Torremolinos

The 14th-century Torre de Pimentel was built to spot Barbary pirates. These days its sandstone blocks scan for a different kind of invasion: the 1.5 million sun-starved northern Europeans who spill out of Málaga airport every summer, 10 minutes up the track. Most stride straight past the tower, wheelie cases rattling over the cobbles of Calle San Miguel, hunting for the beach that Monty Python once mocked. They find it—seven kilometres of dark volcanic sand, framed by a promenade that has swapped 1980s lager louts for pushchair-pushing Spanish families and retired couples from Surrey who discovered the train fare is £1.70.

Seafront sociology

Torremolinos never bothered with the whitewashed-rural-Andalucía look. The town discovered mass tourism early, threw up apartment blocks in avocado green and custard yellow, and got on with it. What survives is a working coast rather than a film set. Fishermen still mend nets on La Carihuela before the first beer of the day; their wives run the beach bars that thread sardines onto cane skewers and grill them over driftwood fires. The smell—salt, olive oil and charred fish skin—floats eastwards along the Paseo Marítimo for almost the entire length of the resort, a useful compass if you lose your bearings.

The beaches change character every 400 metres. Bajondillo, below the old centre, packs in parasols like Smarties; walk five minutes to Playamar and the council-run zone charges €4 for a lounger with umbrella, no headphone-thumping DJ. Los Álamos, furthest from the lifts, is where local teenagers play volleyball after school, the net sagging under evening jumps. Bring change for the foot-shower: it still swallows 20-cent pieces rather than contactless taps.

Uphill, backwards in time

Gravity is useful here. The town climbs 70 metres from sea to ridge, and the easiest way to understand its layers is to start at the top and roll downhill. From the train station, a free lift (keep your café receipt) drops you into Plaza Costa del Sol, a 1990s brick amphitheatre that hosts tango classes on Tuesday nights. Behind it, the Barrio del Calvario keeps the last scraps of agricultural Torremolinos—single-storey houses painted peach and cobalt, geraniums in olive-oil tins, a tiny grocery that weighs out chickpeas from a sack. The streets are steep enough that postmen use scooters; visitors in flip-flops usually discover the parallel lifts that zig-zag back to the promenade.

Halfway down, the Casa de los Navajas proves that 1920s sugar-money could do Moorish-revival on a budget: pointed arches, zellige-style tiles, and a roof terrace built for selfies long before the word existed. Entry is free; the queue moves faster than the one for the lifts at Benalmádena marina. Below it, the seventeenth-century Iglesia de San Miguel hides behind a yoghurt-pink bell wall; inside, the statues used in September’s feria stand roped off like dozing actors between performances.

When to turn up (and when to stay away)

The weather window is longer than most of the Costa del Sol. March brings 20 °C and the half-marathon that Banstead & Epsby running club uses as winter revenge on British drizzle. May and late-September punch in at 24 °C, hotel prices halve, and you can still breakfast outside without a fleece. July and August breach 32 °C by 11 a.m.; the beaches resemble Heathrow at bank holiday and the only quiet table is the one you reserve for 23:00, when Spaniards finally think about dinner.

Rain is rare but theatrical: October storms can dump 80 mm in three hours, turning the lifts into waterfalls and washing deckchairs onto the A-7. If the sky purples, head to the covered market on Avenida Palma de Mallorca for a lesson in fish anatomy—monkfish heads the size of toddlers, and prawns so fresh they still snap.

Eating: beyond the all-day English

La Carihuela still earns its keep from seafood rather than nostalgia. Chiringuito El Velero will grill a lubina (sea bass) plain, no garlic ali-oli, and swap chips for salad without sighing. Casa Juan Los Mellizos does a “no-heads” mixed skewer aimed at children who think eyes are a step too far; order a glass of cold moscatel to prove sweet wine works with fish. If homesickness strikes on day one, the Lemon Tree offers back-bacon and HP sauce under €7, though you’ll be the only customer not discussing yesterday’s crossword in Andalusian Spanish.

For self-caterers, Supersol stocks cheddar that melts like the real thing and Tetley tea bags cheaper than duty-free. Mercadown the road sells frozen espeto kits—six sardines already on sticks, ready for the communal beach barbecues that appear every dusk. Bring your own lemon; the ones on the tree outside the station are purely decorative and protected by CCTV.

Moving on, moving out

Torremolinos works as a base camp. The C-1 commuter train rattles west to Málaga’s Picasso museum in 22 minutes (€2.05) or east to Fuengirola’s Tuesday street market in 15. A coastal bike lane—flat, separate from the road—reaches Benalmádena’s marina in 30 minutes, though the return leg against a Levante wind can feel like pedalling through treacle. If you fancy hills, the M-202 bus climbs to Mijas pueblo for €1.55; the altitude gain is 400 metres and the temperature drops five degrees, so pack a cardigan even in August.

Back in town, the last lift stops at 23:30. Miss it and you’ll climb 120 steps past closed souvenir shops that still sell Flamenco dolls made in China. The tower at the top is floodlit, its sandstone glowing the colour of burnt sugar. No pirates tonight—just the occasional runner timing intervals and a pair of teenagers sharing headphones, the sea glinting below like spilled coins. Torremolinos will never be tiny or tasteful; it’s a resort that learned to live with itself. Stay for three days, eat fish you can’t pronounce, and you might too.