Chiclana de Segura

The road tips upward at a 15-degree angle, hair-pin after hair-pin, until the dashboard thermometer drops three degrees and the rental car smells of hot brakes. At 850 m, Chiclana de Segura appears: a single line of whitewashed houses clinging to a limestone ridge, the Sierra de Segura rolling away like a frozen Atlantic on three sides. Mobile signal collapses to 3G; the last bar on the battery winks out. You have arrived, more or less, in the 1950s.

A village that measures time in olives, not hours

Roughly 1,200 souls live here year-round, though numbers swell when the olive harvest starts in November and shrink again when the first frost bites. The economy still revolves around the groves that quilt the lower slopes; every family seems to own a few hundred trees and a rusting trailer. Walk the lanes at dawn and you’ll hear mechanical harvesters thrumming in the valley long before any shop opens. By mid-morning the air is thick with the sweet-grass scent of new oil drifting from the cooperative press on the Beas road.

There is no grand plaza mayor, merely a sloping triangle of cracked concrete shaded by a single fig tree. The parish church, closed between services, keeps its bell-tower clock frozen at ten-past-four – a local joke that doubles as accurate time-keeping for half the year. Posters taped to the oak doors announce forthcoming events: a blood-donor morning, the annual “Ruta del Aceite” hike, and a poetry reading dedicated to Jorge Manrique, fifteenth-century soldier-poet and the village’s only celebrity. His tiny interpretation centre opens only if you ring the town hall first; inside, a single glass case holds a facsimile of his Coplas por la muerte de su padre and a faded photo of the Queen visiting in 1987.

Stone, slope and sky

Chiclana’s street plan was designed by topography, not planners. Calles narrow to shoulder width, climb for twenty metres, then drop without warning into staircases cut straight into bedrock. Park on the small plateau below the church; anything wider than a Fiat 500 will scrape its mirrors on the way up. From here a concrete ramp leads past the cemetery to a water tank; squeeze through the gap in the wall and you emerge on the ruined castle platform. No ticket office, no safety rail, just knee-high parapets and a 270-degree sweep that takes in the Guadalimar valley, the Cazorla massif and, on very clear days, the snowcaps of the Sierra Nevada 150 km south. Sunsets arrive ten minutes earlier than on the coast; the temperature can fall six degrees while you watch.

Below the ridge, way-marked footpaths follow old mule tracks between dry-stone terraces. The easiest loop, the 5 km Sendero del Cortijo del Horno, skirts two abandoned farmsteads and a spring that runs even in August. Mid-way round you’ll pass a threshing circle paved with granite slabs – locals still bring almonds here in February to crack on the stones. Adders bask on warm rocks, and short-toed eagles ride the thermals overhead; binoculars are more use here than a phrase book.

What passes for food and drink

The single bar, Casa Agustín, opens when Agustín feels like it. Tuesday is the worst bet: shutters stay down after the morning coffee rush and may not go up again until Thursday. When it is open, order a café con leche and a tostada rubbed with tomato and olive oil – about €2.20 the pair. The fridge holds tinned olives, crisps and little else; if you need lunch, buy a loaf from the bakery-van that toots through the village at 11 a.m. and assemble a picnic. For a proper meal, drive 20 minutes down the JA-9103 to Beas de Segura and the Hotel Avenida, where the menú del día (three courses, wine, water, €12) still means grilled pork, chips and a wobbling slab of flan.

The village shop, open 9–11 a.m. and 5–7 p.m. except Sunday, sells a peppery local extra-virgin oil in 250 ml bottles perfect for hand luggage. Ask for picual if you like a cough-inducing finish, royal for something milder. There is no cash machine; the last one stands outside the Santander branch in Beas, so fill your wallet before the climb.

Seasons and silence

Spring arrives late and sudden. By late March almond blossom foams over every terrace, while nights stay cold enough to frost the windscreen. This is walking weather: daylight stretches to seven, streams still run, and the only other footprints belong to shepherds. May can bring a week of 28 °C, but the altitude keeps humidity low; British knees that wilt in coastal Andalucia cope happily here.

Summer is fierce. Daytime temperatures nudge 35 °C, shade is scarce, and the castle ramp radiates heat like a pizza oven. The village empties as families decamp to the coast; even Agustín shuts for August. Come only if you crave absolute silence – and carry two litres of water per person.

Autumn means harvest. Tractors towing tarpaulin-lined trailers clog the lanes, and the cooperative press works through the night. Visitors are welcome to watch the olives tumble into the hoppers; someone will hand you a plastic cup of cloudy new oil to taste, raw and bright as liquid grass. The week after Todos los Santos (1 November) the village holds its Fiesta del Aceite: free tours, folk songs in the square, and a communal migas fry-up that starts at noon and ends when the wine runs out.

Winter brings the first snow flurries, though rarely enough to settle. Night temperatures drop to –3 °C; most houses lack central heating, so guest rooms rely on plug-in radiators and extra blankets. The reward is crystal air and views that stretch to the Murcian border. Roads can ice over; carry snow chains if you’re visiting between December and February.

How to do it (and when not to)

Fly to Málaga or Alicante; either airport is two-and-a-half hours on fast motorways (A-92, A-32) followed by 45 minutes of switch-back. Petrol stations are scarce after Villacarrillo – fill up there. The final 8 km (JA-9103 to JV-5021) is single-lane, unsigned and unfenced; meet a quarry lorry and someone has to reverse. A UK-size hire car manages fine, but don’t attempt the route after dark unless you enjoy cliff-edge reversing.

Stay two nights minimum. The only accommodation inside the village is Casa Rural La Huerta, two self-catering cottages sharing a plunge pool and a roof terrace that faces west for sunset gazpacho. Rates hover around €70 a night for two, including firewood and a bottle of the owner’s oil. Book ahead for April and October; at other times you can usually negotiate a discount on the spot.

Leave the laptop at home. Wi-Fi exists but crawls; EE drops to 3G, Vodafone to GPRS. Download offline maps before you leave the A-32, then surrender to the quiet. By the second evening you’ll have memorised the church bell’s stuck clock and the exact minute the swifts start their dusk circuit. That, rather than any souvenir, is what you take back down the mountain: the realisation that somewhere in Europe still runs on olive time, and that ten-past-four can be right twice a day.