Almargen

A railway that stopped short

The guard’s hut is still there, painted the same cream-and-green as the 1960s rolling stock, but the rails end abruptly in a field of oats. This is the western terminus of the Via Verde de la Sierra, a 36-kilometre cycle trail hacked from the old Jerez–Almargen railway. British families freewheel in most weekends, having hired bikes in Olvera and enjoyed an almost uninterrupted downhill glide. They roll past stone bridges and three lit tunnels, spot griffon vultures overhead, and finish here, legs wobbling, looking for a cold drink and somewhere to WhatsApp home. Mobile reception is patchy, so the message usually sends from the terrace of Bar Demetrio, the only place on the square with reliable 4G.

Almargen itself has 2,100 registered residents, though you’d never guess it on a Tuesday afternoon when the supermarket shutters come down at 14:00 and the village enters its siesta trance. The streets are wide enough for tractors to turn, the houses are whitewashed but not postcard-perfect, and the loudest sound is the clack-clack of a single elderly man playing dominoes against himself. In short, it feels like the Spain many Britons assume disappeared sometime around 1995.

What the brochures leave out

There is no cash machine. Draw euros in Campillos or you’ll be paying the bakery with a fifty and getting your change in boiled sweets. The parish church, Nuestra Señora de la Inmaculada Concepción, is handsome enough – a hybrid of 16th-century stone and 18th-century stucco – but it’s locked unless Mass is on, so peer through the iron grille and move on. The tiny Museo Tartésico, housed in the old school, opens on request; ring the bell and a volunteer appears with a key and a torch. Inside are pottery shards from a nearby Iron-Age settlement, displayed with the kind of handwritten labels you last saw in a village fête. Entry is free; donations fund the next season’s dig.

The real exhibit is the village plan. Almargen sits at 510 m on a low rise above the wheat belt. From the ermita on the western edge you can watch the landscape change colour with the hour: green furrows after rain, biscuit brown by July, and for two weeks in April an almost lurid yellow when the oilseed rape flowers. Bring binoculars and you’ll add calandra lark and Iberian grey shrike to your life list; the birds use the olive rows as commuter lanes.

Eating on Spanish time

Spanish clocks still baffle British stomachs. Kitchens fire up at 21:00, sometimes 21:30, and if you arrive at 19:30 expecting dinner you’ll be offered a bag of crisps and a look of pity. The workaround is to treat lunch as the main event. Casa de Comidas Cantarrana serves carrillada – pork cheek braised in Montilla sherry – until 16:00. The meat collapses at the touch of a fork, and the plate costs €9, bread included. Pair it with a glass of house red (€2) and you’ve spent less than a motorway sandwich.

For something lighter ask for porra almargeña, a thick tomato soup closer to a savoury custard than gazpacho. It arrives topped with diced ham and egg, the sort of nursery comfort food that converts even teenagers who claim to hate foreign muck. Finish with a slice of almond tart, heavy on cinnamon, baked by the owner’s sister and sold by the slab. If the bar is full of cyclists in hi-vis, you’ve hit Sunday; tables turn quickly, so hover with intent.

Pedal, walk, or simply sit

You don’t need Lycra to use the Green Way. The surface is compacted grit fine for pushchairs, and the first café (Venta de la Vega) lies only 6 km away, an easy out-and-back before the heat builds. Uphill the trail tunnels into the Sierra de Grazalema; downhill it spills you into Almargen’s old station yard where a faded sign still promises “Conexión con Jerez” that never arrived. Lock your bike to the railings and wander; traffic is so light that children ride scooters in the main street.

Prefer foot to pedal? A 5-km loop heads south past the cemetery to a ridge of holm oaks. The path is unsigned but obvious; follow the irrigation channel until you reach a concrete tank, then bear left. You’ll gain 150 m, enough to see the Guadalteba reservoirs glinting like polished steel, and be back in time for the evening paseo when villagers parade their dogs at 19:30 sharp.

Winter brings a different rhythm. Daytime temperatures sit around 14 °C – fleece weather for anyone from the Home Counties – but nights drop to 2 °C. Rental cottages have wood-burners and thick walls; pack slippers because tiled floors are unforgiving. Summer, by contrast, is fierce: 35 °C by noon, though the altitude means nights cool to 18 °C, so you sleep with the window open and wake to the smell of warm thyme drifting in.

A festival that isn’t for sale

The Feria de Agosto is the only time Almargen swells beyond capacity. Fairground rides occupy the football pitch, a brass band plays pasodobles until 03:00, and every balcony sprouts a flag. It’s intensely local: no sponsorship banners, no tourist office stall, just families who’ve driven back from Málaga or Barcelona to show toddlers where Mum grew up. Visitors are welcome but expected to join in; if someone hands you a plastic cup of rebujito (fino sherry and 7-Up) at 13:00, refusal is taken as personal insult.

Semana Santa is quieter but equally sincere. The church bell tolls at 21:00 and the procession squeezes through streets barely three metres wide. Nazarenos in purple hoods carry a single float of the Virgin; the only illumination comes from handheld candles, so photography is tricky unless you enjoy grainy Blair-Witch results. Stand back against a doorway and you’ll hear the shuffle of feet and the occasional whispered “Guapa” as the Virgin passes.

Beds, bikes and how to leave

Accommodation is limited to four self-catering cottages and one rural hotel with eight rooms. Prices hover around €70 a night for two, including breakfast of crusty bread, local olive oil and coffee strong enough to restart a heart. Book ahead for April–May and the October olive harvest; outside those months you can usually arrive and ask at the ayuntamiento, where the caretaker keeps a list of keys.

To get here, leave the Málaga–Seville A-357 at Campillos, then thread 18 km along the MA-701 past grain silos and the occasional wandering pig. Total drive from the airport is 65 minutes, toll-free and scenic in an agricultural sort of way. There is no train, and the one daily bus reaches town at 21:15 having left Málaga six hours earlier; hire a car unless you enjoy logistical Sudoku.

When it’s time to move on, Ronda is 45 minutes south, the Costa del Sol 50 minutes south-west. Fill the tank before you leave – the nearest petrol station is 20 km away and closes on Sunday afternoons. Almargen won’t change your life, but it might reset your body clock to a pace where lunch is sacred, siestas are non-negotiable, and the biggest decision is whether to order a second glass of wine.