Alanís

The morning bus from Seville pulls up beside a stone trough still flecked with yesterday’s grain. A farmer in overalls lifts two crates of lemons aboard, nods to the driver, and the engine coughs away again. In that thirty-second pause you realise Alanís has no ticket office, no rank of taxis, no souvenir map stand—just the trough, the crates, and the smell of woodsmoke drifting down from the surrounding hills. Five thousand people live here, 660 m above sea-level, where the Guadalquivir plain finally buckles into the Sierra Norte de Sevilla. The village is small enough that, within an hour, you will recognise the woman who sells bread, the man who repairs boots, and the plaster saint in the church whose bell marks the quarters even when no one is listening.

A white grid that learned to climb

Alanís tumbles over two ridges, streets narrowing to staircases as they rise. Houses are whitewash-over-stone, not the pristine cubes of the coast but living walls scuffed by passing buckets, children’s bikes and the occasional goat. At the top sits the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de las Nieves, late-Gothic ribs swallowed by later baroque plaster. The tower is open most evenings; climb the spiral, mind the uneven treads, and the dehesa rolls out in every direction—oak and cork interrupted only by the faint silver of the old green-way that once took minerals to the river. Entry is free but the sacristan appreciates a euro for the light bill.

Across a short saddle of rock, the Castillo de Alanís is less castle now than readable archaeology: one curtain wall, a stump of keep, foundations of the mosque reused as cistern. The ten-minute ascent is enough to raise a sweat even in April; take water and shoes with grip because the limestone flakes underfoot. The payoff is line-of-sight over the village roofscape and, on clear days, the blue seam of the Guadalquivir thirty kilometres south. Interpretation boards are absent, so download a plan before you set off or simply enjoy the breeze that smells of wild thyme and grazing cattle.

Trails that begin at the last streetlamp

You can leave the plaza after breakfast and be among holm oaks before the church bell finishes striking ten. The Sendero de las Laderas loops 7 km north-west of the village, contouring through dehesa and past stone huts where shepherds once overnighted. Markers are wooden posts painted yellow; no great elevation gain, but keep dogs on lead—grazing cows have right of way. Wildflowers peak between late April and mid-May: purple phlomis, white asphodel, the occasional flash of red peony. Take a packed lunch; there are no cafés en route, only the intermittent tinkle of bells.

If you prefer two wheels, rent a bike at Cazalla-Constantina train station (€18 per day, reserve the previous evening). The disused railway has been surfaced for 19 km to Alanís, gradients so gentle you could push a pram. The track cuts through cut-stone tunnels and across iron bridges where storks nest on the cross-beams. April cyclists report bee-eaters swooping alongside, and the smell of orange blossom drifting up from the lower valley. Lock bikes in the plaza—no formal stands, but the Guardia Civil office has a railing and a camera.

Calories you have to earn

Game cookery is not a marketing flourish here; it is what the forest yields. Venison stew arrives dark, almost sweet, thickened with breadcrumbs and served in an earthenware bowl that keeps it hot to the last spoonful. Wild-boar chorizo is air-dried in the winter chimney smoke; try it diced into chickpea stew with a glass of rough local red. Mushroom season begins with the first October rains—look for setas de cardo on chalkboards. If the harvest fails, restaurants simply remove the dish; no frozen substitutes arrive in a van from Seville.

For lighter appetites, Bar La Sierra opposite the church does a credible toasted sandwich of Iberian ham and tomato, the bread rubbed with garlic and olive oil pressed from the cooperative on the road to Constantina. Coffee costs €1.20, but order it after the meal; drinking it beforehand marks you instantly as a city visitor. Vegetarians survive on espinacas con garbanzos, spinach and chickpeas spiced faintly with cumin, though you may be offered tuna on top—Andalucian logic still counts fish as separate from meat.

When the village rewrites its own calendar

Festivals follow the agricultural clock. On the night of 4 August the Romería de la Virgen de las Nieves begins: the statue is carried down the hill, garlanded with paper flowers, and driven on a flat-bed tractor to an oak grove 3 km away. Families follow in cars blaring sevillanas, cool-boxes rattling in boots. The return next day is slower; men walk barefoot behind the virgin, women balance baskets of watermelons, and by midday the plaza smells of anise and charring pork. Visitors are welcome but beds disappear fast; if you have not booked, the nearest spare mattresses are in Cazalla, twenty minutes down the mountain.

In mid-September the village rewinds six centuries for the Días Medievales. Knights in chain mail joust with padded lances on a sand strip outside the castle walls; stallholders sell honeyed almonds and ceramic whistles shaped like birds. Entrance is free, though you pay €2 to climb the wooden siege tower erected each year by the secondary-school technology class. Evenings end with a communal morteruelo—a hot pâté of game liver and spices scooped up with bread, best eaten standing because seating is a plank round a oil-drum brazier.

Getting there, getting out

Public transport demands patience. From Seville’s Santa Justa station take the Cercanías train to Cazalla-Constantina (1 h 30, €7.50, bicycles free at weekends). A taxi from the rank outside completes the journey in twenty minutes for €22; agree the price before you load bikes. Buses exist but run only twice daily, less on Sundays, and the 17:00 service is often full by the time it reaches Alanís. If you hire a car at Seville airport allow 75 minutes on the A-4 and A-432; the last 12 km twist through cork forest, single-track in places—dip headlights and watch for wild boar at dusk.

Summer heat is not picturesque. June to August temperatures sit in the high thirties and can nudge forty; the village provides little shade and most shops close between 14:00 and 17:30. Spring and autumn deliver 22 °C at midday, 8 °C at dawn—pack layers. Winter is quiet, fireplaces fragrant, but overnight frost can glaze the cobbles and accommodation switches off heating during the day to save cost.

Leave before the church bell strikes eleven and you will meet the baker hauling sacks of flour, the chemist raising her roller shutter, and the old men on the bench who have already solved yesterday’s problems. Stay after the final coffee and you will discover the limits of a village whose last proper bar shuts at half-past ten. Alanís does not sell itself; it simply carries on, and for a short while you are welcome to carry on with it—provided you remember the bus back to Seville leaves at six, or not at all.