La Rinconada

Clocking Off in the Capital, Supper in the Village

The 21:00 bus from Seville’s Plaza de Armas is full of supermarket carriers and rolled-up tabloids. Thirty minutes later it drops its passengers beside a tiled fountain that still has yesterday’s rose petals floating in it. Nobody takes a photograph; they simply cross the square, greet the baker who’s locking up, and disappear into side streets where the only English you’ll hear is the occasional football result drifting through an open window. This is La Rinconada, commuter belt by day, stubborn village by night, and the place most British maps mis-label—or miss entirely.

A Church, a Castle Remnant, and the World’s Quietest Rose Farm

The guidebooks give the town four lines: “thirteenth-century church, ruined castle, good access to Seville.” They forget to mention that the church, Santa María Magdalena, is still heated by portable gas heaters in winter and that the priest ducks out between services for coffee at the bar opposite. Inside, the baroque altarpiece is flanked by electric candles; the collection plate contains more small-denomination Moroccan dirhams than anyone can explain. Entry is free, but the sacristan will motion you towards a box for “la luz” if you linger too long with your camera.

Behind the apse, two walls and a scramble of wild fennel are all that remain of the Castillo de La Rinconada. Interpretation boards show medieval maps super-imposed on today’s street grid, proving the fortress once guarded the river road into Seville. Children use the base of the tower as a goalmouth; their ball occasionally ricochets off an information panel, scattering the sparrows.

Five minutes north, the glasshouses of Flormediterránea cover twenty-five hectares yet barely register on Google. This is the largest rose-propagation farm on the planet—every British supermarket long-stem rose began life here as a cutting. Weekday mornings the security guard at Gate 3 will wave you in if you ask politely; a technician will explain how buds are grafted onto rootstock while you stand in humid air thick with the scent of Turkish tea roses. There’s no gift shop, just a polystyrene box of imperfect stems offered at a euro a dozen.

Rice, Pork, and a Cheese That Won’t Fight Back

La Rinconada eats early by Spanish standards—lunch before two, supper at nine—because half the town still starts work at dawn in the strawberry nurseries outside the ring road. At La Yaya Monti on Calle Real, the menu del día runs to grilled pork secreto, rice cooked in the meat juices, and a plate of chips that taste unmistakably of olive oil rather than fryer fat. The owner keeps one table free for British engineers who arrive every March to service the greenhouse computers; they order the same thing (secreto, chips, half-bottle of house red) and pay €11.50 including bread and dessert.

Opposite the town hall, Más Que Tapas occupies a former paint shop. Blackboards list montaditos in Spanish and English, though the translations grow whimsical: “prawn & avocado skyscraper” turns out to be three bites of baguette anchored with a cocktail stick. Honey-aubergine is the safest vegetarian bet; the aubergine is fried until the edges caramelise, then drizzled with local orange-blossom honey strong enough to make you rethink marmalade.

IsVinum, half shop, half bar, stocks Payoyo goat’s cheese from Grazalema. Ask for the “suave” version and you’ll receive a mild, nutty wedge that converts even the most committed Cheddar loyalist. A platter for two (cheese, membrillo, almonds, glass of Rueda) costs €14; they’ll vacuum-seal the remainder for flight-bag transport if you’re travelling hand luggage only.

Wednesday Night Bingo and Other Civic Rituals

Fiestas here are not staged for visitors. In late July the fairground occupies the municipal car park behind Mercadona; the same lorries travel the circuit of Seville’s satellite towns, so the waltzer operator recognises half the customers by name. Romería weekend, fifty days after Easter, transforms the main street into a traffic jam of decorated farm trailers heading for El Rocío. By midday the horses have drunk the central fountain dry and someone’s aunt is handing out plastic cups of manzanilla to anyone who looks foreign. You will be invited to dance; refusal is taken personally.

Semana Santa is quieter. The town’s two brotherhoods carry their pasos around a single circuit, finishing before midnight so the costaleros can catch the last bus to Seville and do it all again there. Plastic chairs line the pavements; seat number 47 still bears a handwritten label belonging to “Doña Paqui 1989”. Respect the chair and you’ll be offered a plastic thimble of anis.

Getting In, Getting Out, Getting it Right

Confusion starts with the name. La Rinconada, Seville province, has 40,000 residents and no hotel. Five kilometres away, San José de la Rinconada has chain hotels, a train station, and most of the TripAdvisor reviews. Booking sites regularly swap the two, so double-check the postcode before you pay. If you want to sleep in La Rinconada itself, the only option is a pair of guest rooms above Bar California (€35, shared bath, Wi-Fi that reaches the landing).

From Seville airport, a taxi will quote €45; the cheaper route is the EA bus to Plaza de Armas, then the M-170. Buses run every thirty minutes until 21:00; after that, it’s a taxi or a night in the city. A hire car makes more sense if you’re combining the village with an Andalusian loop—parking is free and the A-4 motorway entrance is three minutes away.

When to Cut Your Losses

August is uncompromising: 42 °C at three in the afternoon, shutters closed, streets empty except for the occasional dog seeking shade against the church wall. The rose greenhouses are stripped and steam-cleaned; there is nothing to see. Come in April instead, when the fields between town and river glow green with new potato plants and the morning bus carries bundles of carnations instead of commuters. Or try mid-September, when the first night breeze blows the scent of charcoal across the square and the town’s single ice-cream parlour stays open until the last child gives up on the outdoor quiz machine.

Leave before you start recognising the regulars in the bar. La Rinconada functions precisely because it is not a destination; it is the place people return to when the working day is done. Stay long enough to drink one coffee, buy a dozen roses, and work out which direction the river lies, then step back onto the bus. The driver will nod—he saw you arrive, he knows you’re leaving, and he won’t be surprised if he never sees you again.