The rain in Spain falls, mainly

Autumn nights even in the far south of Spain can be crisp and cool, so the fireburner at Casa Mula needed stoked up with a steady supply of wood to keep off the chill. The place came with a basket of wood which only lasted the one night, so on our travels the next couple days we kept our eyes peeled for any timber going spare.

An exercise in thrift

After the last basket of logs went up in smoke we tossed in a stack of pinecones (which made a lovely crackling noise), then began eyeing up the furniture.

As I was sharpening the axe, the sound of rain began drumming on the roof. Not just rain - The Deluge. It pounded on the roof all night so it was like trying to sleep in a carwash. By morning it was merely a drizzle, but the fog and mud meant there was little point of taking any scenic back roads. Instead we decided to visit the nearest city, Malaga.

Malaga is one of Spain's largest cities, but most people only ever see its airport before striking for the resorts along the Costa del Sol. At its heart is a cathedral and fortress near a busy port. Our plan was to park up, see the cathedral, do some shopping and grab a bite to eat.

The rain returned and there was exceptionally bad spray when driving down the motorway. I hunted down an underground car park, but knew as soon as we parked up it meant dashing out into the downpour with only a borrowed faux-Burberry brollie between us. The streets were flooded and the marble pavements were slick and treacherous. In places it was like fording a river and a raft would have come in handy to shoot the rapids.

The rain sluiced off the cathedral steps like a waterfall. Inside the sound of rain was muffled, but the water had worked its way through holes in the roof to leave puddles on the floor. We dodged the mops and buckets, our wet shoes squeaking the entire time.

Back outside and we lucked upon a back street tapas bar. Everyone was hunched over big steaming bowls of stew so I told the waiter 'dos de estos por favor' so we could warm ourselves. The place was full of animated locals, all of them astounded by the water flooding the streets.

There was no point in trying to do any shopping as many of the shopkeepers were mopping frantically, trying to bail out their premises. Back at the underground car park, the lift was out of order and warning tape was stretched across the stairs. We ducked through regardless, hoping we were not about to feature in our own 1970s disaster movie. Perhaps Spanish Mudslide! Drowned Alive In A City Centre Car Park And They Haven't Even Validated My Ticket Yet.

A thoughtful member of the car park staff had set out a bucket to catch a leak. The persistent stream of water had filled the bucket ages ago and it was now sat in a spreading pool a few inches deep. But the true horror faced us once we had revved up the car and sped up the ramp to escape the underground lake.

I joined a massive traffic queue and risked pneumonia by turning up the A/C full blast to keep the steam off the windows. The streets were full of soaked pedestrians, waterlogged scooters, broken down lorries and other nuisances which left us inching forward. Traffic lights were out of order. In places the water was over a foot deep, with the grates washed away. We drove single file, hoping the car in front would find the open manhole first.

There was even a man sat under an awning with a fishing rod. He yanked it up to show that his 'catch' was a crumpled milk carton and smiled as we drove by. It was the one thing that kept my spirits up as I navigated the washed-out roads, landslides and thick fog on the long drive home.

The other consolation was finding out they sell bags of firewood at the petrol stations, so at least we had a roaring fire once more at home and could dry off!