A friend from Germany has been staying with me, and on Wednesday, along with my daughter and her husband, we drove up to Granada.
It’s just a couple of hours away, and it is without doubt Spain’s greatest city.
I’ve been many times over the years, but my son-in-law was born and raised there and knows all the oddest and most scenic spots – to say nothing of the best eateries and bars.
We started at a likely looking caff next to the Airbnb apartments we had reserved just off the city hall square. In many places in Granada, a drink comes with a tapa, but it will be something chosen by the house. We had three drinks (it’s thirsty work driving to Granada) and they came out with three plates – and if someone at the table doesn’t like baby octopus, then it’s all the more for me. 
In the evening, we wandered down towards the river to admire a couple of fountains (my son-in-law assured me that, as a child, he had fallen into both of them on several occasions). Then, crossing vaguely south over the Río Geníl, we arrived at an outdoor café called ‘La Cuchara de Carmela (¿Donde mejor que aquí?)’, which again decided what tapas we would be treated to. They also had a menu so we could add some more dishes to stand in for dinner.
We have all seen the sites over the years, gone to the flamenco shows in the Sacromonte and been approached by beggars outside the cathedral; indeed the first time I was in the Patio de los Leones in the Alhambra Palace, I was sixteen. I’ve even got the photo somewhere…
So, limited site-seeing this time, and maybe just a selfie or two.
There comes a time, after a few glasses of wine and a belly-full of food, when one must wander on to look for a jolly late-night joint for a schnapps or, um, a tequila!
We went to find an old mate called Sebastian, who used to run a place in Mojácar but has now moved to adventures new in the city. Seba, wearing a tatty-looking Mexican hat, greeted us with every sign of affection in his tiny bar, the Reina Linda. Margaritas and tacos ¡por favor!
The students are now returning to Granada, a university city, and the scruffy, cheaper places like this one do a good trade in the season. There’s nothing – I think you will agree – like writing your thesis or studying those heavy medical books armed with a pencil and a margarita.
The next morning, we dropped by to see the parents – mis consuegros – of my son in law. This time, in a residential and passingly more modern part of the city (there were plenty of blocks of apartments in the barrio with the arrows and yoke featured on the walls – that’s to say, built during the Franco years).
I’ll leave the parents in peace, save to note that the first bar, where we met the old dad, was the tiniest bar I have ever seen, crammed only with men, and with the shortest barman in the world.
Again, the tapas chosen by the kitchen were delicious.
And now, we are back in Mojácar, and my friend will soon be flying back to Germany for a few weeks before she returns.
Perhaps we shall do Córdoba then.