Casabermeja

The cemetery sits higher than the church tower. That tells you everything about Casabermeja's priorities. While most Spanish villages crown their hills with bell towers, this one reserves the summit for its departed residents, who enjoy panoramic views across the Guadalhorce valley while the living make do with whatever scraps of horizon their narrow streets afford.

At 506 metres above sea level, thirty minutes north of Málaga airport, Casabermeja occupies that sweet spot where the Costa del Sol's humidity finally gives up. The air here carries the scent of woodsmoke and wild herbs rather than sunscreen and fried seafood. It's a working village first, tourist destination second—though the ratio shifts slightly each year as more Brits discover they can rent a cottage for £400 a week and pretend they've stumbled upon 'real Spain'.

The Cemetery That Started It All

British visitors rarely come for the architecture. They come for the dead. The municipal cemetery, reached via a steep fifteen-minute climb from the main square, has become something of a macabre pilgrimage site. Guidebooks repeat the myth that bodies are buried standing up—locals still chuckle about the confused tourist who asked where to find the "vertical graves". The truth is more prosaic: the cemetery's unusual above-ground niches create optical illusions that make the departed appear to be standing sentinel over their hillside domain.

What isn't mythical are the views. From the cemetery walls, the rolling hills of Antequera stretch south towards Málaga, a patchwork of olive groves and almond orchards that turns white with blossom in February. Bring binoculars and you can trace the A-45 motorway snaking back towards the coast, a reminder that civilisation remains conveniently close should the rural silence become overwhelming.

The cemetery architecture itself warrants attention. Built in the nineteenth century when cholera outbreaks filled the churchyard faster than they could dig, the neat rows of miniature houses-for-the-dead represent a peculiarly Spanish solution to overcrowding. Each niche, sealed with marble and decorated with fading photographs, tells its own story of migration—many bear dedications from family members in Manchester, Birmingham and London, testament to the village's diaspora who left for factory work in the sixties and never returned.

Walking Between Olives and Goats

The surrounding countryside offers proper walking without the crowds that plague the Caminito del Rey. A network of senderos radiates from the village, waymarked with varying degrees of enthusiasm by the local council. The most straightforward route follows the old livestock trail towards Sierra de Camarolos, a steady three-hour circuit that passes through olive groves where farmers still harvest by hand, beating branches with long canes while sheets spread beneath catch the falling fruit.

Spring brings the best conditions—temperatures hover around 18°C in March, wildflowers punctuate the verges, and the air carries enough moisture to make breathing comfortable rather than the furnace blast of high summer. Autumn works too, though October can surprise with sudden downpours that turn the clay paths treacherous. Summer walking requires military planning: start at dawn, finish by eleven, carry two litres of water minimum. The mountain location means winter nights drop to 4°C even when Málaga enjoys 20°C sunshine—pack accordingly.

For serious hikers, the Montes de Málaga Natural Park begins twenty minutes drive north. Pine forests here trap cooler air, creating proper walking weather even in August. The park's river trails offer shade and the possibility of spotting wild boar, though they're more likely to smell you first and melt into the undergrowth.

Food That Doesn't Mess About

Casabermeja's restaurants don't do tasting menus or foam. They do plates of food that would make a Weight Watchers counsellor weep. The local speciality, plato de los Montes, arrives as a geological survey of Andalucian agriculture: pork loin, chorizo, black pudding, fried egg and chips stacked in a pile that defies gravity and cardiac science. It's essentially a full English that swapped the beans for chorizo—a comfort food bridge for British palates struggling with gazpacho.

Restaurante El Puerto, on the main road into town, serves the best version. Book ahead for Sunday lunch or join the queue of locals clutching car keys and grandmothers. The menu changes with the agricultural calendar—rabbit with garlic appears in winter, migas (fried breadcrumbs with chorizo) dominates during olive harvest, and September's Goat Festival brings cheese tastings that convert even the most ardent goat-sceptic. The queso de cabra here tastes creamy rather than, well, goaty.

For lighter fare, Bar La Plaza does excellent tapas. Their boquerones (anchovies in vinegar) come fresh from the coast forty minutes away, and the tortilla arrives still warm from a pan bigger than most British kitchen tables. Local wine costs €2.50 a glass and carries enough alcohol content to make the walk back to your accommodation seem further than it did on the way in.

When to Visit and When to Stay Away

The village calendar revolves around agricultural rhythms rather than tourist convenience. Semana Santa brings processions that feel genuinely devotional rather than performed—locals pack the narrow streets to watch hooded penitents carry thrones depicting the crucifixion, maintaining silence broken only by drum beats and the occasional mobile phone ringtone.

September's Goat Festival provides the most accessible cultural experience. The main square fills with stalls selling artisanal cheese, local honey and enough chorizo to stock a small delicatessen. Live music starts at noon and continues until the last grandmother leaves, usually around 2am. British visitors particularly appreciate the free samples—turn up hungry and you won't need lunch.

Avoid August unless you enjoy temperatures of 38°C and restaurants that close for siesta at 4pm, reopening only when the heat becomes bearable. Many businesses shut entirely during the second half of August while locals escape to the coast—ironic given that coastal residents drive inland to escape the humidity.

Getting There and Getting Stuck

Car hire remains essential. The Alsa bus from Málaga runs hourly in theory, less frequently in practice, and drops you in the village centre with no onward connections to walking trails or neighbouring attractions. A week's car rental from Málaga airport starts at £120—split between four people and it becomes cheaper than the bus while providing access to El Torcal's limestone formations and Antequera's dolmens.

Accommodation options remain limited but improving. Three rural houses offer self-catering from €80 per night, while Casa Aranda provides proper hotel service with breakfast included. Book early for Easter and September—the village's growing reputation among British repeat visitors means the best places fill six months ahead.

The real risk isn't logistical—it's temporal. Visitors arrive for a weekend and find themselves still there a week later, drawn into the rhythm of church bells and morning coffee, learning to distinguish between the different goat bells echoing across the valley. The cemetery views start seeming normal rather than morbid. The plato de los Montes becomes lunch rather than a challenge.

That's when you know Casabermeja has worked its particular magic. Whether that's a recommendation or a warning depends entirely on your return flight flexibility.