Andalusia a living time capsule
Spanish region's terrain recalls the American Southwest

by Elizabeth Hayes
for Virginia Business Options
December 2006

Southern Spain's Costa del Sol, or Gold Coast, attracts 2 million visitors a year, many of them British tourists who flock to beach resorts and golf courses. But as I gaze out my car window at the mountains of the Serrania de Ronda, I'm happy I'll be spending a week inland, an hour's drive north from the high-rises and crowds.

The foothills of Andalusia are as breathtaking as they are oddly familiar: the golden grasses swaying in the breeze, the craggy outcroppings making jagged silhouettes against a blue sky, the orange groves, eucalyptus stands and occasional cactus. We could be cruising through parts of the American Southwest.

Then we come upon a field of sunflowers smiling toward the intense afternoon sun. Up ahead, an even larger yellow carpet covers a hillside, followed by row upon row of olive trees. An elderly shepherd tends to a small herd of goats. A white village - one of the region's famous "pueblos blancos" - rears up in the distance. "I feel like we should be riding mules," my friend Dan comments. We are definitely not in the Southwest.

Our destination is Finca la Morera (the farmhouse takes its name from the mulberry tree), a beautifully restored villa that sleeps 12 guests. It offers a deluxe kitchen, living rooms and two pools, all near the village of Arriate, about 10 minutes outside the ancient hilltop city of Ronda.

Friends have rented the finca for the week as a base from which to make day trips around the region and as a lovely spot to relax poolside and enjoy those amazing green and yellow vistas. The English owners of the villa restored it about three years ago and keep hanging beads on the outside doors to discourage the swallows that had made it their home in the years that it had fallen into disrepair.

Each morning, I pull open my wooden shutters and feel like a character in a movie. ("A Room with a View"?) Birdsong, a rooster's crowing and goats' bleating fill the air, along with the scent of lavender and herbs from a slope about 200 yards away. My friend Allison comments on the first morning, "Isn't it great when the biggest decision you have to make all day is what to eat?"

But as hard as it is to tear ourselves away from the finca, we pile into our rented Citroen each day to see a little more of the region. The first morning, we venture to the resort city of Marbella before picking up another friend at the airport. We just have time for lunch and a stroll around the old part of the city, tucked away behind the high-rises.

Marbella's center reflects both the old - with its cobblestone walkways, tile-decorated walls, wrought-iron lamps and bougainvillea flowers spilling out of planters - and the new, with its designer boutiques. We select a restaurant on the central plaza and feast on gazpacho, tortillas (which are actually omelettes), calamari, potato fritters, tuna salad and a soft drink for about 10 Euros apiece.

That night, we make a foray into Ronda for tapas. The finca's extremely helpful caretakers have recommended a small restaurant called Maestros, half a block from Ronda's famous bull ring. The inside - plastered with signed pictures of famous bull fighters and flamenco dancers - has no tables, but it's a warm June night and we score a table for nine outside on the pedestrian-only street (average regional temperatures in November are in the 50s).

The people-watching is unequaled: mostly groups of teenage girls parading around in low-cut slacks with shiny gold belts. Families, including babies in prams, stroll past, even as the clock approaches midnight. We are definitely on Spanish time.

We order lots of tapas - chicken kabobs with onions and bell peppers, beef in a thick tomato-y sauce, shrimp and whitefish sautéed in butter and garlic, sausage on a roll topped with a fried quail's egg and a sort of spinach casserole. Along with sangria, the tab comes to 13 Euros each. Although the custom is to wander from one tapas bar to another to sample all their specialties, we are well sated.

Ronda is famous for its gorge - a 330-foot drop-off down sheer limestone walls. It's easy to see why this town was one of the last Moorish bastions (falling to the Christians in 1485, according to my Eyewitness travel guide). We stroll across the 200-plus-year-old "Puente Nuevo" after dinner. Even at night, the Tajo gorge is impressive. Buildings run along the very edge of the cliffs. Already I understand why Ronda is said to be Ernest Hemmingway's favorite city in Spain, and I'm eager to visit in daylight.

The next day, we start with the bull ring. Plaza de Toros, used only once a year (in September) for bull fights, is one of the oldest and most important in the country, inaugurated in 1785, according to my guidebook. A small museum displays costumes and artwork depicting the sport. The stockyards and bullpens are also open and provide a fascinating glimpse into the system of pulleys and sliding doors that allow handlers to steer the bulls from one area to another without being gored.

Then we revisit the gorge, marveling again at the height and steepness and magnificent views of neighboring hills and valleys.

On Day Three, we make a pilgrimage to Spain's most visited site: The Alhambra. It's a two-hour drive to Granada and our reservation is for 2 p.m. (cost: 10 Euros). Visitors are well advised to get advance tickets and to arrive early, since it's a good 15-minute walk to the palace from the entrance gate - and to wear comfortable shoes. Those without advance tickets can still try to buy them at the gate, and I observed no line late in the day (closing time is 8 p.m.).

Once you're in, you can linger as long as you like. There's a lot to see. The self-guided tour (headsets are available, but be prepared to wait in line) takes you through room upon courtyard upon hall upon room of dazzlingly carved walls and ceilings, reflecting pools and fountains (the most famous rests on the backs of 12 marble lions).

The palace was built on a hilltop by Nasrid caliphs in the 13th and 14th centuries as an embodiment of paradise on earth. As weary as we are after seeing the palace, I'm glad that we find the energy to visit the neighboring Generalife palace, the country estate of the Nasrid kings, which consists of lovely gardens and fountains.

Ready for some dinner (although it's a bit early by Spanish standards at 7 p.m.), we take a public bus down the hill and disembark in the Moorish Albaicin neighborhood, which sits just below the palace. We pick a restaurant with a patio - Azarban - and order two kinds of paellas, seafood and vegetarian. While waiting for the kitchen to open at 8 (Spaniards take siesta very seriously - not a bad thing) we sip sangria and watch the light change from yellow gold to orange on the Alhambra above us.

The next day we set out in the opposite direction - west to Jerez de la Frontera, ground zero for sherry production. But first we catch the Tuesday noon performance at the Real Escuela Andaluza del Arte Ecuestre (Royal Andalusian School of Equestrian Art) before touring one of the best-known sherry bodegas.

The Andalusian horses are beauties - dapples, grays, dark chocolate, black and white. They perform to music alone, in pairs, in a group of 10, pulling carriages and with riders and without, executing an intricate and graceful array of moves - trotting sideways, hopping, dancing, pirouetting and rearing up. The performance lasts about 90 minutes, including a 10-minute intermission (our tickets cost 25 Euros).

Next it's time to learn about sherry, or jerez. We have a reservation for a tour and tasting (all for 9 Euros) at the Gonzalez Byass bodega, founded in 1835 by Manuel Maria Gonzalez Angel. Its best-selling sherry is Tio Pepe, named for the founder's uncle. We set off for our tour in a tram. We watch a short film on the history and how-to of sherry production. Our guide shows us the company's original equipment and one cavernous cellar upon another of black oak barrels infused with the sweet smell of fortified wine.

In one cellar, we see barrels signed by celebrities and heads of state - including Winston Churchill, Margaret Thatcher, Elizabeth Taylor and Steven Spielberg. Our guide points out a glass of sherry sitting on the floor with a small ladder leaning against it. As she starts to explain that it's left there for a resident mouse, out scampers a rat, as if on cue and much to everyone's surprise, including our guide's. The tour ends in the tasting room, where we sip a dry, light-colored sherry and a sweet one, and nibble on olives, cured ham, Manchego cheese and bread.

As we drive back to the finca, I can't help but reflect about how the first Spanish settlers must have felt at home in the landscape of the American Southwest. Andalusia, however, remains an arid paradise, a living time capsule. At least when you head to the mountains.