From Madrid airport, we race underground beneath the face of Spain. 

Onto a bus. Through the city and out on to a wide plain. Always with hills in the distance. Past endless miles of orange trees and olive groves we go; descending slow.

The landscape starts to change.

Scorched ambers score wildly through barren, rocky outcrops. Mountains puncture the ground and race to the sky in an effort to stagger you with their rugged beauty. Small towns perch on distance crags; white, white, all so very white - blanching in the golden afternoon sunlight.

Here lies Andalucia, land of the Moors, wonderful art and architecture, wild countryside and an even wilder nightlife.

Seville, or Sevilla to give it its proper name, was instantly memorable - not because of the way it looked or smelled or sounded, but because it had me, Robert Jamieson the great human GPS, lost almost instantly.

Sevilla's tiny, rickety streets all lean in on each other and meander in circles made up of more than 360 degrees. They were built this way to keep out the deadly mid summer heat - and it works well. It also keeps people in, perpetually lost. I kept expecting to see that last Japanese soldier wandering around thinking the war was still on, or discover the ever hungry crew of the Marie Celeste looking for a restaurant.

Chris and I were hunting for our hotel. We ended up on some tiny street outside what looked like somebody's home. An ornate door led into a gated, covered courtyard from which elaborate vines hung from an iron balustrade. Strange, dark - almost gothic - and quite lovely. 

We rang the bell (the only one with a name - Margot) but were only greeted by a little dog yapping upstairs. Chris started calling up the stairs through the gated front door, but there was still no reply.

I dug out my iPhone and checked the address details. They were completely wrong. Poor old Margot must have been hiding upstairs wondering what the hell these British thugs wanted. I still don't know why I had those address details!

We consulted Google maps, which told us where the hotel was - which also turned out to be completely wrong.

Eventually we found it, stashed our bags and went out for a drink. We sampled a couple of the local bars - all quite friendly, but at the last one, the barmaid came screaming down the road after us, accusing us of not paying (which we had). A quick word with what looked like the owner and she calmed down very quickly. It must be a common and genuine error with Brits - we're used to paying immediately for drinks - but on this occasion the barmaid was being as thick as Dan Brown's latest book (and I'm not talking physical dimensions here).

The next day we walked around town. I tried to familiarise myself with the place but I was having real trouble orientating. I absolutely love tiny little streets because I always feel tempted to wander down them as if they will lead to some fantasy land full of strange creatures. This happened to me once in King's Lynn, although that was probably less to do with magic and more to do with inbreeding.

We stopped off at a restaurant near the bus terminal and ordered food. 

Chris proceeded to eat my order as well as his own. Fucking bastard!

I don't blame him, the portions were small and the prices extortionate - even I thought it was his dish. The food was appalling. Each item had its own personal lake of grease to swim in, so I was actually in his debt. Here's a tip - always eat in restaurants that are busy (they're busy for a reason) and as far away from bus/train/airport terminals (tourist traps) as possible. Busy tourist traps do not count!

Reeling from the cost of the rubbish we had just consumed (and probably from mild food poisoning too) we circled town and I started to get my bearings a little. It was pretty!

We ducked into the centre of town and checked out the main square and adjoining arteries filled with the same old clothes shops you get all over Spain. The Spanish dress very well. Like the Italians, they take great pride in their sartorial elegance and look good at looking good.

Siesta started to kick in and lots of the shops closed so we wandered slowly back to the hotel, now wilting under the onslaught of the Spanish sun.

Later that night, Chris was exhausted and didn't feel like venturing out. However I reminded him that it was a Saturday night and it was his duty to go out and represent our great nation at what we do best - getting absolutely fucking hammered. He beat his chest and saluted Her Majesty before following me to the pub - for England. Of course, I'm Scottish so I need no such excuse.

We found a place to drink in the centre of town by ear. That's because there was a throng of people collected in a plaza outside the bar, and the noise of their conversations could be heard several streets away.

We wove our path between the people and bought drinks at the bar - which was very small and had no queue, just a constantly moving stream of people coming and going with their orders. It was a great system and it worked well.

We got chatting to some of the local girls who suggested a few things we should do and see while we were here. We put this information to good use the next day, visiting some of the city's grander sites, but for now, we had more drinking to do.

We struck off in some random direction and after a couple of bars we stumbled upon the Cathedral. This gothic masterpiece was a wonderful discovery; it filled me with surprise and awe at its magnificence.

The next day we set out to visit the Alcazar. I saw a tower in the distance and we stumbled upon this.

The Plaza de España was built in 1929 for the Spanish-American exhibition to highlight Spain's business and industry achievements. This wonderful building is built in a semicircle with a moat running beside it, with bridges crossing the moat to a central fountain.

Apparently, it's a rather late example in the revival of Moorish architecture that swept Europe in the mid 19th century. All I can say is that I loved it, despite one guide book writer describing it as gaudy. I'd hate to see her fucking house.

However, for authentic Mudéjar architecture, we next visited the Alcazar, Sevilla’s Royal Palace.

Mudéjar is the name often given to the Muslim groups who stayed in Spain when it was recaptured by the Christians in the Middle Ages. Although the Mudéjar submitted to the Christian rulers, they never gave up their faith or their cultural influences, although they often interwove Christian influences into their own. This resulted in some spectacular palatial buildings being erected usually on the site of existing forts left over from the Moorish invasion. These structures rose up across southern Spain and they combine the geometric accuracy of Christian buildings with the sophistry and intricacy of the Muslim artisans of the time.

If you think that the invasion of the Moors is about a bunch of Yorkshiremen introducing cloth caps and ale into Spain, then fair enough, I won’t bang on about it. But it’s an interesting period of history that can easily be researched on the internet.

I loved Sevilla, it's people, sights, sounds, smells. Apart from that one meal. That smelled like Boris Johnson on a hot day after a jog around a sewage works. Okay, so the food let me down. However, I urge anyone visiting Southern Spain to go Sevilla. It is lively, vibrant and unique. Much better than Malaga - which will be part three of the Spanish Steps series. Look forward to it!