Andalucía's Arcos de la Frontera and the Route of the White Villages
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| Spain 's Arcos, where locals brags only they see the back of the birds as they fly. |
By Rick Steves
When tourists head south from Madrid, it's generally for Granada, Córdoba, Sevilla, or the Costa del Sol. The big cities have their urban charms, but the Costa del Sol is a concrete nightmare, worthwhile only as a bad example. The most Spanish thing about the south coast is the sunshine — but that's everywhere. For something different and more authentic, try exploring the interior of Andalucía along the "route of the white villages." The Ruta de Pueblos Blancos, Andalucía's charm bracelet of cute towns, gives you wonderfully untouched Spanish culture.
Spend a night in the romantic queen of the white towns, Arcos de la Frontera. Towns with "de la Frontera" in their names were established on the front line of the Christians' centuries-long fight to recapture Spain from the Moors, who were slowly pushed back into Africa. Today, these hill towns — no longer strategic and no longer on any frontier — are just passing time peacefully.
Arcos smothers its hilltop, tumbling down all sides like an oversized blanket. While larger than the other Andalusian hill towns, it's equally atmospheric. The labyrinthine old center is a photographer's feast. Viewpoint-hop through town. Feel the wind funnel through the narrow streets as drivers pull in car mirrors to fit around tight corners.
Locals brag that only they see the backs of the birds as they fly. To see why, climb to the viewpoint at the main square high in the old town. Belly up to the railing — the town's suicide departure point — and look down. Ponder the fancy cliffside hotel's erosion concerns, orderly orange groves, flower-filled greenhouses, fine views toward Morocco...and the backs of the birds.
The thoughtful traveler's challenge is to find meaning in the generally overlooked tiny details of historic towns such as Arcos. On a recent visit, I discovered that a short walk from Arcos' church of Santa María to the church of San Pedro (St. Peter) is littered with fun glimpses into the town's past.
The church of Santa María faces the main square. After Arcos was re conquered from the Moors in the 13th century, this church was built — atop a mosque. In the pavement is a 15th-century magic circle: 12 red and 12 white stones — the white ones with various constellations marked. When a child came to the church to be baptized, the parents would stop here first for a good Christian exorcism. The exorcist would stand inside the protective circle and cleanse the baby of any evil spirits. This was also a holy place back in Muslim times. While locals no longer use it, Islamic Sufis still come here in pilgrimage.
In 1699, an earthquake cracked the church's foundation. Arches were added to prop it against neighboring buildings. Thanks to these, the church survived the bigger earthquake of 1755 (which destroyed much of Lisbon). All over town, arches still support earthquake-damaged structures.
Lately the town rumbles only when the bulls run. Señor González Oca's tiny barbershop (behind the church) is plastered with posters of bulls running Pamplona-style through the streets of Arcos during Holy Week. A brave (but not particularly bright) American from the nearby Navy base at Rota was killed here by a bull in 1994.
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| And the man who lived in the belltower took his burro upstairs. It grew too big to get out and he had to eat it. |
Small towns like Arcos come with lively markets. On my last visit, I was encouraged by the pickle woman to try a banderilla, named for the bangled spear that a matador sticks into the bull. As I gingerly slid an onion off the tiny skewer of pickled olives, onions, and carrots, she told me to eat it all at once. Explosive!
An important part of any Spanish market is the meat stall — the salchichonería. Since Roman times in Spain, December has been the season to slaughter pigs and cure (salt and dry) every possible bit of meat into various hams and sausages. By late spring, the now-salty meat is cured and able to withstand the heat.
Near the market is a convent. The spiky security grill over the window protects cloistered nuns. Tiny peepholes allow the sisters to look out unseen. I stepped into the lobby to find a one-way mirror and a blind spinning lazy Susan-type cupboard. I pushed the buzzer, and a sister spun out some boxes of freshly baked cookies for sale. When I spun back the cookies with a "No, gracias," a Monty Python-esque voice countered, "We have cupcakes as well." I bought a bag of these magdalenas, both to support their church work and to give to kids on my walk. Feeling like a religious Peeping Tom, I actually saw — through the not-quite one-way mirror — the sister in her flowing robe and habit waft in and out of sight.
Walking on toward St. Peter's, I passed Roman columns plastered into street corners — protection from reckless donkey carts. The walls are scooped out on either side of the windows — a reminder of the days when women stayed inside but wanted the best possible view of any people action in the streets.
Arcos' second church, St. Peter's, really is the second church. It lost an extended battle with Santa María for papal recognition as the leading church in Arcos. When the pope finally recognized Santa María, pouting parishioners from St. Peter's even changed their prayers. Rather than say "María, mother of God," they prayed "St. Peter, mother of God."
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| As they have for centuries, cloistered nuns observe unseen from windows high on the whitewashed walls. |
The tiny square in front of the church — about the only flat piece of pavement around — serves as the old town soccer field for neighborhood kids. I joined the game and shared my cupcakes.
Until a few years ago, this church also had a resident bellman who lived in the spire. He was a basket-maker and a colorful character — famous for bringing in a donkey, which grew too big to get back out. Finally, there was no choice but to kill and eat him (the donkey).
Exploring on, I entered a cool, dark bar filled with very short, old guys. In Spain, any man in his 70s spent his growth-spurt years trying to survive the brutal Civil War (1936-1939). Those who did, generally did so just barely. That generation is a head shorter than the people of the next.
In the bar, the gang — side-lit like a Rembrandt portrait — was fixed on the TV, watching the finale of a long series of bullfights. El Córdobes was fighting. His father, also El Córdobes, was the Babe Ruth of bullfighting. El Córdobes uses his dad's name even though his dad sued him not to. Today, this generation's El Córdobes is the Ichiro of Bullfighting.
Marveling at the bar's fun and cheap list of wines and hard drinks, I ordered a Cuba Libre for about a dollar. The drink came tall and stiff, with a dish of peanuts. Suddenly everyone gasped — all eyes on the TV. El Córdobes had been hooked and did a cartwheel over the angry bull's head. The gang roared as El Córdobes buried his head in his arms and the bull trampled and tried to gore him. The TV repeated the scene many times.
El Córdobes survived and — no surprise — eventually killed the bull. But as he made his victory lap and picked up adoring bouquets, the camera zoomed in on the rip exposing his hip and a 10-inch-long bloody wound. The short men around me would remember and talk about this moment for years.
That evening, I caught the sunset from the viewpoint, then took in dinner at Restaurante El Convento, surrounded by the plants and arches of another old convent — this one long replaced by the best restaurant in town. The proud owner is María Moreno Moreno. (Spanish children take the name of both parents — who in María's case must have been distant cousins.) The walls are decorated with bronzed newspaper pages heralding MMM's many culinary awards. As church bells clanged, I poured a vino tinto mucho cuerpo (red wine, full-bodied) from the Rioja region, and ordered up the best-quality ham, jamón ibérico, from acorn-fed pigs with black feet.
I told María the man at the next table looked like El Córdobes. One glance and she said, "El Córdobes is much more handsome." When I mentioned his recent drama, she said, "It's been a difficult year for matadors."
From Arcos, the back road to Ronda is spiked with plenty of undiscovered and interesting hill towns. About half the towns I visited were memorable. Only Arcos (by bus) and Ronda (by train) are easily accessible by public transportation. Other towns are best seen by car. Good information on the area is rare but not necessary. Pick up the tourist brochure on the white towns at a nearby big-city tourist office, get a good map, and shift your spirit of adventure into high gear.
Along with Arcos, here are my favorite white villages:
Zahara, a tiny town with a tingly setting under a Moorish castle, has a spectacular view. During Moorish times, Zahara was contained within the fortified castle walls above today's town. It was considered the gateway to Granada and a strategic stronghold for the Moors by the Spanish Christian forces of the Reconquista.
Today the castle is little more than an evocative ruin with a commanding view (always open, free, and worth the climb). And Zahara is a fine overnight stop for those who want to hear only the sounds of birds, wind, and elderly footsteps on ancient cobbles.
Grazalema, another postcard-pretty hill town, offers a royal balcony for a memorable picnic, a square where you can watch old-timers playing cards, and plenty of quiet, whitewashed streets to explore. Plaza de Andalucía, a block off the view terrace, has several decent little bars, restaurants, and a popular candy store busy with local kids. Grazalema, situated on a west-facing slope of the mountains, catches clouds and is famous as the rainiest place in Spain — but I've had only blue skies on every visit.
Estepa, spilling over a hill crowned with a castle and convent, is a freshly washed, happy town that fits my dreams of southern Spain. It's situated halfway between Córdoba and Málaga, but it's light years away from either. Atop Estepa's hill is the convent of Santa Clara, worth three stars in any guidebook but found in none. Enjoy the territorial view from the summit, then step into the quiet, spiritual perfection of the church.
In any of these towns, evening is prime time. The promenade begins as everyone gravitates to the central square. The spotless streets are polished nightly by the feet of families licking ice cream. The whole town strolls — it's like "cruising" without cars. Buy an ice-cream sandwich and join the parade.
For all the details on these intimate peeks at Spanish culture, see the Rick Steves' Spain guidebook. To actually experience these Spanish gems with a guide who knows his mertillo from his manchego, join one of our merry Best of Spain and Portugal tours.