When I looked at the jar of molasses made with Salobreña sugar it saddened me to think that, because the factory had been closed down, no one would be able to smell the recently harvested sugar or hear the clanking of the 19th century engines that had milled it. The cultivation of sugar, this thousand-year mainstay of Salobreña’s economy had come to its bitter end due to the plans for a hotel and yachting marina, the rise in the cost of labour, competition from sugar beet and the 40% drop in the price of sugar. It was lucky that I had made a cake for my aunt Bridget with the molasses and put it in a plastic bag because, just after Nerja, the road began to wind around the cliffs and Emma felt sick. Chloe got the plastic bag and Emma held it over the lower part of her face for the rest of the trip. The bus was running late but the driver took those bends slowly so that we could enjoy the view of mountains dropping down into the sea.

Bridget greeted us as we got off the bus and led us through Salobreña, past the Parque de La Fuente to the beach. Bridget had planned to treat us to churros at a chiringuito but by the time we arrived there were none left. Disappointed, we tried another bar where they kindly explained that it was a breakfast thing and it was too late in the day. As a substitute for the churros, we ate the cake. The girls got hot chocolate in a glass with extra sugar on the side which, despite their accusations of being a wicked mother, I took away from them saying that it could be used to make another cake. Emma and I then ventured into the water. The water (in March) was cold, very clean and more exhilarating than ten cups of coffee! While, Bridget and Chloe continued chatting and nibbling, I marched a reluctant Emma to the shower.

We left the beach, went up an avenue with palm trees and followed a path that snaked around the hill which juts up above the cane fields. Chloe took photos from view points and of the flowers (forgetting to take off the zoom) and Emma tried all the battered swings, sit-up boards, parallel bars and seesaws that we found along the path. At each point we reached, the views were ever more spectacular of the mountains in the west, the coastline and the sea. Bridget and I studied the plants and flowers that grew wild everywhere; mint, oleander, rosemary, sage, jasmine and some flashy, purple-pink flowers with yellow centres whose name escapes me. Caves, nooks and crannies lined the rock face. At the top, we entered a terraced area directly below the castle. Low bushes bordered empty, Arab-inspired fountains. The path continued around to the northwest side of the hill and the space below opened up into a low, wide plain before pushing up again into the massive forms of the Sierra of Nevada. We passed through an arch into some pretty streets with plant pots, flowers and pastel blue doors, down the side of the church and through the square with the museum. Many houses have the typical Granada flat roof terrace with plant pots and where the Spanish hang out sheets and foreigners put out deck chairs. In the main square, the village idiot amused or shocked passers-by with goat, cat or chicken noises. Gaps in the white-washed facades appeared where houses had simply been allowed to fall down and half-rooms exposed to public view and the elements. Other houses were uninhabited or sported for sale signs. The powdery blue paint on door and window frames flaked off here and there.

After a late lunch, we dashed around to the museum and the castle. We went to the top floor of the archaeological museum in the main square, but there were only gaudy souvenirs and ghastly oil paintings of agonising christs on sale by the local “artists”. The first floor of the museum was also disappointing. A few urns dragged out of the water and donated by the seaside restaurants, were perhaps the most impressive items, mostly because of the enormous barnacles that adorned them. There were a few pieces of 2,000 year-old crockery and fragments of bone or metal knives and tools. The entire collection barely filled eight, unclean cabinets accompanied by little labels that named the era and approximate date without telling you what the object was used for.

The 13th century castle, the symbol of the village, looked impressive from below because of its dominant position on the crest of the hill. From its walls there were marvellous views of the village, the coast and the Sierra Nevada. Within, however, it proved to be just as dilapidated as the museum. Weeds grew between the patches of dirt and gravel. Two holes, which were wider than wells, had no railings around them to prevent a clumsy child from falling down into the weeds and rubbish accumulated there. Passing through a doorway, I came into a damp, deteriorated exhibit room. A white, plastic bathroom mirror hung on one side of the door and the lighted display panel was empty and broken. In the central Alcazaba, a score of discarded, folding chairs pointed to the fact that this place is sometimes used for cultural events. The views from the ramparts of the Sierra and the sun, low upon the sea, were lovely, but when I compared it to the Alcazaba in Málaga or Fuengirola Castle, I realised how much this monument had lost in the course of time.

We left the castle and descended to the parish church Nuestra Señora del Rosario close by. Although the church dates back to the sixteenth century and is built upon the ruins of a mosque, the old mudejar painted ceiling had been destroyed by fire long ago and all that remains is a typical village church, its only charm provided by the people there. Outside, a wedding party bustled. The young women, in fine dresses and best shoes, flapped and waved their children into line-ups for taking photographs. Inside, the old women led the chanting of prayers and one of them guided an old man with Parkinson’s between the pews while the priest pottered around, trying to look busy. From there, we strolled through the Bóveda which had a couple of encased little virgins and lots of peeling paint. We approached a large, circular building that houses Radio Salobreña and is next to where Bridget’s friends Ken and Phil live.

Ken took us through his home and over the roof to Phil’s house. Pots, broken coloured glass jars, jugs, plates, Barbie-sized, headless statues that reminded you of Dali’s work, the plants that Bridget cared for and the palm tree that a beautiful beetle had destroyed made this a far more interesting place to visit than the museum. Phil’s tiny house, the bedroom built behind the garage right underneath Radio Salobreña, its miniscule bathroom with mosaic counter top enclosing a sink in which you could wash two fingers, and the view from his roof (where he sleeps out in summer) fascinated the girls. They came up the narrow spiral stairs shouting, “There are worms on the bathroom floor and there’s a crunchy thing under the bedroom carpet!” I thought that it could be the palm beetle in hiding. Later, back at Bridget’s house and in their pyjamas, they sat in front of the open fire in the living room and sipped hot chocolate. The girls were so tired and content that, when they went to bed, Emma was out like a light and even Chloe, with her teenage resistance, fell asleep before 11pm. Bridget and I chatted until midnight which is when we could no longer keep our eyes open.

The next morning we renewed our search for churros. We went down the hill, through the town and the indoor market place where they sold fresh fish and rather expensive plants. We got to the chiringuito and sat out on the beach with our chocolate and churros which we sprinkled with a little sugar (I had coffee, and “helped” to eat six of the churros). After this, we moved down to the beach and Emma and I changed into our bikinis. The water was not as cold as the day before and so I splashed around a bit, trying to burn off half a churro.

It was a shame to leave because of the wonderful warmth of the day and people now came out onto the beach. We climbed on the Peñon, the rock that juts out into the sea and rises above it three or four metres and after that, headed back, through part of a new housing estate next to the cane fields of “two up-two down” houses with steep steps up to the front door. It looked like a copy machine had gone mad and spewed out hundreds of these houses which were all squished together. Then we climbed up some steep steps into the old village, admiring the occasional lemon tree and the red, or sometimes, yellow-coloured bougainvillea, or hurrying past the telephone posts that leaned under too many wires and cables. We struggled uphill, hot and tired, to the main square with the museum, past the village idiot and back down a tiny alley way with balconies almost touching each other to offer each other geranium blooms. Emma rested on a blue-painted, tiled bench for a minute or two and then she and Chloe rushed ahead to reach the house before us. The girls looked like two dogs panting in the shade as they waited outside for Bridget to open the door and let them in. We restored ourselves with cold water, a delicious lunch of mackerel, artichokes and a superb lemon cake that Chloe and Bridget had made with all my confiscated sugar.

Everything was packed now, we even managed to find Chloe’s other flip flop under the bed, and we dragged the red bag with its noisy wheels over the cobble-stones down to the bus stop, the short way this time. The girls, once seated under the shelter, started to play a hand clapping song, to the delight of the old Spanish woman sitting next to them. Before boarding the bus going to Granada, the woman turned around and indicated to us that our bus was parked out of view behind. The last to get on, we clambered to some seats towards the back and waved to Bridget until we lost sight of her. Emma did not get sick because she fell asleep. Chloe suffered though, because her bottle of water fell on the floor and rolled away towards the front of the bus, never to return. We got to Málaga on time because the driver did not slow down for the cliff-top bends.