Almodóvar del Río

The castle that gate-crashed a motorway

Drive the A-431 between Córdoba and Seville and a stone fortress suddenly cuts into your peripheral vision, balanced on a crag like a film set left behind by accident. It is. HBO used the ninth-century Castillo de Almodóvar as Highgarden in Game of Thrones, and the producers chose well: from the battlements the Guadalquivir plain rolls out like a green screen, citrus groves glinting silver when the wind turns the leaves.

Most visitors sprint up the hill, grab the selfie and sprint back down. Stay longer and you’ll discover the village beneath the rock is just as watchable. 5,000 people, one main square, zero souvenir megastores. Instead you get tractors parked next to mobility scooters, old men arguing over dominos at 10 a.m., and a smell of orange blossom so heavy in April it feels like breathing Fanta.

A fortress with Wi-Fi and vending machines

The castle is privately owned, which explains the ticket booth that actually works, the QR-code audio guide inReceived Pronunciation English, and the absence of rope barriers every three metres. €7 buys you ninety minutes of crenellated walls, a reconstructed medieval kitchen that smells faintly of rosemary, and a throne room where staff will take a souvenir photo and e-mail it on the spot. Purists grumble about the Hollywood gloss; families love the lift that whisks less-mobile visitors straight to the top terrace.

Winter visitors should note the café closes from November to March. The vending machine sells decent coffee (€1.20) but on a raw January morning a thermos from the village bakery is the smarter move. Clear days gift a 40-kilometre sight-line west to the Sierra Morena and east to Córdoba cathedral’s bell tower; hazy August afternoons reduce the view to heat shimmer and the odd heron.

Downhill, real life resumes

The whitewashed houses below the fortress tumble along streets too narrow for anything wider than a Seat Ibiza. Parking is split into two tiers: the upper lot beside the castle gate (ten spaces, arrive before 11 a.m.) and the larger lower lot next to the river. The connecting lane is a 12-per-cent gradient of shiny cobbles; leave the handbrake in second gear and walk if you value your clutch.

Plaza de la Constitución is the heartbeat. On weekdays mothers push buggies across warm flagstones while the bar owner sweeps last night’s sunflower-seed husks into neat piles. Order a caña and you’ll be charged €1.20; ask for tapas and the barman lays out four options on the counter—no charge, no fuss. Casa Curro does a salmorejo thickened with breadcrumbs rather than egg, closer to a chilled winter soup than the garlicky paste served in Seville. Portions are large enough to cancel lunch plans.

River paths and orange wine

A five-minute stroll downhill brings you to the Guadalquivir proper. The nineteenth-century iron bridge is modern by local standards but still photogenic at dusk when swallows thread its girders. A riverside path heads south for three kilometres through reed beds loud with frogs; herons stand motionless like garden ornaments. The route is flat, buggy-friendly and signed as “Ruta de las Garzas,” though you’ll need to retrace your steps unless you’ve arranged a taxi from the neighbouring village.

Serious walkers can tackle the 11-kilometre loop that climbs into the low hills behind the castle. The trail is way-marked but rough underfoot; after rain the clay grips boots like glue and the final descent is a controlled slide. Spring brings poppies and wild fennel; summer is best left to goats.

Back in town, Bar Almudaina pours a local orange wine that tastes like chilled marmalade diluted with fino. Brits who find sherry too bruising tend to like it; ask for vino de naranja bien frío and you’ll pass for an honorary almodovareño.

Festivals that still belong to locals

Third weekend in May the fairground trucks roll in and the village doubles its population without an Airbnb surge in sight. The Feria de Mayo is a pocket-sized version of Seville’s blow-out: one marquee, one brass band, and horse-chestnut trees strung with paper lanterns. Entrance is free; a glass of rebujito (fino and 7-Up) costs €2.50. Visitors are welcome but nobody will hand you a programme—you’re expected to work out the schedule by ear.

Holy Week is darker, literally. On Good Friday the Christ of the Column procession leaves the parish church at 11 p.m. and inches up the castle hill by candlelight. Drums echo off the stone walls; the only electric light comes from balconies where families hold stereo microphones for Andalusian radio. Bring a jacket—night temperatures in April can drop to 9 °C—and don’t expect to leave until the incense drifts away around 2 a.m.

Getting there, getting out

ALSA runs four buses a day from Córdoba’s Estación de Autobuses; journey time is 35 minutes and a return ticket costs €5.40. The last bus back leaves at 17:45, so castle addicts sometimes find themselves stranded. A taxi to Córdoba is a fixed €35—download the Taxi Córdoba app before you travel because Uber doesn’t operate here.

Drivers should allow twenty-five minutes from Córdoba on the A-431. The road is fast but beware the speed camera at the village exit; it flashes at 60 km/h and the fine arrives in English.

If you’re stacking monuments, Medina Azahara is twenty-five minutes east by car. The caliphal ruins open at 10 a.m.; do them first, then head to Almodóvar for lunch and the castle once the midday glare has softened. Two monuments, one day, zero motorway monotony.

Worth it?

Almodóvar del Río won’t change your life. It will give you an unfiltered slice of interior Andalucía: a fortress you can scramble over, oranges you can pick from the pavement, and bars where the waiter remembers how you like your coffee after one visit. Come for the Game of Thrones backdrop if you must, but stay for the everyday theatre of a village that still belongs to its residents. Bring walking shoes and an appetite; leave the phrasebook behind—someone will practise their school English on you within ten minutes.