Santa Ana la Real

The church bell in Santa Ana la Real strikes seven and the echo rolls down the hill faster than any traffic. At this hour there isn’t any: the single road that threads the village is empty apart from a mongrel scratching itself outside the chemist. Half-timbered houses, their walls painted the colour of fresh yoghurt, glow briefly in the low sun. You are 640 m above sea level, 90 minutes south-west of Seville, and mobile reception has already given up.

Morning in the Dehesa

Walk fifty paces past the last cottage and the cobbles turn into a sandy farm track. Holm oaks and cork trees take over, their trunks twistier than the A-4132 you drove in on. This is the dehesa, the man-made savannah that gives western Andalucía its wild park feel. Pig territory. Every November the ibérico are released to gorge on acorns, and the resulting ham is sliced down the road in Jabugo, ten minutes by car. A hand-painted sign points to the Sendero de la Roba, a 5 km loop that drops into a stream bed and climbs back through chestnut coppice. Allow two hours, plus another twenty minutes if you want to scramble up to the stone hut that serves as an improvised hide for griffon vultures.

After heavy rain the path doubles as a water feature. Locals call the cascade Los Chorros, though “waterfall” flatters what is really a 15 m hosepipe of white water that appears for a day then vanishes. Wellies help; in July the same rock face is a picnic spot with only lizards for company.

Lunch at One Bar Only

By 13:30 the single pavement table outside Corral Concejo is taken. Inside, the television shows yesterday’s fútbol on mute and the owner is chalking up dishes she refuses to translate. Try the estofadillo: pork shoulder braised in sweet paprika, potatoes that have melted into the sauce, and – for reasons no one can explain – a side of chips. It costs €8 and arrives in the same terracotta dish your grandmother might have used for shepherd’s pie. A glass of Sierra de Aracena white, crisp enough for a British palate, adds another €2. Ask for mosto if you’re driving: the non-fermented grape juice tastes like Ribena with manners.

Cash is king. The lone ATM stands in the wall of the Ayuntamiento and regularly runs dry on Saturday evening; the bar takes cards but the grocer doesn’t. If you need petrol, fill up in Aracena before you leave the main road.

Afternoon Heat, Evening Chill

August afternoons are a test of stamina. The thermometer nudges 35 °C but the streets were built for shade; lean against a north-facing wall and the breeze feels air-conditioned. Siesta is not decorative: the grocery shuts at 14:00 and reopens when it feels like it, usually around 17:00. British walkers used to right-of-way footpaths learn quickly that gates here are for staying shut; the reward for climbing over is often a field of bemused cattle and no signal to call a taxi back.

Come dusk the temperature drops ten degrees in as many minutes. That is the moment to climb the concrete track behind the church to the cemetery. The view spills west over rolling cork forest all the way to Portugal; on a clear evening the hills fade through every shade of blue until the sky turns orange above the bullring roof. Night-time brings stars in quantities that make the Milky Way look like a spelling mistake. No organised tour, no fee, just wrap up: even in July you’ll want a fleece.

When the Village Wakes Up

For fifty weeks of the year Santa Ana is a soundtrack of church bells and distant chainsaws. The other two belong to Santa Ana herself. On 26 July the patron-saint day packs the tiny square with stalls selling honey-glazed pestiños and plastic cups of rebujito. A brass band plays Sevillanas out of tune; children chase each other between the legs of visitors who have driven up from Huelva for the day. The following Saturday the Feria de Verano repeats the formula with added disco lights powered by a generator that hums louder than the music. Both fiestas finish by 02:00 – late by village standards – and the sweepers have the confetti gone before the first coffee of dawn.

Getting There, Getting Out

Public transport is theoretical. One bus leaves Aracena at 07:15, returns at 14:00, and misses every practical connection with Seville. A hire car is essential: take the A-66 south-west from Seville, turn onto the N-433 at San Juan del Puerto, then wrestle the final 19 km of the A-4132, a tarmac ribbon with more hairpins than a Spanish dresser. The road is perfectly drivable; the drops are merely decorative. In winter the surface can frost, and the council’s idea of grit is to scatter quarry gravel and hope.

Staying overnight means renting. There is no hotel, only three privately owned cottages marketed through the regional tourist board. Expect stone floors, wood-burning stoves and Wi-Fi that works until someone microwaves supper. Prices hover around €90 a night for two, less if you book a week. Breakfast is whatever you bought in Aracena: the village baker retired in 2019.

The Honest Verdict

Santa Ana la Real will not change your life. It offers no epic cathedral, no Michelin star, no souvenir shop flogging fridge magnets. What it does offer is an unfiltered dose of rural Spain at a pace that makes the Cotswolds feel frantic. Walk, eat ham, listen to pigs rustling in the undergrowth, and remember to close every gate. Come with a full tank, an offline map, and cash in your pocket; leave before the fiesta if you like your sleep, or stay for it if you’ve ever wondered how 500 people can fit 5,000 watts of sound equipment into a square the size of a tennis court. Either way, the cork oaks will still outnumber you – and that is rather the point.