One of the first things I learned about life in La Alpujarra is that the weekly market isn’t just a place to shop; it’s the heartbeat of the community. The market in Orgiva, the region’s largest town, is a vibrant blend of colours, smells, and sounds that feels worlds away from the sterile supermarkets of London. It was here that I began to understand what it means to truly live in the moment.
The market sprawls across the town’s main square and its adjoining streets, with stalls offering everything from fresh produce to handmade crafts. As I wandered through, the air was rich with the scent of ripe oranges, freshly baked bread, and the earthy aroma of spices. Vendors called out their wares, their voices mingling with the chatter of customers and the occasional laughter of children darting between the stalls. It was chaotic, yes, but in the most wonderful way—full of life and connection.
One of my first stops was a stall piled high with fresh vegetables. The tomatoes were deep red and perfectly ripe, nothing like the pale, flavourless ones I was used to back in London. The vendor, an older man with weathered hands and a warm smile, greeted me with a cheerful “¡Buenos días!” As I selected a few items, he asked where I was from. When I told him, he nodded knowingly and said, “You’ll never want to leave once you taste food grown under the Andalusian sun.”
Further along, I found a stall selling cheeses and cured meats. The woman behind the counter, who introduced herself as Rosa, offered me a sample of jamón serrano. The saltiness of the ham, paired with the creamy texture of a local goat cheese, was unlike anything I’d tasted before. Rosa explained how both were made using traditional methods passed down through generations. “Food here is about patience,” she said. “It’s not just sustenance; it’s part of our story.”
The market isn’t just about food. There are stalls brimming with handmade pottery, woven rugs, and vibrant textiles. Each item seems to carry a piece of the region’s identity, reflecting its history and the skill of its artisans. I lingered at a stall selling hand-carved wooden bowls, admiring the craftsmanship. The vendor, a younger man, explained that he sourced the wood from the surrounding mountains and carved each piece by hand. “It’s slow work,” he admitted, “but that’s the way it should be.”
As the morning went on, I began to notice how the market wasn’t just a place to buy things—it was a hub for connection. Neighbours greeted each other with kisses on both cheeks, stopped to chat, and exchanged news. I even saw a woman handing a bag of fresh bread to an elderly man without asking for payment, a small but telling gesture of the community’s generosity.
By the time I left, my arms were laden with fresh produce, a loaf of crusty bread, a small wheel of cheese, and a woven basket I couldn’t resist buying. But more importantly, I left with a deeper appreciation for the way people here live. The market, with its energy and warmth, reminded me of what I’d been missing in London: a sense of belonging and connection.
Life in La Alpujarra moves at a slower pace, but it’s richer for it. The market encapsulates this beautifully. It’s not about rushing through a list of errands; it’s about engaging with others, taking the time to appreciate the effort behind what we consume, and celebrating the rhythms of the land. For me, the market has become more than a place to shop—it’s a weekly ritual that anchors me in this new life I’m building.