On Jan 31st, the year of our lord 2020, I decide to leave the UK.Not forever, just for a temporary sojourn, emerging from Hibernian-ation of Dry January, but the significance of the date is not lost .On this fair eve, Great Britain & bits of Ireland bid farewell to the European project, leaving, not with a whimper, nor with braggadocio, but with all the dignity and conviction of a man sneaking out of a pub where he’s used the toilet without buying a drink. To escape the possibility of coming across any jingoistic-JohnBull-Little Englander-Inselaffe- Wetherspoons-guy- excesses, I decide to flee .To Malaga .On the Costa del Sol.

I only go to Malaga to get out of Malaga, heading from there instead to the city of Granada, in the shade of the Sierra Nevada and dominated by the mighty Alhambra Palace, one of the most impressive UNESCO adorned fortified compounds since Tayto Park.This is my third trip where the Moorish Arabic influence on Europe is deeply imprinted on the region , after Malta and Sicily.In Granada, it’s even more so as the Islamic influence here continued right up to 1492, till Spanish fortunes changed with a little gamble on Cristobal Colon’s first historically recorded lads on tour trip to the new world . This ushered in a new world order as the Catholic kings Took back Control (TM) , till their eventual demise some 2 centuries later, bloated and bankrupt after binging on purloined Aztec gold. . After reclaiming power in the Reconquista, the Catholic Monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella set about booting out anyone who was wasn’t them, gradually hounding out the Muslim and later the Jewish populations who refused to convert. The ostentatious use of pork and ouvert displays of sheer ham-armageddon on show in Granada clearly were designed to root out anyone who might not have been a keen convert. Look ,for example at my breakfast (below) . I could ,at this point, say something about ‘Al-Hambra’, but I won’t.

Traces of the bygone empire remain, far less illustriously, in the little markets , the tea shops, the “write your name in Arabic” street guys and even the names, the telltale “Al-“ prefix dominant. Times continue to roll on , empires wax and wane , the once mighty fade inevitably into tat shops .Fallen empires always end up as tat. I cast my mind to all the KGB merch in Eastern Europe, or all the Checkpoint Charlie gimcracks and geegaws in Berlin.

The symbol of Granada is the pomegranate, which is dotted around the city , even on its bollards as a nice touch. The Spanish for pomegranate is of course Granada , so ubiquitous were these fruits , these fleshy symbols of rebirth and the fertility of the Emir’s loins . In a delightful historic twist , these bountiful orbs later gave their name of course to instant-death-lobbing grenades, a slight functional digression .

Though the mighty Nasrid Dynasty of Muhammad XII has crumbled and fallen, one Granadian Pantheon stands immortal amongst the superstructures of the city , and that is Paddy’s . (Enjoy this video as we muse upon Paddy’s from it’s exterior) There is a fine line between being a pub and being a room with some seats in it and Paddy’s straddles this unashamedly. Flamenco dances over it , you could say. Paddy’s has three taps , no wine or anything in bottles and has 7 TVs all showing the same rugby game , giving each patron their own personal hi-def screen like it’s a tv control centre in the films where the director is watching everything from every possible angle. Paddy’s pays lip service to the idea of an Irish pub , sure , but it seems they decided half way not to bother and just buy more TVs. Its windows are tinted , for fear that the plentiful Spanish sunlight should interrupt Sky Sports Super Sunday . Paddy’s has a unisex toilet, not, one imagines, as a nod to inclusivity but because one was enough
That said, Paddy’s is actually alright and the barman is a very friendly guy and we all watch the rugby on our own tellies and it’s all quite relaxed. In the region of the city to the east, known as Sacramonte , historically home to the gypsy community and a bastion of flamenco , the locals dwell in caves hewn into the rock of the undulating hinterland , keeping these modern day troglodytes warm in Winter, cool in Summer. Perhaps Paddy’s cave is a subtle nod to this ?

There is another Irish pub called Hamelin , named after the eponymous pied piper of that same german town in the first known recorded instance of children being led astray by the devils music -a kind of proto-medieval drill paranoia. The pied piper is actually quite a disturbing tale and Hamelin mirrors this sense of foreboding by not being open on a Friday night: ” Opening Hours Unknown “ quotes google.

The final pub is Hannigan’s. Hannigan’s is an Irish Pub and wants you to know it . It’s the big dog here, and it is textbook. It trumps Paddy’s by being more than a room , its horseshoe bar, stained glass , snugs all testament to its splendour. Hannigan’s, I find out is an Official Irish Pub , a kind of accolade in which a shady cabal of faceless apparachiks confer authentic status on Irish pubs in Iberia, literally my arch nemeses who in some later year will no doubt attempt to bump me off due to my investigative digging into the seedy underbelly of the Irish pub racket. The tunes at Hannigan’s are hopping though, and we finish the night signing along to poignant strains of the Youssou Ndour / Nenah Cherry 1994 English/ French / Wolof smash “7 Seconds”
But what news of Brexit? Time to canvas the locals on their take .But what does your average Jose make of this historic day ?
“Well, ” says Paco , 37, a kitchen fitter from Jerez, ” Being in the European Union has its advantages, and I think that is what the British are beginning to understand, what those who are tempted by the Brexit are going to reflect upon. However painful or regrettable Brexit may be, it will not stop the E.U. as it moves to the future; we need to move forward.”
Raul, an unemployed panel beater from Pinos Punete offers a rebuttal :
“They have acted like carnivores who used the world to enrich only themselves, and whether it’s the election of Donald Trump, or Brexit, the elites have realized that the people have stopped listening to them, that the people want to determine their futures and, in a perfectly democratic framework, regain control of their destiny.”
Neither of these quotes are entirely authentic, in that they aren’t real . But you could imagine people might have said this. In reality , no one appears to give a shite. During the rugby game, one Spaniard in Paddy’s shouts “fuck you in the ass England” as France takes the lead , but wanting England to lose in sport is a pan European tradition as old as time. Maybe that’s why they left ?

You may remember , about a year ago in a previous instalment set in Sicily , I touched on the idea of bar snacks, the apperitivo. Taking it to the next level , however, are the Granadian Tapas . Tapas in the UK was a godsend to miserly restaurateurs who realised that they could flog smaller portions for higher prices with the proviso that they were labelled “tapas”. You had Estonian tapas , Paraguayan-East Asian fusion tapas , the only ones who didn’t get in on it were the chicken shops, although undoubtedly somewhere in Brixton there is such a place. In Granada , it is tapas in its most munificent state, an actual dish delivered with each drink, in some places with a tapas menu, where you can choose a myriad of delights to accompany your drink for free. And repeated on each drink order. The Spanish love their ham , their beers , their sports and their dogs. They truly are our Celtic Brethren. Bless them . One instance crystallises this. In a pub in Sacramonte , the gypsy quarter, the locals in the pub pass round a kind of shepherd’s pouch and proceed to pour a clear- sweet alcoholic elixir down each other’s throats. On seeing us watching intently, they insist on us trying the mystery booze . Here’s Bella going first. ;click here for hilarious content

The east of the city of Granada, the Albacyin, is one of the most beautiful neighbourhoods you could ever see, labyrinthine , whitewashed houses , winding paths with bright squares of orange trees and high walls offering shade. For someone only a generation off from those who gleefully received oranges for Christmas , it’s a novelty to see them in all their exoticism. It may be 2020 but I have no shame saying I’m impressed by an orange tree. And from every angle of the city , the mighty Alhambra palace majestically peers down on its subjects . It is funny , as I drink my bottle of the local ale , enjoying probably one of the finest pub views I can remember, how an empire of such power and relevance , so seemingly indomitable, can fade to obscurity, historical speaking , in the blink of an eye. I wonder for a second how the Brexit day celebrations are going . I swig the remains of my drink, and gesture to the camarero for another bottle of Alhambra Reserva .