Mijas

The first thing you notice is the lift. It sits inside the tourist office, doors sliding open to reveal a polished steel cabin that whisks visitors from the multi-storey car park straight into the heart of Mijas Pueblo. No sweaty climb, no awkward three-point turns on cobbled alleys. Just €1 for the day and you're deposited beside the Plaza de la Constitución, where elderly men in flat caps argue over dominoes and the smell of grilled sardines drifts up from a side-street vent.

Mijas has always been two places at once. The mountain village – 400 metres above the Mediterranean – clings to the Sierra de Mijas with the determination of a barnacle. Below, a 12-kilometre ribbon of coast known as Mijas Costa spreads itself between Fuengirola and Marbella, all high-rise apartments and golf fairways that glow emerald under the sprinklers. One municipality, two personalities, and a constant tension between the view and the viewed.

Morning in the clouds

Arrive before half-past nine and the upper streets still belong to the cleaners. Hose water runs down the marble steps; a woman in a housecoat lowers a basket for her newspaper. By ten the coaches begin to nose up the A-387, disgorging cruise-ship escapees who march straight for the donkey-taxi rank. The animals stand harnessed beneath woven saddles, ears flicking at camera clicks. Animal-welfare posters nearby urge tourists to walk – it's only a ten-minute stroll to the chapel – yet the queue persists. Ethics versus novelty, played out daily beside the 16th-century church.

Inside the Iglesia de la Inmaculada Concepción the air smells of candle wax and floor polish. A single volunteer sells postcards from a folding table, exact change only. The building is sturdy rather than beautiful, its tower rebuilt after the Moors left and the Christians moved in. Round the corner, the Ermita de la Virgen de la Peña is carved straight into the rockface, its tiny courtyard shaded by a fig tree. A stairway tunnelled through stone drops to a candle-lit chamber where the patron saint resides. Flash photography is banned; so, unofficially, is talking above a murmur. The silence feels borrowed from somewhere much older than tourism.

Art and commerce

British visitors hunting for souvenirs drift towards the craft shops on Cuesta de la Villa. Several are run by expats who swapped Surrey for sunshine and now sell hand-painted ceramics between Spanish lessons. Prices hover around €18 for a cereal bowl, €35 for a serving plate – cheaper than Covent Garden, pricier than the Tuesday market in nearby Alhaurín. The surprise find is the Centro de Arte Contemporáneo, a single room above the library where late Picasso ceramics share floor space with Dalí lithographs. Entry is free, though the attendant will accept a euro for the guestbook.

By eleven the sun is high enough to expose every uneven slab. Shade becomes currency. The Jardines de la Muralla deliver it in spades, together with a balcony view that stretches from Fuengirola's skyscraper silhouette to the Rif mountains of Morocco on very clear days. Cruise ships appear as white staples pinned to the horizon. Below them, the coast road glints with windscreens moving at parade speed. Photographers cluster at the western end where the railing is lowest and the drop most dramatic; selfie sticks joust for airspace.

Lunch decisions

Hunger splits the crowd. Those staying in the village queue for tables at Viento Sur, where loaded bagels come with oat-milk lattes and the menu is bilingual without being apologetic. Others descend to the coast in search of espetos – sardines impaled on cane sticks and grilled over a driftwood fire on La Cala beach. The journey takes 15 minutes by car, 25 by the green M-122 bus that lurches round hairpins while local teenagers stream reggaetón from phone speakers. Both options involve garlic; only one involves sand between your toes.

La Cala itself was once a fishing hamlet. The boats still pull up at dawn, but their catch is auctioned in Fuengirola and the quayside restaurants fly St George's flags to prove their paella is "authentic". Playa centrale offers sunbeds at €5 a day and a chiringuito whose loudspeakers play BBC Radio 2 by mid-afternoon. Walk ten minutes east towards Calahonda and the buildings shrink, the sand darkens and you can usually find a patch large enough to spread a towel without touching a neighbour. The sea shelves gently, warmer than Cornwall in October, colder than Cyprus in May.

Afternoon heat, evening breeze

Back in the village, siesta is non-negotiable. Metal shutters clatter down at 14:00 sharp; even the ice-cream parlour switches off its lights. Streets fall silent except for the hum of air-conditioning units and the occasional clop of a stray donkey hoof. This is the hour to retreat to your rental balcony with a carton of mango juice from the SuperSol, or to drive up the AP-7 (toll €7.20) to the air-conditioned oasis of Miramar shopping centre in Fuengirola. Attempting sightseeing now is masochistic; the stone alleyways radiate heat like pizza ovens.

Evenings bring redemption. At 18:00 shutters rise, fountains switch on and the temperature drops eight degrees in as many minutes. British second-home owners emerge with tiny dogs and gossip about council tax. In August the Feria de Mijas turns every plaza into a pop-up bar: plastic buckets of sangria, children darting between tables, flamenco troupes imported from Seville. Outside fiesta week the scene is gentler. A guitarist sets up beside the church, case open for coins, playing Rodrigo with more feeling than accuracy. The smell of churros drifts from a van whose generator competes with the music.

Walking it off

For those who prefer their calories earned, the Sierra offers waymarked paths that climb through pine and carob towards the 1,150 m Pico Mijas. The most popular route starts behind the bullring, a concrete oval that hosts bloodless bullfights for tourists on Saturdays. From here the Senda del Pino gains 400 m in 4 km, the Mediterranean expanding beneath you like a blue map. Stone is loose, calves will complain, and there is zero shade after 09:00. Bring two litres of water and don't trust Google Maps – the trail forks are signed but the phone signal vanishes halfway up.

Winter walkers have the hill to themselves, though days are short and the wind sharp enough to warrant a fleece. Summer hiking is for the deranged unless you leave before sunrise. Spring brings wildflowers and the risk of pollen; autumn delivers warm evenings and the occasional thunderstorm that rolls across the coast like a freight train.

Downsides, honestly

Mijas is not undiscovered. Between March and November you will queue for coffee, crawl behind rental cars whose drivers fear every bend, and pay €3.50 for a cortado on the main square. Parking attendants in hi-vis vests wave you into the €1 underground facility because every free verge within a kilometre is already nose-to-tail with Fiat 500s. Wednesday market clogs the approach roads from 09:00; avoid, or arrive before the first stallholder unloads his awnings.

The donkey-taxi debate continues. In 2022 the municipality introduced weight limits and veterinary checks, yet animal-rights groups still leaflet at weekends. If you ride, expect side-eye from passing hikers. If you walk, expect to dodge manure. Neither camp is quiet about its virtue.

Rain arrives suddenly in November and February, turning cobbles into slides and washing beach debris onto the Paseo Marítimo. On those days the village feels shrunken, the coast morose. Cafés shut early, British bars screen Premier League replays and everyone argues about whether the cost of living is worse here or back home.

Last orders

Leave after dark and the coast road unspools below you like a lit conveyor belt. Fuengirola's fairground wheel spins in the distance, a circle of neon against the black sea. Up in the pueblo, the church bell strikes ten and the last terrace gathers coats. Someone is still playing guitar, but the coins have stopped coming and the waiters are stacking chairs. Tomorrow the coaches will return, the donkeys will shift from hoof to hoof, and the lift will make its first run at 09:00 sharp. Mijas will be ready, half village, half viewpoint, wholly resigned to its split personality.