Ronda, Setenil & Seville: Small Group Day Trip from Malaga

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(358 reviews)

What’s the experience like?

I still remember how sudden the shift was—one minute we were weaving out of Málaga’s city traffic in that cool minibus, and then it was just olive groves and sun-bleached hills rolling past. Our guide, Carmen, had this way of pointing out things I’d never notice: “That’s where the best olive oil comes from,” she said at one point, tapping the window. The bus was quiet except for someone unwrapping a snack (I think it was chorizo—the smell made me hungry), and then suddenly we were winding into Setenil de las Bodegas. Those houses built right into the rock really do look like they’re holding up the cliffs. I tried to pronounce “Setenil” properly—Li laughed when I tried, so I just gave up and took photos instead.

In Ronda, there’s this moment when you walk out onto Puente Nuevo and realize how far down the gorge goes. I leaned over a bit too far (not my brightest move) but wow—the air felt cooler there, almost damp compared to the heat in the old town. Carmen told us about bandits hiding out in these hills centuries ago; honestly, it felt possible with all that wild space around. We had an hour for lunch—I found this tiny place off a side street where they served tortilla that tasted just eggy enough. Some folks went for wine but I stuck with water because we still had Seville ahead.

The drive to Seville felt long but not in a bad way—just enough time to watch the landscape flatten out and turn gold under late afternoon light. When we finally stepped into Plaza de España, it was crowded but somehow peaceful too. Our group split up here; Carmen led us through Santa Cruz while another guide took half down by the cathedral. There were orange trees everywhere (I kept brushing against them by accident). The Alcázar’s exterior is almost as impressive as inside—tiles glinting in weird sunlight—and even though we didn’t go in this time, you could feel how old everything was. Someone played guitar nearby; it echoed off stone walls.

I didn’t expect to feel so tired on the ride back to Málaga—everyone got quiet except for Carmen chatting softly with the driver about dinner plans. My head was full of images: white houses wedged under cliffs, that endless view from Ronda’s bridge, tiled plazas echoing with footsteps. It’s funny what sticks with you after a day like that.