A delicious awakening in one of Andalucia's most compelling towns
Carolyn O’Donnell wins this week’s Just Back travel writing competition, and £250, for her account of a sherry tour in Andalucia
“This is the rebel son of the winemaker,” said Carlos seriously, his face framed by suspended ham. We looked at the palo cortado sherry before us in the flamenco bar. It was only noon, and I couldn’t recall if this was my third or fourth drink, but more importantly, I was discovering that aged sherry can be feisty, even when it’s more than 20 years old and the low-tannin result of mysterious yeast death.
Dead yeast is sad, but there is happiness in finding a fortified wine that combines so well with morcón – a pork and blood pudding sausage – on toast. Sherry is as Spanish as chorizo – great paired with an aged oloroso – but I didn’t like the stuff, not even doled out in micro-portions at Christmas.
But in Vejer de la Frontera I was compelled to relax and savour sherry the way the Spanish do.
On my first trip to Andalucia in a decade, I was in Vejer’s blanched hilltop maze for a wedding. Located just south of Spain’s “sherry triangle”, this settlement overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar has been claimed by a series of invaders over the centuries. Today it’s colonised by tourists whose chatter is the soundtrack of village life.
At pre-wedding drinks I was persuaded to join a sherry and tapas tour, but come morning, everyone was paralysed by hangovers and cancelled. I didn’t want to quaff alone, but Carlos the sherry wrangler was expecting me, so I found myself in Vejer’s main square – where ceramic frogs frolic in a tiled fountain – reporting for gastronomic duty.
On locating perky Carlos, the warmth of his enthusiasm immediately began to dissolve my sherry reserve. Ambling through the twisting, cobblestoned streets, we visited a number of bars. Brisk Spanish was exchanged and delectable things arrived, as families wandered by and couples photographed each other against medieval ramparts.
On a clear day you can see Tangier from Vejer, along with beaches from which fishermen sail in search of tuna. In the old Jewish quarter, we basked on a bright balcony surrounded by a vista of whitewashed Moorish architecture, and I learnt why complex, dry fino sherry is the connoisseur’s choice with seafood.
In a revelation more dazzling than the sun bouncing off the blanched cubes of Vejer’s skyline, I realised I’d failed in fino bonding because its gold-flecked goodness had not been combined with boquerones (anchovies) in vinegar, so that mutual, neutralising acidity could liberate the sherry’s delicate flavours.
Then there was a blue fin tuna tartare with a copper-hued amontillado, and the oloroso (scented in Spanish), its rich, walnutty complexity at home in a wood-panelled cave filled with legs of jamon.
The finale was a sweet offering on a terrace, overlooking village rooftops and the horticultural panorama beyond. Conducted purely for my benefit, the tour was supposed to take about three hours. Six hours later, I’d relaxed into Vejer’s mellow pace, and awakened a latent passion for sherry.
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