When someone
offers the opinion that a particular Spanish town on the South coast (Costa del
Sol) is “unspoilt”, there must always be implied the qualification
“relatively”. The next question is, “relative to what?”. Large swathes of that
coastline are hideous.
It is often said
that, taking Malaga ( or more precisely,
Malaga airport) as a reference point, westwards is high rise packaged holiday
land ( with a few uber-rich snooty enclaves) ; and eastwards is progressively
less and less an over-developed horror show.
All up to a point.
Travelling east for the 50 or 60 kilometers to Nerja, the best view is that of
the mountain ranges looming close inland. On the coastal side of the motorway,
up to its very edge, is dense urban or holiday development. The nearer the
motorway, the more speculative the building, as witnessed by the obvious
emptiness of completed properties, the abandoned half-built ones and the huge, knock-down
price, “For Sale” signs aimed at gullible drivers.
On the northern
side, towards the mountains, there is less, but still too much,
speculative building ( often on steep
hills with a fine view down to the carriageway as well as the sea). But the main thing is that wherever the
terrain is flat or less sloping, towns or extensions of coastal towns have
filled it, all doubtless with less expensive retirement or holiday
accommodation.
Turning to the immediate
coastal areas themselves: the ancient
towns and villages (ancient it the sense of continuity rather than
architecture) may have pleasant, well-planted cores, but hard on the shore are
endless, admittedly fairly low-rise, blocks of very undistinguished apartments,
snug against supermarkets and unappealing restaurants. The old coastal road
(whose darker history is mentioned later) is an endless Main Street going past these
indentikit buildings: kilometers of speed bumps preventing elderly ex-pats from
becoming road-kill.
Just occasionally
the builders have been defeated by the proximity of sea to road, and the
traveller is relieved to look out of the window without seeing a building.
Back on the motorway, there is very little
visual relief, apart from the mountains. As Nerja comes into view, there is
again not much to uplift the heart. Either side of the motorway, to the sea and
up towards the mountains are dense white buildings of the Costa vernacular. Not
a promising introduction.
At the edge of Nerja,
once off the motorway, things get better gradually ( or quickly, if your spirits soar when you pass an Aldi
supermarket). The main road in goes over
a causeway across an intriguing dry river valley, full of industrial ruins and
unpleasing billboards. But it becomes clear that the main road is one of the
important boundaries in Nerja. The old town lies to the seaward side, as well
as much that is not old. To the north is the unprepossessing development first
seen from the motorway, large parts of which are uninhabited for much of the
year.
Going back to the
beginning: the old town is “old” “relatively”. There is an area near the
Church, which stands near the sea, stretching about half a kilometer eastward
and perhaps a bit less northward, which is a grid of streets of older but
unelaborate buildings (before tourism Nerja was a fishing town). Many original
buildings were destroyed by a nineteenth century earthquake.
West of the Church
there is modern development- a pointlessly huge square, hotels, apartments and
blocks of social housing. The buildings are halted by a river flowing down from
the mountains to the sea: the Rio Chillar, usually either dry, or shallow and sluggish, but
sometimes a torrent after heavy storms.
Beyond the river
for a kilometer or so the coastal land is surprisingly undeveloped, given over
to quasi-legal allotments and cabins, and some quasi- legal and gerry-built
bars and restaurants, often serving good quality food.
Eastwards the old
town comes to an end at the edge of a steep valley, at the bottom of which lies
Nerja’s best beach, the Burriana, lined with restaurants but still with good
expanses of sand. A developed beach, but neatly so.
However, the
valley behind the beach is in general an eyesore, whose soreness increase the
further one clambers up the steep roads.
It’s as if a
gigantic child had tipped the contents of a huge playbox of white buildings, of
various shapes and sizes, down the valley. Villas and apartments jostle together, nearly all built in styles of pointless elaboration, which are
to be found in even the most desolate of Spanish holiday developments. Through
this mash-mash (again mostly empty for much of the year) snake roads which are
crumbling, every now and then revealing rubbish-strewn wastelands used as
informal carparks.
So, Nerja is a
“relatively” unspoilt town.
Wherein lies its
charm? (Well, apart from the perennial sun..) Firstly, the old town stands hard
on cliffs, which although not tall are suitably rugged, with tumbled rockfall
and nice mini-beaches. The pride is the Balcon de Europa, a fat finger of cliff jutting out to sea. This was once the
site of a fort, but is now an elegant, paved promenade space, with hotels and
restaurants on one side. From its tip are great views along the eastward cliffs
and bays.
The Balcon’s name
was allegedly bestowed by the then King of Spain, visiting Nerja after the
earthquake. His quirky life-size statue stands “leaning” against a railing.
Apart from the
good number of decent bars and restaurants, major charms lie a short distance
away.
There are
much-hyped Caves of Nerja. “Hyped” is usually a pejorative description. But the
Caves merit a great deal of hype. There is a somewhat deflating start along
winding passages and stairs leading to a tamed underground space where concerts
are held. But a little further on, vast and awesome caverns open out, receding
into fantastic stalagmite- embroidered depths. There is some low strategic
lighting and a circular walkway between floor and roof, although both these latter are best described as great
frozen billows of stone.
The Caves, or more
accurately sections of one vast space, unfold as one walks round. Fans of Lord of the Rings will find the Caves
easily match the CGI-generated Mines of Moria.
The astonishing
fact is that what one visits represents a small portion the complete system.
Other chambers have been explored; but access still needs specialist caving
equipment. The thinking is that system extends unkown kilometers towards
Granada.
So, go see.
Another virtue of
Nerja is the fact that a kilometer or two inland there start to rise the steep
hilly ranges of the Sierra Aljamira. Turning away from the sea, high beyond the
toytown rabble of holiday developments, one sees the looming and sometimes forbidding
peaks of low mountains stretching east and west. It all looks fairly bleak; but
this is only true in parts. There is superb valley and hill walking to be
found.
The unofficial
gateway to, and jewel of, the coastal slopes is the village of Frigiliana. This
is, at its core, a well-preserved and precipitous Moorish village, with modern
extensions to the south.
Perhaps one needs
to explain “Moorish”. This doesn’t only refer to an architectural style (cf
“Gothic”) but to the fact that for many centuries in the Middle Ages, until the
fifteenth century, most of Spain was under the rule of various Arabic/Islamic
regimes- Caliphates indeed. These regimes were responsible for Southern Spain’s
greatest medieval buildings- for example in Granada and Cordoba.
They were also, on
the whole, relatively tolerant regimes, allowing non-islamic practices and
cultures to continue or even flourish. However, they squabbled and fought
amongst themselves- and were subject to
sustained and ultimately successful campaigns by Christian princes to
drive them out.
By the end of the
fifteenth century the Christian Kings (and Queens) of Spain were overall
triumphant, Granada being the last Moorish stronghold to fall. Islam fell into
disfavour; Moors who remained in Spain were forced to convert. These notionally
ex-Islamic Moors were called “Moriscos”.
During the 16th
Century the Moriscos were subject to increasingly harsh treatment, being
suspected (doubtless in most cases quite rightly ) of not truly embracing
Catholicism. Fear of re-invasion from North Africa fed the mistrust of the
Christian authorities and led to harsher repression. Eventually the Moriscos
rose up in rebellion.
The revolt was put
down with savagery. One of the Morisco
towns where a last stand was made was Frigiliana, where a once-fortified high
rock rises above the lanes. On one side of the rock are the sheer cliffs of the
canyon in which the Rio Higueron flows. It is reported that many Moriscos, men
women and children, threw themselves over the cliff rather than face slaughter
or enslavement.
Today there is
much not remaining of the fortress, apart from a low ruined wall precariously
perched at the cliff edge, providing absolutely no safety. However, a couple of
very bad tempered donkeys often roam the hilltop. They will attempt to crowd
and butt the unwary sightseer off the edge. Perhaps they are reincarnations of
despairing rebels.
Frigiliana has
decided to commemorate its long-ago battle, and a series of ceramic plaques
telling the story of the rebellion and siege are scattered around the village.
Of more recent
history there is , however, little overt trace. This is not for want of
memorable or tragic events.
At the outbreak of
the Spanish Civil War in the Summer of 1936, the provinces of Malaga and
Granada were largely controlled by administrations loyal to the Republican
government. This was true in Frigiliana.
Granada fell to an
insurrection by the military garrison in the early days of the war. This coup
was followed by a sustained orgy of killing of leftists and liberals, including
the poet Garcia Lorca. But Malaga and other towns, including Frigiliana, were
still in Republican hands at the beginning of 1937.
In February 1937
the Francoist army, supported by a large force of Italian soldiers, launched a
ferocious assault which quickly overwhelmed Malaga’s poorly-armed defenders.
The ususal blood-letting followed.
Several thousand
inhabitants, including women and children, fled along the coast road (mentioned
above), hoping to get to Republican territory around Almeria.
The refugees were
bombed and machined-gunned from the air and shelled from the sea. Thousands
died.
At Torre del Mar,
there is an informal remembrance of this infamous massacre every 7th
February.
Fall of Nerja
On 9th
February 1937, Italian troops, leading the Nationalist forces approaching from
Malaga, entered Nerja, their motorcycle outriders roaring down the Calle
Pintada. Thus ended the local manifestation of the Republic, for Nerja had been
a Republican-held town until that day.
It seems that
Nerja was one of countless towns and villages across Spain where similar events
unfolded from the outset of the Nationalist uprising in July 1936. There was a
leftwing backlash against people perceived to be Nationalists or their
sympathisers- especially clerics,
landowners and professionals (See Hemingway's For Whom The Bell Tolls, mentioned in my later blog about Ronda in June 2016). In Nerja, a truck-load of anarchist militiamen
from Malaga came over to help matters along – several alleged right-wingers,
including the local priest (whose church had been ransacked), were taken to the
Rio Seco to the west of Playazo beach, and shot.
The communist
mayor of Nerja, elected in August 1936, tried to calm these inflamed and
murderous tendencies. But sporadic assassinations continued.
When Malaga fell
in early February, the retreating
Republican troops temporarily established their headquarters in Nerja (for a
matter of days). This brought air attacks – machine guns and bombs, including
at the junction of Calles Pintada and Carabeo.
Republican forces
and much of local population, turned refugees, were soon in full flight along
the coast road (N 340) towards Almeria. This exodus, which started from Malaga
and gathered people as it went, is, as already noted, notorious for the pitiless and
indiscriminate bombing, machine-gunning and naval shelling of the wretched
columns.
One objective of
the Nationalists was the destruction of bridges along the road, to slow the
Republican retreat. One such bridge was (and still is) the one in the barranco
gorge between Nerja and Maro, a couple of kilometers or so to the east. The
task of destroying it was given to Nationalist naval forces. They couldn’t see
the bridge, as it is built well down below the lip of the gorge.
What they could
see was the high, proud and elaborate profile of the Aquila Aqueduct further up
the gorge. This C19 construction, built in classical style (and still
aqueducting today) the Nationalist warships mistook for the road bridge, and
their shells were aimed accordingly. Thus the fleeing Republicans and refugees
were granted precious time to cross the actual bridge. (The nationalists realised
their mistake at last when water was observed to be pouring out of the damaged
aqueduct.)
Taken by the
Nationalists, Nerja endured the usual bloody purges of leftists and liberals. The
cinema was the place for summary trials; the cemetery the place for summary and
quasi-judicial executions.
The aforementioned
communist mayor of Nerja somehow escaped death. Two lengthy spells of
imprisonment sandwiched time spent as a guerrilla in the Sierra. He outlived
Franco.
(This narrative is
taken from a Spanish book, “100 Anos de Nerja
en Fotos” by a local historian,
Pablo Rojo Platero. What he writes rings true and is consistent with the
overall history of the Civil War in the Malaga area.)
The fact that
Nerja was in Republican control until February 1937 unfortunately casts doubt on Laurie Lee’s account of the War as witnessed by him in Almunecar, just up the
coast to the east of Nerja ( the final pages of“As I walked Out One Midsummer’s Morning”). There can have been no
clashes with “Nationalist militias” occupying Nerja in the autumn of 1936.
There can have been no mistaken bombardment of Almunecar by Republican warships
trying to strike Nerja.)
Fall of Frigiliana and guerrilla war
After the fall of Nerja, the darkness came to Frigiliana as well. 8 members of the village council
were taken to Torrox, the neighbouring coastal town to Nerja, and shot. Frigiliana
entered a near 40 year period of
Francoist rule.
But that is not
the whole story. Young Republicans and their sympathisers ( it did not take
much in terms of political beliefs to be suspect under the new order) took to
the hills- the forbidding sierras. (Similar events happened all over Spain.)
In the region of
Frigiliana, many of the villagers became outlaws, or self-styled “maquis”,
claiming kinship with the French Resistance of WW2. These bands waged a
guerilla war of more or less low level attrition against the Francoist regime
for many years into the 1950s- hoping initially that the victorious
anti-fascist Allies of WW2 would aid them in Franco’s overthrow after
1945. But the Cold War put paid to that.
Francoist Spain was deemed an asset too strategic to meddle with when the
Soviets became the main potential adversary.
There is a village
a few kilometers into the mountains from Frigiliana- Acebuchal. It was
abandoned on order of the authorities in the 1950s because it was used by the
outlaws; or, on an alternative account, because it was subject to mutual
reprisals by the outlaws and the Guardia Civil.
It has recently
been revived. It is a decent, meal-deserving walk from Frigiliana, mostly
downhill- on the way back. A cluster of small buildings, including a good
restaurant at its centre- but now with new villas spilling down to its river,
eclipsing the sense of its remoteness and exposure during Spain’s conflict.
The story of
Frigiliana’s Civil War and the aftermath is well told in a book of oral
history- Between Two Fires, from
which I have got my facts. It is a book by a Briton, David Baird. The troubling
implication is that, were it not for his researches, the silence that has
mainly enveloped Spain on the subject of the Civil War would have buried
Frigiliana’s recent past. (Nerja, too, must have more personal tales to tell; but I have yet
to discover them.)
For Northern
Europeans, accustomed to our monuments and remembrance of 20th
century wars, this is somewhat incomprehensible. Nowhere in the Nerja region
are there overt public commemorations of the Civil War ( the old Moorish
conflicts are much safer).
There is, or was,
an official “Forgetting”- the price, it is said, of Spain’s transition to
democracy without civil upheaval.
Also, it must be
acknowledged, it was rather dangerous, during the long Franco years, for the
relatives and friends of the Republicans who fell victims to “remember” them
too openly.
Only recently has
the silence begun to be broken, and graves are being searched for (including
Lorca’s). This development is still contested by conservatives.
The general truth
remains: the ugly recent history of Andalucia is a stratum buried under tourist development.
It is something of
a duty, I think, for visitors and ex-pats to help recover it.
Postscript: Laurie Lee, Almunecar and Nerja in the
early days of the Civil War
There is one
fairly local, and oblique, exception to the dearth of Civil-War era monuments.
The next sizeable town along the coast to the East of Nerja is Almunecar. It
was here that Laurie Lee’s 1930’s Spanish journey, as described in As I Walked out One Midsummer Morning,
came to an end. He was in Almunecar between 1935 and 1936, eking out ( as was
his custom) a living from menial work and playing his violin.
Lee writes of the
strange, febrile atmosphere which took hold of the village when the last
Republican government was formed and, for a time, the heavy hand of the church
was pushed aside and peasants’ hopes of land reform were raised.
But then in the
summer of 1936 came the Nationalist uprising and the instant division, as
elsewhere in Spain, between supporters of the rebels and loyalists. In
Almunecar, Republicans prevailed.
Very soon Lee was
taken off from Almunecar by a British destroyer sent to extract stranded
citizens. (Lee later returned to Spain over the Pyrenees to fight on the
Republican side.)
In 1988, Franco
dead and his dictatorship dismantled, the municipal authorities erected a
monument recording Lee’s stay in the 1930s and his return visit in the early
1950s (when he found a depressed and diminished town).
December 2014 and April 2015 (revised December 2015)
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