There’s a dark chamber where only a few are invited to tiptoe among ancient barrels incubating liquid gold so fine that even the late Queen Elizabeth was a fan. I have wandered into one of Spain’s oldest wineries, Bodegas Fundador, founded in 1730. It’s famed for iconic blends like Harveys Bristol Cream, which bears the Royal Warrant, and for producing Spain’s first brandy. It’s one of the city’s esteemed exports where another soul-stirring creation thrives: flamenco.

Yet by day, Jerez, like cities in the south that I encountered on a recent trip, shares a soothing silence. Shutters remain closed. Narrow streets are shielded from the Andalusian sun. But nightfall brings life. Families drift into plazas, children whirl on carousels, and friends gather at alfresco tavernas, their laughter carrying in Andalusian staccato. There is an unofficial song here of sun and spirits that feels eternal.

This fall, I joined JourneyWoman’s Carolyn Ray on a solo women’s trek through Andalusia, deliberately bypassing headline-heavy Seville to linger in places like Ronda and Nerja in Málaga, and Jerez and Arcos in Cádiz, each an easy hop from the next. As I wandered these winding alleys and coastal sunsets, I couldn’t help wondering, could you truly live forever in Andalusia?

The ancients believed this land held something extraordinary. Phoenicians prized its ports; Romans revered its fertile soils; Moors infused it with innovation; and Christians layered spiritual traditions atop it all. Each left clues to living well.

Wellness tourism is booming, yet Andalusians have been practicing its principles for centuries. As one local put it, you’ll get Vitamin D in panoramic doses, sea breezes to soothe the soul, slow living to lower cortisol, fresh food, and, wine savoured in moderation. Longevity hotspots like Okinawa, Japan, and Guanacaste, Costa Rica are celebrated as Blue Zones for diets, lifestyle and ocean air. Yet here I was in Andalusia, a place that offers the same gifts. 

And so began my long-living odyssey.

RONDA: The View that Stilled My Heart

Ronda rises dramatically from the Serranía like a city split by the gods, its legendary El Tajo gorge carving a deep wound between ancient quarters joined by the famed Puente Nuevo. Orson Welles adored this place so fiercely that he chose to have his ashes interred here, eternally situated in a city as dramatic as any of his films.

Wandering quiet lanes at dawn, I found safety, serenity and spectacular scenery at every turn—a solo woman traveller’s dream.  From my hotel room at the Parador de Ronda, the view spilled out to a backdrop of jagged cliffs with tidy patches of wheat fields and olive groves below. 

My visit coincided with a flamenco festival. The city vibrated with castanets and crooning, women in polka-dot dresses sashaying under streetlights. 

If living forever requires joy, Ronda feels like a fountain of it.

JEREZ: Where Horses Dance and Sherry Sings

Jerez seduced me twice: once with sherry, once with horses. Each revelation showcased enduring tradition.

Mornings began with rooftop swims at Hotel Eurostars Asta Regia, the sun rising over terracotta rooftops. The city’s lively Mercado Central lured me next, its fishmongers slicing tuna and fruit sellers arranging pyramids of citrus.

But the real magic occurred at the Royal Andalusian School of Equestrian Art, where horses gallop to classical music, their hooves tapping an ancient rhythm. Watching the riders in embroidered jackets, I felt transported to a world where elegance rules and hurry holds no dominion.

Inside another old sherry cellar, now a museum, I found a trove of horse-drawn carriages, velvet-lined and a horse-care centre for more equestrian encounters.

Lunch at La Carboná sealed the deal. At this old sherry bodega, every dish was an ode to sherry from the caramelized reductions to the smoky infusions.