Siles

The road to Siles climbs steadily through a landscape that seems to stack itself vertically. First the olive groves, then the pines, then suddenly nothing but limestone and sky. At 826 metres above sea level, this mountain village functions less like a destination and more like a natural balcony over northern Jaén province—one that happens to have 2,180 residents, a medieval castle in ruins, and some of the darkest night skies in southern Spain.

The Village That Refuses to Perform

Siles doesn't do picturesque. Its streets are too narrow for coaches, its houses too lived-in for postcards. Whitewashed walls flake in the afternoon heat; elderly men in flat caps argue over dominoes outside the only open bar; someone's washing flaps above a alley so steep it could double as a staircase. This is working Andalusia, not the curated version sold on coast-bound motorway billboards.

The Iglesia de la Asunción squats at the top of this maze, its bell tower visible from every approach. Inside, the air smells of candle wax and centuries of incense. Retablos gilded in the 18th century still wait for the evening Mass that might, or might not, attract a dozen worshippers. Check the noticeboard—doors stay locked unless services are underway, and the priest keeps his own timetable.

Below the church, fragments of the Castillo de Siles cling to bedrock. What remains is more geology than architecture: a few courses of stone, a vaulted chamber open to the heavens, thistles growing where soldiers once stood. The compensation comes eastwards, where the parapet drops away to reveal the Guadalmena reservoir glinting 400 metres below like a dropped coin. On clear days you can trace the road you arrived on, a pale scar threading through endless olive monoculture.

Walking Into the Vertical

Mountain villages invite hyperbole, but Siles deals in specifics. The signed walk to the Fuente de la Aceña starts 200 metres from the last house and enters proper pine forest within ten minutes. The path is an old irrigation channel carved into the hillside—level, shaded, impossible to get lost on. Allow 45 minutes each way; trainers suffice unless recent storms have washed out the crossing slabs.

For something steeper, follow the stone mule track that zigzags above the cemetery. After 45 minutes the agriculture gives out completely and you're among Spanish fir and sheer drops. Griffon vultures appear at eye level, riding thermals that rise from the valley floor. Continue another hour to the Collado de los Hornos for a full 700-metre panorama back towards the village, now reduced to a white smear on the opposite ridge.

Proper alpine routes—the 1,800-metre peaks of the Sierra de Segura—start a twenty-minute drive deeper into the natural park. Locals will draw maps on napkins and warn about water sources drying up after June. Take them seriously; every August the Guardia Civil extracts dehydrated hikers who thought Andalusia stopped at the Mediterranean.

What Arrives on the Plate

Order a beer in the Bar El Centro and it comes with a saucer of local olives the size of squash balls. The oil pressed here wins awards in Brussels, but in Siles it's simply what you cook with. Mid-morning, the owner might disappear into the kitchen and re-emerge clutching a plate of migas—fried breadcrumbs studded with pancetta and grapes, mountain comfort food designed to use up stale bread and provide calories for cold dawns.

Evenings belong to the asador opposite the town hall. Their chuletón is a rib of beef the width of a dinner plate, cooked over holm-oak coals and served rare. It feeds two adequately, three if you add plates of pimientos de Padrón and a bowl of pipirrana, the Jaén version of gazpacho that swaps cucumber for diced green pepper and adds enough olive oil to make the surface shimmer.

Vegetarians survive on tortilla and cheese. The cured goat's cheese arrives drizzled with local honey that tastes of rosemary and thyme; paired with a glass of dry Sierra de Segura white, it makes a respectable light supper. Just don't expect to eat after ten—grills are banked by half past nine and the cook goes home to watch the football.

When the Crowds Come—and When They Don't

August swells the population as grandchildren arrive from Madrid and Valencia. Plaza parking becomes impossible; the bakery sells out of bread by ten; suddenly everyone wants the single village ATM that dispenses only €50 notes. Book accommodation early or, better, avoid entirely.

May and late September deliver warm days, cool nights and empty paths. Almond blossom colours the lower slopes in February, coinciding with the feast of San Blas when the priest blesses wheels of bread in the square. Easter brings slow processions that squeeze up streets barely three metres wide—traffic is banned, so plan to leave your car on the western approach road and walk the last kilometre.

Winter arrives properly in December. Night temperatures drop below zero, wood smoke drifts from every chimney and the mountains behind the village turn white. Driving becomes interesting; the final 40 km from the N-322 includes 25 hairpins and the occasional Iberian ibid grazing the central reservation. Chains live in the boot from November onwards, and the one petrol station in neighbouring Santiago-Pontones becomes the most popular building in the comarca.

Getting There, Staying Put

Málaga airport lies two and a half hours south on fast motorway, after which the world narrows to a single carriagement writhing through the Despeñaperros gorge. Turn off at Vilches, fill the tank—there's nothing until Siles—and climb. Public transport exists: a Monday-to-Friday bus from Jaén that reaches the village at three in the afternoon. Missing it means a €70 taxi from the nearest railhead at Linares-Baeza.

Accommodation is limited to two guesthouses and a clutch of rural cottages carved from old olive mills. Expect stone walls, wood-burning stoves, Wi-Fi that flickers when the wind blows, and owners who speak exactly enough English to apologise for not speaking more. Rates hover around €70 a night including breakfast (toast, local jam, coffee strong enough to stain the cup). Bring cash—the village ATM runs dry at weekends andcards are treated with suspicion.

Leave space in the suitcase for olive oil; the cooperative on the main road sells five-litre tins for €18, roughly half UK supermarket prices for equivalent quality. Glass bottles travel better but weigh more—the post office will ship a 10 kg box to Britain for €25 if you can't face explaining to Ryanair why your hand luggage sloshes.

Siles offers no souvenir tat, no flamenco shows, no beach. What it does provide is altitude, silence and the sense that Spain continues to exist when foreigners aren't looking. Arrive with sturdy shoes, serviceable Spanish and realistic expectations about evening entertainment. The mountains will do the rest.