Alamedilla

The church bell strikes noon, yet only three tables are occupied in Plaza del Ayuntamiento. A farmer in overalls sips coffee while his dog sleeps beneath the metal chair legs. This is Alamedilla at midday: 569 residents, 862 metres above sea level, and silence broken only by the clink of cups returning to saucers.

A Village That Works the Land

At first glance, Alamedilla disappoints anyone hunting for Instagram-ready Moorish arches. The streets are cobbled, yes, but they bend to accommodate tractors, not tourists. Whitewashed walls carry layers of tractor exhaust rather than flowering bougainvillea. The reward is authenticity: this is a place where agriculture still pays the bills, not holiday rentals.

Olive groves swallow the surrounding hills in every direction. Many trees were planted when the village population was double today's figure; their trunks have thickened into elephantine sculptures that require two adults to encircle. Between November and February, mechanical harvesters rumble along the terraces at dawn, headlights carving silver paths through the groves. The resulting oil is mild, almost buttery—closer to Dorset sunflower oil than peppery Tuscan styles—making it an easy souvenir for British palates.

Altitude dictates the climate. Summer afternoons reach 35 °C, but nights drop to 18 °C, so an extra jumper lives permanently in the hire car. Winter mornings can flirt with frost; snow dusts the higher ridges of Sierra Mágina perhaps twice a season, enough to send children scrambling for phone cameras before it melts. Spring and early autumn offer the kindest walking weather: 22 °C, skies scrubbed clean by the previous night's wind.

Walking Without Waymarks

Official hiking maps don't bother with Alamedilla, yet footpaths exist if you ask. Start at the fuente on the eastern edge—an old stone trough where locals still fill five-litre plastic bottles—then follow the dirt track that climbs past the last street lamp. Within twenty minutes, tarmac gives way to red earth and the village shrinks to a white Lego cluster below.

The route to the abandoned cortijo of El Romeral is barely 5 km return, but the gradient reminds you that the Mediterranean diet hasn't eliminated Andalusian hills. Take water: there are no cafés, no kiosks, only an occasional barking dog tied to a farmhouse gate. The payoff is a natural stone balcony overlooking Los Montes: olive waves rolling east until they break against the blue-grey wall of Jaén's mountains.

Paths continue towards neighbouring Villanueva de las Torres or Fuensanta de Martos, yet signage is sporadic. Download the free Mapas de España app before leaving British Wi-Fi; 4G collapses in the hollows between ridges. A prudent turn-around point is the electricity pylon on the skyline—close enough for phone reception, high enough for panoramic photographs.

What Passes for Entertainment

Evenings centre on the single bar beside the town hall. It opens at seven, closes when the owner feels like it, and shuts entirely on Mondays. Order a caña (small beer, €1.40) and you'll receive a complimentary tapa: perhaps migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with chorizo—simple, filling, designed for workers who spent the day pruning trees. Cards are accepted, but the machine sometimes refuses foreign chips; stash a ten-euro note in your pocket.

The village's gastronomic calendar follows the pig. January means matanza: families slaughter one animal and spend weekends turning every gram into sausages, hams and blood pudding. Visitors who rent village houses often wake to the smell of paprika and garlic drifting from neighbouring patios. Vegetarians should plan supermarket stops in Loja, twenty-five minutes away, as Alamedilla's tiny grocers stock little beyond tinned tuna and cured meats.

Festivals break the agricultural rhythm. On the last weekend of April, tractors towing flat-bed trailers crawl to the ermita of San Marcos for the annual romería. Entire families—grandparents, babies and cool-boxes—disappear into the pine clearing for a marathon barbecue. Outsiders are welcomed provided they bring something to share: British guests have been known to contribute Marmite-flavoured crisps, a curiosity that earns polite nibbles and rapid conversion to jamón.

The Practical Bits Nobody Mentions

Fly to Málaga; Granada's airport is nearer but carries fewer UK routes. Collect the rental car, join the A-92 towards Guadix, then peel off at Loja. From there it's 25 km of winding CM-323 where sat-nav loses nerve and suggests U-turns. Ignore it. The final approach drops into a shallow valley; Alamedilla appears suddenly, a white raft adrift in an olive ocean.

Accommodation options fit on one hand. There is no hotel; instead, three privately owned cottages advertise on Spanish sites under "turismo rural". Expect stone floors, wood-burning stoves and Wi-Fi that falters whenever someone microwaves dinner. Prices hover around €70 per night for two, regardless of season—owners see no reason to emulate coastal mark-ups.

Petrol is cheaper than Britain but dearer than larger Spanish towns; fill the tank in Loja if you're planning day trips. The nearest cash machine is back up the road in Villanueva de las Torres—another reason to carry notes. On Sundays, everything is closed except the church and the bakery between eight and ten; buy milk on Saturday or embrace black coffee.

Should You Bother?

Alamedilla will never feature on a glossy Andalucía brochure. It offers no castles, no flamenco tablaos, no craft shops flogging fridge magnets. What it does provide is a ringside seat to a way of life that coastal Spain has largely abandoned: neighbours arguing over irrigation schedules, the bar owner pouring free chupitos at 1 a.m. because it's someone's birthday, the smell of new olive oil splashed on crusty bread that was baked three kilometres away.

Come if you relish quiet, don't mind self-catering, and can entertain yourself with walking boots and a pair of binoculars. Leave if you need room service, boutique night-life or souvenir tea-towels. Alamedilla doesn't cater to tourists; it tolerates them, politely, provided they remember to shut the gate after admiring the olive groves.