"It's not every day you have a ticket for the Alhambra."

So Gill remarked as we rolled out of bed in the pre-dawn half light. Her remark was factually impeccable, but failed to factor-in that I had just woken from a truly terrifying nightmare involving an evil undertaker who specialised in burying people alive, and the complexities of being contracted to the maniac as the sole provider of catering services to the not quite bereaved. Very odd. Anyway, being somewhat confused, my beloved's breezy comment struck me as inadvertently hilarious and I sniggered my way through our usual breakfast of Mercadona muesli and Greek yogurt.

By the time we had caught an early bus into the city my equilibrium was somewhat restored, and since I had not, as yet, shared any of he foregoing with Gill, I was hopeful that she had ascribed my unusually jocund mood to high spirits in anticipation of a day of stellar sightseeing.

For that's how things turned out. First of all we were incredibly lucky with the weather, and all of last week's forecast watching had ensured that we had managed to squeeze in our trip between a period of torrential rain and the threatened snow showers towards the end of the week. Although it was sunny it was cold. A farmacia temperature gauge was registering just 6 degrees as we walked across the city towards the long climb to the Alhambra.

Even the walk to the site is very beautiful, up a long, steep avenue through ancient woods. Planning a visit to the Alhambra takes some forethought as tickets are timed. Ours gave us access to the site from *8.30. until 2.00, and a fixed entrance time to the main group of palaces at 11.30. It was actually tennish. by the time we got to the turnstiles.

The Generalife

This Summer Palace is more a group of pavilions set in terraced water gardens than some great edifice. It has grace and charm rather than monumentality. Although it is based around one of the oldest buildings, dating from the first years of the 14th century, the area has been remodelled frequently. Some of the gardens date from last century, and recent decades have seen the development of an adjacent outdoor auditorium.

The Nasrid Palaces

A deep ravine separates  the Generalife from the main complex of palaces. After crossing the ancient bridge spanning the chasm, it's a brisk 15 minute walk to reach the more famous Nasrid palaces. On the way you pass a large Mannerist church that was built on the site of the original mosque. Charles Vth flattened part of the Moorish complex and built a late Renaissance hulk in its place. Its grandiosely rusticated facade contrasts starkly with the grace and elegance of the older Islamic structures and is a reminder that there was nothing subtle about the Counter Reformation. Flattening the occasional Islamic treasure pales into insignificance when compared to the zealous eradication of Aztec and Inca civilisations by the Spanish state during the 16th century.

As you approach the main complex you get a great view of the Sierra Nevada, mainland Spain's highest mountain range, which at this time of year is covered in snow. We queued with everyone else to get our ticket zapped. What followed exceeded my expectation. It's impossible not to be entranced by the interlinked complex of buildings which make up the heart of the Alhambra. It is quite simply a pinnacle of human ingenuity, a spiritual tour-de-force - what Yeats called 'a monument of unageing intellect'.

The Alcazaba

By the time we exited the Nasrid Palaces, World Heritage fatigue had kicked-in. There was one more large pile of historically significant  masonry waiting to be seen. Given that we had already clocked-up Almeria's Alcabaza less than a week ago we were tempted to say, just how many Moorish fortresses do we need to appreciate?  I'm glad we persevered. The views of the city and surrounding mountains from the  top of the central tower were stunning. A literal 'high note' on which to end our visit.

After almost four hours of extreme tourism we were both completely knackered and hobbled painfully down the steep, cobbled road towards the exit, dreading the long descent to the city. A miracle! Deliverance was at hand in the form of a shuttle mini- bus which, for a small sum, would whisk us towards lunch. What we were unprepared for was the speed at which we now plummeted towards our desired. cortados. At least Gill had a seat. A polite young woman had offered her one, this came as a bit of a shock as neither of us have quite become 'seniors' in our heads. It was a nice gesture all the same. As a standing passenger I had a grandstand view of the bus driver's Grand-Prix aspirations. The old streets below the Alhambra are a warren of medieval alleyways, designed for plodding donkeys not hurtling minibuses.

I think the driver must have had a taste for X-Box one person shooters, for the view through the windscreen resembled the effect you get when staring over your kid's shoulder as they negotiate the fast moving, doom-laden narrative of the latest gaming fad. An innocent shopper flattened himself, and his baguette, against the wall as the bus lurched round a 90 degree corner with inches to spare. Even the normally fearless Vespa riders slowed almost to a standstill as the Alhambra Special driven with skill and suicidal optimism by Señora Croft careered towards them. On reaching a small square the driver screeched to a sudden halt, wound down her window, and struck up a short conversation with a friend about her new baby. "He's a whopper!" She exclaimed, which, I suppose is marginally better than being a cheeseburger.

In a surprisingly short time we were installed in a Plaza Nuevo cafe ordering tapas. Like yesterday, a street musician was playing a mix of flamenco and bossa nova; the warm afternoon sun reflected off the pale stone facade of the Real Chancelleria, I thought to myself, cherish these moments, life is not always this good. 

There was a lull in the music. "I had a strange dream last night," I confided to Gill...

"Really?" she replied somewhat vaguely.

I sensed her mind was more focused on the tapas - pork meatballs and Spanish omlette - than on my anecdote, but I continued nonetheless, "We were employed as caterers by an evil undertaker who specialised in burying people alive..."

Gill sought clarification. "What kind of food were we serving ...sandwiches... a finger buffet?"

This flummoxed me somewhat. "You know, I really can't recall," I had to admit.

There was a momentary silence. The guitarist gave way to a saxophonist whose coup de grace was a particularly cheesy rendition of Henry Mancini's Theme from the Pink Panther.

Time to go, we agreed. So we wandered back to the bus stop down the Carrera del Virgen, which for some reason featured a dozen or so posters of Gary Cooper and all his leading ladies from 1932 to 1957.

As Gill said, "It's not every day you have a ticket for the Alhambra." That in itself
would have made today extraordinary even before you factored-in Hammer Horror dreams, F1 bus drivers, Pink Panther inspired saxophonists and Gary Cooper's gorgeous co-stars.,