I only went for bread. That’s how these things start, isn’t it? You tell yourself “just bread” and then an hour later you’re holding a woven basket full of things you don’t remember paying for and talking to a woman who may or may not have just given you a goat cheese marriage proposal.
Órgiva on market day doesn’t ease you in. It knocks. It clatters. It smells like oranges one second, jamón the next, then suddenly someone’s roasting almonds and your entire stomach turns feral. I wasn’t ready for it. No one warned me. They just said, “You should go.”
It spills into the streets, the whole thing—like it got too big for the square and started overflowing, stubborn and sunlit and loud. One of the first stalls I passed had these tomatoes so red they looked suspicious. You know when something’s so perfect it makes you nervous? Like maybe it’s plastic? That. But they weren’t. The guy behind the stall, didn’t get his name, handed me a slice without asking. “Tell me that’s not the best tomato of your life,” he said, except he said it in Spanish and I caught maybe half. I nodded anyway. He laughed like I’d passed a test.
I didn’t even want tomatoes. Still don’t know why I bought five.
Further in, cheese. Jamón. Nuts. I lost track of time. A woman with wild curls shoved a sliver of cured meat into my hand and told me not to argue. I didn’t. She gave me a slice of goat cheese next and said “Food is slow here. Learn to match it.” Then she sold me three euros of something I couldn’t pronounce and told me to use it with potatoes.
There’s this woodworking stall—young guy, looked like he’d been awake for three days and couldn’t care less. He was sanding spoons like it was a religious act. “Olive wood,” he muttered. “Local.” Didn’t look up. Sold me one and said nothing else. I liked him.
Everything here’s a little off-rhythm, and that’s the charm. It doesn’t run like a market back home. No queues, no personal space, no cold politeness. Just movement. Heat. Kids chasing each other with bits of fruit. Someone singing off-key next to the olive stand. A woman selling herbs out of a basket that looked older than I am.
I ended up sitting on a bench with bread, cheese, and something sweet I’d forgotten I bought. That’s when I noticed a man giving away eggs. Just handing them out, no explanation. He laughed when someone asked why. Said “because it’s Thursday.” That’s it. Because it’s Thursday.
And the thing is, I believe him.
That market’s not just shopping. It’s La Alpujarra’s blood pressure, a pulse you can feel in your feet. It’s the opposite of London supermarkets. Here, you bump into someone and they don’t say sorry—they tell you about their neighbour’s cousin who makes the best quince jam and would love to meet you.
You get swept up in it. Then you go home, unpack, and realise you didn’t get the bread.
Anyway, if you’re curious what the rest of life feels like round here—beyond the cheese and chaos—I wrote something about walking the old trails. That’s the other half of it. The silence between Thursdays.
But for now, I’ll just plan my revenge. I’m bringing change next week. I’m ready.