Scribbler in Seville

Just before lockdown, back in February when the first few cases of Covid-19 had been identified here in Seville but life was still normal, we took a weekend trip down to the Axarquía region of Malaga province. Little did we know that this would be the last time we’d be able to leave our home province of Seville for nearly three months – the cuarantena started a few weeks later.

Now that tourism in Andalucia has resumed, rural excursions and small groups will be favoured by some travellers over urban destinations, which is just the bag of the outfit which invited us to the Axarquía – Oletrips, set up by Cipri and Maria in 2018.

This region inland from the Costa del Sol, in eastern Malaga province, is nothing like as well known as the nearby coastline. Hilltop villages, connected by snake-like windy roads; precipitous terraces planted with olive and almond trees, and grapevines, producing sun-dried raisins are and sweet wine; and hectares of avocado and mango.

Hailing from Velez-Malaga, the Axarquía’s main town, the dynamic young entrepreneurs each speak at least two foreign languages (English, German, French, Italian), have studied and lived abroad. They are passionate about sharing their region with visitors, bringing them closer to its culture, history and gastronomy of the region by meeting Axarquia natives and learning about their traditional skills and crafts.

I’m convinced immediately by Maria’s first email inviting my family try out their company’s services: her flawless English, her enthusiasm and efficiency. In subsequent correspondence, her promptness in replying, and flexibility in dealing with our ever-changing arrangements, give me even more confidence.

We already know the Axarquía a little, having stayed at the very comfortable and beautifully situated La Viñuela hotel, which overlooks the stunning emerald-green reservoir of the same name, and visited friends in Vélez-Málaga, a small, charming town with an Arabic fortress and a lively arts scene. This time we were going to stay one night with our friends, and the other at the hotel.

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The Flamenco

We head off on the Friday afternoon of a bank holiday, firstly to Veléz (check out my friend’s excellent website about the town) for a night of flamenco. In a basement peña (members´club) on an unseasonably warm night, we watch Carmen Camacho give a breath-taking, bravura performance. Unusually, photographs are allowed, and during two sets, she holds our rapt attention and I take hundreds of snaps. It’s unusual to see a dancer perform solo for such as sustained length of time; she barely leaves the stage. Her physical effort is intense, with rapid, intricate footwork.

The Peña Flamenco Niño de Velez usually hosts performances organised by Flamenco Abierto (brainchild of Ruben Portillo, who also plays the guitar), several times a week for much of the year. Performers are of a high calibre – we had seen the singer perform in a top-notch recently-opened tablao in Seville, and Israel Fernandez, one of flamenco’s hottest stars currently, also sang there recently. Sadly, the COVID-19 pandemic has had a catastrophic effect on flamenco clubs, with most closed for the foreseeable future.

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The Cooking Experience

After a sensibly early night, my daughter Lola and I set off the next morning for a cooking workshop – the “Andalucian and Spanish cooking experience”. We meet Cipri and Maria, and the other people in the group, an American couple and a German lady, and make our way to Velez-Malaga’s mercado de abastos (food market). There, we hook up with Cipri’s mother, Isabel – for what cooking class in Andalucia is complete without a matriarch to direct proceedings?

Isabel moves around the stalls, surveying the huge, deep-red tomatoes with a professional eye. She settles on the chosen specimens, telling her son “they’re more expensive, but worth it”, as we admire the fat, juicy muscat raisins (which have their own Denominación de Origen) and jars of thick, dark miel de caña (cane honey, like molasses), made in a 16th-century converted convent in nearby Frigiliana. We spot boxes of chirimoya (custard apples), goat’s cheese, and the famous avocadoes and mangoes, of which more later.

We then adjourn to the nearby café owned by Cipri’s sister, Maria, and her Greek husband. Yes, it’s a family affair, as you’d expect here in Andalucia; Maria’s baby is also in attendance. With a bright, Mediterranean blue and white décor, the café kitchen is a cheery place for the cooking experience.

We start off with salmorejo, that classic Andalucian summer dish. If you’ve never tried it, think gazpacho but thicker and smoother. Garnished with chopped jamón ibérico (I’ll pass) and boiled egg, it’s a meal in itself. This is straightforward Andalucian fare, as eaten by real people.

As Cipri explains, this is an ideal dish for visitors to learn in a cooking class, as they can find all the ingredients once they’re back home, wherever they live: as well as tomatoes, you need slightly stale bread, extra virgin olive oil, vinegar, garlic and salt. Obviously here in Spain’s vegetable garden, everything is produced locally – the verdial variety olive oil is from Malaga, and the tomatoes from Almeria.

We make several batches, tasting each to check for garlic, salt and olive oil, and noting that each has a slightly different colour – pinker, or more orange, according to the proportion of tomatoes; and consistency. The salmorejo is put in the fridge to chill.

Next it’s time for the most Spanish dish you can imagine – tortilla española. Peeling, slicing, dicing the spuds and onions, all by hand this time; Lola whisks the eggs. Plenty of EVOO to fry the veg, and then the tortilla is cooked in a big, deep pan. We all sit down to eat together, joined by Cipri’s Dad, for an authentically Spanish Saturday family lunch. The terracotta-red salmorejo is thick and tangy; the tortilla dense and filling; not soft in the middle like some.

As the other clients speak good Spanish, we’re able to have a proper conversation. Sharing the meal with our hosts is probably as enjoyable as the cooking itself. Experiences like this, hanging out with a local family, would be impossible without a guide like Cipri, and are what make a holiday so memorable.

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The Goat-herding

On the way to pick up my son from the hotel for our next activity, Cipri tells us about the Axarquía. Its name comes from the Arabic, as-Sarqiyya, meaning the eastern part – I’m a sucker for etymology. Like most of Andalucia, the area was occupied by Arabs for the best part of five centuries. We drive past endless fields of avocado trees with their huge glossy green leaves. Cipri explains that they need plenty of sunshine and a lot of water; the latter is always a challenge in rain-starved Andalucia, and more so with each year that passes.

Since avocadoes fetch a good price, and have enjoyed a boom over the last 10 years, they are very popular with farmers, but irrigation is becoming a problem. Mangoes are also widely grown in the lower-altitude part of the region, but are a lesser-value crop than avocadoes. (Ole Trips offer routes themed around many of these local foods.)

With my teenage son now aboard, we drive up into the mountains, past Cipri’s family parcela (plot of land), to the goatshed. Here we see tiny kids, a few days old, their mothers’ udders swollen and heavy with milk. My children are smitten – baby goats come a close second to kittens for adorable skittishness. The goats are milked twice a day, with a yield of 3 litres each, mostly used to make cheese.

Then we clamber up the mountainside to meet Antonio, the goatherd. He has been working with these animals for 30 years, following his father into the outdoor work at age 14. He takes the goats out every afternoon for around five hours.

We scramble up steep, windswept slopes dotted with olive and almond trees. I ask what the short, stumpy, woody plants are – muscat grape vines, Maria tells me. They love the dry climate and chalky soil, and are picked by hand – vehicles would struggle with these gradients.

The goats graze on whatever they can find – everything from grass to thorny bushes; we see an aromatic array of wild rosemary, fennel and thyme, as well as asparagus and zahareña (ironwort, or shepherd’s tea), which is used as an infusion to treat ulcers.

They’re endlessly entertaining to watch, this herd of goats, as we walk along with them on the mountain top. They wrestle, jump, pose for photos; my children name their favourite, friendliest ones – Nina, Naomi and Photogenic; Naomi had been bottle-fed by Antonio, and is very affectionate. The strongest specimens wear bells, he tells us, and tend to lead the flock; the gentle tinkling sound, a delight in itself, keeps the goats calm. Cipri tells me that Málaga is the Spanish province with the most goats.

As well as the four-legged entertainment, we have a backdrop of stunning views down to the lake, and north to Periana, famous for its olive oil. Cipri also points out Comares, to the west. The air is zingy-fresh and clear, bracing, delicious. My children are enchanted – I haven’t seen them this blissfully happy, and fully engrossed in something that isn’t electronic, in months.

By now it’s getting chilly, so we savour our scenic goat’s cheese tasting overlooking the lake, but are glad to get back to the hotel and have a simple dinner (sliders with chips). The others are eating out in a traditional restaurant, but we’re all wiped out and need an early night.

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The Secret Village, Hilltop Town… and donkeys

Our morning starts off with a surprise stop, crossing a (currently) dry riverbed to a tiny village whose single, cobbled street leads us upwards between bright-white walls covered with profusion of kaleidoscopic floral exuberance – wisteria, jasmine, deep purple bouganvillea, candy-pink oleander, pink and yellow freesias, orange trumpet vine.

Small ceramic tiles arranged along the wall, a brick-covered well, a sleeping cat. Without cars or shops, this hidden hamlet feels lost in time. Built in the 19th century, La Zorilla was repeatedly flooded by the swollen waters of the river Cuevas, and so was abandoned; later a community of hippies moved in.

Walking around, savouring the morning silence, plumes of wood smoke, and guarded greetings from the residents, my children decide we should definitely move here, or at least have a holiday home. It’s the same conversation we have every time we’re charmed by such a delightful spot in Andalucia, the Algarve or further afield.

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Reluctantly we leave, heading up the hill to Comares, the main destination for today. Dating from the 8th century, this was a famous fortress in Moorish times, which offered inland protection from coastal pirates.

The name Comares comes from the Arabic Qumaris or Comarix, meaning “castle on high”: its strategic position, 700 metres above sea level, offers remarkable views for many kilometres in every direction: the Sierra Tejada mountain range behind, dotted villages, rows upon rows of olive and almond trees, and as far away as the sea – 30km. Known as the Balcony of the Axarquía, the village is also visible from miles around thanks to its lofty spot.

It’s time for a coffee stop now, so we head to the Hotel Molino de los Abuelos on the main plaza – here, another of the region’s produce is celebrated. In a huge salon, with stone floor and lofty ceiling, the building’s previous life as an olive oil mill is on full display – mechanical hydraulic presses with their carpachos (round esparto mats – often used as decoration these days), pulleys and storage tanks.

Back outside, walking through the narrow, shaded lanes of Comares, we spot ceramic footprints on the floor, marking the Ruta Comares Musulman (Comares Muslim Route), as well as tiled panels and signs relating the village’s history. Brick arches stretching between the houses have been there for centuries.

As is often the case, present-day traditions have their roots in the distant past – after the town was reconquered by the Catholic Kings in 1487, the 30 remaining Arab families were baptised to convert them to Christianity. The church bells are still rung 30 times after each Sunday mass and on holidays to commemorate this event.

Comares is also famous for one Omar Bin Hafsun, a ninth-century Arabic warrior. His life story reads like a long and rambling adventure novel: murder, banditry, religious conversions (his Christian name was Samuel; he built a Mozarab church in Bobastro), alliances and, most significantly, leader of rebels against the Caliphate of Cordoba. At one point, he owned land and castles from Jaén to Seville; that is to say, across all of Andalucia from east to west.

Reaching the castle, you catch one of those quintessentially Andalucian sights – blinding white square houses with orange tiled rooves, jumbled and tumbled together down an incline. Little remains of the original fortification, but crennellated walls show you more or less where it was. Turning around 180 degrees, it’s the landscape that takes your breath away, stretching far into the distance into the distancer – endless folds of hills, like rumpled creases of fabric, with little clusters of dwellings and ribbons of roads.

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Then we walk down a path that descends below the castle to a road, where we meet another animal-keeping man named Antonio – this time, the arriero (muleteer). Together, as a group, we walk in a stately procession around the bottom of the town walls, on the peaceful road bordered with wildflowers and looking down across the endless landscape.

My children lead Bandolera and Antonio (the donkeys), both around 10 years old, as Antonio (the arriero) tells us that his females, including Bandolera, produce milk which is used to make soap. He needs to ordeñar (milk) for 2-3 hours to get just one litre. Everyone enjoys ambling along the quiet country road with these docile beasts – they are not for riding on – soaking up the views. (You are allowed to bring your own dog on these animal experiences if you want – sadly ours, a bouncy setter and a grumpy terrier, are not well-behaved enough.)

Our little gang skirts back around the village, climbing a long slope to reach the car, and my family bids a fond farewell to our hosts and travel companions. The trip has been superbly organised and well-paced, with loads of variety to keep everyone happy. Cipri is a top-notch guide and an engaging story-teller, reading everyone’s moods perfectly. As a guide myself, I know what to look for.

Looking back on this weekend full of food, history and animals, a few months later, I’m pushed to think of any activities which better lend themselves to social distancing than herding goats and walking donkeys. Travel has to change due to the COVD-19 epidemic, at least in the short term, with new health and safety procedures. But those best-placed to adapt are agile companies that work at a boutique level – Oletrips is operating with a maximum of four people per group (unless a household or family). If you’re in Malaga province and want to explore the more rural parts, head over to the Axarquia.