The Great Escape – 72 Hours in Madrid
After months of wishing we were here, there, or anywhere that wasn’t our own homes, travel is back. This bi-weekly travel essay will follow the adventures of our writers as they finally make their escape from Britain and take a much-needed holiday.
The moment the merciless “September Blues” started to creep in, I decided to pack my bags and escape to sun-drenched Madrid to visit a long-lost friend. Fortuitously, no one was joining me on the short trip as I’m a nightmare travel companion. I fret days before a flight, frantically research the safest place to sit on the plane, leave hours, if not days, before the flight is due to depart, and tend to rely on the shaky crutch of alcohol to assuage concerns of a tempestuous flight.
Just two short hours after departure, I safely arrived for the first time at the heart and soul of Spain. To kill time while I waited for my friend to finish work, I strolled along the streets of the capital and gazed up at the imperial baroque architecture, through its signature plazas and onto the bustling street markets that frame the cityscape. Eventually, I was reunited with my friend, and we caught up on the years stolen from the pandemic over dinky plates of olives, salty nuts and crisps in the city’s oldest neighbourhood of La Latina. I couldn’t believe how the Spanish rolled off her tongue with such effortless ease as she ordered another round of cañas; she was no longer the Yorkshire lass I once knew; she was a true Madrileña now.
The following day, I grabbed my bags and headed for the Reina Sofia museum – the home of Picasso’s Guernica. After stopping off for an enlivening espresso (it wasn’t quite yet time to have the local speciality of a pre-lunch Vermouth), I managed to beat the tiresome queues and have the painting entirely to myself for a blink of a moment. You can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the mammoth anti-war monochromatic masterpiece. The greyish and warped faces of animals and soldiers, skewed by the horrors of the Spanish Civil War is a sight that lingers in the memory for hours after.
Next on the to-do list was Madrid’s Thyssen-Bornemisza National Museum. Once the private collection of Barons Hans-Heinrich Thyssen-Bornemisza, the art museum is home to 775 paintings and is brimming with a mixture of European to 20th-century American artists. From the layered strokes of Lucien Freud to the contorted figures of Francis Bacon to the dreamlike surrealism of Salvador Dali, there is something for everyone in this artistic funfair.
After getting my daily dose of culture, I met with my friend in her local market of Mercado de la Cebada in La Latina to sort our dinner. I practised my unconfident hola and gracias and asked ¿Cuánto cuesta? when bartering with the fishmongers for some freshly-caught langoustines and with the butchers for a spatchcocked chicken. The absence of an oven in my friends’ apartment meant that everything (and I mean everything) had to face the capricious wrath of the BBQ. While taking a quick reprieve from the heat, we suddenly smelt the overpowering heaviness of charcoal. The first victim on our BBQ was the chicken, and it had been sizzled and grilled to the point where it looked like it had been marinated in volcanic ash. “Let’s call it chargrilled,” I said to my friend reassuringly, as she started to panic.
Eventually, as the sun began to set behind her neighbourhood, everything came together. We made Paloma cocktails for a party of eight and tucked into a grand feast of garlic and chilli langoustines, tomato and basil salad, toasted baguette, and our “chargrilled” chicken. Bellies full, we rolled ourselves into the mescal bar opposite before making our way into central Madrid to chase the night and try to remember how to dance.
The next day, we headed out with bleary eyes to line our stomachs. My friend decided this was an appropriate time to take me to her favourite seafood place called Bar Cruz; small plates of fried cuttlefish, fresh scallops, and anchovies and razor clams rolled out like lapping waves. To shake off our seasickness, we decided to go on a walking tour of the 21 Districts of Madrid. From upscale Salamanca to the nonchalant Cheuca to the hipster cafés of Malasaña, we eventually headed north to end up at Plaza de Olavide to meet with friends. The circular plaza was heaving with people on a Saturday night, where Madrileños spilt out into the alfresco terraces, snacking on Jamon croquettes and patatas bravas and clinking their frothy beers to another night in the city.
On Sunday, we escaped the city crowds and rented a car to take us north of Madrid, out to the mountain town of Buitrago de Lozova. As you mooch about in the old town, you are dwarfed by the ruined castle, built in the 15th century on the site of a former Moorish fortress. Surprisingly, the little town is also home to its own Picasso museum, holding the collection of Eugenio Arias, a local who befriended Picasso when he became his barber while both were exiled in France. The small collection is based around pieces given to Arias by Picasso as gifts and has his line drawings, terracotta ceramics, personal letters and books.
We hiked to the top of the hill and looked out to the charming town of Buitrago de Lozova before walking through the towering forests to reach a patch of the Risoequillo reservoir. While people kayaked and paddle-boarded in the distance, we decided on the slothful alternative of a picnic of bread and cheese. Eventually, and after a few farewell pisco sours and fresh ceviche, it was time to head back. Freshly swabbed and armed with my various Covid-19 documentation, I headed to the airport to make the retreat home.
If you, like me, are consumed by wanderlust are looking for a great escape, Madrid could be the ticket. On a long weekend I only managed to scratch the surface of a city that siestas but never sleeps. Make sure you find time to go and listen to some jazz and blues at Café Central, see the Velàquez and Goya collections at the Prado, and watch the peacocks strut their panache at Retiro park. The city is full of things to do and see. What’s more, it’s only a two hour and twenty-minute flight away. A qué esperas?