Villanueva de San Juan

The bells strike seven and the village answers. Lights flick on behind grilles, a dog barks once, and the smell of woodsmoke drifts uphill with the scent of frying garlic. From the church tower you can see the sea—except you can’t. The Mediterranean is 90 km away, blocked by three successive ridges, yet every evening the same illusion: the olive terraces shimmer like water under the lowering sun and, for a moment, Villanueva de San Juan feels coastal. Then the light hardens, the silver leaves turn back to green, and you remember you are 466 m above sea level with only agricultural tracks for company.

Maps Lie

Sat-navs routinely dump travellers in Villanueva de la Reina, 200 km to the north, or bounce them down a quarry road that ends in a farmyard. Once the mistake is corrected, the final approach is straightforward: leave Seville airport, join the A-92, turn south at Osuna and follow the signs for Pruna. After the last roundabout the tarmac narrows, the verges sprout wild fennel, and the Sierra Sur rises like a wall. The village appears suddenly on a shelf of pale limestone—whitewashed cubes pressed together, their roofs angled to catch winter rain that almost never arrives.

There is no ring-road, no industrial estate, no supermarket. A single petrol pump stands outside the agricultural co-op and even that closes between two and five. Park by the stone cross at the entrance; every lane uphill is one-way and the turning circle at the top was designed for donkeys, not rental Golfs.

A Parish, a Plaza, and a Very Long Lunch

The Church of St John the Baptist squats in the geometric centre, its tower slightly off-plumb after the 1755 Lisbon earthquake. Inside, the air smells of candle wax and damp stone; a side chapel holds a painted wooden Christ whose knees have been worn smooth by farmers asking for rain. Mass is still announced by the sacristan banging a wooden board—no bells on Monday, one on Tuesday, two on Wednesday—so the entire village knows everyone else’s spiritual attendance record.

Opposite the church, Bar La Parroquia sets out eight tables on the cobbles. The menu is written on a paper tablecloth and changes according to whatever Antonio has in the fridge. Expect salmorejo thick enough to hold a spoon upright, pork cheek that collapses at the sight of a fork, and a carafe of local red that costs €3.50 yet arrives chilled. Lunch starts at 14:00 sharp; if you turn up at 15:30 the family is already mopping the floor and the cook has gone home to sleep.

Oil, Almonds, and the Smell of Money

November means la aceituna. Tractors pulling cork-lined trailers choke the main street, and the cooperativa hums 24 hours a day. Visitors are welcome to watch the conveyor belts shake olives into the washer, but hard hats must be borrowed from the foreman who keeps them in a cardboard box labelled “British Cycling Federation”. Buy a tin of cold-pressed Maestro Oleario on the way out—mild, almost buttery, nothing like the peppery Tuscan oils that overpower salads back home. A half-litre costs €6 if you ask for “the one locals take to Seville”.

January brings almond blossom. Walk the old mule track toward Algámitas and the terraces turn pink overnight; farmers burn pruned branches in small bonfires whose smoke hangs in windless valleys. The same path continues to an abandoned limestone quarry, now a cliff-sided lake the colour of milky tea. Teenagers leap from 12 m ledges on summer afternoons, but in February the water is 9 °C and you will have it to yourself apart from a pair of grey herons.

When the Thermometer Wins

Summer is brutal. The village sits in a natural amphitheatre that traps heat; afternoon shade is theoretical. By 13:00 the streets are empty, shutters closed, only the ice-cream freezer in the Día supermarket humming louder than the cicadas. Plan accordingly: walk at dawn, siesta until 18:00, eat late, sleep with the window open and earplugs against the sound of dogs debating territory. August fiestas are worth the sweat—one weekend, two brass bands, three processions and a foam party in the municipal pool that smells of chlorine and cheap cologne—but bring a fan and accept that cold showers will become a ritual.

Beds, Bills, and Early Closures

Accommodation is limited. Vereda de las Cruces has six rustic rooms, beamed ceilings and a plunge pool that catches the morning sun. The English-speaking owner, Pepa, moved from Brighton fifteen years ago and can arrange olive-mill tours or a guided walk to the 10th-century watchtower ruins above the village. Double rooms start at €70 including breakfast (strong coffee, home-made orange marmalade, bread toasted on an open fire). Alternative: stay in Pruna, 15 minutes down the road, where the Hotel Palacio antigua has Wi-Fi faster than most London co-working spaces and dinner served until the scandalously late hour of 22:30.

Cards are accepted in the hotel; everywhere else assumes cash. The nearest ATM is in El Saucejo, 12 km away, and it runs out of money on Saturday night when the disco-bus arrives from Osuna. Draw notes at the airport and keep coins for coffee—many bars still charge €1.20 and will not break a fifty.

Leaving Without a Souvenir

British visitors arrive expecting fridge magnets; they leave with a litre of olive oil and the phone number of a man who sells organic almonds from his garage. There is no gift shop, no postcard rack, no fridge magnets at all. Instead, walk the almond terraces at sunset, listen to the bells count the day down, and understand why the village needs nothing more. The coast will still be there tomorrow; for tonight the landlocked sea of olives is quite enough.