Jerez de la Frontera

The morning light hits the cathedral tower at a precise angle, turning the stone gold. Below, a man in a flat cap pushes open the heavy doors of a tabanco and begins drawing sherry straight from the barrel. It's 11 am. This is Jerez de la Frontera, where the day starts with wine and ends with flamenco, and nobody apologises for either.

The Scent of Fermenting Grapes

Jerez sits 56 metres above sea level in Cádiz province, low enough for Atlantic breezes to carry the saline tang of the ocean 30 kilometres away. The surrounding landscape is a patchwork of chalk-white soil and vines trained low to the ground, their roots digging deep for water. This is sherry country, and the city wears its 3,000-year winemaking history like a second skin.

Start at a bodega – any bodega. González Byass offers the slickest English-language tours at 11 am sharp, when the warehouses are still cool and the guides haven't yet grown hoarse from repeating the solera system. Tío Pepe, across town, is smaller, darker, and smells of yeast and old wood. In both, the air is thick with flor, the yeast layer that gives fino its bone-dry bite. Tastings aren't dainty: three generous pours before lunch is standard. Pace yourself. British visitors often expect Christmas-cake sweetness and are startled by the first mouthful of ice-cold fino. Think very dry white wine, not grandmother's tipple.

Stone, Hooves and Guitar Strings

The Alcázar of Jerez began life as an 11th-century Moorish fortress. It's compact – you can see the whole complex in 45 minutes – but the details linger. Horseshoe arches frame views of orange trees. The mosque-turned-chapel still has mihrab markings on the floor. Climb the octagonal tower for a 360-degree sweep of terracotta roofs and distant vineyards. Entry is €5 and the free audio guide, downloadable to your phone, has a surprisingly wry sense of humour.

Down in the car parks behind the old walls, the Real Escuela Andaluza del Arte Ecuestre trains Andalusian horses to dance. The midday show, "Cómo bailan los caballos andaluces", is ballet on four legs: animals the colour of polished chestnut performing piaffe and passage to classical music. Tickets sell out fast when cruise ships dock; book online the night before. Dress code is smarter than you might expect – leave the flip-flops at the hotel.

Flamenco here isn't a tourist add-on; it's the sound-track to Thursdays. In the Santiago barrio, peñas flamencas throw open their doors at 10 pm. Inside, the format is strict: first the singer, then the dancer, then the guitarist. The crowd claps on the off-beat, shouts "¡toma!" at a well-struck chord, and falls silent the instant the singer closes his eyes. Phones stay in pockets. Flash photography is greeted with a glare that could strip paint. The entry fee is usually a €10 donation, cash only.

Lunch at the Market Counter

Avoid restaurants with picture menus. Instead, head to Mercado de San Miguel (not to be confused with Madrid's glossy version) and pull up a stool at one of the interior bars. Order puntillitas – baby squid flash-fried and sprinkled with lemon. They're like British calamari, only tender enough to eat whole. Follow with a plate of secreto ibérico, a marbled pork cut that eats like steak. The house fino arrives in a small glass, condensation already forming. Locals sip, then chase with a bite of jamón. Repeat.

If the market feels too hectic, try Albores on Calle Consistorio. The menu changes daily, but the ajo blanco – chilled almond and garlic soup – is a constant in summer. It's dairy-free, refreshing, and tastes faintly of marzipan. Pair it with a glass of manzanilla, the coastal cousin of fino that carries a whiff of sea salt.

When the Heat Closes the City

August is brutal. Temperatures touch 40 °C by early afternoon, and the streets empty between 2 pm and 7 pm. Brits used to Spanish islands underestimate inland heat. Plan like the locals: sightsee until 1 pm, retreat for siesta, re-emerge after 8 pm when the stone façades release their stored warmth and the plazas fill with families.

Winter, by contrast, is gentle. Daytime highs hover around 16 °C, ideal for walking the 2.5-kilometre loop along the old city walls. You'll hear more horse hooves than English voices, especially in January when the cathedral roof tour runs with just two or three visitors. Wrap up for the evening, though: Atlantic winds slash through alleyways once the sun drops.

Getting Lost on Purpose

The grid looks simple on Google Maps, but Jerez delights in tripping up the over-confident. Calles change names every few blocks, and the one-way system sends taxis in mysterious loops. Allow extra time. On foot, navigate by church towers: San Dionisio for the north-east, San Miguel for the south-west. When the bells of Santo Domingo strike the hour, the Palacio del Tiempo clock museum answers with a mechanical parade of gilt cherubs. Arrive on the hour – it's worth the €4 entry just for the chimes.

If you overshoot, don't panic. The centre is barely a mile across. A wrong turn might deliver you to Plaza del Mercado, where elderly men play dominoes under jacarandas, or to a hidden courtyard smelling of orange blossom. These are not Instagram moments; they're simply Tuesday.

Last Orders at the Tabanco

By midnight, the serious drinkers have migrated to Tabanco San Pablo. Barrels line the wall like upright coffins; chalk scribble lists prices per litre. Order a media of oloroso – darker, nuttier than fino – and listen. Conversations switch from Spanish to Caló, the old gypsy dialect, without warning. Someone produces a guitar. A woman in her sixties stands, claps once, and begins a siguiriya that silences the room. No one takes a photograph.

Outside, the cathedral tower is flood-lit against a velvet sky. The same stone that looked golden at dawn now glows silver. Somewhere in the distance, a horse whinnies in its stable. Jerez doesn't do fairy-tale endings, but it does do honest ones: the wine is finished, the guitar is packed away, and tomorrow the barrels will be opened again at eleven.