La Iruela

The castle gate clangs shut behind you and suddenly Jaén province spreads out like a green, silver-flecked carpet. From this height—933 metres above sea level—thousand-year-old olive trees look oddly toy-like, their neat ranks marching off towards the distant Guadalquivir. A single glance explains why the Knights Templar hacked a fortress onto this limestone tooth in the 13th century: you can see everything that moves, from wild boar in the cork oak below to the evening coach winding up from Cazorla.

La Iruela hangs above the road that links the market town of Cazorla with the high Sierra de Cazorla Natural Park. Most visitors barrel straight past on the A-319, bound for walking trails and parador brunches, then wonder later why they bothered with the traffic. The wise ones swerve right, climb one kilometre of tight switchbacks, and park on the upper ring-road just before the village squeezes itself into a single lane. It takes five minutes to leave the car, another five to buy a €2 castle ticket, and about thirty seconds to realise the place is refreshingly small.

Rock, Walls, and a Village that Refuses to Fall

The Templar strongpoint is essentially a ruined keep with attitude. Masonry clings to bare rock; staircases are hacked straight into the stone. English leaflets are handed out at the hut, change is given in small coins sticky with olive oil, and the custodian will happily point out where scenes from Conan the Barbarian were shot in 1981. Children treat the lower ramparts as an adventure playground; parents discover calf muscles they last used on a Snowdonia scree. The summit platform is no bigger than a tennis court, yet delivers 360-degree views across two million olive trees and, on clear days, the snow-dusted ridge of the Sierra Nevada nearly 150 km away.

Below the battlements the village tumbles down the slope in white cubes. Streets are barely shoulder-wide, cobbles polished to marble slickness by centuries of boots. Handrails are absent by tradition; locals insist the gradient keeps them fit. A five-minute descent brings you to the 16th-century parish church of Santo Domingo de Silos, its Gothic doorway wedged so tightly into the rock that the bell tower doubles as a lighthouse for lost drivers on the switchbacks. Mass is still sung on Sundays, the priest timing his sermon to finish before the bar opposite runs out of churros.

Food for Heights

Hunger works differently at altitude. The air smells of woodsmoke and new olive oil; stomachs expect something solid. Talarines—short flat pasta simmered with hare, thyme and a splash of fino—arrive in shallow clay bowls at Bar Alcuza on the main square. A half-ración is enough for lunch; a full one could anchor a shepherd through winter. The same family kitchen does huevos serranos: eggs baked in a clay dish with serrano ham and tomato sofrito, essentially Spanish baked beans without the beans. Pudding is leche frita, squares of cold custard coated in cinnamon sugar that taste like comfort food smuggled back from a school exchange.

Vegetarians aren’t forgotten. Most bars will assemble a plato de la sierra of roasted peppers, local goat cheese and thick toast rubbed with tomato and olive oil. The cheese is semi-cured, nutty rather than goaty, and travels well if you remember to ask for a wedge vacuum-packed for the flight home. Wash lunch down with a glass of warmish garnacha—the local red tastes better once you’ve climbed back up to the castle car park and the breeze hits it.

Walking Off the Calories

La Iruela sits on the GR-247 “Bosques del Sur” long-distance footpath, so ramblers arrive with Nordic poles and serious faces, then relax once they realise the village offers both bed and bath. A straightforward two-hour circuit leaves from the upper cemetery, contours through Holm oak, and drops to the birth spring of the Guadalquivir, the river that irrigates Seville’s orange trees 400 km downstream. The path is sign-posted, but mobile signal vanishes after the first ridge; download an offline map while you still have 4G in the square.

For something gentler, follow the stone track that links La Iruela to Cazorla. It’s an old mule road, gradients kind, olives brushing your shoulders. Allow 25 minutes uphill to the castle, 20 minutes down into Cazorla for ice-cream, then a €6 taxi back if legs mutiny. Mountain bikers use the same route; walkers keep right, cyclists keep manners.

Winter brings snow more often than brochures admit. January can block the A-319 for half a day, turning the village into a white-roofed Christmas card. Spring is safer: orchids appear among the rocks, daytime temperatures hover around 18 °C, and the castle stays open until eight. Summer climbs into the mid-thirties, but the altitude knocks the edge off the heat; British visitors who know the Med compare it to a breezy Greek island minus the sea.

When to Come, Where to Sleep, What to Pay

Tuesday is market day. Stalls colonise Plaza de la Constitución from eight until two: mountain honey, cheap socks, and the best picnic tomatoes you will ever eat for €2 a kilo. Stay the night before and you can watch vendors unload by torchlight while swifts scream around the castle battlements. Thursday is delivery day for the bakery on Calle Real—aim for 11 a.m. when the crusty pan de pueblo is still warm.

Accommodation is limited to two small hotels and a handful of village houses let to bird-watchers. Hostal la Fuente, fifty metres below the castle, has eight rooms with thick stone walls and modern bathrooms; doubles hover round €60–70 year-round, heating included. The owners keep a list of trusted taxi drivers for walks that finish elsewhere—useful if you fancy the full twelve-kilometre descent to the Trujala river and don’t fancy walking back uphill.

Eating out is inexpensive. A three-course menú del día in any bar hovers round €12, wine included. Castle admission is €2; honesty box when the custodian nips out. Parking on the ring-road is free; ignore the tarmac triangle by the church—locals will wave you on because it blocks the bread van.

The Catch? There Isn’t Much

The village is tiny; you can cover every street in twenty minutes. Nightlife is a choice between two bars, both television-friendly, neither playing music after midnight. If you crave flamenco tablaos or craft-beer taps, sleep in Úbeda and visit here on a day trip. Cobbles defeat pushchairs and anyone unsteady on stone—bring grippy soles and expect a thigh workout. Toilets are clean but scarce; the castle kiosk is seasonal, so carry water.

Leave before sunrise on your final morning and you’ll see the Sierra glow pink, olive mist drifting in the valley like steam off a British reservoir. The castle gate stays locked until nine, but the mirador below is always open. Stand there, coffee in hand, while the village lights switch off one by one and swallows begin their daily patrol. It is a quiet, slightly vertiginous moment—exactly what you came for, and precisely what the Templars spotted eight centuries ago.