Villanueva de la Reina

The conveyor belt never stops. A stream of emerald-gold liquid glugs into 250 ml tins, each sealed with a hiss that sounds almost like a wine cork. This is the Oro Bailén mill, five minutes north of Villanueva de la Reina, and the smell—cut grass, green banana, a trace of pepper at the back of the throat—explains why Andalucians treat extra-virgin olive oil the way the French treat Burgundy. One guide hands out plastic spoons, warns “no bread, we taste neat” and suddenly Britain’s supermarket “extra-virgin” tastes like tap water.

Villanueva itself sits 220 m above sea level on the Campiña de Jaén, an undulating silver quilt of 60 million olive trees. The village is not pretty in the postcard sense; it is working, dusty and nonchalant. Trucks grumble down Avenida de Andalucía with bins of last night’s harvest, and the air carries a faint hum of centrifuges. What it does offer is a chance to see the supply chain behind those £8 half-litres in Whole Foods—while everyone else is still in Seville queuing for orange wine.

A morning in the groves

Dawn starts cold. Even in April the thermometer can dip to 8 °C, so bring a fleece for the 08:30 mill tour. After the indoor tasting you are driven into the adjoining groves where the guide shows how a two-second delay in picking can raise acidity by 0.1%. Rows of picual olives gleam like oversized sultanas; the harvester’s combs shake the branches so hard that olives ping against the tractor roof like hail. Back inside, glass walls let you watch the malaxing drums churn paste into oil within 45 minutes of arrival. Tours end in the shop: 500 ml arbequina for €9, postage to the UK another €18 if you can’t fit it into hand luggage. Book online; groups are capped at twelve and coaches are politely refused.

Plaza pace

By 11:30 the mill disgorges its visitors and the village reclaims its rhythm. The Plaza Mayor is a rectangle of faded apricot render with one kiosk, four plane trees and a score of pensioners who seem surgically attached to the benches. No souvenir stalls, no flamenco dress shops—just a bar that opens onto the square and serves cortado for €1.20. Order one and you receive a free churro stick; the owner’s manifesto is written on a chalkboard: “We close when the coffee runs out.”

From the plaza the old town unravels in a grid built for mules, not Minis. Calle Ancha widens suddenly to reveal the Iglesia de la Inmaculada Concepción, baroque but human-scale; its tower is the tallest thing for 30 km and you can climb it on Fridays for €2 (key kept in the tobacconist). Inside, the air smells of beeswax and centuries of incense; retablos are gilt, not garish, and someone has left a tractor key on the altar rail—proof that harvest stops for no one, not even Mass.

What to eat, when to eat

Lunch options are limited and stubbornly Spanish. Casa Paco opens at 13:30 and serves a set menú for €12: chickpea and spinach stew, pork cheek in oloroso, bienmesabe custard to finish. Vegetarians get the same stew minus the pork—still excellent. If you need an earlier fix the pizzeria on Calle Nueva fires up at 19:30; its asparagus and goat-cheese topping uses the same arbequina oil you tasted at the mill, drizzled raw just before serving. British-conditioned stomachs note: portions are huge, water is always bottled, and asking for “a nice cup of tea” produces a mug of hot milk with a teabag on the side.

Sunday is culinary lockdown. The bakery shuts at 13:00, the supermarket at 14:00, and by nightfall the only calories available come from the vending machine outside the health centre. Stock up on Saturday evening or prepare to drive 20 km to the 24-hour garage on the A-4.

Walking it off

The siesta hush (14:00–17:00) is the best time to walk the circular olive-track that rings the village. Distance: 6 km, elevation gain negligible, surface stony but fine for trainers. Yellow way-markers start behind the cemetery; within five minutes the only sound is the metallic click of a sprinkler and the occasional dog reminding you whose territory you’ve entered. Midway you pass a ruined cortijo where storks have built a rooftop city; bring binoculars if you like birding. Sunset tints the groves copper, and the Sierra Morena to the north sharpens into a saw-blade silhouette—Instagram will have to cope without a filter.

Seasons and crowds

April–May and October–November give 23 °C days and cool nights; the groves are either in flower or turning gold, and the mill runs double shifts—visitors welcome. July–August hits 38 °C; shade is scarce and the village empties to the coast. Winter is quiet, bright and can be sharp: frost blackens the outer olive leaves, but the aroma of wood smoke drifting from chimneys is worth the chill. Roads are kept clear, yet if snow reaches Jaén city the JV-5013 becomes entertainingly slippy—hire cars should carry chains.

The honest verdict

Villanueva de la Reina will not keep you busy for a week. One full day lets you taste, walk and eat; a second allows a detour to the Renaissance towns of Úbeda and Baeza 45 minutes north. What it does better than anywhere on the standard Andalucian circuit is demystify liquid gold: you will leave able to decode labels—“first cold extraction”, “picual”, “0.2% acidity”—and unwilling to pay £12 for a supermarket bottle ever again. That alone justifies the 75-minute drive from Granada or the 90-minute hop from Córdoba. Come for the oil, stay for the Plaza Mayor coffee, and accept that by 22:30 the only thing open is the star canopy over the olivar—mercifully free of light pollution and absolutely free of charge.