Nearly dangling over the gorge of the Higuerón River is a soccer court and a steep set of bleachers that over-look the gorge. A tall chain-link fence is fitted around the opposite side, preventing people from falling off the edge.

For my own selfish reasons, I decide to hike to the very top of the hill, well above town. Jenelle isn't so keen on the idea and decides to wait for me below. She is such a good sport.

The road leading upward isn't much of a road. Along the way there are a few small houses locked up behind fences. They say there are the remains of an old Moorish castle on top, but when I arrive, all I find are a few crumbling walls.

I do, however, find a couple of burros feeding on grass. After snapping a picture, I hurry down, feeling guilty for having left Jenelle by her lonesomes for so long.

We return to Nerja on the bus, and being our final evening in town, decide to check out a beach on the other side of town. Along the way, we stop at Supersol and buy a couple Cokes. Behind the store there is a park area with benches where we sit down to enjoy the drinks.

Then we notice that we are right next to a petanca court. This is the ultimate sign that you are mingling with the locals. Petanca, similar to the French game of boules, is usually played by old men wearing black beret's, who mumble and mutter their words in a way that makes them difficult to understand. It is played on a graveled lane, where after a small red ball is tossed, the players then attempt to toss a larger metal ball as close as they can to the red ball.

I attempt to watch in an inconspicuous manner, hoping not to draw no attention to myself. Six men play together, all dress in long-sleeved sweaters, some of them knit. One is wearing a beret and sunglasses, holding a gray rag in his left hand.

Soon, their game is over and our Cokes are empty.

We move toward the beach, but quickly come to a soccer court. Inside the chain-link fence, a couple of youth teams play a very competitive game of fútbol. The fence appears closed off so we watch the game from the outside.

Of course, soccer is the national sport in Spain. Kids learn to kick a ball far sooner than they learn to throw one (if that ever happens at all), and they dream of playing for Barça or Real Madrid.

To our surprise, either a coach or a parent sees us trying to spy on their game and immediately invites us in. They are eager and friendly, and point us to sit on the front row of the three-rowed bleachers.

These kids look like young Ronaldos and Puyols the way they maneuver the ball down the field. We watch the game until the very last second when the victor is decided. I notice the contrast from American youth soccer games. Instead of handing out Caprison and Little Debbies at the end, the Spaniards drink water and stretch.

The sky has turned darker and a gust of wind picks up. We hustle down the Calle el Chaparil toward the beach before the storm arrives.

When we get there, the sea is already a white torrent of water. Waves much bigger than the standard Mediterranean size are pounding the rocky shore and sending up geyser-sized spray. We walk along the promenade and are amazed at the violence of the storm. Although the water is still some distance below us, the break of the waves sends a mist to our face.

The street lamps turn on now and the sky turns a darker shade of gray. Soon, the rain clouds arrive and the promenade quickly becomes sopping wet. We find shelter from the showers inside a small gift shop where we begin to look for postcards and souvenirs to send the kids. ♠

A Walk Through the Streets of London

It is a cold and blustery morning in London. Squalls of snow blow through occasionally, although never leaving more than a skiff on the ground.

It is also Easter Sunday. I'm not sure what to expect, but I anticipate perhaps some of the pageantry such as one may see during Holy Week in Spain. Being Easter weekend, this massive city is packed with travelers like ourselves, seeking to get a taste of the British capital.

We begin at the Horse Guards Parade, a large parade ground just off of St. James Park, where a changing of the guard ceremony is taking place. Uniformed men are dressed in black tunics and gold helmets with red plumes. They march their horses and face their counterparts, who are dressed in red tunics. Mounted on black horses they face each other for about thirty minutes, then ride away. It is interesting, but not a whole lot to it (to my untrained eye), and certainly not what we expected.

A short walk leads us to Trafalgar Square, where the towering “Nelson's Column” is surrounded by four lions taking guard. We just happen to be here during a friendly “Free Tibet” protest.

In the middle of the square is pleasant fountain of water. In the basin of the fountain is a statue of several mermaids, a shark, and dolphin, with water shooting from their mouths. The square also shares the front steps to the National Gallery, a huge (free) museum of classical paintings, including Rembrandt, da Vinci, and Van Gogh.

We walk along The Mall, a street that leads from Trafalgar Square to Buckingham Palace. It is flanked on one side by St. James Park, a repository of trees and ponds. From here we can see what I suppose to be the tops of white buildings on Downing Street (where the Prime Minister lives), and also the tower of Big Ben.

When we arrive at Buckingham Palace, the first thing we notice is that the British Flag is raised. That means that the queen is in.

We watch the sentinel standing motionless in a blue-gray uniform next to one of the doors, his rifle held tight in his right arm, barrel facing up. He looks young, like a kid still in high school. On this blustery day, it is no surprise that his cap blows off. The sentinel holds motionless and another man walks up, scoops the cap from the ground, and replaces it to his head.

Walking away from Buckingham Palace now, and toward the House of Parliament, we stroll along Birdcage Walk. This road flanks the other side of St. Jame's Park and has a large canopy of oak trees.

Nearby is Westminster Abbey, the Gothic church where British royalty have been coronated since William the Conqueror in 1066. Princess Diana had her marriage and her funeral here.

I would like to go inside, but on the Easter Sunday, the line is out the door. We decide to move on.

Our path takes us around Parliament Square and to Great George Street where we find this view of Parliament with a traditional London cabbie.

In another five minutes, we are on Westminster Bridge, crossing the River Thames. Looking on the south side of the bridge, there is a great view of Big Ben and the House of Parliament . . .

. . . and looking on the north side, an awesome view of the London Eye.

Soon we are on the South Bank making a mandatory visit to London Bridge. There is nothing special about the bridge that is here now—it is just steel and concrete. But the bridges of the past, beginning in Roman days, must have been special enough that a nursery rhyme was written about one of them. The last London Bridge that was “falling down” was sold to an American in 1968. It was torn down, shipped overseas to Lake Havasu, Arizona, where it was pieced back together.

We are sightseeing on The Queen's Walk, a promenade on the south bank of the River Thames. From here, we look across the river and see “The City,” or the financial district of London.

The weather is soggy and very chilly. Our umbrellas have been put to good use. While on The Queens Walk, we stop for a picture with Tower Bridge in the background.

Just before crossing the Tower Bridge we catch our only glimpse of the Easter celebration in London. A man dressed in a bunny suit roams up and down the sidewalk with no particular purpose. This secular icon is disappointing to me, showing no semblance of Holy Week in Spain.

We cross Tower Bridge, just as we would cross any bridge. It is truly an elegant structure, with two Victorian Towers and light-blue suspension cables, but it is too cold to enjoy much of the detail. While crossing, we take a picture looking out over the Thames, toward the HMS Belfast, London's floating naval museum.

Now back on the North Bank, the Tower of London is our next goal. Our first challenge is to buy tickets. We wait in line for thirty minutes to purchase two tickets at £30 a piece. The lines are long and I notice that most of the tourists are from Spain. Sometimes it seems as if 70% of the language I hear on the street is Castillian Spanish. Now I know where Spain disappears to during Holy Week.

But Spaniards aren't the only ones here. London has people from everywhere in the world. While waiting outside the ticket line, we spot this group of men with turbans on their heads, eating lunch.

The Tower of London was built in 1078 by William the Conqueror. It served primarily as a Royal residence and has also housed the Crown Jewels.

Yeomen Warders, or Beefeaters as they are more commonly known, traditionally served as prison guards and custodians to the Crown Jewels. Now days, they act as tour-guides.

The tower is famous for its prison. An underground chamber displays common torture methods, including being hung from manacles, and stretched on the rack. There is also a large metal ring that wraps around the prisoner and painfully squeezes his body together.

Many prisoners within the tower etched their names as graffiti onto the walls. One was Thomas Steven[s] from 1540, imprisoned for highway robbery. This greatly catches my attention because in my own genealogy I have four generations of Thomas Stevens, and the furthest one I can trace back puts him in or near London in 1575. Still a little too late to be the Thomas Stevens from The Tower prison, but maybe it was a dad, or grandfather.

Next we venture into The City, which on Easter day is a deserted borough with a narrow two-lane road sandwiched between skyscrapers. I am looking for Cornhill. I don't know of any points of interest here, other than Dickens mentions it in his book, A Christmas Carol. Scrooge begrudgingly lets his store clerk go home for the holiday. “. . . the clerk, with the long ends of his white comforter dangling below his waist (for he boasted no greatcoat), went down a slide on Cornhill, at the end of a lane of boys, twenty times, in honor of its being Christmas Eve, and then ran home to Camden Town, as hard as he could pelt, to play at blindman's buff.”

We find Cornhill, which doesn't appear to be much of a hill—which may or may not be the Cornhill of Dicken's novel—and we walk along it for a short period until it comes to a merging intersection with Threadneedle Street. On a concrete pedestal is a statue of the Duke of Wellington riding his horse.

Not too far away is St. Paul's Cathedral. The front steps of the church was the setting for Mary Poppin's song, Feed the Birds, where the old lady is selling bags of crumbs, and birds are flying all around her.

We are able to step inside the cathedral and stay toward the back of the chapel, free of charge. The interior is well-lit, high, and symmetrical. The distinguishing feature, however, is the dome, which is the second largest cathedral dome in the world. They say that at the base of the dome, you can whisper and hear it from the other side.

We stop at a little pastry shop and eat a Cornish Pastry before getting on the tube and riding the red line to Oxford Circus. It is now getting dark as we emerge back above ground and find ourselves on Oxford Street. We discover a book store where I buy a good Jeffery Archer novel for the plane trip home. We buy the kids some souvenirs at a gift shop.

We are in the Soho area of London, and soon we encounter Gerrard Street, the gateway to Chinatown. We walk beneath the ornately decorated paifang, or Chinese gate. All the writing on the buildings is now in Chinese script and store-front windows display Asian goods and even ducks roasting on a spit. Stores are full of exotic produce and fish.

After Chinatown, it is just a small walk past Leicester Square and on to Coventry Street until we are at Piccadilly Circus. This popular iconic spot is the junction of seven different streets and home to a large neon sign that draws comparisons to Times Square in New York. It is now dark and Piccadilly Circus is a panorama of well-lit buildings and in the middle of them all a statue of Eros.

Inside one of the adjacent buildings we find a shopping mall of sorts, and there a quaint Moroccan-style restaurant. We sit down at a low table and order a late-evening meal. We are very tired and ready to call it the night.

After our meal, we descend the stairs to the underground, and take the tube to our hotel.