Jerez de los Caballeros

The morning sun catches the azulejo tiles of San Miguel's tower first, turning them from cool blue to molten copper while the rest of Jerez de los Caballeros still yawns in shadow. From the castle ramparts 506 metres above sea level, the view stretches across Extremadura's dehesa – that ancient landscape of cork oaks and holm oaks where black Iberian pigs root for acorns. This isn't the sherry-making Jerez of Andalucía. This is the other Jerez, the one the Knights Templar called home.

Stone Chronicles at Every Turn

The Blood Tower – Torre Sangrienta – demands 183 steps up uneven medieval stones. Worth it. From the top, you'll understand why the Templars chose this ridge. The land falls away on three sides, revealing Portugal's hills on the horizon. Inside the fortress walls, cats sun themselves on broken archways and the wind carries the scent of wild thyme from the surrounding scrubland.

Down in the maze of whitewashed streets, four churches compete for attention within a five-minute walk. San Miguel's baroque tower, tiled in cobalt and white, serves as the town's compass point. San Bartolomé hides mudéjar brickwork behind its plain façade, while Santa María de la Encarnación displays plateresque carving so delicate it seems carved from icing sugar. The €5 combined ticket – available from the tourist office on Plaza de España – grants access to all four plus the small sacred-art museum. Just don't expect them to be open continuously. Most unlock their doors for twenty minutes after Sunday Mass, or on the hour during tourist season.

The surprise discovery lies outside the walls. Follow the road past the modern supermarket, then take the signed track through eucalyptus groves. Ten minutes later, the Convento de Aguasantas appears – a sixteenth-century monastery built around natural springs where monks once grew medicinal herbs. The water still flows, filling stone troughs where locals fill plastic bottles. It's peaceful in a way that makes you lower your voice without realising.

Between Pasture and Plate

Jerez knows its pigs. Walk into any bar and you'll see legs of jamón ibérico strung like trophies, black hooves still attached. The meat tastes different here – milder, less aggressively salty than its Italian cousin, with a nuttiness that comes from the acorn diet. Order by weight (100g works for two people) rather than the vague "ración" to avoid platefuls that would feed a Templar army.

At La Ermita, housed in a converted chapel on Calle San Marcos, the menú del día costs €14 and might include grilled lamb cutlets or pork cheek that falls apart at the touch of a fork. For something lighter, try bollo turco – a sweet bun like a softer Chelsea bun, flavoured with cinnamon and lemon zest. Locals dunk it in coffee mid-morning, standing at the bar alongside farmers discussing pig prices.

The local red wine won't challenge your palate like Rioja might. Made from Tempranillo grapes grown along the Guadiana river, it's straightforward, easy drinking – the sort of wine that improves considerably when you discover it costs €2.50 a glass. Pimentón de la Vera, the local smoked paprika, colours everything from chickpea stew to the oil served with bread. It's smoky rather than hot, a good introduction to Extremaduran flavours for those who find Andalucían food fiery.

Walking Through Living History

The Via de la Plata – the Silver Route – passes through Jerez on its thousand-year-old pilgrimage path from Seville to Santiago. Modern walkers appear between March and May, identifiable by their scallop shells and the particular gait that comes from carrying everything on your back. They stop for water at the fuente by the church, check phone signal, disappear towards Zafra.

For day walkers, the dehesa offers gentler options. Follow the signed path from the castle eastwards, past the ruined windmill, and you'll drop into a landscape unchanged since medieval times. Cork oaks sport white painted numbers – harvest dates – while black bulls watch from safe distances. The path circles back after 7km, passing a small hermitage where someone has left fresh flowers. Take water. Summer temperatures hit 40°C and shade exists only where trees feel generous.

Spring brings wildflowers – purple viper's bugloss, white asphodel, poppies that turn entire fields red. Autumn smells of mushrooms and woodsmoke. Winter can be sharp; at this altitude, frost isn't unknown and the Templar towers look stark against grey skies. Summer? Summer is for siestas. The town empties between 2pm and 5pm, shutters closing against heat that radiates from stone walls long after sunset.

When the Bells Ring

Holy Week transforms Jerez. Processions that would be crushed with tourists in Seville pass quietly here, watched mainly by locals who've known each other since childhood. Hooded penitents carry pasos through streets barely wider than the floats themselves. The silence breaks only for drums and the shuffle of feet on cobbles. It's unexpectedly moving, stripped of commercialism.

August belongs to San Bartolomé. The town doubles in size as former residents return, cars bearing number plates from Madrid, Barcelona, even Germany. Bull runs in the morning, concerts in the plaza at night, and everywhere the smell of roast pork and aniseed from the churrería. Accommodation books out months ahead; if you dislike crowds, avoid entirely.

The rest of the year, Jerez ticks along quietly. Men play dominoes in the Bar Plaza while women buy bread from the bakery that still weighs loaves on brass scales. English is limited but patience unlimited. Point, smile, try "¿Qué me recomienda?" and you'll eat well.

Getting here requires commitment. The nearest AVE station is at Zafra, 45 minutes by bus. From Seville, it's two hours on the regional train to Zafra, then another bus. The roads wind through landscapes of empty valleys and granite outcrops; drivers from the UK should prepare for single-track sections where meeting a lorry means reversing 200 metres.

Stay at the Hotel Pilar del Toro, a converted mansion where rooms open onto a courtyard of orange trees. It's nothing fancy – expect firm beds and plumbing that sounds like medieval plumbing – but it sits inside the walls and parking exists nearby. Alternatively, book the rural house on Calle Cava; British visitors praise the roof terrace where you can watch storks nesting on the Templar towers while drinking supermarket wine.

Jerez de los Caballeros won't change your life. It's too small, too quiet, too determinedly local for that. But for a day, perhaps two, you can walk walls where knights once stood, eat ham from pigs that lived wild, and drink wine made from grapes that saw Roman legions pass. In an age of Instagram hotspots and tick-box tourism, that might be change enough.