Quesada

The first thing you notice is the smell of olives. Not the faint, supermarket aisle version, but the real thing: warm, slightly bitter, drifting up from the cooperative press on the edge of town. It hits you as soon as you step out of the car, 676 metres above sea level, with the white cubes of Quesada tumbling down the ridge ahead and the Sierra de Cazorla rising like a wall behind. This is Jaén province at its most uncompromising: no sea views, no golf resorts, just mountain air thick with oil and resin.

Quesada doesn’t do charm offensives. The town of 5,000 keeps its shutters closed against the afternoon sun, and if you arrive between two and five you’ll think it abandoned. Then the church bell strikes and doors open just enough to let out a murmur of voices and the clink of coffee cups. The square, Plaza de la Constitución, fills slowly: old men in flat caps on the metal benches, teenagers circling with phones, a woman in a pharmacy coat sprinting across for change. No one’s performing Andalusianness here; they’re just living it.

The centre is small enough to cross in ten minutes, but give it an hour. Cobbles slope towards the sixteenth-century Iglesia de San Pedro y San Pablo, its stone tower chipped and lichen-spotted, the interior heavy with gilt and incense. Inside, the baroque altarpiece is pure theatrical Spain, but look closer and you’ll see the side chapels paid for by olive money: local families whose trees stretch for miles below. The church stays open most mornings until one; light a candle for 50 céntimos and the sacristan will thank you by name.

Round the corner, the Museo Zabaleta punches above its weight. Rafael Zabaleta was born here in 1907 and became one of Spain’s sharpest realist painters; the permanent collection hangs in a refurbished manor house with parquet floors that creak like ship timber. His canvases show harvests, funerals, women hauling water – the Sierra in earth tones, no romantic gloss. The free audio guide is only in Spanish, but pick up the English crib sheet at reception: it’s two sides of A4, blunt and useful. Allow 45 minutes; longer if you like staring at goats painted with the intensity of royal portraits.

Outside town, the landscape opens into proper walking country. The Cueva del Agua is a 4 km drive on a track that turns to dust and stones; leave the hire car in the widened lay-by and walk the last gentle kilometre. The cave mouth drips year-round, feeding a pool locals insist never dries. Bring trainers – flip-flops will be shredded by the limestone gravel – and a torch if you want to venture beyond the gated first chamber. It’s not Disneyland, just a cool mouth in the rock and the sound of water echoing like coins dropped down a well.

Serious hiking starts another 20 minutes up the A-315. The Parque Natural de Cazorla, Segura y Las Villas is Spain’s largest protected area: 2,100 square kilometres of pine, ibex and golden eagles. Quesada’s tourist office (open 10-14, closed Mondays) stocks 1:25,000 maps and will stamp your walking permit for longer routes. The Sendero del Guadalquivir is an easy 5 km there-and-back that follows the river’s first trickle over granite slabs; baby ibex sometimes watch from the cliffs, unimpressed. For a full day, the 12 km loop to the Tranco reservoir gives you vultures overhead and a lunch spot by the dam where the water glows turquoise enough to tempt a swim – though it’s glacial even in July.

Back in town, food is mountain-heavy and olive-oil slick. Gachamiga, a skillet of potato, chorizo and flour, arrives at La Sierra on Calle Carrera looking like a Spanish take on bubble-and-squeak; one portion feeds two hungry walkers for €8. Talariles – hand-cut pasta with wild mushrooms – tastes of forest floor and garlic. Vegetarians can ask for the seta version, but you’ll still get a splash of jamón fat for “sabor”. House wine comes in a plain glass bottle and costs €1.80; it’s rough, honest and improves after the first sip. Pudding is usually pan de higo, a fig-and-almond brick that walkers pocket for next day’s trail.

Timing matters. April and May bring almond blossom on the lower slopes and daytime highs of 22 °C; nights drop to 8 °C, so pack a fleece even if the midday sun burns. October is mushroom season: the town hosts weekend mycology workshops and the bars smell of sautéed níscalos. August is fiesta time – San Roque – when the population triples and every balcony sprouts a plastic banner. Brass bands play until 1 a.m., which is late for Quesada; if you want sleep, book a room on the upper streets away from Plaza de la Constitución. Accommodation is limited: Hostal Cazorla has 12 simple rooms with terracotta floors from €45, breakfast an extra €4. The owners speak enough English to direct you to the cash machine, but not to explain the town’s obsession with pickled quail eggs – some mysteries remain.

Getting here takes planning. Granada airport is the closest: a two-hour flight from Gatwick, then 75 minutes by car on the A-44 and a final 30 minutes of switchbacks. Málaga gives you more flight choices, but the drive climbs to two and a half hours. There is a bus from Jaén city – ALSA once daily, €7.50, two hours of olive groves and vertigo – but it arrives at 15:30, slap in the siesta dead-zone. Hire cars are sensible; petrol is 10 céntimos cheaper per litre than on the coast, and you’ll need wheels to reach trailheads.

What Quesada doesn’t have is just as important. No souvenir tat, no Irish bars, no flamenco tablaos. Evenings end with ice-cream tubs clacking in the square, not nightclub bass. British second-home owners use it as a cheap sleep en-route to Granada airport, then scurry off. That makes it perfect for walkers who want Spain without the performance, and maddening for anyone expecting a mini-break itinerary. Come with decent boots, an appetite for oil and a tolerance for church bells on the hour. Leave before siesta if you must, but you’ll probably find yourself still there at twilight, watching the ridge turn pink and wondering why more people don’t lose themselves on the olive side of Andalucía.