Iberian return, day one: Málaga

One week of teaching later, I'm on my way home from Málaga. The long way round. Sort of.

After breakfast by the pool and a final lesson that I hope successfully recapped most of what we've done this week (sit next to pool, graze), I made my way to Fuengirola then took a very nicely air-conditioned Cercanías train to Málaga for my last day before my trip home.

I chose a pod hostel a five-minute walk (if that) from the station, primarily because I thought it looked cool on the booking site of choice. It exceeded my expectations. I'd even go so far as to say that this is the best hostel I've stayed in since my pod-fetish kicked off, and although it was slightly more expensive than I'd usually pay – and some other hostels around – I thought it merited exploration.

The pods are laid out along the walls of a nicely air-conditioned room. Each pod is tall enough to stand in, comes with a comfy bed (I also got a second bonus pillow), a TV, desk, stool, and shelves. My pod was on the ground floor, which afforded it a lockable metal sliding door rather than a curtain, thereby doing away with the need for a locker. I'm not sure if others had this or how other pods locked, but it was perfect.

After a little snooze, I ventured out to explore, becoming waylaid at the first bar I walked past, tucked under a cooling promenade of trees and promising a supply of lovely cold lovely things. Although my Spanish is all but non-existent, I was able to communicate my desire for two halves of Estrella Galicia and somehow even procured some unexpected bonus olives. This set me back a whole five euros. Bargain.

Older people came down from their flats with camping chairs, set them up on the pavement, and made the most of the lovely evening. I like to think they came to watch me consuming beer, but I fear they hadn't. All in all, people were friendly. The streets were busy, not buzzing, but busy. Occasionally some beach-dazed youths who'd lost half their clothes at the beach wandered past clutching a towel or some flip-flops.

Beered-up, I walked from the station towards the old town, across what might have once been a river, now a sort-of playground with the occasional rat. My attempts at locating street art were not particularly fruitful, a combination, I think, of GPS being capricious and the maps being out of date, but I did get to take in an original mural by Shepard Fairey, probably my cultural highlight of the month.

In Málaga proper it was the last day of The Málaga Feria, which is apparently why not much of Málaga had any clothes on. I had missed most of it, having been in Marbella for a week, but had a good stroll up and down the flowery bits before heading up to the Alcazaba where the crowds were more subdued.

The Feria de Málaga is the city's biggest annual festival, a week-long explosion of music, dancing, food, drink, and general revelry held every August which commemorates the Catholic Monarchs taking Málaga in 1487. By day, the city centre fills with flamenco dresses, horse parades, and every British tourist's favourite, daytime drinking. By night, the party moves to the outskirts where there's a fairground and if it can be fried, the Spanish will sell it to you. Probably with some alioli.

Bear in mind that by this point of the day my only sustenance had been fruit, coffee, beer, and olives, and so it was not the "quick stroll" I'd thought it was going to be and what started as a march up to the top of the hill turned into more of a relentless trudge. Nonetheless, the views from the top were rewarding and by the time I'd marched down again, I was ready for falafelly goodness at a place called Tacos de Paris. Tasty, but let down by sloppy presentation and lack of structural integrity.

Still. For 8€ it did what I needed of it, and it came with lovely harissa.