If there’s one thing I’ve learned since moving to La Alpujarra, it’s that this region knows how to celebrate. Life here is punctuated by vibrant fiestas, each one a heartfelt expression of tradition and community. My first experience of one such event was the annual chestnut festival, or “Fiesta de la Castaña,” held in Pampaneira. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced in London, where celebrations often feel distant or commercial. Here, every detail seemed to come from a place of genuine joy.
The day began early, with villagers busily setting up stalls in the plaza. The smell of roasting chestnuts filled the air, mingling with the crispness of the autumn breeze. Children ran about, their laughter echoing off the whitewashed walls, while older residents shared stories over cups of anis-flavored liquor. I could feel the excitement building as more and more people gathered, many dressed in traditional Andalusian attire. The energy was infectious.
As the festivities got underway, I found myself drawn to a stage where a group of musicians was performing flamenco. The music, raw and passionate, seemed to reverberate through the mountains. Dancers took to the stage, their movements precise and powerful. It wasn’t just a performance—it was a story, told through rhythm and expression. I was captivated.
Food, as always, was a central part of the celebration. I tried “migas,” a dish made from fried breadcrumbs, garlic, and olive oil, served with grilled peppers and chorizo. There were platters of “jamón serrano,” bowls of hearty stews, and of course, chestnuts prepared in every way imaginable—roasted, candied, and even ground into flour for cakes. Sharing a meal with the villagers felt like being welcomed into a family, each dish accompanied by stories of its significance and preparation.
Throughout the day, I noticed how the fiesta brought the community together. Neighbours who might not see each other often chatted and laughed like old friends. The elderly sat in clusters, reminiscing about festivals from decades past, while younger generations listened, soaking up the shared history. It struck me how these traditions acted as a bridge, connecting the past to the present and ensuring that the culture of La Alpujarra endures.
Later in the afternoon, I joined a group gathered around a table playing “tute,” a traditional Spanish card game. My limited Spanish didn’t matter—laughter and good-natured teasing filled any gaps in communication. I managed to win one round, which earned me a round of applause and a joking accusation of beginner’s luck.
As night fell, the plaza transformed. Strings of lights illuminated the space, casting a warm glow over the crowd. A bonfire crackled in the centre, its flames dancing in time with the music. Families, friends, and strangers came together to sing and dance, their faces lit with the simple joy of being present. I found myself swept up in a traditional circle dance, my hesitations quickly forgotten as my neighbours pulled me into the rhythm.
By the time the fiesta wound down, I was exhausted but exhilarated. Walking back to my townhouse, the sounds of music and laughter still lingered in the air. The experience had been more than a celebration—it was a window into the heart of this community. The fiesta wasn’t just about chestnuts or flamenco; it was about connection, about honouring the past while embracing the present.
In London, I often felt like an observer, disconnected from the city’s fleeting celebrations. Here in La Alpujarra, I felt like a participant, a part of something bigger than myself. The chestnut festival was the first of many fiestas I plan to attend, each one an opportunity to deepen my understanding of this incredible place I now call home.