Lopera

The castle keep appears first, a square stone tower rising abruptly from a low hill of silver-green olives. From the A-316 it looks almost too small to bother with, yet that same tower once commanded the eastern approach to Jaén and saw one of the Spanish Civil War’s earliest pitched battles. Most British traffic sweeps past en search of better-known towns; the handful who turn off discover a working village where the 3,579 inhabitants still outnumber foreign visitors by roughly thirty to one.

Olive Oil, Not Instagram

Lopera sits at 276 m above sea level, low enough for mild winters but high enough to catch the Levante wind that rustles the million-odd olive trees surrounding the place. The landscape is monotonous only if you think agriculture equals boredom: in late autumn the groves vibrate with mechanical harvesters, pneumatic rods beating branches while farmers shout kilo counts into WhatsApp voice notes. Between February and April the same trees shimmer with tiny white blossoms; by June the fruit has set and the air smells faintly bitter, a reminder that every litre of oil requires roughly five kilos of olives and a great deal of patience.

Tourism here is incidental. The village earns its living from picual olives, not postcards, which means opening hours obey the crop, not the customer. Want to see inside the sixteenth-century Iglesia de la Asunción? Ring the parish office the evening before; if the sacristan is pruning he’ll ask you to wait until the tractor is parked. The reward is a nave that blends late-Gothic ribs with baroque swagger, plus a Virgin whose robes still carry the faint scent of beeswax polished in by generations of altar guilds.

A Castle with a British Footnote

The Castillo de Lopera began life as an Islamic watchtower, grew into a Moorish fortress, then became a Nationalist stronghold in December 1936. On the 27th of that month two young Cambridge-educated poets—John Cornford and Ralph Fox—died trying to storm the walls with the International Brigades. A modest stone plaque now marks the spot, tucked halfway round the battlements where the stone is still chipped by machine-gun fire. English visitors sometimes leave poppies; locals tend to bring sprigs of rosemary, the Mediterranean symbol of memory.

Access is by guided tour only (€4, joint ticket with the neighbouring Casa de la Tercia). The guide, usually town-hall employee Manolo, will gesture at the olive sea below and remark, “Same view Franco had.” He then points to the trenches carved into the ridge 500 m east—still waist-deep, still zig-zagged according to 1937 manuals. Wear trainers; the path is stony and Andalusian midsun will fry a unprepared scalp in twenty minutes.

When the Kitchens Shut, They Really Shut

Lopera keeps Andalucían hours with militant precision. Bars stop serving food at 4 pm sharp; attempt to order at 4:05 and you’ll be offered crisps and a sympathetic shrug. The trick is to lunch before 2.30 pm, which gives time for a menu del día that rarely exceeds €12 and always includes a glass of local olive oil poured tableside for bread-dunking. Specialities worth the starch load are trigo pleao— a dense wheat stew shot through with anchovy and mussels—and perdiz en doraillo, partridge stewed in saffron and onion until it tastes like a Spanish answer to pheasant casserole. Vegetarians can survive on potaje de garbanzos, chickpeas and spinach, though you’ll need to ask them to hold the blood pudding garnish.

There are no souvenir shops, no multilingual menus, and no cash machine. Bring euros; the nearest ATM is twelve kilometres away in Martos, a drive that feels longer when you’ve underestimated the lunch bill and the petrol gauge.

Walking Without Way-markers

The countryside around Lopera is privately owned but traditionally open to foot traffic provided you stick to the farm tracks. The Sendero del Arroyo Salado follows a seasonal stream for 4 km, passing an old stone mill and a railway viaduct abandoned since the Civil War. You might meet a farmer on a quad bike; a wave and a “Buenos días” are usually enough to secure right-of-way. Spring brings poppies and wild fennel; by late May the stream has usually dried to a chain of emerald pools guarded by grey herons. It’s gentle walking—no rucksack required beyond water and a hat—but GPS helps because signposts disappear whenever the track enters an olive terrace.

More ambitious hikers can link a chain of country lanes that lead to the ruined cortijo of Santa Ana, eight kilometres south. The return loop skirts the ridge where Republican lines once faced the castle; bullet scars pock several olive trunks like dark medals.

Fiestas that Belong to the Neighbours

Unless you’re related to someone in Lopera, the mid-August feria in honour of the Virgen de la Asunción will feel like a family wedding you’ve accidentally gate-crashed. Streets are draped in paper bunting, brass bands march at midnight, and every courtyard becomes an improvised bar serving montaditos of chorizo washed down with warm lager. Visitors are welcome but not catered to: accommodation inside the village is limited to two guest rooms above a bar, both booked by second cousins months in advance. Stay instead in Martos or Andújar and drive in for the fireworks; parking on the olive slopes is accepted practice once the official spaces overflow.

The one date outsiders plan for is the third weekend in April, when the Civil War trenches host a small re-enactment complete with period uniforms and blank-firing Mausers. Numbers rarely top two hundred, yet the crack of rifles echoing across the grove is oddly affecting. If that sounds too martial, come in late November for the fiesta de la aceituna: tractors parade past the castle, balloons tied to exhaust stacks, while the first press of the season is poured like green champagne.

Getting There, Getting In, Getting Out

Lopera lies 28 km south-east of Jaén along the A-316, a smooth dual carriageway that slices through unbroken olive plantations. Public transport exists—a twice-daily bus from Jaén station—but timetables assume you have nowhere else to be. Car hire is sensible: the drive takes thirty minutes, and you’ll need wheels to reach the trench car park or the nearest cashpoint. Petrol is cheaper at the Jaén ring-road than in the village, so fill up before you arrive.

Spring and autumn offer the kindest light and temperatures that rarely stray beyond the mid-twenties. Summer can hit 40 °C; the castle battlements provide shade only if you stand precisely on the north-west corner and the wind is blowing. Winter is mild—frost is rare—but January mists can swallow the olive groves and make the castle approach feel like something from a Gothic novella.

Leave before 9 pm if you’re staying on the coast; the return junction at Jaén clogs with lorries after dark and the street lighting disappears once you leave the capital. That final stretch is a useful reminder: Lopera may sit at the centre of its own olive universe, yet to the rest of the world it remains a detour. Decide for yourself whether that constitutes a reason to go or a reason to pass.