Dos Torres

The Two Towers That Aren't Tolkien

Five hundred and eighty-seven metres above sea level, where the wind carries the smell of oak smoke and pig feed across a plateau the size of Greater Manchester, Dos Torres keeps its own timetable. The bells in the tower of La Inmaculada Concepción ring the hour, but the real clock is the livestock truck that rattles through the village at dawn, bound for the dehesa pastures that stretch to the horizon.

This is Los Pedroches, the northern lip of Córdoba province, a place that feels more Extremaduran than Andalusian. The village sits exactly halfway between Córdoba and Granada on the A-4, which explains why most British number plates here belong to drivers who've stopped for a wee and a coffee, then driven on. They miss the point. Dos Torres rewards those who switch off the engine, pocket the car keys and accept that nothing happens quickly.

What Passes for a Skyline

The two towers that give the village its name no longer stand side by side. One survives as the church belfry; the other survives only in municipal logos and the stubbornness of place names. Walk up Calle Castillo – past houses whose lower walls are painted ox-blood red to hide the mud splash from passing herds – and you'll reach the unmarked gate that leads to the castle ruins. No ticket office, no interpretation board, just a steep stony path and a view that lets you see weather coming an hour before it arrives.

The panorama explains everything: a rolling carpet of evergreen oak interrupted only by the occasional stone cortijo and the straight Roman line of the old silver road. This is the dehesa, a human-made landscape that looks wild but isn't. Every tree has an owner, every pig an itinerary. October to March is montanera season, when Iberian pigs roam free, fattening on acorns that will later translate into £90-a-kilo jamón in Borough Market. Stand quietly at the mirador at sunset and you can hear them crunching.

Tuesday Morning and the Other Fifty-One Weeks

Market day transforms the main square into a grid of white vans and folding tables. One stall sells nothing but rope; another displays three sizes of axe. The fruit man knows exactly four English words – "hello", "good", "cheap", "bye" – and uses them in that order. By 1.30 pm it's over, the square hosed down, the bars refilling their outdoor tables with men who've been coming here since Franco was in short trousers.

For the rest of the week the village reverts to hush. The tourist office opens when the single employee finishes helping her father with the sheep. The nearest cash machine is twelve kilometres away in Pedroche, so bring euros. Cards work in the filling station, but only if you spend €20 – tricky when diesel is €1.47 a litre and the pump cuts off at fifty.

Eating What Walked Past Your Window

Food here is translation, not invention. The lamb in the caldereta spent last spring on the same hills you hiked this morning; the cheese arrived by moped from a cousin's goats. Restaurant Los Sentidos on the Carretera de Santa Eulalia will grill a pork fillet plain if you ask nicely, though they'll still serve it with a bowl of paprika-heavy sauce on the side. Vegetarians get the tostada treatment: a split baguette rubbed with tomato and olive oil, served with or without the inevitable slice of jamón that the kitchen forgets to leave off.

Breakfast is the meal that sorts the visitors from the residents. Stand at the bar in Bar El Centro at 7.30 am and you'll be offered a choice of two things: coffee with milk or coffee without. The croissants arrive frozen from Córdoba on Thursday; if it's Friday, they're gone. Order a tea and you'll get a glass of hot water and a bag of Lipton yellow label. Bring your own teabags; nobody minds.

Walking Routes That Don't Care About Your Step Count

The signed path network is optimistic – signs vanish where one farmer's land meets another's – but the old drove roads still join the dots. Head south from the cemetery on the track called Cañada Real de los Pedroches and within twenty minutes the village shrinks to a white smear on the ridge. Keep going and you'll reach the stone hut where shepherds once spent the transhumance nights; inside, soot still blackens the roof from fires lit in the 1950s.

Summer walking means starting early. By 11 am the temperature pushes past 30 °C and shade is theoretical. Spring and autumn are kinder; in April the dehesa floor is carpeted with wild thyme and the air smells like a roast dinner. Winter brings proper cold – night frosts are common – but the light is sharp enough to see the Sierra Morena fifty kilometres away.

Horses, Bikes and the Art of Getting Nowhere Fast

The village riding school rents out sure-footed local horses by the hour or the day. A half-day hack follows the livestock trails to a hidden spring where ibex sometimes drink; the guide, Diego, speaks no English but communicates perfectly through gestures and the offer of his flask of aguardiente. Mountain bikes can be hired from the petrol station – ask for Manolo, leave your passport as deposit – though the toolkit consists of one adjustable spanner and a roll of duct tape.

Birdwatchers bring binoculars and patience. Spanish imperial eagles patrol the larger estates; black vultures ride the thermals above the carrion dump on the road to Pedroche. The best time is the hour before dusk, when everything that flies is heading home and the light turns the oak trunks copper.

Leaving Before You're Ready

The A-4 beckons, Granada's Alhambra waits, and the satnav insists you can be in the Sierra Nevada by teatime. Dos Torres will still be here next time, the dehesa slowly knitting itself another annual ring. Drive slowly through the village – the sheep don't hurry for anyone – and notice how the church tower catches the late sun exactly like it did when you arrived. Nothing has changed, except you now know what an acorn-fed pig smells like at dawn, and that Tuesday is rope-and-axe day. Useful things, if you ever come back.