Just a stone’s throw from the madness of Málaga, Anthony Jeffries discovers a peaceful oasis for plants and animals.

I’m standing next to a big brute of a wild boar, but my thoughts are on what lies in front of me. I can see the whole of Málaga, the Mediterranean Sea beyond and the bowl of mountains which surrounds the city.

It’s a breathtaking sight and it makes me gasp, though my neighbour doesn’t stir. Hardly surprising – he’s made of bronze and sits atop a plinth at the Mirador del Cochino, way above the city and the Costa del Sol.

Actually, the first thing I notice when I arrive at this mirador is not the view, but the porker. Normally, statues commemorate famous locals or great generals or even heads of state. But in the absence of too many humans, I guess an animal takes pride of place and this area – the Montes de Málaga natural park – is very definitely boar country. The park is wonderful: isolated mountaintop hamlets, plunging valleys, wooded mountainsides, trickling streams, even the odd flower-filled meadows.

But what – for me – marks out the Montes de Málaga reserve as different is its proximity to the provincial capital. Standing on that hilltop at the park’s northern end, you can’t quite believe just how close you are to the heaving mass of humanity that is the city. If my porcine pal could somehow hop down from his plinth and set off through the pine woods and scrub, he’d take no time at all to travel the five or six miles to the edge of town. It would take me longer and further, of course, the road down from the mountains twisting and turning and – in one place – looping back on itself twice in spectacular fashion.

David Whitley heads to the birthplace of modern America, and comes face to face with the world’s most famous explorer.
 
An empty, crunched-up Coke can lies on the grass, perhaps the most fitting piece of litter ever seen. The conquest has gone full circle.

This small park may seem rather unexceptional, but more than 500 years ago it was the scene of something that would change the world as we know it. It’s hard to believe, but the silted-up riverbed that is now being planted over is the birthplace of modern America.

These days, Palos De La Frontera is just a small town in south-west Spain. Nothing much goes on here, and ever since the river dried up, it’s not really had a purpose. In 1492, though, it was the most exciting place in the world to be. Most of the men in the village were about to head to sea, and not all of them would return.

Following lengthy negotiations, a certain Genoese sailor got permission from the Spanish monarchs to take three ships and go exploring from this one-time port. His name? Christopher Columbus.
You start to get inklings of this by standing outside the church that overlooks the park. The Iglesia de San Jorge was where the crew – two-thirds of whom came from Palos – took communion prior to sailing, and it is decorated with plaques. All say, to all intents and purposes, ‘Columbus Woz ‘Ere’.
It’s all very pretty, but you don’t really get a good grasp of its historic importance until you start walking up the road to La Rabida. On each side of the road, spaced out almost as road markers, are tile paintings. Each one is saying thanks to the town, and each one is from somewhere different. They’re all from different regions of Spain, which makes it come across at first as a Government initiative to ensure that everybody gets on. However, further down, things get a little more exotic. There are tributes from El Salvador, Bolivia, Peru, Columbia, Mexico, The United States… The whole of the Americas is nodding to those who found it.

Saints, legends and a strange sweet concoction – Avila is a city full of surprises.

In Central Spain, not too far from Madrid, lies a medieval walled city, with history galore, and tales of miracles and mysticism. Its name is Avila, and it sits 1,117m above sea level, in the autonomous region of Castilla y León, making it the highest capital city in Spain. It is built on the summit of a rocky hill and is surrounded by the brown, arid, treeless land that makes up many parts of central Spain. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to see

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On our journey there, taking one of the many cercania trains that run daily from Madrid, we spent our time watching the amazing birds, including a flock of vultures, flying about the Sierra de Gredos mountains that enclose the city.

Now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the history of Avila stretches back to 700BC and the Vettons, peoples of Celtic origins who found the area, with its defensive mountains and nearby river, a perfect place to make camp. But its true origins are said to stretch back even further than that. According to mythology, the site was founded by Alcideo, the son of Hercules and Abyla, who named the city after his mother. However, it was the arrival of the Romans in 3BC which saw the city take on a more strategic role, with the building of the first city wall turning Avila into an important defensive enclave and developing the basis of the current city layout.

The walls that greet visitors now date from the beginning of the 12th century and tradition has it that their construction, on the remains of the old Roman wall, was supervised by Raimundo de Baroña, the son-in-law of Alfonso VI. Nine centuries on, his work is still impressive. Las Murallas, as they are known, stretch 2.5km around the old city, have 82 towers and nine puertas (gates) as well as three smaller openings. Perfectly preserved, they contain many elements of the Mudejar style so dominant in the Arabic-influenced architecture of the time.

Those searching for a summer celebration without the bull head beyond Pamplona, to the beautiful countryside of Navarra.

Fiesta and Navarra – two words synonymous with San Fermin, that week of booze and bravado which brings Pamplona to the attention of the wider world every July.
Personally, I’m no fan of spending 20 minutes waiting to be served in a heaving bar, and certainly not of having to bed down in a park because the city’s hotels are full. More particularly, I can’t get excited about trying to beat my personal best time for the mile while being pursued by more than a ton of mean and sweaty beef on the hoof threatening to launch me, backside first, into orbit.
So let the Hemingway fans, the young bucks and the plain stupid have their fun. I wanted to see a different Navarra – and different fiestas.
The province may be just 100 miles from north to south and half that from east to west but it is home to an astonishing diversity of landscapes. This much I knew as I picked up my hire car at Noáin airport one September morning and headed towards the Pyrenees and the French border.

The rural nature of what locals still call the Kingdom of Navarra is immediately apparent. More than half of the 600,000 population lives in or around Pamplona, which leaves an awful lot of unspoilt countryside.

Even when the weather turns stormy there is plenty to recommend Fisterra, on the Galician coast, to the first-time visitor looking for a very different taste of Spain.

Standing on the windy headland on an unseasonably stormy midsummer day, it is easy to understand why the Romans christened this place finis terrae, or the end of the Earth. Known these days by the Galician name Fisterra, though possibly more familiar to the reader by its Castilian name Finisterre, this rocky peninsula on the northwest coast of Spain is one of the most westerly points of the European mainland. Indeed until the advent of modern mapping it was not realised that Portugal’s Cabo da Roca is actually fractionally further west.
The town of Fisterra nestles on the leeward side of the southerly running promontory, which terminates just below an imposing lighthouse, the beam of which has been the saviour to countless mariners passing along this capricious coast over the last couple of centuries. In the past, the town’s natural harbour was safe haven to a large Atlantic fishing fleet, and even today it is still a working port with a bustling fish market and a good trade in crab and lobster, though fish quotas have seen many of the larger boats moving off to foreign waters in search of bigger catches.

Vincent McCord wants to reward his employees with a team-building activity break in Spain. Can we find him an adventure to suit?

Dear Travel Clinic,

My small company has just had a very successful year, and I’d like to reward my employees with a fun holiday in Spain. It seems like a great opportunity for some team-building, so I was thinking that an activity break might be a good choice. Could you recommend any holidays designed for groups of adults? There would be about twelve of us travelling, all in reasonably good health.

Vincent McCord

Discover the life of the ‘Flamenco Beatle’ on a unique tourist trail in deepest Andalucía.

It’s a warm spring day in the town of San Fernando, Cádiz, and flowers are being laid at a striking mausoleum of grey marble in a tidy cemetery. These floral tributes have been appearing for the last 15 years, ever since flamenco’s most creative artist finally lost his battle against cancer and drugs.  

By midday tourists from all over the world will have arrived to admire his pantheon, which lies at the heart of the Ruta de Camarón. They visit this town, whose history was shaped by the Spanish fleet, to learn about the life of a gypsy whose iconic image is as recognisable as the Galácticos of Real Madrid.

Visitors are invited to see the bed where Camarón slept as a child before leaving this island to conquer Madrid, Paris and New York with his incredible voice. They can also admire the restored family forge where the 12-year-old singer pounded iron, and even inspect a collection of his shoes. But the trail won’t show you the cell where Camarón would spend a disturbed weekend after threatening a policeman with a knife.

The area around Valencia gives the visitor a rare glimpse into the world of the Borgia popes and hilltop castles

Valencia requires no introduction. Like an overconfident elder son, the city rules over Spain’s east coast with a swagger, casting a supercilious gaze over its younger rivals. Recently host to the 32nd America’s Cup, and home to Europe’s largest cultural and leisure centre – the City of the Arts and Sciences – it is an easy equal to Barcelona. And like Barcelona, it presides over a country within a country; Valencian is a language in its own right and marks a fierce independence of spirit and attitude.

La Costera, known as the Orange Blossom Coast, is only 60 km south-west of Valencia and forms part of a verdant plain that lies between Sierra de Enguera to the west, Benicassim to the north and del Almirante (needs checking) to the south. It is watered by the Rio d’Albaida (from a Moorish word meaning ‘white’) – and true to its name, the area glows with a pale, luminous beauty.

The island of Ibiza has an abundance of tranquil corners for the visitor to explore – if you know where to look. Bob Morrison shares his secret route through the hidden valleys of the Central Sierras.

Eivissa, or Ibiza if you prefer, is a magical island. This summer it will be twenty years since my first visit and I still love the place – even though it has been developed quite a bit since then and in the nineties gained a reputation as a destination for party animals. Just head away from Sant Antoni de Portmany (San Antonio) towards the north of the island and you will find tranquillity in abundance.