Ronda

After the coast, we left for Ronda, the most famous of the White Towns of Andalucia. Our coach climbed bravely through bendy bendy mountain roads, reversed precariously around blind corners and generally awed us with Driving Skillz. 

Ronda itself is a stereotype of Andalucia. Sun-baked fields, scorched earth, that perfect blue sky, weathered rock, dark green cypresses against bleached white and gold countryside.

And the city is a maze of cobbled streets and ancient gates.

From the Puente Viejo, a view of the Arab baths, next to our hotel.

 

And from the Puente Nuevo, the most famous of all Ronda's sights:

I have 100000 of photos of this, but I will keep them to myself. Wisely. 

At night, could my shitty camera be what inspired Van Gogh's starry masterpiece?

We went out in search of tapas but couldn't resist one last bridge shot. Or several. 

Our hotel was an amazing oasis of peace. We spent forever over breakfast in their sunny dining room....

And frankly left carnage behind.

My father would not be pleased at the positioning of these houses. He would say, "Connie, those houses are liable to fall prey to the inevitable forces of natural erosion."

I know this is true because I later showed him this picture and that is exactly what he did say. 

But that's what gives Ronda its special charm. Ronda 3: natural erosion - 0.