A special place, this. A tiny haven just off the beaten track on the Costa del Sol, little known and all the better for that. Where is it? Don’t be silly, I’m not telling you that. Do you think I want it spoilt by you lot cluttering up the place?
On the coastal strip, the surrounding hillsides are thickly planted with a burgeoning crop of nearly identical villas. Each with surrounding strip of well-watered garden. Pale oleander and deep red hibiscus mingle with Bougainvillea of every conceivable hue while long-necked palm trees tower over the vibrant undergrowth. Ornate wrought iron cages defend windows and doors and vigilant security guards scrutinise each and every visitor.
On the steeper slopes, brand new communities re-create ancient hill villages, each house tight to its neighbour, pushing upwards in a classical pyramid of interlinked dwellings, the uniform white paint so bright it hurts the eyes.
Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery, but the developers have got it badly wrong. Everything is too perfect, too clean, and far too symmetrical. What sets the old villages apart is their very lack of order, the higgledy-piggledy narrow streets fit only for donkeys and mules, the eccentric nature of the architecture, the sense of permanence that only the passage of innumerable centuries can create.
The old coastal town is delightful. Old narrow streets packed with restaurants and no tourist tat in sight. A spur of promenade defiantly fronting the sea, a lone speedboat, far out from shore, a brilliant white speck against the deep blue of the ocean, its rich creamy wake like an ostrich feather adorning some expensive creation atop the head of a society lady in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot.
