One of the first things that smacked me in the face about life in La Alpujarra? The weekly market isn’t just a place to buy vegetables—it’s the town’s pulse, a noisy, fragrant, beautifully chaotic organism that makes the sterile, fluorescent-lit supermarkets of London feel like a scene from a dystopian novel.
Órgiva’s market is the biggest around, sprawling across the main square, bleeding into side streets, spilling over with life. A riot of colour, smell, and sound. Tangy citrus in the air, the warmth of fresh bread wafting past, that deep, unmistakable scent of spices mingling with—what is that?—maybe the sharp saltiness of jamón hanging in the sun. It’s overwhelming in the best possible way. A sensory slap that reminds you, sharply, that you are somewhere else now.
I arrived with no plan, just the vague idea that I might buy some vegetables, but the market had other ideas. First stop: a stall stacked high with tomatoes so red they looked borderline artificial, their skin taut and glistening under the morning light. The vendor, an older guy with hands like gnarled olive roots, grinned and gave me a hearty “¡Buenos días!” as if we were old friends. When I told him I was new in town, he gave a knowing nod. “You’ll never want to leave once you taste food grown under the Andalusian sun.”
He was right. The tomatoes had a richness, a depth I’d never tasted before. Not the waterlogged, lifeless things I’d grown used to in London. One bite and I was done for.
Further down, a stall overflowing with cheeses and cured meats. Rosa, the woman running it, saw me hesitating and thrust a sliver of jamón serrano into my hand before I could even ask. “Try.” No nonsense, no small talk—just straight to the point. I obeyed. The salt hit first, then the depth, the age, the patience in the process. She handed me a piece of goat cheese next—creamy, tangy, almost floral. “Food here isn’t just food,” she told me, “it’s a story.” And I believed her.
But it’s not all about food. The market is stitched together by the hands of artisans. Woven rugs that look like they belong in a painting, pottery glazed in colours stolen from the surrounding hills, hand-carved wooden bowls so smooth they feel like polished river stones. I lingered at a woodworking stall where a younger guy was arranging bowls and spoons. “I carve them myself,” he said, running a calloused hand over the grain. “From local wood. Takes time, but that’s the point.”
And that’s the thing about the market. It forces you to slow down. To see people, to connect, to appreciate. You don’t just grab a baguette and leave—you chat, you listen, you absorb. Neighbours stop mid-aisle to kiss each other on both cheeks, stall owners swap gossip, kids weave between legs in giggling packs. I even saw a woman pass a bag of bread to an old man without asking for payment, no drama, just a quiet, natural act of generosity. Try finding that in Tesco.
By the time I left, I had an armful of things I never planned on buying—a crusty loaf, a small wheel of cheese, a woven basket I didn’t need but couldn’t resist. But more than that, I left with something intangible. A sense of place. Of belonging. The market isn’t just where you buy things, it’s where you are. It’s a thread in the larger fabric of this place, this slow, sun-drenched, quietly magical life I seem to be slipping into.
London moves fast, devours time, spits out hours before you even realise they’re gone. Here? The market tells you to stop, to talk, to taste. It reminds you that food isn’t just fuel, that people aren’t just background noise, that life—real, actual life—is in these small, unrushed moments. And if I ever forget that, well, the market will be waiting next week to remind me all over again.