Aguilar de la Frontera

The eight-sided Plaza de San José makes visitors stop mid-sentence. Few British motorists expect to find a perfect octagon in rural Andalucía, yet here it is, ringed by whitewashed arcades and orange trees, the heart of a town the guidebooks barely mention. Aguilar de la Frontera sits 280 metres above sea level on the rolling Campiña Sur, forty-five minutes south of Córdoba and fifty from Málaga’s airport. Olive groves press against its walls; the evening air smells of wood smoke and curing olives. With 5,000 inhabitants and roughly twenty times that number of trees, the arithmetic is simple and the atmosphere unmistakably agricultural.

A plaza that isn’t square

Local elders claim only five octagonal plazas exist in Spain. Whether or not the boast is true, the shape forces an odd choreography: traffic flows clockwise, bar terraces wedge themselves into acute angles, and the 18th-century town hall sits slightly off-kilter. Order a café solo at any of the pavement cafés and you’ll pay €1.20; ask for a slice of coffee-flavoured merengas de café to go with it and the bill still stays under two euros. The square fills twice a week when the market spreads its awnings; by 14:00 the stalls vanish and pigeons reclaim the cobbles. Parking is painless if you leave the car on the Paseo de Cádiz ring-road – the old-town lanes are single-track and signed Prohibido el paso to outsiders.

Above the roofs the ruined castle keeps watch. Only fragments of the Moorish fortress survive: a stretch of curtain wall and the base of a keep later rebuilt by the Christians. Climb the stubby tower on a Wednesday or Saturday between 16:00 and 18:00 (the interpretation centre’s only open hours) and the view stretches south across olives to the Subbética hills. Information panels are Spanish-only, so bring a translation app or simply enjoy the breeze that smells of thyme and dust. Expectations should stay modest – this is not the Alhambra – but the panorama explains why Aguilar once marked the frontier between Castile and Granada.

Oil, wine and dishes that pre-date the microwave

Agriculture shaped the town and still pays the bills. From late October to January the cooperatives throb with machinery as the olive harvest arrives; visitors are welcome to watch the grinding if they phone ahead. Cata sessions run in English at Almazara Águra most Fridays, costing €8 for three oils and a lesson in detecting peppery picante finishes. Outside those months the presses fall silent, yet the product lingers on every table. Breakfast comes toasted and rubbed with tomato, doused in vivid green oil strong enough to make your throat tingle.

Lunch tends to be heartier. Arroz con gallo – saffron rice with cockerel – appears on weekend menus at Bar La Reja on Calle Carrera; the grains are looser than paella and the flavour gentler on Anglo tastebuds. Puré de tomates y huevos, a clay dish of thick tomato sauce baked until the egg yolk stays runny, tastes like nursery food upgraded with Montilla-Moriles wine. That same wine, fortified and dry, costs €1.50 a glass in any bar and behaves like a lighter, nuttier fino sherry. Pudding might be merengas de café, crisp outside, marshmallow within, and mercifully less cloying than pavlova.

Evenings wind down early. By 23:00 the square is quiet enough to hear swifts overhead; anyone craving nightlife drives to Lucena ten minutes away. The upside is sleep uninterrupted by club beats – a fair trade for most visitors who have spent the day walking.

Tracks through a sea of olives

Footpaths radiate from the town like spokes. The easiest leaves the octagon’s east corner, passes the 16th-century Jesús Nazareno chapel and drops into groves within five minutes. Spring brings carpets of wild asparagus and purple lupins; by July the colour drains and shade becomes precious. Carry water – there is none en route – and a stick to ward off enthusiastic sheepdogs. A six-kilometre loop reaches an abandoned stone cortijo where storks nest on the chimney; allow two hours including photo stops.

Cyclists find harder work. The A-339 towards Moriles rolls gently enough for families, but turn north onto the CO-820 and gradients touch 10%. No bike shop exists in town: bring spares or phone BiciSubbética in Cabra, who deliver for €20. Signposting is patchy, so a GPX file beats optimism every time. November to March suits riders; summer heat regularly tops 38°C and the asphalt shimmers.

When to come, when to stay away

Late March to mid-April gives the best balance. Temperatures hover around 22°C, the olive blossom releases its scent and Semana Santa processions add drumbeats to the night without the crush you’d suffer in Seville. Accommodation is limited: Hotel La Posada de Aguilar has twelve rooms overlooking a quiet courtyard, doubles from €65 including garage parking. Book early for Easter; otherwise you can phone the day before and still get a space.

August is fiesta month – casetas, fairground rides and music until 05:00. It’s fun if you enjoy sharing the streets with 10,000 extra Spaniards; otherwise avoid. Mid-winter brings cold, clear days when the castle walls glow amber at sunset, but many restaurants close and the pool at the municipal sports centre becomes the warmest place in town. Monday is the weekly closing day for monuments; turn up then and you’ll find the castle centre locked and churches dim.

Cash, cards and the last train that left in 1987

Aguilar lost its railway in the 1980s, so access is by road. The A-45 motorway links Málaga and Córdoba; leave at junction 82 and follow the N-331 for four minutes. Buses from Córdoba take fifty minutes and run four times daily except Sunday when there are two. A hire car remains the practical choice for anyone combining the town with Antequera’s dolmens or a Costa del Sol fly-drive.

Bring cash. Several bars still hand-write tickets and shrug at contactless; the nearest ATM stands outside the post office, a seven-minute walk from the octagon. Parking on the ring-road is free; ignore the white-lined spaces inside the old quarter – they belong to residents and the local police ticket with enthusiasm.

Leaving without the souvenir clichés

There is no souvenir stall shaped like a windmill, no fridge-magnet wisdom. The honest memento is a half-litre tin of extra-virgin oil, pressed within sight of the castle walls and priced under €7 at the cooperative shop. It will leak slightly in your suitcase, scenting your socks with picual olives, a reminder that some corners of Spain still revolve around agriculture rather than Instagram.

Aguilar de la Frontera will not change your life, but it might recalibrate your idea of Andalucía. Between the octagonal plaza, the ruined frontier fortress and the endless silver-green groves, the town offers a calm counterweight to flamenco spectaculars and beach bars. Come for slow walks, honest food and the sound of olives dropping onto nylon nets. Leave before the fiesta drums start if you value sleep, or stay and join in if you don’t.