Sayalonga

The cemetery is round. A perfect stone circle, tilted slightly towards the Mediterranean, as if someone took a compass and drew a viewing platform for the living rather than a resting place for the dead. From here, at 359 metres above sea level, you can see the white houses of Sayalonga tumbling down the ridge like spilled sugar cubes, the vineyards and olive terraces below, and on clear winter days, the faint glint of the sea thirty kilometres away.

This is not one of Andalusia's showpiece villages. There are no grand palaces, no busking flamenco troupes, no souvenir shops selling identical fridge magnets. Instead, Sayalonga offers something increasingly rare along the Costa del Sol: a place that still functions for its own sake. The bakery opens at seven for the farmers, not the tourists. The bar on Plaza Constitución fills with men in overalls discussing almond prices over cortados. And the village's most photographed spot remains its cemetery, where British visitors tend to arrive clutching print-outs from obscure travel forums, searching for the key that unlocks the iron gate.

The Cemetery That Changed Direction

The circular design wasn't architectural whimsy. When cholera struck in 1885, the priest demanded a new burial ground that faced east-west, contrary to traditional Muslim north-south alignment. The result is disconcerting: concentric rings of graves stepped like an amphitheatre, with the best views reserved for the deceased. The key hangs in the tourist office on Plaza Constitución (open Tuesday to Sunday, 10:00-14:00; €5 deposit). Visit early, before 11:00, when delivery vans still clog the alleyways and the only sounds are swifts diving overhead and the occasional bleat of goats from smallholdings tucked between houses.

Below the cemetery, the village proper begins. Streets follow the medieval Moorish layout - narrow, winding, designed for shade and defence. Houses are whitewashed annually, but not prettified. Look up and you'll see satellite dishes bolted beside traditional wooden balconies. Peer through open doorways (locals rarely close them) to glimpse courtyards where washing flaps beside ancient olive presses repurposed as plant pots. The effect is lived-in, not museum-like.

What Grows Between the Stones

Sayalonga's economy still depends on what its terraces can produce. Almonds, olives and moscatel grapes dominate the hillsides, planted in small plots separated by dry-stone walls that took centuries to build and take seconds to photograph. Between March and April, almond blossom turns the slopes white-pink. By late May, jacaranda trees erupt in violent purple along Calle San Juan, creating the village's most Instagram-friendly corner - though you'll share it with delivery drivers who've mastered the 20-point turn required to navigate streets barely wider than a donkey.

The Sunday morning market reflects this agricultural reality. Six stalls, maximum. One sells nísperos (loquats) from the cooperativa down the road - buy a kilo for €2, peel them like grapes, discover they taste like apricot-meets-pear. Another offers local olives, cracked and marinated in garlic and thyme. Bring cash; there's no ATM in the village, and the nearest is nine kilometres away in Algarrobo-Costa. The market winds up by 13:00, when stallholders pack away to join extended family lunches that last until siesta time.

For a deeper dive into local produce, head to Bodega Bentomiz near neighbouring Arenas. Their dry moscatel tastes nothing like the sticky dessert wine British drinkers associate with the grape - it's crisp, almost savoury, designed to accompany the region's goat dishes rather than replace pudding. Bottles start at €8; they'll ship cases back to the UK for reasonable rates.

Walking the Dry River Beds

Sayalonga sits at the junction of two valleys, making it a natural hub for walking routes that follow ancient irrigation channels and drovers' paths. The Ruta de los Molinos traces three kilometres along a seasonal riverbed, passing ruined watermills that once ground local grain. It's not spectacular - this is dry-country walking, all stone and sun-baked earth - but it offers insight into how communities survived centuries of minimal rainfall. Wear proper shoes; the path is stony and shadeless. Bring more water than you think necessary; the nearest shop is back in the village.

More ambitious walkers can tackle the circular route to Corumbela, a hamlet hanging even more precariously on the opposite ridge. The path climbs steadily for 45 minutes, then contours around hillsides planted with centuries-old olives, their trunks twisted into fantastical shapes. Mobile signal disappears immediately; download offline maps beforehand. The effort is rewarded with views back towards Sayalonga, the village now reduced to a white smudge between brown hills and blue sky. Corumbela itself offers little beyond a bar serving cold beer and excellent migas - fried breadcrumbs with garlic, chorizo and melon slices. It sounds odd. It works.

Eating Like Someone Who Lives Here

Local restaurants cater to agricultural timetables. Lunch service starts at 14:00, dinner rarely before 20:30. Bar Restaurante Palacete on Plaza Constitución does the best ajoblanco - chilled almond and garlic soup, served with green grapes. It's lighter than gazpacho, perfect for hot days, and costs €4.50 a bowl. For something heartier, try chivo al ajillo (kid goat slow-cooked with garlic and white wine) at Casa Paco on Calle Real. Portions are enormous; one dish feeds two comfortably.

Save space for roscos de vino, wine-flavoured doughnuts that appear in bakery windows from September onwards. Less sweet than British doughnuts, they pair surprisingly well with coffee. Better still, try nespolino liqueur, distilled from loquat stones and tasting like liquid marzipan. The barman at Palacete keeps a bottle in the freezer; it's served ice-cold in shot glasses, traditionally after Sunday lunch but available to persistent foreigners any day of the week.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Spring brings the best balance. Temperatures hover around 22°C, almond blossom fades to green, and the hills smell of wild thyme and rosemary. Easter week sees processions through narrow streets - atmospheric but crowded with Spanish visitors; book accommodation early if this appeals, avoid it if it doesn't.

Summer is hot. Properly hot. Daytime temperatures regularly exceed 35°C, and the village's concrete and stone radiate heat well into evening. The municipal pool (€2 entry) becomes the social centre, filled with local families and the occasional overheated tourist who misjudged the climate. Nights cool slightly, and breeze from the sea thirty kilometres away makes terrace dining bearable. But this is serious heat - not for the faint-hearted or those expecting coastal moderation.

Autumn brings the vendimia (grape harvest). The Feria de la Vendimia in September involves grape-treading demonstrations, mosto (young wine) tastings and traditional music that continues until the early hours. It's the village at its most animated, when emigrants return and houses fill with three generations of family. Accommodation books up months ahead; visitors are welcomed but should expect noise, late nights and limited parking.

Winter is quiet. Too quiet for some. Many restaurants close, the market shrinks further, and grey days can feel bleak at altitude. But clear winter mornings offer the best views - snow occasionally dusts the higher peaks behind the village, and the Mediterranean appears closer, sharper. Hotel prices drop by half; you'll have the cemetery and its views entirely to yourself.

Sayalonga doesn't demand a week. It works best as a pause between coast and mountains, a place to walk, eat and understand how white villages functioned before tourism. Come for the cemetery views, stay for the ajoblanco, leave before the siesta ends. Just remember to return the cemetery key - the tourist office closes promptly at two, and the dead have waited this long for their perfect aspect. They can wait a little longer.