Olivares

The morning bus from Sevilla drops you at the edge of Olivares with a hiss of air brakes and the smell of diesel mixing with orange blossom. At 169 metres above the Guadalquivir valley, the air here carries a faint chill even in April—enough to make locals keep their jackets on while Sevillanos below are already in shirtsleeves. It's this altitude, modest though it seems, that once drew the city's aristocracy uphill each summer, leaving the heat to ferment in the capital's narrow lanes.

What they found, and what remains today, is a compact grid of whitewashed houses where agricultural time still dictates the rhythm. The 9,444 inhabitants might commute to office jobs in Sevilla—25 kilometres away, 35 minutes on the A-8076 when traffic behaves—but the conversation in the bars still revolves around olive yields and rainfall figures. Their village sits squarely in the Aljarafe, a ridge of rolling countryside whose very name comes from the Arabic for "observatory," an appropriate vantage point across one of Spain's most productive olive landscapes.

The Counts' Back Garden, Now Everyone's Shortcut

Start at the Plaza de Andalucía just after 10 a.m. when the day’s delivery vans are double-parked and the chemist’s blind is half-rolled. The church tower of Santa María de las Nieves rises directly ahead, its medieval bones patched and re-patched after earthquakes and rebuilding sprees. Inside, baroque altarpieces gleam with the kind of gold leaf that makes British church-goers blink; locals hardly notice, they're too busy shepherding children towards the side chapel for First Communion practice. The carving of the Virgin above the high altar is small, almost domestic in scale, yet August processions swell to a thousand bearers when she is carried through streets strewn with rosemary.

Five minutes north, past houses whose door-knockers sit at horse-rider height, the Palacio de los Condes de Olivares keeps watch from behind rusting railings. Don't expect a National Trust experience: one wing is propped up with scaffolding, swallows nest in broken balustrades, and the gardens have shrunk to a rectangle of palm stumps and litter. Still, with a bit of historical imagination—helped by the new interpretive panels in occasionally eccentric English—you can picture the 17th-century courtiers who plotted here, corresponding with ambassadors while the olive income rolled in. The palace forecourt makes a useful short-cut between residential streets; grand architecture reduced to neighbourhood convenience.

Oil, Oranges and the Occasional Oxtail Stew

The surrounding groves explain both the village's name and its economy. Some trees were planted when Dickens was still writing serials; their trunks have twisted into elephant-skin spirals, each fissure marking a drought, a frost, or a Civil War skirmish. A dawn walk along the signed footpath towards Gerena gives views west over the Guadalquivir plain, the river itself a silver thread between cereal fields. In late March the undergrowth glows yellow with Bermuda buttercups; by June everything turns the colour of burnt toast until the first September storm rolls through from the Atlantic.

Serious hikers can link Olivares into the longer Aljarafe circuit (12 km to Sanlúcar la Mayor, buses back until 19:30), but most visitors are content with a two-hour loop, finishing at one of the village bars for a second breakfast. Order a tostada with local extra-virgin oil—peppery enough to make you cough—and you'll pay €2.20. If the season's right (October to February), the same menu carries rabo de toro, oxtail stew, rich enough to keep a ploughman going. Vegetarians should ask for espinacas con garbanzos; it's a standby that even the most carnivorous kitchens get right.

Café-bar Aldoan on the square keeps English breakfast tea in stock for nostalgic drivers, though the Andalusian habit of serving scalding milk alongside weak leaves still confuses newcomers. Better to join the counter queue for café con leche and listen: one man discusses tractor parts, another recites football scores, the barista breaks off to ring a bell announcing fresh churros. No one hurries you; turnover relies on neighbours finishing conversations, not on corporate targets.

When the Village Lets Its Hair Down

Summer brings the Feria de Agosto, when population swells to triple size. Locals who left for Madrid or Barcelona return with toddlers in tow, set up casetas in a fairground that smells of mantecado and diesel generators. If you've endured the more famous Seville Fair, Olivares offers a smaller, cheaper alternative: a glass of fino is €1.50, and strangers will still drag you into a sevillanas circle even if your rhythm is strictly BBC ballroom. Accommodation, though, becomes impossible unless you've booked a cousin's spare room months ahead—there are no hotels within the municipal boundary, and the nearest rural houses lie 15 kilometres towards Guillena.

Out of season the calendar thins. Semana Santa processions are intimate: six bearers, one trumpet, a drum, and the Virgin carried at shoulder height down lanes barely three metres wide. Winter evenings centre on the nativity scene competition; prizes go to the most inventive use of cork and moss. British visitors sometimes arrive expecting a grand visitor centre and leave disappointed by the informality. The castle keep opens only Saturday and Sunday afternoons between October and March; entrance is €2, cash only, and the five-minute subtitled video looks as though it was edited on Windows 95. Yet that very modesty is part of the experience—no audio guides, no exit-through-gift-shop pressure, just a caretaker who switches the lights on if you turn up.

Practicalities Without the Pep Talk

Getting here without a car requires patience: trains from Sevilla-Santa Justa stop at Herrera, 12 kilometres away, roughly hourly; a taxi from the rank costs €12 unless you phone ahead in Spanish for a deal. Buses exist but timetables differ weekdays from weekends—check the ALSA site the night before. Once in Olivares everything is walkable, though gradients can reach one-in-eight; bring proper footwear, not holiday flip-flops.

Spring and autumn remain the most comfortable seasons. April daytime peaks hover around 22 °C, nights drop to 10 °C—jumper weather for anyone raised on British summers. August, by contrast, hits 38 °C by noon; the village empties between 14:00 and 18:00 while even the dogs seek shade. Winter is mild but houses lack central heating; if you stay overnight off-site, confirm the room has heating or you'll be dining in your coat.

Phone signal is generally reliable, yet WhatsApp dominates local arrangements. If you fancy an olive-oil workshop, message the tourist office Facebook page at least 48 hours ahead; spontaneous drop-ins rarely coincide with staff rotas. Similarly, English is understood in the younger bars, less so in the bakery—download an offline Spanish dictionary before you leave Seville.

Parting Glance

Olivares won't change your life. It offers no Instagram-ready palace, no Michelin-starred revelation, no boutique hotel with plunge pools. What it does provide is a slice of working Aljarafe life: the smell of new oil in November, the clatter of agricultural trailers at dawn, the easy conversation of people whose families have been negotiating the same plaza for centuries. Turn up, walk the grid, drink the coffee, and by the time the bus wheezes back down the hill you'll have seen something increasingly rare—an Andalusian village that belongs first to its residents, and only secondly to whoever happens to visit that day.