Cazalla de la Sierra

The 14:05 train from Seville slips past olive groves and solar farms, then begins to climb. Mobile signal flickers. By the time the single carriage hisses into Cazalla-Constantina station, 80 km north of the city, the air is five degrees cooler and heavy with wild rosemary. A single taxi waits; the driver greets new arrivals by name because he already knows who is expected. This is the first lesson of Cazalla de la Sierra: logistics here are personal.

A town that answers to the seasons, not the clock

Cazalla sits at 595 m in the Sierra Norte Natural Park, a landscape of rolling dehesa where black Iberian pigs root under holm oaks and the evening light turns the stone walls the colour of burnt honey. The town’s 5,000 inhabitants still talk about rain as front-page news and judge the week by the market cycle, not the working one. In January, wood smoke drifts through the narrow lanes; by late April, the same streets are loud with swifts and the scent of orange blossom. August is for siestas that last until the sun drops behind the ridge; visitors who expect lunch after 15:00 will go hungry.

The centre is small enough to cross in ten minutes, yet easy to lose yourself in. Passageways built for mules widen suddenly into Renaissance plazas where elderly men play cards beneath the church tower. The Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Consolación, part-Mudéjar, part-Gothic patchwork, doubles as both compass and clock: its stone shadow tells the time for anyone who lingers long enough to notice.

Trails, ruins and a liquor that burns like summer

Walk east along the Arroyo del Pintado and the town’s soundtrack – distant dogs, the clack of a shutter – fades beneath the chatter of water. The Molinos trail follows eight abandoned watermills for 6 km; the path is flat, shaded, and takes exactly as long as the picnics and paddle-stops require. For something stiffer, the Cerro del Hierro route climbs 400 m to a former Roman iron mine where razor-edged limestone pinnacles rise from pine scrub. The going is rough, boots are sensible, and in July the temperature gap between valley and summit can exceed ten degrees. Start early; the park warden records rescues every year from hikers who underestimated both heat and distance.

Back in town, the hermitage on the Monte offers a shorter ascent and a broader pay-off: a stone bench facing west across waves of oak forest that stretch to the horizon. On clear days you can pick out the white dots of Constantina; on hazy ones, only the griffon vultures circling at eye level.

Evenings belong to the anís. Cazalla’s eponymous spirit – clear, aniseed, deceptively gentle – has been distilled here since the sixteenth century. Locals sip it iced after coffee, or mix it with lemon for a summer rebujito that tastes like liquid liquorice. The October fair devotes an entire marquee to comparative tastings; novices last about three small glasses before the mountain starts to spin.

What to eat when the mountain is the larder

Menus change with the hunt. From October to January, expect venison stew thick with bay, and partridge braised in sherry; spring brings wild asparagus revuelto and, if the rains have been kind, saffron milk-cap mushrooms tossed with hand-cut tagliatelle. The town’s butchers sell ibérico cuts at half Seville prices; order a plate of jamón in a bar and the owner may show you the label from the pig’s ear, proof of pedigree. Pudding is usually pestiños, spirals of fried dough glazed with local honey – imagine a doughnut meeting a brandy snap.

Vegetarians are not an afterthought, but choices narrow outside high season. Most kitchens will assemble a pisto (Spanish ratatouille) or migas – fried breadcrumbs with garlic and grapes – yet it is worth asking what the cook would make for themselves. Answer: gazpacho serrano, a chunky bread-and-tomato soup served cold, topped with hard-boiled egg and, if you insist, a slug of that anís.

Getting here, staying put, switching off

Public transport demands patience. The Seville–Cazalla regional train runs twice daily, takes 90 minutes, and bicycles travel free outside rush hour. The station is 7 km downhill from town; phone for a taxi the day before (€12) or arrange collection through your accommodation. A hire car from Seville airport (around £30 a day in shoulder season) turns the journey into a scenic hour-and-a-quarter via the A-66 and the snaking A-455. Roads are empty, but the final climb is single-track and unlit; arrive after dark and you will meet sheep.

Hotels are converted town houses with four or five rooms, stone stairs and no lift. Posada San Marcos keeps a 300-year-old wine press in the sitting room; rooms from €70 including breakfast of home-made quince jam. Cheaper are the village apartments: €50 a night, keys left under a plant pot, Wi-Fi that works if the wind is in the right quarter. Summer weekends fill up with cyclists from Seville; book early or arrive mid-week and the price drops.

Cash is king. Only one ATM exists, it runs dry on market days (Tuesday and Friday), and several bars refuse cards for bills under €10. Pack binoculars: golden eagles patrol the southern ridge at dawn, and the council has installed a viewpoint on the Calle del Castillo with a plaque identifying every raptor you are unlikely to see back home.

When to come, when to stay away

April delivers fields of crimson poppies and temperatures perfect for walking; May adds lavender and the first night-time festivals. September light is soft, mornings are crisp enough for a second coffee, and the September feria fills the streets with music and free anís until the Guardia Civil suggest bedtime. August is fierce: 38 °C at noon, thin shade, and restaurants that close for the entire month. Winter brings empty trails, wood fires and the chance of snow on the pass, but some rural tracks become impassable without a 4×4. Choose your season, pack layers, and accept that the sierra sets the timetable now.