Hinojosa del Duque

The first thing you notice is the smell of oak smoke curling from a chimney behind the market hall, even when the thermometer is already nudging 32 °C. It’s seven in the morning and the town’s two jamón inspectors are at work, pressing the hams that hang like bronzed rugby balls in the curing room above the cooperativa. Hinojosa del Duque doesn’t shout about its produce; it simply lets the aroma drift down Calle Ancha until anyone with functioning taste buds follows their nose.

At 542 m above sea level, the village sits on the northern lip of Los Pedroches, Spain’s largest continuous dehesa. The landscape is a rolling tide of holm oaks, interrupted only by cream-coloured grain fields and the occasional white-washed cortijo. The Sierra Morena hovers on the horizon, close enough to trap cooler air at dusk, far enough away to leave the skyline uncluttered. It feels higher than it is: evenings can be ten degrees cooler than Córdoba city, 95 km south, so even July nights invite a light jumper.

A Town That Outgrew Its Walls

Hinojosa’s grid of cobbled lanes was laid out for mules, not motorcars, which explains the comical moment when a delivery van folds in its mirrors to squeeze under a 16th-century arch. The nickname “La Catedral de la Sierra” flatters the parish church only until you step inside. San Juan Bautista, finished in 1587 by Hernán Ruiz II, stretches for 76 m, its star-ribbed vault lifted from the same pattern book used for the great mosque-cathedral down the motorway. The retablo mayor, gilded with American gold, still makes local brides look under-dressed.

Ring the bell in the south tower (€2, weekdays 10–13:00) and the sacristan will show you the balcony used during the Civil War as an observation post; bullet scars pock the sandstone like acne. History here is tactile, not cordoned off. Drop into the town museum, housed in the old slaughterhouse, and you can handle branding irons, leather shepherd’s pouches and a 1920s British-made sausage stuffer that arrived on a railway no longer extant.

Walking, Cycling, or Simply Sitting

The tourist office, tucked inside the Town Hall, hands out a single A4 sheet with four way-marked circuits. None exceeds 12 km; all start at the Fuente de los Leones and dive straight into the dehesa. Spring brings a carpet of purple lupins and the clacking of storks overhead, while October smells of fungus and wet bark. Take the Senda de la Encina Pinta if you want a 600-year-old oak whose trunk resembles molten wax; OSM-based apps mark the rest. Mountain bikes cope fine, though after rain the clay paths glue themselves to every tyre ridge.

Serious walkers use Hinojosa as a staging post on the Camino Mozárabe. The free municipal albergue, 30 m from the police desk, offers 16 beds, a kitchen and a washing machine that sounds like a Spitfire taking off. The downside: one bathroom and a shower head that dispenses water in a apologetic trickle. Keys must be collected before 15:00 on Saturdays; after that you’ll be knocking on locals’ doors for a floor space.

What Lands on the Plate

Breakfast in the covered market costs €2.50: a paper cone of churros and a cortado made with beans roasted in Pozoblanco, 20 km west. By 11:00 the bars switch to tapas of jamón ibérico de bellota; expect to pay €4–5 for a plate carved to order. The best specimens carry a lilac stamp: DOP Los Pedroches, the only Spanish ham certified by a village-controlled denominación.

Lunch is still ruled by cast-iron cauldrons. Try the gazpacho blanco, a chilled almond-garlic soup that tastes like liquid marzipan with attitude, or cordero a la caldereta, lamb shoulder stewed with bay leaves and a splash of sherry. Perrunas, soft lard biscuits dusted with cinnamon, appear at every fiesta; dunk them in coffee and you’ll understand why no one bothers with custard creams.

Vegetarians survive, but only just. Most menus offer “ensalada mixta” whose only concession is tinned asparagus. The weekly market on Thursdays brings local tomatoes the size of cricket balls and avocados grown in nearby greenhouses—buy early, because the pensioners queue from 08:00.

When the Village Lets Its Hair Down

Festivity season begins on the first Sunday of May with the Romería de la Virgen de la Antigua. Half the population—some on horseback, many in tractors—process 4 km to a meadow chapel for a picnic that starts with Mass and ends with an all-night karaoke battle. August belongs to San Juan Bautista: seven evenings of brass bands, foam parties and a cattle fair where prize bulls fetch upward of €12,000. The serious religious action is Semana Santa: six processions, zero tourists, and a silence so complete you can hear the costaleros breathe.

Getting There, Staying There

There is no railway. From the UK, fly to Seville or Madrid, then drive: the A-4 to Montoro, the N-420 north to Villanueva de Córdoba, finally 17 km on the CO-620. The entire run from Seville airport takes two hours on good roads; add another 30 min if you stop for photographs of the castle at Belalcázar. Buses leave Córdoba at 15:30 and 18:00, arriving two hours later; return services depart at 06:45 and 14:00, which forces a night whether you planned it or not.

Accommodation is limited. Hostal La Parada (doubles €55) above the former stagecoach post has Wi-Fi that actually works and a bakery underneath for 7 a.m. croissants. The smarter option is Hotel Villa de Hinojosa (doubles €70, pool, garage), a modern cube on the edge of town with views across grain silos that turn golden at sunset. Self-caterers should stock up in Villanueva de Córdoba before arrival; the local supermarket shuts on Sunday afternoon and all day Monday.

The Catch

Hinojosa del Duque is not pretty in the postcard sense. Several streets are half-empty, their wrought-iron balconies propped up with timber struts. Summer afternoons feel suspended in syrup; the only movement is a lone man hosing dust off the pavement. English is rarely spoken, so prepare school-level Spanish or embrace the mime.

Yet that is precisely why you come. The jamón is authentic, the Renaissance stonework is uncrowded, and the dehesa unfolds like a private estate where black Iberian pigs outnumber people. Turn up in late spring, when the nights smell of orange blossom and the morning light catches the church tower, and you might decide one night on the pilgrim mattress is not enough.