2 hours ago
1
September 17, 2025 — 5:00am
As a penny-pinching backpacker on my first trip to Spain in 1988, I had to decide between a side trip to Ronda and … oh, I can’t remember. Probably a few more beers in some cute little bar I’d found in Cordoba, followed by a nice lie-in the next day. Whatever the undoubtedly dodgy calculation was, it most likely made sense at the time. Still, I’ve spent decades regretting it.
So now, 37 years later, I find myself in Spain again, visiting my daughter, who is on exchange at the University of Granada, with Ronda in striking distance. No matter how many beers and bars might tempt me, I’m determined to get there this time.
Ronda is a hill town in Andalusia cleft in two by a limestone gorge that plunges some 120 metres from the top of the plateau to the river floor.
On the south side is the old town, a medieval Moorish settlement with tightly winding cobbled streets, stone buildings dating back to the 12th century, and knockout views over the fertile valleys that surround it. To the north is the new town, with its linear street plan and waves of buildings that, like the bark rings of a tree, go from oldest (15th century) to newest the further out you go.
Joining the two sides is the Puente Nuevo (new bridge), a towering 18th century stone construction that soars from the river floor to the streets far above, seemingly defying gravity. No wonder so many tourists make time for this remarkable sight.
Getting there from Granada should be simple, or so I think. For once, I’ll swallow my pride and book a coach tour. But no; all the coach tours are sold out, so I’ll have to make other plans.
There’s no direct train, but I soon stumble upon BlaBlaCar, a ride-share app in the truest sense: people who are making trips offer a seat in their vehicle, and people who want to make a trip but don’t have access to a vehicle can flag their destination and hope someone responds.
Amazingly, I find someone who’s heading to Ronda the morning I want to go, and someone else coming back in the afternoon. The round trip will cost me about $40. Yay! I book my rides.
The return journey is confirmed immediately, but I have to wait for a thumbs up for the outward leg. A couple of hours later, a message lands: no go. The driver is fully booked, or maybe she doesn’t like the look of me, or perhaps she’s changed her plans or just doesn’t fancy a trip with a strange man (fair enough, too); I have no way of knowing, no way of asking. Whatever, I now have a ride back from Ronda but no ride there.
So I head back to the public transport options, such as they are. Via the UK-based Trainline app, I find I can get a bus from Granada to a little town called Antequera, and from there, a train to Ronda. It will take four hours all up, but I’ll have about that long again in town, just enough time to wander around and see the sights. So I book it.
The ride through the Andalusian countryside is pleasant – in April, it’s a lush, green and abundant food bowl – and as we pull into Antequera, home to some spectacular Bronze Age burial sites, I spot the railway station, just a short walk from the Estacion de autobus. Perfect. I can grab a much-needed coffee and snack and get there with plenty of time to spare.
Except it turns out tjat Antequera has two railway stations, and 10 minutes before the high-speed train to Ronda is due to arrive, I realise I’m at the wrong one. The other one is Antequera Santa Ana, which is 11 kilometres out of town. I’ve only gone and missed the bleeding thing.
In my defence, there are (or so I am told by the delightful station manager) only two places in Spain with two intercity stations. One is Madrid, with a population of 7 million; the other is Antequera, with 42,000 people. Go figure.
(Just to make matters worse, she also tells me that I could in fact have caught a train from Granada to this “wrong” station in Antequera, a journey that would have taken just 45 minutes instead of two hours.)
I’m starting to wonder now if the universe isn’t conspiring to keep me and my intended destination apart. So I ask the manager if she has any suggestions.
“There’s a train to Ronda at 4.30pm,” she says. Not a great option: my ride home leaves at 4. Can I get a taxi? She calls the local service, and bingo – but it will cost €118 ($208).
I have an instant flashback to my first experience of Spain in 1988, a 4.30am ride from the airport to the railway station in Alicante, which left the taxi driver laughing all the way to el Banco. History is about to repeat. To hell with it, I tell her. I’ll do it.
When the driver turns up, he has to check that I really do mean to go to Ronda, an hour and 100 kilometres or so away. “Si,” I say, shrugging apologetically. “OK,” he says, already imagining the laughs he’ll get when he tells his mates about the crazy turista over cervezas tonight.
And so we drive, wordlessly (he speaks no English, I speak almost no Spanish), listening to bad pop music on FM radio (newsflash: blokey Spanish DJs guffaw just as annoyingly as Australian ones) through more spectacular countryside until we hit the outskirts of the city.
My heart sinks a little. It looks exactly like the outskirts of every other Spanish town, with nondescript mid-rise apartment blocks and wide roads and a distinct lack of charm. The driver leans back over the seat and looks at me as if to say, “you came here … for this?” And I’m thinking exactly the same.
Still, I get out and start walking down the main thoroughfare of the new town, which becomes progressively older as I near the gorge. I reach the bullring, built in 1784 and one of the oldest in Spain. I carry on to a little park, and there it is: my first glimpse of the mighty gorge and the endless green fields below. It’s spectacular.
For the next few hours, I wander through town, up and down narrow cobbled streets, in and out of churches that used to be mosques, stopping for a lunch of gazpacho and churros in a plaza ringed by mighty pine trees. I scale the ramparts of the ruined alcazaba, only noticing the “entrada prohibida” sign on my way down (I swear, your Honour), and generally have a ball.
I reckon I manage to wring every drop out of that €118 before making it to my 4pm ride home.
Sitting in that car with three strangers, Granada-bound, I feel a little sense of mission accomplished. Yes, I really did come here for this, after 37 years and a brief side trip to Antequera. And I’m so glad I did.
THE DETAILS
VISIT
Ronda is 177 kilometres south-west of Granada, roughly 2½ hours by car. You can get there by train via Antequera (three to four hours, $80 return, see raileurope.com), or via coach (that’s an all-day trip for about $245).
FLY
It’s possible to fly to Granada from Australia (typically via Madrid), but it’s better value to fly to Madrid and take a bus from there (it takes roughly the same time). Return flights to Madrid from about $2000 economy, and the bus (five hours, $45) leaves from the airport. See alsa.com
STAY
Though there has been a pushback against short-term apartment rentals in many parts of Spain, including Andalusia, it is still possible to find properties in Granada on Airbnb. A small apartment in the Albaicin, the historic Moorish district where flamenco holds sway, can be found from $150 a night. See airbnb.com
The writer travelled at his own expense. See turismoderonda.es/en, turismo.granada.org/en
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