La Puerta de Segura

The Gateway That Most People Miss

The road signs on the A-322 don't lie: La Puerta de Segura is literally the door to the Sierra de Segura. What they don't tell you is that most travellers accelerate straight through, eyes fixed on the castle-crowned village of Segura de la Sierra twenty minutes up the mountain. Their loss. This working town of 2,200 souls sits at 585 metres, strung along the Guadalimar valley like a string of ochre beads, and it rewards those who bother to brake.

The first thing you notice isn't photogenic. It's practical. A petrol station that actually has fuel. A pharmacy with its lights on. A bakery where Saturday morning's baguettes emerge at 8 am sharp while the owner still calls them panes. These mundane details matter when you're heading into one of Spain's emptiest natural parks, where the next services might be an hour away on hair-pin roads.

Olive Groves and River Beaches

The town's relationship with the Guadalimar river is more functional than romantic. An artificial playa fluvial spreads beside the N-322, its sand raked weekly by a mechanical digger. In May the water runs clear over stones; by late August it's a tepid paddle pool that drops off sharply after two metres. Local families treat it as a giant paddling pool, arriving after work with coolboxes and fold-up chairs. There's no kiosk, no rental kayaks, no inflated prices—just a concrete toilet block and a sign warning parents to check the depth.

Above the river, olive terraces climb the lower slopes in neat military rows. These aren't the postcard silver-grey groves of tourist brochures; they're working plantations where mechanical harvesters shake the trees each December and the air smells of diesel and bruised olives. Walk the signed path above the Ermita de la Virgen de la Peña at dusk and you'll understand the geography: the valley floor growing vegetables, the mid-slopes devoted to oil, the upper reaches already switching to pine and holm oak.

What Passes for a Centre

The old town occupies barely four streets. Calle Carrera narrows to single-file between whitewashed houses whose ground floors once stabled mules. Laundry still hangs from first-floor balconies; a blacksmith's forge now sells wrought-iron boot-scrapers to weekenders from Jaén. At the top sits the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Asunción, its tower rebuilt in 1953 after lightning split the original. Inside, the retablo gilding is flaking but the carved 17th-century Virgin still wears her velvet robe for feast days. No one will mind if you linger, though don't expect English leaflets—parish life here revolves around baptisms and funerals, not heritage grants.

Two bars face the church steps. Both serve chuletón de trucha—a river-trout steak butterflied and grilled, no bones if you ask sin espinas. The price hovers around €8, cheaper than a pint of bitter back home. Order it with migas del pastor, fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic and grapes, and you'll understand why no one here bothers with imported quinoa.

Walking Without the Crowds

La Puerta works best as a base rather than a destination. The tourist office—one room beside the town hall—hands out photocopied leaflets for four waymarked walks. The easiest follows the river south for 6 km to the abandoned molino de Tebar, where kingfishers flash turquoise above the reeds. More ambitious is the 14 km loop to Fuente del Oro, climbing 500 m through holm oak to reach a spring where shepherds once watered mules. The path is clear but stony; trainers suffice if you're nimble, boots better if you're not.

Mountain bikers find endless dirt tracks fanning into the sierra. The PR-A-275 heads upstream towards El Tranco reservoir, a steady 12 km gradient that delivers you to pine shade and 300 m drops. Download the route to your phone first—waymarking disappears at junctions and the only locals you'll meet drive battered Land Cruisers with hunting dogs in the back.

When the Valley Parties

Mid-August transforms the town. The feria honouring the Assumption shuts the N-322 for three nights; lorries loaded with fairground rides squeeze between olive warehouses. Peñas—drinking clubs with plastic tables and paper tablecloths—serve tinto de verano for €1.50 until 4 am. British visitors sometimes mistake the atmosphere for Benidorm-lite; it's actually a family reunion where teenagers who left for Madrid or Barcelona come home to parade new partners and compare salaries. You're welcome to join, but don't expect bilingual bar staff—learn ¡buen provecho! and you'll manage.

Autumn brings the Fiesta de la Castaña, a lower-key affair centred on roasted chestnuts and new-wave olive-oil tastings. The local cooperative presses its first verde oil in late October; drizzle it over toasted bread and you'll taste grass, pepper, and the faint bitterness that supermarket bottles lose in transit.

The Practical Bits

Cash matters. The solitary ATM beside the Cajamar bank empties every Friday and isn't refilled until Monday morning. Bring euros or expect to drive 25 km to Begíjar. Saturday morning's market occupies the car park behind the health centre: one fish van from the coast, one greengrocer, and a stall selling knickers three pairs for €5. By 1 pm everyone's packed up.

Accommodation splits between two camps. The Hostal Puerta de Segura on Avenida de Andalucía offers 18 rooms with small balconies overlooking the river; doubles €55 year-round, air-con included because July nights can stick at 26 °C. Alternatively, half-dozen rural cottages cluster in the olive groves south-west of town; expect stone walls, thick doors, and the distant hum of irrigation pumps. None have pools—the river suffices.

Driving remains essential. The last ALSA bus from Jaén arrives at 5 pm and there's no Sunday service. From either Alicante or Málaga airports it's a gentle 2 h 30 min cruise inland on the A-32, then the JV-7042 which corkscrews into the valley. Fill the tank at Villacarrillo; beyond here petrol stations become folklore.

Worth the Detour?

La Puerta de Segura won't deliver that cliff-hanging castle moment your Instagram craves. What it offers is subtler: a functioning market town where the sierra begins, where tapas cost less than a London coffee, and where walking trails start five minutes from the main street. Come in late spring when the olive blossom drifts like dust and night temperatures drop enough for a jumper. Stay two nights, walk one valley, eat trout for lunch, and you'll understand why the people who live here never quite get round to leaving.