Benalmádena

The metre-high model of Columbus’s Santa María that sits inside the Castillo de Colomares is built from the same pale stone as the castle walls. It is also, guidebooks forget to mention, exactly the same length as a Blackpool tram. That odd comparison springs to mind because Benalmádena keeps forcing unlikely neighbours together: a 1990s Buddhist stupa above a 1970s marina, a whitewashed 18th-century church within earshot of a dolphin show, and a proper Andalusian village bar where the house wine arrives at the same time as the Yorkshire owner’s terrier.

Most visitors see only the flat, modern strip that hugs the N-340. Seven kilometres of sand—Santa Ana, Malapesquera, Torrequebrada—are raked daily and fringed by apartment blocks whose ground floors rent sun-loungers at €4.50 a day. The paseo is level all the way to Torremolinos, handy for pushchairs or anyone who finds hills tricky. Early-moment joggers share the path with pensioners power-walking to the Mercadona at Arroyo de la Miel, the commuter knot in the middle where the C-1 train pauses on its shuttle between Málaga and Fuengirola. Trains run every twenty minutes; a return to Málaga costs €3.70 and takes twenty-five, quicker than finding a parking space on the front.

Yet the map insists the municipality climbs 280 m almost straight up. From the marina, look east and the houses appear to stack themselves like white Lego against a wall of pine and rock. That is Benalmádena Pueblo, the original hill settlement, and the reason the place still feels like three small towns bolted together rather than one long strip mall.

Climbing for coffee

The M-121 local bus leaves the seafront every half-hour and grinds upward in low gear for exactly 4.8 km. Fare is €1.55—drivers give change—and the journey takes thirty minutes because the road bends like a paperclip. Get off at Plaza de España, a pocket square with a tiled fountain and a single bar that still writes the day’s menu on a blackboard propped against a motorbike. Cobbled lanes radiate at improbable angles; trainers are advisable, mobility scooters futile. House walls are the colour of fresh yoghurt, geraniums poured from terracotta pots. The village only has 5,000 permanent residents, so someone is bound to say hello.

The Iglesia de Santo Domingo de Guzmán closes between services, but the small archaeological museum on Calle Santo Domingo stays open 10–14:00 and 17–20:00, admission free. Iberian loom weights and Roman fish-salting vats remind you that people hauled nets here long before package tours. After twenty minutes you will have seen it all; step across the lane for a glass of sweet Málaga wine at La Teteria, where the owner keeps a map of British postcodes so visiting grandparents can show exactly where they live.

Higher still, a signed footpath leads to the Stupa, the largest Buddhist temple in western Europe. Built in 1995, it looks like a golden bullet frozen halfway into the hillside. Inside, prayer wheels turn with a soft mechanical click; outside, the view stretches from Fuengirola’s skyscraper cluster to the Sierra Nevada’s snow line on clear days. Entry is free, but the gate shuts for siesta 14:00–16:00. Ring the bell if you arrive early; a monk in trainers will let you in.

Downhill to the sea

The easiest return is the bus, but walkers can follow the signed PR-A 169 footpath that drops through pine and carob to the teleférico base station. The cable-car (€13.50 return) saves your knees and adds 550 m of vertical in seven minutes. At the 800 m summit of Monte Calamorro the air is five degrees cooler; pack a windcheater even in June. Trails fan out for anything from a twenty-minute loop to a three-hour traverse to the next valley. Stone steps are uneven and buggy-hostile; small children usually need carrying on the descent.

Back at sea level the marina tries hard to impersonate Portofino. Low-rise apartments painted ochre, pink and pistachio curve round 1,000 berths where gin-palace super-yachts rub fenders with day-trip fishing boats. Dolphin-spotting excursions leave at 11:00 and 13:00 (€25 adults, two hours) and usually find short-finned pilot whales loafing three miles out. If the sea looks lumpy, Selwo Marina offers the same animals in a pool for €19.50—ethics aside, it’s a rainy-day fallback that under-tens adore.

Rain does happen; March and October each average six wet days. Showers arrive vertically and leave within the hour, but British winter habits die hard. Locals in T-shirts will stare at cagoule-clad tourists stomping through puddles as if the Med were Manchester.

Eating without the euro-change trauma

Chiringuitos along the sand still spear sardines on bamboo sticks and grill them over driftwood; expect eight fish, bread and a lemon wedge for €8. Eat quickly—the gulls are organised. Back in Arroyo de la Miel, Casa Juan on Calle Ciudad Real does a three-course menú del día with wine for €12; king-prawn gambas pil-pil arrive sizzling in enough garlic to frighten Dracula. The Lilac Tree in the Pueblo offers cottage pie and mugs of Yorkshire tea, useful when someone in the family hits Spanish-food saturation. Kitchens along the coast close around 23:00; if you want dinner at 22:45 you will be welcomed, but they mean it when they say last orders.

When to come, when to avoid

May and late-September deliver 24 °C afternoons, seawater at 20 °C and hotel doubles from €70. From 15 July to 15 August apartment blocks echo with amplified pool games and the beach reaches towel-to-towel density by 10:30. Parking meters charge €2 an hour and finding a space resembles a Ryanair check-in. November to February is quiet, but many bars shutter and the pueblo can feel deserted rather than peaceful.

Flights land at Málaga-Costa del Sol, 12 km north-east. A pre-booked taxi to the marina costs €25–30 and takes twenty minutes; the train is slower but runs until 23:30 if your flight is delayed. Once arrived, the Bonobús pass covers all local routes—buy on board and ask for a viaje sencillo; the machine prints a paper ticket valid for one hour.

Benalmádena will never be the “real Spain” of interior hill towns where tourists are stared at like Martians. It earns its living from visitors and makes few apologies. Yet if you ride the bus uphill, walk the steepest alley at siesta time and sit in the plaza while swifts race the church bell tower, you will hear the same Andalusian accents that echoed here centuries before anyone invented a beach club. That, rather than any marketing slogan, is probably reason enough to climb 280 m and reward yourself with a coffee that costs €1.20 and tastes like it should.