Pozoblanco

The bull-ring doors open at eleven o'clock on a Saturday morning and close again before three. Miss that window and you'll stare through the iron gates at the very sand where, in 1984, matador Paquirri took the horn-thrust that made every British paper. Pozoblanco doesn't trade on the moment—there's no souvenir stall, no audio guide—but TripAdvisor is still peppered with pilgrims who have come for the story and stayed for the beer that costs €1.80.

At 649 m above sea level, the town sits in the middle of the Los Pedroches basin, a plateau of rolling oak pasture that Andalusians themselves call "la Siberia andaluza". The nickname is only half a joke: winter mornings can hover at 2 °C and the wind whips straight across the meseta. Come April, though, the same air smells of wild thyme and charcoal from outdoor pig-roasts, and the light is so sharp you can count the distant ibérico pigs as they shuffle between the encinas.

The Whitewash that Never Stops

Every wall is limewashed, every balcony geranium-red, every plaza bench occupied by men in flat caps. British visitors tend to murmur "quintessential" and then feel embarrassed for sounding like a postcard, yet the cliché is hard to dodge. The colour scheme is municipal policy: residents get a discount on lime wash, and the council refreshes the base coat twice a year. The result is a town that looks perpetually ready for its close-up even when nothing, absolutely nothing, is being marketed to you.

Start at Plaza de la Constitución, the heartbeat rather than the postcard centre. The town hall hides its tiny tourist office round the back—one desk, one volunteer, a ring of keys for the churches. Leave a passport and you are handed the iron key to Iglesia de Santiago, a sixteenth-century Renaissance block with a tower you can climb if you don't mind bats. Inside, the baroque retablos gleam with gilt that has never been tastefully dimmed by museum lighting; the caretaker switches on a single fluorescent tube and the whole thing shouts.

From the tower you see the dehesa stretching north: a chessboard of dark oaks on pale grass, black pigs underneath like movable pieces. This is UNESCO-listed cultural landscape, though the designation hasn't produced coach parks or gift shops. Instead, the view ends at the blue-grey silhouette of the Sierra de Horconera, snow-dusted well into March, reminding you that you are nowhere near the beach.

Lunch before Two or Go Hungry

Pozoblanco still observes the old siesta with religious severity. By 14:15 the butchers have pulled down their shutters and even the bakery lights are off. The solitary kebab kiosk by the bull-ring does stay open, but British reviewers warn that the chips are frozen and the ketchup charged extra. Better to be seated in Restobar by 13:30, ordering the migas de pastor—fried breadcrumbs laced with chorizo, grapes and enough garlic to stun a vampire. The owner, a Cordoban who spent three years in Birmingham, brings proper thick-cut chips "because I remember what you lot expect". House Rioja is €12 a bottle; water is free if you ask for a jarra.

Saturday morning is market day. Stallholders drive in from the surrounding villages and set up by 09:00, unreeling jamón ibérico legs like violin cases. Prices are written in wax pencil on scraps of card: €38 for a kilo of ibérico de bellota, half the airport duty-free tariff. Bring cash—only the supermarket stall has a card machine, and it is manned by a teenager who sighs at contactless.

Walking it Off (and Not Spotting a Lynx)

Three way-marked trails start from the north edge of town. The shortest, the Ruta del Agua, is a 6 km loop past stone troughs and two disused watermills. Do not picture cascading streams: this is steppe country, and the "river" is a polite trickle in April, bone-dry by July. Interpretation boards are sun-bleached to near illegibility, so download the town-hall PDF before you set out.

The longer Senda de la Dehesa (12 km) cuts straight through the oak pasture. British birdwatchers report black vultures and Spanish imperial eagles, but also admit to spending five hours and seeing one distant crow. Iberian lynx footprints have been recorded; actual lynx have not posed for a smartphone since 2018. Take water—there is no bar, no fountain, precious little shade—and wear boots after rain: clay paths become skating rinks.

If the wind is up, retreat to the indoor bullfighting museum under the plaza. Admission is free, though the curator will follow you round turning on lights. The blood-spotted suit of Paquirri is displayed in a glass case with the hole in the thigh helpfully circled in red thread. A caption in English explains that the matador "died with dignity" and that his widow later married a singer. The British couple ahead of you will whisper that it feels voyeuristic; they will still take a selfie.

When to Come, When to Stay Away

Spring and autumn are the sweet spots. April brings wild-flowers and the first outdoor suppers; October means mushroom-season menus and still-warm afternoons. August is feria time—five nights of caseta music that doesn't fade until 05:00. Accommodation exists (Hotel Pedroche, €65 a double, decent Wi-Fi, rooftop pool the size of a taxi rank) but book early: locals rent rooms to cousins and beds disappear. Winter is crisp, often brilliant, but some pensiones close entirely; check before you haul your suitcase up from the Cordoba bus.

Speaking of buses, there are four a day from Córdoba, 90 minutes through wheat and pig country. The last departure back is 19:00—miss it and you are checking into the Hostal El Churro whether you planned to or not. There is no left-luggage office anywhere; travelling light is less a mantra than a necessity.

The Exit

Leave by the southern road and you pass the Monumento al Toro, a bronze beast on a plinth, staring back at town. It is supposed to celebrate the fighting breed; in practice it is where teenagers practise skateboard tricks. Pull over for a final look and you realise Pozoblanco has given you exactly what British rural Spain promises but rarely delivers: a working town that happens to be beautiful, not the other way round. No one will try to sell you a sombrero. The only thing you might regret is arriving with too tight a timetable—because at 14:05, when the shutters come down and the plaza benches fill, the place finally exhales, and you will want to be sitting there with a €1.80 beer, watching Spain happen.