Trebujena

The sun drops behind the marismas at half-seven in October, turning the river into a sheet of beaten copper and the village windows into tiny furnaces. From the mirador beside the ruined windmill, you can watch the light fade across three provinces: Cádiz, Seville and Huelva, with only the cough of a tractor and the clink of a coffee cup for company. This is Trebujena’s daily show, and the stalls are never full.

A town that faces the water but keeps its back to the sea

Trebujena sits 17 km inland, just far enough from the Atlantic to avoid the cruise-ship crowds that swarm nearby Sanlúcar yet close enough for the salt wind to polish the white walls. The port is a concrete slipway and a single crane; fishing boats nose up the Guadalquivir at dawn to unload croakers and cuttlefish that will reappear in the bars three hours later as tortillitas de camarones, crisp as autumn leaves. There is no promenade, no yacht club, no souvenir tat. Instead, the river acts like a slow-moving high street: farmers park their pickups beside the bank to argue about the price of must, while egrets work the mudflats for leftovers.

The beach, such as it is, lies 12 km away at the end of a single-track lane. Playa de la Ballena is a seven-kilometre tongue of grey sand backed by pines and driftwood; at low tide you can drive on, but the Guardia Civil advise checking your breakdown cover first. In summer the water is warm, shallow and usually empty apart from a few Spanish families who bring gazpacho in cool boxes and leave at sunset. Bring repellent: the marsh mosquitoes arrive with the first warm breeze and dine until November.

Up the hill, into the glass

Behind the river plain the ground rises abruptly to the Sierra de San Cristóbal, a low ripple that still manages 250 m. The change is immediate: suddenly you are among vines striped like green corduroy, their roots clawing at albariza, the chalky soil that reflects heat and keeps the grapes awake at night. This is the western tip of the sherry triangle, but Trebujena does not bother much with soleras. Most of its juice is fermented once, bottled sweet and sold within the province as mosto, a purple, iron-rich drink that tastes like grape Ribena with the sugar dialled down. Locals serve it freezing cold in tiny glasses; visitors expecting fino are politely pointed towards Jerez, half an hour away.

The harvest starts the first week of September and lasts ten frantic days. Pickers still use the traditional corta-y-colea: one worker cuts the bunch, another catches it in a wicker basket strapped to his back. At lunch the baskets become stools and someone produces a jamón, a loaf and a plastic cup of mosto that has already started to ferment in the heat. If you ask nicely at Bodegas César Florido (ring the bell; someone’s mother will appear) you can taste the must straight from the tank, gritty with skins and warm as tea.

What passes for sights

Trebujena’s centro histórico is three streets wide and two deep, enough for a slow twenty-minute drift. The sixteenth-century church squats at the top like a referee, its tower a handy compass for drivers who have taken the wrong agricultural track. Inside, the Baroque retable glitters with gilt that the English Navy never managed to nick, and a nineteenth-century organ still puffs out hymns on feast days. The plaza in front hosts the Friday market: one stall for knickers, one for peppers, one for cheap razors.

Behind the church, Calle Ancha widens to accept the town’s only mansion, Casa de los Leones, its façade studded with stone lions that look as if they have just remembered something embarrassing. The building is now municipal offices; wander in to admire the palm-sized keyhole on the front door, then leave before the caretaker asks if you have an appointment. Further downhill, the old molino has lost its sails but kept its view. Climb the external staircase for free: the marshes stretch west like a crumpled quilt, and on a clear evening you can pick out the sandspit where Columbus weighed anchor in 1492.

Eating without theatrics

Lunch starts at two and finishes when the cook’s family turns up. Bar Central, on the square, keeps the lights on: white tiles, football on the telly, and a handwritten list that shrinks through the afternoon. Order the guiso de bulla: chickpeas, spinach and scraps of morcilla in a broth that tastes of smoke and iron. Add a plate of tortillitas and a caña for €8.50; they still accept cash only. If the terrace tables are full, walk two minutes to La Palmera where the owner, Manolo, will insist you try his wife’s chocos en su tinta. The squid arrives black, glossy and faintly oceanic; mop the sauce with bread or face polite disappointment.

Dinner is trickier. After nine the streets empty, shutters rattle down and the town appears closed for private function. The trick is to follow the sound of cutlery: usually it leads to Bar La Oficina, open until midnight if the cook feels like it. The menu is whatever Miguel bought that morning; the wine is mosto poured from an unlabelled bottle. Pudding is an orange sliced with a penknife, served on the lid of the tin that once held the olives.

Getting stuck, or not

Trebujena is 35 minutes by car from Jerez airport on the A-471, a fast road that dissolves into single file for the final 5 km. The last stretch is unlit; reserve a hire car with decent headlights or you will spend the night following a Spanish lorry full of pigs. Buses run from Jerez three times a day, less on Sundays; the timetable is optimistic, so bring a book. There is no railway, no cab rank, and the village petrol station shuts at eight. If you miss the bus back, the bartender will happily phone his cousin in Jerez who will collect you for €40 and a running commentary on Brexit.

Accommodation is thin. Hostal El Paraíso has nine rooms above a café overlooking the river; the front ones catch the dawn chorus of fishing boats and the back ones the church bells. Doubles are €55 including coffee and a piece of toast rubbed with tomato and enough salt to make your ears ring. Anything smarter means staying in Sanlúcar or Jerez and commuting; during the August fair even those rooms vanish by May.

Leave before you’re ready, or after you’re done

Most visitors last half a day, just long enough for the view, the mosto and a plate of fritters. That is fine: Trebujena does not court overnight guests and its charms fade under scrutiny rather than deepening. Stay for sunset, when the sky performs its copper trick and the bells ring for rosary, and you will understand why locals drive up from Cádiz just to sit on the mirador wall. Then start the engine before the mosquitoes find you. The road back to the coast is dark, straight and empty; in the rear-view mirror the town shrinks to a single glow, like a lamp left on only until the harvest is in.