Villardompardo

The tractor appears at dawn, dragging a trailer of white plastic crates that clatter like cheap crockery over the cattle grid. By the time the sun clears the Sierra Morena, the driver has already circled back twice—once for breakfast, once for the extra gloves he forgot. This is November in Villardompardo, and every journey begins with the olive.

Five thousand souls live spread across a shallow basin 470 m up in Jaén’s sea of green. From the mirador above the cemetery you can count perhaps a million trees: rows so neat they look like regiments waiting inspection, their silver undersides flickering whenever the wind changes. The village itself occupies barely a mile of that monoculture, a compact grid of whitewashed houses and rust-red roofs that appears, at first glance, to have been poured rather than built.

Inside the settlement the rhythm slows. Calle Ancha, the only street wide enough for two cars to pass without one mounting the pavement, doubles as outdoor living room. Grandmothers pull wicker chairs into the shade of the plane tree; teenagers balance on railings, scrolling with thumbs while shouting across to second-floor cousins. Conversation is currency here and tourists—what few arrive—are simply new denominations.

There is no headline monument, no single Instagram moment to chase. The Iglesia de San Pedro occupies its plaza like a solid afterthought: sixteenth-century stone patched with nineteenth-century brick, bells that still mark the quarters for anyone without a phone. Step inside and the air smells of candle wax and floor polish; the caretaker will flick on lights if you nod politely. Donations box by the door, no pressure.

What the village does offer is process rather than product. Between late November and February the cooperativa on the road to Begíjar runs twenty-four hours. Trucks queue before first light, engines off, drivers clutching paper slips that record weight, acidity, owner. Inside, stainless-steel hammers crush olives to an almost fluorescent green paste; the smell is grassy and peppery and slightly bitter, like walking past someone mowing a lawn made of herbs. Ask at the gate—slowly, in serviceable Spanish—and someone will usually wave you into the gallery. Hard hats compulsory, photography tolerated if you stay clear of the conveyor belts. A 500 ml bottle of the first pressing sells for €6 from the adjoining office; wrap it in a jumper for the flight home, customs never blinks.

Outside harvest season the same building hosts the Saturday market: three stalls of fruit, one of cheap trainers, a van whose owner slices jamón with a blade the length of a cricket bat. Stock up here if you are self-catering; the village’s single supermarket closes for siesta between 14.00 and 17.30 and stocks nothing fresher than a courgette.

Walking options radiate along farm tracks. The signed “Ruta del Olivar” is a 7 km loop that climbs gently north-east towards an abandoned cortijo; allow two hours and carry water—there is no shade larger than an olive trunk. Spring brings poppies between the rows, autumn a carpet of yellow leaves that crunch like cornflakes. Serious hikers can link to the longer Cañada de las Vacas, an old drove road that once funnelled cattle from the sierra to Córdoba, but way-marking is sporadic and phone signal drops after the first ridge. Print the map.

Evenings centre on food, inevitably slicked with the local oil. Tasca La Reja, opposite the town hall, serves aubergine chips drizzled with molasses-thick reduction and topped with flaky salt—sweet, savoury, impossible to stop eating. Order a caña (€1.40) and a plate of migas—fried breadcrumbs studded with chorizo and grapes—arrives unbidden; the British habit of paying separately for tapas still feels like being let off a bill. For something more substantial the daily menú del día (€12) runs to three courses, bread, drink and coffee. Expect spinach and chickpea stew, pork cheek slow-cooked until it surrenders at the touch of a fork, and a cinnamon-laced rice pudding your grandmother would approve of.

Accommodation is limited and low-key. Casa Rural Los Olivos has four rooms above the baker’s, each with beams, terracotta floors and windows that open onto tree-lined silence. Doubles from €55 including breakfast of toasted baguette, tomato purée and that obligatory glug of green-gold oil. There is no reception; the baker hands over keys once you have admired his sourdough. Larger groups can rent the municipally-run villa on the edge of the sports ground—three bedrooms, decent kitchen, €90 per night—but bring your own soap and expect to strip the beds on departure. Jaén city, 25 minutes by car, offers conventional hotels if you need minibars and twenty-four-hour staffing.

The village wakes early and goes quiet after the late news. In summer fiestas stretch bedtime—outdoor discos thump until three, processions of teenage girls in satin dresses parade behind a brass band, everyone eats churros at dawn—but July and August also bring 38 °C heat that makes walking feel like wading through soup. April and late September hit the sweet spot: 24 °C by day, cool enough at night for a cardigan, skies rinsed clean by occasional showers.

Getting here requires wheels. There is no train; buses from Jaén terminate at neighbouring Begíjar, four kilometres away, with no onward service on Sundays. Hire a car at Málaga or Granada airports and you gain freedom to stitch Villardompardo into a longer route: the Renaissance cathedral and free Arab baths in Jaén city one morning, the fortified wine cellars of Montilla-Moriles the next. Roads are well-surfaced but narrow; meet a lorry full of olives on a bend and someone will be reversing.

Leave before you have seen everything and you will have done it right. Villardompardo does not shout; it carries on producing some of the world’s best olive oil while travellers elsewhere queue for cathedrals. Take home a litre of picual, taste it on toast with a pinch of salt, and you will understand why no one here ever considered living anywhere else.