Villanueva del Rosario

The church bell strikes seven, and the village wakes to the sound of diesel engines rather than church bells. Farmers in flat caps and boiler suits trundle past the whitewashed houses towards groves that shimmer silver-green in the early light. At 697 metres above sea level, Villanueva del Rosario sits high enough that the Mediterranean heat loses its bite, yet low enough that snow remains a novelty rather than a guarantee. This is working Andalucía, not the postcard version.

Life at the Edge of the Sierra

From the A-45 motorway, the turn-off at Casabermeja climbs 12 kilometres through almond terraces and abandoned cortijos. The road narrows, hedges give way to dry-stone walls, and suddenly the village spills across the hillside like tipped sugar cubes. Park at the top near the Polideportivo; the streets below are a maze designed for donkeys, not hatchbacks.

Santa Catalina church anchors the main square, its ochre stone tower visible from every approach. Built in the 18th century after an earthquake flattened the earlier chapel, it carries none of the baroque excess found nearer the coast. Inside, the air smells of beeswax and stone dust. Sunday Mass at 11 draws a decent crowd; visitors are welcomed but expected to dress modestly—shoulders covered, no football shirts.

Wander downhill and the town reveals itself in layers. First come the houses with forged-iron grilles and geraniums, then the older quarter where doorways drop two steps below street level, evidence of centuries of resurfacing. Laundry still flaps across the alleyways; at dusk, grandmothers drag plastic chairs onto the pavement to watch grandchildren chase feral cats. English is scarce—order a beer in Spanish or point with confidence.

Oil, Bread and the Occasional Goat

November through January, the cooperative presses olives round the clock. The aroma is extraordinary: green grass, pepper, faintly bitter artichoke. Ring ahead (the tourist office WhatsApp is surprisingly responsive) and they’ll slot you into a 45-minute visit. You’ll watch the fruit rattling along conveyor belts, see the paste spread on fibrous mats, and taste oil so fresh it catches the throat. A five-litre tin costs €38—half UK supermarket prices, and you can lug it home in hold luggage if you wrap it in a beach towel.

Food elsewhere is similarly earthy. Bar El Puerto opens at 07:00 for tostada drizzled with that same oil and a rasp of fresh tomato. Mid-morning, builders drift in for coffee chased by a copa of sweet anis. Lunch is the main event; try the chivo al vino at Restaurante El Caserío—goat slow-cooked in red wine until it collapses into something closer to Lancashire hotpot. Vegetarians survive on pipirrana salad (tomato, pepper, tuna, egg) and the excellent local goat cheese drizzled with chestnut honey.

Walking the Dry River Beds

Three signed footpaths start from the village, though signage is intermittent and the paint blisters in summer heat. The easiest follows the Arroyo de la Dehesa west for 6 kilometres to an abandoned flour mill; flat, stony, and shaded by eucalyptus. Allow two hours return, carry more water than you think necessary, and don’t trust Google’s contour lines—there’s more up-and-down than the map suggests.

Ambitious walkers head into the Sierra de Camarolos. From the cemetery on the north edge of town, a dirt track climbs 400 metres to the Puerto de los Alamos, gateway to limestone crags where griffon vultures nest. The round trip is 12 kilometres; start at dawn between May and September or risk heatstroke. Mobile signal dies after the first ridge—download an offline map and tell someone your route. Winter is safer temperature-wise, but any rain turns the clay path into an ice-rink; carry walking poles.

Fiestas, Fireworks and Queue-Jumping Stallions

The calendar revolves around olives and saints. Santa Catalina on 25 November is low-key: a procession, free glasses of sweet muscatel, and elderly men arguing about the brass band’s tempo. The August feria is different. Temporary bars erect awnings, teenage girls practise sevillanas in the car park, and the evening ends with fireworks that rattle windows three valleys away. Brits are welcomed; you’ll be handed a straw hat and dragged into a circle dance whether your hips agree or not.

Early May brings the Romería de San Isidro. Locals pile onto tractor trailers, pack jamon sandwiches and litre bottles of tinto de verano, and drive three kilometres to a pine grove for paella cooked in pans the size of satellite dishes. Tourists number perhaps a dozen; turn up with a contribution—plastic cups, bin bags, anything—and you’re part of the family. The party disperses by sunset; the forest is spotless before dusk.

Practicalities for the Unprepared

The nearest petrol station is 15 kilometres away at Casabermeja—fill up before you arrive. Villanueva has one cash machine (Santander) tucked inside the supermarket; it occasionally refuses UK cards for sport. Bring euros, or stock up in Antequera on the drive north. Accommodation is mostly rural casas rurales sleeping six; expect wood-burning stoves, infinity pools that look over the groves, and nightly rates around €120 in shoulder seasons. Hostal El Cazador in the village offers simpler doubles for €45; rooms face an interior courtyard so traffic noise is minimal, though Saturday-night karaoke from the bar opposite drifts through single-glazed windows.

Summer days top 35 °C by noon; businesses shut between 14:00 and 17:00. Plan hikes for dawn or the golden hour before dusk, when the limestone cliffs glow apricot and the only sound is goat bells. Winter brings crisp blue skies and daytime highs of 14 °C—perfect walking weather if you pack a fleece. Rain, when it arrives, is torrential and brief; flash floods carve trenches across the roads, but tarmac reappears within hours.

Leaving the Groves Behind

Villanueva del Rosario won’t change your life. It offers no Michelin stars, no Moorish palaces, no infinity selfies. What it does give is a yardstick for authenticity: a place where the bar owner remembers your order the next morning, where supermarket aisles smell of fresh bread at 10:00, and where the loudest noise after midnight is the scrapes of someone sweeping their step. Come for three days, stay for five, and you’ll still leave knowing more olives than people by name.