Écija

The bus driver genuinely double-checked. “¿Seguro que queréis bajar aquí?” – are you sure you want to get off here? He wasn’t being rude; foreigners rarely step off the Seville–Córdoba route at the low-rise, ochre-coloured town that slides into view after an hour of sunflower fields. Stay on the coach and you’ll miss one of Andalucía’s most surprising afternoons: a place whose skyline of 30-odd baroque towers looks like iced wedding cakes left out in the sun, yet where you can wander palace patios entirely alone.

Écija, self-proclaimed “City of Towers”, sits smack on the fertile Genil river plain, 85 m above sea-level and roughly equidistant from Seville and Córdoba (55 min by car on the A-4, 70 min by half-hourly bus). That geographical convenience is its blessing and its curse: easy to reach, easy to overlook. Tour buses head straight for the marquee cities, leaving Écija’s monuments blissfully uncrowded. The trade-off is heat. Locals nickname the town the “sartén de Andalucía” – Andalucía’s frying pan – and they’re not joking. In July thermometers flirt with 45 °C; even at 18:00 it can still be 35 °C. Visit between November and March instead and you’ll get 16 °C afternoons, empty museums and storks clacking from every belfry.

A Skyline Built by Rival Aristocrats

Start in Plaza de España, a broad rectangle that functions as outdoor living-room. Housewives gossip outside the 19th-century food market, children chase pigeons round a 1780 fountain, and the façades of three churches compete for attention like preening peacocks. The nearest, Santa María, grafts an 18th-century Churrigueresque front onto a medieval shell; its tower, banded with glazed tiles the colour of oxidised copper, is the postcard shot. Walk thirty seconds and you’re at San Juan, whose 14th-century mudéjar brickwork looks almost sober beside later baroque frosting. Tilt your head back: white stork nests balance on every ledge, twigs rattling like loose scaffolding in the breeze.

The density of bell-towers is no accident. During Écija’s 17th-century golden age, titled families grew rich on olive oil and wool exports. Each clan bankrolled its own parish church, the taller the tower, the grander the statement. The resulting arms race produced the “Route of Towers”, an informal walking circuit that strings together eleven spires in under a mile. No need for a map; just pick a tower, walk towards it, and another pops into view down a side street.

Interspersed between the churches are palace houses whose doors stand ajar. Push open the carved walnut portal of Palacio de los Palma and you’ll find a double-height courtyard wrapped in marble columns, the stone so polished that rubber soles squeak like gym shoes. Admission is free; a caretaker usually appears, shrugs, and waves you in. Across the lane, Palacio de Benamejí (Tues–Sun 10:00–14:00, €2) doubles as the town museum. Roman mosaics – black-and-white geometric patterns unearthed beneath modern garages – lie on the ground floor, while upstairs 18th-century tilework depicts cherubs operating early printing presses: Écija’s brief stint as Spain’s papermaking capital.

Roman Baths and Paprika Lard on Toast

History here is layered like an archaeological lasagne. Under the Renaissance church of Santa Cruz sit remains of the Roman forum of Astigi, once the fourth-largest city in Iberia. A €3 ticket lets you descend metal walkways above brick-lined sewers still carrying rainwater. A five-minute walk north brings you to the Termas Romanas, the best-preserved private bath complex in southern Spain (check opening times at the tourist office; hours chop and change according to staff availability). Warm, hot and cold rooms are intact enough to picture toga-clad merchants discussing grain prices before the olive-oil massage.

All that sightseeing works up an appetite. Écija hasn’t succumbed to gastro-tourism yet, so prices remain stubbornly local. Breakfast means a mollete – a soft, white bread roll – split, toasted and spread with manteca colorá, lard whipped with paprika and shredded pork. It tastes like smoky bacon butter and costs €1.20 in any café. Lunch might be gazpacho de habas, a spring-bean variant on the tomato classic, followed by rabo de toro, bull’s-tail stew reduced until the meat slides from the bone in glossy fibres. Portions are farm-hand generous; consider sharing. If you need something sweet, torta de manteca looks like a donut but is lighter, less sugary, and flakes like shortbread. Pair it with a small glass of vino de naranja, an orange-infused dessert wine once shipped to English merchants in Cádiz.

What the Brochures Don’t Tell You

There are no souvenir tea-towels. Shops shut religiously from 14:00 to 17:30; if you haven’t eaten by 13:30 you’ll wait until 21:00. After 22:00 the streets empty; the only sound is the clack-clack of storks on their night perches. Écija is not picturesque in the postcard sense: ochre stone absorbs the late-afternoon light beautifully, but the palette is earth-tone, not the blinding white of the pueblos blancos. In winter the Genil plain traps cold air; January mornings can dip to 2 °C, so pack a jacket alongside the sun-hat.

Yet the absence of crowds more than compensates. You’ll photograph a baroque tower without a single selfie-stick, and museum attendants have time to unlock extra rooms just because you asked. On the Thursday before Easter the silence is broken by processions that squeeze through six-metre-wide alleys, brass bands echoing off stone, but even then visitor numbers are modest. Come May, the Cruces de Mayo festival turns hidden patios into impromptu flower shows; strangers will invite you through their gates for a fino sherry and a slice of home-made almond cake.

Getting There, Getting Out

Public transport is easy but early. The last direct bus back to Seville leaves at 19:15; Córdoba’s final service departs 19:30. Miss them and you’re looking at a €70 taxi ride. If you hire a car, combine Écija with the ruins of Roman Itálica near Seville, or push south to the olive-oil mills around Estepa. Cyclists should note the land is flat but summer heat makes dawn starts compulsory.

Stay the night only if you crave slow-motion Spain. Hostal San Francisco, tucked inside a 16th-century Franciscan house, charges €45 for a double with marble floors thick enough to muffle even stork chatter. Alternatively, day-trip and retreat to Seville’s wider choice of late-night bars.

Écija won’t change your life, but it will recalibrate your idea of Andalucía. No flamenco tablaos, no tour-bus paella, just churches that compete like rival cousins and palace doors left open on the off-chance someone wants to look. Board the evening bus sun-sated, camera full of storks and empty plazas, and the driver won’t question your destination again.