Soaking up Andalusia at pedal pace
Back roads route allows riders to be part of the welcoming countryside
The shotgun is cradled in the farmer’s forearm, pointed forward as if at rest, but within access if needed quickly.
He walks through his vineyard in the Montilla-Moriles hills in Spain’s southern Andalusia region, among vines with the crisp, curled leaves of late autumn — only days from releasing their grasp on the grapes that will fall to the rocky soil sparkling with silica. Two rows ahead, his dog stalks small animals.
With a crash through the golden leaves, a lanky gray jackrabbit streaks across the two-lane country road, only a couple of feet in front of my bicycle. I
clutch at my brakes to avoid hitting it, and the rabbit slips out from danger, only to disappear into the olive orchard across the road.
“When he’s frightened, he’s even faster than you!” the farmer shouts, waving at me as his hound circles behind my tires, as if uncertain that the quarry has escaped.
I return the wave with a laugh, and continue riding along the road. Ahead of me, two cycling companions. Stretching behind, 17 others. All of us on two wheels through Andalusia.
Long before the modern roads on which we’re cycling were built, the region was crisscrossed by travelers for centuries. Roman, Moorish and Christian history converge here, and the character of the Iberian Peninsula and Spanish culture are apparent. At nearly every turn, I see iconic Andalusia: sunsplashed rolling countryside, hilltop castles, white villages,
toros bravos lounging in fields like the pacifist bull Ferdinand, olive orchards, orange groves and vineyards for producing sherry.
Biking slowly along secondary roads allows me to experience the surroundings closely. No car window separates me from the earthy smell of vineyards or the acrid tang of the occasional agricultural bonfire. A brief stop for water lets me touch ripe olives dripping from trees at the beginning of harvest season. Zipping in a car through the countryside between the cities of Palma del Rio and Granada, I’d have only brief glimpses, and not the sensory immersion that greets me on my bike route.
And the jackrabbit, dog and farmer? In a car, they would have been little more than a blur.
Old road to Córdoba
While it’s possible to rent bicycles in cities throughout Andalusia, I’m going the easy way — via guided cycling tour, where the itinerary is planned by Jose and Nico, who know the area well. Depending on the terrain and the cyclists’ speed, sometimes I’m riding with a small group, other times on my own. But I’m never truly alone. Every once in a while, one of the guides drives by in the sag wagon, honking a greeting. I respond with a thumbs-up to tell him I’m doing fine. Along the old road to Córdoba, I ride along the Guadalquivir River — the longest in Andalusia, and responsible for irrigating the vast agricultural region. I pass farm after farm (here called fincas and cortijos )as the breeze whips around my helmet and brings scents of earth and water.
My eyes scan the horizon for palm trees — the landmark for the cortijo where the group plans to meet for lunch. Riding into the wind, it seems to take forever until I’m greeted by a pack of friendly farm dogs, competing for attention and belly rubs.
Before sitting down to eat, I spy a tray of broken pieces of pottery and finger them gently. Antonio, the cortijo owner, turns a piece over and shows me the maker’s mark from Roman times, when this property served as a factory to make amphoras used to ship oil, wine and wheat to Rome and around the Mediterranean Sea.
“Every time I plow the fields, I find more pieces,” he says. “But I’ve never found one completely whole.”
Encouraged by my interest, he shows me maps and documents illustrating the historical importance of this area along the Guadalquivir.
“You are lucky to see it this way,” Antonio adds. “The river is more important when you spend time along its banks. You can understand it better.”
La Vía Verde
As we cycle deeper into Andalusia, orange groves give way to vineyards, which eventually surrender to olive orchards. The region alone supplies about 80 percent of the total olive oil production in Spain — the world’s leading olive oil producer. We ride along the road next to seas of trees, all with olives in a variety of colors, from light green to deep black. In November, the harvest here is just beginning; it runs through early March.
In some orchards, small crews of workers shout at each other between trees, shaking the branches with sticks. When I ride to the top of a hill, before coasting down, I look across the landscape. Olive trees form waves of lines, looking like a green chenille bedspread drawn over the hills.
Even though we’re riding on roads with little traffic, it’s even better to avoid all cars on the Vía Verde. Former railway routes built to connect the farming villages with olive oil producers and cities have been converted into more than 100 routes nationwide (with 23 of them in Andalusia) that can be
used by cyclists and walkers alike.
Each via route is named differently, and my path along the Vía Verde Sierras Subbéticas is on the fringes of the limestone mountainous area of Sierras Subbéticas National Park. The greenway rolls through deep cuts in the agricultural terrain until flattening out, providing sweeping views of olive orchards to the horizon.
At a former train station in Luque, I pull over, park my bike and sit outside next to an old train car to watch who passes by. In the dappled sunshine, families play, men smoke and chat, and some spend time looking over relics of the Spanish Civil War, which are still scattered through the countryside.
From here, I head to the village of Zuheros, with white buildings that cling to the rugged edges of limestone cliffs. Riders cheer each other on as we grind uphill to rest in a plaza that overlooks the entire valley, including the Vía Verde and the sprawling hacienda where we’re staying, less than 3 miles away. And all downhill from here.
Tapas stops
Each morning before heading out on two wheels, we meet to discuss the day’s route. On the last day, three stapled pages of maps, description and directions lie on my lap as Jose and Nico talk through each turn of the itinerary. Riders scribble tips as the guides describe finer points: speed bumps, illegal left turns, train tracks and uphill portions.
My pen hovers over my note for the town of Illora (“bars/lunch?”) as Jose adds some culinary advice.
“We’ll be close to Granada,” says Jose. “Here, when you order a drink, you’ll get tapas along with it. So if you’re only a little hungry, just order the drink and you eat for free.”
Now everyone is writing “bars/lunch!” in their notes for Illora. We may be traveling the hard way through Andalusia, but we’re all for a free lunch.
“With each successive drink, they’ll bring you more tapas,” advises Jose. “If they forget, ask: ¿Y mi tapa? (And my tapa)?” That note goes in the itinerary as well.
In the mountains north of Granada, the morning air is cool, and riding downhill in the shade makes me shiver. Each time I hit a sunlit patch, I slow down to soak in the warmth before another downhill run. Beyond the mountain valley after Benelúa de las Villas, I look up and spot the Sierra Nevada mountain range looming in the distance and dusted with small patches of autumn snow.
The route passes by a Roman bridge and some of the towns that served as a defense line between Christian and Moorish kingdoms during medieval times. Fortresses and towers that protected the cities dot the horizon, and each turn along the way begs the camera lens of at least half the riders. The hilltop towns embedded in the mountainous landscape make it seem like a fairy tale kingdom.
In staggered groups, we reach our tapas heaven — Illora. Instead of eating quickly and heading back on the road as in previous days, we’ve surrendered to a more leisurely pace. We order beers, wine and sangria. Plates of tapas spread across the table and are emptied, and more full plates arrive.
Granada’s Alhambra may beckon, but in the big city, I’ll miss this slow route. What Antonio said about the Guadalquivir extends to the entire region. By spending time cycling through the countryside, I can now feel Andalusia under my skin.