Alcaudete

The road signs count down the kilometres—40, 30, 20—yet the horizon never changes. Row after row of olive trees march up and down the rolling hills of Jaén province like disciplined soldiers, their silver-green leaves flickering in the sun. Then, suddenly, the village appears: a white splash on a limestone ridge, its castle keep poking above the treeline as if to prove that something other than olives exists here. This is Alcaudete, a working town of 5,000 souls where the morning bells still dictate breakfast time and the Thursday market clogs the main streets with wheeled shopping bags and shouted greetings.

A Town That Forgot to Pose for Postcards

Alcaudete sits at 662 m, high enough to catch a breeze but not quite high enough to escape the Andalusian furnace of July and August. In summer the air smells of warm oil and stone; in winter it can drop to freezing at night, and the surrounding sierras occasionally wear a brief dusting of snow. The altitude matters: spring arrives two weeks later than down on the Guadalquivir plain, which means wild fennel along the walking tracks and almond blossom that actually lasts long enough to photograph.

The old centre tumbles down the southern flank of the hill, a maze of stepped lanes too narrow for anything wider than a Seat Ibiza. Whitewashed walls are patched with ochre where the winter rains have nibbled the render; geraniums in plastic olive-oil cans add splashes of red. There are no souvenir stalls, no flamenco-dress boutiques, no “authentic” pottery emporiums. Instead you find a proper ironmonger that still weighs nails by the kilo, two bakeries that sell bread at €1.10 a loaf until it runs out, and a chemist whose noticeboard advertises second-hand Spanish lessons and English-speaking babysitters—clues to the small but settled British population living in the cortijos outside town.

Climbing for Keys and Views

The Castillo de Alcaudete crowns the summit, a chunky square keep ringed by beefy Almohad walls rebuilt by the Knights of Calatrava after Ferdinand III took the town in 1246. The fortress is officially open Tuesday to Sunday from 11:00; the catch is that it is often bolted. If the heavy wooden door is resolutely shut, retrace your steps downhill to the tourist office on Plaza de la Constitución. The staff will telephone the key-holder, a process that can take twenty minutes—or forty if he has nipped home for lunch. Bring water and patience; the only bar on the climb keeps erratic hours and may be closed for the owner’s nephew’s communion.

Once inside, the €4 combined ticket covers the castle, a modest interpretive centre in the old mill room, and an olive-oil museum on the edge of town. The audio-guide (€1 extra) is available in clear, unhurried English and explains why the battlements point one way towards Granada and the other towards Córdoba—this ridge was the frontier zone for three turbulent centuries. From the top terrace you can count seven different shades of green in the olive monoculture, interrupted only by the occasional red-tiled farmhouse. Sunset fires the hills the colour of burnt sugar; if you arrive by car after dark, the floodlit castle and church tower make a striking skyline that reassures you civilisation is near.

Churches Without Queues and a Square That Still Works

Back in the streets, the sixteenth-century Santa María la Mayor squats on a ledge halfway down the hill. Its plateresque portal is worth a glance, but the real surprise is the lack of visitors: no coach groups, no ticket barriers, just a retired sacristan who may switch on the lights if you smile. Five minutes farther down, the smaller Iglesia del Carmen offers baroque gilt and a blissful silence broken only by swallows nesting in the organ pipes. Between the two lies Plaza del Ayuntamiento, a pocket-sized square where old men occupy the benches in strict rotation, leaving the shaded end free for the municipal band to rehearse on Thursday nights. Children play hide-and-seek around the stone cross until long after a British bedtime, testament to Spanish tolerance for late-night noise.

Walking Tracks That Begin at Your Doorstep

Alcaudete is stitched into the Subbética hiking network. The shortest loop, the Ruta del Castillo, is basically the castle access road plus a dirt track that contours back to the cemetery—30 minutes, enough to loosen your legs after the drive from Málaga airport (1 hr 20 min on the A-45). Serious walkers can continue south on the Ruta de los Castillos, a 17 km ridge walk to neighbouring Castillo de Locubín that passes through ancient olive terraces and the occasional stand of holm oak. Waymarking is scruffy: a splash of yellow paint here, a cairn there, so download the track to your phone before you set off. March to early June is perfect: wild thyme underfoot, skylarks overhead, temperatures in the low 20s. Mid-July is madness; the thermometer hits 38 °C and there is zero shade.

Oil, Soup and Sausage You Can Pronounce

Jaén province produces half of Spain’s olive oil, and Alcaudete’s cooperative, Nuestra Señora de la Fuensanta, bottles some of the pepperiest. You can taste it straight from the tap at the on-site shop (free, with crusty bread) and buy a five-litre tin for €32—half UK supermarket prices. The local cuisine leans on that oil rather than on tricky seafood. Ajo-blanco, a chilled almond and garlic soup, appears on summer menus and tastes like liquid marzipan with a garlicky kick—no tomatoes, no chilli, British-palate friendly. Migas—fried breadcrumbs with chorizo and grapes—sounds odd but works as a carb-heavy lunch after a morning on the trail. If you need something familiar, Cafetería Carmen on Plaza de la Constitución does churros and thick hot chocolate from 7 a.m.; Spaniards dunk, Brits spoon, nobody judges.

Fiestas Loud Enough to Rattle Windows

The patronal fiestas honour the Virgen de la Fuensanta around 15 August. For three nights the fairground occupies the normally sedate Recinto Ferial, brass bands march through the old town at 2 a.m., and fireworks explode overhead until breakfast. Accommodation within the municipality sells out months in advance; if you value sleep, book a rural cottage up a dirt track or time your visit for spring instead. Semana Santa is quieter but equally photogenic: hooded penitents process under swaying incense, the streetlights dimmed so only candles illuminate the stonework. British residents open their roofs to visitors for the best angle—accept if invited, bring a bottle of something decent, and resist the urge to compare it to a KKK rally; locals have heard the joke and no longer laugh.

How to Do It Without Getting Stuck

Thursday is market day: fruit and veg prices drop by half after 1 p.m. when stallholders start packing up. Park on Plaza de Santa María beneath the castle and walk everywhere else; the lanes above are a maze of one-way systems and granite bollards designed to remove wing mirrors. The tourist office (Plaza de la Constitución 2) stocks an English-language map that honestly marks gradient—red arrows mean calf-burn. Buses from Jaén (50 min, €3.85) run roughly hourly except Sunday afternoon, when the service disappears entirely. Trains no longer stop here; the nearest station is Linares-Baeza, 40 km away, so a hire car is the realistic option.

Come with expectations calibrated to “small provincial town” rather than “undiscovered Ronda.” The castle door may be locked, the museum heating may be broken, and the bar you fancied for lunch might shut because the owner’s daughter has a maths exam. Accept these minor hiccups and Alcaudete repays with wide-open views, €2.50 glasses of wine, and streets where strangers still say “buenas” as you pass. Just don’t try to count the olive trees on the drive home—you’ll still be at it when you reach the coast.