Gelves

The 7.30 am commuter train from Gelves delivers office workers to Seville's Santa Justa station in fourteen minutes flat. By 8 am they're sipping cortados beneath the Giralda, while back in the village the bakery on Calle Real is just pulling its first molletes from the oven. This daily exodus explains why Gelves feels half-asleep until the school run begins – and why parking near the parish church remains blissfully simple compared with Seville's €2.50-an-hour centre.

Twenty-six metres above sea level, the village sits on the last ripple of the Aljarafe plateau before the land drops into the Guadalquivir valley. Olive groves push right up to the municipal boundary; walk ten minutes south-east and you're among orange trees whose irrigation channels date to Moorish rule. The river itself lies three kilometres away, but its presence shapes everything from the marshy air that drifts in at dusk to the barges you can glimpse from the higher streets, carrying grain towards the Atlantic.

What the guidebooks miss

Most visitors arrive hunting for the church tower that punctuates every view of Gelves. The Iglesia de San Juan Bautista does its job admirably – fifteenth-century brickwork, Mudejar arches, bells that ring the quarter-hour across whitewashed roofs – yet the real fabric of the place is smaller. Look for the ceramic house numbers hand-painted with olives and sprigs of rosemary, or the 1950s metal shutters still working on elbow grease. On Calle San Francisco an elderly resident waters geraniums suspended from a first-floor balcony; the water splashes onto a plaque marking where Republican fighters held a checkpoint in 1936. Nobody stops to read it.

The Plaza de España functions as outdoor living room. Pensioners claim the stone benches beneath eucalyptus trees, while children turn the bandstand into a football cage. On Saturday mornings a solitary van sells churros from 9 am till the dough runs out – usually about 9.45. Bring your own china cup and the vendor knocks twenty cents off the price because he hates waste.

Eating without the coach-party crowd

Gelves doesn't do tasting menus. What it does do is rice dishes that arrive in dented metal pans, and fino sherry poured from bottles kept cool in under-counter fridges. At Bar El Pozo they still cook cocido andaluza on Thursdays: chickpeas, morcilla, strips of cabbage, a hunk of jamón bone for flavour. Order it after 2 pm and you'll share a table with council workers still wearing hi-vis vests.

Down by the river, Puerto Gelves has sprouted a row of open-air restaurants whose terraces jut over the water. Sunset reflects off aluminium speedboats; on the opposite bank, the marsh lights up pink. House speciality is dorada a la sal – whole bream baked in a salt crust then cracked open tableside. Expect to pay €18-22 for fish, half that for a plate of grilled prawns. British visitors note: chips must be requested, and even then arrive as thin Spanish patatas fritas.

If you're self-catering, the Mercadona on the ring-road stocks everything from Tetley tea to Alhambra beer. Its cheese counter will slice Manchego to order, and on Fridays brings in ready-made gazpacho in milk-carton packs – surprisingly good after an hour in the fridge.

Walking off the olive oil

Gelves lacks mountain grandeur; instead it offers gentle loops through working farmland. Pick up the signed path behind the health centre and within twenty minutes you're among thousand-year-old olives, their trunks twisted like retired boxers' ears. The GR-48 long-distance footpath skirts the village, linking to Aljarafe wine towns further west. Spring brings poppies and the smell of fennel; in September the air hums with mechanical harvesters shaking fruit onto nets.

Cyclists appreciate the disused railway converted into a vía verde. From Gelves it's six traffic-free kilometres to the Roman ruins at Santiponce – ride early and you'll share the track only with dog-walkers and the occasional horse. Bike hire is tricky in the village itself; better bring wheels from Seville's Decathlon or book through Bicicletas Macarena, who deliver for €15.

When the village lets its hair down

Fiestas here obey the agricultural calendar. In late June San Juan Bautista arrives with a procession that squeezes past front doors so narrow the costaleros – bearers – have to shuffle sideways. Brass bands play the same three pasos until even visitors can hum them. Midnight brings a firework display launched from the old football pitch; accommodation on Calle Nueva vibrates with each mortar launch.

August fair is less religious, more about sherry and dancing. Streets are draped with paper lanterns that sag in the heat; casetas pop up in the recinto opposite the cemetery. Unlike Seville's April Fair, anyone can walk into any tent – no guest lists, no stiletto heels sinking into grass. The chocolate con churros stand stays open till dawn to absorb the rebujito cocktails.

Come October the olive harvest begins. You'll hear tractors at 6 am and smell diesel mingling with crushed leaves. Farmers stack plastic crates outside cooperatives, arguing over acidity percentages. Some fincas offer day-long picking experiences; wages are paid in litres of oil rather than cash, and lunch is bread rubbed with tomato, a slab of local cheese, and whatever wine was left over from last night.

Getting here, staying put

Seville airport sits 25 minutes west by taxi (fixed fare €28). Public transport requires patience: take the EA airport bus to Plaza de Armas, then Metro-Centro line 1 to Ciudad Expo, followed by a five-minute taxi. Total journey ninety minutes, cost under €6. Hire cars make sense only if you're touring the region – central Seville's parking meters swallow coins faster than the cathedral's collection boxes.

Accommodation is thin on the ground. A handful of Airbnb flats cluster round the church; expect to pay £55-75 a night for two bedrooms and a roof terrace where you can hang washing beneath the bell tower. The smartest option is Casa del Poeta, a nineteenth-century townhouse converted into four suites with plunge pool and original hydraulic tiles. Rates start at €120 including breakfast delivered from the bakery – tortilla still warm, orange juice pressed while you wait.

Check-out time usually coincides with the 11 am commuter rush back to Seville. Stand on the platform and you'll see the same faces that passed you in the plaza last night, now armed with laptops and reusable shopping bags. They'll return this evening, when the village reclaims its rhythm and the only decision is whether to order another beer before the river swallows the last of the sun.