Alcaracejos

At 602 metres above sea-level, Alcaracejos sits high enough for the air to carry the scent of thyme even at midday. From the mirador outside the village the view unrolls like a map: a chessboard of holm-oak dehesas, each tree spaced wide enough for a plough-team to pass, the cattle beneath them reduced to ginger dots. It is a landscape that makes sense only when you learn the oaks are cropped for charcoal, the acorns fatten black-footed pigs, and the same ground feeds fighting bulls in alternate seasons. The system is medieval, the calorie count prodigious, and it is still running on diesel generators and neighbourly gossip.

Stone, Lime and the Smell of Oak-Smoke

The village streets are narrow enough to touch both walls if you spread your arms, a design that once gave shade to mule trains and now traps the smell of oak-smoke from winter chimneys. Houses are whitewashed annually—homeowners get a 50% rebate on the lime bill from the ayuntamiento provided they keep the guttering traditional terracotta—so the colour stays sharp even after the July feria. Look up and you’ll see wrought-iron grilles dating from the 1700s, each one slightly different, forged in the smithy that now serves as Bar Cruz where a caña still costs €1.20.

The late-Gothic church of Nuestra Señora de la Asunción squats at the top of the hill rather than the centre. The reason is practical: the plaza was once the threshing floor, and grain wagons needed a straight run. Inside, the cedar roof beams are stamped with the mark of the Military Order of Calatrava, who held the surrounding pasture as a cattle ranch against Moorish incursions. The guidebook claims the beams came from one of Columbus’s ships; the verger shrugs and says they float, which is enough.

Walking the Dehesa without a Compass

Way-marking is minimal, but getting lost is difficult: every path eventually hits a cattle grid or a stone wall. The most direct circuit, the 7-kilometre Ruta de las Encinas Centenarias, starts by the cemetery and loops through three farms. Spring brings purple lupins and the risk of tick bites—pack repellent. October is mushroom season; locals guard their níscalo patches the way Yorkshire gardeners guard asparagus beds, so photograph, don’t pocket.

Serious walkers can link to the 28-kilometre Camino de Santiago de los Pedroches, a spur that joins the main French route at Mérida. Alcaracejos provides the only public water point between Pozoblanco and Villanueva de Córdoba; the fountain is dated 1897 and flows all year. If the bronze tap is locked, the key hangs on a nail inside Bar Dehesa—order a coffee, ask politely.

Pork Fat, Rice Pudding and the Monday Spa

Restaurant choices are limited to four, all family-run, and they close on random Tuesdays. The safest bet is Mesón Los Pedroches on Calle Real where the menú del día is €11 mid-week and includes a half-bottle of house wine. Portions are built for ploughmen: try the gazpacho serrano (a thick stew of game and bread, nothing like the chilled tomato soup Brits expect) or migas topped with a fried quail egg. Vegetarians get a plate of pimientos de padrón and no apology; vegans should self-cater.

The local D.O. jamón is milder than Jabugo, aged 30 months and sold vacuum-packed from a fridge in the petrol station. It travels well; declare it at customs and expect a sniff from the beagle at Gatwick.

Ten kilometres north, just over the provincial border, the Centro Termal Los Pedroches offers thermal baths at 36°C. British tour groups haven’t discovered it yet, so Monday closures are genuine, not tactical. Book the two-hour circuit online (€22); bring flip-flops or pay €3 for rental. Mobile reception drops in the pool area—consider it part of the cure.

When Silence Costs Extra

Evenings wind down fast. By 22:30 the only sound is the slop of irrigation water in the allotments behind the football pitch. The village’s one nightclub, open only at weekends, is a portacabin by the polideportivo with a €5 cover that includes a plastic cup of warm lager. Most visitors find it easier to sit on the church steps and watch geckos hunt moths.

Accommodation is split between two guesthouses and a clutch of self-catering cortijos. Casa Rural La Dehesa (two doubles, from €70) has thick stone walls and no Wi-Fi—owner Manolo says insulation equals tranquillity. If you need bandwidth, Hotel El Molino in Pozoblanco has fibre, but you’ll swap night skies for a neon BP sign.

Getting Here, Getting Out

Málaga and Seville airports are equidistant at 90 minutes’ drive; hire-car rates drop by 20% if you collect downtown rather than airside. There is no railway; buses reach Pozoblanco eleven kilometres away four times daily, none on Sunday. A taxi from Pozoblanco costs €18—fix the price before you get in, as the meter is “broken” more often than not.

Weather is a question of height. Even in August the thermometer can dip to 14°C after midnight; bring a fleece for stargazing. Winter, conversely, is sharper than coastal Andalucía: frost is common and the thermal baths become less a luxury, more a survival tool.

The Bottom Line

Alcaracejos delivers what the Costa del Sol removed: rhythm measured by church bells, not DJ sets. The trade-off is convenience. Shops shut for two hours at lunch, English is rarely spoken, and the nearest cash machine is a fifteen-minute drive. If that sounds restorative rather than irritating, book in spring when the dehesa is lime-green and the night sky is still village-dark. If you need room service, stay on the coast.