He must have known I was coming. It was just too good to be true. My first day in Cordoba, my first day in Spain, I walk into the prettiest, shabbiest little plaza, from where you can see the river swollen in the background and the barren hilly countryside stretching out deep into the distance.
Not a soul in sight, sounds of the city traffic muffled by the thick walls of the stocky, whitewashed houses, then just a tinkle of a bell round a dog's collar. There, in the middle of the sun-drenched square, leaning on the fountain, was its owner, a white-haired old man with a thick-oiled moustache, decked out in sombrero, flamenco boots, white shirt, leather bootlace round the neck and filterless cigarette in the mouth. Aha, Spain at last. But before I could say "Hola", he had clicked his high, sloping heels and disappeared.
It's that kind of place, Cordoba. Magical, weird, impossible to get a handle on. One minute you find something interesting, the next you've lost it. The old city is bound by tiny little alleyways, sometimes no wider than a generous senora's girth, which without warning lead to dead ends or secret little courtyards filled with orange trees and geraniums. Forget trying to use a map; you just have to wander aimlessly in the sun and prepare to get lost.
Soon after Sombrero Man, I stumbled across Almodovar Film Set. I was trying increasingly desperately to find my way to the one big sight of Cordoba that in high season draws coach-loads of tourists on day-trips from neighbouring Seville or Granada - the grand Mezquita.
Lost, I collapsed exhausted outside the church of Santa Clara. A dark-haired woman was standing just in front of me with four kids clawing at her skirts as she cursed a half-naked blonde woman in the first-floor window. Blonde screams back. War breaks out, the noise is intense: kids bawling, women screeching, windows slamming. A policeman arrives. What a relief.
But no, the policeman joins in. Clearly part of the scene. Blonde slams window again, blunders out the door. Policeman screams at her, slams her against the wall. Brunette flicks her teeth, slaps her forearm over and over again. Blonde wrenches free, rushes to car. Brunette breaks windscreen. Second policeman arrives on motorbike. Cue full shouting chorus.
At that point, the great Moorish mosque really came into its own, an absolute oasis of tranquillity. It's worth taking your time here, as it's the only truly interesting place to visit in the city. If you're a museum junkie, there are, of course, others - such as the gallery dedicated to the big local artist Julio Romero de Torres, all flesh and silk stockings and unsubtle symbolism. Or there's the bullfighting museum, slightly sick and weird, full of bulls' heads and bloodied capes.
But they pale beside the extraordinary, beautiful Mezquita. The first impression of this 8th-century mosque - originally intended as Islam's most grandiose - is distinctly eerie. As you wander through the dense forest of marble columns and red-and-white-striped arches, the last thing you expect to come across is a huge, run-of-the-mill Renaissance cathedral bizarrely plonked bang in the middle of the mosque in the 16th century. Barbaric. Until you realise the mosque had, in turn, been built on the site of a Visigoth cathedral and a Roman temple.
Moslem round arches alternate with Gothic pointed arches. The mihrab, pointing to Mecca, nestles under the most fantastically intricate mosaic ceiling between two gloomy chapels. The fusion of religions is odd, strangely inspiring, but filled with a sense of blundering aggression. The unique tension, however, is then offset by the peaceful courtyard next door, filled with exotic trees and fountains, where the faithful wash before prayer.
Drinks time. A long time.
I decide on another siesta to pass the hours and insure myself against sherry fatigue. A Spanish novice, I'd only just cottoned on to the fact that it's tourist suicide to eat before 10 p.m. or even 11 p.m., unless you crave the soulless experience of being alone in a restaurant, that is. At night there's a deathly quiet in the air. There may, just possibly, be a massive night scene in Cordoba but, on the face of it, the city seems pretty night-life-light and, anyway, I'm knackered.
I wander slowly back to my hotel, taking a detour via the lovely Plaza del Potro. Aha. Leaning back against the fountain puffing smoke into the night sky, dog at his feet, is Sombrero Man. Comforted, I head off to bed.
The next day it's off to the Palacio de Viana for a bit of a pick-me-up. Best known for its courtyards - all 13 of them - the 14th-century palace turns out to be top daydreaming territory: fine views and heady scents. Each courtyard has its own fountain and its own plants. Bougainvillea in the well courtyard, roses in the garden courtyard, jasmine in the oddly-named Madame courtyard and wisteria and agapanthus in the orange tree courtyard. And of course, just as in the whole of Cordoba, geraniums everywhere. Bliss.
I feel invigorated, and so does my stomach. So, to quell its rumblings, I wander into the fantastic, colonnaded Plaza de la Corredera for fresh tomatoes on toast and ice-cold sherry. The market's in full swing, buzzing with gossip and screeches of laughter, stuffed with fruit, veg, furniture, clothes . . . and there he is . . . bingo.
Cornered between two scary-looking women - all short, sturdy legs, black hair, black eyes, black dresses, gold hooped earrings - screaming "Venga! Venga!" and sitting meekly behind the fancy lace tablecloth stall lurks . . . you guessed it . . . Senor Sombrero. He looks up, nods and raises an eyebrow. I nod, blush, then disappear.