Santo Tomé

The church bell strikes noon, and every bar stool in Santo Tome fills within minutes. Farmers in dusty boots queue for €2 cañas and plates of migas—fried breadcrumbs slick with local olive oil—while discussing the morning's yield. This is a village where agriculture still dictates the daily rhythm, not tourism brochures.

At 454 metres above sea level, Santo Tome perches on the lower slopes of the Sierra de Cazorla, forty minutes north-east of Jaén by the A-4 and A-6176. The road winds through a monotony of olive groves so complete that the occasional almond tree feels like an event. What looks scenic from the car window is, for the 2,072 residents, simply the office: 360 degrees of cultivated horizon that produce some of Spain's most peppery extra-virgin oil.

A village that refuses to pose

The centre is three streets wide and takes fifteen minutes to cross diagonally. Houses are whitewashed, yes, but with practical lime wash that hides diesel stains from passing tractors. Flower pots appear, yet they're plastic, not ceramic, and often hold herbs rather than petunias—useful beats pretty here. On the Plaza del Ayuntamiento, the pharmacy shares a wall with the agricultural co-op, so you can pick up ibuprofen and tractor parts in the same doorway.

The Iglesia Parroquial de Santo Tomé Apóstol squats at the top of the slope, its baroque tower more functional than ornate. Inside, the altarpiece is gilded but the side chapels hold parish notices about irrigation rotas. Entry is free; silence is appreciated because someone is usually praying between errands. Photography is allowed, yet the guard will ask you to move if you're blocking the side door used by locals popping in to light candles for the olive harvest.

Walking among paychecks, not postcards

Footpaths strike out from the northern edge straight into the groves. These are working tracks, not signed trails: expect tyre ruts, the odd discarded picking sack, and dogs that belong to somebody. A thirty-minute amble east brings you to the Cerro de la Virgen, a low hillock with a concrete picnic table and a view back towards the village framed by 50,000 olive trees. Spring brings ox-eye daisies between the trunks; autumn smells of diesel and fallen fruit when the harvest machines drone until dusk.

Serious hikers sometimes scoff at the lack of altitude gain, but the pleasure is anthropological. You'll pass cortijos—single-storey farmhouses—where smoke from bread ovens drifts across the path. Knock and an elderly señora may sell you a still-warm loaf for €1.50, wrapped in last week's olive-market flyer. Try asking for wholemeal; you'll get whatever came out of the outdoor oven that morning.

Oil, oil and then more oil

Menus don't bother with tasting notes. Order a "tostada" in Bar Central and receive country bread grilled over vine shoots, rubbed with tomato, buried in local picual oil and charged at €1.80. The oil is so fresh it makes your throat catch, the hallmark of high polyphenol content. Gazpacho appears in summer, thickened here with a handful of ground almonds; winter brings gachas, a paprika-spiced porridge that field workers spoon from flasks at dawn. Pestiños—honey-glazed fritters—surface at Easter; ignore the calories, they're designed for people who spend eight hours on a tractor.

The cooperativa on the road to Begíjar offers ten-litre plastic cubitos of unfiltered oil for €42 between November and February. Bring your own funnel; they don't waste money on tourist packaging. Ask politely and the manager will let you watch the centrifuges spin for five minutes before shooing you out—health-and-safety Spanish style.

Seasons matter

April turns the undergrowth bright green and the air smells of fennel. Temperatures sit in the low twenties—perfect for walking—though showers sweep in from the Atlantic without warning. May brings the Cruces de Mayo, when neighbours cover wooden crosses with carnations and gossip in the streets until the small hours; visitors are handed a plastic cup of rebujito (fino sherry and lemonade) whether they ask or not.

Come July the thermometer nudges forty. Shade becomes currency, and the fiestas patrias in mid-month feel like an endurance test. Processions start at 9 p.m. for good reason; even so, brass bands melt valves and elders hose the streets to cool them. Accommodation is scarce—there is one hostal above the bakery—so day-trip from Úbeda thirty minutes away if you want a pool.

October means la vendimia del olivar, the olive harvest. Tractors fitted with inverted umbrellas shake trees from dawn to well after dark. Dust hangs over the village like talcum powder; asthmatics should carry inhalers. Yet this is when Santo Tome feels most alive. Bars open at 5 a.m. for workers needing an aniseed brandy "to cut the cold," and the nightly thrum of the almazara (mill) becomes white noise. If you want photographs, ask permission: these people are earning a living, not modelling.

Winter can be sharp. At 454 m, night frost is common; the surrounding sierra may get a dusting of snow visible from the square. Accommodation prices drop, some cafés close, but the oil is at its freshest and the mountains beyond look sensational under white peaks.

Practicalities without the brochure speak

There is no cash machine; the nearest is in Villacarrillo, ten minutes by car. Most bars accept cards for sums over €10, but the bakery doesn't, so bring coins for breakfast. Buses from Jaén run twice daily on weekdays, once on Saturday, never on Sunday—timetables are pinned inside the Ayuntamiento door and nowhere online. Parking on the plaza is free but fills with market stalls every Tuesday; arrive before 9 a.m. or circle the residential streets where space is tighter than a Seville alleyway.

Accommodation options are limited: Hostal El Olivar (€45 double, basic but spotless) above the bakery, or two rural houses signed out on the Cazorla road (€80–€100, pools, minimum two-night stay at weekends). Book ahead during fiestas; the village absorbs visitors like a raindrop hitting hot iron.

A parting shot of honesty

Santo Tome will never make the cover of glossy travel magazines. It offers no souvenir shops, no Michelin stars, no jaw-dropping monuments. What it does provide is an unfiltered look at rural Andalucía while it still functions around agriculture rather than Instagram. If you need constant stimulation, stay in Granada. If you can entertain yourself by watching tractors at dusk and listening to farmers argue about rainfall, you'll leave with a clearer understanding of where your supermarket olive oil begins—and probably a litre or two sloshing in the boot.