Las Cabezas de San Juan

At 7 a.m. on a Friday the loud-speaker above the livestock market crackles into life and the car-park beside the Polígono Industrial begins to smell of straw, diesel and warm ox. Trucks with Extremadura plates reverse onto the dusty apron, tails swing open and half-ton bulls step down like reluctant celebrities. This is Las Cabezas de San Juan, 76 m above sea level, 16,400 souls, closer to the Atlantic marshes than to any postcard “white village”, and proud of it.

A grid of agricultural time

The town sits on the flat western lip of the Guadalquivir basin where olives give way to cotton, sunflowers and melons depending on the month. Nothing is picture-postcard: the horizon is wide, the houses are mostly modern brick and the church tower of San Juan Bautista rises above the rooftops only because the land is so level. Step inside, though, and the sixteenth-century floor plan still works – three naves, cedar-wood choir stalls, a side chapel painted tobacco-brown and gold where locals leave notes asking the patron to irrigate the next crop properly.

Around the Plaza de la Constitución the older houses keep the etiquette of working Andalucía: whitewash refreshed every spring, iron grilles that let kitchen air drift onto the pavement, internal patios where the washing line competes with a pot of mint. The ayuntamiento, built in 1926 when the cotton co-operatives were flush, is regionalist brickwork with a clock that strikes quarterly – useful because field labourers still set their day by it.

Wetlands at teatime

Ten minutes south-east by car the tarmac stops at the edge of the Marismas de las Cabezas, a seasonal lagoon network that belongs more to birds than to people. Storks clatter on the ruined rice mill, glossy ibis pick through the mud and, if you visit after October rains, the whole place smells of salt and crushed samphire. There are no entrance booths, no board-walks – just a rough track where farmers park to check irrigation pumps. Bring binoculars and wellies; in summer the mosquitoes arrive in squadrons.

Eating what the day yields

The town’s gastronomy is organised around the harvest calendar. Winter means thick chickpea stew with spinach and chunks of morcilla; by late May the cook switches to gazpacho so smooth it could pass for soup in a Covent Garden bistro. At Pastelería La Moderna on Calle Real the owner still fries pestiños – sesame and honey pastries – only during Lent because that’s when the bees finish pollinating the sunflower. A plate of three costs €1.80; they travel badly, so eat them while the honey is still tacky.

Saturday night belongs to flamenco peñas. The barrio of San Miguel hosts an informal session that starts around 23:30 and finishes when the guitarist’s wife rings to ask where the car keys are. Order a glass of orange wine (vino de naranja) kept in the freezer; it tastes like chilled marmalade and is the quickest way to join the conversation even if your Spanish stops at “¿otra?”

Fiestas that still belong to locals

Holy Week here has no corporate sponsorship. Each cofradía owns two thrones that barely fit through the medieval lanes; bearers practise by carrying a full water butt around the plaza. If you stand on Calle Nueva at 3 a.m. on Good Friday you can watch the Cristo de la Vera-Cruz sway past under bare bulbs while women in black lace pass around miniature bottles of anise to keep throats lubricated.

June brings the patronal fair for San Juan Bautista. Technically it lasts five days, yet most families stretch it to eight by declaring the Monday “day of digestion”. Expect casetas made of cane and plastic sheeting, a mobile disco that competes with a brass band, and a ring where teenagers attempt rodeo on mechanical bulls fuelled by Cruzcampo. Accommodation within the town sells out early; if you want a quiet night book the Hacienda de San Rafael ten minutes out and accept you’ll need a designated driver.

Getting there – and away again

Seville airport (SVQ) is 85 km north. easyJet, British Airways and Ryanair cover the London routes year-round; flight time from Gatwick is two hours 35 minutes. ALSA runs coaches from Seville-Plaza de Armas to Las Cabezas three times on weekdays, once on Saturday, never on Sunday. The fare is €8–€10 each way, but the timetable is written in pencil – check the night before. Hiring a car is simpler: take the A-4 towards Cádiz, peel off at exit 528 onto the A-8128 and follow the rice-paddy smell. Total drive: 70 minutes on a clear run, longer if the cotton lorries are out.

There is no railway. Taxis from the airport will quote €110–€120; agree the price before you load cases. Once in town everything is walkable within fifteen minutes, though Saturday-night heels sometimes disappear into the occasional pothole the ayuntamiento hasn’t patched yet.

Where to sleep – and why you might not

Central options are thin. Hostal Avenida has 14 rooms above a café on the main drag; doubles €45 with bathroom, €38 without. Wi-Fi exists but behaves like a moody teenager. The Hacienda de San Rafael, ten minutes south amid olive groves, offers 14 rustic suites from €140 including breakfast of orange juice squeezed that morning and eggs from hens you can see through the kitchen window. Light sleepers should request a courtyard room – the road side picks up the dawn tractor convoy.

When to come – and when to stay clear

March to May is ideal: daytime 22 °C, nights cool enough for a jacket, storks nesting on every telegraph pole. September works too, once the harvest dust has settled. July and August hit 38 °C; the town empties after lunch and even the dogs look for shade under parked cars. Mid-December to mid-January is quiet, occasionally damp, but you’ll have the pastry shop to yourself and the orange wine is served at exactly the right temperature.

The bottom line

Las Cabezas will never compete with Seville’s cathedrals or Cádiz’s beaches. It is a place where agriculture sets the clock, where the Friday cattle market still governs the weekly gossip and where the loudest noise at night is sometimes a flock of cranes heading south. Come if you want to see how olives, cotton and devotion keep an Andalusian town alive. Pack ear-plugs for Saturday, cash for the bars and a sense that Spain can be interesting without trying to impress you.