Frailes

Frailes sits at 980 m, high enough for the air to feel thin when you swing open the car door and step onto the concrete apron beside the ayuntamiento. At that height the Sierra Sur de Jaén rolls out like a crumpled green quilt stitched with silver-grey olive trees, and the afternoon light turns the whole thing metallic. The village itself is a wedge of white cubes glued to a ridge; walk ten minutes in any direction and you’re back among the groves, boots crunching on last year’s pruning.

A village that still answers to the tractor

With 1,565 permanent residents, Frailes keeps its own rhythm. Tractors outnumber rental cars from Monday to Friday, and the only queue you’ll find forms outside the panadería at eight sharp when the crusty village loaf comes out. There is no hotel in the nucleus, so visitors bed down in British-run casitas scattered through the valley: names like “Casa de los Frailes” or “La Finca Paradiso” on Airbnb, most with pools that catch the morning sun long before the terraces below warm up. Expect £75–£120 a night for a two-bedroom place, less if you book a full week after Easter.

The lack of beds keeps coach parties away—no bad thing. Come evening the plaza is locals only, grandfathers parked on the metal chairs outside Bar Central arguing over whether Jaén will ever get back to La Liga. Order a caña (€1.40) and you’re given a paper plate of olives that were on the tree yesterday; the oil they were pressed in comes from the cooperative at the far end of town, sold in five-litre jugs for €22.

What passes for monuments

There is no postcard monument, no ticket booth, no audio guide. The sixteenth-century Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de los Remedios squats at the top of the hill like a solid beige afterthought. Inside, the baroque retablos have been painted and repainted so often the saints look slightly surprised to find themselves still there. The real appeal is the stone floor—worn into smooth hollows by four centuries of parishioners—and the cool darkness after the glare outside. Sunday mass is at 11:00; doors open earlier if you want to sit quietly while the sacristan fusses with candles.

From the church doorway Calle Real tumbles downhill in a succession of overhanging balconies and chipped plaster. Number 14 still has the original ironwork from 1783; number 22 has been bricked up since the owner moved to Jaén city in 2009. Halfway down, the old olive mill—Molino Elvira—has its grinding stones stacked against the wall like abandoned millstones from a Hardy novel. Peek through the grille and you can smell the rancid oil impregnated in the floorboards.

Walking off the roast potatoes

The best way to earn your dinner is to follow the signed path that leaves from the cemetery gate and loops along the Barranco de Frailes. It’s 7 km, takes two hours, and climbs only 250 m—enough to make thighs remember the altitude. The first section threads through olive terraces so regular they look planted with a ruler; higher up the irrigation stops and the vegetation reverts to rosemary and prickly pear. Golden eagles circle most afternoons, though you’re more likely to hear the bee-eaters than see anything bigger. Turn back when the path meets the dried river bed or continue another hour to the ruined cortijo where a farmer once kept 500 goats; the walls still carry the heat of the day long after sunset.

If that sounds tame, the serious Sierra is behind you. A 25-minute drive north on the A-315 brings you to the trailhead for Cazorla’s summits—proper 1,500 m ridges where snow can linger into April. Back in Frailes, walkers trickle into Bar La Parada still dusted with ochre soil, asking for chilled Cruzcampo and whatever tapa comes free with it. Miguel behind the bar keeps a map photocopied onto A4 and highlights routes in felt-tip; he’ll also tell you if yesterday’s storm has washed out any track.

Sunday lunch, British-style—just down the road

Frailes itself shuts tight on Monday; even the baker takes the day off. But ten minutes south by car, on the CV-845 near the Hondon valley, the Tipsy Terrace flies a Union Jack above its roofline and serves roast beef with Yorkshire pudding every Sunday from 13:00. Booking is non-negotiable—tables are gone by Wednesday, filled by expats who drive over from Aspe, Pinoso and as far as Murcia. The set menu runs to three courses, proper gravy, and a pudding that changes weekly (sticky toffee if you’re lucky) for €17.95. Midweek they switch continents: Tuesday might be Thai green curry night, Friday a six-course Chinese banquet. The manager, originally from Surrey, claims “quality, quantity and presentation far exceeds the price,” a line repeated on enough TripAdvisor posts to qualify as local scripture.

When to show up—and when not to

April and late-October give you 22 °C at midday, cool enough at dawn to justify a fleece. In July the mercury kisses 36 °C by 11:00; the village empties into shuttered houses after breakfast and re-emerges at dusk. August fiestas (15th weekend) mean brass bands thumping past your window until 04:00, plus a population swollen by returning grandchildren. Parking becomes imaginative—expect to leave the hire car halfway down the olive track and walk the last kilometre. Winter is crisp, often brilliant, but nights drop to –2 °C; some rental pools are closed and the valley roads can frost over.

Olive oil, pottery, and the art of asking

Frailes will not hand itself to you. There is no tourist office, no glossy map on the square. If you want to see inside the pottery shed where Antonio still throws the same green-glazed jars his grandfather made, you knock and wait. Speak first—¿Podemos ver?—and interest is usually repaid with a rapid-fire explanation in Andalusian Spanish that skips half its consonants. The same applies to buying oil direct: follow the Cooperativa Olivarera sign, take the plastic bottle provided, and the woman at the desk will fill it from the stainless-steel tank while she tells you last year’s yield was down 18% because of the June hail.

Leave with boots dusty, car smelling of fresh bread and new oil, and the realisation that you have spent three days in a place that never once asked you to queue for a selfie. Frailes does not do “hidden” or “gem”; it simply carries on three streets above the olive groves, indifferent to whether you stayed long enough to learn the trick of its altitude light.