Fuente del Arco

The morning flight from Gatwick lands in Madrid before the hire-car desks open. By the time you clear the airport, Fuente del Arco is still a two-hour drive west, past the flat meseta and into the folds of the Campiña Sur. The last forty minutes are on the EX-101, a road so empty that pheasants strut across the tarmac like they own it. Then the village appears: a white ripple on a olive-covered ridge, 700 m above sea level, with one bar open and the smell of wood smoke drifting from chimneys even in May.

A place that measures time by olives and bells

Roughly 680 residents remain, enough to fill a single London block yet scattered across a whole municipality. The parish church, built from the same honey-coloured stone as the houses, strikes the quarter-hour from dawn to dusk. Walk the three principal streets—Calle Real, Calle Fuente, Calle del Olivo—and you will pass maybe a dozen people; half will greet you, the rest will be watering geraniums in quiet concentration. There is no supermarket, only a tiny grocer that doubles as the post office and closes for siesta at 13:30 sharp. If you need cash, the nearest ATM is 17 km away in Fuente de Cantos; fill your wallet before you arrive.

The houses are low, thick-walled, their shutters painted the colour of rusted iron. Roof terraces carry satellite dishes aimed skyward like hopeful flowers; below them, narrow alleys keep the midday heat at bay. At the lower edge of the village an old stone trough still feeds spring water into a trough—hence the name “Arc’s Fountain,” though no one can point to the original arch. The water is potable; locals queue with plastic jerry cans on Saturday mornings while visitors photograph the moss-covered stonework.

Walking among thousand-year-old olives

Paths leave the village as if spilled: gravel tracks between silver-grey groves, the soil pink with ploughed clay. The going is gentle—ridges rarely rise more than 100 m—but the views stretch south to the Sierra Morena, a blue bruise on the horizon. In April the ground is carpeted with poppies; by late June the grass has burnt to straw and only the olives remain impassive, many older than the United Kingdom itself. You can stride for an hour and meet nobody except a shepherd on a quad bike moving his Merino flock to fresh stubble.

Serious hikers head 9 km south-east to Mina La Jayona, a disused iron mine declared a natural monument in 2007. The approach lane is single-track; quarry lorries bully visitors into the verge, so switch on headlights and wear hi-vis if you plan to walk. Three locked gates guard the 4 km loop; you must climb 1.5 m sheep fencing while the security camera blinks indifferently. Inside, cliffs drop 80 m into turquoise pools where griffon vultures wheel. Entry is free but groups must pre-book; the site is closed Mondays and all of August. Bring water—there is no café, no toilets, only the echo of picks that stopped in the 1950s.

What passes for cuisine at altitude

Fuente del Arco keeps culinary expectations in proportion. Bar Santos, on the main square, opens at seven for coffee and stays until the last customer leaves. A toasted ham-and-cheese sandwich costs €3.80, a caña of local lager €1.50. Ask for the plato de embutidos and you receive a wooden board of paprika-rubbed chorizo, mild Ibérico ham, and a wedge of sheep’s cheese the colour of old ivory. The owner, Jesús, will recommend a Tierra de Barros red—soft, plum-fruity, forgiving to palates raised on Rioja. Pudding is whatever the nuns in Llerena baked that week; buy the heart-shaped corazones for €4 a bag and eat them in the car before they stale.

Sunday lunch is the only service that needs reserving. Both village bars roast a single cordero; when it is gone, menus revert to migas—fried breadcrumbs laced with garlic and grapes. Vegetarians can request escalivada, though the reply is often a polite shrug. If you self-cater, stock up in Zafra’s Mercadona on the way through; the village grocer stocks tinned tuna, UHT milk, and little else.

When to come, when to stay away

Spring, mid-April to mid-June, is the sweet spot. Daytime temperatures hover around 22 °C, nights drop to 12 °C—jumper weather for Brits, parka weather for locals. Wildflowers erupt, olive blossom smells faintly of jasmine, and the church patio hosts its annual romería: one marquee, one brass band, zero tourist tat. Autumn is almost as good; harvesters shake nets beneath the trees and the air carries the green-grass scent of new oil.

July and August belong to the sun. At 700 m the heat is drier than on the Guadalquivir plain, but 38 °C is still 38 °C. Walking after 11 a.m. feels like wading through warm cotton; shade is scarce and the bars run out of ice by midday. August fiestas bring exiles back from Madrid—population triples, speakers blast reggaetón until 3 a.m., and the solitary guesthouse hikes prices by 40 %. If silence is what you came for, steer clear.

Winter is surprisingly sharp. Night frosts glaze the olive leaves; the church thermometer once read –8 °C. Roads remain open—snow is rare—but central heating is not guaranteed in older houses. On the other hand, vultures at the mine ride thermals closer to the rim, and the village bar lights a log fire that smells of rosemary and pine cones.

Last orders

Leave early for the airport. The return journey feels longer: slower tractors, a queue at the Madrid ring-road, the sinking realisation that nobody back home will quite understand why you spent four days in a place with no souvenir shops. Explain it like this: Fuente del Arco is a village still governed by daylight and olives, where the loudest sound at 10 p.m. is the church clock counting the day’s remains. That ought to be worth the detour—just remember to fill the tank before the single-track starts.