Fernán-Núñez

The Palacio Ducal's baroque façade catches the morning light like a gilt mirror, all flourishes and heraldic stone. Stand opposite it on Calle San Pedro and you'll understand why passing motorists slam on brakes: the palace is preposterously grand for a town whose Saturday market sells work gloves and pig's trotters. This is Fernán-Núñez, population 9,600, elevation 322 metres, ambition modest.

The Palace and the Parish

Eighteenth-century nobles knew how to make an entrance. The Dukes of Fernán-Núñez built their summer residence around 1750, stuffing it with tapestries, Italian marble and a ballroom that once hosted Queen Isabel II. These days the building opens only when the tourist office remembers to fetch the keys; ring 957 361 002 before you set off and insist on the English-language leaflet—they keep them in a drawer behind the desk. If you do get inside, count the balconies: 27, one for every duke who never expected coach parties from Coventry.

Across the plaza, the Iglesia de Santa Marina serves as the town's compass. Its tower is visible from any olive grove within a five-kilometre radius, useful when you've wandered down yet another identical dirt track. Inside, look for the seventeenth-century statue of Cristo de la Salud—locals swear it stopped cholera in 1890. Whether or not you believe them, the wooden Christ's glass eyes follow visitors with unsettling accuracy.

Oil, Bread and the Art of Doing Nothing

Fernán-Núñez revolves around the olive. From October to December the air hums with tractors hauling plastic crates of picual and picudo fruit to the cooperative mills. Visit during harvest and you can taste oil so fresh it stings the throat; the mill on Calle Real gives ten-minute tours if you phone ahead (they prefer groups of four or more, but will often take curious couples). Ask for catado—a thimble poured onto a slice of country bread—and you'll understand why locals dismiss supermarket extra-virgin as dishwater.

Tuesday is market day. The stalls arrive at 08:30, pack up by 14:00, and sell everything from knickers to cojones de toro tomatoes. British visitors usually hover by the cheese van; try the semicurado from Zuheros, wrapped in esparto grass, and don't refuse the vendor's offer of a plastic cup of sweet Montilla-Moriles—it costs 60 cents and tastes like sherry on holiday.

Eating Without Surprises

Restaurant choices are limited but honest. Mesón del Duque on Plaza de España does a plato combinado that translates, reassuringly, to soup, pork and chips—no mystery bits. Vegetarians survive on berenjenas con miel (aubergine chips drizzled with honey) and the world's safest tomato salad. If you want local colour, order sopa de maimones—garlic broth with poached egg—but don't expect minestrone. Portions are large; mains easily feed two, and waiters will wrap leftovers in foil shaped like a swan if you ask.

Sweet wine from nearby Montilla-Moriles is sherry's lighter cousin. Order vino generoso for dry, vino dulce for pudding—both cost under €3 a glass and arrive in a dusty bottle the barman keeps specially for foreigners. Tap water is drinkable but tastes of chlorine; spend the extra euro on bottled.

Walking the Grid

The town centre is a straightforward grid: five streets parallel, five perpendicular. You can cross it in eight minutes, yet the place rewards dawdlers. Peer into open doorways at 11:00 and you'll see grandmothers sweeping marble thresholds while Radio Nacional murmurs inside. By 14:00 shutters clatter down; the streets empty for siesta until 17:00. Plan accordingly—there is no espresso between those hours, and the chemist locks up too.

Outside the centre, signed footpaths loop through olive estates. The easiest is the Ruta del Aceite: 6 km of flat track starting opposite the cemetery on the A-318. Spring brings poppies between the gnarled trunks; autumn smells of wet earth and diesel. Wear trainers, not sandals—recent rain turns the clay into ski wax. Take water; there are no bars until you circle back.

When to Come, When to Leave

April and May offer daytime 24 °C, wildflowers and the smell of new-cut hay. September evenings stay above 20 °C until midnight, perfect for sitting outside with a beer. July and August hit 38 °C; even the lizards look for shade. If you must come then, walk before 10:00 or after 19:00, and park on the eastern side of town—Avenida Juan Carlos I has free spaces and a breeze.

Annual events cluster around religion and olives. Semana Santa (Easter) processions squeeze through streets barely three metres wide; brass bands echo off stone so loudly earplugs help. The October Jornadas de Pago mark the new oil with tastings and a half-marathon that nobody local runs. Feria in mid-May is the big party: four nights of casetas, flamenco and dodgems. Visitors are welcome, but don't expect translations—order beer by holding up fingers and saying "caña".

Getting There, Getting Out

No railway reaches Fernán-Núñez. From the UK, fly to Málaga or Seville, collect a hire car and allow two hours on the A-4. The exit is 432—blink and you'll hit Granada. Cordoba city is 45 minutes north; Granada two hours south-east. ALSA runs three buses daily from Córdoba's estación autobuses (€4.85, 90 minutes), timed for locals rather than tourists. Taxis from Córdoba cost €45—pre-book, because there is no rank.

Parking is refreshingly simple. Ignore the subterranean sign on Avenida de Andalucía; the barrier has been broken since 2019. Leave the car on Avenida Juan Carlos I beside the sports centre and walk five minutes to the palace. Blue-zone meters don't operate between 14:00 and 17:00 or after 20:00, so lunch is free if you stay traditional.

The Honest Verdict

Fernán-Núñez will not change your life. It offers no beach, no cathedral, no Instagram infinity pool. What it does provide is a slice of working Andalucía where the barman remembers how you take your coffee and the palace doors open just wide enough to glimpse somebody else's grandeur. Stay an hour and you'll tick the palace; stay the morning and you'll taste oil that never sees a label; stay for lunch and you'll understand why the locals look puzzled when you ask what else there is to do. Sometimes, nothing is exactly enough.