Dilip Kuner
SPRING in Andalucia doesn’t tiptoe in. It arrives with rhythm, scent and colour – carried on warm breezes, shouted from church towers, and stamped into the red earth by horses’ hooves. This isn’t just a change in season. It’s a state of mind.
If there’s one place where spring comes alive, it’s here. Each square, hillside and coastline becomes a stage for something unforgettable. One week it’s the heady quiet of wildflower-strewn trails, the next it’s the clatter of hooves and the hum of flamenco guitars drifting through pine forests. Andalucia in spring doesn’t ask for your attention. It demands it.
Across the region, nature shrugs off winter with a flourish. In parks like Doñana, Grazalema, Cazorla and the snow-tipped Sierra Nevada, the air is crisp, the colours sharp. You can hike through cork oak forests one morning and watch eagles soar above crags the next. Horses pick their way through olive groves; clouds of blossom follow you down the trail.
Down on the coast, the beaches are waking up too – but gently. In spring, the Costa del Sol is softer around the edges, still blissfully short of summer crowds. You’ll find space to breathe on the wide sands of Cádiz, or peace among the secret coves of Almería.
But no matter how beautiful the landscape, the real pulse of the season is people – and nowhere do people come together with such intensity as La Romería del Rocío.
This is Spain’s biggest pilgrimage, and perhaps its most moving. Every spring, tens of thousands set out – on foot, horseback or in brightly decorated wagons – towards the marshland village of El Rocío. Some start from Sevilla or Huelva, others from as far as Cádiz or Madrid. They take ancient trails alongside the Guadalquivir, through the hauntingly flat plains of Doñana.
There’s music, of course: a small drum and high flute keep time, while fireworks crack overhead to guide those at the back. The wagons are trimmed with paper flowers, the women wear dresses that ripple with every step, and the air smells of wax, sweat and orange blossom. It’s loud and joyful, but also deeply, startlingly intimate.
Because Rocío isn’t just a party. It’s a collision of devotion, exhaustion and something harder to name. One moment people are singing and clapping, the next they’re silent, eyes wet, muttering promises to themselves. They sleep in fields, under stars, wrapped in blankets and old stories. It’s dusty, emotional, sometimes absurd – and utterly unforgettable.
Everything builds to Pentecost Sunday. In the small hours, after a night of song and anticipation, the moment comes: the salto. The men of Almonte leap the railings and surge into the sanctuary to lift the Virgin – the Blanca Paloma, or White Dove – and carry her through the streets. It’s frantic, heartfelt, slightly wild. And it means everything to the people who’ve walked hundreds of kilometres to be there.
Elsewhere in Andalucia, spring unfolds at a gentler pace. In mountain towns and coastal villages, locals pull chairs into the shade and pour cold beer into small glasses. There’s always something happening – Sevilla’s terraces fill up, Málaga hums with art and music, and Granada shakes off the chill with late-night tapas and views of the Alhambra glowing gold at dusk.
But even in the quietest corners, you feel it: spring here has a kind of presence. It’s in the smell of jasmine, the clink of glass in a backstreet bar, the way the sun hits a whitewashed wall. You don’t need a festival to feel it. Just time. A good pair of shoes. Maybe a notebook.
So if you’re after a spring that doesn’t just warm your skin, but stirs something deeper, Andalucia might be calling. It’s not always easy, or polished, or quiet. But it’s honest. And it stays with you.
More information can be found at andalucia.org.
