El Guijo

The church bell strikes eleven. From the single café on Calle Real, two elderly men emerge, adjusting their caps against the winter sun. They walk slowly—there's nowhere to hurry to in El Guijo. The village spreads across a gentle rise in Los Pedroches, that vast expanse of oak-dotted grassland where Extremadura nudges Córdoba province. Three hundred and forty-one people call this home. That's not a typo. The entire population wouldn't fill a London Underground carriage.

The Dehesa Defines Everything

Step beyond the last house and you're immediately swallowed by the dehesa—Spain's ancient agro-forest system that makes English parkland look like a municipal playground. Holm oaks stretch to every horizon, their contorted trunks spaced just far enough apart for grass to grow beneath. This isn't wilderness. It's a 2,000-year-old partnership between humans and nature, where every tree, every clearing, every muddy track serves a purpose.

The oaks feed Iberian pigs whose ham sells for £90 a kilo in London delis. Locals know exactly which tree belongs to which family. They'll point out where their grandfather grafted new shoots, where their aunt gathers mushrooms after October rains. The acorns fall in autumn—bellotas—that distinctive crunch underfoot heralding the fattening season. By Christmas, those same pigs become the jamón hanging in every kitchen, their legs splayed like gymnasts in the cool mountain air.

Walking trails fan out from the village in every direction. The old drove road to Villanueva de Córdoba—now just a wide grassy track—makes for an easy morning circuit. No signposts. No interpretation boards. Just follow the stone walls and trust your instincts. You'll pass abandoned cortijos where storks nest in broken chimneys, and modern pig farms where the animals roam free under the oaks. The contrast isn't jarring. It's simply how rural Spain works—ancient and modern sharing the same space.

What Passes for Sights

El Guijo's church squats at the village centre like a weathered toad. The Immaculate Conception, they call it, though locals just say "la iglesia." Built in the 16th century, patched in the 18th, whitewashed every decade since. Inside, the walls bear paintings that would make an art historian weep—not from beauty, but from the sheer amateur enthusiasm of provincial restorers. The bell tower serves as the village lighthouse, visible from miles across the flatlands. When the wind's right, you hear it tolling the hours even as you drive the CO-3104 approach road.

The houses cluster around it in defensive formation—whitewashed cubes with Arabic tiles that have weathered centuries of baking summers and freezing winters. Winter matters here. At 650 metres altitude, El Guijo catches the same weather systems that dump snow on the Sierra Morena. January mornings start at minus five. Locals light their fireplaces with oak logs cut from their own trees, filling the streets with woodsmoke that makes photographers reach for their cameras and asthmatics reach for their inhalers.

There's no museum. No interpretation centre. No gift shop selling fridge magnets. The village itself is the attraction—its rhythms, its silences, its stubborn refusal to become anything other than what it is. A working agricultural community where the bar opens when someone feels like it and the bakery van arrives from the next village three times a week.

Eating Like You Mean It

Food here doesn't mess about. The village bar—when it's open—serves coffee that could strip paint and tostadas thick enough to roof a shed. Ask for breakfast and you'll get jamón from the owner's own pigs, cut so thick the slices curl like wood shavings. The morcilla de cebilla (blood pudding with onions) arrives in fat rounds that taste of cloves and winter. Don't expect a menu. Don't expect change from a twenty-euro note for two people.

The real eating happens in houses, during matanza season. January through March, families gather to slaughter their annual pig. It's not pretty. It's not meant to be. Every part gets used—ears for stew, fat for manteca colorá (spiced lard that lasts all year), legs for the hams that hang in every kitchen. If you're renting a village house, your neighbours might invite you to watch. They won't invite you to participate unless your Spanish extends beyond ordering beer.

Spring brings wild asparagus and the first mushrooms. Locals guard their mushroom spots like state secrets. The níscalo—a bright orange fungus that appears after autumn rains—sells for £20 a kilo in Córdoba markets. Here, it gets scrambled with eggs and eaten for breakfast. The cardoncello, growing at the base of old oaks, requires more knowledge than most visitors possess. Pick the wrong one and you'll spend the evening discovering how Spanish hospitals work.

When to Bother Coming

April and May transform the dehesa into something approaching paradise. The oaks flush bright green, wildflowers carpet the spaces between, and temperatures hover around 22 degrees. Perfect walking weather. Perfect everything weather, really. The cranes have departed for northern Europe, but resident eagles circle overhead, riding thermals like they have all the time in the world.

October brings the rut—stags bellowing across the grassland in a sound that makes the hairs rise on your neck. The oaks turn bronze. Mushrooms push through the leaf litter. Local wine flows freely at the village fiesta, usually the second weekend of the month. Last year, the band refused to play after midnight because the drummer's wife wanted to go home. The party continued regardless—someone produced a guitar, someone else remembered the words to every Spanish folk song written since 1950.

Summer? Only if you enjoy temperatures that would make a Saudi Arabian wince. July and August regularly hit 40 degrees. The village empties as locals flee to the coast. Those who remain shutter their houses against the heat and emerge only after dark, when the temperature drops to a balmy 28. Even the pigs seek shade, lying beneath the oaks like enormous pink sausages, too hot to root for acorns.

Winter brings its own harsh beauty. Frost feathers across the grassland. The distant Sierras wear their first snow. Days are crystal-clear, the air so sharp it hurts to breathe. Nights drop below freezing. Proper heating in rental properties isn't guaranteed. Bring slippers. Bring wine. Bring a sense of humour about Spanish plumbing.

Getting Here, Staying Here

From Córdoba, it's 90 minutes through landscape that gradually empties of everything except oaks and the occasional village. The last 20 kilometres twist through the foothills on roads that would make a Scottish Highlander feel at home. Public transport? Forget it. You need a car, preferably one that doesn't mind gravel tracks and the occasional suicidal wild boar.

Accommodation means El Refugio de Brovales, the only rental within village limits. Three rooms, one bathroom, Wi-Fi that works when the wind blows the right direction. £60 a night gets you a house that sleeps four, with a kitchen designed for serious cooking and a terrace overlooking the dehesa. The pool's a bonus in summer, an ironic gesture in winter. Book direct—Booking.com adds 15% and the owner, Maria José, prefers the personal touch. She'll leave you eggs from her hens and directions to the best mushroom spots, assuming you speak enough Spanish to understand them.

The nearest shop is 15 kilometres away in Villanueva de Córdoba. Stock up before you arrive. The village has no ATM, no petrol station, no pharmacy. What it does have is silence so complete you can hear your own heart beating, and dark skies where the Milky Way arches overhead like a spilled bag of diamonds.

El Guijo won't change your life. It won't feature on Instagram feeds or travel magazine covers. What it offers is simpler and harder to find—a place where the modern world hasn't quite arrived, where lunch still lasts three hours and where strangers nod hello because that's what people do. Come for the walking, stay for the realisation that places like this still exist, stubbornly, gloriously, against all odds.