Los Molares

At 73 metres above sea level—barely higher than the top of Beachy Head—Los Molares sits low enough to catch every degree of summer heat yet just high enough to survey an ocean of sunflowers, wheat and olives that stretches clear to the Seville skyline. The village doesn’t climb anywhere; it spreads. Streets run ruler-straight between whitewashed walls whose bottom halves are painted ochre against the dust kicked up by tractors. Nothing is tucked away. Instead, life happens in plain sight: old men on kitchen chairs outside the cooperativa, women balancing shopping and gossip in equal measure, and the town band practising under the plane trees until the neighbour on the second floor bangs the window shut.

A Plaza That Still Belongs to Locals

The Plaza de la Constitución behaves like a living room. Children career around the stone fountain while grandparents hold court on the shaded benches. British visitors looking for a quick coffee should know the rules: order inside, carry your own saucer out, and don’t expect a bill to appear—payment is settled when you leave, not when you finish. Bar La Parada opens at seven for workers needing a brandy-and-coffee reset; by ten it’s espresso and tostada, the toast thick enough to support a rub of tomato and a glug of olive oil. A tapas mixto plate (jamón, manchego, mild chorizo) costs €7 and saves anyone nervous about unidentified items on the counter. Cards work, but bring a €20 note on Tuesdays when the market swells the queue.

What the Guidebooks Leave Out

Los Molares has no railway station. The nearest is Utrera, six kilometres away, and the only taxi is a man called Manolo who switches his mobile off during siesta. Pre-book or prepare for a hot walk. Drivers leave the A-4 at kilometre 38, swing past the Repsol plant and roll straight into town; the entire journey from Seville airport takes 45 minutes, ten less than from Jerez yet Brits still instinctively aim for the bigger airport and wonder why the hire-car queue snakes round the car park.

The castle—Castillo de Los Molares—opens its gate on the last Sunday of each month and on absolutely no other day. Inside is a dusty courtyard and a staircase sturdy enough for selfies but little else. Download the free Aumentur app before you go; point your phone at the walls and augmented-reality banners explain where the silk workers once lived. The so-called Feria de la Seda disappeared decades ago; if a blog promises it, the blog is out of date.

Walking Without Altitude

This is not the Alpujarras. Tracks leave the village on the flat, following irrigation ditches between olives that were already old when Wellington fought at Talavera. One easy circuit heads south-east to the abandoned cortijo of El Algarrobo—three kilometres out, three back—passing a ruined stone trough where bee-eaters dive for water in early summer. Take a wide-brimmed hat; shade arrives only at the odd farmhouse gate. Spring brings a yellow haze of rape between the cereal rows; by July the same fields have been shaved to stubble that crunches like Weetabix underfoot. October turns the sunflower heads to blackened clocks, good for moody photographs but hopeless for seed-pecking finches.

Tuesday, the Day the Volume Goes Up

Every other morning Los Molares murmurs, but on Tuesday the central car park becomes a grid of white awnings. Fruit arrives from the coast, shoes from Elche, and a van whose sole product is giant churros cut with scissors into carrier-bag lengths. Children queue for chocolate dipping cups while parents panic-buy pants. The almond tart stall outside Pastelería Ramos shifts three hundred slices before noon; the trick is to hover until a new tray emerges and still-warm crumbs scatter across the paper bag. By two o’clock the traders are folding tarpaulin and the plaza reverts to its default hush, the only evidence a drift of plastic lottery tickets circling the fountain.

Seasons Spelled Out

Summer is fierce. At midday the thermometer kisses 42 °C and even the lizards look for air-conditioning. Plan castle visits for opening time (10:00) or after six when the stone façades release stored heat like storage radiators in reverse. Winter, on the other hand, can surprise: clear blue skies, daytime 16 °C, but night temperatures drop to 3 °C and village houses lack insulation. Pack a fleece for evening tapas; outdoor tables are equipped with gas heaters but the draught finds every gap. April and late-October are the sweet spots—mild enough to walk at two, warm enough to sit outside at nine, and the light is liquid gold without the August sizzle.

Where to Lay Your Head

There are precisely two rental properties with consistent English-language reviews. The standout is a first-floor apartment overlooking the plaza—original hydraulic tiles, four-metre ceilings, Wi-Fi that copes with BBC iPlayer. At £85 a night it books solid for Semana Santa and the August feria, so reserve early or accept a weekday slot. Alternatives lie in the surrounding farmhouses: owners offer country silence and pool access, but you’ll drive in for bread and miss the evening paseo that defines village life.

Eating Beyond the Obvious

Evenings start late. Kitchens fire up at nine; try earlier and you’ll be eating alone opposite a switched-off telly. Casa Curro does a thick, cumin-laced chickpea-spinach stew in winter and a chilled salmorejo the colour of Heinz tomato soup in summer. Order media raciones; portions are built for field labourers, not desk jockeys. Local wine comes from the nearby Montilla-Moriles bodegas—ask for a dry “amontillado” and you’ll pay €2.50 a glass, half the price of sherry served back home. Vegetarians survive on tortilla and roasted peppers; vegans should declare themselves upfront or risk a surprise dusting of jamón on the lentils.

The Downsides, Plainly Stated

Public transport is patchy enough to feel personal. The weekday bus from Seville arrives at 14:15, too late for lunch and too early for check-in, then leaves at 17:30 before anyone has thought about dinner. Sunday service doesn’t exist. British licence holders sometimes find their UK-issued code won’t scan at the unmanned fuel pumps outside town—keep cash for the grumpy attendant who materialises only after you’ve pressed every button. Finally, Los Molares is quiet. If you crave museums, boutiques or a choice of cocktails, you’ll be back on the A-4 within hours. The village rewards those content to watch the day unfold rather than chase it.

Worth the Detour?

Fly into Seville or Jerez, hire a small car, and Los Molares slots neatly between the grandeur of Seville cathedral and the sherry bodegas of Jerez. Stay one night and you’ll leave with the smell of orange-blossom on your clothes and a working knowledge of how Spain functions when tour buses keep rolling. Stay three and you risk being greeted by name in the bakery, which is either heart-warming or alarming, depending on your appetite for anonymity. Either way, remember Manolo’s taxi number—and don’t turn up for the castle on a Wednesday.