I landed in Malaga and to my surprise Housna was waiting for me at the dock. It was only three days since I’d seen her but with a day and night in each of Granada, Cordoba, and Ronda, it felt like weeks ago.

During the twenty minute or so walk to my hostel, I was surprised to see that Malaga was one sprawling metropolis. Malaga isn’t spoken about enough in the UK as a potential place for a city break. It’s seen as the place to fly to when going on holiday to the various resorts down the Costa Del Sol. I had no idea it was so vast.

Once at my hostel, I checked-in and dropped off my bags. I stayed at the Coeo Hernan Ruiz Rooftop Pool Hostel which, again, had great reviews, and from the moment I walked inside I could sense the hostel was a bit different. It was extremely modern with contemporary and chic designs that made it look more like a high-class hotel than a hostel. There was a café bar inside and while waiting at the front desk I noticed a full daily itinerary put on for travellers to integrate and meet new people. If I hadn’t been with Housna, I would’ve attended one of them, especially as I was given a free drink voucher to use at the meeting.

The maze-like corridor leading to my room looked futuristic, as neon waves of purples and blues fired out from the walls, providing the only light to a darkness circulating the hallways. I was in a room of four and was again impressed by the state of the room’s modernised decor, being an upgrade from the dorm in Granada. The room had its own toilet and separate shower and washroom. The beds were bunk bed in style, but they were like pods, similar to what they have in Japan. Each pod had its own sliding door for privacy and inside had charging points and shelves. At the bottom of the four bunks were large storage drawers where you could keep your bags - big enough to fit both my backpacks in - and they locked too.

One fellow traveller was in the room when I arrived. His name was Stevan. We only spoke briefly as I didn’t want to keep Housna waiting, but I learned he was Serbian and had been in Malaga for a few days. When he asked where I was from and I said, ‘Manchester’, he immediately went down the Man United route. I love how that’s everyone’s first port of call… not the noisy neighbours. They assume you’re a red. I would get a chance to speak to Stevan a bit more on my final day.

There was no time to rest as I needed to meet Housna outside. She set about dragging me to the Castillo de Gibralfaro. What she didn’t tell me was that this historic landmark is at the top of a mammoth hill, and to get there was an intense, steep climb that took about twenty minutes to navigate. I checked my sugar levels beforehand and I was in normal range. There was no way I would be when I hit the top of this mountainous climb, so I suggested we get an ice-cream and a couple of bottles of water before I tackled such a feat. We found a large ice cream parlour and my concoction of lemon and dark chocolate tasted heavenly.

After fuelling up, we started our ascent. Not anticipating such a climb, I had kept my cargo shorts on, and it was one hell of a baking day. Sweat poured from me as we meandered our way up and I needed to stop for a break because it was becoming uncomfortably unbearable. My t-shirt was drenched. These walks were really starting to destroy me. Why was everything of interest on such a steep hill? I later learned the fort was 132m above sea level… and was by the sea to give you some indication as to how high it was and how tough a task it was to climb.

The fortress sitting at the top used to be the watchtower, observing the population residing beneath it, and also spotting any danger to the city by land or sea - a form of defence.

We walked around the walls taking it all in, and I ducked for shade every so often to escape the heat. It was a stunning piece of architecture, and the panoramic views of the city and port from the many vantage points were breathtaking. It cemented just how big a city Malaga was. My assessment, born out of a typical Brit attitude towards the place, couldn’t be more wrong. How had this place not been spoken about more back home?

After our descent back to the city (which still felt heavy on the legs) I felt I needed a pint. I may not have entered a bar with Housna on our first night in Granada, and she may not drink alcohol at all, but she was certainly not against the idea of sitting in a bar while I indulged in a well-earned pint of lager.

Weirdly, we found a bar that had a very Moroccan feel to it inside with the décor and shisha pipes. We found a table on the cusp of the inside and out. It was funny how Housna sat at one side of the table inside the bar that was littered with designs from her heritage, and I sat outside amongst my fellow boozers, the heritage of Brits.

We stayed out without changing for the evening and had a nice meal in an excellent restaurant. We spent the rest of the evening walking about again. Malaga didn’t quite have the same charm as Granada. It looked great, but it was far livelier with more bars and clubs, and you could feel the influx of lads and girls’ trips everywhere you went, which wasn’t the case in Granada. I was still so tired, especially after our hike to the Castillo de Gibralfaro, and Housna had been running too that morning. We decided to call it a night but agreed to meet for breakfast again on what would be her last day.

I was first back in the hostel and when I lay on the bed I was in heaven. The bed was surprisingly comfy, and it wasn’t long before I fell asleep after shutting my pod door. I didn’t wake all night, even with three other people coming in at what I presumed were various times.

The next day Housna was leaving so we had breakfast together (she had churros again of course, which were nicer than the ones in Granada). We then walked to the bus station around noon where we said our goodbyes once again. This time, there would be no other chance meetings on the trip. She had a long bus trip to Tarifa where she would then catch a ferry to Morocco, ending in Tangier where she lived.

It was great seeing her again and I was so thankful that she took the time to meet up and show me around. There’s not much more I can say about Housna that I didn’t say at the end of my Granada blog. She will always be the first real friend I met whilst travelling and I will cherish that. She educated me in many ways about travelling, and for that I am forever grateful.

I walked back into the centre, back on the solo trail, stopping at the Alcazaba, which the previous day’s ticket to the Castillo de Gibralfaro entitled me to gain entry to. It sits on the slopes of Gibralfaro and was a fortified palace that used to be the residence of the governor.

Again, there were steps that took you up to it, but not as severe as the previous day’s hike. It was nice to spend a period of time wandering about through the various parts. It was semi-derelict with no roof in many places, but you could tell it was a huge piece of historic significance, not only to Malaga, but to Spain too.

I went back into the room and properly met my two other roommates. They were still in bed when I got up that morning after both having heavy nights in the lively nightlife Malaga offered. One lad was from Birmingham and the other from Hannover in Germany, both flying solo and having an unaccompanied jaunt in Malaga before returning home.

I took a glimpse at the roof top pool and there were a few people knocking about chatting. Given the confidence I was feeling around introducing myself to new people, I should’ve made an effort, but I felt exhausted. It was probably a missed opportunity, but I had to put my own health first because I was running on empty too many times. My diabetes wasn’t helping either. For the majority of the trip, my readings were constantly high, and my sugars struggled to come down. It was probably the heat and the fact that my insulin couldn’t go into fridges, so may not have been as effective as it should’ve been. It was likely contributing to me being tired too.

I took a necessary nap and went out around 5pm, taking a little look around without seeing or doing much. I went to a bar and then ate in the fancy restaurant opposite before walking around and hitting a busy epicentre of bars. I went in a couple, had some drinks, people watched, and soaked up the lively atmosphere. It was certainly rowdier than Granada. I did think about chatting to a group of lads sat nearby, but then one of them spoke loudly and unfiltered with a strong Jamie Carragher-like scouse accent, so I decided against it. This was one of those times where I wished I could magic up a friend. Malaga was too bustling to tackle solo. It needed a mate in tow to enjoy to its max.

I ended up in a busy bar open till late. While waiting to get served I got chatting to a lad from Leeds. After hearing I was all alone he invited me to sit with him and his wife to which, given the whole spirit of the trip I was on, I of course said yes. We had a great evening, sharing stories of our respective travel adventures - they had done the Far East a number of times. Again, it was brilliant to meet random people on nights out and just sit and chat and change the dynamic of the evening. This was their first night and they had been up since the early hours, so they left around 1am.

I thought I had another beer in me after feeling a little energised, and I considered going to a club as most bars had called last orders, but could I really be arsed going alone? It was probably best to leave it. After all, I was travelling to Nerja the following day and I wanted to enjoy what that place had to offer, for one night only. The sensible side of me had a word into my subconscious, so I went back to my comfy bed. I thought about how vibrant Malaga was. The place had been mentioned as a potential destination for the lad’s holiday that we do annually in November. After experiencing it alone, I would love to do it with a group of mates.

Again, I didn’t stir all night and woke up a bit more refreshed. The Birmingham lad got up at a similar time, and upon seeing me he apologised.

        ‘What for?’ I asked a bit puzzled.

        ‘Last night?’

        ‘What about last night?’

        ‘You didn’t hear?’

        I was now a little worried. ‘Hear what?’

        ‘Oh… right. Well, I brought this American girl back and we were… yer know.’

I laughed. I genuinely didn’t hear a thing, but I did have my ear buds in. I was surprised I didn’t hear anything at all, and for someone who usually is a light sleeper, it was testament to how knackered I was and how I must’ve needed the sleep. The balls on this kid though to bring a girl back to a four-bed dorm!

The other two lads in the room all got up too. It felt strange that all four of us were packing and leaving at the same time, sharing two nights together without ever really knowing each other, yet somehow bound by a brief moment in the morning where we’d all go off on our travels again. Eventually, it was just me and Stevan and he was telling me that he’d been doing this since July and goes day by day with no planning or pre-booking of hostels. It was all very brave and by his own admission he had landed himself in a few scrapes by being so haphazard about planning. But that was how he wanted to do it. I had to admire that kind of fearlessness and dedication, and the level of freedom not being bound to a pre-existing booking on a day to day basis would give. His aim was to head towards Africa and explore Morocco, Jordan and Egypt. At the time of writing this blog and following his adventures on social media, I can confirm that he did make it to Morocco and is currently in Egypt. I was envious of his journey. That was the kind of proper travelling experience that makes me feel ashamed to call myself a traveller after a mere sixteen nights.

I went for breakfast at a place I’d noticed on the way to breakfast with Housna on the previous day. I had an unbelievable egg concoction, which I was thankful for, a change from the plethora of toasties I’d been having daily. It was called Egg Porn and tasted sensational. It was made up of a brioche bun, two poached eggs, melted cheese, turkey, tomato, avocado, Hollandaise sauce and garnished with sour cream. Pure filth! 

I made my way to the bus station that I was getting sick of the sight of now. I’d left it too late to buy a bus ticket via the app and they’d sold out. This is what happens when I adopt Stevan’s approach and don’t want to commit to a specific time to merely get a bus and leave it a bit late… things sell out. It was a biffle indeed as I had to wait it out for another hour or so and the station was musty and sweaty. The app said no tickets were available for the next bus, but some were at the station. It wasn’t ideal trying to work the machines due to language barriers, but I somehow managed to get a ticket. Two fellow Brits were behind me and asked for help with how to buy theirs. They then followed me to the dock where the Nerja bus was. It turned out we were going to the same place. It never dawned on me that we’d be in the same hostel, but once we got off the bus we headed in the same direction and it turned out we actually were. So strange. The trip was full of these bizarre coincidences.