Puente Genil

The queue outside Confitería La Purísima starts at eight. By half past, the shop on Calle Nueva is three-deep at the counter, pensioners balancing lottery tickets and elbowing teenagers glued to TikTok. Everyone’s here for the same thing: pestiños, those paper-thin fritters glazed with honey that shatter on first bite and leave your chin glistening. In Puente Genil, sugar is civic business.

This market-town of 30,000 sits in the middle of Córdoba’s southern plain, 216 m above sea level and exactly nowhere near the coast. The Genil River – a tributary of the Guadalquivir – slides past like an after-thought, but the olives get top billing. Silver-green seas of them surround the place, thinning only where the railway to Málaga slices through. The harvest starts in November and the mills run 24 hours; the air smells of bruised grass and fresh dough.

A Bridge, a Tower and a Palace that Became the Library

The Roman bridge that gave the town its name still carries traffic, though the five arches you photograph are medieval rebuilds. Walk across at sunset and you’ll see why locals treat it as an open-air living-room: storks clack on the lampposts, lads cast fishing lines for barbel and someone always has a Bluetooth speaker playing Camarón. Down-river, the brick chimneys of disused flour mills poke up like snapped pencils; one has been turned into the Casa Museo de las Aguas where a retired miller demonstrates how water once turned stone to gold.

Back in the centre, the tower of the parish church is the skyline’s compass. It’s fourteenth-century mudéjar, brick laid in zig-zags, and you can climb it on Friday mornings for €3 – ring the bell-pull hard or the caretaker won’t hear you. Inside, the baroque high altar is a riot of gilt that would make a Sevillian blush, while the side chapel keeps the town’s other patron, a tiny Virgin dressed in stiff, jewel-encrusted silk. Locals swap between the two depending on whether they need rain or mercy.

Round the corner, the Neoclassical palace built for the Dukes of Medinaceli now houses the public library. Students revise under chandeliers; the Wi-Fi code is written on a card taped to a duke’s marble coat of arms. Entry is free and the toilets are the cleanest in town – useful intel after too much coffee.

Sugar, Spice and Everything Deep-Fried

Puente Genil’s confectionery reputation began in convents that needed income after the 1837 desamortización. Nuns sold sweets to survive; the town acquired a sweet tooth that never left. Today there are still a dozen family bakeries, each guarding a variation on the same four basics: pestiños at Christmas, torrijas for Easter, roscos de vino spiked with anise, and polvorones that crumble like shortbread. No single “best” shop exists – allegiances are tribal – but newcomers usually start at La Purísima (oldest, busiest) or La Campana (air-con, card machine).

For something savoury, head to the indoor market before 11 a.m. Ask for a wedge of carne de membrillo – quince paste the colour of claret – and the stall-holder will slice it with a cheese-wire, wrap it in wax paper and charge you €1.20. Pair it with semi-cured payoyo cheese from nearby Grazalema and you have an instant picnic that travels better than a British pork pie.

Proper meals begin late. Try Casa Pepe on Plaza de España for salmorejo thicker than custard and flamenquín that arrives hanging off the plate like a bread-crumbed rolling pin. House red comes in half-bottles because, as the waiter explains, “no one drinks a whole one at lunch unless it’s a funeral.” If you want the Michelin-listed experience, Alma Ezequiel Montilla is five minutes out on the old Córdoba road – tasting menu €65, book ahead, closed Sunday night and all Monday.

Processions, Fireworks and a Fair that Starts with Bread

Holy Week here is less tourist brochure, more immersive theatre. The star turn is the “judíos” – men in white robes and conical hoods who re-enact gospel scenes with the solemnity of a Greek chorus. Crowds crush so tight that you’ll smell candle wax and orange-blossom water on the person in front. Accommodation sells out six months ahead; if you’re curious but claustrophobic, catch the dawn procession on Good Friday – streets almost cool, cafés open for churros at five.

Late May brings the Feria de San Marcos. The fairground rides are standard, but the food stalls stay local: grilled prawns from Huelva, mollete bread split and spread with fresh tomato, and paper cones of piping-hot churros handed through the counter like relay batons. The town hall lays on free concerts in the park; bring a cushion unless you enjoy stone benches.

August is for staying indoors. Temperatures brush 42 °C and even the swallows pant. If you must visit, the river walk is shaded by eucalyptus and there’s a municipal lido on the road to the AVE station – €3 entry, no outside food, lifeguard who blows his whistle at the slightest splash.

Getting There, Getting Round, Getting Fed

Málaga airport is the sensible gateway. Hire cars reach Puente Genil in 1 h 45 min on the A-45; trains leave Málaga María Zambrano every two hours and take 20 minutes longer. The high-speed AVE stops six kilometres outside town at Puente Genil-Herrera; a bright-green shuttle meets every arrival and costs €1.30, but the last bus leaves at 21:30. After that, a taxi is a fixed €12 – agree before you get in, the drivers are sticklers.

Distances are walkable once you’re here. The old core fits inside a 1 km square; anything farther is reached by wide pavements and zero hills. Cycling lanes exist but are decorative – locals still drive to buy bread. Parking is free on blue zones after 14:00 and all day Saturday; ignore the touts who wave you into private yards for €5.

Cash remains king. Many bars refuse cards under €10, market stalls under €20, and the confiterías pretend the terminal is broken if you buy two pastries. ATMs cluster round Plaza de España; the Santander one charges €2, the Cajasur is free.

When to Come, When to Skip

Spring is the sweet spot: almond blossom in March, wild asparagus along the river banks, daytime highs of 24 °C. Olive-picking in November is photogenic but muddy; tractors block the lanes at dawn and the mills hum like distant aircraft. February can be surprisingly wet – the Genil swells, the Roman bridge disappears under frothy brown water and photographers arrive with tripods. Summer is for lizards and lunatics; winter is mild, 16 °C at noon, but the confectionery displays shrink after Epiphany and some bakeries close for holidays.

Leave with a kilo of extra-virgin oil in your suitcase and a box of pestiños wedged between socks. The oil will clear customs; the pastries probably won’t last as far as Gatwick. Either way, you’ll understand why Puente Genil doesn’t need to be a “hidden gem” – it’s quite happy being a working town that happens to smell of sugar and olives, and that’s more than enough.