A mishap in Malaga

The thing is, this way of travelling courts the unexpected. Trip Advisor, Airb&b, Hotels.com, they all proffer a quality assured experience. Once you step outside of the guidebook, then you've just got to accept that the place you end up in may never grace the column inches of Guardian Travel.

Right now we are parked-up in Autocaravanas Malaga's secure  compound on the outskirts of the city. We're here partly to see if its secure parking facility would be a possible long term storage option for Maisy next Christmas - 50 euros a month, less than 4 kilometres from Malaga airport-  we might be interested. Otherwise, the place is the only secured area near Malaga that offers overnight parking for motorhomes. Situated picturesquely in a scrap of wasteland between two motorways, directly beneath the airport flight path, adjacent to a Lidl distribution centre, next to gaunt, rusting corrugated iron industrial ruins daubed with graffiti... I'm not selling it am I?  But I do like well executed graffiti, and the number 19 bus to Malaga city centre runs right past the place (well, if your dare take the 300 metre walk down a death trap of a slip road).

Parked up in a theme park dedicated to industrial decline..

with picturesqely positioned abandoned buildings....

graced with exciting graffiti

Yay! Captain America...

maybe the artist had just forgotten to take his happy pills that day...

 t

the grandeur of the abandoned

Malaga's undiscovered 'art space!

Anyway, back to the mishap. I have already explained the Luis Hamilton tendencies of Spanish bus drivers. We hopped on to the bus to town; as the no.19 accelerated down the straight someone opened a parked car right in front of it; the bus driver slammed on the brakes and slewed the bus to the right, deftly avoiding the hazard. All the passengers, apart from one, lurched forwards suddenly. The exception was the grey haired Englishman perched on one of the rear seats which, on Spanish buses, are raised above the rest on 9" high platform. The unwary tourist was catapulted off this stately dias and dumped in an unseemly heap at the feet of a row of surprised elderly Spanish women.

They all looked down at me with an expression of horror struck concern. Amazed that all of my limbs and sundry bits and pieces seemed to be fully functional, and, although I felt slightly bruised down my left side, I appeared to be otherwise uninjured. Well, apart from the fact I was bleeding slightly, but persistently from the lower lip. I guess I must have assumed a slightly opened mouthed, gormless expression as I sailed through the air, and bit my lip as I crash landed. No real harm done apart from the embarrassment of being the the point of conversation for the remainder of the trip. Having no Spanish whatsoever, I can only presume it went something like -

"The grey-haired English git in the back must be tougher than he looks."

"Maybe, but he's still bleeding from the mouth, that's the third tissue his wife has handed him."

"Well he looks Ok. But you never know with these things, perhaps he'll peg it later through delayed shock."

Much to their collective disappointment, I hopped off the bus at Plaza de la Marina, a sprightly figure limping down the palm fringed boulevard, dabbing his lip occasionally as he sauntered along.

I woke this morning to discover that Madonna suffered the same fate at the Brits. Maybe 25th February should be adopted as Interational Falling Over Day.