Iberian return, day two: Málaga - Badajoz

As I "accidentally" have a few days remaining on my Interrail pass, I decided that I should make the most of it. That is why I'm taking a slightly indirect route back to Donostia (probably) over the next week before I get back to "work" in September.

I chose Badajoz as today's destination not because I thought that it would be pretty or for any reasons of culture, but because it's where I'm getting my onward train from tomorrow. Some people suggested that Mérida might be the better cultural pick, but Badajoz removes one variable from the "what can possibly go wrong?" equation, and I think that's wise. There are only three trains a day between Mérida and Badajoz, and fewer onward connections.

My train from Málaga was at a civilised 09:32. I was up and showered and out of my lovely little pod in plenty of time, and decided to spend my time before my train in the station rather than my new favourite tree-shaded café because when I went through it yesterday it looked as if it contained everything I needed for a smooth morning. Breakfast was chaotic. I eschewed the chains to find a lovely clattery café space hidden under some escalators where the coffee was served in real cups at tables. There was a long queue.

"Espresso y croissant, por favor." I did my bestest Spanish while trying not to affect a culturally insensitive comedy lisp.

"¿Qué?"

Oh. She's related to the woman who resented every atom of my being while selling me a coffee in Madrid back in March. I tried again.

"Do you thpeak English?" she had the audacity to ask me. I nodded. "In English?" she persisted.

"Ethpretho and a croithant?" I ventured. In English, with a questioning tone. I tried not to look like I knew she was taking the piss. She might've noticed one of my eyes twitch as I struggled to stifle a roll.

This was not in the ethpretho and croithant queue. If I wanted espresso and a croissant – I felt it best not to explain that this was more a question of need than want given the quality of the exchange so far – I'd have to go to another queue, even though I was standing next to a sign that said "entrance" and had been for about five minutes.

I aborted.

One Dunkin' Donut "coffee" and a sad imitation of a croissant later, I was through the airport-style security seemingly everywhere on Spain's rail network and looking at the pointy end of an Avlo, Spain's low-cost high-speed train. This was alarming, as I was fairly sure I'd not booked myself a seat on a cattle train, but in the end coach three did have nice big leathery seats and peace and quiet, and I had a whole dirty window to myself, through which, in my caffeine-deprived fever, I could see a Spain that looked as blurry as I felt.

In Puertollano, having not had the foresight previously to stock up on actual food, I power-marched out of the station and into a little bar hoping that the sandwiches on display could be used as props in my quest to secure sustenance for the onward journey to Badajoz. I was wrong, of course, and I'm still not sure where I was going wrong with "sándwich queso, por favor" – extra emphasis on the por favor to add a vain hope of getting what I wanted – but the visible presence of sandwiches and cheese within gesturing distance didn't seem to advance my cause.

When I did, eventually, get a cheese sandwich some many fraught minutes later, it was a ham and cheese sandwich, despite my having specified cheese. Only cheese. No ham. I don't even know the word for ham, so I know I didn't ask for it. I tried explaining this but the man behind the counter was far too busy soliciting English-speakers among the successful patrons in the pot-luck sandwich lottery. I had to salute him for his determined resistance to work on the Lord's day. Google Translate made my apologies so I could leave and find a supermarket in the remaining few minutes before my train.

The man in the supermarket demonstrated a better understanding of why he was standing in a supermarket on a Sunday morning, and after a brief game-upping moment where he confirmed I wanted my water with bubbles, I left five euros lighter triumphantly clutching an especial vegetal sandwich, a tortilla sandwich, a packet of crisp-things of undetermined flavour, a can of Sprite, and a bottle of water – con gas. I made my way back to the station, found platform seven and, in the absence of any structure designed to provide shelter, waited in the shade of the bins for the midday train from Alcazar de San Juan to Badajoz to arrive.

Spanish trains require reservations, even the little dinky ones, so I'd booked seat 51 in coach one, thinking it might be a good one. It was, in as much as it was a seat with a single window, but it was not pointing in the direction of travel. The Aymara people, I once learned, have a unique orientation of time: they conceive of the past as being in front of them, and the future behind. It’s like standing at the back of a train, watching the landscape you’ve already passed, with your back to what’s coming; you move into the future backwards.

A beautiful metaphor, but not much use for train-seat photography.

The scenery between Puertollano and Badajoz is stunning, if not somewhat samey.

The colours are glorious yellows and orange, punctuated with vast swathes of green olive and other trees, belying the temperatures outside which were verging on the forties the further we progressed. I'd perhaps expected something more barren, a landscape of brown and tired, something that could explain to me why the special vegetable in my sándwich especial vegetal turned out to be ham.

I slurped on some Sprite and then moved around the empty coach, taking photographs and trying not to annoy the other five passengers.

Mérida is famous for its Roman ruins, not really my cup of tea, having been dragged round bits of buildings as a child, and the Acueducto de los Milagros – or what's left of it – is quite visible from the train, so there's no need to get off. It is one of three built at Mérida, and is thought to have been constructed during the 1st century AD. It is dubbed the "Aqueduct of the Miracles".

There was talk of my stopping in Mérida overnight rather than Badajoz, as a student from Madrid seemed to think it better. I only actually decided on Badajoz while on the train from Málaga and messaged the hotel on WhatsApp to see if they had a reservation, which they did. To celebrate my travel efficiency, I enjoyed the surprise bonus ham in my tortilla sandwich.

Arrived in Badajoz, I cheated and took a number six bus to near my hotel because it was far too hot for walking. Once checked into my cheap-but-wonderful hotel in the old town, I decided it was also far too hot for tourism. Badajoz was deserted anyway, save for a few stragglers who'd arrived by train, by my reasoning because the locals were having a collective power-nap. I joined them in a prolonged siesta until about 7pm, at which point I declared it safe to emerge and go out exploring.

My first port of call was the cathedral, because I do love a church. There was a mass in progress, and signs were out saying that visits of the cathedral are not allowed while there's a mass is in progress. I had a tentative tiptoe around as an act of rebellion, but unable to hide my guilty face quickly attracted the attentions of a nun who started gliding towards me, perhaps with stern words which I wouldn't understand anyway. I escaped, doing my best innocent face, and decided the cathedral best visited on a less holy day.

Instead, I set off to the Alcazaba, an ancient citadel perched above the city since the 12th century. As ever, I was briefly distracted by the allure of a cold beer – and bonus olives once more – and after a brief exchange with a barman who seemed to comprehend even less Spanish than I, ended up at a table being engulfed in clouds of weedy while I enjoyed my refreshing drink. One of my neighbours tried to persuade me I'd like to have my photo taken wearing a crown of thorns – really? – but that was a proposition I somehow mustered the energy to resist.

I smiled and graciased.

A border city since forever, Badajoz has been traded, besieged, and generally battered by everyone from the Moors to the French. Walking around, it turns out the result is a joyously colourful place.

Although Street Art Cities only suggests a few pieces around the place, there is street art everywhere. And it's nice, not just graffiti. I got distracted by some of that for a while, before making it up to the colourful Plaza Alta, a brightly-coloured bustling square surrounded by red, black, and white casas coloradas – red-painted porticoed buildings. Once the heart of the old Islamic medina, it has hosted everything from public markets to bullfights and executions, but now mostly offers good light for Instagram, annoyingly loud gelatoed-up children running around like they own the place while the grown-ups explore the many places to eat.

From there it's a short walk up to the citadel proper. Built during the Almohad Caliphate, its thick stone walls stretch around the hillside, offering views across the Guadiana and into Portugal, should you feel like checking up on the neighbours. It's undergoing significant restoration efforts and the walls are a great place to while away an hour or two.

I whiled away an hour or so being more interested in ruins than I thought possible. The highlight for me was the Espantaperros Tower, an octagonal tower built in 1169 from which there are some lovely views of the city. I stayed there for a bit before heading back down to find something to eat.

At Carmen, I was victorious in ordering food and had a Spanish salad followed by a lemon mousse, washed down with a glass of red wine adulterated in a way that would make a Frenchman weep. All this for 15€.

Bargain.