Villanueva de Tapia

The church bell strikes seven and the village wakes to the sound of tractors rather than traffic. From 662 metres up, Villanueva de Tapia looks south over a rolling carpet of silver-green olive trees that stretches clear to the Granada horizon. There are 1,400 souls here and roughly 100 times that many olives; the maths tells you everything about daily life.

This is not the postcard Andalucía of flamenco bars and Moorish palaces. It is the other version – whitewashed houses clamped to a limestone ridge, streets just wide enough for a donkey and a conversation, the smell of wood-smoke and olive oil drifting through open doorways. Visitors come for what is missing rather than what is put on show: no tour buses, no souvenir stalls, no soundtrack except cicadas and the occasional church bell.

Morning: Coffee, Church and the A-333

Start in Plaza de la Constitución, the only patch of flat ground the village owns. The café under the date-palm opens at 07:30; order a tostada with crushed tomato and a thread of local oil. The bread arrives hot, the tomato is chilled, the oil tastes of grass rather than pepper – mild enough for the most timid British palate. While you eat, the parish priest unlocks the doors of Nuestra Señora de los Remedios opposite; Mass is at eight, but the building stays open afterwards for anyone who wants to step out of the sun and into sixteenth-century silence.

If you arrived after dark, the drive up the A-333 will have felt like an aeroplane descent: tight bends, sudden drops, guard-rails that appear only at the interesting moments. In daylight the same road is gentler, revealing cortijos scattered across the slopes like white dice. Petrol is cheaper at the Repsol on the edge of town than on the motorway, but the pump closes at 21:00 sharp and there is no 24-hour pay machine – fill up before you leave the A-92M if you land late.

Mid-day: Walking Among Millionaires

By nine the sun is already high enough to shrink shadows. This is the hour to walk, while the air still holds last night’s coolness. Three paths leave the church square; the easiest follows an old grain track east towards the abandoned cortijo of El Castillejo. The route is unsigned but obvious: keep the village on your left, the olive groves on your right. After 40 minutes the track dips into a shallow barranco where wild rosemary grows waist-high; crush a sprig and the scent lingers on your fingers for hours.

The land you are treading belongs, acre by acre, to some of Spain’s wealthiest families. Olive prices have doubled in five years; a single mature tree can be worth €3,000. Yet the only obvious wealth is the immaculate state of the stone terraces – no rusting machinery, no abandoned tyres. Farmers here still prune by hand, each cut angled so winter rain runs off the branch rather than rotting it. Stop to watch and someone will offer advice, a swig of water, perhaps a lesson in distinguishing Picual from Hojiblanca by tasting the raw fruit. Refuse politely if you still have kilometres to cover; unripe olives are mouth-puckeringly bitter.

Back in the village by 11:30, the temperature is brushing 30 °C even in May. The bar on Calle Real has switched off its coffee machine and begun frying aubergines. Order a caña (small beer) and they arrive automatically – thin slices, crisp batter, a drizzle of dark honey that turns the dish into something suspiciously close to pub crisps with vinegar. One plate is enough for two; the bill is €4.50 if you pay cash, €5.00 by card because the owner still offsets the bank fee.

Afternoon: Lake Beach or Palace Walls

You now have a choice. If summer is flexing its muscles, the quickest cool-down is Iznájar reservoir, 15 minutes south. Locals call it “the lake” and treat it like a seaside: pedalos, a roped swim area, a chiringuito serving chilled beer to sun-reddened Britons who have discovered the place on Facebook. The water reaches 26 °C by August; the bottom is mud rather than sand, so bring old trainers rather than flip-flops.

Alternatively, stay on the ridge and visit Finca La Bobadilla, five kilometres north-west. From the outside it looks like a small white village that has misplaced its inhabitants; inside, it is a five-star palace of horseshoe arches, trickling fountains and red squirrels that accept almonds from guests wearing bathrobes. Day passes for non-residents cost €95 and include a three-course lunch plus pool access – expensive, but still cheaper than parking in central Marbella. The Michelin-starred restaurant will swap ham for roasted peppers on the tasting menu if you warn them the night before; vegetarian Brits report not feeling like an afterthought for once.

Evening: When the Chairs Come Out

Spanish villages judge time by light, not clocks. At 20:00 the sun slips behind the Sierra de Chimenea and every household drags a chair onto the pavement. This is the daily theatre of Villanueva de Tapia: grandparents fanning themselves, toddlers weaving between legs, the odd terrier hoping for crumbs. Join in and you will be asked two questions – “¿De dónde es?” and “¿Conoce a Nigel de Oxford?” – because someone’s nephew once studied there.

Dinner options are limited but sufficient. Hotel Rural La Paloma has six tables, English-speaking staff and a chuletón for two (€38) cooked over olive-wood that burns cooler than oak, leaving the beef smoky rather than bitter. Book before 18:00 or the rib-eye will have walked out with an earlier reservation. The alternative is Bar La Plaza, where the menu is written on a paper tablecloth and changes according to whatever the owner’s sister brings from her vegetable plot. Expect gazpachuelo – a thick monkfish chowder sharpened with vinegar – or migas, a peasant dish of fried breadcrumbs, garlic and scraps of chorizo that tastes far better than it sounds. Both bars close at 23:00; after that the only noise is the hum of the village generator and the occasional snore from a doorway.

Weather, Crowds and Honest Truth

Spring and autumn are golden: 24 °C by day, 12 °C at night, skies rinsed clean after rain. Come then and you will share the village with perhaps a dozen visitors. July and August are a different story – the thermometer hits 40 °C, the olives shimmer like mirages and even the dogs refuse to move. Accommodation prices drop 20% in August because Spaniards flee to the coast, but walking becomes a dawn-only activity and the lake beach fills with music pumping from Bluetooth speakers.

Winter is quiet, often misty, occasionally icy. The A-333 is gritted but not obsessively; if snow is forecast (two days a year on average) bring chains or stay put. On the plus side, the olive harvest is underway and every farm welcomes volunteers who fancy earning €7 an hour while learning to wield a vibrating comb that shakes fruit onto nets spread like giant tablecloths. Gloves are essential; the sap stains everything black and takes a week to fade.

Leaving: Three Provinces in One Day

Check-out is painless; most guest-houses just ask you to leave the key on the counter. From the village you can reach the A-92M in 20 minutes, which puts three provincial capitals within day-trip distance. Turn west and Córdoba’s Mezquita is 75 minutes away; head east for Granada’s Alhambra in 55; south lies Málaga airport in 65. The practical result is that a 10:00 flight home is perfectly compatible with a 07:30 breakfast of tostada and strong coffee in Villanueva de Tapia, followed by a 15-minute drive through olive corridors that smell of earth and early sun. It is a final reminder that the village’s greatest luxury is not what it adds to Andalucía, but what it refuses to give up: space, silence and the certainty that tomorrow the olives will still outnumber people.