Jimena de la Frontera

The castle walls catch the morning light first. By 8 am, their sandstone glows amber against the white houses that spill down the hillside, and if the air is clear enough, you'll spot the Rif mountains of Morocco rising across the Strait. This is Jimena de la Frontera's daily magic trick: a view that stretches from Andalucía to North Africa, delivered from the battlements of a 13th-century Moorish fortress.

At 200 metres above sea level, Jimena sits high enough to escape the coastal heat yet low enough to keep its toes in two worlds. Below, the Hozgarganta river snakes through cork oak forests towards the Mediterranean fifteen kilometres away. Above, the Sierra del Oreganal blocks the worst of the Levante wind. The result is a microclimate that keeps summer nights bearable and winter mornings crisp enough for proper walking boots.

The Uphill Truth

Nobody mentions the gradients in the brochures. The old town climbs 80 metres from the railway station to the castle gate, and every street is cobbled with rounded pebbles polished lethal by centuries of soles. Park at the free shaded carpark by the Iglesia de la Misericordia – ignoring this advice means threading a UK-sized estate car through alleyways barely wider than a London fridge. Even locals abandon their vehicles at the edge of town; you'll see dusty 4x4s nosed against walls, driver's doors left ajar as if surrendering to geography.

The effort pays off. From the castle's Torre del Reloj, the view unwraps like a medieval map: cork forest giving way to pasture, pasture to the bright green ribbon of the river, then the grey smudge of Algeciras port and finally the blue stripe of sea. Bring binoculars – on winter evenings the lights of Gibraltar twinkle to the south while vultures wheel overhead, their wings catching the thermals that rise from the warming rocks.

Cork, Not Chorizo

The forests surrounding Jimena aren't scenery – they're the village's pay cheque. Each summer, crews strip cork from the alcornoques in a harvest that hasn't changed since the 18th century. The trees look flayed, their trunks raw ochre, but nine years later the bark grows back ready for another haircut. Follow the signed Ruta del Corcho from the castle gate and you'll pass piles of cork sheets drying like giant digestives in the sun. Stop at the interpretation hut (open most mornings) where a retired extractor demonstrates how a single misplaced axe blow can kill a tree worth €2,000.

This explains the supermarket shelves stacked with cork-handled knives and the bar stools topped with polished cross-sections. It also explains September's Feria del Corcho – less flamenco, more forestry fair where tractors parade past the church and the mayor hands prizes for the cleanest debarking cut. Tourists are welcome but it's emphatically not put on for them; you'll need Spanish to follow the safety briefings and a strong stomach for the slaughterhouse lorries that rumble through afterwards, carrying pigs fattened on cork forest acorns.

River Rules

The Hozgarganta River tracks a geological fault line that once carried iron ore from the hills to coastal foundries. Today the old mineral path forms the Sendero del Minero, a 12-kilometre walk that drops 400 metres from Jimena to the station at Los Ángeles. Start early – by 11 am the sun pins you to the limestone and the only shade comes from invasive eucalyptus. The trail passes stone sleepers from the 1890s railway, then ducks into canutos – narrow galleries where ferns grow thigh-high and the temperature drops ten degrees. These Atlantic relics stay damp year-round; in August they're full of families sliding into tea-coloured pools, while January brings out the serious hikers with walking poles and Gore-Tex.

Water levels dictate everything. After heavy rain the river becomes a proper torrent, washing out the stepping stones and forcing detours through thorn scrub. Check at the tourist office (open 10-2, tucked beside the town hall) or simply ask in the Bar Central – they'll tell you if yesterday's storm has turned the path into a scramble. When it's dry, the final kilometre follows an aqueduct carved into the cliff face; look up and you'll see griffon vultures nesting in the caves above, their droppings whitening the rock like streaks of paint.

What to Eat When the Siesta Ends

Lunch starts at 2 pm sharp and finishes by 4 – miss the window and you'll eat crisps. The mesón opposite the church does a three-course menú del día for €12 including wine; expect lentil stew thick enough to stand a spoon in, followed by pork cheek that slides apart at the sight of a fork. Vegetarians survive on espinacas con garbanzos, a spinach and chickpea stew spiced with cumin that tastes better than it sounds. Pudding is usually leche frita – fried custard squares dusted with cinnamon, best washed down with café cortado strong enough to restart your heart.

Evenings belong to tapas. Spanish law still requires bars to serve a free snack with each drink, so a beer crawl doubles as dinner. Order fino sherry in Bar Juan and you'll get a plate of chicharrones – not the pork scratching variety but slow-cooked pork belly pressed into a cold slab, cut with lemon juice. At La Tasca they serve ortiguillas – tiny nettles battered and deep-fried, tasting oddly of the sea despite growing 30 kilometres inland. The trick is to pace yourself: portions grow with each round and by midnight you'll be arguing about whether to move on for churros or concede defeat.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Málaga airport to Jimena takes 75 minutes via the A-7 toll road – pay the €7.50 fare unless you fancy single-carriageway hell through Estepona. Gibraltar is closer (55 minutes) but car hire queues can eat the saving. Trains run four times daily from Algeciras to Ronda, stopping at Jimena-Los Ángeles station four kilometres below town. A taxi to the centre costs €6; book one in advance because there's no rank. The rail journey itself is worth the detour – the line clings to canyon walls, pops through short tunnels and delivers views usually reserved for eagles.

Leave time for the return trip. The 10-kilometre mountain road to the main road is twisty enough to test breakfast resolve, and Sunday drivers treat the centre line as decorative. In August, add 30 minutes for caravans crawling uphill; in winter, pack chains – the pass hits 400 metres and last January's dusting of snow brought chaos to locals who'd forgotten what the white stuff looked like.

Jimena doesn't do blockbuster attractions. What it offers instead is a working mountain village that happens to have a castle, a cork forest and a view of Africa. Come for three nights: walk the river in the morning, nap through the heat, then emerge as the shadows lengthen and the swifts start their evening circuits. Buy a bottle of local mosto (young wine) from the cooperative, climb the castle steps and watch the light turn those Moroccan peaks pink. Just remember to bring sensible shoes – your calves will thank you in the morning, even if your head doesn't.