Olvera

The first thing that strikes you about Olvera is the climb. Whether you arrive from the west, threading through endless olive groves, or from the south, where the A-373 corkscrews up from the Guadalete valley, the road keeps tilting skywards until the houses appear to tumble off a 643-metre limestone crag. At the summit, a 12th-century Arab fortress and a 19th-century church stand shoulder-to-shoulder like squabbling siblings, warning every visitor that this is not a place that ever learnt to be flat.

A Town That Forgot the Word “Level”

Olvera’s streets are paved with calf-stretching intentions. Calle Calzada, the cobbled ramp that every photographer wants to themselves, rises 14 per cent in places; by the time you reach the mirador you’ll understand why elderly locals pause every twenty metres for a chat. The reward is a sweep of territory that feels bigger than the county of Devon: a rolling ocean of silvery olive trees interrupted only by the occasional farmhouse and, on a clear day, the hazy outline of the Grazalema mountains. Sunrise here is worth setting an alarm for; by 08:30 coach parties from the coast begin to spill out and the narrow lanes echo with mismatched languages.

Inside the castle—€2, cash only, winter hours 10:30-14:00—you get the same panorama with labels. Panels in Spanish and surprisingly good English explain why the Nasrids built on this exact spur: command the high ground, watch the old Roman road, collect taxes from anyone who wanted to pass. The parapet is wide enough for selfies but not for pushchairs; parents tend to clutch small children like precious cargo while teenagers dangle legs over the drop, pretending indifference.

The Green Rail Trail That Cuts Through Nothing

Twenty minutes’ drive north of town, or a stiff downhill pedal if you’ve brought your own bike, the Vía Verde de la Sierra begins. Thirty-six kilometres of disused railway track have been resurfaced for cyclists and walkers, complete with 30 tunnels, four iron viaducts and a gradient that never exceeds three per cent—civil engineering designed for steam engines translates into effortless pedalling for humans. Bike hire is available at the old station in Olvera (€20 a day, helmets included) but ring ahead; if no one turns up by 10:30 the owner often cycles off himself.

The most spectacular section runs between kilometre 9 and 15, where the line skirts the Peñón de Zaframagón, a 400-metre rock face home to one of Europe’s largest colonies of griffon vultures. Even if ornithology leaves you cold, watching a two-metre wingspan glide past eye-level is memorable. Bring a light jacket—the tunnels stay at 14 °C year-round and the darkness is absolute for 30-second stretches. Weekends draw Spanish families who treat the route like a linear picnic, so if you prefer solitude aim for a Tuesday or Wednesday morning.

Back in town, the greenway has sparked a quiet economic boost. A handful of houses near the old station have turned their ground floors into cafés serving cyclist-sized plates of migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic, chorizo and enough olive oil to make a cardiologist wince. Lunch for two, with a caña of beer, costs about €16. British expats who’ve bought village houses admit they first arrived on bikes and never quite left.

Olive Oil, Pig Fat and Other Winter Defences

Olvera’s cuisine is built on two pillars: extra-virgin oil from the surrounding 60,000 hectares of olives, and the annual pig slaughter that still marks calendars every January. Restaurants proudly list “gazpacho serrano” on laminated menus; don’t expect the chilled tomato soup of Seville. Here it is a thick, hot stew of garlic, paprika and chunks of mountain ham, designed to keep field workers warm. A portion at Casa Macario, opposite the town hall, costs €8 and arrives with a basket of local bread so dense it could double as building material.

Saturday morning is market day on Calle Llana. Stallholders shout prices in rapid Spanish—no one apologises for not speaking English—and will happily sell you a kilo of sun-wrinkled tomatoes for €1.20 or a vacuum-packed shoulder of ibérico pork for €18. If you’re self-catering, stock up; the only supermarket in the old quarter closes for siesta at 14:00 sharp and reopens when the owner feels like it.

Summer visitors sometimes complain the food is too heavy; locals reply that 40 °C heat in August is precisely why you need sustenance that won’t spoil. The sensible response is to do as the Spanish do: eat at 11:00, retreat indoors between 14:30 and 19:00, emerge after dark when the stone walls radiate stored warmth and the plaza smells of jasmine and grilled pork.

When to Arrive, Where to Leave the Car

Olvera sits almost equidistant from three airports: Málaga, Jerez and Seville are all 75–80 km away. Public transport exists—a twice-daily bus from Seville, once on Sundays—but timetables seem written as abstract fiction. Hiring a car is the least painful option, and it solves the parking question. Two large gravelled areas, Vereda Ancha 1 & 2, sit below the historic core and are unsigned purely to deter sat-navs from sending coaches down alleyways built for donkeys. Parking is free; the uphill walk to the castle takes ten minutes and doubles as leg-stretching after the motorway.

Accommodation splits into two categories: boutique conversions inside the old walls, and rural farmhouses in the valley. Hostal-Restaurante Sierra y Cal is the reliable mid-range choice—rooms from €55, thick stone walls, no lift but staff who’ll carry bags without being asked. If you want a pool, head five kilometres out to Molino La Nava, a 17th-century olive mill turned into self-catering cottages; evenings are silent except for cicadas and the occasional clank of a distant goat bell.

The Honest Verdict

Olvera will never compete with Granada’s Alhambra or Seville’s flamenco scene. It lacks a cathedral square big enough for tour groups and, frankly, a full day here is enough for anyone who doesn’t cycle or bird-watch for a living. Yet that scarcity is its appeal. The town offers a hit of vertical Spain without the coach-party choreography: real people doing real shopping, a castle you can linger in without security guards, and a bike path that feels like someone forgot to charge admission. Come in late April when the olive blossom smells faintly sweet, the temperature hovers around 22 °C, and the only queue is at the bakery for Saturday morning churros. Just remember to pack calf muscles—and maybe a second bottle of water for the climb back to the car.