I’d left Mrs RM to rest while I walked up Malaga’s castle on our last day, but I found I was missing her dreadfully as I weighed up my last
Not much to weigh up, two of the craft beer options seemed closed, and I’d walked past La Madriguera a dozen times and thought “Hmm“.
Fairly plain, and with a motto of “No **** (Bass ?) on tap“, it looked quite pubby and the beer board had words like “Citra” and “hazy” and “DIPA”. It really was the Port St Beer House of the Costa del Sol.
Of course, in Manchester I can pick up on banter about Ancoats house prices and Foden’s hair cuts and the new tripe bar on Thomas St, but here I could understand nothing.
Never mind, I ordered by numbers, sticking to the local murk.
What really impressed though was the soundtrack.
I guess a playlist running from Tull to Patti to Zappa isn’t quite as eclectic as mine, but once I’d ordered the 9.7% Pastry Stout from Torremolinos I forgave them that.
I sent Mrs RM a little map showing the route from the Ibis.
39 minutes later, Mrs RM showed up, I ordered the two last beers that weren’t Belgian or lager, and headed for the cosy bench seating at the rear.
Mrs RM decided it a bit like her Beer 52 subscription, which she’s just cancelled, unbelievably.
Whatever it was, and some of the hazy stuff came from San Sebastian, it was gorgeous. Nothing under 6%, mind.
A great last night in a city I felt I was only scratching the surface of when we left.
In 1975, I brought back a colourful toy donkey from my first Spanish holiday. In 2022, people seem to have quirkier souvenirs in mind.