The chef José Pizarro buzzes through the covered market in Barbate at speed – past flamenco buskers holding their guitars up to their chins, and pomegranates, dragon fruit and crab’s feet – making a beeline for razor clams and bluefin tuna, called atún rojo in Spain for its ruby flesh. The bluefin and its almadraba fishing method have been prized for centuries in these coastal towns. Barbate, like nearby Conil, Zahara and Tarifa, is built around this ancient practice. And, after some years of controlled fishing, the spring harvest is back: a great haul of enormous fish, many weighing up to 450 pounds, which spend winter in the depths of the Atlantic, building a buttery layer of fat that makes the belly, the ventrecha, meltingly good.
I scurry in Pizarro’s wake. “I loooove it here,” he enthuses, pocketing volcanic black salt and La Breña pine nuts. “It’s a mercado del pueblo, for the people. The old ladies who come here to buy one fish stay all morning. A tostada and coffee is €1.50.” Pizarro seems to know every stallholder. “Andalusian people are quite cheeky. I had to tell some of them, ‘Don’t give me a bad tomato again.’ They slip them in.” We gather up almond-truffled dark chocolates from the confitería, sink a couple of Cruzcampos and some chicharrónes, and bounce home – there’s cooking to be done.
Home is Iris Zahara, which Pizarro bought with his partner Peter Meades in 2021 after scouring the coast. It clings to the cliff near Zahara de los Atunes, a glassy modernist white cuboid with terracotta terraces. They’ve filled it with interesting art: a vast canvas from Tracey Emin’s A Journey to Death series hangs in their bedroom.
Hailing from a pastoral village near Caceres, Pizarro wanted a coastal Spanish antidote to his London townhouse life; somewhere to bring friends, his beloved mother (who introduced him to good food but always shooed him from the kitchen) and clients who want the thrill of being cooked for by Pizarro at home. And maybe somewhere for the cameras: the chef, cookbook author and owner of seven restaurants is loved by Britain mostly because he’s on Saturday Kitchen a lot. His effervescent fizz is organised and channelled by Meades, a Welsh psychotherapist whom Pizarro calls Pedro, who dispenses care, stiff vodka martinis and Cardiff wit. Together they create a timelessly appealing drinks-topped-up hospitality.
“He loves being able to drink and dance and listen to music while cooking, and we are in love with the ever-changing sea,” says Meades. From their terrace, you peer across a vast oceanic panorama that glitters and glints and rages and rolls. Africa seems close enough to touch when the Rif mountains appear like a cut-out on the horizon and the lights of Tangier twinkle across the gloam of the Strait of Gibraltar at night – at least when the levante and poniente winds aren’t raging up a storm.
Two words you hear ad infinitum in Andalusia’s Cádiz province are levante and poniente. The levante is the easterly blow favoured by windsurfers that causes heavy swells, casts apocalyptic clouds and gives shins an unwanted microdermabrasion. The poniente is the westerly, which comes off the Atlantic. When this arrives, the kitesurfers start jumping. The oppositional winds dictate the ebb and flow of life on the coast.
They also hint at the character of the “Coast of Light”. The last stretch of Spain’s southern Atlantic coast is no bourgeois, sun-kissed costa, but a land of endless dunes, swirling estuaries and Wild West horizons daubed with fast-moving clouds. Moorish pueblos blancos dust the hills like icing sugar, and there’s a vast richness to the ridges and marshes of the national parks that buffer the coast’s extremities.
If the wind is volatile, the light is vivid, piercing and constant. The glorious sun makes this a land of ingredients – of copious olives and sherry (dry fino and amontillado, sunnier oloroso and salty-fresh manzanilla). The culture of fish is ever-present, but atún rojo is woven into the culture. The almadraba harvest, executed with a complicated system of nets that has barely altered since Phoenician times, culminates in the Semana Gastronómica del Atún in May, heralding a riot of celebratory menus.
I’m on a road trip between Cádiz – the oldest town in the Western world – and Tarifa, the tip of the Iberian peninsula, where the Moors landed in AD 710 to take most of Spain. There’s only about 60 miles between them, which allows us to peel off in search of plankton risotto; broccoli-like groves of Aleppo pine trees; negronis with the sunset; and skies filled with candy-bright kitesurf sails. We have places to go and people to see. Top of the list are Pizarro, his Pedro and their ocean eyrie. But there are other patriarchs of southern Spain to drop in on too: the ones that produce the ingredients Pizarro adores.
In 2008 Ramón Iglesias decided to devote his retirement to resurrecting the organic olive oil industry in his corner of Vejer de la Frontera. His business, Sancha Pérez, also makes wine, and he is most exercised about Tintilla de Rota, a sweet, tanniny kind popular two centuries ago in Conil, Tarifa and Vejer. We weave around Iglesias’s 30 varieties of olive trees. “The crazies and multinationals burned every bush here after the Second World War,” he says, “but now we are going back to what we knew: that you need to have a botanical garden.” Lavender, myrtle, rosemary and mastic keep the insects happy. Manzanilla olives are big business here – the ones stuffed with pimentos – and also the picual, Spain’s peppery, chlorophylly bestseller. “As it didn’t rain in Spain last year, the price of olive oil has doubled,” he tells me. “Why? Because 45 per cent of the olive oil production on earth comes from Andalusia.”
The warm pride of the Andalusian patriarch ratchets up a notch when we reach Bodega Manuel Aragón, whose sandy vineyards stretch out to the forest fringing the dunes of Barossa. Sixth-generation Chano Aragón Moreno, who clarified fino with egg white from when he was a child, plies us with six varieties and teaches us how to hold the stem of the glass with a crossed arm for elegance. I have learnt that “No” is not an option. This is a land where the waiter will say, “You haven’t finished the last langoustine – eat it,” or take your knife and fork off you because you’re not deboning the fish properly.
We drink the sherry standing up, from the barrel, minuscule decades-old particles of yeast dancing in the golden liquid as we hold it up in the filmy light. As we progress from bone-dry to treacle-sweet, Moreno becomes philosophical. “The wine needs to be part of the conversation,” he announces. “You need to listen to it. Especially old wine – it’s heard it all before. All the tontería, all the nonsense.” He dips a measuring stick, passed down through generations, into the barrel to show me the layer of flor – the film of yeast – two fingers thick.
By the time we get to the 60-year-old palo cortado, personal anecdotes are being shared in the group. “Taste the dark brown chocolate, the yoghurt-ness,” Moreno growls with appreciation. “This is the best fino in the world; a difficult beast to tame.”
If Pizarro is Andalusia’s Extremadura émigré number one, then our guide, a chatty and much-adored environmentalist, is number two. His name is John Carlos Milburn Rodríguez, because his father is English, and he’s here to take us to the wild. The sandstone ranges of Los Alcornocales hunker between the earthy Cádiz and brassy Málaga provinces, and never the twain shall meet. They are a rainy, riverine buffer for the stormy sea winds, which cast a lacy mist over the treetops. We hike through a pristine river valley in the oak groves of San Carlos del Tiradero, past remnant clusters of cork oaks and along dappled dirt roads, to gaze out on forested ridges that unroll to cornflower skies where buzzards float.
By lunchtime, we reach the old Camino de Ojén, and arrive at Antigua Venta de Ojén, once the only shop in what is now a ghost hamlet. Luisa Martinez Ríos keeps it going, but only opens by request. Her parents and grandparents ran the shop in a village of subsistence labourers who made a living gathering charcoal and cork. She feeds us stewed roebuck with peas, and puchero con pringà, a meaty broth in which pig throat, fat and morcilla blood sausage are smashed into chickpeas. We eat in her garden, watched over by a bevy of goats, and chase the meal with Zoco, a blackthorn liqueur, and throat-ravishing black tobacco. This is the antithesis of the sleek fish plates of the coast. The simple cosy garden, her earthy warmth, the Black Madonna on the wall, the goats, the way she talks, the food – and how she procured it (off some farmers on a culling mission) – reminds me fondly of country Cuba. I think about the families that crossed the Atlantic centuries ago from pockets of Andalusia exactly like this.
It’s not the first time I’ve felt misty this week. When we headed up to Casa Bigote in Sanlúcar de Barrameda, arriving for Sunday lunch, I had presumed the moustachioed guayabera-clad men and prim ladies with big pressed hair were sombre by nature. But during the course of the meal, we tickled the fancy of the clientele when we requested to photograph the three generations of the Hermoso family who ran the place, plus a handsome septuagenarian patron who was lurking quietly on the balcony, smoking. His wife then decided, whether in celebration or competition, to sing the jaleo – that hell-raising-flamenco call-and-response – with the senior Hermoso, Fernando, who turned out to have a great voice. The lady tickled her skirt above her knee as she took to the floor to cry out in passion and, soon enough, the whole restaurant erupted in clapping, foot-stomping, and catcalls. Did I see a tear in the eye of our Norwegian photographer, Øvind Haug, who had been spoiling to leave since we got there? “The beach can wait,” he mumbled.
It has been an intense week of richness. But back in Pizarro’s kitchen, the energy is calm and warm. Effortlessly and with zen, he multitasks, preparing an array of precision dishes while maintaining a stream of chat. He whips mint off the top of a gazpacho – “No!” – while reducing fish stock that’s been going for hours, giant cloves of garlic quietly building flavour with bay leaves, ruby-red beef tomatoes, oregano, fino, paprika and cebolla vieja. He’s frying garlic prawns with chilli piquín pepper – “This will burn your fucking mouth” – packing his famous prawn and hake croquetas, putting some ribs in the oven (“Eighty-five degrees for two hours; two to three hours at 110; 10 minutes at 220”) and tackling tuna searing. We’ve bagged the chuleta – the ventrecha, tarantello (between the belly and the tail) and loin.
By three o’clock, when we sit down to eat, Pizarro has almost single-handedly produced the feast of my lifetime and cured one of the ghastliest hangovers I’ve ever had (caused by him). The vast spread of anchovies, garlic-lashed prawns, sculptural razor clams, glowing gazpacho, jamón ibérico, handmade chips, croquetas and sea snails is rapidly destroyed. There is nothing reverent about the way we eat the ventrecha de atún – we get stuck in. “This is one of the best tuna I’ve had in my life,” proclaims Pizarro, spearing a snail in triumph.
The fever of the day is over and the sunlight is bouncing off the vast crested ocean in dancing sparkles. Even the literal, restlessly perfectionist Haug finally ceases motion and downs tools. He lays aside his camera, cracks open a beer and shrugs on a towelling robe. “It is enough now,” he utters. And we all gaze out to sea, as the golden light spools over the endless horizon.
Where to stay in Costa de la Luz
Plaza 18, Vejer de la Frontera
Once a 19th-century merchant’s house, this jewel-box-pretty boutique near a fountain-filled plaza is the prime place to stay in the best-preserved pueblo blanco in Andalusia. Breakfasts unfurl in Michelin-noted El Jardín del Califa, a Moroccan restaurant set in the palm-filled walled courtyard of sister hotel La Casa del Califa. Both properties are part of a network of hotels, restaurants and an atmospheric hammam created by visionary Scottish hotelier James Stuart, who holds Vejer close to his heart.
Casa La Siesta, Vejer de la Frontera
This fabulously romantic cortijo below Vejer was reimagined by the founder of London interiors brand Bert & May, who carefully reclaimed the exposed beams, terracotta tiles and iron balustrades in the lovely six-bedroom country house and two self-contained villas. The bountiful locavore food – much from on-site – is best enjoyed outside, with lavender wafting from beautifully primped Mediterranean gardens.
Villa Punta Paloma, Tarifa
Set in two-and-a-half forested acres that roll down to a wild beach on the Punta Paloma peninsula, this beautifully revamped stone bungalow is the brainchild of Marbella Club co-owner Jennica Arazi, who wanted to create a villa hideaway with the same service standards as her hotel. The cool open-plan house and pretty outbuildings are full of local crafts and wicker, with natural hues reflecting the surrounding sea, rocks and forest. Zingy Mediterranean food by Le Cordon Bleu-trained chef Helena Martin-Riva can be arranged, or there’s El Mirlo, a seafood restaurant down the track, also run by Marbella Club, with blue horizons, grilled octopus and good vibes.
Where to eat in Costa de la Luz
Annie B’s Spanish Kitchen, Vejer de la Frontera
Annie B may be Scottish, but an invitation into her Moorish home with views over Vejer is a deep dive into the epicurean culture of her adopted home. She’ll cook with you and for you, and introduce every ingredient with passion. She has particular expertise in fino and atún rojo, and can wangle tables at El Campero in Barbate: the high church of bluefin tuna.
Address: Annie B's Spanish Kitchen, C. Viñas, 1, 11150 Vejer de la Frontera, Cádiz, Spain
Website: anniebspain.com
Casa Bigote, Sanlúcar de Barrameda
Three divine generations of Hermoso men, led by pater familias Fernando Bigote, run this traditional gem, opened in 1951 on the Guadalquivir River in super-foodie Sanlúcar de Barrameda. Sanlúqueños pile in for a dizzying array of seafood, but the crème de la crème are langoustines washed down with the local Manzanilla.
Address: Restaurante Casa Bigote, C. Pórtico Bajo de Guía, 10, 11540 Sanlúcar de Barrameda, Cádiz, Spain
Website: restaurantecasabigote.com
Aponiente, El Puerto de Santa María
Chef Angel León’s three-Michelin-starred Aponiente sits at the intersection of experimental food and fine art, in a transformed 19th-century tidal mill setting. León’s zero-waste tasting menus centre the more curious delicacies of the sea, from goose barnacles and plankton to seawater broths and bioluminescent amuse bouches. His La Taberna del Chef del Mar in the same town is a good option for a soupçon of the vibe and flavour.
Address: Restaurante Aponiente, C. Francisco Cossi Ochoa, s/n, 11500 El Puerto de Sta María, Cádiz, Spain
Website: aponiente.com
El Cuartel del Mar, Chiclana de la Frontera
Hunkered into the dunes with a view of the ocean where the huge sun sets, El Cuartel del Mar – a reimagined former Civil Guard station – is a hot spot for rooftop mai tais, cultural events and serious food from globetrotting Michelin-starred chef Manuel Berganza. The tuna tartare marinated in anchovy essence, which comes crowned with raw egg yolk, is the king.
Address: El Cuartel del Mar, C/Bajada de la Torre del Puerco s/n (Playa de la Barrosa, 11130 Chiclana de la Frontera, Cádiz, Spain
Website: elcuarteldelmar.com
Book your trip
Pura Aventura offers seven nights in the Costa de la Luz, including accommodation, meals, tours, hikes, bodega visits and more, from £1,650 per person. José Pizarro’s Iris Zahara sleeps up to 10 and is available from about £735 per night with a five-night minimum; double rooms from about £255. A three-night experience with Pizarro and Peter Meades costs about £2,990 per person or £5,125 per couple and includes private wine and sherry trips and cookery experiences with Pizarro in his kitchen.