Madrid welcomes me with an evening fiesta, the streets packed with singalong students as I land in the capital.

It’s holiday time – not that the locals ever need an excuse to stay up late – and old men slumber on cafe terraces, their empty red wine glasses piling up like souvenir trophies.

Smells of jamon serrano and fresh coffee filter onto a broad city square, young people dance around an equestrian statue of 17th century King Philip III, and it’s 2am before the laughter starts to subside.

Every year I visit Madrid and every year it’s the same.

Is there a more relaxed place to spend 48 hours?

My sister moved to the Spanish capital four years ago and I’ve been visiting ever since.

Not that Madrid requires an excuse, especially with Ryanair running direct flights from Malta.

Unlike Barcelona, a city bursting with the must-see and iconic sights, Madrid rewards those seeking a more local experience.

Huge posters cover old buildings, dividing the city along football lines: white for Real Madrid and red and white for Atletico Madrid. But as I watch the revelry on Puerto del Sol, I only see a unified city.

If this was Barcelona, there would be bachelor parties, scam artists, touts shoving restaurant menus under my nose and a city centre avoided by locals.

Madrid is indelibly Spanish. It remains devoid of tourist hoards and hasn’t been adulterated by Irish pubs and obscene entrance prices.

While English isn’t as widely spoken as in Barcelona, failing to speak Spanish doesn’t inhibit what to do.

I find Madrid is best enjoyed without a plan. It rewards getting lost.

Across the city, buildings have an unassuming elegance, gentle pastel shades sloping downhill and punctuated by white window frames.

Most corners bring a cafe, a smattering of seats filled with locals nibbling at sandwiches, smoking profusely and throwing back espressos.

Streets run straight and true, sometimes culminating in a soft, yellow-tinged church or a theatre that still clings to its early 20th century opulence.

The centre can be crossed on foot, which is good because the Vodafone-sponsored metro is painted so intensely red you need sunglasses underground.

Use the metro and Madrid seems bankrupt. How could a city of such indelible charm sell out like this?

But on foot, there’s hardly an international brand in sight.

Hidden surprises fill the streets: a bookshop that smells of fresh paint, a library that’s been built into 15th- century ruins, steps that lead down to great wine cellars, graffiti that enhances rather than scars.

Madrid’s list of attractions isn’t as long as Barcelona’s and the best of the city neatly fits into 48 hours.

First, an Egyptian temple perched on a hill, hieroglyphics etched into large stone slabs and views of Madrid cascading below.

Now the Prado Museum holds me captive, the art gallery loaded with old-fashioned portraits and oil paintings dating back most of a millennia.

The international sections are impressive, yet it’s the collection of Spanish art that transfixes: Velásquez’s impressions of the kings, the bold colours of Goya, extravagance in Rubens’s work.

Madrid rewards getting lost

I’ve only got two hours to enjoy it because I’m following local advice. On midweek evenings, the museum is free to enter from 6pm to 8pm.

Other galleries form a similar ode to the past, such as the Thyseen-Bornemiszo and its paintings laced in golden frames.

Or the gaudy interior of the Cerralbo Museum, an ode to 19th-century pomp and razzmatazz, where glass chandeliers hang above sculpted faces, canvases of great artists fill whole walls and the opulence borders on the bizarre.

It’s also free in the evening, but the €3 entry tickets precluded waiting until dusk.

When the sun disappears, the squares come alive.

Dos cerveza is the limit of my vocabulary, pronounced in an indecipherable accent.

The waiters just laugh and somehow the tapas keeps arriving.

Order one beer and a small plate of potatoes also arrives at the table. But show loyalty to the bar and the quality of snack improves.

After three beers I’m given four king prawns.

After five beers, the chef personally serves me a hot pork loin with aioli and roasted pepper.

Some bars even have tapas menus, and with each beer you can choose a plate: mini hamburgers, aubergine fritters, pickled fish and a dozen dishes that I can’t decipher. It can be dangerous.

You think you’re eating, but you’re just getting drunk. It’s a universal language: food and beer.

Three hours later I’m dancing around a statue of fictional Spanish hero Don Quixote, the man who started a fight against 30 windmills and revived chivalry.

Into my second day in Madrid and the grandeur continues at the Royal Palace.

An open courtyard is flanked by enigmatic Roman columns and a glorious view over the city.

Lavish corridors take me through rooms of porcelain and tapestry.

In the official royal pharmacy: thimbles of medicine are proudly displayed, boxes are adorned with gold leaf and the collection of bottled herbs seems potent enough to turn anyone into Don Quixote.

Nearby, the Plaza Mayor is probably the city’s most famous sight, an open square that’s surrounded with blazing red terraces.

It’s majestic, the vivid buildings gazing down on cobblestones and cafe terraces.

A section of terraced walls are covered in 18th-century paintings of naked women.

Some dance provocatively between the windows, while others have a demure glance that catches the attention.

It’s here that I find other tourists, although there’s still not many of them, and the local feel remains.

Choosing an archway off the square, I head through the very centre of Madrid.

It's blissfully devoid of traffic fumes and stress.

Each turn brings something new: tiled mosaics cover cafe interiors, hot chocolate fumes wafting down a narrow alley and the city continuing its dedication to sculpting fictional warriors.

And when my feet get tired, there are dozens of cafe to choose from.

Madrid may not have the longest list of famous sights, but it definitely offers plenty of places to fill the remaining hours.

The Jamon Museum is my favourite. It’s not a museum, it’s a cafe that offers huge plates of cured ham and glasses of beer for 40cents.

Innumerable leg joints cover the wall and ceiling, tempting every drinker to make a purchase.

Homeless-looking men stand at the bar and throw back their glasses, while suited businessmen chat beneath distinct smells.

I find the atmosphere symbolic of the city. Everything flows to a slow rhythm and a languid style.

Yet each action is done with passion and enthusiasm.

Drinks are delivered with a flourish and jokes are as ubiquitous as the serrano.

In a half-drunk, half-overawed mood, I maintain my annual tradition of rambling adoration about Madrid to my sister.

The city offers a quintessential city escape. The attractions are not oversold or overpriced, yet radiate old-world charm and inimitability.

The atmosphere is wonderfully relaxed and there’s enough mystery to keep everyone entertained.

And there’s no need for an excuse to laze away the hours on cafe terraces and broad city squares.

That’s what Madrid is all about.