Vejer de la Frontera

The wind hits first. It barrels up from the Atlantic, fifteen kilometres away, and whips through Vejer's narrow streets with such force that laundry horizontal-lines between balconies stay permanently horizontal. This is no gentle sea breeze—it's the same levante that once powered the windmills scattered across the surrounding hills, and it shapes everything here from architecture to appetites.

At 200 metres above sea level, Vejer perches like a white limestone battleship on its hilltop, commanding views across the valley of La Janda. The village's 1,000-year-old castle walls face inland, while the houses tumble down the southern slope as if straining to catch sight of the coast. It's this dual personality—half fortress, half lookout—that makes Vejer fascinating. One minute you're tracing medieval battlements, the next you're gazing at Atlantic sunsets that turn the whitewashed walls copper.

The Uphill Battle

Parking at the free lot by Los Remedios Parque saves both money and sanity. From here, it's a five-minute calf-burner up to the Arco de la Villa, the main gateway through walls that once saw off Berber pirates and Portuguese armies. The cobbles are genuine—worn smooth by centuries of boots, not weekend tourists—and they demand proper footwear. High heels die here.

Inside the walls, the village reveals itself slowly. Streets twist back on themselves like folded ribbon, occasionally opening into tiny plazas where neighbours gossip from opposite windows. The houses aren't pretty in a chocolate-box sense; they're functional, thick-walled structures designed to stay cool when August temperatures hit 40°C. Their beauty lies in survival—survival of earthquakes, wars, and the march of progress that turned neighbouring coastal towns into concrete strips.

The Plaza de España provides the first proper breather, both literally and metaphorically. This 16th-century square, with its distinctive blue-and-white ceramic fountain, serves as Vejer's living room. Old men play cards beneath orange trees while British tourists photograph their first proper Spanish plaza sin tourists. The nearby Paseo de la Corredera offers Atlantic views so clear you can sometimes spot Tangier's hills on the horizon.

Between Minaret and Bell Tower

The Iglesia del Divino Salvador embodies Vejer's layered history better than any guidebook. Built atop a mosque, using the minaret as its bell tower, the church demonstrates medieval recycling at its finest. Inside, Gothic arches meet Mudéjar brickwork in a architectural conversation spanning eight centuries. The tower climb costs €2 and rewards the effort with 360-degree views—though the final ladder section isn't for vertigo sufferers.

Downhill, the 11th-century Castillo de Vejer hosts proper archaeological digs rather than costumed interpreters. The walls you walk along aren't reconstructions; they're original, patched and repaired by everyone from Almohad caliphs to Franco-era mayors. Entry is €4, but the real show happens at sunset when the stone glows amber and swallows perform aerial acrobats overhead.

Casa del Mayorazgo hides down an unremarkable side street, its wooden door usually ajar. Step through and you'll find 450 potted plants arranged around a Moorish courtyard where fountains mask the wind's roar. The 18th-century mansion operates as occasional cultural centre; when closed, the patio's visible through the doorway, offering a glimpse of how Vejer's wealthy once lived.

The Food Divide

Vejer's cuisine reflects its geography—half mountain, half coast. In the covered market, payoyo cheese (made from local goat's milk) sits beside fresh tuna from nearby Barbate's almadraba fishery. The Mercado de Abastos runs morning-only, closing at 2pm sharp when traders head home for lunch.

British visitors often split between two camps: those embracing North African spices at El Jardin del Califa, where lamb tagines and couscous appear alongside Spanish wines, and those seeking familiar flavours at Piccolina Bistro, just off Plaza de España. The latter does excellent European dishes when Spanish stews feel too foreign. Local favourite Bar Paco Pepe offers middle ground—traditional tapas served by staff who'll explain dishes without patronising.

Weekend dining requires planning. Restaurants like La Tertulia and El Jardin del Califa book up days ahead, especially during spring festivals. The Spanish eat late—9pm earliest—but most places accommodate British stomachs with earlier sittings if requested politely.

Wind, Sand and Salt

The coast lies twelve minutes away by car, though it feels like entering another country. El Palmar stretches eight kilometres of undeveloped Atlantic beach, where surfers ride waves that have travelled 3,000 kilometres from the Azores. The beach bars here—chiringuitos—serve fried fish at prices that make British seaside towns look extortionate.

Cala Enebro and Cala del Pato offer quieter alternatives, hidden coves where nudists and families coexist peacefully. Bring supplies; these beaches have no facilities beyond the occasional ice-cream seller. The water stays swimmable until late October, though Atlantic currents demand respect.

Back inland, the Route of the Mills provides gentle walking through abandoned windmills and cork oak forests. The eight-kilometre loop starts from the village edge and takes three hours including stops for photographs and water. Spring brings wildflowers; summer brings heatstroke potential. Always carry more water than you think necessary—the wind dehydrates faster than you'd expect.

When the Tourists Leave

Vejer changes personality with the seasons. Summer weekends see Spanish families arrive, filling restaurants and driving accommodation prices sky-high. Winter brings peace but also closure—many restaurants shut January-February, and Atlantic storms can make the village feel properly isolated.

Spring and autumn provide the sweet spot. March sees almond blossom coating the hillsides white (confusingly similar to the village walls from a distance), while October's wine harvest brings local festivals without summer crowds. The wind never stops, but temperatures moderate into something approaching pleasant.

Semana Santa (Easter week) transforms the village into a living religious theatre. Processions squeeze through streets barely wider than the floats they carry, while hooded penitents navigate cobbles by memory. It's spectacular but claustrophobic—book accommodation a year ahead if this appeals.

The Reality Check

Vejer isn't undiscovered. TripAdvisor reviews number in their thousands, and property prices reflect international interest. What saves it from tourist-trap status is authenticity—these streets serve 12,000 residents, not just visitors. The butcher sells meat to locals, not souvenirs. The baker's morning queue consists of Spaniards buying breakfast, not Brits photographing croissants.

Yet challenges remain. Parking grows tighter each year as day-trippers arrive. Some restaurants cater so heavily to foreign tastes that locals avoid them. The wind, romantic for a weekend, drives some residents to distraction—outdoor furniture requires nightly stacking, and hair styling proves futile.

But perched above the Atlantic, watching Africa appear and disappear with the weather, Vejer offers something increasingly rare: a hilltop village that's beautiful without being precious, historic without being museum-like, Spanish without being caricature. Just remember to pack a jacket. The wind doesn't care how far you've travelled.