It’s a curious place. Dont get me wrong; I actually quite like it (and my hotel – the Rock Hotel – is wonderful), but it is slightly strange. I’m sure that I’m not the first person to make such a comment. It’s British but not quite British. It’s not Spanish but there’s a bit of it that is. Under the grey sky of today it could easily have passed for a town on the south coast of England but with… Hang on! What’s that orange tree doing there full of fruit? Why are people speaking Spanish as well as English? Why are there Andalucian shutters on some of the windows? It’s almost as if England had been successfully invaded by Spain in about 1955 but this plucky place was fighting (successfully) to maintain its Britishness. Pints are indeed served in bars and on one menu I spotted (brace yourself) garlic bread. I’ve even noticed a couple of groups of teenagers hanging around street corners looking bored; a sure sign that it must belong to Britain…


Categories: Cycling

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