Reina

Leave the car by the cemetery gates. From there the only way is up—cobbles polished smooth by centuries of boots, gradients that would shame a Cotswold hill town, and stone houses pressed so tight that neighbours can pass a borrowed drill bit hand-to-hand without leaving their kitchens. At 705 m Reina is not high by Lake District standards, yet the Guadiana plains roll away so far below that you half expect to see the curvature of Spain.

Halfway up, the lane kinks left and the first surprise appears: a stretch of Roman road still in daily use, ruts cut by cartwheels two millennia ago. Two minutes farther and the castle rears up—Moorish walls 3 m thick, then a Christian keep plonked on top in the thirteenth century. Entry is free; the ticket booth is a wooden honesty box that most visitors miss because they are gaping at the view. From the battlements you can pick out the silver ribbon of the A-66, the olives groves of Llerena and, on a clear evening, the Sierra Morena 80 km away. Bring a wind-proof jacket—even in July the breeze at this height can slice through linen.

A Tale of Two Settlements

What the guidebooks rarely explain is that Reina is actually two places. The hilltop pueblo is only the younger sibling. Two kilometres down the slope, beside the modern car park, lie the grass-covered foundations of Regina Turdulorum, a Roman city founded in 25 BC. Excavations have uncovered a forum, baths and a theatre whose semi-circular orchestra is still visible if you squint through the wild oregano. Information panels are in English and Spanish, so you won’t need the dry academic paper you downloaded and never printed. Allow forty minutes to prowl the site; longer if you photograph sunsets—golden hour turns the granite the colour of burnt toffee.

Back in the car (or on foot if you fancy a 25-minute hot climb) the upper village rewards with something the Romans never had: night skies so dark that the local council runs free star-counting sessions each November. “Bajo la Luna en Reina” supplies telescopes and hot chocolate; you bring a cushion and patience for cloud delays. Email [email protected] to reserve—places are capped at fifty and word is spreading among Seville astronomy clubs.

What You Won’t Find—and What You Will

There are no souvenir shops, no boutique hotels, not even a bar. The last grocer closed in 2008; bread van comes Tuesdays and Fridays, honking like a reluctant alarm clock. Plan accordingly: stock up in Llerena’s Mercadona before you leave the main road. What Reina does offer is sound—church bells that mark the quarters, swifts that whistle between roofs, and, during August fiestas, a single brass band that rehearses until midnight whether you fancy it or not.

If you time your visit for the patronal feasts (around 15 August) the population swells from 143 to roughly 600 as emigrant families return. Temporary food stalls appear in the plaza: paper cones of jamón ibérico at €3, plastic cups of pitarra wine that tastes like Beaujolais with better tannins, and migas—fried breadcrumbs studded with pork belly—dispensed by women who have cooked for half the province. Go easy on the portions; each serving is roughly the weight of a house brick.

Spring and autumn are quieter. Almond blossom dusts the fields white in March, while late-October oak woods glow copper against the evergreen olives. Temperatures hover around 20 °C—perfect for the 7 km circular path that starts behind the castle, dips into the Guadámez valley and climbs back through dehesa where Iberian pigs fatten on acorns. The route is way-marked with yellow splodges, but mobile coverage is patchy; download the track before you set off.

Getting Up and Getting Away

Reina sits 45 km east of Badajoz and 28 km west of Llerena. From the UK, fly Stansted-Seville (1 h 40), collect a hire car and head north on the A-66: you’ll be parking by the cemetery within ninety minutes. Madrid is an alternative—three and a half hours of fast motorway—but Seville’s airport bar serves better coffee for the early flight home. A car is non-negotiable; buses terminate in Llerena, taxis refuse the hill, and Uber does not recognise Reina’s existence.

Accommodation means staying down on the plains. The closest option is Hotel Convento de Llerena, a converted seventeenth-century convent with decent Wi-Fi and an interior patio where frogs croak through the night. Doubles from €85 including garage parking—useful because Spanish drivers are oddly reluctant to leave a gap for wing mirrors. Book dinner in town; Reina itself will not feed you unless a neighbour takes pity and invites you in for tortilla. Should that happen, accept: homemade versions here are inch-thick and served with home-cured chorizo that kicks like a mule.

The Catch

Honesty requires admitting the drawbacks. Summer heat can top 40 °C; stone houses act like storage heaters and the castle offers zero shade. Winter is sharper than most of Extremadura—frost whitens the olives as late as April. Paths become slick clay after rain, and the honesty box closes when the local council forgets to refill the receipt roll. Mobile signal drops to GPRS inside the church walls, so forget live-streaming your triumph at the summit.

Yet the inconveniences are also the point. Reina has not been prettified for weekenders; it is simply still there, doing what it has done since the Moors planted the first flag on this crag. Come prepared, tread quietly, and you will leave with the sense that you have peeked behind Spain’s usual curtain—brief, unsanitised and entirely real.