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Southern ComfortsAdventures in the White Villages of AndaluciaBy Pat Tanumihardja
We were staying in a cottage in the station town of Cortes de la Frontera Estacion, a white village deep in the Sierra de Grazalema mountains. Like many of Andalucia’s white villages, Cortes bears the suffix “de la frontera,” a legacy from the region’s checkered past when the villages were fortresses standing along the ever-fluctuating frontier between the Christian and Moorish realms. Snaking up narrow switchbacks and tight hairpin bends, we were surrounded by a lush woodland greenness. Just as I thought we had reached the clouds, we began heading downhill and soon reached the outskirts of Cortes, a hidden gem in the Guadiaro Valley. Cortes is not a big town but armed only with the name of the street and the instructions, “if you pass the El Gecko Hotel, you’ve gone too far,” it was impossible to find the house. After to and fro-ing along the same road several times, much to the amusement of the locals, we decided to park the car and continue on foot. Fortunately, we found the owner Mary waiting for us outside her property.
After settling in, we headed into town to stock up on food that evening. Small towns in the south still faithfully observe the siesta and shops open from about 10am till 8pm, with a three-hour break in the afternoon. We found a supermercado which, despite its sign declaring the Spanish equivalent to a supermarket, was more like a small provision shop. Canned food, jars of pickles, bottles of olive oil and fresh vegetables were spilling over the shelves into the narrow aisles. At the back of the shop was a glass counter chock full of cold cuts, meats and sausages. And behind the counter, hanging from the ceiling, were grisly legs of jamon serrano (ham cured at high altitudes), a delicacy if not a passion in Andalucia. To my chagrin, I would discover that many bars in Andalucia serve this delicacy as a tapa (a snack to accompany a drink), and hence proudly hang their supply of jamon prominently behind their bar counters for all to see. I was not enticed by the display of cloven-hoofed limbs and pointed firmly to a sausage that bore the familiar name chorizo. With the chorizo safely in my basket, we proceeded to pay for all our groceries and headed back.
“Would you like to park your car and stop for a drink?” she said in excellent English. She went on to explain, “On resurrection Sunday (I had forgotten it was Easter!), it is tradition for our church to offer drinks and snacks to all who pass through our town.” All in the spirit of the occasion, the costumes and the guns were a ruse to imitate a highway robbery! As there was only one main thoroughfare and we were surrounded by “bandits”, we were all too pleased to conclude that there was no escape. Stepping out of the car, we were welcomed by the villagers and offered wine and a variety of delicious cakes and snacks at the church door. Resuming our journey, we were soon within sight of Ronda..On the approach, we could appreciate its beauty in all its dramatic splendour. Ronda is built along an isolated ridge of the sierra and divided by the gaping river gorge El Tajo through which flows the Guadalevin River. Ronda’s position on this outcrop made it impregnable to the Christian armies until the very last years of the Reconquest.
We parked our car in El Mercadillo, the modern quarter, and crossed Puento Nuevo into Ciudad, the old Moorish city. Walking across the impressive structure, I fought the beginnings of vertigo to peer down into the limestone rock, painfully aware of the architect’s fate when he had climbed over the parapet to inspect his finished work. I was rewarded with a magnificent view of the Guadalevin River coursing between towering rock walls into the far distance. On the other side, we meandered the winding narrow streets of Ciudad, where the intricate architecture of the palaces and mansions, the vestiges of mosques converted into churches, and the Arab baths, were all testament to eight centuries of Moorish rule in their Al Andalus.
Surprisingly, the morning trek did nothing to deter us from exploring the surrounding hill country richly wooded with cork oaks and pine as well as pinsapo, the rare Spanish fir. Before we set off on the dirt track winding through the folds of the Sierra Bermeja, we wanted to refill our bottles at a fountain that our guidebook claimed to be overflowing with the best-tasting spring water ever. An elderly man was sitting at the fountain when we got there. After my tentative “hola,” he smiled and started talking to us. Using a Spanish dictionary and lots of hand gestures, we managed to carry on a half-decent conversation. At the mention of El Puerto Santa Maria (where my husband lived for two years as a young boy) he brightened up and enthused ,”sherry, sherry, alcohol!” and tilted his head to drink from an imaginary wine bottle in his hand. We left Antonio to his imaginary imbibing, and promised to send him a copy of the photo we took of him. Alcohol may be a Spaniard’s first love but we were delighting in the food! Andalucia’s cuisine reflects its history and climate. Spices like cumin, coriander and saffron that feature prominently in the region’s cooking were introduced by the Moors; and because of its proximity to the coast, seafood dishes are ubiquitous. Since I adore seafood, Andalucia was my watery paradise. The Spanish eat later than most, and the Andalucians even later still, sustaining themselves throughout the day with tapas. It is not surprising that Andalucia has more tapas bars than anywhere else in Spain. One can spend a whole evening bar-hopping and trying out different tapas instead of ordering a full meal. Some of the tapas we relished were pulpo a la Gallega, (octopus simmered in olive oil and paprika), solomillo al whisky (pork steak in a creamy whisky sauce), rapas a la plancha (grilled eel) and mejillones rellanos (stuffed mussels coated with breadcrumbs and deep-fried). A dish that I absolutely loved was the Andalucian version of paella, arroz de mariscos. An assortment of seafood – juicy prawns, tender-sweet mussels, squid and white fish – was embedded in saffron-tinted rice and cooked and served in a paella pan big enough to feed four (and we ordered for two!) The end result was a delectable flavor uniting the tang of the sea with hints of paprika and garlic. This was preceded by gazpacho, one of a variety of cold dishes intended to cool you down as much as to nourish. It was a refreshing soup blending the piquant tastes of tomatoes, onions, garlic, and pepper with cool cucumbers. One of my most memorable meals was in the town of Benaojan on our last night in Andalucia. Festive lights decorated the main street while music blared from loudspeakers. They were celebrating the feria or festival of San Marco. We followed the music to the end of the street and discovered a makeshift “restaurant” under a tent. A flurry of activity was taking place at a gas stove and open grill behind a counter. Being the only foreigners there, we were apprehensive about staying. However, our fears were allayed by a burly man who asked us kindly what we wanted. In the dim light of the overhanging bulbs, we studied the rudimentary menu on the wall and made our choices. Dismissing all preconceptions of cured ham, I was adventurous enough to try lomo Iberico (cured ham from Ibreian black-hoofed hogs) on small buns called bocadillos. Deep red in colour, the ham is cured for about 24 months and has a gamey taste reminiscent of horse meat. The lomo de cerdo, pork loin stewed in tomatoes, garlic and spices, was delicious; the meat so tender it melted in my mouth. We wiped up every last bit of the gravy on the plate with bread. Our appetites satiated, we had to refuse another round of food but stayed on to soak in the festivities. We departed Benaojan and Andalucia with contented stomachs and happy faces. For more information on Andalucia, visit To find self-catering holiday accommodation in the
rural areas and inland villages of Southern Spain, Andalucia, visit Recommended Guidebooks:Rough Guide to Andalucia Eyewitness Guide to Andalucia Images by Omar Wheatley |
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Flamenco, bullfights, ruined castles – Andalucia is
everything that epitomizes Spain. Yet, this southernmost region of Spain is
also blessed with a varied terrain combining sandy beaches, fertile lands
for olive and fruit-growing and beautiful mountain ranges further inland
speckled with spectacular pueblos blancos or white villages, waiting to be
discovered. Often overlooked by tourists seeking out the beaches or the more
famous Moorish cities of Seville and Granada, the white villages are
historical monuments standing still in time; where the way of life is still
steeped in age-old traditions inherited from their Iberian, Roman and
Moorish forefathers.
The cottage, lovingly called El Molino de Cortes, is a
converted mill sitting on the banks of the Guadiaro river. With
stone-flooring spanning two levels, a wood-burning stove, Spanish textiles
strewn about, and colorful tiles and plates decorating the walls, the rustic
house was perfect! Even the original mill works were still in place.
Outside in the riverside garden, an abundance of plants and animals lived
and played beneath poplars, silver birches and a magnificent willow tree.
Cortes was an ideal location because it was central to
many interesting white villages in the area. Twenty miles north is Ronda, a
historical town resting on a towering plateau amid dark angular mountains.
Dotted with white villages, our journey on the road to Ronda was a sheer
delight. Perched on craggy cliffs and carved into rock faces, shimmering
white cubes stacked one on top of the other appeared round every bend. As we
were driving through the town of Atajate, a group of gun-totting teenagers
suddenly descended upon our car. I was quite alarmed; half-expecting
them to command us out of the car with hands-on-our-heads and demand all our
money. Instead, a girl with a cherubic face gestured to us to wind
down our window. Hearing our English, she called to a lady who came rushing
over.
The old and modern (largely built in the18th century)
sections of the town are joined over the gorge by the Puento Nuevo (new
bridge), a magnificent arched bridge rising from the foot of El Tajo. Tall
white buildings sit perilously on the cliff edges with sheer drops of 300
feet (120 metres) on each side.
Back in El Mercadillo, we could not miss the Plaza de
Toros, the oldest and most venerable bullring in all of Spain. The museum
onsite gives a comprehensive history of the corrida or bullfight. Timelines
and photographs illuminate Spain’s national sport together with a display of
posters advertising the first bullfight in 1785, matadore costumes and
paintings by Goya. Passing through an elaborate Baroque doorway, we reached
the main arena with its unusual stone barriers and stone columns supporting
an elegant double tier of seats. This was where the father of the
modern bullfight, Pedro Romero, laid down and demonstrated the rules of
fighting bulls on foot. Somewhat to my relief, it was not bullfighting
season, and the only “bull” in the arena was my husband, fingers for horns,
“charging” at my camera.
Our affinity for precarious mountain villages led us
next to Casares, clinging tenaciously to a steep hillside in the shadow of
its castle. Casares is impossible to drive into so we parked our car on the
outskirts and walked, navigating our way through the narrow, twisting,
white-walled streets. Our destination was the ruins of the Alcazar, a
Moorish castle and fortress built on Roman foundations at the top of the
village, 1,400 feet (560 metres) above sea level. Though breathless after
the climb, I stood mesmerized at the top and absorbed the stunning view, my
hair wafting in the breezes blowing off the sierra. Against the backdrop of
the azure blue sky, I could see as far as the Rock of Gibraltar, standing
tall and proud, and the jagged outline of the North African coast.