Cuevas de San Marcos

The toy museum sits unassumingly on Calle Carrera, its weathered wooden door giving little away. Inside, Pedro Fernández pulls out a 1950s tin spaceship and sets it whirring across the display case with the enthusiasm of a ten-year-old. "Made in Valencia," he grins, "when Spain still thought we'd be living on Mars by now." It's perhaps the last thing you'd expect to find in a village where tractors outnumber tourists, but then Cuevas de San Marcos has always relished its contradictions.

Perched 420 metres above sea level where Málaga's rolling hills dissolve into endless olive groves, this working village of 3,550 souls remains largely indifferent to the Costa del Sol's gravitational pull. The nearest beach lies 90 minutes away through Antequera's dramatic limestone passes, yet few visitors make the detour. Those who do discover a place where evening life still revolves around the Plaza de España's solitary bar, where old men play dominoes beneath plane trees, and where the village's namesake caves harbour bat colonies rather than ticket booths.

The caves themselves require dedication. The Belda cave, largest of the network, sits a steep 40-minute walk from the centre along an unshaded track that becomes a furnace by 11 am. The payoff comes at dusk when thousands of bats stream from the entrance like smoke from a chimney. Bring a head-torch—the interior lighting extends to one rather optimistic bulb, and the handrail has seen better decades. The geological formations impress, but it's the sense of stumbling upon something properly wild that lingers.

Back in the village, the 16th-century church of San Marcos anchors a modest centre of whitewashed houses and geranium-filled balconies. It's no architectural showstopper—various rebuilds have left it wearing centuries like ill-fitting clothes—but it serves as the village's visual anchor and social calendar linchpin. When the bell tolls for evening mass, the bar empties briefly before refilling with the same patrons now discussing football rather than sermons.

The real action happens in the surrounding groves. Centenarian olive trees create a living mosaic that shifts from silver-green to almost blue depending on the light. Walking tracks weave between them, connecting abandoned cortijos where swallow's nests clog broken shutters. The Sendero de los Miradores strings together natural viewpoints where the landscape drops away to reveal the Iznájar reservoir glinting 20 kilometres distant. Spring brings wild asparagus and thyme; autumn delivers the heady scent of wood smoke and fermenting olives.

Speaking of olives, the local cooperative presses some of Andalucía's finest Hojiblanca variety. Their Friday morning tours run from November through February, when the air thickens with the grassy scent of fresh oil. Visitors taste the difference immediately—this stuff bears no relation to supermarket brands, delivering a peppery kick that catches the throat. The guide, inevitably another Pedro, explains how the village's 2,000 tonnes annually translates to roughly 570 litres per inhabitant. "We don't export much," he shrugs. "Why would we? We drink it."

The food here leans heavily on such liquid gold. Sobreusa soup—a thick broad-bean and egg concoction that British visitors liken to ribollita—appears on every menu. Migas, essentially fried breadcrumbs dressed up with garlic and chorizo, arrives in portions sized for agricultural labourers. The mesón on Plaza de España serves chivo al ajillo (garlic goat) mild enough for palates weaned on Lancashire hotpot, though asking for a medio portion prevents waste. Wash it down with local wine that costs €2.50 a glass and tastes like it should cost more.

Practicalities matter. The village ATM holds roughly enough cash for a fiesta weekend before giving up entirely; stock up in Antequera beforehand. The mini-mart observes siesta with religious dedication—gates shut at 2 pm sharp, reopening at 5:30 if the owner's had her coffee. Sunday sees everything closed except the bar, which becomes the de facto community centre. English remains thin on the ground; a phrasebook transforms ordering from mime-artistry into conversation.

Getting here requires commitment. Málaga airport sits 75 minutes south via the A-45 motorway through Antequera's dramatic passes. Granada's smaller airport shaves 20 minutes off the journey but offers fewer UK connections. Car hire proves essential—two daily buses connect with Málaga, the last leaving at 6 pm. The final approach involves winding through olive groves where wild boar occasionally wander across the road, indifferent to your sat-nav's panic.

Staying proves easier than expected. A British-run complex on the village edge offers converted farmhouse accommodation with pools and valley views, though the real experience lies in the handful of village houses rented to visitors. Expect stone floors, roof terraces perfect for evening wine, and neighbours who'll explain the recycling system despite the language barrier. Book ahead for late April's San Marcos fiesta or mid-August's feria—half the village's expat offspring return, swelling numbers to almost 5,000.

The best times visit avoid summer's furnace heat. April delivers perfect walking weather and the added bonus of fiesta atmosphere without August crowds. October brings the olive harvest, when the village smells of pressed oil and wood smoke. Winter sees snow on the distant Sierra Nevada, though the village itself rarely drops below 8°C. Even January delivers bright days where lunch on a south-facing terrace remains perfectly feasible.

Cuevas de San Marcos won't change your life. It offers no Instagram moments, no boutique hotels, no Michelin stars. Instead, it provides something increasingly rare: a working Spanish village that functions perfectly well without tourists, yet welcomes those who make the effort. Come for the toy museum's tin spaceships, stay for the evening when the plaza fills with children's football games and their grandparents' gossip. Just don't expect anyone to speak English—it wouldn't be authentic otherwise.