Martos

The morning bus from Málaga drops you beside a petrol station on the Jaén ring road. From the forecourt you see it: kilometre after kilometre of olive trees combed across the hills like green corduroy, with Martos balanced on the tallest ridge at 750 m. No dramatic sierra backdrop, no whitewashed postcard—just an ocean of silver-grey foliage that happens to produce one fifth of Spain’s olive oil.

Climb the Cuesta de la Virgen and the town quickly confesses its medieval bones. Streets narrow to shoulder width, stone ramps replace pavements, and every corner releases a blast of hot bread from hidden bakeries. At the summit the ruined castle keep still commands the countryside it once guarded during the Caliphate frontier years. Walk the parapet at dusk and the groves below shift from khaki to copper while the castle swifts reel overhead—one of those quiet Spanish moments that costs nothing and explains everything.

Oil is the Economy, Bread is the Religion

Martos doesn’t flirt with tourism; it exports liquid gold. Between November and January the co-operatives run twenty-four hours, filling the night air with the grassy scent of crushed olives. Visitors are welcome, but ring first—English is scarce and the plant managers would rather talk polyphenol counts than opening hours. If you time it right you’ll watch the paste malaxed, see the bright oil spinning into steel tanks, and leave with a half-litre bottle that costs €4 and beats anything on a British supermarket “finest” shelf.

Food here is built backwards from the oil. Gazpacho arrives thick enough to hold a spoon upright; migas—fried breadcrumbs—are showered with raw garlic and grapes that explode against the salt. Even the chips get involved: patatas a la Tiza at the bar of the same name come topped with kebab meat and melted cheese, a student favourite that somehow works. Set-lunch menus run to €9–11 for three courses and a quarter-bottle of local wine; vegetarians survive on grilled aubergine with honey and the dependable Spanish tortilla.

Walking Among Twenty-Million Trees

The tourist office (open Tuesday to Friday, closed for siesta) hands out a photocopied map titled Ruta de los Miradores. It strings together seven stone lookouts that hover over the groves like watchtowers. The circuit is 12 km, mostly on farm tracks; allow four hours and carry more water than you think sensible—shade is a rare negotiation between individual trees. Halfway round you reach the Peña de Martos, a limestone fin that breaks the monoculture and gives nesting ledges for Griffon vultures. From the top Jaén’s Renaissance cathedral appears as a toy on the plain, 25 km north, while southwards the olives merge into the horizon like a static green tide.

Spring is the sensible season. Temperatures sit in the low twenties, wild marjoram flowers between the trunks, and the town’s outdoor pool opens its doors (€3, swim cap compulsory, June–September only). By July the mercury pushes 40 °C; August nights refuse to drop below 27 °C and even the dogs siesta in the gutter. Winter brings sharp, clear air and snow every couple of years—enough to close the castle road but rarely the bread shops.

Churches, Potters and Fireworks

The Gothic tower of Santa Marta rises above the roofs like a stone exclamation mark. Inside, the Baroque retablo glitters with gilt cherubs and the local patron, the Virgen de la Villa, surveys her domain with understated calm. Drop a euro in the box and the sacristan will switch on the lights, revealing 16th-century panels painted in garredano red unique to this corner of Jaén. Round the corner, the old Franciscan convent has been repurposed into a modest museum of religious art—worth fifteen minutes and another euro, mostly for the giant painted leather Bible that once belonged to a bishop with impressively large handwriting.

Potters still work in the Barrio Alto, treading clay in cellars that date to Moorish times. Taller Martos will let you watch the wheel spin and sell you a green-glazed jar that survives the Ryanair overhead locker if wrapped in a jumper. Ask nicely and they’ll demonstrate the torno de cuerda, a foot-powered wheel unchanged since Al-Andalus.

Festivals bookend the calendar. In May the Romería hauls the Virgen’s statue uphill to the castle ruins: families, flamenco radios and cool boxes of beer strung out along the medieval road. Mid-August explodes into the Féria—five nights of fairground rides, late-night salsa classes and fireworks launched from the castle so the whole valley can watch. If you crave beach-style foam parties, Jaén province will disappoint; if you want to dance until 3 a.m. with grandparents, toddlers and the mayor, Martos delivers.

Getting There, Getting Out

Public transport is thin but doable. The direct ALSA coach from Málaga airport leaves at 14:30 and arrives just after seven—five hours through Antequera’s limestone gorge and endless olive plantations. A single ticket is €19; book online or the driver sulks. Trains link Jaén to Madrid and Córdoba; from Jaén’s Estación de Autobuses, hourly buses cover the final 30 km, or a taxi will do it for €30 if you haggle before you sit. Hire cars free you entirely: Martos sits twenty minutes off the A-316, making same-day detours to Granada or Córdoba perfectly realistic.

Accommodation is limited and honest. The Hotel Ciudad de Martos occupies a 1960s corner block overlooking the main roundabout—rooms €55, wi-fi patchy, underground garage €8. Hostal Reyes on the high street charges €35 for a double with shared bath; ask for the back rooms unless you enjoy lorry wake-up calls at six. There are no boutique caves or infinity pools here, which keeps the tour buses away and the prices human.

Should You Bother?

Martos will never tick the glossy-box Spain of flamenco tablaos and Moorish palaces. The medieval walls are more rubble than rampart, and you’ll need Spanish to order coffee, never mind discuss harvest yields. Yet if you’ve wearied of coast-hugging apartments and want to see how an inland town survives on a single crop, the place fascinates. Come for the olive silence, the castle sunset, the €3 lunch wine that tastes of thyme and metal. Leave before the July heat flattens you, and you’ll understand why locals say they live inside an oil painting—sticky, aromatic and impossible to wipe off.