Today we got up early, while it was still dark outside. Which, for once, meant that I actually caught up on all the sleep I had been missing for days. Small miracles do happen.
After breakfast, Mum and I did some laundry, because the clothes smelled like the plague. Dad, meanwhile, climbed onto the roof and installed a few more solar panels — our electricity level had dropped to a dramatic 25%. Clearly unacceptable for modern campervan survival.
Once the morning duties were done, it was time to visit Mijas. On foot.
And then run downhill from Mijas to Fuengirola — a place I had never been to before.
Mum and I agreed to meet in Mijas for coffee, since she decided to go cycling that day. She’s missing some kilometers in that department. That said, she broke her weekly walking record with me — we hit a solid 100 km together. Dad also surprised Strava with his walking stats, which is exactly why he decided to take a “rest day” and focus on essential campervan tasks: electricity, emptying the tanks, and refilling water. Every expedition needs a hero behind the scenes.
There’s nothing better than hiking in the sun — the kind that gently strokes you and then casually drops you to your knees. The sky was almost cloudless, no wind in sight. Perfect.
Mum caught up with me during the last five kilometers before Mijas, which sadly ruined our original plan to drink coffee together there. She would’ve had to wait way too long for me — and waiting around in sweaty clothes is nobody’s idea of fun. So we each continued our own way.
When I finally arrived in Mijas, I took my time again with this small, colorful town — today the main character wasn’t the wind, but the sun. After a short beer break (hydration comes in many forms), it was time to head toward Fuengirola.
The path from Mijas to Fuengirola is one of those routes that calms you right from the start. A sunny day, a sky without a single bad thought, and that comforting feeling that nothing can really go wrong today. When you leave Mijas — that white town clinging to the hill like a stubborn mountain goat — the path tests you just a little. A few turns, a bit of downhill, just enough to remind you: “Don’t forget, you were still in the hills.”
But it’s fine. The sun warms just right, the wind stays quiet, and your steps feel light.
With every meter downhill, the views open up. The sea below sparkles like spilled foil, and Fuengirola slowly forms into a whole — buildings, hotels, roads, and that unmistakable coastal flatness where everything feels more urban, louder, and faster. The transition from mountain calm to coastal buzz is gradual, almost unnoticeable. One moment you’re among pine trees and dry grass, the next you hear traffic and feel life picking up speed.
The path isn’t difficult, but it can be long. Mostly downhill, which sounds ideal — until your right ankle starts filing a complaint. The sun follows you the entire way, without mercy, but also without cruelty. That friendly Andalusian sun that doesn’t burn you — it cheers you on.
Along the way: olive trees, stone walls, the occasional house and gardens where plants clearly live better lives than many people. The air smells like earth, salt, and that special southern feeling where nobody seems to be in a rush. Time slows down. Or maybe you do.
As Fuengirola draws closer, the path levels out, the steps soften, and your thoughts turn to coffee. Entering the city is a clear contrast — more people, more noise, more action. But after the walk from Mijas, it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels like a reward. As if the path whispers: “You walked well. Now you deserve civilization and caffeine.”
In this city, I also bought a small gift for my mum — a thank-you for taking such good care of us.
When you leave Fuengirola’s urban nervousness behind, the coastal path quickly calms down. The promenade stretches into long, straight sections made for thoughts with no destination. On one side, the sea — blue, shiny, patient. On the other, hotels, palm trees, cafés, and people who clearly understand the art of slow living. Runners pass you with the look of “I do this voluntarily,” dog walkers have all the time in the world, and cyclists glide by like part of a choreography.
My steps were light. My legs already in rhythm. My mind pleasantly empty — thinking about everything and nothing at the same time. The path is flat, friendly, and requires no negotiations with yourself. No hills, no surprises — just walking, breathing, and the sea as a loyal companion.
Beach after beach rolls by. Some still quiet, others already lively, with kids building sandcastles and people who seem to have forgotten the concept of cold. The air smells of salt, sunscreen, and coffee. And freedom — the kind you only feel when you’re walking without time pressure.
The closer you get to Benalmádena, the more life appears. More music, more laughter, more bars inviting you in for “just one quick drink.” But you keep walking. You have a goal, but you’re not chasing it. Benalmádena doesn’t arrive suddenly — it unfolds. Like the coast saying: “Alright, just a little more.”
When you finally step into Benalmádena, you don’t feel like you’ve walked far. You feel like you’ve taken your time. And that’s the best part. The path didn’t exhaust you, didn’t defeat you — it quietly filled you up.
It’s not a path of heroes, records, or epic stories. But it’s full of small moments: sparkling sea, sun on your face, rhythmic steps, and the feeling that the world is completely fine for one day.
Because the day was so beautiful, I texted my parents and invited them for a drink in the park near our campervan. I wasn’t ready to go home yet. Over drinks, we decided that tomorrow, after morning exercise, we’d take the train to Málaga city center and become tourists again. Before that, Dad will take us for lunch by the sea.
After the beer, we went home for pancakes made by Mum — followed by a three-kilometer evening walk around town. Apparently, my parents felt I hadn’t walked enough that day. The full loop — hill, coast, and promenade — came to 35 kilometers.
When we got home, all I could see was the bed. Unfortunately, a brass band is rehearsing somewhere nearby for a New Year’s celebration. I’ll admit — they’re not bad. Or maybe I’m just too tired to criticize.
Let’s see if they’ll lull me to sleep… or eat up every last nerve within an hour.
They’re probably audible all the way up in Mijas.
