Cabra

At 452 metres the air thins just enough to make the church bells sound crisper. Cabra sits on a limestone shelf where the Guadalquivir plain drops away and the Subbética mountains rear up. From the ruined castle you look south across a corrugated sea of olive groves that shimmer silver when the wind turns the leaves; north-east the peaks hit 1 200 m within a half-hour walk. The village itself is no postcard hamlet—20 000 people live here, and the ring-road hums with tractor traffic—but the altitude knocks the edge off Andalucía’s furnace summers and gives winter nights a bite that surprises visitors fresh from the coast.

A town that forgot to sell itself

Most foreigners speed past the turn-off on the A-318, bound for Priego’s baroque churches or Granada’s Alhambra. Cabra has never bothered with a tourist office website in English, and the souvenir tally barely fills one shelf in the tobacconist. What you get instead is continuity: the same family-run bakeries that supplied the 1950s, cafés where the morning cortado still costs €1.20, and a market hall (Tuesday and Friday) where the cheese lady will insist you try three ages of local goat’s cheese before you commit to a wedge. The absence of coach parties means Holy Week processions squeeze through the medieval gates at eye-level—no crash barriers, no €40 VIP seats, just drum rolls ricocheting off whitewashed walls at two in the morning.

The monuments won’t keep you busy for days, yet each one comes with a twist. The sixteenth-century Iglesia de la Asunción rises from the bones of a mosque; the tower is Mudéjar, the doorway pure plateresque, and inside a gilded baroque retablo glimmers like a jewellery box someone left open. Climb the castle keep—free, always open—more for the 360-degree roof terrace than for the rubble. The real payoff is the walk up through the Barrio de la Villa: alleys barely shoulder-wide, washing slung between wrought-iron balconies, and sudden glimpses of the Sierra de Cabra rearing like a breaker of green stone.

Trails that start where the pavement ends

Cabra’s back garden is the Parque Natural de las Sierras Subbéticas, a jagged spine designated a Geopark thanks to its twisted limestone and ammonite fossils. Within ten minutes of the main square you can swap cobbles for thyme-scented single-track. The tourist office (inside the Casa de la Cultura, former convent hospital) hands out free topo-guides: eight circular walks from 4 km to 18 km, all way-marked, none crowded. The classic is the Pico Bermejo circuit—park at the Ermita de la Virgen de la Sierra, zig-zag through holm oaks to the 1 212 m summit, and on clear days pick out the snowy crest of the Sierra Nevada 120 km south-east. Allow three hours, carry more water than you think, and start early; even at this altitude July temperatures top 35 °C by noon.

If vertical gain sounds too sweaty, rent a bike at the Via Verde kiosk beside the old station. The Subbética green-way follows a disused railway for 58 km of near-level riding through tunnels and iron viaducts. British cycling forums rave about the air-cooled tunnels—bring a lightweight jacket—and the café at the 22 km mark in Doña Mencía that does a full English breakfast for homesick riders. Cabra’s stretch is the prettiest: olive groves on one side, a cliff of fossil-rich limestone on the other, and hardly a car in earshot.

What grows on rocks and tastes of everything

Altitude and poor soil force the olives to struggle, which paradoxically produces punchy oil stamped with the Priego de Córdoba DOP. Buy it straight from the cooperative on the industrial estate: five-litre tins for €28, or bring your own bottle and fill up for €3.80 a litre. The same landscape shapes the wine—high-altitude garnacha tinta that keeps its acidity and makes a lighter red than the usual Andalusian treacle. Bodega El Lagar de Cabra opens on Saturday mornings; tastings are free if you buy a couple of bottles, and the owner speaks fluent Sheffield English courtesy of a year working at Tesco.

Food is mountain-sized rather than coastal-delicate. Order flamenquín in Bar Manolo and you receive a pork and serrano roll the length of a cricket bat, breadcrumbed and deep-fried. Salmorejo, the cold tomato soup, comes so thick your spoon stands up; ask for the “sin jamón” version if you’re vegetarian, though you’ll still get a confit egg yolk on top. The local thrill for Brits is afternoon cake: borrachuelos (little pastries soaked in anise and wine) served with a glass of sweet Moscatel that tastes like liquid sultanas. Sunday lunch starts late—kitchens fire up around 15:00—and booking is wise at Mesón La Plaza, where roast baby goat feeds two and costs €18 a head including wine.

When to come and when to stay away

Spring is the sweet spot: wild marjoram scents the paths, the olive blossom drifts like pale confetti, and daytime temperatures hover around 22 °C. Easter is dramatic—processions every night, brass bands rehearsing in the streets—but accommodation is tight and the faithful don’t appreciate camera flashes in their faces. Late May brings the Feria Real: fairground rides, sherry in plastic cups, and casetas thumping reggaeton until dawn. Fun if you like that sort of thing; otherwise pick another weekend.

Summer nights are cooler than on the coast, yet July and August still hit 38 °C at midday. Walkers need to be on the descent by 10 a.m.; the sensible retreat is the Fuente del Río park where the river emerges cold enough to fog your sunglasses. Autumn is quieter, the light turns honey-coloured, and the olive harvest starts in November—tractors clog the roads but the cooperative presses fresh oil and the smell is intoxicating. Winter can be sharp: frost on the windscreen, snow on the peaks, and the occasional day when an easterly levante traps cloud over the village like a woollen blanket. Hotels switch off central heating at night; pack pyjamas.

Getting here, getting in, getting cash

No UK airport flies direct to Córdoba, so the usual drill is Málaga or Seville, then hire a car. From Málaga’s baggage reclaim to Cabra’s ring-road is 110 km on the A-45 and A-318, a painless 75 minutes unless you hit the lorry convoy at rush hour. Public transport exists but feels like penance: train to Córdoba, then a bus that leaves twice daily and takes 90 minutes through every olive grove in creation. Ring-road parking is free and safe; ignore the sat-nav tempting you into the underground car park under Plaza de España—it holds 40 cars and fills by 11 a.m.

Cards are still treated with suspicion. The Santander branch on Calle Nueva has the only ATM that reliably accepts British plastic; when it’s out of order you’ll need cash for everything from coffee to hotel bills. Sunday is taken seriously: supermarkets shut, bread queues form before 9 a.m., and the streets fall silent for the siesta that stretches from 14:30 to 17:00. Plan accordingly or you’ll be staring at metal shutters dreaming of a KitKat.

Leave any notions of a “hidden gem” at the city limits. Cabra is simply a normal mountain town that happens to have a castle, a geopark, and some of inland Andalucía’s best views. Turn up without a checklist and you’ll find the Spain that guidebooks pretend still exists—just remember to carry water, cash and an appetite.