Montilla

The barman pulls the venencia from its wall hook, a slim silver cup on a whale-bone handle, and flings a ribbon of amber wine across the tasting room without spilling a drop. This is not Jerez, and the glass he hands you is not fino. It is bone-dry Amontillado—first fermented under flor, then oxidised in silence for eight years—born in Montilla, the town that lent its name to the style. One sip and the British habit of calling every brown sherry “Amontillado” suddenly feels like addressing a duchess as “love”.

Vineyards at 370 metres

Montilla sits 45 km south of Córdoba on a low ridge that lifts the town just high enough to catch the evening breeze. From the ruined castle wall the view slides away in every direction: rolling waves of white soil planted with Pedro Ximénez vines, the odd silver farmhouse roof glinting like a fish. The altitude softens August’s furnace—temperatures hover five degrees below the coast—so the grapes keep acidity and the resulting wines stay elegant rather than blowsy. Come after harvest in early September and the air smells of crushed apples and baker’s yeast; come in January and the same vineyards glow emerald after rain, a sight that still surprises visitors expecting Andalucía to be permanently sun-baked.

A town that forgot to prettify itself

There are no horse-drawn carriages or souvenir flamenco dresses. Instead, schoolchildren spill out of the Instituto at two o’clock, mothers queue inside the panadería for 80-cent molletes (soft breakfast rolls), and the evening paseo still follows a predictable circuit: down Calle Rafael de la Varga, across Plaza de España, back up past the convent. The centre is small enough to cross in twelve minutes, yet it hides sixteenth-century churches, a library housed in the former home of Inca Garcilaso de la Vega, and bodegas whose doors open straight onto residential streets. Knock and someone will usually let you in; tastings start when the family finishes lunch, not when the coach party arrives.

How to drink the place dry (responsibly)

Winery visits last half an hour and cost €6–8, including three generous pours. Alvear is the grandee—founded 1729, mahogany-lined office, wax-sealed barrels the size of London buses—but the smaller outfits often give you the warehouse to yourself. Try Bodegas Lagar de la Reina for a six-generation explanation of why clay tinajas breathe better than stainless steel, or Pérez Barquero if you want to contrast fino against oloroso without a sales script. English is spoken, yet a basic “buen día” and “gracias” still earn an extra splash. Remember: order “seco” if you prefer dry; the default tourist pour is the semi-sweet “semi-seco” because Brits once asked for “something smooth”.

What lands on the table

Montilla’s cooks treat wine like stock. The salmorejo—thicker than gazpacho, the colour of sun-dried tomatoes—gets a glug of young fino for acidity. Pork cheeks stew for three hours in Amontillado until the sauce tastes of chestnuts and tobacco. Even dessert joins in: a shot of treacly Pedro Ximénez is tipped over vanilla ice-cream so cheap it feels like a student hack, yet restaurants charge €4 and no one complains. Vegetarians survive on spinach-and-pine-nut empanadillas and the local goat’s cheese, cured in olive wagyu fat. If you need something familiar, the flamenquín is essentially a Córdoban cordon-bleu—ham rolled in pork, breadcrumbed, fried—perfect for children who think olives are suspicious.

Monday is the enemy

Plan mid-week. On Mondays the town rolls down its shutters: wineries hose out the presses, restaurants serve a limited menú del día, and the museum in the Casa del Inca locks up. Tuesday to Friday you can string together three bodegas, lunch on the terrace of Casa Paco (order the rabo de toro, €12) and still have time for a siesta before the 7 p.m. church bells. Saturdays add market stalls around the square—wicker baskets of cracked olives, net bags of dried oregano—but also bring hen-party groups from Córdoba; nothing riotous, just harder to nab a table without reserving.

Getting here without the hairpins

Fly into Málaga, not Granada. The A-45 is dual-carriageway all the way to Córdoba; exit at Montilla and you’re in town 75 minutes after touchdown. Car hire is worth it: the vineyards scatter 5–10 minutes out, taxis cost €6 a hop and Uber doesn’t exist. If you must use public transport, the ALSA coach from Córdoba takes 55 minutes and costs €4.95, but the last return leaves at 20:30—fine for lunch, tight for an evening tasting.

Stay, or just graze?

There are no chain hotels. Hospedería Los Callejones occupies a 1730 townhouse with beams you’ll bang your head on if you’re over six foot; doubles from €70 including garage parking (essential in July when asphalt melts). Alternatively, base yourself in Córdoba and visit on a day trip; the 40-minute drive means you can still catch the cathedral’s last entry at 19:30. Overnight visitors are rewarded with night-time silence thick enough to hear the vines growing—almost.

When to come, when to stay away

Spring brings wild fennel along the verges and temperatures perfect for walking the 7 km “Ruta de la Viña” before lunch. September is harvest: foam crowns the open lagares and the air tastes like grape must, but bodegas close to casual visitors during the rush. August is simply too hot—34 °C at midnight—and December can be surprisingly sharp; morning mist clings to the vine rows and the castle ruin feels like a scene from El Cid filmed on a budget.

The honest aftertaste

Montilla will not change your life. It offers no Alhambra moment, no Instagram infinity pool. What it does give is the chance to taste a wine style in its natural habitat, surrounded by people who still find it remarkable that foreigners turn up at all. Drink responsibly, remember the siesta hours, and bring a spare tote bag for the half-bottle of 15-year-old PX you’ll inevitably buy because the bodeguero insists it will survive the Ryanair cabin. One warning: back home every supermarket Amontillado will taste like watered treacle. Consider yourself ruined.