Andújar

The road from Jaén drops 212 metres before the silver-green ocean of olive trees parts to reveal Andújar. Thirty-five thousand souls live here, yet the city feels smaller – a place where traffic lights still apologise for making you wait and the evening paseo clogs Calle Nueva with neighbours rather than tourists. That anonymity won't last. Word is spreading that the surrounding Sierra de Andújar Natural Park offers the best lynx sightings in Europe, and British wildlife enthusiasts are already swapping Coto Doñana for this quieter corner of Andalucía.

Lions with Whiskers

December to January is mating season for the Iberian lynx, and the males' guttural night-time calls carry across the tawny meadows. Dawn is when the real theatre begins. Park beside the Lancha track, join the silent queue of spotters leaning on stone walls, and within an hour someone will whisper "lince" while pointing to a sandy-coloured shape stalking through the rosemary. Binoculars are essential; patience even more so. The cats are not zoo exhibits – they own 74,000 hectares of privately owned dehesa – but the odds of a sighting run at roughly nine in ten if you arrive early, stay quiet and accept that mobile reception dies the moment you need Google Maps.

The roads inside the park are atrocious. Think farm track rather than carriage way, and budget thirty minutes to cover ten kilometres. Petrol stations are non-existent once you leave the A-4, so fill the tank in town and stock up on water; there are no cafés, visitor centres or gift shops, only miradores marked by rough lay-bys. On the upside, entry is free and the silence – broken only by Spanish imperial eagles and, in autumn, the roar of red deer stags – is complete.

A City that Remembers its River

Back in town the Guadalquivir slides past the Roman bridge rebuilt so many times that only the footings are genuinely ancient. Fishermen stand waist-deep after barbel and carp, while families spread Sunday picnics under the poplars. The river built Andújar: first Iberian traders, then Romans hauling copper from the Sierra Morena, later Almohad engineers who channelled irrigation ditches still visible from the Paseo de la Virgen. Walk the bridge at sunset and you understand why every civilisation paused here – the water glints like polished pewter and the olive groves smell warm and slightly bitter, a scent that lingers on clothes long after you leave.

The centre is compact enough to explore between lunch and siesta. Start at the thirteenth-century Iglesia de Santiago, its tower patched with brick after the 1755 Lisbon earthquake, then duck into neighbouring San Miguel to admire the Mudejar ceiling. Calle Carrera's mansions hide courtyard gardens where jasmine drips over wrought-iron balconies; knock on the door of the Casa Palacio de los Cárdenas during opening hours and a caretaker will show you a patio paved with Roman mosaic for the price of a polite "gracias". Few places charge more than four euros to enter, and several – including the small Iberian pottery museum – simply ask for a donation.

Oil, Game and Things on Toast

Jaén province produces a fifth of Spain's olive oil, and Andújar's cooperatives will sell you a five-litre tin for about eighteen euros. Smaller bottles stamped DOP Sierra de Cazorla make lighter souvenirs; look for the word "picual" on the label if you like peppery finishes that catch the back of the throat. Breakfast at Hotel Oleum sets the tone: toasted village bread rubbed with tomato, a thread of emerald oil, and plates of jamón ibérico carved so thin you can read through it. Locals insist on dipping migas – fried breadcrumbs with chorizo and egg – into thick hot chocolate; try it once and you understand why no one leaves the table hungry.

Game dominates winter menus. Cordero segureño (milk-fed lamb) arrives sizzling in clay dishes, while perdiz escabechada – partridge marinated in wine and bay – tastes like a darker, gamier coq au vin. Portions are enormous; order one plate to share unless you fancy waddling back to the car. Vegetarians survive on pipirrana, a chopped salad of tomato, pepper and cucumber dressed with oil and cumin, though even that may arrive crowned with a slab of tuna. Ask for "sin atún" if you're strict.

When Faith Fills the Roads

For twenty-four hours at the end of April the city empties. Roughly half a million pilgrims set off on the thirty-kilometre walk to the Santuario de la Virgen de la Cabecca, an eighteenth-century chapel perched 800 metres up in the Sierra. The romería predates Columbus and turns the normally tranquil A-6177 into a tail-back of tractors, horses and families pushing prams over gravel. Accommodation prices triple, every bar blares sevillanas and the scent of rosemary and sweat drifts for miles. If you dislike crowds, avoid the last weekend in April. If you enjoy people-watching, book early and stake out a pavement table – the parade of flamenco dresses, cordobés hats and horse brasses beats any carnival Britain can muster.

Outside fiesta season the sanctuary makes a peaceful day trip. The paved road twists through holm-oak dehesa where black vultures circle overhead; allow fifty minutes from town. Inside the chapel, walls are plastered with tiny silver limbs offered in gratitude for cures – a tradition that predates the NHS by several centuries. The adjacent bar serves coffee and sugary churros to fortify the downhill drive.

Getting There, Getting Away

High-speed trains from Madrid reach Jaén in 3 h 40 min; from there a regular bus covers the 55 km to Andújar in forty minutes. Drivers should leave the A-4 at junction 294 and follow the N-322 directly into town – parking on the riverfront costs one euro for the day. Spring and autumn deliver temperatures in the low twenties, ideal for walking, while August regularly tops 40 °C and sends locals scuttling indoors between two and five. Winter days are bright and crisp, but nights drop close to freezing; pack layers if you plan to wait for lynx at dawn.

Hotels cluster round the bull-ring and along the Paseo de la Estación. Double rooms start at about fifty-five euros outside fiesta weeks, including breakfast strong enough to keep you full until the late Spanish lunch. The tourist office beside the town hall hands out a free map marking everything mentioned here, though staff speak limited English – a phrase book helps, and effort is invariably repaid with smiles.

Leave before you mean to. Andújar has a habit of slowing clocks, and the last bus back to Jaén departs at nine. Miss it and you'll find yourself explaining to a bemused taxi driver why British trains can't run on olive oil – a conversation that, like the city itself, sounds improbable yet somehow makes perfect sense after the second glass of local tempranillo.