Andalucía

‘We are not like the rest of Andalucía’: the rugged charms of Almería, Spain’s desert city | Andalucia holidays

Perched high on the battlements of Almería’s 10th-century Alcazaba, looking over the mosaic of flat roofs tumbling down to the sea, I’m reminded of author Gerald Brenan’s travel classic South from Granada, and his impression upon arriving in Almería in 1920: “Certainly, it seemed that the sea was doubly Mediterranean here, and the city … contained within it echoes of distant civilisations.

A British adventurer, Hispanist and fringe member of the Bloomsbury group, Brenan had walked to Almería from where he was living near Granada, apparently to buy extra furniture in preparation for a visit from Virginia Woolf and friends. A century later, my journey here in a 30-year-old van from London is somewhat less notable, but as I marvel at the almost surreal incandescence of the Med, and the maze of ancient streets below me, I too am aware of a sensation of time travel.

Illustration: Graphics/Guardian Graphics

Brenan would have been a novelty visitor back then. And even today, unlike Málaga, just a couple of hours down the coast, Almería is little visited by international tourists, although the similarities between the two cities are striking. Both are ancient ports of beguiling tree-lined streets, a sparkling beach, a Moorish fort, and a 16th-century cathedral, yet Almería has so far remained under the radar, while Málaga is battling the effects of overtourism. Almería is reminiscent of the old Málaga, before its 1990s makeover, when its reputation as a sketchy port city was transformed by major investment and the overhaul of its waterfront into a soulless shopping and eating development.

Almería is 120 miles east along the coast, in Spain’s impoverished southeastern corner, in Europe’s only desert, and on the edge of the continent. Closer to Morocco than Madrid, it feels like an outpost. There is a tangible sense of being far away from the action – and the funding – but with a new high-speed rail service incoming from Madrid in 2027, and the development of the docks over the next few years to accommodate luxury cruise-ships, including green space, its status as the rough diamond of Andalucía may be about to change.

For now, Almería remains a living, working port, unpretentious in its charm, where ornate but gently crumbling townhouses sit alongside faded mid-century shopfronts, and the tang of diesel and fish in the salty air remind you that its waterfront is strictly for business. While Málaga’s port is now a top destination for superyacht spotting, the main purpose of Almería’s docks is as a ferry terminal for services to Algeria and Morocco. The border feels porous here, the nearby streets more like an extension of north Africa, with signs in Arabic advertising ferry tickets, stores offering Moroccan tea glasses and a handful of African fishers mending nets.

Casa Puga tapas bar. Photograph: Luis Dafos/Alamy

If you don’t mind the walk out of town, through a truck-park wasteland of sun-bleached concrete warehouses, you’ll be rewarded by a sumptuous seafood feast at bar 900 Millas, a genuine hideaway, wedged between loading bays, serving fresh catches from the adjacent fish market. Come at 4am on a weekday for breakfast with the fishers, or join the Almeríenses, dressed to the nines for Sunday lunch.

We stayed in the serene Hotel Catedral, a 19th-century palatial house in the centre of town on the pedestrian Plaza de la Catedral. Its rooftop bar offers close-up views of the cathedral and across to the partly restored Alcazaba, illuminated every night in its hilltop setting.

Wherever you wander in Almería, the Alcazaba looms above. Under the clean Mediterranean sunlight, its cool stone walls, cypress and palm trees, and gardens of flowing water channels provide a haven of rosemary-scented tranquillity. If you’ve ever been herded around Granada’s Alhambra in a strict time slot, a morning at Almería’s Alcazaba is the antidote. Entry is free to European citizens (including Britons), and you can explore at leisure, taking in the spectacular 360-degree views, from the arid mountains behind, to the glittering sea and the narrow streets of La Chanca, the city’s historic Arab quarter, below.

Historically home to Gypsies and fishers, La Chanca plays a significant role in Almería’s identity. A jumble of cave homes and tiny houses, tumbling down the hill to the docks, by turns rough and romantic, it served as a source of inspiration to the Movimiento Indaliano, an avant garde artistic and cultural collective that emerged here after the second world war. A permanent collection of the movement’s paintings, many featuring scenes and the people of La Chanca, is displayed at the Doña Pakyta art gallery in the city centre, providing a captivating insight into mid-century Almería.

‘If you’ve ever been herded around Granada’s Alhambra in a strict time slot, a morning at Almería’s Alcazaba is the antidote.’ Photograph: Marek Stepan/Alamy

Near the Alcazaba, the Moroccan cafe Teteria Almedina serves hot mint tea and chilled mint lemonade on a verdant terrace. In the old town, there are tapas bars at every turn, always packed. At Casa Puga, one of Almería’s oldest tapas bars, you’ll be lucky to squeeze through the door, let alone get a seat. Almería is one of Europe’s sunniest cities, where a four-hour siesta is adhered to like a religion (don’t try to get anything done in the afternoon), and the weekend is devoted entirely to socialising. As we wander from heaving plaza to heaving plaza, I’m envious of this fierce dedication to leisure. There is a pleasing sensation of the 20th-century’s analogue ways still holding sway.

Almería, the city and the province, is an outlier, not just geographically, but also spiritually, says José Antonio González Perez, of the local tourist office: “We are not like the rest of Andalucía. We have our own dialect, our own cuisine. But for a long time, we have been forgotten.”

This spirit of independence is tangible in the pride shown in Almería’s cultural heritage. The fascinating guitar museum celebrates the expert luthier Antonio de Torres Jurado, considered to be the father of the modern guitar, who was born and died in the city. The cinema museum and a walking trail reveal the locations of the many films that have been shot in the city and the surrounding desert, including Sergio Leone’s spaghetti westerns, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, and Lawrence of Arabia. There’s even a Russ Meyer-inspired bar, La Mala, tucked away down a side alley.

For a small city Almería’s nightlife and creative spirit are strong. The ever-busy Picasso bookshop is an institution, with a full diary of author events; Paseo79 sells affordable works by local artists; and local music collective Clasijazz has transformed hundreds of lives with its grassroots conservatoire, dedicated to training young musicians, running jam sessions, and putting on gigs.

Isleta del Moro in Cabo de Gata-Níjar natural park. Photograph: Luis Dafos/Getty Images

While Almería boasts its own 2-mile urban beach, it also makes a perfect base for exploring the wilder coast of this corner of Andalucía, and the Cabo de Gata-Níjar natural park. This 180 sq miles of wilderness is Europe’s only desert, hence its role in doubling for the American west in so many films. Its beaches are unspoiled by development, with just a scattering of tiny white villages nestled in coves, their swaying palm trees and bursts of red, pink and purple bougainvillaea mirroring the coast of north Africa across the water. Inland, the Sierra Alhamilla and the ancient Moorish village of Níjar in the foothills, known for its handicrafts including traditional glazed ceramics and jarapas (Andalucian woven rugs), are worth a visit too.

When Gerald Brenan arrived in Almería, his impression was ofa bucket of whitewash thrown down at the foot of a bare, greyish mountain. A small oasis … He only intended to buy furniture and head back, but while waiting for money to be wired, he became embroiled with a local rascal who led him astray, into the fleshpots and seafarers’ drinking dens. It clearly made an impression on him, as he continued to be drawn back to Almería over the years, describing it as a “poetic” city with a “lost”, “forgotten” atmosphere. He said it produced an excitement in him he had not felt in other Spanish cities. As someone who has been exploring Spain for many years, I know exactly what he means.

For more information visit turismodealmeria.org



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Terrain in Spain: gravel biking in the mountains of Andalucía | Andalucia holidays

When you get into a van with an Englishman, five Irishmen and a Scotsman, you know someone is going to end up looking silly. For the next few days, my aim is for it not to be me. The van is taking us from busy Málaga to remote Andalucía for four days of gravel biking, something I have never done and for which I am not sure I am cut out.

Most of my cycling experience is limited to a flat five-mile commute through London, or long-distance road touring holidays. I love sailing across smooth asphalt, and have always been slightly snobby about the rough stuff. Why bump along when you can glide?

My trepidation levels rise further when it becomes clear my companions are all veteran gravel and mountain bikers who have been training for this tour. They are mostly medical professionals – doctors, dentists and physiotherapists – which will be good news if something goes wrong, but also means they are all fitter than I am. I can see I have bitten off more than I can chew.

We are deposited on the northern edge of the Sierra Nevada mountain range, where our tour guides, Tim and Jenny, greet us with beers and booklets showing what’s in store. The headline figures: about 60km a day with a daunting 1,400 metres of climbing and descending.

The bike I’m borrowing is much lighter than my own, with tyres twice the width, and drop handlebars splayed out to the sides for extra control. The gearing goes much lower than I am used to, meaning even the steepest slopes should be – eventually – surmountable.

Downhill sections for gravel bike novices proved technically demanding. Photograph: Pure Mountains

The next morning we ride out north towards the Sierra de Baza national park on what my companions refer to as “champagne gravel” – essentially a firm, flat road with a scattering of small stones across it. We breeze across the arid terrain, and past the derelict film set that played the town of Flagstone in Once Upon a Time in the West. The dramatic empty landscape has drawn countless location scouts to the area, and has appeared in Sergio Leone’s Dollars trilogy, Dr Zhivago and a KLF music video.

As we begin to climb through almond groves and into the first proper mountains of the week, the group strings out, with Tim leading the keenest and fastest at the front, and Jenny on an ebike with the stragglers – including me – to make sure nobody gets lost. We regroup every time there’s an unsigned turn, and to refuel with muesli bars and dried fruit.

As we climb, Jenny and the others offer me advice before my first ever gravel descent: hands on the drops so they don’t get knocked off if I hit a bump; weight as far back as possible; heels angled down on my pedals and hips balanced just above the saddle; don’t ride too close to the person in front; use both brakes at the same time; don’t look at the views in case I miss a turn; remember to breathe. It turns out there are a lot of ways to lose control.

Although I am nobody’s idea of fast, I make it down in one piece, but by the time we reach our next hotel, I am sore in muscles I didn’t know I had.

It is notable how empty this part of Spain is; the only cars we saw were when we stopped for a coffee in Gor, one of the main villages visited in the notoriously brutal annual 800km Badlands gravel race. But unlike the teeming beach towns on the Costa del Sol that have seen anti-tourist protests, this quiet part of Andalucía is desperately trying to attract more people, and we feel very welcome. One sign reads: “¡Macrogranjas no, turismo sí!“ (“Megafarms no, tourism yes!”)

Day two is even quieter, with not a single car seen all day. This is just as well, as the day starts with a climb of 1,000 metres up El Chullo, the tallest peak in the Almería region. We wind along a single track path past piles of rocks and holes dug by rootling wild boar before stopping near the summit for a lunch of ham and cheese bocadillos. Today’s descent is easier, and I begin to relax, watching the other riders to follow their lines, although I still find myself forgetting to breathe because I am concentrating so hard.

Day three also begins with a 1,000-metre climb, with glorious views unfolding as we make our way round switchback after switchback and up past the treeline to a plateau. I am beginning to relax – I could do this every day. But what I haven’t banked on is the descent on bone-shuddering roads so bumpy they drew complaints from the professionals in the 2023 World Gravel Series. By the end of the day, my wrists ache. One of my doctor companions tells me it’s because I’m still too tense, but I don’t think I was the only one quietly relieved to hit the asphalt road back to the hotel.

Gravel bikes were ideal for the dirt tracks of the back country areas of Andalucía. Photograph: Pure Mountains

Our final day turns out to be the most dramatic. We ride along dry ramblas, or riverbeds, which provide a new challenge with jungle-like foliage hanging above us and muddy stretches that feel like riding through porridge.

The clouds, which have been menacing us all day, suddenly break and start to soak us. As we grind our way up through the mud, we suddenly see water come round a corner upstream. As the trickle turns into a gush and spreads across the riverbed, turning the porridge to soup, we keep riding. My wheels spin in the sand at points, but I have learned to keep pedalling through it and use my balance to stay upright, rather than to brake or turn.

Tim takes charge and marshals us, giving directions by radio and guiding people uphill until everyone is safely out of the way of the rising waters, and one soggy climb later we are greeted at our final hotel by Jenny with a van full of cava. As we drink, one of the Irish doctors jokes: “Was this what you signed up for?”

I look down at my drenched shoes, filthy bike and sore hands. My face is caked with mud. I have ended up looking silly, but it doesn’t matter. I can see that my snobbery about gravel biking was stupid – I have ridden routes a road bike could never have handled, and had adventures that would never have happened on asphalt. There were plenty of literal bumps in the road on the way to my gravel conversion, but it turns out they’re part of the appeal. Why glide along when the bumps are so fun?

The five-night Sierra Nevada gravel bike tour was provided by Pure Mountains, which provides self-guided tours from £870pp and guided tours from £1,090pp

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