Estepona

The morning flight from Manchester touches down at Málaga before 11am. By half past twelve you're dipping bread into garlic mayonnaise while the waiter explains that today's boquerones were swimming at dawn. That's Estepona's first trick: it's closer to Britain than London is to Cornwall, yet the light feels utterly foreign—sharp, white, bouncing off whitewashed walls painted every year without fail.

At sea level the air is warm even in February, when the Sierra Bermeja behind town still carries a stripe of snow. The old centre sits barely 18 metres above the waves, low enough that fishermen can wheel their catch straight up Calle Real without breaking a sweat. Look up and you'll see laundry lines strung between wrought-iron balconies, geraniums in repurposed olive-oil tins, and the occasional blue-and-yellow flag announcing that someone supports Estepona CF—the football club whose ground holds almost half the population.

The town that refused to be a resort

While neighbouring Marbella chased super-yachts, Estepona council spent money on flowerpots. Thousands of them. Every façade in the casco antiguo is contractually obliged to keep its window boxes stocked, and the municipal gardeners replace the petunias four times a year. The effect is almost theatrical: narrow lanes paved with river stones, sudden glimpses of the bell tower of Nuestra Señora de los Remedios, and the scent of orange blossom drifting from Plaza de las Flores where café tables are shared by retired Brits reading Sur in English and Spanish nurses on shift-change.

The town hasn't escaped development—new apartment blocks stretch west towards the hospital—but the high-rise line stops abruptly at Avenida de España. Walk one block inland and you're back in the 1950s: a bakery selling ring-shaped roscos for €1.20, a grocer stacking avocados from nearby orchards, and the 15th-century Torre del Reloj keeping watch over a handful of parking spaces locals still call la plaza de los coches even though cars were banned years ago.

Two coasts for the price of one

Estepona fronts 21 kilometres of shoreline, and the character changes every kilometre. Playa de la Rada, the town beach, is family territory: hire a sun-lounger (€5) or simply spread a towel on the dark-gold sand. The promenade here is wide, flat and—yes—occasionally invaded by electric scooters, but walk east beyond the marina and the concrete turns into a wooden boardwalk that smells of salt and grilled sardines. Locals call this stretch el paseo de los enamorados; evening strollers tend to obey the unwritten rule of keeping left for power-walkers and right for those who want to dawdle over the sunset.

Keep going and you reach Playa del Cristo, a double cove with shallow water that warms faster than the open sea—perfect if you're travelling with toddlers or simply hate that first cold shock. The western beaches beyond the hospital—Guadalmansa, Arroyo Vaquero—are wilder. You’ll share the sand with kite-surfers and the odd dog-walker, and the only chiringuito may be closed if the wind’s wrong. A hire car (from €28 a day at Málaga airport) is worth it for these: the bus stops two kilometres short, and the walk involves a dusty track where cyclists in Lycra overtake you at alarming speed.

Up the red mountain

Behind the seafront the ground rises fast. Within ten minutes’ drive you're in Sierra Bermeja, a range built from peridotite, a rock so rare it’s studied by NASA. The earth here is the colour of burnt terracotta, and the slopes are covered with the world’s largest surviving forest of Spanish fir. The Pico de los Reales (1,449m) gives views across two continents: on clear days you can pick out the Rif Mountains of Morocco, while behind you the white cube of Estepona shrinks to toy-town size.

Walking tracks are signposted but steep; allow three hours return from the forestry track at Los Reales and carry more water than you think necessary—even in April the sun is strong. If you'd rather someone else did the driving, the local hiking club meets at the tourist office every Sunday at 9am and welcomes tag-alongs for €5, coffee included.

Winter transforms the sierra. Night frosts dust the bougainvillea back in town, and the air smells of wood smoke drifting from cortijos where farmers cure sausages. January daytime temperatures still reach 16°C, warm enough for lunch outside if you choose a sheltered spot, though you'll need a jacket after five.

Murals instead of museums

Estepona’s council spends culture money on paint rather than marble. Since 2012 more than sixty building façades have been turned into outsized canvases: a hyper-realistic portrait of an elderly flamenco singer fills the gable end of a block on Avenida San Lorenzo; children chase paper boats across a kindergarten wall; a 400-square-metre tribute to the Spanish fir climbs eight storeys of social housing. The tourist office hands out a free map marked with QR codes—follow the route at dusk when the low sun makes the paintwork glow and you’ll cover most of the centre without noticing the kilometres.

If you prefer your art indoors, the small Casa de las Tejerinas (Tues-Sun, free) hosts temporary shows of contemporary Andalusian painters. Don’t expect the Tate; do expect enthusiastic curators who’ll practise their English explaining why the village priest once kept his horse in the downstairs stable.

What to eat, when to eat it

Breakfast: tostada with crushed tomato, a drizzle of olive oil, and a cafè con leche for €2.80 at Café Madrid on Plaza de las Flores. They’ll bring butter and marmalade if you ask—no raised eyebrows.

Lunch: gazpacho followed by frita—river trout rolled in seasoned flour and fried until the skin crisps. Try it at La Escollera (Calle del Puerto) where the set menu is €14 and the wine comes in a proper glass even at that price.

Dinner: espetos de sardinas, six fish threaded on a cane and grilled over a driftwood fire on the beach. The ritual starts at 7pm when the first batch of smoke drifts across Playa de la Rada; service is strictly first-come, and most chiringuitos close the coals by 10pm. Order a plate of pimientos de Padrón while you wait: Russian roulette with green peppers—one in ten bites back.

Vegetarians survive on roasted aubergine drizzled with honey, and on Thursdays the market behind the bullring sells organic veg grown in the Guadalhorce valley. Gluten-free bread is stocked by SuperSol on Calle Real; ask for pan sin gluten and they’ll point you to the freezer.

The honest months

April and late-September give you 24°C days, sea warm enough for a proper swim, and hotel prices 30% below peak. May is flowery perfection—jacarandas in lilac bloom, every patio competing in the annual Concurso de Patios—but book early: Spanish schools take their first long weekend and rooms disappear.

August is brutal. Daytime highs nudge 35°C, the beach is towel-to-towel by 10am, and the night-time thump of reggaetón drifts from fairground attractions erected on the football pitch. If that’s your only window, stay west of the marina where the music fades, and swim before 9am when the sand is still cool underfoot.

Christmas surprises: fairy lights stretch across the streets, the nativity scene fills an entire park, and on 28 December locals celebrate Día de los Santos Inocentes—Spain’s April Fool’s—so double-check anything a smiling stranger tells you.

Getting about (and away)

Málaga airport is 55 minutes by car on the AP-7 toll road (€8.45 each way). A shared shuttle runs hourly for €15 but takes twice as long because it drops off along the coast. In town everything is walkable; taxis start at €3.60 and will take you to Playa del Cristo for under €6. Buses to Ronda and Gibraltar leave from the small station on Avda de España—buy tickets on board, cash only, exact change appreciated.

If you're staying longer than a week, consider the weekday train from San Roque to Algeciras—one of Spain last remaining rural lines—where the track hugs the cliff and vultures circle overhead. The journey costs €5.40 return and ends within sight of Africa.

Leave room in your suitcase for a bottle of local olive oil: cooperative Nuestra Señora de los Remedios sells cold-pressed picudo for €8 a litre from a side-street door that looks closed. Ring the bell; someone’s always watching.