PARAKEETS squawk. I know, because last week I was sitting under a tree in a park in Malaga listening to their clatter.
Spanish February and Irish February are worlds apart. The sun shone through the palm trees and the huge rubber trees and the little lime green and blue birds flitted from tree to tree pulling off twig for their nests, cackling like a squad of very unruly human hens on a night out.
The people of Malaga did not think the weather hot – the puffa jacket is big over there – but they had not come from an Irish winter, complete with dark misery, two drips in the gutter and the prospect of paying up for a new roof.
The thing about a roof is you need it but you don’t get a kick out of it... except in the wallet. It’s not like a Jacuzzi or a sofa.
Malaga was just a few nights from home with a close friend - but oh, the joy of finding light. We stared up at the sun like little Meerkats. It was like someone had switched on a 500 watt bulb.
Simple pleasures like eating lunch outside close to an old church as sunlight slanted the walls and the world strolled by. We meandered alleyways and marvelled at just how many tattoo shops you can fit into a square mile – like the tanning parlours here.
And while you’re at it, how about a nice motorcycle to go with the body art? In Malaga the motorbike is king.
On day one, we walked to the marina and the lighthouse, learned the history of the general and his soldiers who were executed on the beach. We had a look at the statue of the man who became prime minister of Spain, Canovas del Castillo. One historian described him as a “squint-eyed schoolmaster from Malaga who looked like an unmade bed.” He was right.
We also noted that Spanish ‘green men’ road crossing signs are not the same as Irish ones. For a start, they count down the seconds that you have to get across the road, which does tend to put a sprint into your walk.
In Spain, the little green man strides with you as you cross – he speeds up as the crossing time clicks down to zero.
We admired the statue of the second Marques de Larios who brought so much trade to the city. He stands in stone with the statue of a man with a pickaxe on one side and the statue of a half-naked woman offering him a baby on the other.
Maybe she’s saying: “Here’s one you made earlier”.
And we found our way to the Antigua Casa de Guardia – the old police jail – and thought that we wouldn’t mind a spell locked up in there. It’s the oldest bar in Malaga and serves sherry straight from the barrel – you can choose from all sorts of barrels and you stand at a big wooden counter where thousands have stood since the 1840s.
The barman pours the sherry from the tap with a great sense of style and plonks it on the counter. Then he writes what you owe in chalk on the counter in front of you and moves on.
We, too eventually, moved on to the market where there be dragon fruit and black tomatoes and ugly oranges that look like they’ve a bad case of acne. And If the prawns didn’t look up at you accusingly with their small black beady eyes, I might have tried one.
The next day we climbed high to the top of the hill above the city and came down through the gardens of the dark gate, marvelling at the first purple and pink blooms, the birds of paradise flowers opening their wings.
But what I shall always remember was turning the corner just beside the little church at 10pm one night, only to come upon a group of young men standing around a huge wooden table, about shoulder high.
Strange, we thought. And then the penny dropped.
It’s Lent and these were the penitentes – the men who, wearing capes and hoods – would carry a holy statue on the big wooden table through the streets in holy week.
They were making preparations for six weeks’ time. It was a moment of mystery.
We had stumbled upon this peculiarly Spanish tradition. Long after the parakeets’ squawks are forgotten, we shall hold that memory in our hearts.
