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Peter Edgerton / www.peteredgerton.com
Malaga
Friday, 13 December 2024, 14:06
In the olden days, when the weather was merely something you mentioned in order to be polite to the local greengrocer and not the harbinger ... of a dystopian future that only recycled Monster Munch packets can save us from, it used to get really cold in Malaga. I mean really, really teeth-chatteringly cold.
The conventional wisdom was that, although people weren't forced to scrape the early morning ice off their car windscreens with a Tesco Club Card like in the UK, it was the damp from the sea in the air that made your bones feel like they'd been injected with vanilla ice cream.
I had a beanie hat in those days and a massive scarf that would have turned Tom Baker's Doctor Who green around the gills with envy but they were about as useful against the Malaga cold as an Alice band might have been for Bobby Charlton.
The only viable solution to the jaw-aching temperatures was that most magical of potions, 'caldito de pintarroja', which is a kind of fish soup loaded with spices that makes the top of your head prickle so much that you're forced to whip off the beanie pretty sharpish.
It also radiates a steady flow of heat throughout the whole of your hitherto beleaguered body. After just a few sips you're glowing like a firefly, tearing the scarf from your neck and scouting the area for the nearest plunge pool.
Unfortunately, caldito de pintarroja is increasingly hard to come by in the centre of Malaga these days as most restaurants prefer to churn out endless gallons of sangria for gullible tourists. Having said that, it's true that it doesn't really get cold enough to warrant the miracle of the magical potion these days - well, except for last Monday, that is.
Last Monday was very, very cold indeed. An icy wind whipped through town causing me both considerable discomfort and a yearning nostalgia at the same time, which was a bit disconcerting. Alas, I no longer own a beanie hat or, indeed, a scarf but I do know where you can still get a fine cup of caldito.
I hot-footed it over to the joint in question, tipped the wink to the barman, received my booty and proceeded to walk the deserted streets sipping eagerly from the paper cup cradled gratefully in my hands.
The top of my head soon began to prickle and, for a fleeting moment, all was right with the world.
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