Andalusia & The White Hill Villages

From Seville, we rented a car and drove through the Andalusian Mountains, visiting a couple of the White Hill Villages. The color of the green grass covering the rolling mountains was almost unreal looking, as was the crisp blue sky; everywhere we looked we saw a patchwork of olive and orange groves with the occasional castle thrown in.

Winding our way up a steep mountain to our first stop, we were greeted by a vision of the picturesque town of Zahara de la Sierra. We stepped out of the car next to the wall that surrounds Zahara. We landed in an enchanted world where we could hear children playing in the schoolyard off in the distance, birds singing, church bells ringing, the choir practicing in the church, and classical music that was filling the valley like some sort of Spanish Sound of Music. These hills were joyously alive.

We walked around the immaculate town that was a Moorish outpost until 1407, captured by the Emirate of Granada in 1481, and finally taken by troops under the command of Ponce de Leon in 1483.

After a sip of café con leche at a tiny hole-in-the-wall, we hiked up the hillside that led to the Moorish castle ruins at the top of the mountain. During our climb to the castle, we were treated to the stunning views of the valley and the man-made lake, which was created when the dam was completed in 1991 to serve the region’s agricultural needs. The hiking path was a switchback trail lined with wild fig, apricot, lavender, roses, prickly pears, and rosemary trees.

The town was tranquil, and we didn’t pass a soul on our hike, giving us a much-needed reprieve from the lovely but bustling cities where we had recently been.

Next we made our way on a quick forty-minute drive to Ronda, another White Hill Village that was perched high above the valley straddling two sides of the Guadalevin River and the dramatic El Tajo canyon.

Our trip had been fluid and changed many times while on the road. That is the beauty of traveling without a guide or compass and with someone who likes to move and explore at a similar pace. At some point after leaving Seville, we agreed that we were both a little weary of touring old buildings and power sightseeing. The mountains of Andalusia were exactly what we needed; nature, open roads, and sunshine.

After a few hours walking the streets of Ronda, we decided we wanted to soak up more of the natural beauty that came so easily here, so we decided to spend two nights here instead of driving to Granada.

We found a sweet little hotel that sat below the canyon, where horses and sheep were grazing and lounging.

One evening we walked into town to find some dinner and stumbled across a wisteria-covered entrance to a tiny restaurant on the edge of the gorge. Sipping our drinks and enjoying a sampling of Spanish cheese, we were wowed by the dramatic view where birds soared around the deep El Tajo valley and peacocks strutted along the walls and outcroppings as the sun began to set. It was extraordinary.

For the most part, we stayed at our bucolic oasis, watched the sheep herder move his motley crew from one field to the next, and enjoyed lunch at a family-owned Clemente Bar & Café just up the cobblestone road.

For all of its tranquility, Ronda has an ancient and tumultuous past, with remains of settlements dating back to Neolithic times and the Spanish Inquisitions figuring prominently in its history. Both Ernest Hemingway and Orson Wells spent many a summer in Ronda as part-time residents, and both wrote about the beauty and the famous bull-fighting traditions, of which many originated in Ronda.

On our last day in Ronda, we woke up to the sound of a crowing rooster to which my husband mumbled something about it being “so cliché” – another morning of crystal blue skies, birds singing, and temps in the low 70s.

I took a little walk before we got in the car to head off to Gibraltar. It was early enough for most of the town to be still sleeping. No cars, motorbikes, or tourists, just the soft morning sun coming over the mountains, shimmering across the stream at the bottom of the gorge. It was at that quiet moment looking out at the incredible horizon when I felt a little tug at my heart – I wondered if I would return to this place again. I reminded myself to be present and to take it all in, to keep a snapshot in my memory of our time here, and hopefully, someday, Ric and I would visit this very special place again.